Making Merry

Chapter 1

Ezra

Today marks the official start of the holiday season. With the gluttony of Thanksgiving behind us, now the true avarice can begin. Do you know why they call it Black Friday? It’s nothing poetic. As ominous as it sounds, its name means something good. It’s the biggest money-making day of the year. It’s the day businesses jump from loss to profit--- red to black. From Black Friday to January, it’s all profit. And there’s no bigger Christmas miracle than that. 

Pretty depressing, huh?  Well, I think it is. 

I have no use for Christmas. The whole world goes into debt and I get bombarded with red and green Christmas cheer because a bunch of guys sitting in Rome decided to appropriate the pagan holiday of Saturnalia. From Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day, my life becomes five weeks of intolerable torment from which there is no escape.  

And every year, it gets worse. This holiday debauchery has grown completely out of bounds. It’s disheartening to see what the Madison Avenue advertising firms and your local shopping malls have done to a pleasant little holiday I once enjoyed.

I saw Christmas wreaths on display the day after Halloween. Local shops wiped off decorative cobwebs, skipped the harvest cornucopias and frosted their front windows with fake snow. Within days, inflatable snowmen, snow globes and Santas peered out bay windows and mocked me on my walk home from work. I used to dread December. Now these Christmas junkies have shamelessly stolen my November. 

Good morning, Mr. Scofield. Isn’t your office closed for the holiday? Leonard, a building security guard, greets me by the elevators. He must have picked the short straw. Undoubtedly, this is the last place he wants to be today. 

There’s a skeleton crew catching up on work for a project due next week. I thought I’d join them. I give him a nod and step into the car heading up.  

As the floor jumps and my head dizzies with the sudden rush, I lift my wrist to check the time. It’s still early. The slackers from the Marketing Department, who allowed themselves to fall behind, aren’t due to arrive until close to noon. At this hour, only the receptionist will be in. Hopefully, I can finish my work before their chatter disturbs the silence I crave. 

I have zero patience to listen to holiday stories about embarrassing relatives, awkward proposals or political bickering over poorly cooked dishes.

No one cares about anyone else’s grievances. They only go along with the discussion for the chance to vent their own frustrations. This season is one long exercise in self-indulgence and whining. And yes, I know I’m in the process of complaining, but it ends now. I’ve got work to do.  

After a quick hello to the part-time receptionist earning time and a half to stare at the door and scroll through her phone, I walk into my office and close the door.  

But I’m not alone. Goddamn it, she tracked me down. 

Well, well, well... if it isn’t the grinch who made me an hour late for Colleen O’Malley’s Thanksgiving Extravaganza. Franny reclines in my chair and rests her boots on top of my desk. Justifiably peeved, she lifts her phone and points to the small print that demonstrates I read each and every message she sent. 

For fuck’s sake, Fran. You scared the hell out of me. I said I was sorry. I told you I’ll make it up to you over Christmas. I’ll skip my Dad’s house and go with you to your parents’ place. I knock her legs off my desk and give her chair a hard push. When she rolls to the side, I grab a replacement and take a seat. 

You don’t think you’re weaseling your way out of your promise, do you? She jumps to her feet and taps her screen. You and I both know why you ignored my messages. You hope I’ll forget. But you’re mistaken. 

While I try to look as clueless as possible, she marches across the room and retrieves a red notebook from her purse. "I paid my dues, Ezra Scofield. Secret Santa is  freaking on." 

Absolutely not. Why would you make such a ridiculous request on a day like today? You know how much I hate this time of year. Did you see the streets? It’s not even December and manufactured joy hit me from every direction. I flail my arms wildly. It’s sincere rage but exaggerated for her benefit. I made that promise under duress. It isn’t fair to hold me to something so cruel. 

Listen hear, bub. I sat through the most intense Thanksgiving dinner of my life followed by two hours of non-stop guilt from every O’Malley who was forced to eat cold turkey thanks to my tardiness. Mom refused to serve the bird until I arrived. You owe me big time Scofield. A promise is a promise and part of that promise included no bitching. Her brow furrows as she spits out her words in a deluge of fury. When she points her index finger into my chest, I slap it away.  

You took advantage of our friendship and my vulnerabilities. You should be ashamed of yourself. I panic and grasp at straws. I know her. She can’t do anything in small degrees. This game will consume the office for the next three weeks. 

"Bullshit. You took advantage of my longtime membership in the Christmas cult. You dragged me to Connecticut, ruined one of my favorite holidays and made me sit through the best meal of the year with a sour stomach. And why? All because your Daddy announced his engagement. Big deal. He’s finally found someone to share his life. Sharon’s a nice lady. At least he’ll grow old with someone he loves. That’s more than I can say for our sorry asses. We’re doing it and you better believe your name is going into the bowl. Enough talk, I gotta prepare…" She cuts her words then storms into her office across the hall. 

I chase after her. I’m not playing your dumb Christmas games Fran. If you want to force the office into your mandatory fun, so be it. But I’m not joining in. As soon as I utter the words, I know she’ll call me out. She kept her word. She played her part.  

When my father phoned and told me Sharon’s grown sons would join us for dinner, I knew he’d hit me with something big. She seems nice enough. They’ve dated for two years and I’m surprised it took him this long to pop the question. Men his age don’t dawdle. When they spot the brass ring, they hold on for dear life and make things legal.  

But I didn’t need a front row seat for the joyous news. 

It felt wrong. This time of year always makes me miss my mother and having another woman replace her by my father’s side made it worse. I hauled Frances to Connecticut to keep me from making a scene and all I did was bring another witness to my childish behavior. 

Your participation is non-negotiable. I didn't sit through that fright fest for nothing. We are not just friends. I am the Vice President of Operations. I am responsible for safeguarding office morale and one of the ways I do that is to make sure you appear approachable. This is our first full year in operation, and I’ve failed miserably. You need a makeover, buddy. And James agrees.  

Approachable?! How am I less approachable than James? I don’t need a makeover. I take immediate offense and pat my stomach, fearing this has something to do with the three pounds I gained over Thanksgiving. I know I’m a pain in the ass but I’m hardly a stick in the mud.  

This company is my passion project. It’s my baby. I built my last company from the ground up and sold it for billions. Everyone told me to retire and take it easy. I’d worked myself into the ground since I was twenty-one and needed a break. I took one. It lasted five days before I realized my mistake and came up with my idea for Scofield & Marley. I would have gone in alone, but my advisors suggested a partner to shoulder the burden. Fran doesn’t have that kind of capital. My second choice was James. Although his investment is much smaller, I humored him by adding his name to the door. 

You’re the one who got in trouble with Human Resources for dating your personal assistant. I reach for her notebook, but she snatches it away.

This is an exercise in lunacy. That notebook is surely empty. 

Her face turns beet red but I’m not sure if it’s shame or anger. I’m not talking about me, jerk. That was a consensual relationship, Mister  Judgement. She pouts and folds her arms at her chest, tucking the notebook in between.  

I'm done talking. I clench my fists and head towards her door. 

"We haven’t even started. We still need to talk about the company Christmas card and the holiday party at Loretta’s. I’ve booked December 15th and placed a deposit." She grabs her glasses, taps a pen into her notebook and follows me across the hall.

I’ve got a long list of items I need you to check off. That’s why I’m here.

Christmas card? Holiday party? What list?

Goddamn it. I hate Christmas. 

Chapter 2

Belle