Know Not Why: A Novel (10 page)

“You wanted me to work here,” I say, “so you
could set me up with
Arthur
?”

“Not set you up,” Kristy says, giggling just
enough to reveal that, yes, she wanted me to work here so she could
set me up with
Arthur
. “Just … push you in the right
direction!”

“Kristy,” I say, because this is the most
absolutely important thing that anyone could ever know about me,
and therefore it must be said: “I’m not gay.”

“You’re not?” It’s like watching someone find
out the tooth fairy’s not real.

“No,” I say. Very, very firmly.

Kristy stares at me for awhile. Then she claps
one daintily manicured hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God, I’m so
embarrassed! I totally thought – I don’t know, I just didn’t really
get why a straight guy would want to work at a store like
this!”

Amber wins again. Amber wins the whole goddamn
world. We, collectively, as the human race, might as well make her
our queen.

“Honestly?” I say. It’s not like the truth is
gonna hurt me. At this point, it can only help. “To meet
girls.”

“Oh, like Cora?” Kristy asks, totally
oblivious.

And because I don’t think I can handle any more
insanity today – and because she
is
great, even if she’s got
that goddamn boyfriend, and I don’t want her to have to feel bad –
I just say, “Yeah.”

“Ohhhh,” Kristy says. Her eyes are still huge.
“Gosh, I can’t believe it! I
totally
got that one so
wrong.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, you did.”

Chapter Seven

You wouldn’t expect it, but stuff gets better
after that. If you want to know why, well, it beats me. You’d think
that the mess of a conversation in Arthur’s office would send the
whole thing spiraling down into new, unparalleled levels of suck,
but for some reason, it has the opposite effect. It seems like,
after that, we reach some kind of unspoken truce. I’m more than
happy to roll with it.

Within a couple days, I can go to work without
that pit of dread-slash-unholy-terror in my stomach, and everything
sinks into dull, droning, welcome normalcy. I go to work, I wear
the apron. I answer the phone “Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts, this
is Howie, how may I help you?”, and it doesn’t inspire any vomit or
suicide attempts. It’s not so bad.

In fact, it seems like Arthur’s having a tougher
time than I am.

For some reason, he’s still crashing at Kristy’s
place. One morning he comes in, dead-eyed, and asks me, “Have you
heard of Glee?”

“Yep,” I say.

“Ah,” he says faintly.

If he had been any other guy in the world, I
would have given him a pat on the shoulder and a “hang in there,
buddy,” because he just looks so
disturbed
that it’s clear
he needs it – but, well, as things are, it’s pretty much out of the
question.

“You watch a lot of TV, Arthur?” I ask
instead.

“No,” Arthur replies, still dazed. “The news,
mostly. PBS. The History Channel sometimes. I like Antiques
Roadshow.”

Poor sorry bastard.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, buddy,” I tell him.
I wonder for a few seconds how ‘buddy’ snuck in there, but then I
shake it off. There’s some stuff you gotta shake off.

+

For Thanksgiving we go over to the Clarks’,
because like I said, my mom’s not big on cooking. Amber’s mom, on
the other hand, is a culinary deity. The food is great, and the
conversation’s mostly harmless. There are seven references to Amber
and me getting married and having babies, but we’ve learned to take
those in stride. Amber’s parents rhapsodize about how brilliant
their little girl is, how
driven
and
responsible
and
how wonderful it is that she’s working so hard to earn money for
grad school. Amber rolls her eyes a lot and reminds them that
wanting to teach isn’t exactly groundbreaking stuff, but I know
that she’s pleased.

I can tell my mom feels bad as they talk, even
though she keeps a smile on her face. When Mr. C brings up Dennis
the Mighty Aspiring Brain Surgeon, she doesn’t talk about him too
long. I know it’s because she doesn’t want me to drown in misery,
what with all this light being shed on what a failure I am compared
to my brother and my girl wonder best friend.

In an act of mercy, Mr. and Mrs. C ask about the
arts and crafts store. I answer their questions and it’s not even
that hard to sound upbeat about it, what with how okay things are
going.

“That Kristy Quincy works there, doesn’t she?”
Mrs. C asks.

“That’s right,” I reply.

“She’s such a charming young lady,” Mrs. C says,
then shoots this ‘Look out’ glance at Amber. I swear, they don’t
even try to be subtle about it anymore. Neither does Amber – she
busts out an extra-emphatic eyeroll, then sticks out her
tongue.

“Don’t worry, she’s got a boyfriend,” I say.

