by Lizz Lund
CHAPTER 2
Thursday
My alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. Outside, it was black as night. I rolled over and slapped the snooze button. Vinnie rolled over and slapped my face with his paw. Polish curses wafted up from my kitchen. I turned on the light, shrugged into my bathrobe and went downstairs.
Vito stood at the top of the basement steps, holding a large cardboard box while attempting to shake off Stanley, his terrible terrier, from his trouser ankle. “C’mon Stanley, a fella could get hurt on the steps like this.”
Stanley growled.
I yawned. Another confused morning in my confusing household. Some of my married friends feel sorry for me, living alone. I still wonder what that’s like.
I dug around a cabinet and found some crackers. I crinkled the wrapper at Stanley. He did a one-eighty, nipped the cracker from my hand and trotted down the hall to crunch on the rug.
Vito inspected the slobbery damage to his once-creased trouser leg. “I don’t know what gets into him. I just fed him,” he wondered aloud.
“Maybe he’s just lonely and didn’t want to see you leave your house.” I crossed my virtual fingers that the polite hint would be taken. Especially at this o’clock.
“Nah, that’s not it. I’m here all the time and he doesn’t act like that.” The arrow flew, missed its mark, and fell with a dull thud. I sighed and moved on.
“Maybe it’s what’s in the boxes. Do you have Christmas cookies or cakes in there?” I moved forward to inspect the loose end of Vito’s carton.
He clutched the box fervently. “NO! No! I don’t have any food! It’s for the bizaaa…” Vito’s voice trailed away as he fell carton over tea kettle down the basement stairs, landing with a thud.
“Vito! Are you all right?”
“Ugh.”
I flew down the steps to find him with his head planted firmly in the middle of the cardboard box he’d been holding. Which was a good thing. Otherwise it would have been planted firmly in the middle of the basement wall.
I helped him sit up. “How many fingers am I holding up?” I asked, showing one finger.
“Yes.”
Well, that was good enough for me.
I picked up the crushed box. It didn’t feel very heavy. I looked around to put it near my usual piles. But didn’t see my usual piles. Instead, I saw row upon row of boxes stacked floor to ceiling.
Ever since Vito used my basement as storage for a not-too-kosher sideline last summer, I get a little suspicious where large volumes of anything and Vito are involved. This smelled a lot like deja vu.
“Vito…” I began warningly.
“No, no, no, Toots! It’s legit! Pretty much… I mean, it’s for St. Bart’s!”
I stared at him levelly.
“I mean it! Honest! I swear! Hey, my ankle kinda hurts a little.”
I helped him back upstairs and had him munching on some Tylenol in no time. Meanwhile, I wondered how many Federal offenses I was committing as the owner of a basement full of who-knows-what?
As usual, I was running half past late. I was supposed to be at Squirrel Run Acres at seven o’clock, and it was almost six-fifteen. To be on time, I had to leave in fifteen minutes.
Vito sat on the kitchen stool, rubbing his ankle and petting Vinnie. Stanley yipped happily from the hallway.
“Vito, sorry, I gotta run!”
Vito held up his hand. “No problemo, Toots. Sorry about the tumble.”
I dashed upstairs and in and out of the shower quicker than a Christmas shopper through revolving doors. I threw on my now standard foodie service wear: black pants, white shirt and orange crocs. I sprinted downstairs and threw on my coat. Vinnie sat next to his cookie bowl, staring at me accusingly.
I’d forgotten his breakfast.
“Oh jeez,” I said, and started down the hallway. Then Marie, my cockatiel, shrieked from upstairs. I’d forgotten her, too.
“No problemo Toots. I’ll give Vinnie and Marie some breakfast.”
“Are you sure?” I had my doubts.
“Sure. Vinnie gets Kitty Cookies. Marie gets Cockatiel Clusters. Besides, it’s the least I can do after complicating your morning and all.”
Sometimes I wish Vito was a figment of my imagination. This morning I was glad he could feed my real – and hungry – pets. “Thanks, Vito. Bye!”
