Holiday Quartet Box Set

Blame It on the Fruitcake-2

I scarfed it down, and he laughed out loud.

“Well, s**t. You really do like it.” He ate his piece and wiped his fingers on a napkin. Then he looked down and pointed at my little bundle. “What’s that?”

“Uh, midnight snack?” I could feel my face getting hot. I was blushing. s**t, I never blushed. Then again, I’d never been caught trying to make off with some fruitcake.

His laughter got louder, loud enough that the twinky guy came rushing up to see what was going on. I got the feeling he was the kind of guy who hated being left out when something was happening.

“Hey!” He danced around on the other side of my new friend. “There a problem?”

My friend was laughing even harder now, and it took a few seconds for him to get quiet so he could speak.

“Sam was wrapping up a piece of the fruitcake to take home with him,” he explained, sounding a little breathy from all his laughter.

The twink looked puzzled for a moment but brightened after a beat. “Yeah, sure. That’s cool. Wouldn’t it be easier to carry in a container than a napkin?”

My new friend gave the guy a wink and said, “Good idea. A container it is.”

We went into the kitchen, where it wasn’t any quieter than the main area. By this time my head was pounding, and all I really wanted to do was get the hell outta there. The good-looking dude had pulled a huge loaf of fruitcake outta the fridge and was cutting off a slab. He opened a drawer, got out some waxed paper, and wrapped it around the slab—my slab. Then he searched through cabinets until he found a container with a top and put the slab inside.

“Here. Enjoy!” he said and handed it to me. “By the way, I’m…”

He was cut off by a shriek from across the loft and two people running into the kitchen area. They shouted about needing wet paper towels, so my new friend hustled to get some for them.

After that, the pandemonium ramped up a bit, and I was left knowing no one but Dave’s name for sure. I’d been introduced to a lot of people, but my pounding head refused to mingle.

I was standing in the kitchen space, looking out over the rest of the partying crowd, watching them sway and regroup.

To hell with it. While I thought Mr. Handsome, who’d known Harry and had given me the fruitcake, might be booty material, I didn’t think I’d make it through this hell called a party much longer without losing an eardrum.

Without even thanking the host, whoever he was, which I knew was proper manners, I snuck out as another group was coming in and, clutching my fruitcake, made it to my apartment. I’d lasted until a little after ten P.M., a perfectly respectable time for an orphan to get back to the Home and a disgrace for a mechanic in his mid-twenties, no matter how successful he was.

The music continued through the night into the butt-crack hours of the morning. But even though I got up in a f**k-you bad mood with a monster headache, I figured I’d still won. I’d come away with fruitcake.

* * * *

The next day at the shop, I thought I’d test the waters about this fruitcake thing. Course, this would be an unfair dialogue since I’m the head honcho. But hey, nobody said life was fair, right?

So we’re working on the timing of this older bike without any of the fancy electronics bikes have these days. A bunch of the interns were standing around, watching me fiddle with it since they don’t know what to do with bikes that don’t respond to the diagnostic gizmos.

I’d just about gotten it in tune when I looked up.

“What do you fuckers think about fruitcake?” I asked, looking serious, or at least as serious as I could fix my face.

All I saw was open mouths and big bug eyes staring back at me.

“This one of them trick questions, boss?” José, one of my brightest apprentices, asked.

“Naw. Just a question. Just shootin’ the shit.” I quirked my head, asking for another response.

The four guys around me exchanged glances. Almost like a wave at the stadium, they shrugged.

“Don’t know, boss,” José said. “Never had any. Don’ wanna try.” He shrugged again and turned to the other guys.

“Why not?” I shot back, like I was giving a class on rebuilding a cheap engine.

“Uh, ‘cuz it’s ‘sposed to taste real bad. Like menudo left out too long. Or maybe like, what was it Ling brought in for his New Year? The petrified egg?”

One thing I had to give José—he jumped right in to any project or questions I had and gave it his best shot. I figured of all of my interns, he was going to be the winner. I just hoped I could keep him after his apprenticeship.

“So anybody actually seen fruitcake or tried it?” I searched their blank faces.

“No, boss,” they answered one at a time.

“Well, I got a treat for you boys. I got me some fruitcake to share with you. But you gotta give me your honest opinions.” I smiled my shark grin. They exchanged an uneasy glance.

“This like one of them rite of passages, yeah?” Jimmy was scratching his cheek like he always does when he’s upset and thinks he’s about to fail.

“Something like that. Follow me.” I wiped my hands on my grease cloth and rose, listening to my knees groan. Pretty soon they’d be cracking and popping.

My little parade moved into the breakroom, where I shooed a couple of the other guys back to the garage.

“Okay, before I cut into it, I want you to smell this stuff. What’da ya think?”

