1
The Toy Maker
“Mr. Porter, the old workers have assembled outside the warehouse.” The new security manager’s voice crackles through my Bluetooth as I take a careful sip of my latte. The taste of mint chocolate floods my mouth— sweet, creamy, and minty.
Soothing.
Comforting.
“Call the cops, get them off of the property. This is why I pay you, is it not? Mr….”
I draw a blank on his name, as I do most of the time with Porter Industries' employees. I’m not good with names; hell, I’m not even good with faces. But business? I’m excellent with business.
“Sir, some of the current employees are joining the crowd?”
My brows knit together. I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale, practicing the kind of breathing my therapist, whom I pay way too much money for, swore would help with my temper.
“Ban them from entering. And if you can’t do that, consider yourself fired.”
I end the call with a quick press of a button. Annoyance rolls through my body, like static, making my nerves go rogue. My body is itching to be at the warehouse, to see the boycotters, to manage and execute a plan. As always, I’m surrounded by incompetent, useless workers who would rather spend their time complaining than working.
My father’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, warm and low. Echoing like it always does when I least need it.
“Hard work pays off, buddy. Soon this will all be yours.” Words he would say every night before locking up his small warehouse. I see him now in my mind—standing on the balcony above the production floor, his dark skin glowing under the fluorescent lights, pride written across his face.
“It might seem small, but soon, this will be one of many.”
He would always pat my head and guide my chin towards the endless rows of machines. Something inside me would always grow with an overwhelming sense of pride, and I mimicked my father’s stance and puffed out my chest, holding my hand on my hip and taking it all in.
I did it, Dad..
The thought sneaks in like a thief in the night, nostalgia intertwined with grief—one I try hard not to dwell on. I’ve worked hard to make his dream come true, and to honor such an achievement, I’ll be returning to where it all started.
Jollytown, our home, and the place where my parents met and died. Bringing my latte to my lips, I stare at the crowd that has gathered by the gates of the main building. Just as my driver takes a sharp turn, the latte in my hand spills onto my black trousers.
“Goddammit!” I snarl from the sting that blossoms in my skin from the hot liquid. The driver stammers an apology, but I silence him with a raised hand.
“You’re fired.”
The car comes to a stop by the entrance, and I shake off the aggravation as I step out. Not giving the signs or the chants calling me a ‘miser’ and ’Scrooge’ a second thought, I button my black suit jacket and step inside.
The glass doors slide open, and the warmth from inside wraps around me. Taking a deep breath in, the artificial smell of cinnamon and vanilla fills my lungs.
“Good morning, Mr. Porter,” Emily mutters beside me, phone in hand, and matching my look with a black pencil skirt and a white long-sleeve blouse, and her hair nicely placed in a bun. My only competent assistant. “You have two meetings today. The cops are on their way to stop the disturbance. The production line is moving smoothly.” She finishes her brief with a breakdown of the stocks and meeting bulletin. I turn towards the left wing, retracing my father’s routine back at the first shop.
Always inspecting.
Always looking over the production.
“Before I forget, you are expected to be present at the Gala, back in Jollytown,” she says warily. I nod before continuing my walk. The factory hums like a hive that’s forgotten what honey tastes like.
It’s a constant buzz…
Conveyor belts crawl with half-finished dolls, and the air smells of plastic and peppermint oil—Christmas bottled and sold by the ton. My lips stretch into a wide grin as I walk down the line, hands clasped behind my back and chest puffed out with my shoulders squared.
“Mr. Porter?” A man near the end of the assembly line wrings his cap in his hand. He’s older, face flushed from the heat of themolting machines. “Could we go home early tonight? They say there’s a storm rolling in.”
“And the roads will still be there after the storm is gone. The safest place for everyone is inside,” I reply. I’ve watched the news report. The weather isn’t expected to be at its worst until two days from today, which is why I’m arriving a day earlier than expected in Jollytown. “It’s almost Christmas, and with the Gala’s toy drive, we need everyone to work.”
