Black Friday

by Colleen Sutherland

(Note:  I've returned to my series of depressing Christmas stories intended for those readers who really hate the holidays.  By next year, I hope to have enough for a collection.) 

“What can you do well?”

The caseworker at the Schmallen County Human Resources office wasn't all that much interested in Jackson's answer but she had a form to fill out. She had been talking to unemployed old guys for years. He had been looking for work at her office for two years. They both played the game. He had seen her before but doubted she remembered him.

“I was good at stuffing Twinkies,” Jackson said.

“You're kidding, right?”

“No. That's what I did for thirty years. Just stuffed Twinkies.”

“Not much future there. They closed the last plant this week down in Tennessee.”

“I know.”

“Maybe you should look into training for something else.”

“I've already taken two re-training courses. The feds won't let me sign up for another. Even with new skills I never get past the first interview.”

The caseworker stared at him. “Maybe if you presented yourself better.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Dress better for one thing.”

“I have one good suit that I save for interviews. I'm sure not going to wear it out when I come down here every week.”

“OK, but how about getting a haircut and shaving off that beard.”

It was a luxuriant growth, his beard. It was deep brown, full and curly, a thing of beauty. He trimmed and combed it daily. “They can't refuse to hire me because of a beard. It's unconstitutional.”

“No, they can't give that as a reason, but they'll sure as shooting hire someone clean shaven instead of you and say he's more qualified. And face it, you're not all that qualified for much of anything. So, tell me, do you anything else well?”

“I grow a great beard. That's about it.”

“If it was white, you could work as a Santa and get seasonal work. Too bad.” She finished the form, handed it to him and crossed his name off her list. “Next!”


Jackson thought about that Santa business that night. When he tried to sell his house after the recession hit, the realtor told him she would have better luck if he got rid of the stuff that his mother left behind when she croaked. All the old sofas, the lamps, and above all the piano she played when he was growing up. When the furniture was gone, the memories were gone, and the house never sold anyhow. The realtor had used the furniture as an excuse. She was a lousy realtor, that was all. The bank took the house away from him. He thought about that piano at Christmas.

Same thing with the beard. The caseworker used it as an excuse. If he shaved his beard all that would remain would be his weak chin and the scars from a couple of knife fights when he was a kid. It wouldn't help.

If the beard was only white, she said, but he could fix that. With his next welfare check he bought a bleaching kit at the dollar store. He locked himself into the john at the Shell station. People pounded on the door from time to time, but he kept going until his beard and hair were white. He did look like Santa. He even had a beer/Twinkie belly to go with it.



The next day, he put on his good suit and began to make the rounds of the malls. He carried a bottle of mouthwash with him and gargled before each stop to make sure there was no residual beer smell. The malls already had their Santas, it seemed. It wasn't until he came to the Save-a-Bunch that he found his job.

“Yeah, our regular Santa croaked from a heart attack. His kids called an hour ago. All the other Santas are booked. So tell me, do you like kids?”

“Love 'em,” Jackson lied. There were probably more than one little Jackson bastard around but he never stayed around to find out. But he could stand poop and slobber if it meant a paycheck.

“Great, you start tomorrow a week from tomorrow during the Black Friday sales.”

“That's a Thursday. And it's Thanksgiving.” Jackson planned on going to more than one church for free meals that day.

“Yeah, well we're starting early this year, just like the rest of 'em. Some of 'em are open all day Thanksgiving but we let our employees have dinner first.”

“Good of you. What time do you want me there?”

“Before we open the doors, say 4:00 pm. That'll give you time to get settled on the throne before we open at 6:00.”

“Any instructions?”

“Just ask the kiddies what they want for Christmas, and here, push these toys.” The manager handed him a fat brochure. “Memorize what's in our catalog, especially the high end stuff. Smile for the camera. Then the elf gives 'em a candy cane and their photo and they go on their way.”

Jackson had seen Santas in movies so figured it would be easy enough. “Just smile and let 'em go. Got it.”

“One more thing, no drinking, no smoking, and above all, no swearing.”

“Where do I get my Santa suit?”

“You don't have one? All the Santas have their own suits.”

“Mine's in the cleaners.”

“Well, rent one then. Your responsibility, not ours.”



Jackson cadged some money from the collection pot when he went for the free dinner at the Salvation Army. Then he slipped his hand into a woman's purse on the bus and managed to get another batch of bills without her noticing.

He rented the suit for a week, figuring after that he could buy his own.

“Bring it back clean,” the guy said. “No deposit though, we trust our Santas.”



He perused the Save-a-Bunch catalog at the homeless shelter. “Can you believe this crap?” he asked his bunk mate.

“Some high end products there,” the guy said. He used to be in retail sales. “Hey, if you can get some of this stuff, we could put it on e-bay. I've got a Hotmail account down at the library. Good scam.”

“Circle the good stuff and I'll see what I can do.”



Jackson was supposed to be at a seasonal employee meeting but he figured that was mostly going to be about stocking and working the cash registers so he called in and told the manager he had another booking for a Santa gig. “Got to strike while the iron is hot, man!” he told him. The manager said fine but to stop in for his employee ID. It slipped Jackson's mind but then he figured the Santa suit was ID enough.

