His warning is a hard punch to the still-healing bruise of my recent firing.
Jorge leans in for a theatrical whisper. “Buuuuuuut, that has never actually happened before.”
“The firing part. Not the quitting part. As you witnessed, the quitting part has happened,” Samson says. He kicks his feet up on a rustic wooden coffee table. It’s got rough, unfinished edges.
“As we learned on Christmas Eve, there is a first time for everything,” Nicholas says, his tone harsh. He’s staring out the circularwindow. “We can’t afford any more shake-ups. This place, and our mission, are too important. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” I say. I train my expression into submission even though I hate being treated like a child or an underling. But I’m willing to prove my worth.
Jorge waves a hand. “While Nicholas is definitely right, this is also fun. It’s unlike any other job you’ll ever have.”
“However, there is the matter of the rules and paperwork,” Nicholas says. From a safe hidden behind a portrait of the first-ever Santa—not shockingly also named Nicholas—he produces a golden, glittery parchment scroll, a feather pen, and a glass well of ink. “As mentioned when we met, you will reside at the North Pole for the duration of the year, you will perform all your duties to the best of your ability including the Christmas night flight, and you will lead with love always. No exceptions.”
I nod. “I understand. This seems like a lot, though, for one year.”
“The legacy of a true Santa is not how long he serves, but the mark he makes while he does.” Nicholas’s conviction shocks the whole room to attention.
“That makes sense.” I’m overwhelmed with a single thought:I don’t want to let them down.
“Good.” His dark eyes pierce through me. “Sign here.”
I take the quill and ink my name onto the contract. It glows brightly for a second before the scroll snaps itself shut. Nicholas stores it away once more. It all feels a bit like Ariel giving up her voice for legs. Am I going to regret this?
“Now that the business is taken care of…” Jorge begins. He practically skips across the room toward a door I hadn’t noticed before. “Let’s get to the good stuff.”
“We got you a little belated Christmas gift!” Chris exclaims. All together, they roll a large object out from the artfully concealed door.
It’s a finely crafted, dark-stained oak drafting table with turn-of-the-century detailing. It has an adjustable angle mechanism. Chris brings out the matching stool. Both pieces fit in magnificently with the design aesthetic of the room, which is an important touch in my book.
“A little welcome present from us to you,” says Samson, smiling. As if welcoming me to a brotherhood I didn’t even know I was aching to be a part of.
“It’s incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever owned one this nice before.” I run my hand along the surface and feel the pencil grooves. “Thank you.”
“Moving and becoming Santa can be an adjustment, so we wanted you to be able to continue your passion for architecture here,” Jorge says, stroking his black beard.
“When you’re not performing your Santa duties,” Nicholas says.
Samson snickers at this. He’s clearly the most immature of the council, and I assume he’s the youngest as well. Nicholas hits him with a disapproving scowl, and he shuts up quickly.
“On that note, we’re going to leave you alone,” Chris says. He corrals them all toward the door we came in from. “Explore, redecorate. The bell button on the main desk connects you to Hobart, wherever he may be, if you need him.”
“By the way, go easy on Hobart,” Jorge says. “He’s new as well and highly skilled, but he’s maybe too eager for his own good.”
“Deluded by ideas of grandeur is more like it,” scoffs Nicholas.
“Never mind any of that,” Chris says. “Take it in. This is all yours now.”
All mine now.A week ago, I was a slow-turning cog working on bathroom partitions at an architecture firm that didn’t appreciate me. Days ago, I was unemployed. Currently, I’m the face of a global gift-giving and magic-bringing operation.
This is the promotion of a lifetime.
25A PICTURE’S WORTH A THOUSAND WORDSPATRICK
A MEMORY
I park my car outside Carver & Associates Architecture firm, take a few deep breaths, and then pull down the overhead mirror to check my teeth for leftover spinach from lunch and my hair for flyaways. The person staring back at me is listless. Beaten down already.
There’s no chance, if I didn’t get any of the last three jobs, that I’m going to get this one at one of the most cutthroat medium-sized architectural design firms in New Jersey.
