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Patrick stood at the doors, tense. Contemplating the crowd on the other side of the glass, the sheer number of eyes trained intently on him, he felt he rather understood the thoughts of a rabbit facing a pack of hungry dogs. He clutched the ring of keys he had been given by a blandly smiling Kerri, the shift manager, who had told him without a hint of irony, to “Smile! You’ve got the easy job this morning,” and wished he were anywhere else.
Stupid Joe, for getting Patrick into a job in a fucking Wal-Mart. Stupid Black Friday hours, that had dragged Patrick from his warm bed in Glenview to his workplace before the ass-crack of dawn. He blinked—bleary, he suspected, from residual tryptophan in his system from his mom’s lavish Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. His stomach knotted, suggesting the venti double shot americano that had constituted his attempt to wake up as he drove to work was probably not the kindest way to jump start his system. Oh yeah. Let’s not forget the stupidest person of all in Patrick’s internal litany of complaint.
Stupid Patrick, for getting himself into a situation where he needed this job.
“Fuck—no, open up! Please, please...” Patrick hammered on the doors to the Metra car in panic, trying in vain to force the steel doors back open. The afternoon commuters swirled around him indifferently while the train hummed to life, sliding along the platform. Patrick could see into the car, see where his precious guitar was propped forlorn against his former seat, forgotten in the absent-minded flurry of disembarking. Nobody in the train met his eyes, except for one kid his age, who looked up from his phone, and after solemn consideration, flipped him the bird.
“—gone, Joe, I ran to the station manager and asked them to hold the train at Northbrook, but they said when they searched the third car there was no case anywhere. Fuck I’m so fucking fucked, I need that guitar, that thing means everything, how’m I gonna-” Joe cuts off Patrick’s train of desperate babble. He sounds sympathetic, which is nice, but Patrick needs solutions, like, yesterday.
“Oh fuck. Dude I’m so sorry. That thing’s like, a total connection between you and your dad.” Joe knows all about how David Stumph had presented Patrick with the vintage Les Paul Burst on his sixteenth birthday. Acquired as a project guitar when David himself was a young man, he and Patrick had worked to restore it, getting it re-necked, restrung, and lovingly cleaning and buffing the flamed maple top til it shone. Patrick adored its tone, its ease of handling—but even more, it felt like an affirmation from his dad about the direction Patrick wanted to take in life. His mother wavered between amused disbelief and outright dismissal that Patrick was serious about being a musician. But the guitar was his dad’s blessing and the very tool he needed to put his plans into motion. And now…
“I hate myself. I need that guitar. My dad’s going to be fucking broken up about this, so disappointed in me—what am I going to do, Joe?” Patrick hated the quaver in his voice, hated feeling helpless.
Joe was silent for a moment. “I can’t tell you what to say to your dad, but. You need a new guitar. You’re not gonna see your Les Paul again in this life, but if you still want to play, to compose—you need a new axe.”
Patrick scoffed, hopeless and bitter. “Yes of course, I’ll stroll right in to the Music Exchange downtown. When I come to the counter with my new choice I’ll bat my eyes and hope I’m cute enough that they forget I’m broke.”
Joe made an impatient noise. “Patrick. Duh—that’s the next step. Let’s get you un-broke.”
The shorter boy sighed. “How? Its a month til I can even think of any Christmas money. I don’t have much at all left from my summer work. And there’s no way in hell I can ask my mom to spot me several hundred dollars—I’m dead if I tell her I lost the Les Paul.”
Now he could definitely hear Joe grinning. “That’s where I come in, my friend. Here’s where Joe Troh saves the day.”
Patrick did not trust this declaration. Joe was many things—his best friend, an awesome guitarist, the only person he knew who could store an entire packet of Warheads in his mouth and not die of a terminal pucker—but he was not not the sort of action hero you looked for to rescue anything. (Unless its pizza. Joe could definitely be counted on to perform extreme, even herculean, measures to save a special from Giordano’s). “What.”
“You, my friend, need a job.”
Patrick had quickly seen the logic. He had even been creative and clever selling the idea of an after-school/weekend job to his mother, who had acquiesced “if you keep your grades up, ‘Rick.” But his optimism had quickly soured. Turns out the best jobs, the coolest shops where Patrick might possibly have had an interest in working, are all for kids eighteen and over.
So, resigned, he had dropped off applications at the local big-box complex. And with a sick sense of inevitability, Patrick found himself shaking the hand of the hiring manager at the Wal-Mart SuperCenter. He donned the official blue vest. He went through the training. And eventually, he found himself here, under the harsh fluorescent lights, on Black Friday, facing the hordes that would descend when the store opened at 7 am.
