Fruitcake // h.styles special

chapter 1 - new employee

"Hey, you there," someone exclaimed, "In the hat. Can we get some help here?"

I let my eyes drift upward from the big red bow I was currently tying on a present, furrowing my brow when I see a lady pointing a red polished nail in my direction and snapping repeatedly. There's a child at her side, a handful of her shirt clenched tight in his chubby fist, tugging on the fabric and whining in an ear splitting pitch.

"Me?" I ask in confusion. I would like to point out now that the vague notion of "you in the hat" doesn't give any indication of who she's trying to call considering every single worker is wearing one of these stupid Santa hats with the bells on the end.

She rolls her eyes, "Don't give me that face. Is there any way you can hurry this line up? My kid wants to see Santa and we got to get to lunch."

The sound of her kid crying turns up a notch louder. I glance down at the red bow in my hand, contemplating whether or not I would be able to strangle myself with it. Probably wouldn't be good for business, I suppose. Elf dies on the job. Kids everywhere are traumatized.

Instead, I shake my head slightly, letting the quiet jingle of my hat drown out the continuous sound track of children crying and talking and screaming.

The reason for me wearing a Santa hat with a bell on it is not for kicks. Instead, it's part of cheap (and unbearably itchy) elf costume I am forced to wear for work. In an attempt to cover some of the cost of the uni I was going to attend next fall, I had applied for the only job available at the time. A job at Santa's Village in the mall.

This place resembled Santa's Village as much as I resembled a happy elf. It was pretty much a toy store, flushed out with bright fluorescent lights. Pitiful strings of Christmas lights ran along the walls, paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling, and a small plastic tree sat in the corner. My job was to keep the line of kids waiting to see our fake Santa moving, hand out candy canes, and wrap gifts. If you are going to assume that I shared the same energetic passion as my co-workers did in the Christmas season, then I can assure you that you are very, very wrong.

From behind me, I heard the sound of something crashing to the ground, followed by a muttered: "Oh shit."

I turned around and saw the stacked pyramid pile of toy I had arranged earlier scattered across the ground, and a boy standing above the mess.

"Oh shit," the boy said, "Where the hell did that come from."

The boy standing there was tall and lanky, with long legs encased in ridiculously tight skinny jeans. A dark mass of curls was pushed messily off his forehead and tied with a ripped bandana. Evergreen eyes looked apologetically up at me.

"Don't swear in front of the kids," I replied back mechanically, quoting what I heard from my boss many times.

He scratched the back of his head. "Oh fu- I mean, sorry. Sorry."

I crouched down on my heels and began to stack everything again, and he joined me on the floor moments later.

"I'm Harry," he declared, sticking out a large hand, "And erm- I'm sorry for knocking this down."

The way he talked was slow and deliberate, taking time to carefully annunciate each word. Like he was reciting poetry.

I shook his hand, "I'm Finley. And aren't your little old to be here?"

"Well," he dug around in his pocket and produced a crumpled peice of paper that had been folded multiple times. He promptly dropped it while trying to open it, while I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He was like one big, awkward, clumsy giant. "I've been hired for a job here." he explained, once he had retrieved the paper.