“So no workplace romance on the horizon for you,
then, Howie?” Mr. C surmises.

I choke on my sip of wine.

“Nope,” I rasp out. “Nope. Nope.”

Amber gives me a weird look.

“Nope,” I throw in again as soon as I regain my
ability to breathe. “Amber’s still got a chance, if she plays her
cards right.”

The ‘rents eat that up. Amber, not so much.

She pulls me aside later while the parentals are
cleaning up the kitchen. “Howie, what the hell was that?”

“What?” I ask, playing innocent.

“You don’t say stuff like that. It’s going to
give them
ideas
.”

“It’s the holiday season. I thought it’d be nice
to give them some hope.”

“Yeah, well, that’s fantastic. I’m gonna remind
you of that when they lure us into a church under false pretenses
one day and marry us.”

“No one could lure you into a church under
any
pretenses.” It’s the sort of thing that’d usually
mollify her (
oh, Amber, you with your super-cool
agnosticism-bordering-on-atheism! You’re so edgy!
) but not
tonight.

“So, are you into that weird Cora girl or
something?”

“What?” I ask, totally caught off-guard.

“Your workplace romance freakout wasn’t exactly
subtle, Sir Chokelton of Chokesfordshire.”

“No,” I reply. Then I realize that Amber’s a
smart one, and with Kristy
and
Cora out of the workplace
romance equation, guess who’s left? Yeah. “I mean. I don’t know.
Maybe I am.”

“Even with the—”

“Hey, some ladies are just foxy enough to pull
off a yak coat,” I interrupt, pointing sternly at her.

Amber stares at me for a few seconds. I look
back. Refuse to blink. It’s like if I look away, she’ll figure out
the truth, the whole sordid fake-flower-aisle truth. Finally, her
face breaks into a smile, her classic ‘my best friend’s a big
loser’ grin of indulgent affection, and I could weep with
relief.

“You are so horny,” she declares, making a face
at me.

Oh, for the days when that was the worst of my
problems.

“Yeah,” I reply, holding back a sigh. “That’s
me.”

+

And then it’s December, which isn’t as
holly-jolly as you’d think. Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts isn’t a
smashing financial success. What it all comes down to is that
there’s a Holly’s in town now. And not only that: Holly’s is a
little bit cheaper. Arthur’s starting to feel the
oh-God-we-might-go-out-of-business strain. Combine that with the
fact that he’s still sleeping on Kristy’s couch, and, well—

“Arthur,” Cora says, when all of us are gathered
around the kitchen table in what I guess is a staff meeting,
“that’s like the most fucking ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”

“I think it sounds fun,” Kristy pipes up.

“You like Katherine Heigl movies,” Cora retorts,
not even bothering to look at her.

Kristy pouts.

“Back me up here, Jenkins,” Cora adds, glaring
at me with those heavily lined eyes of hers. I think her eyelashes
might be fake today. See? I pay attention to all kinds of
eyelashes. “There’s no way you’re into this idea.”

“It is kinda …” I dwindle off, not wanting to
say it.

“Kinda …?” Arthur prompts. He looks right at me,
meets my gaze, and having his eyes so focused on me like that kind
of gets me—

Never mind.

“Lame as shit?” Cora contributes.

“There we go,” I say, gesturing to her.

She smirks, pleased.

Arthur looks disgruntled. “Lame or not, I think
it could work very well for us. It’s a fun family activity. It will
remind the public that we’re a local establishment, that we have a
humanity to us that the competition—” He’s started doing that
lately, saying ‘the competition’ instead of ‘Holly’s,’ “—might
lack.”

“Oh, come on, you guys!” Kristy chirps.
“Everybody loves gingerbread houses!”

“Sure, okay, whatever,” Cora drawls.
“Gingerbread houses are super peachy. But
dressing up
?”

“If we’re going to have a Christmas
celebration,” Arthur replies with very calculated precision, “we
might as well go all the way.”

“Besides, Cor, you’re an actress!” Kristy
reminds her. “This is your area of expertise!”

“Exactly,” Cora says. “I’m an
actress
.
Not a mall exhibit.”

“Cora,” Arthur says patiently. He looks at her
dead-on, in all his green-eyed lashy glory. “Please?”

Cora looks at him for a long time. Then she lets
out a tortured groan. “You’re being Santa Claus. I wanna watch you
have to be Santa Claus.”

“Those are reasonable terms,” Arthur replies
with a nod.

