Page 2 of Yule Know It When You See It
Groaning, I slump in my seat. “But wejustgot through Thanksgiving.”
The Rooftop is our go-to bar because they are a full-service restaurant and have rooftop seating all year around thanks to the dozen outdoor heaters. They make some of the best drinks in the metro area and give a superb view of downtown Chicago to go along with it.
“Your point? Theo, as soon as Black Friday hits, it’s game on for Christmas. Everyone knows this.” Des arches a brow, staring at me like one would a person who asked why buffalos don’t really have wings.
“Fine. I’ll be there. Six?”
“Six, indeed. You’re welcome to come, Rupert, if you think you can handle not getting sloshed from one drink.” Desiree flops a burgundy cap with a stringy ball on top onto her head.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’d be all about the sloshing if it were Friday night,.” Rupert gives an exaggerated hand wave. “You two chicas have fun.”
Normally, I don’t condone weeknight drinking, but starting this week, The Rooftop sells spiked eggnog drinks for a buck a pop. One simply can’t pass that up.
Once Rupert and Desiree leave me to my devices, I place my fingers on the keyboard, staring at the ominous blinking cursor. With each blip, the computer baits, taunts, and otherwise puts me in a trance.
When did Simone plan to tell me what direction I was meant to go? I can’t work like this—not when the magazine expects a particular standard from me. As much freedom as I have to write here, I know freedom is limited to the readers’ desires. And I’d made my peace with that. But this?
Growling, I grab one of seven notebooks I keep in my drawers—each a different color and purpose. The one I scoop into my palm is of the yellow variety—my doodling notebook. Opening its pages reveals various sketches and cartoons of nearly everyone who works in the office. Tapping my pen against my lips, I scan the area, settling on Water Cooler Wally. Wally is, for lack of a better term, mysterious. No one knows his precise job within the office, but one thing was certain: ninety percent of the time, you’d catch him leaning on the water cooler, sipping, and striking up conversation.
I draw the rest of the workday away, exaggerating Wally’s spiky red hair, the color much lighter than my auburn locks. The water cooler became twice his size, and the poop emoji tie he wore once a week hung to the floor instead of its usual waist length. One glance at the computer monitor blazing at 5:01 PM, and I slam the notebook shut, throwing it in the drawer on top of several bottles of body spray. Pausing, I grab one, nod once, and spritz myself. It’s time for the holiday scent: vanilla, cinnamon, and a hint of juniper. Satisfied I will be smelling of Christmas wherever I go, I toss the bottle back home and lock the drawer.
Mary breezes past, clad in one of thirty-odd ugly Christmas sweaters she owns—a cartoon sloth in a red scarf and hat with the words “Merry Slothmas.” She trails Simone, who is ignoring Mary, as she gazes from one cell phone to two others.
“Ms. Michaels, I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure the decorations are alright? It isn’t too much?” Mary raises to the balls of her bright red ballet flats, her fingernails picking nervously at each other. Her loose blonde waves bounce before settling over her shoulders.
Simone licks her plump lips, lifting her green eyes for precisely two seconds before returning to her phone. “It’s fine. See you tomorrow.”
Mary waves to Simone’s back, flashing a broad smile that fades into a disappointed frown as Simone exits.
Mary doesn’t deserve it. I’ve never met someone as cheery and kind-hearted as her; she did nothing to deserve Simone’s constant cold shoulder, especially when all she sought was approval.
Sliding beside her, I lift my chin, surveying the elaborately decorated office space—a light-up Santa and all of his tiny reindeer, including Rudolph, glittering snowflakes hanging from ceiling tiles, each desk trimmed in garland. And no one could bypass the massive tree she decorated in the corner with a hundred different colored orbed ornaments, turtle doves, tinsel, perfectly coiled silver ribbon, and a shining Bethlehem star on top.
“Mary, you’ve outdone yourself this year,” I say, meaning it.
Mary’s face whips to me, tears building in her bright blue eyes. “Really?”
“Are you kidding? I’d have mistaken this place for Santa’s Workshop if I didn’t work here.” I wink at her, reassuringly squeezing her shoulder before scooping the jacket from my desk chair.
“Thanks, Theo. Honestly. I spent all day on it. Just trying to spread a little Christmas cheer, you know?” She shimmies her shoulders, making the little gold bells on her sweater jingle.
I wrap my black and white checkered scarf around my neck twice and flash her a smile. “And everyone appreciates it, even if they don’t voice it.”
Mary’s grin widens, and she scurries to the tree, making final adjustments.
Spreading a littleChristmascheer. Christmas. My favorite holiday out of the entire year, but more for thefeelingof it. The vibrance that hangs in the air from everyone’s nervousness and excitement. The smells sprouting everywhere—cinnamon, cookies, and pine. The music that creates ambiance in every establishment you enter—despite most songs being grossly overplayed. But the “Reason for the Season,” thetruemeaning behind Christmas and why I’d done the same traditions every year since I was a child, traditions I was taught growing up, never connected with me.
I’ve never told a soul about it. Not my best friends. Not even my parents. It was easy enough to go with the flow as I have for the past thirty-three years. Easy to bow my head at the dinner table in prayer, though I’d never really known who I was praying to—I’d simply close my eyes, listen, and mumble “Amen.” But I didn’t mind keeping quiet because the holidaysarethe most wonderful time of the year. To be specific, spiked eggnog speaks to my soul.
I quickly trek from the office building to The Rooftop only two blocks away, with my hands shoved in my jacket pockets. The crisp air turns my warm breath into swirling smoke, reddening my nose and cheeks. Holiday decorations adorn street lamps and shop windows since the first of November but now hold a sense of wonder I could never appreciate before Thanksgiving—glittering lights at every corner, the chime of the Salvation Army bell, and coins clanking into the collection pot.
I love the holidays.
Desiree had already gotten a table by the time I arrived. The outdoor heaters are set so high that my jacket feels stifling, so I peel it off, draping it over the seat.
“Wow. Right on time. What a rare treat,” Desiree says, her tone laced with sarcasm.
“Hardee har,” I guffaw, sitting and flicking the drink menu from its center holder.
