Matt Cowper - The Clerk

“C’mon. It can’t be that hard.”

“It is, though. Nevermind.” She ruminated while chewing a strawberry. “What do you think of this?”

“The Party?”

“Yeah.”

“I think it’s great. I look forward to it every year.”

“How many have you been to?”

“Oh — twenty five, I believe.”

“Wow. And I’m only twenty-three.”

Of course, Thomas knew this, but hearing it spoken aloud created an incredible gulf between them. He was middle-aged, no longer as nimble and strong as he once was. He’d made choices, seemingly final, that put him in this place, at this time, choices he didn’t regret. Orianna was young, with serene energy, and any choices she made could be altered or reversed as easily as one chooses a new cereal. In the breeziness of work at Oxendine’s, or in his late-night fantasies, the distance between them was but a quick step. Now, in this setting, when they should have been closer than ever before, they seemed as far apart as two travelers trekking across different continents.

His cheer seemed to drain from him. He didn’t know what to say. Should he act the reminiscing old man and tell her a “when I was your age” story? Should he try to summon up lost youth and pretend that he was the same age as her in spirit? Should he simply ask her to hang out? That’s what all the female advice-givers on television, the internet, and elsewhere said, as if every lummox knew that. (Thomas noted that these decisive women didn’t seem to do much asking themselves, but were always ready to ridicule a man who didn’t swagger up to them as confident as Don Juan.)

Orianna, thankfully, said something, and Thomas beat back his mental hobgoblins.

“Can I ask you for some advice?”

“Sure,” Thomas said, eager to impart the wisdom of the ages, now that Orianna had asked for it.

“I’ve been thinking about going to college, but I’ve read so many negative things…”

“I don’t think you’d like it. It seems like it’s an assembly line nowadays. And unless you go into STEM, or become a doctor or lawyer, you’ll probably be scrambling for a job once you get out.”

“My opinion exactly. And I don’t have a mind for STEM, and I don’t want to train all those years to be a doctor or lawyer.”

“I sense a ‘but’…”

She gave him a half-smile. “But… they kind of force you into it, don’t they? Society, I mean. ‘If you want a nice, well-paying job, you have to go to college.’ All evidence to the contrary, of course.”

“There are plenty of trades worth doing.”

“Yes, that’s true — but — did you ever think about going into a trade? If you don’t mind my asking?”

He did, a little. In the question was the scorn and bewilderment of the many people who had asked him that over the years. The question really meant: “Why do you insist on being poor, when there’s money to be made?” Thomas would try to explain that he, being single and childless, could get along just fine on his wage, but it was like trying to elucidate an esoteric philosophy.

“I thought about it, but I was working here, so… I’m not married and I don’t have kids, so there are two things I don’t have to worry about. A man by himself doesn’t need much money.”

“Yeah. A woman by herself — well, I’m technically by myself — doesn’t need much money, either. I only pay a portion of the utilities for my parents, so I’ve been able to save up a nice little amount. What to do with it, though?”

“You don’t have to do anything with it. But — and I have something saved up myself — a trip abroad would be nice.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I have no responsibilities, right? Europe would be amazing. All that history — like walking through a museum every day.”

“Me, I’d like to go to Australia,” Thomas said. “You know, if I ever went anywhere.”

“That’s a nice choice,” Orianna replied. “Wouldn’t mind going there myself. But really, anywhere sounds good.”

“Yeah, sure does.”

“But I wonder if traveling gets old after a while? Like everything else — you know?”

“Yeah, it probably does. I know I’d miss home at some point.”

“Well, my plate’s empty,” Orianna said abruptly, “so I’m going to go get a second helping.”

Thomas, whose plate had been piled with far more food than Orianna’s, still had a ways to go before he finished.

“Alright. Meet you back here?” It sounded weak and begging, and he regretted saying it.

She laughed, and he couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or pleased.

“Maybe later,” she said. “I want to talk to Cynthia again about something, about a decision I’ve made.”

“Alright,” Thomas said warily, wondering what she meant. “See you later, then.”

As he watched her go, Thomas shook his head. She was so slim, so pale, like a sliver of moonlight glinting off a knife. He thought of Kara, his most recent sexual partner; next to her, Orianna was an ivory goddess.

And she was seventeen years younger than him. He sighed and chomped down on a hushpuppy.

“May I have your attention, please?” Vernon blared from the front of the room. Everyone quieted slowly, though the teenagers, in the way of teenagers when anyone asks them to quiet down, took longer than the others. “It’s now… Secret Santa time!”

Whoops and applause, and sinister laughter from those who’d gotten a gag gift for their assigned person.

“Ya’ll know what to do — well, some of you are new, and don’t know, but you’ll figure it out. Grab these here gifts and let’s get to unwrapping!”

All of the presents had been stacked, not too neatly, in a corner of the conference room. Several people surged forward and acted as the de facto gift-distributors, and soon there was an assembly line delivering each gift to its intended recipient. There was much tearing and tossing of wrapping paper, and exclamations of delight or mock disgust, depending on if the person had opened a “real” gift or a gag one. As with the gift-unwrapping at the Copeland/Dowling Family Christmas Get-Together, Thomas felt mildly uneasy, but the Secret Santa aspect of this affair did add some much-needed novelty.

Eddie had gotten his gift before Thomas, and had opened it incredibly quickly. He was already in Thomas’s face, bawling like an agitated goat.

“A pack of socks? C’mon, man, that ain’t very original. I got so many socks, lemme tell ya…” He tried to think up an analogy, but failed. “…well, I got a bunch.”

Thomas smelled alcohol and onions on the breath Eddie was blowing directly into his face, and he could feel spittle flecking onto his cheeks. He took a step back and frowned.

“You’re lucky I didn’t get you a gag gift. Would you rather have something idiotic that you’ll just throw away?”

“Hell yeah! At least I’d laugh! And I wouldn’t throw it away, I’d put it somewhere and laugh about it every time I saw it!”

“Well, next time I get you — if there is a next time — I’ll remember that.”

“Socks! Man, oh man. Socks!” He’d had three beers, which meant he was far into the danger zone. He would either sit down and doze off, or say something rude and get into a fight. These were the only two possibilities.

“Man oh man,” he said, wobbling and trying to focus on Thomas. “Think I need to sit down.”

The first possibility asserted itself, and Eddie slumped into the nearest chair and was asleep within seconds.

Thomas’s gift finally made its way to him. To his surprise and alarm, it was from Carly; the text on the tag was written in glittery pink ink, with the ‘o’ and the ‘a’ in Thomas’s name turned into smiley faces. It was a medium sized package, wrapped neatly in snowflake-covered paper, with a red bow. Thomas looked over at Carly, but Noah again had her captured — though no captive had ever been so foxy. Thomas tore through the wrapping paper and opened the white cardboard box inside. Boxers. She’d given him boxers. Not just any boxers, either: each one was decorated with a bevy of swimsuit-wearing bombshells contorting themselves into various sultry poses. Thomas grinned and shook his head, then walked over to Carly.