I slid the van into the parking lot at two minutes past seven, thankful that the early morning radio jockeys favored retro hymnal selections, specifically the Kingston Trio’s rendition of, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Then I got out and slid on my butt.
“Whoa, careful there! Can I help you?”
It was Chef. Great. Lying on my keester in the middle of the parking lot sure wouldn’t help my case for being competent enough for full-time work in his kitchen. I scrambled to my feet.
Chef helped me up as I dusted myself off. “Glad you could get here this morning. We’ve got a ton of deliveries.”
“Deliveries?”
“Sure. For Christmas parties and lunches and such. You’re okay with that, right?”
“Sure,” I fibbed. I had no idea what he was talking about. I thought he wanted my help in the kitchen, you know?
“Great. If you don’t mind, it’d be helpful if you could use your own van. The others are out. Just keep track of your mileage so you get reimbursed. Hilda will help you with that.”
Once again, I was grateful Christmas Carols abounded in Lancaster. Otherwise, there would be a lot of spoiled platters.
I nodded and followed him into the kitchen. Chef is tall, dark and blue-eyed with black curly hair – and he smells like sugar cookies. When he’s not barking culinary instructions at me, my feet get tingly around him. Or when I think about him. My feet got tingly again and I stomped them to stop. Business was business, right?
I looked around, and saw a few dozen trays of cookies cooling on racks. Oh. So maybe that’s why he smells like cookies. Huh.
“Thank goodness you’re here!” Hilda hustled toward me. She’s the manager. I like her, she’s a good egg. I also like that she signs my paychecks. “C’mon! I need your help setting up fruit platters!”
I hung up my coat, washed and went to work.
We got the platters arranged, and Hilda finished her delivery instructions. “Now, I’ve got these all labeled, with the addresses on and everything. If you get lost, just use this cell phone. The customers’ phone numbers are on all the orders, see?”
I gulped. Cell phone? I still don’t own one. And haven’t the vaguest idea how to use one. But I can claim bragging rights for no brain cancer, right?
“Sure.”
She scurried away.
Chef looked at me. “You know how to use a cell phone, right?”
“Yep.”
He shook his head. “Well, umm… they’re all different. Here’s how this one works.”
After he gave me my tutorial, I was all set. Arnie and I loaded up the Doo-doo – which conveniently acted like a refrigerated van since her heater’s sporadic at best – and I followed my marching orders toward Penn Square.
I reached the traffic circle, and waited at a decades-long traffic light at the intersection of King and Queen. There, Lancaster City’s Christmas tree lay half prone. It was a shame. Trixie and K. and I always attend the tree lighting ceremony. It’s a lot of fun, with lots of kids’ choirs. But the ceremony’s true claim to fame is A Tuba Christmas. Where else can you go to hear Christmas carols from a band of tubas? It certainly was different. When it’s cold enough, the lack of ambature makes them sound like a pod of dirgeful whales.
A week after the tree went up, several storms blew in, bringing high gusts of wind. The Christmas tree toppled out onto King Street not once, but thrice. It was after the thrice that the Fire Department wired it up to a nearby streetlight, to bypass the Russian roulette of it falling on passing vehicles. Apparently the wire had loosened a bit. It pointed sideways like an evergreen missile.
I continued down King S
treet, turning right at Duke Street, where I pulled into a side alley that led to a private parking lot. It served several professional buildings and a church. I pulled up to the gate, and used the parking pass Hilda had given me, remembering her stern warning that it was my only way in – and out – of the parking lot.
I double-checked the building address and my order, and proceeded to take out two very large pastry platters. I hoofed them toward a rear entrance and was lucky to find some smokers on break, who were nice enough to hold the doors open for me. Then again, they were probably all Lancaster natives.
I took the elevator up to the second floor, and laid my bounty on top of the receptionist’s counter.
“Did you try Buy-A-Lots?” a frazzled receptionist hissed into the phone.
“Excuse me…”
“How about the grocery store?!”
