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Corporate is sending in a specialist.
At first, Jensen was insulted. He’s the merchandiser—not some corporate shill.
Yet the more he thought about it, the more he accepted the intrusion. Decorating ten thousand square feet of retail space could be someone else’s pain in the ass during the holiday season. They would now have the experience of trying to hang snowflakes from the ceiling while customers shout questions from the bottom of the ladder. They would have to figure out how to rig lights over the columns without violating fire codes or getting wrapped around a string of multi-color twinkle lights.
The decision to bring in outside help hadn’t originated from the store itself. Not even the district manager cared enough to get involved.
Mrs. Martha Moss took it upon herself—with all her seventy years of experience in complaining at retail establishments in the tri-county area—to go directly to the source. She called the corporate office in Denver. Skilled in exaggeration, storytelling, and dramatics, Mrs. Martha Moss convinced the suits at corporate that Store 89 West Midland required more seasonal decoration than what Jensen had put up.
Apparently, a cardboard cutout of John Wayne topped with a Santa Claus hat wasn’t enough for Mrs. Martha Moss and the one hundred and fifty people she somehow coerced into signing her petition for more Christmas crap.
Halloween this year had been fun. Anything that stood still in the store was decked out with fake cobwebs, construction paper pumpkins, and miniature tombstones. Spooky soundtracks played over the intercom from October first all the way through close on October thirty-first. With Joe’s help—he had been a professional electrician in his pre-retail life—Jensen constructed a display window that became the envy of their district and region: a replica of Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas complete with moving Pumpkin King Jack Skellington.
Jensen cut out haunted house and cemetery construction paper borders. He decorated them by roping booksellers into forming an assembly line, gluing on tiny pumpkins and windows. The whole store was involved with Octobermas.
But as soon as the tombstones came down, Jensen resisted putting anything else up.
He allowed Liza to put a Santa hat on John Wayne—why hadn’t that been good enough?
There were even some plans—distant in his head, buried underneath inventory counts and vendor orders—to drag out the two foot Charlie Brown tree and stick it at the registers.
“You’re sharing your desk with the person from corporate,” Holly announces, two boxes of supplies in her arms as she barges into the backroom. Her bright red hair flops against her forehead from the speed of her walk. “Here. The UPS guy dumped these at the front.”
“Oh good,” Jensen snips. “They’ll be nice and damp.” Hopping off the barstool at the computer terminal, Jensen helps Holly set the boxes down on his so-called desk. He can be nice to his store manager sometimes. Briefly. “You calling this a desk is an insult to desks everywhere,” he grumbles.
Unfazed, Holly slices each container open with the box cutter perpetually hanging off the belt of her jeans. “Get over it, Jensen. It’s happening.”
“I know it’s happening, but I’m just saying that this? This is a table.”
“It’s your desk.”
“It’s my table.”
“Looks like a desk to me. Where are the urinal cakes we ordered?”
“Maybe they’re with my actual desk in Things Holly Promised Me Since Day One of this Job Land.”
“If we don’t get urinal cakes for the men’s bathroom, I’m personally peeing on your table.”
“Fine! But you just called it a table!”
The steel door to the backroom busts open before Holly has a chance to respond. Through the doorway, one gray shelving cart glides in as easily as a urinal cake falling into its pearly home. Hanging onto the back of the cart, Tess grins with all the easiness of any part-time bookseller. Mother of three children from the ages three to seven, Tess has the most agility out of anyone in the entire store.
And somehow, the most energy.
“He’s here!” Tess bounds off of the cart and parks it with the others in the backroom. She digs around in her denim overalls, searching through pockets so furiously that her auburn ponytail shakes. “Holly! I forgot to put in a transfer request! I wrote it down though… I think… somewhere…”
Holly abandons Jensen and the supplies—and thankfully, the search for the urinal cakes, which Jensen has not yet found—to rush over and help Tess. As the two empty Tess’s pockets onto the cart Tess rode in on, Jensen confirms that once again, Office Depot forgot to fill the order for urinal cakes and hand sanitizer. Someone at Office Depot better prepare themselves for the phone call of the century.
Tess shrieks as she pulls out a fake snake, throwing it away from her and cursing her attempt at teaching her kids about nature with rubber props.
“Oh stop,” Holly snorts, “we find worse shit in the men’s bathroom.”
