Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 02 - Christmas Bizarre (3 page)

“Got any boxes?” a man
in back of me shouted.

“Boxes, we can do!” He leapt behind the counter to dole some out.

About an hour later, I was waddling back through the mall, grasping my bags and clasping folded gift boxes under my armpits.
They were free, right? I figured the best thing to do was load up the van, then return to my tape mission. Which was a shame, since I was literally walking past Carol’s Cards ‘n Wraps. But I figured carrying all my purchases into the tiny store would cause a lot of breakage I couldn’t afford.

As soon as I reached the entrance of
the store, I realized the detour might be well-timed. A line extended all the way to the mall entrance.

“What’s the line for?” I asked out of curiosity.
             

“Tape,” a man replied glumly.

I looked at him.
He shrugged. “My wife said I had to get tape. Everyone’s out. I just happened to see an office supply truck pull into the mall, so I’m hoping. I guess a lot of other people had the same idea.”

“Wow.
I better get in line right after I put my gifts in my van.”

“Lady, if I were you, I wouldn’t wait.
I’ve been to every grocery store, drug store, box store and gift store in the county. If I can’t get tape here, I’m telling my wife to fold everything up in grocery bags and tell the kids Santa’s gone green.”

I hurried out to the Doo-doo, threw my stash in
side and hurried back. The line now extended out into the parking lot, stretching toward Hellum and back.

After I’d grown visibly older, I’d made my way up to where I could at least glimpse the counter.
I saw the sales clerk ring up another sale, and handed a bag with several containers of tape to a relieved patron.

He
turned to leave when the man behind him grabbed the bag.

“You can’t do that!
That’s stealing!”

“Here! Here’s your money!”

“Gentlemen, please, if you can’t resolve this peaceably I’ll be forced to call Security. Next,” the clerk went on about his business.

The two men came wrestling out of the store, grabbing at each other and clutching the bag of tape.
This escalated into shoving, some punches and the arrival of Security. The rest of us stood in line watching calmly. ‘Tis the season, right?

“What was that all about?” I wondered aloud.

A disheartened customer walking past me answered.
“They ran out of tape. That guy bought the last few rolls.”

The rest of us threw our collective arms up in the air and disbanded.

I
wandered along the mall, mulling about tape alternatives. I ruled out glue. I headed toward Dollar Daze, considering staples and safety-pins. That was when I ran into James and his Stressed Shoppers station.

James is my godmother’s massage therapist.
Formerly a Wall Street type, he traded in his ticker tape for New Age tapes at the suggestion of his former lingerie model girlfriend. That was when she was his girlfriend and just before she moved in with her girlfriend. It proved to be a little startling, especially to James. But it worked out in the end and everyone, especially James’ clientele, are a lot less stressed.

“How’s business?” I asked.

“Excellent! There is never a shortage of aching backs, feet or shoulders around the holidays!”

James also hires me occasionally, to cater for some of his
clients. It’s been exorcising my catering disorder, and gives me cash on the side. It’s a pretty good setup actually, even if it isn’t steady. He offers his clientele menu options via me for anniversaries, parties and the like.

And I mostly like.
That is, I mostly like James. But I keep getting tingly feet around Chef Jacques – Jack – at Squirrel Run Acres. It’s complicated. Especially since these are working relationships. I’m betting that once I have an actual date with an actual guy, I’ll get over it. Them. Whatever.

I nodded and left.
The line to Stressed Shopper’s was almost as long as the one I’d been standing on for tape. Clearly, James’ bottom line would have a happy holiday.

I stepped into Dollar Daze and headed over to the aisle with the gift wrapping stuff.
Boxes, bows, paper, and tissue paper abounded. Everything except tape. I looked down and saw a clerk on her knees, unpacking a carton of puppy wee-wee pads.

“Excuse me, but do you have any tape?”

She sat up and shook her head emphatically. “Boy, if I had a nickel for every time someone’s asked me that today…”

“Gotcha.
Ideas?”

“We got a whole bunch of duct tape, and some masking tape,” she said, pointing toward the rear of the store.
It wouldn’t be elegant. But it was better than glue.

About
twenty bucks later, I walked back with a couple dozen rolls of duct tape. I was lucky though, because Dollar Daze branched out past the usual silver variety and carried red and green colored ones. That was Christmassy, right?

I weaved back across town toward home.
Bing Crosby sang out “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays” just as we scaled Mt. Driveway, which was now covered by a fine film of ice. We slid back a bit as I pressed the garage opener. I backed up, got some momentum, then skittered inside.

After bringing
in all the bags and boxes, and pulling Vinnie’s head out from all the bags and boxes, I plugged in our fake Christmas tree. I’d bought the pre-lit tree last year when I was gainfully employed. This year, only half the lights worked. But they were all on one side of the tree. So I faced the dark half into the corner. Unfortunately, Vinnie loves to play spin the tree. In effect, it’s the world’s largest cat toy.

I called Auntie, hoping she hadn’t had a
nother nervous breakdown about the tape.

“Hi.
I got your tape. Sort of. ”

“Oh, thank you anyway!
Luckily, I remembered Vito’s on the bazaar committee, and he was able to bring over several roles! Phew!”

“Oh.
That’s great.” I wondered what K., Trixie and Bruce would make of colored duct tape, but I figured they’d get creative.

“Is Ma there yet?”

“She had a last minute meeting. She rescheduled for tomorrow.”

This was typical
. While I exhibit various forms of techno-phobia, Ma is the VP for SUZ – a top notch IT company back in Jersey. Ma’s test-driven or owns more gadgets than Brookstone. It figured she’d be wrapping up loose ends just before she took time off to be with Ethel and her soon-to-be grandkids.

I poured a mug
o’Merlot and sat down on the sofa and turned on the news. A plump gal with short, platinum-blonde spiked hair, tipped jet black, grinned wildly at the camera. She looked like a deranged hedgehog. “Now, of course, as everyone’s finding out, Central Pennsylvania’s experiencing a tape shortage,” she began. “Here’s some helpful tips to help you with some gift wrapping alternatives.” I raised my eyebrows and glanced warily at the rolls of duct tape. Should I hide them? More practically, should I sell them?

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 Street, 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.