He eyed the crowd. It had been a line, originally. Stretching orderly from the doors, it had disappeared around the building’s corner when he had arrived for his shift. But now, watching as zero-hour approached, Patrick’s palms began to sweat. The semblance of a line was abandoned, as people massed ever-closer to the doors. Elbows jutted, eyes flashed white in the pre-dawn gloom as the crowd all gave each other the side-eye and jockeyed for position. Patrick looked at the digital store clock above the entrance; 6:57am. Three minutes to decide whether he should cower at the edges of the doors or sprint like a madman when he disabled the alarm and turned the keys. He had the dire realization that people wouldn’t behave like an ocean wave—staying to the side wouldn’t help him if people chose to fan out from the entry point.
Sprinting it is, he thought grimly. Patrick was a realist. He knew he had spent all semester walking the track along with the other band geeks during gym class when he should’ve been running. He had no doubt that a sizable percentage of the crowd was faster than him. But he was damned if his obituary was going to read “Teen trampled to death in deal-seeking stampede.” 6:59 am. Patrick pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and gripped his keys firmly.
The opening chime sounded. His fingers slipped, forcing him to enter the six-digit disabling code a second time, and then he was turning the keys. The electronic doors slid open. “Welcome to Wal-Mart,” he began...And all hell broke loose.
Look. Patrick’s been in crowds before. He’s been to enough basement shows, full of noise and elbows and raw aggression, and come out fine. Hell, his own high school at lunch or dismissal time counted as a crash course in handling mobs. But this—
The thunder of feet and confusion of people pushing was not altogether a shock. But so many voices—raised and shouting, contradicting, directing each other—these were people on a mission. And when he saw carts added to the mix, used as snowplows against the slow or unwary, Patrick began to backpedal, fast. “The flatscreens!” someone shouted. A cacophony of similar cries arose, and he swallowed. The path to the electronics section was his main escape route, so he had to get ahead of the crowd now—and stay there.
He booked it. An arm of the crowd swelled, barreling down the aisle after him. Patrick cursed the holiday deals on the new-fangled LCD TVs that drove people into a barking frenzy and chanced a look behind him. Huh. Apparently terror lent wings to his feet, or whatever. He was a respectable length ahead of the mass. But just as he thought he might even chance a slightly relaxed pace, somebody sprinted past him, huffing worse than Patrick but cackling wildly as he did.
“Suck it, motherfuckers!” the man crowed. From his battered jacket the stocky blond dude pulled a metal can and aimed it at the crowd, even as he kept moving. Krylon? Patrick thought in confusion, and felt annoyed, thinking it would likely fall to him to clean up any mess that this asshole sprayed. He heard a hissing noise from the can.
“No!” Without warning, Patrick’s feet left the floor. Something careened into him, taking him airborne briefly and sending him sprawling, painfully, into a plexiglass multi-cube display of women’s bras. Poly-cotton and spandex scattered everywhere, and Patrick’s head hit the cube hard enough that he had to blink, for a moment, before he could take stock of what happened. Someone was sprawled atop him, and they both lay in a sea of neglected undergarments, out of the main aisle. The herd of customers continued to thunder closer.
“A-cup?” A voice very near his ear asked. “Doubt it. You’d rock a pair of killer-B’s, at least.” Patrick whipped a garish novelty bra in that size off his head, where it had landed. Turning his head, he prepared to tear into this asshole for the assault and, and the—was it innuendo? It was still too ungodly early for Patrick’s brain to be sure.
Then he choked quietly on his own tongue. Warm amber eyes looked back at him from above, crinkled a bit at the edges with amusement. They were partially shadowed by choppy black bangs, streaked crimson and falling artfully down over one eye. His assailant was beautiful, sharp jawline and golden skin wrapped in a holly-red hoodie. Patrick promptly forgot everything he had planned to snarl. “This is—you assaulted me?” He hated that it comes out of his mouth as a question.
The man grinned, and propped himself up on his elbows. He looked entirely too comfortable, sprawled across the torso of someone he didn’t even know. “Yep. You’re welcome.”
Patrick rediscovers outrage. “Are you crazy? Fucker, get the hell off me—gonna call security on your ass-” He tried to lever himself upright, but the stranger planted a hand across Patrick’s chest. His face had abruptly gone serious.
“Give it a second, let’s be sure about the spread pattern.” Which was—what? Patrick stopped struggling for a moment, and gave the stranger a dubious look. Pretty or not, he wasn’t making sense. The stranger glanced back towards the aisle apprehensively, and Patrick saw his eyes widen.
“Fuck.” The man vaulted to his feet, so quickly Patrick didn’t see him move. “Dude really let loose with it. C’mon, let’s move!” He stuck a hand out, ready to haul Patrick up. Patrick didn’t budge.
“Go away. I mean it, I’ll call security.” Patrick didn’t think he’s in danger, per say, but he was not going anywhere with this guy, no matter how good he looked. He sat up cautiously.
The stranger gave an impatient huff and pointed. “Look—listen!” Patrick’s head turned, unwillingly, to the aisle. His eyes widened. A reddish cloud was rolling towards them, expanding as he watched. He was aware, suddenly, that the noise from the crowd of customers had changed. Yelps of distress, coughing, and pained cries filled the air. “Blondie had bear spray, and it looks like he shot the whole can.”