“And the women’s,” Joe mutters. “Y’all just gonna let the corporate spy stand at the registers or what?”
Joe formed a smoke break circle three years back, right around the time his wife was divorcing him and taking full custody of their only child. Smoking seemed like a more productive way to cope than drinking. He couldn’t drink at work, but the employee manual did guarantee him ten minutes of every shift to smoke outside.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Holly sighs and pulls out the desired post-it note from Tess’s front pocket. She then turns to Jensen. “Would you go greet him? And show him around?”
“Why don’t you? You’re the grand poobah here.”
“Jensen.”
“Holly.”
“You know where everything is in the store.”
“So do you.”
“Do you wanna get paid this week? I have payroll to do, reviews to write… why am I explaining myself to you? Go!”
No amount of sighing in the world can express Jensen’s dislike at not only being commanded to step aside and let someone else run the decorating show, but now he has to smile and play host to the saboteur.
“They didn’t send urinal cakes,” Jensen huffs before he closes the backroom door.
Through steel, he can hear Holly swear.
Without customers, walking from the backroom to the front of the store takes about thirty seconds. Jensen usually stops along the way to fix empty easels, straighten displays, and make mental notes about what needs to be refilled. He’ll also note any inventory that has sold down, what has stubbornly refused to sell, and what he might think about switching out the next time he has to flip displays. While most people walk past display tables and endcaps, Jensen’s mind runs at a mile a minute. When he was a baby merchandiser all of three years ago, Jensen carried a tiny notebook around to scrawl down whatever needed filling, arranging, or messing with on the sales floor. Now, having learned better, Jensen relies on mental notes, making him a quick study.
Nothing prepares him to meet the physical representation of corporate holiday cheer.
Six feet five inches of cowboy boots, dark wash denim, and red flannel stands at the registers, making small talk with Juan. That’s just the base and foundation; Jensen takes in every garish, unsightly detail after from a button pin declaring “Unwrap a GREAT book!” to a garland of red tinsel wrapped around broad shoulders to honest to fuck actual rosy cheeks.
Walking up to the human Christmas billboard, Jensen can hardly believe his eyes. He spots two more important details by the time he’s close enough to shake the guy’s hand. The first detail seems to be the root of all evil: a gigantic box filled with a metric ton of garland, glittery snowflakes, and blood red poinsettias. The second detail is the throaty, distinctly Texan accent.
“Well, jingle my bells,” the stranger says, shaking Jensen’s hand in earnest. “You must be Jensen.”
Oh no.
A drawl and cheesy Christmas lines.
Jensen suppresses the urge to grab a crowbar—which he would miraculously materialize from thin air—and smash everything around them into bits. He cringes out his best being nice to strangers smile.
“H-how did you know?” Upon a closer look, Jensen notices that there might actually be glitter on the guy’s rosy cheeks.
The dimples that flash in the next moment could practically blind most people. Instead, it nearly causes Jensen to crouch down to the ground and start hissing at its source. Rosy glitter cheeks, dimples, bright hazel eyes, wavy chestnut hair—yes, like the god damn chestnuts roasting over a freaking open fire—topped with a bright red, poofy Santa Claus hat. A firm handshake creates the perfect storm of confusing, oddly erotic, sentimental feelings. It’s like a punch to Jensen’s bowl full of jelly.
“You’ve got the look of a merchandiser, of course!”
Unsure of the comment, Jensen clears his throat. “Thanks...? I guess?”
“Jared,” glitter cheeks replies. “And oh, don’t worry about giving me a tour. I got a blueprint from the architects and site manager from the office.” Motioning to the box at the register, Jared then claps his hands together. “We’ll be working on the front of the store first—windows, front vestibule, registers, and bestsellers in that order. Then we can make our way to the children’s alcove, Toyland, and young adult. After lunch, we can work on the backroom and genre fiction.”
Oh.
Not ten minutes in the store and jolly old Saint Nick’s tone transforms from unassuming and irritatingly cheerful to authoritative and commanding. Corporate suits waste no time. Even if they’re not wearing suits.
“Okay,” Jensen counters, dropping his arms to his sides. “So, what? You wanna toss up some tinsel and call it a day?”