That afternoon Jackson was full of the Assembly of God Thanksgiving dinner and feeling mellow. He even arrived early but that's when he found out about Black Friday and crazed women. When he got off the bus, there was a line that stretched all along the mall front and circled behind it. There were even four tents pitched at the front of the line. Armed security guards were directing traffic.

Jackson headed for the front door but two women emerged from their tent and screamed at him. “Get to the back of the line, you moron!”

“I'm Santa Claus,” Jackson said. “I'm going to work.”

“Old trick,” said a security guard. “There's already two Santas in line.”

“Ask the manager, he'll tell you,” Jackson insisted.

“Like the manager ever works on Black Friday,” the guard said. “He's too smart for that. Besides, where's your employee badge?”

Jackson circled around the mall, passing the other two Santas. Their beards were fake, but they weren't bad. He tried knocking at the back door,” but no one answered. If they had, they wouldn't have known him anyhow.

Jackson went back to the front and waited the two hours before the door opened. Then when the lines started to move, he rushed in, using every blocking move he learned in high school football.

The women he pushed aside cursed him, pulling at his Santa suit. He felt the back rip, then they tore at his pants which began to slip down, revealing his dirty jockey shorts. He pulled them up his pants and began to run toward the sign that read “Santa's Castle”. Unfortunately that took him past a roped off electronics cart manned by a wild eyed employee, just a kid who had never been exposed to women shoppers. He handed out the cameras as fast as he could but a woman in her late 60s crawled on hands and knees past a crowd of thirty shoppers and under the rope barrier to snag a box from the cart. As she crawled out she pulled a Wii game off the bottom rack of a cart belonging to a young woman. The younger shopper got her camera, turned around and accidentally nudged the man standing behind her. She began to apologize but he shoved his cart very hard right back at her and into her very pregnant belly.

The next woman in line already had a full cart but the other shoppers were screaming at store security that she had not been in line at all. She had followed Jackson in and was stealing from other carts.

“Fuck you,” the woman shouted back. “I'm not going anywhere.”

The shoppers attacked her. It was a melee of security guards, irate shoppers, and Jackson who somehow got shoved into the middle of the mess. Someone pushed him and he landed flat on the electronics cart. He crawled over it, sticking a camera in his pocket and a Wii game under his arm, and kept crawling until he made the castle.

“Where the hell have you been?” The three elves snarled at him and pulled him to his feet.

“He's all ripped up.”

“His shorts are showing.”

“Shove him on the fucking throne.”

“Don't swear” Jackson said. “It's not allowed.”

The elves hustled Jackson onto his carved wooden chair and tucked his costume around him. As far as he could tell the three elves had been selected for shortness and pert breasts. None of them were smiling.

Dazed, he looked around him at the gingerbread castle. There were five kids waiting for him.

“Hurry,” a mother shouted. “We need the photo then we can get back to shopping.”

Jackson shoved his loot under the throne. “Send the little darlings on” he said, straightening his cap.

“And what do you want for Christmas?” Jackson said in as deep a bass as he could manage as the first approached his royal presence.

“I want my damn photo taken for my Grandma so she'll think I'm still fucking cute and send me something fucking decent this year.” The kid was at least ten. He climbed on Jackson's lap and grinned at the camera. Jackson stared, too, stunned. This was not what he had in mind.

The elves took the photo, pulled the kid off Jackson's lap, handed him a candy cane and yelled “Next kid!”

The next kid pulled his beard...hard...and rattled off a long list of thirty or forty toys before he was dragged away.

“Don't take all day. Hurry them along,” whispered an elf. “First time you've done this?”

Over the next hour, Jackson was punched, kicked, screamed at and drooled on. It was around the thirty fifth kid that Jackson cracked.

Then a little darling swore at him, bit him and kneed him in his privates. Jackson shook the little punk, put him over his knee and gave him a good paddling. The mother rushed in to rescue her precious son, the elves screamed for security and Jackson was dragged away, looking frantically under the throne, but somewhere along the way, one of the mothers had absconded with the Wii game and camera.

“I'm going, I'm going,” Jackson said. The security guards waved him to the back door and went back to the melee at the front of the store. He grabbed two baby dolls, a laptop computer and a teddy bear on his way out but a shopper and her daughter saw him.

“Mommy, mommy, Santa Claus stole things.”

Jackson gave them a finger as he ran for the door.


He would gotten away except for those ripped pants that fell down and tripped him up. The police were there already because of the fights at the front of the store and hauled him away in a police car filled with fractious shoppers who were shrieking at the cops, Jackson and each other.

The kid's Mommy filmed the whole thing on her cell phone. Jackson wound up in the county jail for the holidays, but the food was good and he was interviewed for the evening news because the video went viral. He was a hero to the rest of the inmates, the Santa in the slammer. He enjoyed the notoriety.


The judge caught it all on Facebook on Christmas Day as he helped his grandchildren with their new computer. He threw the book at Jackson. For shop lifting, ruining a Santa Clause costume and exposing himself, Jackson got six months in prison and two hundred hours of community service.

Worse, the judge ordered him to shave off his beard.