Patrick’s body was scrambling before his mind caught up. He levered himself upright, using the stranger’s arm as a ladder, and the two of them cut away from the aisle and the burning cloud. Patrick, familiar with the store’s layout, lead them away from ladies’ undergarments towards housewares. Only when the sounds of distress faded and there were several aisles of high shelves separating them from the cloud did Patrick stop. He leaned over, gasping, hands braced on his knees. His companion, he noticed bitterly, wasn’t winded at all.
“What the fuck.” Patrick’s brain, which had shut down everything except raw flight impulses during their escape, now spared bandwidth for horror. “Like—who does that? I mean. For a deal on a fucking Sony?”
The stranger nodded, solemnly, and watched as Patrick’s breath evened out. Patrick straightened, and looked him in the eye. “How’d you know what he was carrying? I thought he had a can of spray paint.”
The guys shrugged. “Got a buddy from Milwaukee. He’s taken me camping a time or two up in the Headwaters. He always brings the stuff, and one time we actually had to use it.”
Patrick played back the moment before the stocky blond asshole pulled out his spray. Patrick had been squarely between him and the crowd, would’ve been the first to charge straight into it. By now his eyes would have been burning, skin on fire, lungs wracked with coughing, if this guy—red-clad like a holiday elf (adult version) hadn’t materialized. “Dude. I—thanks. You saved my ass, I guess. Seriously, thank you.”
The older boy beamed. “Just glad I was there, man. Christmas shopping isn’t usually this much fun.” His eyes traveled slowly up Patrick’s frame, pausing a moment, the younger boy was sure, to rest on his mouth. “And the company is rarely this cute.”
Heat bloomed in Patrick’s face. But before he could open his mouth again, and utter something ridiculous, the other boy’s eyes cut past him. “Unfortunately, my sister will kill me if we don’t score one of those TVs on special today. We’re both chipping in on one for our parents, and she’s waiting in a register line right now. Later, dude.” This last was tossed over his shoulder, as he turned with a smile and a wave, and jogged off, disappearing past the shelves of coffeemakers and hand-mixers.
Patrick gazed after the other boy, mouth hanging slightly open. He could hear a commotion, faintly, in the direction of the women’s underwear department. No doubt store security was there, and paramedics were rendering first aid. The red-hooded boy had disappeared, leaving Patrick with nothing more than a memory of those eyes. He glanced down at his phone. 7:09 am. He snorted; a week’s worth of excitement in less than a quarter hour—it was going to be a long day.
***
Lunch with Joe. They were lucky today, had managed to sync up their breaks, so they exited their respective big boxes and hiked across the freezing, windswept acres of blacktop to the row of fast food joints at the edge of the complex. Now, seated in the booth they had commandeered, Joe held his bowl to his face, forking pulled pork and noodles into his mouth at a steady pace, and Patrick sighed. “I just. It would’ve been nice to get his name, y’know? Like, so if he ever shopped there again, I could just greet him like a normal dude.”
Joe snorted unattractively. “Normal dudes don’t pine after strangers who tackle them in a Wal-Mart, so.” He slurped down several inches worth of his cup of cherry Coke, and paused to point his fork at Patrick. “You promised to drop this hero-crush, dude. Your swooning all week has put me off my appetite.”
This was manifestly untrue; Joe was emptying his bowl at roughly twice the speed with which Patrick was attacking his pad thai. He glared at the taller boy. “It’s not a crush, and I don’t swoon. Fine. Whatever. Can we talk about the new drummer on From Here to Infirmary? I think its bogus that Porter ditched them, but the new guy’s fuckin’ righteous.” Joe agreeably switched gears, and in the dwindling few minutes of their break they traded opinions about Alkaline Trio’s new album. They bickered and sniped at each other amiably, finishing quickly and bundling themselves back into jackets and scarves.
“Shit. Five minutes. We gotta move,” Patrick said. The two of them made the trek back, hustling across the tarmac. Patrick set the pace, moving far faster than he’d like because he knew how rare his manager was. Many of the shift leaders at Wal-Mart didn’t approve of associates (wage slaves, Joe corrected solemnly) exiting the store on lunch breaks, but Kerri’s not a bad sort. She told all her new hires that they had permission to leave, as long as they were never, ever, late to clock back in. Patrick loathed the thought of spending more time than he has to in the store, so he strived not to lose his privilege.
They neared the first building, the mammoth blue cube of the Best Buy with its seething parking lot. Joe peeled off with a wave, calling, “come meet me in Equipment when we’re done. You’ve gotta see the new distortion pedal we got in.” Patrick nodded, smiled, and jogged on as the doors slid open to engulf his friend. Patrick tried not to be jealous of Joe’s job. When Joe had nagged him to seek employment, he had envisioned the two of them working at Best Buy together. But the electronics retailer had filled its seasonal jobs in a flash; and Patrick was reduced to folding shirts and stocking shelves next door in Wal-Mart. Whatever. He was still getting money towards a new guitar and Joe was very generous about sharing his employee discount when Patrick would drool over the music equipment or vinyl they offered.