I passed around the container I’d gotten from the guy at the party. I still thought about him, especially at night when I was alone in bed. He revved my motor more than anybody had in a while. A long while.

“f**k! This smells like a brewery,” Zeke said. “The stuff’s hundred proof.”

José, Jimmy, and Art nodded.

“How bad can it be if it smells like my favorite bar?” Art asked.

I cut them each a tiny piece, about the size of a die. To even up the raggedy end of the main piece, I cut myself a tiny slab and popped a chunk of it into my mouth. The dice sat on the paper towels in front of the guys. Everyone was watching me, probably waiting for a wince or puckered lips or something to show how disgusting the fruitcake was. Instead I smiled.

“Eat up! Try it. I’ll never make you eat it again. Promise.”

One by one they sniffed the pieces. Zeke and Jimmy put the whole cube in their mouths and chewed. José bit off a chunk while Art tried to stare it down.

“Oh my f*****g God,” Jimmy groaned. “What the f**k?”

His eyes were like saucers. He was glaring at me.

Art put his piece down as the other two groaned.

“This s**t is great,” Zeke nearly yelled. “Hot damn. Can I have more?”

Jimmy and José were nodding and slid their paper towels toward the container.

“Maybe Art isn’t going to eat his,” I said, and I thought a fight might break out, what with everyone grabbing for Art’s piece.

Quickly he picked it up and shoved it in his mouth. He shot a glance at me. He grinned. “What the f**k?” he asked after he’d swallowed. “I don’t get it. This stuff’s great.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it, boss.” José’s forehead was creased like he was really puzzled. “How come it’s got such a raw deal?”

“Got me. But thanks for trying it.”

I didn’t tell them they’d answered my question about whether I was the only one who thought it tasted good and smelled not bad at all. I had started to think maybe I was crazy. Like maybe the Home had skewed my thinking and stuff.

We got back to work, and I tried to put the handsome party guy out of my head. But every time I had some of the fruitcake, I thought about him.

I knew there was no chance we’d ever get together. I mean, we were worlds apart, even if he did know Harry and my shop and grew up in a small town. I just had to talk my d**k into believing me.

* * * *

No matter how well I planned to draw out the fruitcake, there came a day when there was no more. I kicked myself for giving some of it away to the guys. What a dumbass I am sometimes.

The upside was I got to return the container and find out the name of the guy I talked to, the guy who’d gotten my Christmas care package of fruitcake together for me. Well, I could at least ask about him if I found the balls to do it. Would Jay laugh at the lug of a mechanic wanting to know the name of someone hot? Probably. Hey, but I’d put on a suit and tie and talked to bankers, I told myself. I could ignore his laughter like I’d ignored theirs, and ask.

It took a few more pep talks, but by night, I was ready with a clean container to go be polite, return it, and ask my question.

Turned out it was all a moot point because when I knocked on the door, who should answer but the guy himself. Which I wasn’t prepared for. So I stood there in my work boots, my nicer jeans, a tank, and held out the little container like I was a Betty Crocker neighbor out of the 1950s. s**t. I was f****d.

“Hey, Sam! How’re you doing?” he asked, pulling me into his loft. His hand on my arm was strong and sent chills down my spine. I was really f****d.

“Uh, yeah, listen, uh, thanks for the fruitcake.” I shoved the container into his white shirt. I looked down at his gray wool slacks and designer boots.

Yeah, okay, he was starting to react to me like I was reacting to him. With guys it’s easy enough to tell if someone is responding. So yeah, I felt a little better. Maybe I was really going to be f****d. Who knew?

“Glad you liked it.” He took the container from my hand with his free one, then pulled me into the kitchen. “I’m just cooking dinner. I’ve got enough for two. Can you stay?”

Shit. The kitchen area smelled great, just like the whole loft did. The streamers hanging from the high ceiling still waved in the breeze, and on the wall, the tiny Christmas lights twinkled off and on in some random pattern. I’d stepped into a dream, and anything could happen.

I nodded to his question, and he let go of me.

* * * *

Over a dinner of beef f*****g stroganoff and a crispy green salad, he told me he was the Jay Merriweather who sent the invitation, and the little guy was his younger brother Brian. Jay explained how he was a location scout for a party-planning firm.

“I travel around the country and look for places where our clients can have executive retreats or put on galas. I get to stay in exclusive hotels and be wined and dined by the hotel or resort personnel. It’s a great job, actually. But not as fun as working on bikes.” He shook his head with a frown.

Like I said. We were day and night. He was glamorizing grease and air pumps, and I was visualizing cool, shimmering pools and an overload of gourmet meals. I laughed.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just thinking the grass really is greener over the fence.” I mirrored his head shake. At his raised eyebrow, I added, “You think my job is fun, and I think your job sounds like a dream. Different grass, different green.”