I simply write in my Moleskine: “Subject shows antagonism toward observation.”
“Are you a fucking psychiatrist?” Grace asks me.
I choose not to respond.
Grace has none of that Christmas spirit. Amazing Grace - she is unable to invest herself in anything.
I review a previous note written the other day, a direct quote: “No fucking way I’m going to allow myself to be vulnerable for either a man, a holiday, a religion or a child.”
“What has gotten in you? All you do is write in that fucking notebook.” Grace screams and throws my notebook to the faux marble floor. A mother and daughter look up at us from their plates of sweet and sour pork and friend rice, bulging shopping bags securely cached away under their table. The aromas of Panda Express invite me to taste exotic delights.
“Hey, remember you’re in costume. You don’t want to lose your job.”
Grace is an elf who has no Christmas spirit. When she told me about her new job three weeks ago, it was hard for me to envision her in a green felt costume including a Robin Hood hat (that’s what she calls it) and pointy shoes with little bells jingling at the tips.
All the better for me to kick your ass with she said. I answered she couldn’t sneak up on me now to do the kicking. When it comes to Grace, I know it’s usually best to flee.
“I’ve got two weeks to go. I can hold it down for that long.”
I consider discussing anecdotal evidence to the contrary. What had she done to be fired from a volunteer position at a suicide prevention hotline? How do you even get fired from volunteer work? What about that job at The Gap, or the one at the old folks home? Grace knows what I’m thinking.
“Don’t even think about bringing up those.”
She stands up, picks up my Moleskine off the floor, and starts walking off in the direction of Mervyns. She looks like one of Robin’s merry thieves as she weaves around window shoppers and cliques of teenagers in baggy pants and nose piercings. I follow Grace through the mall, taking mental notes of the locations of various stores, people I need to find gifts for, inspirations of all sorts that I can use over the next twelve shopping days of Christmas.
In Mervyns I buy a pair of flannel pajamas as a gift for a lady who lives in the old folks home Grace used to work in. They are half price and today there is no sales tax.
“Not my style,” Grace says.
“Not for you. For Mrs. Dawes - you remember her?”
Some guy looks as if he is going to deck Grace when she reminds him that he is up next at the customer service counter. The man is coughing up an air sac and looks to be in some stupor as if he had overindulged in either egg nog or Nyquil before braving the crowds. I get ready to throw myself in-between the two, when he turns and throws his bathrobe on the counter, mumbling some kind of sinister incantation under his raspy breath.
“Asshole,” Grace says as he waddles toward the exit.
After I buy the PJs and Grace buys some tube socks, we walk over to Linens n’ Things to buy some down pillows as a gift for Grace’s sister. Grace has two pillows in her arms when a little girl walks up to us looking like she has misplaced her mom. Grace is an elf who despises kids.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Why are you shopping? You’re from the North Pole?” She ignores me and points up to Grace.
“I remember you . . . Tiffany right? You want the Panda Bear?”
Grace puts down the pillows and sits down on a bed made up to be a display. I notice her elf voice is an octave higher than her normal voice.
“You’re right Tiffany. You are a smart girl. Normally, we elves make everything we need in our workshops at the North Pole, but this year we had a problem.”
Tiny Tiffany’s eyes grow as wide as hard-boiled eggs. I stand back clutching my Moleskine tight to my side.
“Well, all of Santa’s geese got the bird flu. It was much worse than when you get the sniffles. It was real bad. We wanted to save the goose that lays the golden egg so you know what we had to do?”
“What?”
Tiffany was starting to tear up. I notice a woman walking with purpose and intention toward us down a gauntlet of chrome espresso machines at full salute.
“Special doctor elves came and gave them all shots so they got better, but their feathers weren’t as fluffy because they weren’t feeling good most of the time. I’m taking these up to the North Pole to give to my elf friends because the geese down here don’t have the flu.”
The woman takes little Tiffany by the hand, shoots a look of bewilderment and anger our way, and stomps off toward the linen department. I sit at the foot of a bed, open up my Moleskine, and transcribe the events of the last few minutes, that which you read here.
“Still writing in that fucking notebook? Are you going to turn this into some other story of yours?”
I can’t stop now, the action is involuntary, and she throws a down pillow at me. It’s these flashes of brilliance, glimpses of her true self (I have resolved to believe this), that make me love Grace even more. I have to record them, review them, convince myself that the occasional torment she offers me is worth enduring.
“What did you think I was going to say?” Grace asks.
I continue to write.