Taking in a deep breath and clapping his hands together, The Great Decorator nods once and surveys the store. He probably sees endless possibilities for a freaking Winter Wonderland. Or some visions of sugarplums dancing. All Jensen can see is how trashed the cooking section looks from here.
“Show me to your workshop, Santa,” Jared proclaims. “Consider me your helpful elf this week.”
Jensen chokes on some spit. “A… a week?!”
“Yep! All yours for one whole week! Just try to keep me from that hot glue gun.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jensen grumbles. “This way.”
Box in his arms, Jared follows after, humming Jingle Bells.
En route to the backroom, Jensen contemplates how badly he needs this job.
In the first fifteen minutes of his arrival to Jensen’s table, Jared spreads out and becomes a whir of red and glitter. He organizes the papers, office supplies, books, bookmarks, and assorted merchandise that has littered the table since the end of October. More than shoving things aside—Jensen’s usual method—Jared utilizes binder clips and pushpins to hang up the papers on the wall. He then sorts out the merchandise on an empty cart and asks Tess, who happens to be walking by, to please run it.
“It would help me out a ton,” Jared says with a smile. “And I’d surely appreciate it.”
It’s a good thing Tess isn’t holding one of her kids; she would’ve dropped them to start off with the cart.
Even Holly succumbs to Jared’s elvish spell.
“Hi, I’m Holly, the store manager.”
“Well, hi there, Holly! I’d like to thank you for hosting me this week—you have a wonderful store.”
“T-thank you,” she stammers while blushing a color similar to Jared’s Santa hat. “I hope Jensen hasn’t been too awful…”
“Of course not! He just needs some holiday spirit. Nothing a little tinsel can’t fix.”
“Oh, I think he’s going to need a lot more than that.”
Laughing, Jared shakes his head. “Nonsense, I haven’t met a merchandiser yet that I can’t turn around for the holidays. Now, I reviewed the city’s fire codes and ordinances on the plane, so don’t you worry—everything I’ll be putting up fits their requirements. I just want to ask: are you on board to making your store look the best in the district this season?”
“Of course!” Holly nods and beams up at Jared. “Anything I can to do help, let me know.”
Jared lays his accent on thick. “Why thank you, I surely will.”
In awe, Jensen watches Jared simultaneously take over the table and befriend every single bookseller on staff today. No more than a few sentences and Jared becomes everyone’s new friend. Even Joe offers him a smoke—a ritual reserved only for anyone working at the store for six months or more.
Nothing fazes Jared. He rolls up his flannel sleeves and unpacks the box. Its contents stretch out over the expanse of Jensen’s now cleared table. When Jensen breaks the news that he does have a glue gun but no glue gun sticks, Jared unfurls a tool belt packed with every kind of crafting supply known to man. Not only does he have glue sticks, but he has glitter glue sticks in five colors. There are extra buttons, tiny scissors, three types of ribbon, pins, tape, calligraphy pens, tweezers, and paintbrushes.
“I’ve decorated stores all across the country,” Jared shares. He pulls out a legal pad with a detailed, neatly written To Do List. Mistletoe has already been doodled in the margins. “For any and all holidays, monthly observations, and store events.”
“Uh huh,” Jensen murmurs. “Must be something.”
“When I’m not doing that,” he continues, as if Jensen asked, “I’m helping with inventory counts, supply orders, and filling in for merchandisers on leave. My home base is corporate, but I love coming out to stores.”
“Living the dream.”
Hazel eyes glance over, undeterred. “I’ve always admired your Halloween displays.”
Lacking any proper response, Jensen shoves his hands into his pockets and grumbles that they should get started on decorating crap around the store. If Jared has packed all these supplies then he probably intends on using them. Hosing the store down in fake snow won’t seem to cut it.
“Well, dab some red marker on my nose and call me Rudolph,” Jared says, eyebrows raised. “Are you saying you actually want to get started?”
Merchandising requires exhaustive attention to detail. The job demands a lot for nothing; Jensen often works under restricted time, space, and budget. Ten thousand square feet of retail space doesn’t merchandise and display itself; though some days he wishes it did. Regardless, he enjoys his job for the most part. It allows him to notice the slight rip in Jared’s flannel, over his right shoulder, stitched up with sparkly green thread. Then he spots Jared’s boots—dark leather, very plain in comparison, but obviously quality. This gives Jensen the impression that even though Jared might be a walking and talking billboard for Silver Bells, he has a practical side to him.