(Wade Peterson and I will be signing our collection of short stories at Sissy's in Seymour, Wisconsin on Dec. 15 at 3:00 - 5:00 pm) 

One Day in November

Philip looked around the doctor's office, noting the seams for the flowered wallpaper were centered on the sharps disposal container, and wondering if one had to take a class or get some kind of certification to decorate such a space. It was a strange mix of modern and country, a chrome and glass container holding sterile depressors next to a calendar showing a picture of a cross-stitched rooster pillow.

“It's like those dreadful trips to your mother's house, except with the possibility of a colonoscopy,” he said to June, sitting next to him.

She hadn't put the car keys away in the parking lot. She held them when they checked in, when they sat in the waiting room, all the way through the nurse's questions about diet and sleeping habits. She held them even now,  running a thumb back and forth along the key's bumps.

“Pardon?” she said.

“This whole country-kitsch thing. I mean, is this supposed to put people at ease or something?”

“I don't know, Phil.” She stroked the key like a rosary. “What would you have done?”

“Hmm, now that is an interesting question. Something with a coffee machine, I should think. I mean everyone loves coffee. Hell, even McDonald's is a coffee place now. Are you going to argue with Ronald McDonald?”

“Coffee's not good for you, Phil, you know that.” She looked up at him, staring with dark circled eyes.

Phil looked away with a little laugh. “Well, perhaps you're right.”

A knock at the door, and the doctor walked in. She was flipping through a sheaf of papers. Her face seemed to be set into a permanent frown, but Phil heard her laughing in the hallway not five minutes before. He wondered if it was some kind of modification to the Hippocratic oath – heal the sick, do no harm, and no levity in front of the civilians.

“Mrs. Nanee, how are we doing?”

June shrugged. The doctor tossed her papers onto the counter and sat down on a small stool. She took in a breath to speak, but Philip interrupted.

“Do they do casual Fridays around here?” he said.

“I'm sorry?” the doctor said.

“Casual Fridays,” he said, “Because you're the first doctor I've seen with jeans on. I've never seen that before, except at the vet's office of course. Hey,” he said, patting June's leg, “maybe that's it. You probably just have heartworm.”

June dropped the keys and covered her face with both hands.

The doctor's mouth hung open for a moment before she regained her composure. “I think that it's important that in this situation, you show some more support for your wife.” The frown lines deepened and her nostrils flared.

The doctor was actually kind of pretty, he realized. A bit hard around the edges perhaps, but that just made her all the more attractive. Here was a woman who was a fighter. Here was a woman who wouldn't crumble. She would look him in the eye, not stare past his shoulder like there was something sad happening right behind him. She'd find something worth a smile. Philip felt the heat rise to his face under the doctor's stare.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess we're beyond the chemotherapy, then?”

Mistaken Identity — Part 2

 “There’s something you should know,” Robert said on the phone that night.

“Yes?” Uh-oh, here it comes, Margo thought.

“Well, technically,” he began, “I’m married.” Before Margo could respond, he rushed on. “It’s been over for a long time. We just haven’t finalized it on paper …”

“I see,” Margo said, feeling a bit mean. “What does that have to do with me?”

There was a lot of hemming and hawing on Robert’s end. Good, Margo thought.

“It’s just that I thought … and maybe I’m out of line here,” he stammered, “but I thought you and I ...” He left it there. 

Margo sighed, feeling sorry for him.

“So, you’re married, but you’re separated and just haven’t gotten around to ...”

“No,” he interrupted, “not exactly separated ...”

“Not exactly?”

“I pretty much live in the top floor of the house and ...”

“You live together?!”

“More like coexist,” Robert said, then rushed on. “Ingrid and I can’t afford to live apart right now. She’s saving to go back to Norway and we’re working out the details of splitting property. We really have very little to do with each other. We eat dinner together, that’s all. Ingrid’s a wonderful cook.”

How nice for you,Margo thought, her stomach sinking.

“I just wanted you to know how things stand,” Robert said. “I wanted to be honest with you. Honesty is very important to me.”

Margo rallied. “I certainly appreciate that, Robert, so thank you,” she said. She had to get off the phone. “Oh, wow, look at that, it’s already after 9 here and I really should be getting home ...”

“You’re upset, I understand ...”

“No, no, not at all … it’s just late,” she lied.

“We’ll chat tomorrow then? During lunch maybe?”

“Sure, sure … well, let’s see how the day plays out. I really should get going, I have a long ride home. Good night, Robert.”

Margo didn’t stay on the line long enough to hear his reply. She put her head on the desk and closed her eyes. When she opened them she could see the horse sculpture out of the corner of her eye.

“Stupid horse,” she said. “Stupid me.”

*

Tired, out of sorts, Margo drove slowly in the snow to work the next day.

“Hold all my calls until further notice,” Margo barked at a surprised Carl when she got to the office. He raised his eyebrows as she stalked down the hall to her office, slamming the door behind her.

With the concentration and focus her ex-husband used to complain about (“Sometimes you don’t even know I’m alive!”), Margo worked, barely looking up from her computer the full day. She could hear the staff whispering on the other side of the door, but they didn’t disturb her. Lunch came and went. By 4 o’clock, she’d done all she could do. She’d laid out the next year’s editorial calendar, assigned stories to various freelancers, checked and rechecked every page of the upcoming issue; and it had been the perfect day to make normally unpleasant calls to suppliers. Exhausted, she rose and stretched and finally opened the door, taking a stack of correspondence to Carl to mail.