He sprinted to the associates’ entrance, and clocked in, just in time. Stashing his gear and trotting out to his department, he grabbed a folding board and went to attack the slumped display of seasonal sweaters, red and green and altogether atrocious. Patrick smiled at a dimpled toddler sitting upright nearby in her mom’s cart, puffing out his cheeks and making silly faces as he worked, making her laugh while her mother contemplated blouses. The next few minutes were mindlessly busy, answering questions from a handful of customers, and steadily moving among the racks of shirts and jeans, straightening as he went. Patrick found himself humming under his breath as he worked, a pleasing little loop of sound he had created that kept tickling his brain. He wondered if he could do more, expand it, maybe.
“Excuse me—what was that?” Patrick whirled, and. It’s him. The same guy from Black Friday, his erstwhile rescuer. He was in another hoodie (seriously, the wind chill outside put it at 18 degrees, did this guy have a grudge against coats?), fur trimmed this time. Patrick had begun to doubt his own recollection of their previous sudden-impact meeting, telling himself that shock and gratitude had made the guy seem larger than life. But no. He stood close, near enough for Patrick to appreciate how the cloudy-soft border of black fur blended seamlessly into the guy’s bangs. Patrick stepped back a pace, unnerved that the dude managed to come up behind him so soundlessly. His brain belatedly tried to make a response.
“Christ. Creeper much?” Look, Patrick never claimed to be an easygoing conversationalist. He’s thought of a million ways he’d handle another meeting with this guy if he got the chance, but here he was, barking at him again. Come to think of it, he’s not following store policy for greeting customers, either. Shape up, Stumph, he told himself sternly. “Wait, what did you say? What was what?”
The guys still looks at him intently. “I really liked what you were singing. Who was that?” He seems solemn, focused on Patrick’s answer.
Patrick started, realizing he must have been louder than he intended as he mulled over his little ear-catching loop of notes. “I—nobody, its just stuck in my brain.” Not even a lie, technically. “I wasn’t singing, either.” He felt his ears grow warm—sign of an incipient blush.
The guy stared a moment more. “Fine, humming. I liked it. Catchy,” he said, and suddenly smiled. Patrick was caught in its warmth, like summer sunshine. “Sorry I startled you. I get pretty focused about good music.” He points to Patrick’s name tag, gesturing. “And this is awesome. I never did get your name when we met the other morning—but look! You’re a Patrick. Now I have a name attached to your face when I think abou-”
“Excuse me.” Patrick startled, once again. The new voice cut over Black Friday Guy’s, nasal and unwelcome. A lady, fifty-ish and stout, bundled in an enormous puffy parka, aimed her cart squarely at the two boys. BFG (as Patrick had mentally begun to label him) had to take a strategic two-step to avoid getting rammed in the hip, but the lady ignored him. She gave Patrick a gimlet-eyed stare and declared, “This is not the Wal-Mart customer experience I expect.”
Patrick blinked. “I’m sorry?” He tried. The lady huffed.
“Your store! Its entirely too crowded for me to shop. How am I supposed to enjoy careful consideration of merchandise? Or make good choices?” Her foot tapped impatiently.
Patrick looked around. There were a pair of women in their twenties holding up velvet tops against each other, comparing options, and a grandmotherly lady over by the jeans. “This is actually about as uncrowded as it ever gets, ma’am. I’m happy to offer wardrobe suggestions though, or bring you sizes if you need.” Patrick tried to maintain a pleasant expression, never mind the fact that the lady had cut into his conversation with BFG.
The lady scoffed. Her chunky earrings thunked audibly against her jaw as she shook her head. “Pathetic. I need to speak with your manager. I need someone in charge. Someone has to take action!” She whips her cart in a sharp U-turn, scraping a display table with aggressive disregard, and stomps off towards the main aisle.
“So...” Patrick turned back to BFG, hoping they could restart their conversation. The older boy was looking with disdain in the direction of Patrick’s irate customer, shaking his head.
“I admire you, man, I really do.” Patrick looked at the other boy inquiringly. “I honestly can’t filter my opinions. Somebody comes at me like that? I’d be telling them to fuck off before I could talk about trending clothing all polite-like.”
Patrick grinned. “Oh trust me, in my brain I was. But I’m not losing this job, even if I hate it. I need a new guitar by the new year, and this is the only way-”
“What the fuck.” The other boy sounded disbelieving. Patrick was a little tired, by this point, of not getting to finish his sentences. But he saw the other boy’s attention had veered back to the path the rude woman had taken. “She’s not—Patrick, look at her, I think she’s heading for-”
Patrick’s brain was slow to catch up. He could see the woman, magenta parka and ash-blonde hair, plowing a course towards the edge of the adjacent home goods department. The shelves of lightbulbs, extension cords, and other merchandise seemed not to hold her interest at all—she reached instead towards a small, rectangular red box, affixed to a pillar, and, “Nuh-uh. Oh hell no-”
He never did finish the thought. The lady reached out and grabbed the T-bar on the little Bosch fire alarm. Patrick experienced the moment in slow motion, seeming to watch her arm travel through space in syrupy leisure, while his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open to yell.
