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Brown Christmas. I can’t see the TV,
but the music is unmistakable.
Brad looks my direction, smiles.
I wave him over and he follows
me into the kitchen, where I hand
him a crisp hundred. “This week
and next week,” I explain. “I lost
my job today, so I’ll have to find
another one. Didn’t want you to
get shorted in the meantime.”
[How adult of you, especially
considering you’re just about broke.]
Lost your job? What happened?
I already figured this part out.
Might not be the best idea
to tell him I didn’t want to work
Christmas. “The store manager
is a total letch. He won’t keep
his hands off me. So I quit.”
That sucks. You could probably
sue him, you know.
“Sure, if I could afford a lawyer.
Anyway, how would I prove it,
and would I really want his lawyer
to start digging up dirt on me?”
Good point. Well, thanks for the money.
You’re welcome to join the girls
and me for yet another encore
of A Christmas Story. They’ve seen
it three times already, but you know…
