Making Spirits Bright
By Jeff Blechle
Her cheery eyes followed the multi-colored lights and garland draped over the close, paneled interior of the little camper, but through the Christmas music Janice could hear her shuddering car warming up outside and she could smell the burnt waffles through the spruce-scented candles. She clacked her empty beer bottle against the hinged table and sighed at Smithton.
“Well, I have to go pick my kid up from school,” she said.
From the bench seat, Smithton reached across the tiny kitchen, opened a tiny built-in cooler and grabbed two more bottles of Bud Light. “But we’re not even slurring yet.”
“It’s three o’clock and I don’t want Winston waiting in the snow for me.” She tilted her head, sank, and said, “Supposed to get eight more inches by morning.”
“Hell, I could give ya four right now.”
She groaned.
“Some Christmas party,” he said. “A twelve-pack, a couple joints and you’re gone. I strung all these Christmas lights in here, made Santa waffles, fixed the furnace, put on a Rat Pack Christmas cd and refused four customers.” Someone knocked. “Five.” He scratched his whiskers and looked at a smudged Tupperware dish at their elbows. “How ‘bout another rum ball?”
Janice turned away. Through an unfrosted oval on the window glass at her shoulder, she saw the snowy front end of her car in the parking lot and, beyond some bundled pine trees under yellow lights, a piece of the giant red K. If she left now Winston would only have to wait in the storm for ten minutes or so. He’d survive. And she would still have plenty of time to get ready for that Christmas party she had been invited to. A real one. In a building with classy people. And no old crooners’ music. She took a long drink and then lit a cigarette, slightly hopeful.
“How many Christmas trees did you sell today?” she asked.
“Just a few Charlie Browns after lunch.” His mouth dropped open. “Hey, will you quit looking at your watch?”
“It’s not a watch.” She turned up her wrist. “It’s a little mirror. See?”
“You’re not stuck-up, are you?” He admired his unshaven reflection in the polished oval. “Wow. I can see my whole head in it.”
“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” She turned her other wrist. “This is my watch.”
“Listen,” he forgot her name, “do you think we could, you know, do it before you go pick up your kid?”
“So somebody can walk in on us?”
“Sure. That’d be cool.”
She laughed to hide her sense of humor. Then a whiff of spruce stilled her like concentrated nostalgia. She finished her beer, crushed out her cigarette, grabbed her purse and stood unsteadily as if the camper was in tow.
“Will you come back, Janice?”
She shook her head, and then with a tight grin and a raised eyebrow, she grabbed a couple beers for the road, patted his head and left.
Under loosely packed snow, the streets wore a coat of black ice. Janice felt vaguely dissatisfied again, almost insensible, so she turned on Christmas music and tried to get in the holiday spirit but her eyes wouldn’t focus and her defroster blew lukewarm and the snow flew sideways and everybody drove like drunken slobs and she couldn’t believe Smithton tried to make a move on her. She pictured her cigarette box leaning against his rum balls and cussed.