She yanked the alarm. Whatever Patrick had hoped to say was lost, as the air filled with the strangled staccato screech of the Spectralert system. Heads came up, followed by a growing chorus of unease and shouted questions that began to ricochet across the store. Patrick’s manager Kerri materialized, like the sound had summoned her. She gestured to the main aisles, herding the women in Patrick’s department along like a blonde border collie. “Please make your way to the nearest exits, ladies. Don’t waste any time. Leave your carts here and take only your personal belongings.” She eyed Patrick and BFG, beckoning them urgently. “Patrick, come on, bring your friend, go!”
Patrick looked back towards the aisle. Puffer-coat woman, unconcerned by the whooping screech of the alarm, had made her way back to the women’s fashions department, and was holding up one of the sweaters Patrick had been so assiduously folding. She gleefully threw a red one (it had an image of Rudolph on it, with a glittery little bobble on it to represent the famous red nose) in her cart, and made her way to the wall of jeans. Patrick saw red.
“What the fuck,” he snarled. He called to Kerri, who was directing the grandmotherly older lady to watch her step. “Kerri, there’s no fire. That lady right there,” he jabbed a finger at the woman, “just pulled the alarm in housewares. I saw her!” Beside Patrick, the dark-haired boy nodded vigorously.
Kerri turned. She was tall, almost lanky for a girl, with her hair french-braided down her back in a businesslike queue. Patrick had always privately thought she belonged an old Western pulp novel—she was fearless and looked like she’d be at home on a horse with a gun at her hip. Now she turned, and her eyes narrowed. The rude woman, through some uncanny ability, sensed Kerri’s gaze and looked up. She still oozed smug glee, casually stopping to rifle through another display table as Kerri bore down on her.
“Ma’am.” Oh yes, Patrick thought. Clint Eastwood has nothing on her. “Answer me truly. Did you do what my associate claims?” The woman glanced up, finally, and gave Kerri an ugly look.
“Did I use my rights as a customer? Did I do what that young man wouldn’t? Of course I did. I deserve to take my time and have enough space to enjoy my shopping without riffraff crowding me. You’ll have to move now, those BOGO camisoles look like a good deal.”
Kerri didn’t budge. Her arm snaked to her walkie, and she spoke a few hurried orders into it. “Under Cook County regulations and Illinois state law, you’ve just committed a class-A misdemeanor, and are about to be subject to a whopping fine, ma’am. When we get to the doors you’ll have to stay with me while the department cameras are reviewed.” Hmm, Patrick thought, revising his mental picture. Maybe she’d be a hard-boiled cop in a crime drama, instead. He was impressed he could hear Kerri’s voice, low and steady, under the shriek of the alarm.
BFG clapped, enthusiastically. “Nail her ass, dude! She came out of nowhere, was rude to Patrick for no reason, and then she screws with your store? Throw the book at her. I’ll gladly testify, if I’m needed.” He grinned at Kerri, and Patrick had a sinking feeling. His manager had that wholesome outdoorsy look going on, the sort of sun-kissed good looks that belonged in California, maybe, and Patrick’s hoodie-clad stranger was definitely closer in age to her than to his teenaged, junior-in-high-school, self. Hell. Kerri was even the right gender, there was likely no chance BFG was even interested in guys. Patrick’s head dropped a little, and he hid his disappointed expression under his wayward copper-blond hair.
But parka-woman wasn’t finished for the afternoon. “I don’t answer to the likes of you!” she hollered. Whether she meant BFG, or Kerri, Patrick never found out, because the woman grabbed a strategically handy stack of t-shirts, and flung them wildly at the other two. BFG wasn’t expecting it and briefly got tangled in them, while Kerri batted black and silver tees away from her face and charged. But parka-woman used her favorite weapon again, whipping her cart forward to block Kerri’s advance. She took off running, surprisingly fast for someone of her age and girth, to say nothing of her choice of outerwear. Kerri was after her in a flash, yelling back over her shoulder.
“Patrick—meet me at the West entrance. You and your friend get out of here, the sprinklers may still go off!”
The two boys were frozen for a moment, watching Kerri’s figure speeding off towards the front of the store. Then BFG shook himself. “You heard her—let’s get going. This fur can’t get wet—its dry clean only,” and here he patted the soft cloud of fur peeping from one of his cuffs. He took Patrick by the shoulders and started steering the younger boy towards the main aisle, while Patrick protested.
“But you—we both saw her—she pulled the alarm, there’s no real danger-!”