“Where is everyone?” she said, putting the pile on his desk. The place was eerily quiet.

“I sent them home before it got too bad out there,” Carl said, sniffing slightly.

“Out there …?” Margo looked outside. Everything was white and snowflakes the size of silver dollars smacked against the window. “Holy … I had no idea it was this bad,” she cried.

“There’s at least two feet already,” Carl said as he pulled on his coat, “and they’re expecting another two feet before midnight. Good thing tomorrow’s Saturday. I don’t have far to go, but maybe you should think about staying here tonight.”

Margo knew he was right, but she didn’t relish the idea. What would she do with herself?

“There’s some leftover pizza in the break room if you get hungry” Carl said, pausing at the door. “And Lindsay brought veggies and dip.”

“Okay, thanks, Carl,” Margo said. “Now get while the getting’s still good!”

Margo wished she had a beer or two to go with the pizza, but she warmed up some anyway and took it to her desk. The wind howled outside, making the empty office a little creepy. Margo shuddered and turned on her radio. Then, against her best judgment, she opened her chat program. A flurry of increasingly concerned messages from Robert cascaded in.

She read the first message to the last, feeling more and more guilty as she read. He really was very sweet. And he was upfront about being married. It wasn’t like they were romantically involved, not really. He was there, she was here. He was fun to talk to … quirky maybe, but he did make her laugh. As she pondered, another, new message pinged in.

Bo: I don’t know if you’ve read any of my messages, but I miss talking to you …

Margo wiped pizza grease off her hands and pulled the keyboard toward her.

Margo: I’m here. We can talk.

Bo: !!!! It’s so late and you’re still there??? I’m glad you are.

Margo: Snowed in. Have to spend the night. It’s kind of creepy.

Bo: Poor dear! Do you have food? Blankets?

Bo: Yep, all set there. Was just going to make up the pull-out bed.

Bo: Good, good. Look, I have to go for a bit, but do you think we could talk or chat later? We have all night …

Margo hesitated. It was pretty lonely there.

Margo: Sure, we can do that.

Bo: GREAT! So, I have a question …

Margo: Am I going to like this? :)

Bo: It’s ok, really! I was just wondering if you have a digital camera.

Margo: A … yeah, we have one here. Why?

Bo: I like to picture you and where you are, you know that.

Margo: Yeah …

Bo: So, maybe you could take a picture of your office and send it so it’s here when I come back?

And odd request, but what’s the harm, Margo thought.

Margo: Okay, I can do that.

Bo: Wonderful! And what are you wearing?

Margo knew better than to read anything into that question.

Margo: Right now, black slacks and a blue sweater. When you come back, though, it’ll be sweatpants and sweatshirt!

Bo: Good, good, relax. Have to go. Send that picture!

Margo: Will do. Bye.

Margo wondered if he and Ingrid were going to eat dinner. “Whatever,” she said aloud. She rummaged through her desk drawers and found the camera, actually looking forward to their chat. She’d have to take two shots, one of the desk side of the room, and the other of the sitting area where she’d be sleeping that night. After straightening things up a bit she took the pictures, loaded them into her computer, re-sized them and emailed them to Robert.

While she waited, she busied herself by making up the bed, going down the hall to brush her teeth and change into sweat clothes, checking out a few favorite Web sites and trying not to obsess about the weather outside. She waited. And waited. And waited.

I thought he said he’d be gone for ‘a bit’, Margo thought. She was getting tired and the made-up bed looked inviting. She surveyed the room, rather pleased with the environment she’d created – the comfortable couch and chair, the artwork on the walls, the kilim rug, her ancient, solid wood desk …

“Crap, oh, crap!” she cried. She quickly pulled up the pictures she’d sent to Robert. “Oh, crap! I can’t believe I did that!” There on the screen was the office side of the room. And there on her desk was the horse sculpture Robert so coveted. Her stomach roiled.

Margo: Robert? Did you get the pictures? There’s … She hoped he wasn’t back yet.

He suddenly popped online.

Bo: Yes, indeed I did.

Margo wondered if she should start explaining or just pretend nothing was amiss. He decided for her.

Bo: Lovely office you have there. Interesting décor.

Margo: Thanks. I’ll bet you’re wondering …

Bo: No, not wondering. Just amazed is all.

Margo: Amazed?

Bo: Yes, amazed that you lied, though I hardly know you, so I shouldn’t be.

Margo: Lied? I never lied! The statue was WILLED to me long after you wrote.

Bo: Oh. I see. Interesting.

Margo: It WAS!

Bo: And you kept that to yourself because …?

Margo: Because I didn’t know how you’d take it! The irony and all … a little hard to believe …

Bo: Indeed.

At this point, Margo was seething. Accusing her of lying! She didn’t owe this man any explanations! And he was being so damn condescending!

Margo: I don’t even LIKE the damn statue, but it was a dying woman’s WISH that I have it!

With that, she closed the chat program and shut down her computer, wishing fervently that she had a bottle of vodka to keep her company. It was going to be a long night.

