Matt Cowper - The Clerk

Noah regarded him much as he would a cockroach who’d gotten into the cupboard. Carly, however, was grinning in a way Thomas had seen porn stars grin before they began a particularly mouth-stretching blowjob.

“Thanks for these,” Thomas said. “You have a great sense of humor.”

“You’re welcome,” Carly purred. “I was going to put my image on all of them, but it was too complicated and cost too much.”

Noah, ignorant at first of what they were talking about, finally saw the boxers in Thomas’s hand, and understood all. He clenched his fists and tried even harder to erase Thomas with his stare.

Thomas looked at him, unconcerned. His own look said: What are you going to do? Noah’s look responded with: Just you wait and see . Thomas: I’m waiting . Noah: Keep on! Thomas: I’m still waiting . Noah: To hell with you! Noah finally looked away, muttering.

“Would you have liked that, Thomas?” Carly asked.

“Liked what?” His staredown with Noah had knocked him out of the conversational flow.

“If it was me on those boxers, instead of those average-looking girls.”

Thomas looked at the boxers, and then at the real woman in front of him. Her body was so pressed against her blue dress that he could almost see every pore. He glanced quickly from full chest to tight belly to muscular leg. It was a fine sight, but unlike Noah, he wouldn’t be drawn into an endless string of empty flirtations with this temptress.

“Nah, these women are fine.”

Carly pouted elaborately, and Thomas started to walk away, not bothering to ask what gifts the two teenagers has recieved. Noah immediately sought to regain Carly’s attention: “ I would love to have some boxers, or anything really, with your beautiful self on it.”

Carly tee-heed: “But you already have photos of me. Some very provocative ones, too.”

Noah fumbled: “Yeah, but, uh — I can never have enough!”

Thomas sighed at the pathetic futility of the kid and moved to the beer cooler. Someone(s) had swiped a few bottles of his beer, but that happened every year. He wondered who the culprit(s) was/were. Was it one of the teenagers who had mysteriously disappeared during the festivities, only to reappear a few minutes later slushy-eyed and wobbly-footed? Or was it a cheapskate adult? Or both? It didn’t really matter. There were three Bud Lights left, and that was plenty for him. He used the bottle opener on his keychain to crack one open, and took a big gulp. It was incredibly refreshing in this hot room and after the gorging meal he’d eaten.

“I hope you’re not going to get drunk like some of our co-workers.”

Thomas turned to the piercingly pious voice, and saw Peggy staring at him. She was not quite frowning, which would have been surprising, if it had been a normal day or night. But this wasn’t a normal night: this was the Christmas Party, and even Puritans such as Peggy, to whom life was a constant battle against atheism, non-procreative sex, cursing, and other sins, found themselves (almost, very nearly) smiling.

This wasn’t to say she had put her Crusade on hold, even temporarily. The Devil lay in wait for those who let their faith slacken. She would still consign people to Hell, but she’d do so almost happily.

“And what if I do get drunk?” Thomas asked. “What will you do?”

“I’ll pray for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Thomas scoffed. “Talk to the air all you want. That’s all you’re doing, you know.”

“If you only knew what He has done for me,” she preached, “you wouldn’t be blaspheming like you are. After my husband died, if it wasn’t for Him, I’d’ve been overcome with grief and probably would’ve just curled up in bed and wasted away.”

“Instead, you’re the highly-functioning, lovable person you are now.”

If Thomas had mocked her like this normally, she would’ve railed against his “disrespectful foulness” for a good ten minutes. Her vocabulary increased five-fold during these tirades, and when she quoted Scripture, Thomas could almost see the fire and brimstone of Hell, which was, of course, supposed to be his final destination. But again, this was a different setting, and all Peggy did now was snort, scrunch up her lipless mouth, and say: “You’ll learn one day not to make fun of your elders.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Thomas repeated. “What’d you get your Secret Santa person? A Bible?”

“Well,” Peggy began proudly, “I had Carly, and yes, I did get her a Bible. I do believe a girl of her… type… needs direction and wisdom.”

“What type is she?” Thomas asked with mock innocence.

“Why… you know what type, Thomas. If I had dressed like she does when I was young, even close to it, my daddy would’ve paddled my behind, and my momma would’ve burnt whatever skimpy thing I’d been wearing. Nowadays these girls show the world everything…”

“Do you think she’s having lots of sex, too?”

Peggy blushed, but she valiantly refused to fidget or look away. “I think so. And it’s wrong, and it’s shameful, and I can’t believe her parents don’t take her in hand.”

“Yeah, she does dress provocatively,” Thomas said. “I don’t know about her sex life, but I do wish she’d cover up some. It’s distracting.”

Peggy’s jaw dropped. In her memory, Thomas had never agreed with her on anything that really mattered. She felt like she should be for public nudity now that Thomas had concurred with her on how troublesome Carly’s barely-there wardrobe was.

“We-ell, hm, I’m glad we can agree on something,” she said reluctantly.

“Me too,” Thomas replied, then swiftly moved on, leaving Peggy behind in a conversational vacuum. She instantly forgot their extraordinary accord, instead mentally crucifying Thomas (but in a humanitarian way) for rudely walking away before she got to say her full piece. And he didn’t even ask what her Secret Santa had given her!

Thomas, however, had a legitimate reason for walking away: he needed to piss, badly. It happened every year: he got caught up in the merriment, and didn’t want to take two minutes to go to the bathroom lest he miss something. Eventually his bladder filled to bursting, and he rushed to the men’s room and emptied it in an immensely satisfying marathon pee.

The tradition continued now. As his urine shot out of his half-erect penis like a firehose-blast, Thomas closed his eyes and sighed deeply, and then had a pee shiver. Finally, he had nothing left but a few dribbles, and he shook himself off, washed his hands, and stepped back into the hallway, nearly colliding with Eddie.

“Gangway!” Eddie hollered. “Gotta pee, gotta pee!”

Thomas shook his head and stepped aside as a wild-eyed Eddie lurched into the bathroom. He hoped Eddie didn’t fall asleep while peeing, which happened last year. Vernon had found him slumped by a urinal, his penis hanging out and his pants soaked. As Vernon put it later: “The term ‘Vienna sausage’ describes what I saw.” Eddie’s response: “You lie! It’s as big as a Pringles can! You know it! I know you know it!”

Thomas had no desire to learn who was telling the truth (though he suspected the truth, as in most cases, lay somewhere in the middle), so he let the bathroom door shut behind him and walked away. If Eddie collapsed again, someone else would have to find him.

In the hallway, Yolanda was berating her husband, who was hidden beneath his fluffy Santa suit, although he had, for some reason, discarded his white beard. Perhaps he’d removed it so the ladies would actually kiss skin instead of fluff.

“How many have you had?” she demanded.