“Dude. Don’t you get it? This is the end of your work day. Between the time it takes for the alarm to be disabled, and the fire company to verify there’s no threat, and for your store security to grab your customer-from-hell, they’re not going to have customers back in that store till long after your shift is done. You’re free! Come celebrate-”
They emerged to chaos. The Spectralert system had done its job, and the entrances to the store were thronged with agitated, confused, customers and Wal-Mart employees. Patrick could see a pair of firetrucks, lights flashing, that were just entering the parking lot. And to his satisfaction, he saw Kerri, flanked by a pair of store security officers, and the parka-clad customer. She wasn’t restrained in any way, but they had herded her against the wall of the store, blocking her easy escape. One officer spoke into a walkie, and the other kept a wary eye on the woman while he spoke to Kerri. Kerri at that moment looked up and caught sight of Patrick.
“Hey, Patrick—over here!” she called. “Ray and James want to get your account of what happened before the alarm sounded.” And she beckoned him imperiously.
Patrick, chagrined, looked at BFG. And was it his imagination, or did the dark haired boy look disappointed as well—eyes dulling, the smile falling from his face a little? Patrick coughed. “Uh—I guess duty calls?” Oh god, Patrick cringed to himself. He sounded like a tool.
The other boy managed a smile, at that, even if it looked a little brittle at the edges. “Testify, dude. Go help them nail that lady to the wall. Guess I’ll see you around.” He pivoted on his heel, and made his way through the crowd towards the parking lot, disappearing quickly.
Come on, Patrick moaned silently to himself. Again? He realized he still didn’t know anything about this guy—name, phone number, whether he’ll ever find him again...Patrick really was the unluckiest guy in the world. Resigned, he trudged over to his manager and tried not to feel the scathing glance of parka-lady.
***
“You know this is turning into an obsession?” Joe inquired almost kindly. He munched away at a family-sized bag of cool ranch Doritos, sitting on the ugly couch in Patrick’s basement. The two of them had controllers in their hands, and Patrick kind of hated that Joe was beating the shit out of him in Halo despite half his attention being devoted to gently mocking his friend. He sighed. It was a week from Christmas.
“I mean. Two meetings does not a soulbond make!” Joe continued. And when Patrick started, again, to mention the stranger’s remarkable eyes, and how easy it was to talk to him, Joe laughed. Laughed! Like he could ever understand the pull Patrick felt towards his black-haired stranger. Onscreen, a Jackal fired off a shot from its handgun with particular panache, and Patrick’s trooper died untimely once again.
Joe paused the game and stretched. Casually, he observed, “You know, this guy’s actually like a bird of ill-omen or something. Aren’t you even a little worried about how crazy seems to erupt whenever he’s around?”
No, Patrick was about to retort. He was more focused on the swooping sensation he got in his belly whenever his stranger’s eyes have focused on him. He’d really like to know what happens if could finish a whole conversation with him. But then again… a poisonous little voice inside Patrick’s head informed him that really, all things considered he’s just an employee BFG recognizes, a familiar face to talk to in Sam Walton’s consumerist shrine. While he never saw him return to make a move on Kerri, chances were still strong that BFG has a girlfriend as pretty as he is, and would recoil, repulsed, if Patrick ever revealed the attraction he felt.
And when he thought further, he realized that coincidence or not, Joe was right. Things escalated each time he’s seen the dark-haired boy. Logically, he knows BFG isn’t causing the chaos, but. If his most recent appearance coincided with firetrucks and security officers, what was next? Bomb threats and hostage situations? Patrick reminded himself, he’s working at Wal-Mart to earn that new guitar. Pretty strangers and exciting encounters were a distraction that could put that in jeopardy. Besides. Chances really didn’t favor the likelihood of seeing him a third time...Patrick sighed once again, and leaned forward to steal the Doritos when Joe’s back was turned.
***
Christmas eve. Patrick was coasting through the last hour of a twelve hour shift. His back hurt, and he had a red-stained paper towel wadded around the palm of his hand where he sliced himself open earlier, misusing a box cutter. A lady’s toddler had peed on one of the displays in his section that morning, and he had just bid farewell to a father who was so panicked looking for a gift for his wife that he didn’t notice his toddler methodically licking the mirrors in Patrick’s section, side to side, top to bottom, one after another. Now Patrick crouched, windex in one hand and a handful of paper towels in the other, and cleaned the trails of saliva off the trio of mirrors in his area. He supposed he should be grateful the kid was only three. He shuddered to think of his job if the kid’s mouth could’ve reached higher.
He wasn’t particularly upset at anything at the moment; he was just—tired. So many stupid little indignities and pains had chipped away at his usual humor and optimism today. There had been no one to talk to during his lunch break; Joe was off from Best Buy. He had texted Patrick that he was taking that girl Marie from his Chem lab, who he had been crushing hard on all fall, to a movie tonight. And even as Patrick sent a reply back cheering him on, a part of him wondered mournfully; when would he get to be with someone he cared about? He tossed a wad of paper towels in the trash and crouched down to start on the last mirror. He hummed, absently, to the relentlessly cheery tune on the store’s muzak system.
