Charitable Getting: Draft 2, Chapter 7

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was, supposedly, winter in Chicago.

John felt that this particular winter was more of a theory than a fact -- true, it was cold, but not that cold, not that consistently. The river, which should long since have frozen over, was still running under the Michigan Avenue bridge, and the city lights reflected off bare asphalt streets, covered in puddles but untouched by snow. He hadn't even felt the need for a hat when they'd left work.

Which he was, he had to admit, regretting slightly now.

"I don't know what happened to our reservation," he said, huddling into the warmth of the restaurant doorway with Cee. "I have the reservation printout and everything, a table for two at six at Still River, Thursday the seventeenth. But they say they don't have it in the system. They say the earliest they can get us in is nine o'clock."

"That's just ridiculous," Cee said.

"I know! I'm sorry!"

"It's not your fault. We'll just go somewhere else, screw Still River," Cee announced.

"I wanted to take you somewhere nice," John said apologetically, as Cee checked her phone for other restaurants in downtown that might not be too crowded at six on a weeknight. "It's our anniversary! Six months! We should go somewhere nice."

"Well, obviously this place isn't nice or they'd see reason and get us a table," Cee said. "Wait, let me call Anna, see if she's got any recommendations from her fancy dinners with Mr. Union Arms."

She held the phone up to her ear; John heard an echoing ring, between her phone's speaker and the interior of the restaurant, and turned just in time to see Anna, seated inside, silence her phone.

"Have a look," he said, pointing through the glass.

"Anna!" Cee exclaimed, laughing and hanging up the phone. "Well, that's useless. What do we do?"

John crowded her back into the dim corner of the doorway and gave her a kiss. "Come on, let's scram," he said. Cee smiled and pulled him out into the blustery Chicago chill.

***

"Sweetheart, where are my favorite d20s?" Zoe yelled, rummaging in a plastic box in the linen closet.

"Don't you keep them in that black bag, with the action figures?" Charles called back. She heard him in the kitchen, taking down the snack tray and opening a bag of tortilla chips.

"They're not action figures," Bolo said solemnly, and Zoe leaned into the kitchen to find their son resting his chin on the counter, watching Charles take salsa out of the fridge. "They're scale minotaurs."

"Scale miniatures. What's the difference?" Charles asked, gathering the six year old up in his arms and holding him upside down. A pair of twenty-sided dice fell out of his pockets. "Honey, I found your d20s. The brass ones, right?"

"That's them!" Zoe said, gathering the dice up off the floor. Bolo squealed with laughter.

"Action figures have guns!" he insisted.

"Explain your logic," Charles demanded, lifting Bolo so that they were face-to-face, with Bolo upside down.

"Action figures have guns. Scale minotaurs have swords. Or bows'n'arrows," Bolo asserted. Zoe grinned to herself. "Or grappling hooks. Or maces. Or buttering rams."

"Battering rams," Zoe corrected, nudging Charles aside so that she could grab a dish for dip from the stack next to the fruit bowl. "Put the spawn down, Charles, you'll give him brain damage."

"Ready?" Charles asked, lowering the boy to the floor. Bolo stood on his hands for a second after his father released him, then tumbled down, picked himself up, deftly stole the dice back, and scrammed off down the hallway towards his room.

Zoe and Charles exchanged knowing looks. Bolo's birth certificate said his name was Simon, but he'd started early on playpen-escape and shiny-thing-theft, so Charles had nicknamed him BOLO: Be On Look Out.

Either he had been prescient, or the name had influenced their child in unfortunate ways.

"HELLO!" Jess called from the entryway, closing the door quickly behind her and shedding her bright pink parka. "I COME BEARING FRUIT SALAD."

There was a shout of "Jess!" from the back of the house, and Bolo rocketed back into the living room, attaching himself firmly to one of her legs.

"Don't let him get away, he's got my dice," Zoe said, accepting a large covered bowl from Jess and peeling the lid back. "Oh, this looks great. And -- "

Jess held up a plastic bag with two bottles of Mountain Dew in it.

"It makes me feel young again," Charles sighed.

"You're thirty-two." Zoe rolled her eyes.

"That's more than twice the age I was when I started playing this game," Charles said, gently detaching Bolo from Jess's leg and seating him on a high stool at the dining room table. "We're a small group tonight," he called through the door. "My guys couldn't make it."

"Slaughter 'em all!" Jess replied.

"Nah. I have concocted a story just for you and Zoe," Charles said. There was a sadistic Dungeon Master's gleam in his eye.

"Is it story time?" Bolo asked.

"Only if you give me the dice back," Charles told him, and Bolo reluctantly pulled the dice out of his pocket and passed them over. "What do you say?"

