Page 4 of Yule Know It When You See It
Desiree smiles and rolls her eyes. “Okay, brat. Maybe notthateasy.”
“And is Mr. Waiter ‘it’?”
She holds the napkin limp between two fingers. “No. He’s not. But hecouldbe fun for a night or two.”
I hold my eggnog up, and we clink glasses.
We spend another couple of hours munching on nachos and enjoying second cups of eggnog, complaining more about the sugar rush over any alcoholic buzz we may be feeling. Desiree texts the waiter before we leave, the two exchanging final glances as we descend the stairs to the main bar area. The vast circular mahogany bar has mostly men seated at the stools surrounding it, sipping mugs and bottles of beer. Dozens of overlapping conversations mix in a cacophony of murmurs and laughter, but one man’s voice—deep and gruff—suddenly stands out. I swear he says “fawn” for whatever reason. Strange.
“See you tomorrow,” Desiree says, stifling a yawn.
We push our shoulders into the revolving door, parting ways once our feet meet the pavement. While we were in the bar, the temperature dropped to single digits, and for a split second, I regret not owning a vehicle. Then the dead-still traffic, honking horns, and Chicagoans yelling obscenities out their windows remind me why walking a couple of blocks beats driving.
Entering my Michigan Avenue apartment, I toss my keys into the ceramic bowl my baby cousin made for me last Christmas. The sides are uneven, the color a puke green, but she’d made it for me and me alone, so it remains imperfectly perfect in my eyes. I throw my briefcase on the kitchen island with a deep sigh, contemplating watching TV before bed, but deciding it’s not worth it. Instead, I go about my nightly routine and slip into a pair of red satin pajamas, another past Christmas gift from my parents. They’d teased that they matched my hair and weren’t far off.
After tossing the tanned decorative pillow and two extra white pillows onto the lounge chair facing the windows, I peel back the comforter and yank the pale yellow quilt on top, securing it under my chin. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, Simone will give me my assignment, and I can finally write my favorite piece for the entire year. Until then, I intend to fall asleep with visions of sugar plum fairies and hot nutcrackers dancing in my dreams.
Not every man can pull off a beard—arealbeard. Hell, some can’t even grow a full one. Fortunately for me, I’m not one of those. Call it my Scandinavian blood, but I pride myself on beard maintenance—trimming, shaping, conditioning. And I refuse to walk out of the house if it looks scraggly. This is why I now stand in front of my bathroom mirror, raking oil through it and sliding it across the parallel shaved parts of my head, separating the longer hair slicked back in between.
My best bud Spencer insisted he take me out tonight for a couple of ales to celebrate starting my new job tomorrow: Celestial Magazine’s newest sports columnist. It’ll be the fourth magazine I’ve worked for in the States but the first to requestmeto come in for an interview. To say I’d been flattered would be an understatement.
After glancing at myself in the mirror, I snatch my bomber jacket with furry lining and throw it over a button-down shirt. I slip on a tan knit hat, ensuring it covers my ears, and head out the door. Despite Chicago’s brutal winters, it still doesn’t compare to Norway, my original stomping grounds. The looks my unzipped jacket garners from folks passing me on the street are borderline amusing. I mean, hey, at least I wear a hat and usually shove my hands in my pockets.
I’ve lived in several big cities during my ten years in America, but Chicago has quickly become one of my favorites for its skyline alone, especially during the holidays. The buildings seem blanketed in stars with the number of lights they affixed to them. And don’t get me started on the marvel that is the giant tree they decorate in Millenium Park. On my first holiday from home, I missed seeingJulebukkor Yule goats everywhere, and the town centers morphing into ancient shopping stalls. And thegløgg. Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a proper glass of mulled wine this time of year. But, alas, any place in America that claims they serve it consistently misses the mark.
The Rooftop bar is only several blocks from my apartment building. When I enter, I immediately slip the hat off and shove it into an inside pocket, dragging my hands repeatedly through my hair. A pair of women sitting at a high-top table pretend not to ogle me, smiling and absently stirring their drinks with a straw. I grin at them and muster a friendly nod.
One thing I love about writing? There is an absolute need to seclude yourself to get the job done. I wouldn’t call myself an introvert, but too much socializing has me yearning for a week in a cabin in the middle of naturealone.
“Yo, Ax,” Spencer calls from the bar, standing on a stool rung to wave me over.
Raising my hand, I signal that I see him before winding through crowded tables. “Hey ya, Spence. How’s lawyer life?”
We lock our forearms and give slaps on the back with our free hands.
“Living the dream. What can I say?” Spencer grins and holds his hands at his sides as if the entire world served as his playground. He scratches the stubble on his chin and motions for the bartender.
The heat here resembles roasting in a sauna fully-clothed, and I not only remove my jacket but roll my shirt sleeves as well. I sit in the stool near Spencer and interlace my hands on the bar top. “Still using the job as an excuse for not growing a beard? I know plenty of lawyers with them.”
A routine jab between us.
Spencer scoffs. “Not good ones.”
“Or maybe you can go straight ‘stache.” I bob my brows, gaze panning skyward to the hockey game playing on a corner TV—my favorite sport.
Spencer’s face appears in my line of vision, blocking my view. “You think I couldn’t pull it off?”
“If you managed actually to grow one, I give you two days tops before getting the urge to shave.” I smirk and lean back, folding my arms, my shirt pulling tight across my biceps.
Spencer’s narrow eyes squint, and he taps a finger on the mahogany. “That a bet, Axel?”
He won’t let this go until I bet him. It’s often easier to give in to the chaos with him.
“Sure. If I win, you need to wear the “I Like Big Beards and I Cannot Lie” shirt we saw a few weeks ago for twenty-four hours.” A snarky smile works its way over my lips.
Spencer rubs his temple but relents. “Fine. And if I win, you gotta wear a Santa hat on Christmas day and showproof.”
Besides getting a wicked set of hat hair, I don’t see how humiliating that’s supposed to be.