“I’ve got your breakfast trays.”
“Wagon Wonders?”
“Ummm…holiday pastries are here, right?”
“Mom, I don’t care! You’re retired! You have time to look for tape! How am I supposed to look for tape tethered to this desk?”
The penny dropped. “Oh, are you looking for tape?”
That got her attention.
“Wait a minute!” she held her hand over the receiver. “You have tape?”
“Not on me. But I picked up some red and green colored duct tape at Dollar Daze, at the mall.”
“Huh. Duct tape. You hear that?” she barked back into the receiver. She grunted some more instructions at her poor mother and hung up. “Thanks.” She hung her head in exhaustion.
“No biggie.”
“You have no idea. I’m divorced with three kids and we moved in with my mom last summer. It’s hard enough getting Christmas together without being able to wrap any presents. I can’t hide a thing! My eight-year-old’s becoming agnostic. And most of the stores have run out of gift bags, too, ever since they ran out of tape. It’s a mess. I’m not usually this mean. My mother hates me.”
I assured her that her mother didn’t hate her and discussed the intellectual plusses of agnostism. She obviously wasn’t usually mean, since she lived in Lancaster. It was consoling to know that the holiday crazies made even a long-time resident a little looney.
“Oh, are these our holiday trays?” she asked, finally acknowledging the covered platters on her counter.
I nodded. “Here, follow me.” She took one of the trays while I followed with the other.
She led me into a somber conference room that was supposedly set up for the holidays. “Just put them down here.” She set her tray on a long, empty conference table.
I looked around. I imagined a line of sad, numb office workers standing single-file to partake of the bounty, carrying their individual portions to eat silently at their desks. Feh. I performed an invisible genuflect regarding working in an office environment.
After the delivery, I made my way back to the van for the rest: a bagel platter for a gift shop, some sandwich trays for an investment firm and deli trays for some government offices.
I walked across the street with the bagel order. The door was locked. Which stood to reason since the hours posted on the door stated they opened at 10:00 a.m.
I banged my head softly against the door, hoping it would help me think. I was re-shuffling the delivery deck in my head when suddenly the door opened. A fraught, middle-aged woman stared quizzically at me.
I slapped my smiley face on. “Delivery from Squirrel Run Acres!”
A jolt of recognition shot across her face. “Of course! Sorry! I placed the order long ago, so I wouldn’t forget. And then I forgot! Come in!”
I followed her inside a small gift shop chockfull of knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. She led me toward a miniscule office where two workers sat resolutely, tying ribbons around gift boxes. The wrapping looked more than a bit absurd.
“I just can’t get this to stay!” the dark-haired girl cried. “This is useless!”
“I think we need to make a statement. If we can’t wrap correctly, let’s wrap creatively!” A short-haired girl with glasses showed off her project: a box wadded in a few thousand yards of wrapping paper, wrapped sloppily across the center with another few miles of twine.
The owner stood in the doorway shaking her head. “We may just have to forego offering gift wrapping this year.”
“Would that be so bad?” the dark-haired girl asked hopefully.
The owner nodded. “Yes, service like that is what puts a store like ours above the big box stores.”
I bit my lips and made a note not to spill the beans about Chi-Chi’s.
Suddenly, the girl with the glasses pointed at my tray and barked. “What’s that?”
“Why, it’s our holiday breakfast platter, bagels and sides, like you girls asked for,” the owner answered.
“No! THAT!” the girl screamed, jumping up and pointing toward the address slip that Hilda had on top of the platter. “TAPE!!”
I suddenly felt like I’d wandered into a room full of zombies and I was the only one with brains.
“Umm… well, here you go, Happy Holidays,” I said, setting the platter down in the midst of the wrapping mess and backing toward the door. I felt the owner’s hand on my back. Both girls stood up, directly in front of me.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she began.
After several misguided attempts to call Hilda on the cell phone, we got connected. Hilda insisted that we didn’t sell office supplies. But given the situation, they would make an exception – for an exorbitant fee. After what seemed like a couple hours later, I was finally released.