Something was growling. Patrick slowed his work on the mirror, and tried to catch the sound. Oh god, what now? Had someone lost a pet in the store? The sound faded out against the background hum of the store, and Patrick tried to convince himself he hadn’t heard an animal after all...wait. There it was again—but hold on. Patrick frowned, because the growling had followed a certain rhythm. In fact, as it got louder, it had taken on the cadence of a song. And if Patrick wasn’t mistaken—He stood quickly. “Is that really,” he asked the world at large, “a screamo cover of Mariah’s All I Want For Christmas?”
“Guess so—I was trying to accompany your voice,” came the hoarse reply, scaring seven shades of shit out of Patrick. He jumped, and the windex bottle went flying from his hand. It glanced off of a metal display unit just right, and—BFG was there, looking down in shock at his own shins, which were now soaked with blue ammonia-based fluid.
“Oh, Christ!” Patrick was mortified. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got towels, let me help you dry off.” He hastened to bring the roll, and plunked down in front of the dark-haired boy. Gathering several towels, he blotted the patches of pungent chemicals as best he could, babbling apologies as he did.
“Hey.” BFG’s voice stopped him. “Patrick—its Patrick, right? Stop, you can stop, its okay. Its my fault, I startled you. They’ll dry soon anyway.”
Patrick chanced a look at his stranger’s face—BFG looked actually amused. “But it was still a shitty way for me to greet you.”
At this, BFG actually chuckled. “I dunno. Some people would say this was a little karmic justice, evening things up given how we met.”
Patrick considered this. “In that case, c’mere.” BFG started towards him, a questioning look on his face. “I have an entire shelf of those bottles in the supply closet waiting for you.” BFG stopped in his tracks, looking incredulous. He laughed—the sound punched out of him—a full-throated braying, obnoxious and loud. Patrick found it impossibly endearing. He found himself smiling back, waiting for his stranger to gather his composure.
“Damn, dude. Maybe you can find me some ice, too, for that burn.” BFG grinned a moment, before turning serious. “Look, though. It’s late, and I’m kind of on a mission, here. I was hoping you could help me.”
Patrick’s face fell, a little. Of course the dark-haired boy was in a hurry. Maybe he was here to pick up a last-minute gift for that pretty girlfriend, who waited for him eagerly somewhere. Now that he considered it, BFG seemed to have gone all out on his appearance tonight. His hair was carefully spiked, and if Patrick’s not mistaken, those copper-bright eyes were framed by a line of dark kohl. His jeans were a burnished, deep, red color, topped by a black tee that gleams oddly, like it was made from obsidian. BFG wore a butter-soft looking leather jacket over it all, and Patrick was almost overcome by his urge to run his hands along his stranger’s shoulders, feeling that softness.
Patrick reined his disappointment in firmly. He’s just the sales help. He’s not here for any other reason. He hoped his bitterness didn’t show on his face.
He wasn’t sure he succeeded, though, because BFG looked, unaccountably, nervous. He told Patrick, “Not long ago, I met someone I really liked. Blonde, cute, feisty, lips to die for. Great personality, and a voice that absolutely melted me the first time I heard it. But,” and here he bit his lip. Patrick decided he was in hell, but tried to keep focused on the other’s words. “I’ve had a string of bad luck. I don’t think I’m going to ever get to know this person, unless I make some kind of grand gesture.”
Patrick got it, he did. “And you’re hoping I can help you pick out that special something?” He would be professional about this. (Although he’s not sure about anyone’s ability to make a grand, John-Hughes-style gesture using last minute items purchased from Wal-Mart.)
BFG stopped. Stared. “Patrick. Aren’t you getting this? It’s you. I’ve been thinking about you since Black Friday. What I’m asking here,” and he drew a deep breath, is if you’d like to go get a drink with me tonight.”
Patrick froze. What. His mouth opened without his will, his reply tumbling out before he thought. “I’m not twenty-one.” He cringed inwardly. Oh, strike one.
“There’s a Starbucks in the complex, right next to the noodle place,” BFG replied. “Hot chocolate on Christmas eve is totally a thing.”
“You want me to go drink with you even though our first encounter was you literally knocking me down.” BFG looked at him, chagrin clear in his eyes.
“In my defense, I was totally saving you from chemical assault.”
“I don’t even know your name!” God, Patrick cannot seem to stop the bullets from his mouth. The light in BFG’s eyes has dimmed, and he shifted on his feet, uncomfortable.
“Its Pete. My name’s Pete.” He turned, as if about to leave. “This—this was a mistake. I’m sorry I bothered you. Have a good Christmas...”
BFG—Pete— started making his way through the displays, head down. Patrick tore himself from the awful mental paralysis that had permitted those off-putting words escape from him. He was horrified to watch Pete getting further away. If Pete left this time, Patrick was pretty sure there would be no fourth encounter with him.
“Pete?”