"ROLL FOR DAMAGE!" Bolo shouted. Zoe emerged from the kitchen with a plate of fruit salad and tortilla chips and set it in front of him. Bolo immediately began slaying the grapes with a little sword-bearing skeleton miniature.

"So, how's the office?" Charles asked, seating himself and arranging his notes, spreading out a vast, intricate, hand-drawn map on the table.

"Oh, same old," Jess said. "New interns, and I bet Zoe told you about the webinars."

"She mumbled something about designing a dancing banana when I met her at the door with a large cocktail," Charles said sympathetically.

"You might not want to know the details," Jess replied. "Tell me about boy wonder here instead."

"He's going to the big kids school now," Zoe said, carrying the rest of the snacks in and setting them down. "Apparently he's the terror of first grade."

"Aww, but he's adorable," Jess protested. Bolo looked smug, which was a pretty funny look on a six-year-old. "How did you end up with such a cute kid?"

"Won him in a poker game," Zoe grinned.

"Big enough to play in soon," Charles said. "You have to warp them young or they never come out right."

"That's a thought, hon. You should write a D&D game for parents and kids," Zoe said. "Charles is thinking of going back to work now that Bolo's at school all day."

"I could come intern for you!" Charles laughed.

"Believe me, next to the boy with the blinged-out shoes, you'd be a welcome relief," Jess said.

"Okay, no more shop talk tonight," Zoe announced. "Bolo, will you do the honors?"

Bolo held up a chip like a benediction. "LET THE GAME BEGIN!"

***

"Sarah knows someone who can get us into Smith & Wollensky?" John said skeptically, as Cee held the phone to her ear.

"I think she knows Wollensky," Cee joked. "She's not picking up, though. We should have gone to game night with Jess."

"Dungeons and Dragons?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know how to play."

Cee ruffled his hair affectionately. "You could have sat with Bolo and played with the miniatures.".

***

When Roxy walked into the theater that evening, there was still plenty of seating left; it wasn't empty by any means, but a Classic film Night showing of Love in the Afternoon wasn't really bound to be full. She studied the layout, made her decision, and started to edge down a row of seats, carefully picking her way to the optimum viewing spot. She was almost there when she heard someone call her name.

"Roxy! I thought that was you," Naomi said, bounding down the aisle. She was dragging someone else behind her, a pretty woman who looked slightly older than either of them, not by more than five or six years. "Are you here for the Hepburn?"

"You know how I feel about Audrey," Roxy grinned, setting her water bottle and purse down carefully and walking back to where Naomi and her companion stood in the aisle. "You?"

"I just think this movie is incredibly weird," Naomi confessed. "What, no popcorn?"

"Still low-carbing." Roxy held up a stick of string cheese.

"That is the saddest movie snack ever," Naomi told her. The woman whose hand she was holding nudged her gently. "Oh! Sorry. Roxy, this is Melinda; Melinda, Roxy. Roxy's our IT genius at work. Melinda works for Medicine Drop."

"Another non-profiteer!" Roxy laughed. "Nice to meet you."

"She's a very important Resource Director," Naomi teased. Melinda grinned -- oh yes, that was a fundraiser's grin. Roxy recognized it from Sparks.

"Nice to meet you, Roxy. I've heard great things about SparkVISION, and not just from Naomi," Melinda said, wrapping her arm around Naomi's waist in a...definitive, almost defensive sort of way. "I saw one of your webinars on Monday. Interesting stuff. Bananas, definitely memorable."

"Nobody else is talking bananas," Roxy agreed. "So, date night for you two?"

Naomi grinned at Melinda. "I think that depends on how bored she gets during the movie."

"Naomi!" Melinda looked embarrassed.

"Sit in the back," Roxy stage whispered. "Naomi, I didn't know you were seeing someone in the business. Why didn't you bring her around sooner?"

"We've only been going out a few months," Naomi said, looking apologetic.

"You should hear what I had to do to get an invite to the holiday party next week," Melinda confided. "She thought only spouses should come. I'm looking forward to it, though."

"Well, if we'd known, we'd have sent you one anyway," Roxy said. Melinda and Naomi looked hesitant. "Sparks wants the Medicine Drop PR account."

Naomi blinked; Melinda's jaw dropped, and then she laughed.

"I'll be on the lookout for him at the party then," Melinda said, relaxing a little. "Maybe I can score a free SparkVISION-branded pen."

"We'll probably have plastic squeaking bananas or something by then," Roxy said. The room began to darken as the screen lit up in preparation for the film. "Now, shoo, and leave me alone with my string cheese."

