1
I hate Christmas.
I don’t know who thought every female must love shopping, wrapping, baking and hosting—as commercialized on nearly every holiday advertisement—but if those things are supposed to be coded into my DNA, I’m missing it.
And my hatred is exacerbated each year by gifts given more from obligation than love, well wishes without heart behind them, and family.
Don’t get me wrong. I know Christmas isn’t about gifts. The season wasn’t born in a store, and I believe that kindness can be found in a word or smile just as much as a deed, but something is always missing for me.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped caring about this holiday.
Maybe it was when certain people stopped caring about me.
Refer back to reference three above: Family.
What’s the worst is I work in retail, where the happiest time of the year is accentuated by the beep-beep of chip scanners, the screaming emotional meltdown of children, and annoying, selfish customers. I’m in management at Ashford’s, a top-end department store in downtown Chicago, open seven days a week because my boss is an asshole.
I work a lot of hours, volunteering to fill in for others because they have families, or family emergencies, or friends with families who have emergencies, and more work for me means more money toward my dream. It also means less time facing reality.
I don’t have a life.
And I’m lonely.
But no worries. It’s late Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve, which has somehow become a thing on the night before an American holiday, and I’m working.
“What are you still doing here?” Zaleya asks me as I hand over two bulging bags of random clothes to some older woman who has no idea what she’s just purchased for her grandchildren. Cha-ching, cha-ching, though…
“I’m working.”
“But you were off at six and now it’s eight.” Zaleya Stone is a curvy brunette with a huge heart and an infectious smile. She’s excellent with difficult customers and a dream to work with.
“Eight. Six. They both have a little, swirly circle at the bottom of them.” I shrug giving Zaleya a smile. The Ashford’s smile. The I’m-happy-to-work-here-even-though-I’m-really-miserable-but-need-the-money smile.
“Ev-a,” Zaleya draws out my name. At least she says it correctly. Ev-ah, like Evan without an -n. Not Eve-ah, or even Evie, or Eve, or whatever name Jude Ashford likes to say when he grows frustrated in a management meeting and can’t remember my name despite eight years working here and making top manager three years in a row. Jude is younger than me and the owner of the entire company. He’s also hot which makes him even more annoying, but I’m not into the cougar-thing.
“You have a thing tonight,” Zaleya reminds me although I really don’t want the reminder. I mean, who celebrates twenty-two years since high school graduation? We were supposed to have a twentieth in 2020, when a world pandemic hit, and the celebration had to be cancelled. Then the alumni organization wanted to host a glorious twenty-one the following year, only the planning committee members contracted COVID from each other. Gossip on the street, though, is the cancellation was because a set of former high school sweethearts and two former jocks leading the planning had a four-way one weekend that ended a marriage and a business partnership. It was a scandalous situation the high school couldn’t allow affiliated with the reputation and prestige of good old Immaculate Academy.
“Oh, I’m not going.” I force another smile as I nod at the next customer to step forward. I shouldn’t be working a register, but the floor is busy despite being the night before Thanksgiving. We’re running a door-buster deal this evening as a jumpstart on Black Friday’s five a.m. opening time. We used to open late night on Thanksgiving, but we’ve canceled that extra evening of potential revenue. To be closed on a national holiday actually felt rather compassionate which wasn’t my thing.
I’ve been told I’m selfish and unfeeling, according to my last three attempts at relationships. And while I tend to agree with that assessment, I stopped caring a long time ago.
“You have to go,” Zaleya admonishes me.
“I don’t have to do anything.” I ring up a female customer’s purchase, hoping she isn’t intending to wear the two items purchased in combination.
Zaleya nudges me out of the way before the next customer steps forward, swipes her team member card through the register, and logs me off the system. Somehow, she’s overridden the program and clocks me out of work.
“I could write you up for insubordination and unethical practices.” I narrow my eyes at her, without any heat in my threat. Zaleya is older than me by almost two decades, but under me as an assistant manager.
“One day that veneer is going to slip, and you’ll realize a real softy lives beneath that tight leather skirt and take no prisoners heels.” Zaleya winks.
“Don’t you mean others will realize . . . and also, you’re wrong. Nothing soft here.” I pat my belly, which actually does jiggle a little and grumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten all day.
“Yeah, well, eat some peppermint bark or a Christmas cookie . . . or five. And put some roast beast on those bones.” She eyes me up and down, and I marvel at her use of a Grinch reference.
I like Zaleya. She reminds me of the mother I never had, which doesn’t make sense as my mother is still around. Can’t have a memory of someone who didn’t exist, though. Mom left on Christmas Eve, when I was ten, and Dad cancelled the holiday that year. And most years after that. Zaleya is more like a mentor, or a guardian angel, if I believed in such a thing. She’s just an overall nice person, and I hate her a little for her good cheer. But not really.
Zaleya nudges me out of the register station. “Get going. I predict great things from this evening.”