*

It took hours for Margo to dig out her car the next day. When she got home late on Saturday, she fell into bed and slept 14 hours straight. By Monday, she had purged herself of anger and all other emotions towards Robert Bowen. She drove to the office with new vigor and cranked up an Aretha Franklin CD along the way. R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

But irony wasn’t done with her yet.

After Margo had had a lengthy phone conversation with the publisher, Carl knocked on her open door.

“There’s a woman holding on line two for you. I told her it could be a while, but she insisted she could wait.”

“And …?” Margo prompted.

“And her name is Ingrid. From Seattle.”

Margo suddenly knew what the phrase “her blood ran cold” meant.

“Ingrid? From Seattle?” she said stupidly. “Did she say what it was about?”

Something in her tone and face gave Carl pause. He actually looked embarrassed.

“Er … no, just that her name was Ingrid and she was calling from Seattle. Should I go back and ask?” he said, looking like it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“No, no, no,” Margo said, waving him away. Ingrid. Seattle. She needed to talk to Robert, and fast. Although she’d never called him before, she quickly found the number for the Little Museum on the Hill (Ingrid could wait), and with shaking hands, dialed the number.

“Little Museum on the Hill, Robert speaking.” Margo was surprised that he, the museum administrator would answer the phone.

“Robert, it’s Margo, don’t hang up,” she said in a rush. “We might have a situation. Ingrid called here. She’s on the other line right now.”

“What?! That’s not possible! She doesn't … Ingrid would never … are you certain?”

“All I know is that there’s a woman named Ingrid, from Seattle, who insisted on being put on hold while I was on another line. She’s waiting to talk to me. What did you tell her? Is this some sort of ambush?”

“Ambush! Calm down! Don’t take the call. I’ll run home and see what’s going on. Ingrid is an honorable woman, I’m sure this is a mistake.” He hung up.

Margo buzzed Carl’s desk. “Carl, please tell that Ingrid woman, if she’s still holding, that I’ve stepped out of the office and that I’ll call her back later. Get her number!”

“Right-o, Boss Lady.”

Margo sat with her head in her hands, waiting, her mind running wild. What kind of game was Robert playing? Was he trying to get even with her over the statue? What did Ingrid think she knew about them … them, there is no them,never was. Was he really going back home to confront her? He sounded surprised and upset. Maybe it wasn’t a game?

Carl buzzed her phone. “Two things,” he said. “That woman wouldn’t give me her number and said she’d call you back. And there’s a Robert Bowen on line two.”

Margo punched line two. “Robert? What’s happening?”

“As I surmised, nothing is happening. Ingrid knows nothing about this! She would never go behind my back in such a fashion. I suggest you quit making things up and leave me and my family alone!” He slammed down the phone.

Stunned, Margo replaced the receiver. What the hell was going on? She felt like Alice Through the Looking Glass.

Her phone buzzed again.

“It’s that Ingrid woman on line one,” Carl told her. Resigned, Margo picked up the phone.

“This is Margo,” she said.

“Margo, I caught you!” the heavily accented voice said.

“Er … caught me?”

“It’s Ingrid! From Heavenly Bodies in Seattle? We talked at the Great West Living Trade Show?”

Realization hit Margo in a flash. The trade show. That awful woman with the gaudy clothing and jewelry line trying to find a way to get into the magazine without advertising – this was not Robert’s Ingrid! Relief flooded over her.

“Ingrid, how nice to hear from you,” she said, meaning it. “What can I do for you?”

“I just knew you’d be excited to hear our latest news! Nefertiti, our newest line of fabulous fashions, has been bought up entirely by an Arabian prince! I’m certain your readers would love an exclusive pictorial ...”

Margo was shaking with laughter. She held her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece while the woman droned on. As soon as she could, she passed off the call to the managing editor and hung up, practically bursting with guffaws. Tears rolled down her face. Pretty soon, co-workers were poking their heads in the doorway to see what was going on. Margo shook her head and waved them away, unable to speak. How could she explain it anyway? She broke into a new round of laughter when she thought about sending a note to Robert to tell him what really happened. No, let him wonder. He wouldn't believe her anyway! It might be worth it, though, just to hear the righteous indignation. A new fit of giggles overcame her.

The horse sculpture caught her eye. She reached for it and held it up. “Gayle Clausen, wherever you are, I just want to thank you,” she said. “I’ll treasure this gift forever and it will forever remind me not to jump to conclusions.”

She replaced the statue tenderly on her desk.

“Carl!” she bellowed, “My office, now!”

Mistaken Identity – Part 1

It started with an email.

SUBJECT:  Horse statue

TO:  info@fancystuffmag.com

FROM:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

Greetings from Seattle! I recently attended the Great West Living Trade Show where I picked up a copy of your very fine publication. It’s the issue from November, 1996. Vo. 3, Issue 101, it says. On page 33 there is a picture of a room in the featured home of Gayle and Norbert Clausen (what a great couple!). On a side table, there is a small sculpture of a horse rearing back on its hind legs. I collect equestrian arcana and this statue would suit my collection perfectly! Is there some way in which I can find out where I can purchase one like it? I know it’s a long shot, but ever since I saw it, I had to have it.

I would appreciate any help you can give toward this endeavor.