***

"Ian! Hi! It's John," John said, winking at Cee as they walked up Michigan Avenue. "Listen, what can you do for me in the way of somewhere good to eat? No, I'm on Michigan Avenue, just north of Ontario. Somewhere quiet. Uh huh. Okay." He covered the mouthpiece with one hand. "He put me on hold. Muzak."

"Ian has hold music on his cellphone?"

"Ian has everything. Yes, still here," John said into the phone. "Really. Sure. Oh -- it is? Huh. Yeah, that could be cool. Thanks."

He hung up and leaned out off the curb, waving madly for a taxi. "Ian says there's a great movie playing at the Siskel Center. He thinks sandwiches at the place near there and a movie would be awesome."

"Oh well, if Ian thinks it..." Cee rolled her eyes.

"What?" A taxi approached, slowed, and then sped up again as it passed them, stopping thirty feet away for a woman in a full-length mink coat. Figured.

Cee huffed in exasperation. "Ian's not the one on the date!"

"Do you not like sandwiches?" John asked, perplexed. Another taxi turned the corner before it reached them.

"Sorry, baby. Sandwiches would be great." Cee leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, then joined in the frantic flagging for a cab, just as two more zoomed past.

***

"Everything on this menu sounds amazing," Anna said, studying the Still River menu intently. Everything on the menu also sounded expensive; there weren't any prices listed for anything.

"It ought to be," Trent replied. He was studying her, rather than the menu, which gave her a nervous, pleased little twinge. "You wouldn't believe who I had to bribe to get us a table. Do you fancy foie gras?"

"Not until the fourth date," she said, smiling at him. Trent laughed, shaking his head.

"Good thing it is, don't you think?" he said.

"I think I've eaten a lot of animals I never had before, in the last two weeks," she answered. "Sure. Bring on the foie gras."

Trent gestured mildly. A waiter appeared out of nowhere, startling her.

"The foie gras en croute to start," he said, completely at ease with the Amazing Appearing Waiter and the fact that they were probably sharing the room with millionaires and powerful people. Anna sipped her wine and tried to look cool. "And the three-course chef's selection, with the wine pairing," Trent added. The waiter nodded, cast a glance at her, and disappeared again.

"The chef's selection is the best way to really experience the food here," Trent told her, topping off her wine glass. "You'll love it."

"Sounds good," she agreed, thinking about how the third course for the people at the table near them appeared to be most of a piglet. "I hope it's not themed on liver. I mean, a little I can handle, but a meal of organs might be more than I'm capable of facing."

Trent smiled. "Nope. Though we might have some fava beans, paired with a nice Chianti."

Anna stared at him. "You went there? Really?"

"What, am I showing my age?" Trent asked. "Or is Silence of the Lambs too bourgeois for a place like this, do you think?"

"I just didn't expect it," she said, hiding her grin as she sipped her wine.

"Well, we're both unexpected sorts of people. Actually, I think lamb might be the second course," he added thoughtfully.

"Unexpected sorts of people?" Anna echoed.

"I didn't expect to uncover someone like you at a charity dinner," Trent said. "And I'm sure you didn't expect me to sweep you off your feet, did you?"

"And so modest, too," she teased.

"There's no room for humility in my job, Anna," he told her, growing serious. "If you want to make your mark, you shouldn't be modest either. Audacity wins the game. Sparks knows that, otherwise he wouldn't be...you know. The way he is."

"I think he's the way he is by birth," she said.

"Then he's a lucky man. Most of us have to cultivate it. Anyway, I'm not here to talk about him," Trent concluded, as the waiter appeared again. The plate he set down had several tiny triangles of toast on it, each topped with a small brown slice of foie gras. Trent picked up a piece and offered it to her chivalrously.

"I see how it is, make me eat the liver first," she said, but took a bite. And then had to close her eyes for a second to savor it. When she opened them, he was eating the other half.

"You know, normally I don't let boys steal my french fries off my plate," she said.

"Clearly you haven't met the kind of boy who makes it romantic," he answered. "Besides, my treat, I get to steal all the foie gras en croute I want."

He obviously meant it as a joke, and Anna could appreciate that, but it was also a subtle reminder that if they had been dining on her treat, they'd be sitting on plastic benches at the sandwich shop down the block.

Anna had a moment of clarity, a moment where she wondered what she was doing with this man, who set off many alarms on her "guy who might screw me over" radar.

"This sauce," he said, dabbing a second slice of toast in a small pool of red sauce at one edge of the plate and offering it to her, "is a sweet-wine reduction infused with juniper berries. Try it."

On the other hand, she was eating foie gras in sweet-wine reduction from the fingers of a man who looked like the next thing he wanted to bite was her. That was at least one very good reason for seeing how things went.

***

"I think we're going to miss the movie," John said, biting into a meatball sandwich hungrily. Cee opened a bag of chips and dumped them on a napkin between their drinks.