But whatever. Jared is still corporate.
“I’m saying,” Jensen clarifies, “that I have other things to do.”
The Great Decorator smiles slyly in response, then hands Jensen a piece of pale blue construction paper and a pair of scissors. “Not today you don’t. Now, do I need to show you how to make a snowflake or can you take it from here? Because I have a few templates and examples in my binder here…”
“You’re sure you’re okay up there, Jensen?”
“I’m fine. I have managed to hang things from the ceiling before.”
“Someone’s got his gum drop buttons on a little too tight.”
“…that doesn’t make any sense.”
“A little to the left.”
“Here?”
“No, still crooked. They’re candy canes, please try to get them symmetrical.”
“Do you wanna do this?”
“I just offered, didn’t I? And I offered before.”
“Whatever. Now?”
“A smidge to the right.”
“The heck is a smidge?”
“We have thirteen more of these to put up all over the store.”
“There!”
“Well, I suppose that looks okay…”
“I’m getting down.”
“That’s okay, I can fix it later.”
“…”
“I thought you said you were getting down?”
“I am.”
“You know, Santa usually supervises, not his elves.”
“I didn’t ask for any elves.”
“You can’t get down, can you?”
“…I can. Look away.”
“No can do, Santa. I’m spotting you.”
“I told you I didn’t want to get on the ladder…!”
“Oh, you’ll be fine once I make you a cup of my famous hot chocolate. I might even have a few chocolate peppermint cookies with me if you ask nicely.”
“I don’t want cookies! And I’m lactose intolerant! Just… go away and I’ll get down!”
“Swapping milk out for almond milk ain’t no big to do. That’s easy enough.”
“W-what are you doing?!”
“Don’t you worry. Just hold on. Now, tell me something…”
“You’re climbing up here?! What the…”
“Juan’s spotting us from the register, it’s alright. I’m just a few steps away from you. But you know, I’m curious about why a merchandiser who takes so much pride in decorating for Halloween—and has either done or delegated Christmas decorations before—can’t be bothered to put up some tinsel for a month?”
“Fuck, I’m dizzy.”
“You’re okay. Two steps away now. You knocked it out of the park this year with Halloween. And last year’s was stellar too. So what’s up that you can’t cut more than ten snowflakes an hour for Christmas?”
“This is not happening.”
“What’s happening, Jensen, is that I’m going to put my left arm around your chest and get close. If you’re uncomfortable, let me know. Ready?”
“No, no, fuck, I’m not ready, just leave me here, no one would notice…”
“There. Feel okay?”
“…”
“Did something happen?”
“Did what happen?”
“You don’t have to give me details.”
“I’m about to throw up—is that a detail?”
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“In.”
“I’m not a freaking baby.”
“Out.”
“…”
“Good. In. And out. Again. I’ve got you. We’re gonna take one step down. Breathe in. And out.”
“Hnn…”
“Halfway there.”
“I’ve done this before.”
“I know. In. Out.”
“Shit…”
“Shh, customers will hear you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re on the ground.”
Jared doesn’t release his arm until Jensen fully absorbs that fact.
“Jingle my bells,” Jared murmurs, “you made it.”
There’s not any grand, tragic reason why Jensen became the merchandiser who hates Christmas.
Over a cup of almond milk hot chocolate and chocolate peppermint cookies, he shares the details that seem important to a practical stranger. Still, this stranger sits him down in the breakroom and fusses over him for ten minutes—adding marshmallows to his hot chocolate, making sure it was warm enough, and pouring the entire concoction into an actual mug instead of a paper cup.
Jared listens, attentive and quiet, sipping the terrible instant coffee Tess makes every morning.
He takes his coffee with two creams and two sugars and a dash of cinnamon powder.
And he doesn’t mind drinking out of a paper cup.
Jensen never minded Christmas, personally or professionally. Some years he’d fly down to Dallas to visit his folks, his siblings, and the myriad of uncles, aunts, and cousins. Other years he’d take solo trips to public libraries on his bucket list. San Francisco had beautiful libraries; Vancouver’s were breathtaking; the one out in Maine, on a lonely, rocky patch of land on the Atlantic coast took the cake.
He swapped presents like everyone else and whenever he remembered to buy stamps, he’d send out a few Christmas cards. On Christmas Day, he’d call his mother.