Sincerely,

Robert C. Bowen, Administrator

Little Museum on the Hill

Margo sighed when she read it. Ever since she’d become the editor of Fancy Stuff magazine just six months before, she’d received similar requests:  Who made that rug on the front cover? You did an issue back in 1989 that had a bowl of fruit on the cover (I think it was fruit, it might have been dogs or something) and on one of the pages there was this woman wearing a red vest … 

At first, Margo did everything she could to help these readers find what they were looking for. She’d spend hours going through electronic archives, when available, or flipping through back issues housed in a cold, damp basement room of the Fancy Stuff offices. Rarely was she able to fill their requests; sometimes they had the wrong magazine to begin with. This time, however, she knew exactly what this Mr. Bowen, Administrator, was talking about.

TO:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

FROM: info@fancystuffmag.com

Re:  Horse statue

Dear Mr. Bowen,

Thank  you for your kind words about Fancy Stuffmagazine. As the editor, I’m always happy to know our readers appreciate our efforts. I’m also glad to hear you attended the Great West Living Trade Show; I was there as well. Perhaps you stopped at our booth! It was a hectic event and I didn’t get nearly enough opportunity to chat with our visitors.

As far as your request goes, it happens that I was at the Clausen home photo shoot (you’re right, they’re a great couple) and I was the one who placed that very sculpture in that spot (to provide more visual interest). I can tell you it was hand-sculpted by Mrs. Clausen herself and is one of a kind (hence the reason we didn’t include it in the feature’s Buying Guide).

I wish you luck finding another suitable piece for your collection.

Sincerely,

Margo Upton, Editor

Fancy Stuffmagazine

Margo hit “send” and thought that would be the end of it. She was, of course, wrong.

SUBJECT:  Your kindness

TO:  info@fancystuffmag.com

FROM:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

Dear Ms. Upton,

Imagine my surprise when I received your email; I had no idea that info@ mail went to the actual editor of the magazine! I am flattered that you spent the time and effort to reply to my request about the horse sculpture. I am, of course, disappointed that the item is one of a kind, but my search for something similar will continue.

I guess you don’t remember me from the Great West trade show. I do remember you, however. Such lovely green eyes you have, if I may be so bold to say. I was wearing an olive green blazer with black slacks, tan shirt and a delightful black tie sprinkled with tiny horse heads, a gift from one of my museum’s benefactors. Perhaps you remember the tie? You did seem terribly busy, no doubt talking to potential advertisers … what chance do we readers have against that?

At any rate, I am fascinated by the small details you included in your missive. Do editors usually go on photo shoots? I was under the impression that that was left to artistic directors and such. I must say your placement of the horse in that spot was sheer inspiration! You must have artistic talents of your own.

I’m sure you’re a busy woman, so I won’t ask the dozens of other questions running through my mind. Please know, however, that I am eternally grateful for your kindness.

Your fan,

Robert Bowen

Margo was both irked and flattered by the letter –  implying that advertisers were less important to her than readers! And that comment about her eyes – they’re definitely one of her best features, but what was he doing checking out her eyes? And to think for one minute she’d actually remember him from the thousands of people who’d stopped by their booth during the three-day trade show? Please! Still, he sounded like a nice guy; educated, too. And she’d never had a fan before …

“Knock, knock!”

Startled out of her reverie, Margo looked up to see Carl, her administrative assistant leaning against the door jamb, clutching a pink “While You Were Out” memo slip.

“Yes, Carl?” she asked, closing her email program.

“This memo,” he said, coming up to her desk, “is there a problem with it?”

Margo knew which memo he was talking about and stifled a sigh.

“Well, yes, Carl, there is,” she said, reaching for it. “I have no idea who called, for one thing.” She lay the paper on the desk facing him. “You’ve only written ‘George’ … at least I think it says George …  George who? What company is he with, if any? And the phone number … there are just seven digits … Philadelphia area code, or what?”

She looked up at him as he squinted down at the slip.

“Hmmm, well, he rattled his name off so fast, I couldn’t catch it. And I did think he did mention ‘metalworks’ or something … Bombay, maybe?” He cocked his head thoughtfully.

This time, Margo did sigh. “Bombay Hook Metalworks,” she said. “George Singleton?” she added helpfully.

“Yes! That’s it!” Carl cried, clapping his hands together. “So you knew all along!”

With that, he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Margo sighed louder and rose to open the door. As with his inability to leave coherent messages, Carl always forgot that Margo had a literal open door policy with her staff. It encouraged, she believed, a better office atmosphere. If the door was closed on occasion, it was only because she was on an important call (usually with the publishers), or with a client who dropped in, which rarely happened.

Margo had never had an administrative assistant. Carl was a complete whiz when it came to spreadsheets, business letters, arranging meetings and trips, and making people feel comfortable when they visited. But when it came to messages, phone or otherwise, he was hopeless. He had an aversion to asking people to repeat themselves, thinking it would irritate them perhaps. Margo liked to be mentally prepared before she talked to someone, so when Carl buzzed her office to let her know that “someone’s on line two for you,” it irritated her to no end. And if she made him get back on the line to find out who it was, it made him cranky for hours.

Margo sighed again, turned to her computer and pulled up the electronic version of the issue currently in the works. The press deadline was a week away.