I rubbed my neck a bit. “I have other deliveries to make before I can come back with your tape.”
“Don’t bother! I’m on it!” the girl with the glasses said, hurrying out with a bagel in one hand, and her keys in the other.
“You’re a lifesaver!” the owner cried, pumping my hand up and down.
“Huh?” I replied brightly.
“Just wait until you see the traffic we get from this!” the dark-haired girl displayed a newly scribbled blackboard sign: “GIFT WRAPPING with every purchase! WE HAVE TAPE!”
The owner jumped up and down. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever!”
After extending my congratulations, I made my way back to the van, hoping that the winter sunlight pounding down on it hadn’t heated up the remaining trays. Luckily, it was still bitingly cold. I began to gather up the food, then stopped. I quickly removed the taped delivery notes and transcribed the address information with a Sharpie onto each platter’s lid. I was already late; I couldn’t afford the risk of becoming a hostage again.
I made my way across the street and into the lobby of an investment firm. Instead of a large reception desk, there was an inlaid round wooden table, with an extravagantly-sized bouquet of fresh lilies and Christmas greens. I knew they were fresh because their scent filled the lobby. Heaven. Clearly, even in this economy, the investments of the rich don’t stink.
I looked around. There were a few hallways leading into the lobby. I wandered down one, and called out. “Hello?” No answer.
I came back and repeated down another. Nothing. The sandwich trays were starting to get heavy. I looked around and the only place to set them, other than the floor, was on an expensively upholstered pair of side chairs. I lay the trays down and hoped the hungry masses wouldn’t enter and depart with the largesse. Or more importantly, spill on the upholstery.
I wandered down another hallway and heard voices. A door stood ajar.
“You’ll get fired for this!”
“Just try to stop me!”
“You can’t do this!”
“Get out of my way!”
Fools rush in. Caterers deliver. “Excuse me…”
The door opened and two red-faced women peered out. One of whom clutched a cardboard carton. “Who are you?” she asked.
I parroted my automatic response: “I have your holiday delive
ry from Squirrel Run Acres.”
The red-head (who was really more magenta) smacked her hand to her forehead. “Gosh, I completely forgot.”
“Well, I won’t keep you,” the closely-cropped grey-haired woman responded, hugging her carton.
“Just a minute! No you don’t!” Magenta cried, shoving Grey back into the supply closet. Scuffling ensued, with a lot of paper clips and paper hit the floor. And tape. Lots and lots of tape.
“Wow. You sure are lucky with all this tape you’ve got. Hey, you could probably sell it for a profit. Ha, ha.” I hoped the joke would clear the air.
Magenta and Grey stopped mid-scuffle. They stared at me. Then, at each other. “Just a minute,” Magenta instructed me, and closed the door.
A little while later, the door opened and Grey traipsed happily down the hallway hugging several cartons. Magenta came out carrying a very large cardboard box. She locked the door. “I’m the Office Manager. I’m in charge of supplies.” She smiled weakly.
I looked at her box.
“Christmas, you know?”
After she’d hidden her stash under her desk, she helped me bring the sandwich platters back from the lobby. After all this time, I hoped the mayonnaise hadn’t gone bad. We carried them into another large area, complete with a receptionist’s desk and a designer Christmas tree. A small, unadorned fold-up table stood nearby.
“Just put these here.”
A few heads popped up from their cubicles. “Is it lunch?”
“Yes! Come and get it!” Magenta cried. I was confused. It was still late morning. But hey, maybe they started their day early.
Dozens of workers and smiles ambled forth, many of whom carried covered bowls and trays of homemade goodies. Someone turned on a boom box. Someone else brought in a case of beer.
“Wow, this is the nicest party I’ve delivered today,” I said honestly.
Magenta shrugged. “The partners are all out of town. They take off the week before Christmas through New Year’s. We put our pennies together and put up a party.”
“Your office doesn’t pay for this?”