Last Christmas, he didn’t fly down to Dallas alone. Andy went with.
Andy, the assistant store manager and best damn Fourth of July kisser in the world. They hooked up at Holly’s party that year, completely hammered from white wine and hard cider. While their coworkers were dodging fireworks Joe rigged up in the backyard, Jensen and Andy were searching for condoms in the guest bathroom medicine cabinet.
Taking the jump from working together to sleeping together to eventually living together had been so easy. Easy enough that whenever they had arguments, work was always there as a distraction.
It was a typical breakup for any thirty something year old couple. Andy wanted more. Jensen didn’t. He liked where they were and what they had. Andy didn’t. Marriage, kids, a house… and a nine to five office job for the both of them where they weren’t on their feet all day.
Andy wanted desks.
Jensen said he already had a desk.
“It’s a table,” Andy had said.
Prior Christmases, Andy had helped out with the decorations around the store. He came up with the idea of spray painting boxes and making an igloo for the kid’s section. He put up mistletoe above Jensen’s computer terminal and snatched kisses whenever they were alone in the backroom.
That was last year.
This September, without more than two days’ warning, Andy moved out and moved on.
Halloween had been Jensen’s project to vent. It consumed him and he allowed it, because anything was better than thinking about how easily someone could remove him from their lives.
Just like that.
“Santa,” Jared whispers, looking shy for the first time since they’ve met. “You should’ve said something.”
“Like what? ‘Sorry, some asshole broke my heart and I’m just not feeling like wearing a smile and wishing everyone a hap-hap-happy holiday’? No.” Jensen snorts. “Everyone here knows what happened. The last thing I need is it going to corporate.”
Biting his bottom lip, Jared hesitates before speaking. He fidgets some and rolls his right shoulder. Despite his silence, Jared still stands out against the beige breakroom.
Long fingers gently slip off the Santa hat.
Jared keeps his eyes on it as he cradles it in his hands.
“When people tell me things in confidence, it stays with me. I hope you can believe that. And I’m not here to take over your job or step on your toes, but I do have a job to do. It’s my pleasure to help out. If you’re not feeling it, that’s okay. If you wanna be sad, be sad. I’m not gonna force you to smile when you don’t want to.” Jared smooths out the hat on the table. “This is my third Christmas without my mom. First two hurt like hell. It still… hurts like hell.”
Jensen missed a detail before; red initials peek out from underneath the hat’s trim.
“This was hers.” Tracing the initials, Jared breathes in deep. “Christmas was my favorite holiday. I got this for her when I was eighteen. And when I got this job, she said, ‘Lord help us all, you keep them tinsel people in business.’”
The most peculiar sound filters out between them. It’s not loud or forced at all. In fact, it’s very quiet and hushed—two soft, laid-back laughs.
Smiling, Jared sighs. “Her favorite holiday was Halloween. Since you became a merchandiser, I showed her pictures of your Halloween displays in the corporate newsletter. I really wish she could’ve seen what you did this year. I know it came from a difficult place, but you really made something great.”
Almond milk hot chocolate and a pair of relaxed hazel eyes spread an unfamiliar kind of warmth through Jensen. Is he blushing? It feels like he’s blushing.
“I’m sorry,” Jensen offers.
“Don’t be,” Jared counters. “You’re alright.”
Ten thousand square feet of retail space waits to be decorated to the nines for the busiest time of year. The decorations they put up will not only boost sales, it’ll help morale and keep things light. They’ll hang up delicate paper chains created by assembly lines of booksellers and managers laughing about being third graders and getting paid to glue paper. They’ll cut out gingerbread men from cardboard and paint them to look like characters from Harry Potter. They’ll stick snowflakes on anything that stands still and rig up a window display of Christmas Town from the Nightmare Before Christmas.
Jensen finishes the last sip of hot chocolate and stands up to take his mug to the sink.
With his free hand, he picks up the hat from the table and places it back on Jared’s head.
“You got me down,” Jensen says, still unsure why anyone would carry around five types of glitter glue gun sticks.
Jared gets to his feet, pushes his chair in, and tosses out his empty paper cup. He places one hand on Jensen’s shoulder and gives a small, assuring squeeze.
“Nah, Santa, this is just the beginning.”
It might be a jolly holiday after all.