Patrick watched Pete stop. The other boy didn’t turn, but remained still, facing a display of ridiculous cropped tops totally unsuited for a Chicago winter. Patrick coughed, nervously. He croaked, “I like it with peppermint.”
Pete finally faced him, looking quizzical. “What?”
Patrick’s face was hot, a sure sign his nerves were showing in a blush. “I like peppermint hot chocolate, when they have it.”
Pete’s expression was still neutral. But Patrick saw a tiny spark, in those amber-hued eyes. Pete said cautiously, “The barista’s a friend of mine. I’m pretty sure Andy can make a hot chocolate for you with any flavor you’d like.”
“I, uh—I have about a quarter hour left in my shift before I clock out. Please don’t take this wrong, but could you, like go take a walk around the store for that time? My manager hinted that we might get “secret shopped” by the customer service team tonight and its my ass if they came and saw me flirting with a hot guy during my shift.” Oh ugh. He’s finally letting Pete know he’s interested and he’s still cringeworthy.
But Pete’s face softened and his expression warmed. “Of course I can. I’m not here to cause trouble—past experience notwithstanding. Can I meet you here at six, then?”
Patrick felt a smile bloom, wide and giddy. “You can. You absolutely can.”
Pete stepped back up to Patrick’s register, then, and took Patrick’s hand from where it rested on the counter. Surprisingly, he put a kiss to Patrick’s knuckles before laying it down again, and said, in a lower voice, “I’ll count every minute.” He backed away slowly, eyes not leaving Patrick’s, somehow not tripping over a single item or display in his path.
Patrick watched his departure, floating in a cloud. He didn’t even feel embarrassed by the dorky little wave he gave as Pete disappeared around the corner. It’s Christmas eve. The hottest guy he’s ever seen wanted to take him for hot drinks.
Patrick decided right there that some of those old carols were spot on when they talked about Christmas magic.
He wasn’t sure how he made it through the last quarter hour. He had no idea whether or not the last sprinkling of customers he helped included the “secret shopper” team or not, and frankly he didn’t care. He tidied his department frantically, raced through the deposit checklist for his register station, and handed over his key to Letta, his replacement for the closing shift. Patrick clocked out the second it turned six pm, and Letta, who had watched him warily as he fluttered around the department, nodded in understanding as Pete suddenly materialized. She gave Patrick a none-too-subtle thumbs up as Pete smiled and ushered Patrick towards the main path to the exit.
“I can’t believe this is finally happening,” Pete confessed as they near the door. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the day we met.”
“You mean when you flattened me? If you felt comfortable doing that, why stop at the thought of asking me out?”
Pete looked serious. “Remember Annie’s line in Speed? ‘Relationships that start under intense circumstances, they never last.’ I wasn’t risking that kind of ending for us, I wanted to do things right.”
Patrick snickered. “So you went and got a tv that day instead. And then you were trying to talk to me, when parka-lady pulled her stunt. I’ve got to say, I admire your persistence.”
By this time they’ve neared the doors. Pete slowed, and said, “I consider this a beginning. I’d like this to be our first moment.” He gestured courteously for Patrick to precede him as the doors swooshed open, and they walked out into a winter landscape transformed.
“Snow...” Patrick breathed. He couldn’t remember a white Christmas since he was in elementary school. The parking lot lay muffled beneath several inches already, and the few customers that were still out making last minute purchases moved quietly, carefully, in the evening darkness, as if unwilling to disturb the stillness. Fat white flakes continued to drift down silently, made into a diamond-scatter brilliance by the sodium vapor lights in the parking lot.
“Patrick?” He turned to find Pete, looking impossibly lovely in the glow. Stray flakes dotted his lashes, and gathered in his dark hair. It was impossible to tell who moved first, which of them responded to the tidal pull felt between them. Patrick found himself close enough to discern the myriad colors in Pete’s eyes. “I’d—I’d like to try something,” the older boy murmured.
Patrick didn’t know if he nodded. He wasn't sure if he knew his own name anymore, because Pete’s lips had found his. Sweetly, softly, they brushed against Patrick’s; a greeting and a pledge—this is our moment. Pete’s not presuming, he’s not demanding anything from Patrick with the kiss, but Patrick. Patrick had made up his mind already. He surged up, deepening the kiss. Gently tracing the seam of Pete’s own lips with his tongue elicited a hitched breath from the older boy, and his mouth parted under Patrick’s. Patrick still can’t believe that such a chain of unlikely events made this miracle possible; put this incredible boy here with him. But he explored Pete’s mouth with thorough reverence, tangled his tongue with Pete’s like it was the key to his continued existence. He was breathing hard when they finally parted, and Pete had stars in his eyes.
“Merry Christmas, Patrick,” he said softly.
“I think we’re good to go,” Patrick replied, equally quiet. His tone suggested that he meant far more than just for drinks.
But for now? Patrick’s hand tangled with Pete’s, and they set off together for the lights of the distant Starbucks, twinkling in the distance.