“I’m not being Mrs. Claus either,” Cora goes on,
making a face. “I’ll be an elf. A slutty elf.”

Arthur sighs. “I don’t think slutty elves are
thematically appropriate for gingerbread-house-making with
children—”

“What if they’re
slutty
gingerbread
houses?” Kristy contributes with a giggle.

“Ni-
ice
,” I say, high fiving her across
the table.

“I bet Mrs. Claus is a little tarty,” Cora adds,
heartened. “You know an old geezer like Santa can’t give a lady
what she needs.”

“Depends,” I say, wriggling my eyebrows. “Is she
naughty, is she nice—”

“Hey!” Kristy exclaims. “Who’s Howie gonna
be?”

Way to ruin the camaraderie.

There’s a moment of thoughtful silence, while I
rack my brain desperately for some way to change the subject. Elves
are cool and everything (I … guess), but that doesn’t mean I want
to
be
one.

“Rudolph?” Arthur pitches.

I glare at him.

He stares calmly back at me. The corner of his
mouth twitches.

Kristy squeals.

And that’s how I wind up doomed to dress up like
a motherfucking reindeer.

Chapter Eight

When the day itself rolls around, Cora shows up
lugging a huge black garbage bag filled with costumes. It’s roughly
the same size she is, and looks like it might devour her at any
second. But when I ask her, “Why don’t you let me give you a hand
with that?”, what I get back is “Why don’t you bite me?”, so I let
her make like Ralph Waldo and rock that self-reliance.

When Arthur comes in, he’s got an acoustic
guitar. My stare seems to contain some quizzical, And How Are You
Today, Bob Dylan? vibes, because he explains, like it’s the
simplest thing in the world, “Emergency precaution.”

Okay then.

The gingerbread house shindig doesn’t start ‘til
noon. It’s set to go until three, which will probably make it the
longest three hours ever. I’m not exactly a gingerbread architect.
I’m not even sure I’ve ever built a gingerbread house successfully
in my life. Kristy seems like the type of person with gingerbread
talent oozing out of her cute little ears, though. I’m not too
worried.

I also get off fairly easy costume-wise. Brown
pants. Brown t-shirt. Pair of light-up reindeer antlers plunked
onto my head with way too much satisfaction by Cora. Not exactly
hip threads, but it could be worse.

It
gets
worse, a little, when Kristy –
Mrs. Claus’d up, with a red dress and spray-dyed silver hair and a
pair of old lady glasses – insists upon coloring my nose with her
lipstick.

“You’re
Rudolph
! Not, like, Prancer!”

“I know I’m not Prancer,” I say quickly, because
Arthur’s in the kitchen and suddenly nothing in the universe seems
quite as gay as the name ‘Prancer.’

Arthur stares at his Santa threads with a
mixture of resignation and torment while Kristy hums a few bars of
Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer
and then dubs my nose
“adorable.”

Whatever.

“Oh, hey,” I tell her, remembering, “I have
something for you, by the way.”

“You do?” Kristy asks, her face lighting up.

“Yup.” I dig into my backpack and hand her my
Freaks and Geeks
DVDs. “I thought I heard you say you wanted
something new to watch.” (I didn’t, but when somebody talks as much
as Kristy, there’s no way they can remember all of it, right?)

“I did?” Kristy asks, scrunching her nose
thoughtfully. “Wow, I totally can’t remember that!”

“Huh,” I say, innocent. “Well. It’s a great
show. I think you’ll like it.”

“Awesome!” Kristy beams at me. “Thank you! Nikki
and I will
totally
check it out tonight. And, hey, Arthur!”
Arthur looks over from where he’s still contemplating the Santa
suit. “Look what Howie’s lending us! You have to watch it too,
okay??”

“Sure,” Arthur says, sounding a little
surprised.

He catches my eye, and I shrug. I can’t help
throwing in a little bit of a ‘yeah, man, this is me saving your
ass’ smirk. He smiles slightly. Then Cora the Slutty Elf comes in
and starts bitching at him for not being in his costume yet, all,
“This was
your
idea, Jolly Old Saint Prick,” and it’s enough
to take his attention off me.

It may be one of the greatest moments of my life
when he comes out of the staff bathroom bedecked in his Santa gear.
It hangs off of him to a degree that’s just, like, ridiculous,
because he hasn’t been stuffed with fluffy cottony goodness yet. He
straightens the hat, then adjusts the beard with an awkward little
‘ahem’ sound. He looks absolutely just … delightful.