*

Long after the rest of the staff had gone home, Margo rubbed her eyes and stood up. The issue had needed a few tweaks, there were some holes to fill and she’d had to find room for a last-minute full-page ad, but it looked good, one of their best ever, she thought. She walked to a window and looked out into the early darkness. Light snow fell. The magazine office was on the top floor of a three-story brick building shared by an Internet service provider, an insurance company and a chiropractor. Across the street were a couple of small restaurants, a shoe repair shop and a newsstand. Not exactly a hopping commercial zone. Margo hated the idea of going home to her empty apartment and opening a can of soup for supper. Not for the first time did she regret letting her ex-husband keep the cats. She could use the company.

Margo went back to her computer and pulled up Robert Bowen’s letter.

TO:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

FROM:  margo.upton@fancystuffmag.com

Re:  Your kindness

Dear Mr. Bowen,

Once again, I’m writing to thank you for your nice words. Some days are harder than others, especially during deadline as we are now, but your note brightened my day considerably.

A little over the top? Margo wondered. She deleted the word ‘considerably.’

Emails sent to info@, sales@ or editor@ are, by default, routed to my inbox. I am sending this letter from my personal magazine account and, should you like, you can send mail directly to that address.

Oddly, Margo rather liked the idea of more email from this man.

Upon reflection, I do think I might remember you from the show! Were you wearing a book bag over your shoulder?

A small lie and a good guess, Margo figured.

If the magazine decides to do the Great West Living show again next year, I’ll be sure to send you some complimentary tickets. Please stop and say hello!

Tickets or ticket, Margo wondered. Would he come alone?

As you surmised, editors don’t usually attend photoshoots; we leave that to art directors, but I’m a hands-on kind of manager who likes to know all aspects of the publication’s creation. To call the placement of the statue “inspired” is much too kind, though I do have some artistic ability.

Margo hadn’t wanted to go on the photoshoot at all, but her publisher insisted. One week after taking the job, she found herself on a plane with a seasoned (and stoned) photographer and a ream of scribbled notes from the art director, headed to an enclave of high-end homes in the mountains of Colorado. The Clausens seemed nice enough, but Mrs. Clausen turned out to be, as the photographer called her, “the art director from Hell.” She had a habit of dashing in front of the camera lens to adjust “just one little thing” that seemed “all wrong” right before the shutter was clicked. Margo had, indeed, placed the horse on the table, but only to keep the photographer and the old lady from coming to blows.

I’m fascinated by your Museum on the Hill; I did a Google search on it, but nothing came up. Perhaps you can tell me about it sometime?

Time for me to head home. It’s begun to snow and I’d hate to get stuck here (though I am prepared:  the couch converts to a bed and I always keep extra clothes, etc. here).

Best wishes,

Margo Upton

The next day, while Margo furiously edited a poorly written story from a freelancer (whom, Margo swore, she would never use again even if she did have a 900-word hole to fill on page 20), the intercom buzzed.

“This is Carl, your admin,” Carl deadpanned over the phone, making Margo smile. “There’s a call for you on line three from a Robert Bowen, no company affiliation mentioned.” Before Margo could take in the information or quell the butterflies in her stomach, the line seemed to go dead, but she could hear light breathing and some sort of classical music in the background. Carl liked heavy metal.

“Hello?” she said tentatively.

“Hello, is this Mar … uh, Ms. Upton?” said a decidedly intriguing, deep voice.

“Yes … is this Robert Bowen? My apologies for the awkward phone transition, my admin ...”

“Oh, no need to apologize at all! I’m just so glad to finally be able to talk to you, to put a voice to your emails and your face.”

Margo was glad he couldn’t see her blush.

“How nice to hear from you, Mr. Bowen,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

What can I help you with? Why so formal, she wondered.

“It’s the Little Museum on the Hill,” Bowen said, without preamble, “not the Museum on the Hill. That’s why,” he added, confusing her further.

“That’s why …?”

“That’s why you couldn’t find us in your Google search! That little word ‘little’,” he said, chuckling, “is a big deal when it comes to these Internet searches. You must have missed that word … though you’re an editor ...l but I know you’re busy and all with your deadline. If you try it again, make sure you type in Little Museum on the Hill and I assure you, you’ll find us. Why, you’ll even find our Museum Cam!”

“Museum cam …?”

“Yeah, it’s amazing! It’s this little camera, like they have at traffic signals? It sits atop the museum and you can see the whole valley below it, plus the people going in and out of the place. Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes when I come into work, I like to give it a little wave.” He chuckled and Margo followed suit.

“That sounds very innovative, Mr. Bowen ...”

“Please, call me Robert.”

“Okay, Robert then ...”

“And I feel like I know you, may I call you Margo?”

“Um, sure … Robert ...”

“Great, that means a lot to me, Margo. Now, look, I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you, but thank you so much for the great little chat. You sound just as wonderful as you look.” And, with that, he was gone.

Margo stared at the receiver in her hand for a minute before setting it down.

“What the …?” she wondered aloud. “He called to tell me that I needed to add ‘little’ to the name of his museum? Did he actually imply that, as an editor, I should have caught that? Did he say I looked wonderful?”

“You’re talking to yourself, boss lady,” Carl said, startling her once again. Margo gave him a look. “You told me to remind you about the editorial meeting, so this is your reminder. Conference room, 10 minutes.” He turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him.

