Second Week Of December

SECOND WEEK OF DECEMBER.

  by J. THORN

  Copyright 2014 Janice Thorn

  Table of Contents

  December 10

  August 15

  December 12

  About Janice Thorn

  Contact Janice Thorn

  December 10

  Second week of December, I couldn’t believe it was here. I couldn’t believe I was here, the company Christmas party at the pier. This was where my comfortable little world started to unravel last year, and in two weeks it would be a new year. My resolution to myself would be to turn the page on that comfortable little ‘married’ mindset and this horribly uncomfortable last year. I scanned the room from my safety zone by the window and watched my co-workers partaking in “holiday merriment” together, ugh -- so phony I could vomit. On Monday there would be plenty of water cooler talk about who-goosed-who, and worse, but I was determined not to be at the center of that controversy this year. My husband’s infidelity with Joy, the buxom, borderline raunchy, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants accounting admin, in the adjacent and vacant dining room and the subsequent fall-out, as her belly expanded and my marriage dissolved, had been enough to keep the rumor mill hopping for more than the first half of the year. Thankfully, Wanda quit before delivering my husband’s illegitimate child and the divorce was finalized before the birth certificate was issued. It had been a banner year, but it wasn’t the kind of banner you wanted to fly.

  “You okay?” Kate asked quietly as she approached with two large glasses of chardonnay.

  “Fine, just reminiscing.”

  “Don’t,” she advised as she handed me the oversized wine glass, “you look somber.”

  “I am somber.”

  “Well, don’t be, this is supposed to be a happy, c-e-l-e-b-r-a-t-o-r-y event.” she emphasized ‘celebratory’ by hanging on each syllable. “If you’re not happy, people will talk, that’s the last thing you need.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to tell me about that. But after the year I’ve had, if I’m too happy people will talk too. I don’t need any more extracurricular headlining.”

  She looked at me and nodded, “you know, you’re right. You’re damned no matter what you do. So, don’t get drunk and don’t kiss or sleep with anyone tonight.” She reflected on what she just said and took a sip of her wine, “however, also keep in mind that frowning is very bad for your skin and you’re no spring chicken,” she pointed her finger at me, “so you better be careful.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks for the advice and encouragement. You’re a real peach”

  “Anytime, that’s what friends are for.”

  Katie and I were great friends, had been since grade school. She was the one who recruited me to this position ten years ago when I told her I was looking for a new job. There had been plenty of times during my 12 years at Hobbs and Johnson that I had been grateful to have her so close, but never so much as this past year. Her friendship had been my saving grace on just about every level. If it weren’t for her love, support, honesty and humor I probably never could have survived the failure of my marriage and the simultaneous marring of my professional reputation.

  “If I duck out for a smoke you think people will talk?” I asked factiously.

  “Most definitely,” she answered as seriously as she could.

  “You’re too much.”

  “No, seriously.” she nodded her head toward the window, “Look at the weather, it’s down pouring, AGAIN.” I turned to look, she continued, “who wouldn’t talk about someone standing outside smoking in that! Torrential downpours – no sane person would do that, so it must be a sign of lunacy, desperation or extreme depression.”

  “No kidding.” It had been raining for a week, but not just sprinkles, down pours. Deep down, in the place in your heart that truly has no ‘outside’ voice, only raw emotion, I blamed it on Maggie. Maggie, my Bassett Hound, my companion through EVERY event of the last 13 years had passed away the week prior. It started raining right after she died and it pretty much hadn’t stopped. G-d knew my heart was hurting, I knew the sky was crying for me.

  “If I was going to wait for the rain to stop I would have quit smoking altogether by now,” I said.

  “There’s a thought.” Kate was never shy about her contempt for my smoking.

  “Be right back.” I grabbed my coat from the back of my chair and slithered out the door.

  I practically hugged the building for shelter from the rain, but when you’re out on a pier in driving rain there is really no such place and December rain, in New England, is unforgiving – it was cold! ‘Maybe I should consider quitting smoking as a New Year’s Resolution’ I thought to myself. Kate, for one, would be pleased with that. But not tonight. Tonight, right now, I need a smoke. There were some barrels stacked at the end of the far wall of the building that housed the restaurant. They were more for ambience than storage, I assumed. I also assumed, or at least hoped, that they would provide some shelter from the wind so I headed that way. When I got there I wedged myself as close as I could in the space where the barrels met the wall and reached into my pocket for my cigarettes. That’s when I remembered my lighter was dead. Dead and floating in the sound where I deposited it during a bit of an emotional outburst after the seaside toy disposal ceremony I had performed for Maggie just prior to the Christmas party. Of course I didn’t have matches, who carries matches anymore? Damn it, I cursed myself. Now I would have to go all the way back into the restaurant for matches and probably abandon my mission. How many times could I come in and out of such a driving rain without making a mockery of myself?

  I stood there for a minute lost in frustration from my own lack of foresight. I always smoke when I drink and I always smoke when I’m stressed. I am always stressed at offsite work-social events. There is so much pressure to be on your ‘best game’ socially. It’s so easy to play the corporate game when you can hide behind titles and regulations, always remaining ‘politically correct’ or at least most people do. It’s how you fare socially, without the office buffer, that most people would notice and/or comment on. This is not my best hand.

  This evening was a ‘stress smokers’ trifecta – affairs, alcohol and office politics -- and I came without a light! Like a runner attending a marathon without sneakers, a baseball player going to the World Series without his glove or a fisherman attending a tournament without a rod! I was definitely pissed at myself. Then I saw him.

  At the other end of the building, barely visible in the dark but for a few shards of light from the restaurant windows, I could see the silhouette of a man. From his posture even at this distance it was easy to decipher that he was a much older man. From what I could see of his outfit he looked like a fisherman, but, then again, so did I. I could see smoke fighting to rise against the rain as he looked out across the water. ‘If he is smoking he must have a light’ I thought to myself. Boy, a few drinks and I still hadn’t lost my edge. But, on second thought, it’s December, maybe it was only his breath I saw. Regardless, I started slowly
toward him. With every step I fought the rain, yet the wind nudged at my back pushing me through. As I got closer I could see he was dressed for these elements, in a yellow rain slicker, black rain trousers, rubber boots and a wide-rimmed fisherman-type hat. Probably just a nice old guy trying to enjoy a cigarette to get away from his crowd, like I was hoping to do. I approached him from behind. I feared startling him in the dark, in the rain and on a pier – I mean, what are the odds of striking up a conversation with a total stranger under these extreme conditions. Really, what were the chances of not startling him – slim to none. Unfortunately, there really was no other option to approach from, “’scuse me,” I said gently from a bit of a distance, hoping to catch his attention.

  He continued staring out across the water, even though there was next to no visibility. He didn’t