A few seconds later, an email pinged into her mailbox.

TO:  margo.upton@fancystuffmag.com

FROM:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

SUBJECT:  You

Just wanted to tell you that I’ve been on Cloud Nine since we talked. I hope we can do it again.

Best,

Robert

Margo went into the meeting with a smile on her face.

Over the next two weeks, three things happened that set a course:  First, Gayle Clausen died. Second, there was a special delivery for Margo. And, third, it snowed like hell.

*

The deadline came and went; Margo always found great satisfaction when she opened the boxes the printer sent to the office. After each monthly issue was put to bed, Margo and her staff spent a few days clearing their desks and gearing up for the next issue. Each day, Margo received a note or two from Bowen; she now knew he was a year older than she, he was a cat person, he loved classical music and he volunteered at a Seattle soup kitchen once a week. She liked what she had learned so far.

Carl was putting forth a good effort to remember names; he was trying word association this time.

“There’s a pickle guy on the phone for you,” he told her one day.

“A pickle guy?”

“Yeah, you know … it’s a pickle brand ...”

“You mean like Vlasic?”

“Yes, but that’s not it.”

“Heinz? Mt. Olive? Clausen?”

“That’s it! Clausen! A Mr. Clausen is on the phone.”

While Margo applauded Carl’s efforts, the guessing games were wearing thin with her.

“Mr. Clausen,” Margo said into the phone, “how nice to hear from you!” She was used to getting calls from people featured in the magazine; they usually wanted extra copies of the issue to send to friends and relatives.

“Hello, Margo, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” Clausen said. Margo would probably always think of him as Mr. Pickle.

“No, not at all, we just got the last issue from the printer and we’re taking it easy,” Margo told him. “How are things in Colorado? How’s Gayle?”

Clausen cleared his throat. “That’s why I’m calling, actually,” he said, clearing his throat again. “We lost Gayle two weeks ago today.”

“Lost her? Oh, no, you mean she passed away? I’m so sorry to hear that!” Margo may not have gotten along with the woman, but she really was sorry for Mr. Clausen’s loss.

“Yes, well, thank you,” he said. “My Bunny was always rather high strung, I don’t know if you noticed that, and she had a massive stroke. Just keeled right over while watching Oprah.”

“I’m sure you must miss her terribly,” Margo said. She never was good at dealing with death.

“Yes, yes I do, but we had some wonderful times together ...”

Margo was just a bit confused as to why he felt the need to call her, someone who’d only met them once.

“So, is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” Clausen said, rallying, “I called to let you know that Gayle remembered you.”

“Remembered me?”

“Yes, she remembered you in her will.”

“But ...”

“No ‘buts’,” he said, stopping her objections. “She remembered how you seemed to like that horse sculpture she made, so she left it to you.”

“Oh, my ...”

“I’ve already shipped it out to you. Should be there by tomorrow. Someone will have to sign for it.”

“Mr. Clausen … Norbert … I’m touched by this, truly,” Margo said, and she was.

“Gayle wanted you to have it,” he said, as if she were arguing with him. “I hope you find some enjoyment from it.”

“I know I will,” Margo replied. “Thank you so much.”

“No thanks necessary, it was Gayle’s wish. Please let me know when it gets there; it’s insured, but it’s … it’s one of a kind like my Bunny ...” He was choking up. “Good day to you now,” he said, hanging up.

The next day, Carl signed for the delivery and brought the package to her office. The big box held yards and yards of bubble wrap; the sculpture nestled inside. About 10 inches high, the statue really wasn’t Margo’s cup of tea, but she tenderly placed it on a corner of her desk. She thought of Robert Bowen and the irony:  he had wanted the statue so badly that he had contacted her about how to get it … and now she had it. She thought, briefly, about simply giving it to him, but it would go against a dead woman’s wishes. There was no reason, she figured, to tell him about it at all.

It was hard not to say anything. Robert called her at least once a week, “just to say hi.” Margo, working hard on the next issue of Fancy Stuff, had taken to staying late at the office so they could chat online. She had yet to buy a home computer. It was harmless, she reasoned. He lived clear across the country, after all, and he could be amusing … and very attentive. He sometimes said things that threw her off-balance, but being off-balance was good sometimes, wasn’t it? She wasn’t ready to date and this, it seemed, was the perfect alternative to loneliness. He respected her work hours, although one morning she received an instant message that read:

At 4 o’clock your time, take at look at the Museum Cam!

He popped offline before she could ask him what was up and at 4 o’clock brought up the Little Museum’s Web site and clicked on the camera icon. There wasn’t much to see, just some blurry trees far below in the valley and a sidewalk running through an expanse of lawn. Margo marveled about how far technology had come just in her lifetime, but still wondered why remote cameras couldn’t produce crisp images.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the edge of the screen, a man carrying a large, white object. He was wearing a beret and black raincoat. He stopped on the sidewalk and held up the object … a sign that read “HI MARGO, FROM YOUR BIGGEST FAN!”

Delighted, Margo whooped with laughter. On the screen, Robert waved, did a little soft shoe shuffle, then headed into the building, disappearing from view. A minute later another instant message popped up.

Hope you liked the show! Talk to you later!

Margo smiled and made plans to stay late that night.