"Maybe we could do something we don't normally do," Cee suggested. "A nightclub? Dancing?"

"This isn't special," John muttered. "I wanted it to be special."

"You know I don't actually care, right?" Cee asked. John looked up from his sandwich, surprised. "Nice dinner is fine, but I'd rather be out for sandwiches with you in good spirits," she drawled, "than eating filet mignon with you while you sulk."

Guilt washed over him. "I'm sulking?"

"You're sulking."

He groped for a reply to this, and finally settled on a good offense as the best defense. "Ian's idea was dumb."

Cee sighed and rolled her eyes.

"I'm just putting that out there," John protested. "This was dumb. We should have just gone home and cooked something. I'm sorry."

"He meant well, I'm sure," Cee replied. "And after this we can go back to my place and watch our own movie. With popcorn, and snuggles."

John stifled the urge to somehow make it known that the idea of "snuggles" was beneath him, but he had to admit popcorn and snuggles sounded pretty good. He sat back in his chair and smiled at Cee.

"Okay. But let's take the El and not a taxi. That last one took forever to get."

***

"So, is this awesome or what?" Erin asked Vicky, as they walked into the pub. "I mean, you can't find places like this in downtown."

Vicky looked around at the crowded masses of people hunkered over tables, the weird-looking bar, and the suspiciously-loud-looking speakers in the corner, wires emerging from them in every direction.

"It's something," she agreed, brow furrowing. "You're not going to make me do karaoke, are you?"

"BETTER!" Erin shouted, over the feedback as the emcee tapped the mic. "Guess what tonight is?"

"Ladies and gentlemen," the emcee announced, "Are you ready for Quiz Night?"

Erin cheered with the crowd and then pointed over Vicky's shoulder at a knot of women at the far end of the bar, who waved and beckoned them over. Vicky found herself dragged through the pub to a high table surrounded by stools.

"Okay," Erin said. "Vicky, this is Diane and Bettina and Christine. This is Vic, she's our Senior Intern. Her job is to fetch drinks and be really smart."

"So," the emcee boomed from the stage. "Everybody know how to play? I'm going to call out a series of twenty questions. Write down your best answers on your score sheets and we'll collect them at the end of every round. Last team left standing wins a cash prize and free drinks. "

"Not at work," Vicky clarified. "At least, I think not. Nobody ever asked me to fetch drinks at work. Should I be doing it? We have a coffee machine -- "

"Sweetheart," Bettina said, leaning across the table. "Take a deep breath and go get yourself a beer."

"I'm nineteen," Vicky said, pouting.

"Don't tell me you live in Chicago and don't have a fake ID," Christine said. Vicky glanced at Erin, hesitant.

"You do, don't you?" Erin exclaimed. "Oh my God, you are so cool. I was totally not as cool as you when I was nineteen."

"We have a special feature tonight," the emcee continued. "Where's team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies?"

Erin and her friends all yelled and waved, so Vicky made a logical leap. Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies! Awesome. That was awesome, right?

"Now, Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies are playing for charity tonight. Here's how it works. You -- their spectators and competitors -- pledge to donate ten dollars or more to The Chicago Shelters Foundation if Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies wins." The emcee checked a card in his hand, reading aloud from it. "The Chicago Shelters Foundation provides medical care, no-kill foster housing, and adoption services for stray animals in the Chicago area. So you could throw a few bucks their way anyway," he added sternly.

"I like his style," Erin said.

"You called him a flaming goiter last week for allowing 'Frankenstein' when the answer was 'Frankenstein's Monster'," Diane said. Vicky bit her lip.

"Not to his face!" Erin protested.

"If Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies wins tonight's trivia competition, you can bring your pledge sheets to the cashier. When you pay your pledge, you'll receive a card for a free draft beer from us as a thank-you," the emcee announced, which started a significant movement towards the bartender holding up a stack of pledge sheets. "Are you ready to play?"

Vicky, who was feeling very ready to play, happened to glance back down the bar as the emcee continued to hype up the crowd.

"Hey -- is that Sparks?" she asked Erin, tugging on her sleeve. She was almost sure it was Sparks, though he looked a little more casual than usual. His collar was unbuttoned and his shirtsleeves were rolled up; he was holding a beer in one hand, his head bent slightly as he spoke with a woman standing next to him.

"He said he'd come cheer for us!" Erin shouted, over the noise of the crowd. "Who's he with?"

"Nobody from SparkVISION. Is he married?"

"No -- I kinda thought he might be gay," Erin said. "She's cute. They should hook up," she announced, as if they were discussing a character on TV.

"READY FOR THE FIRST QUESTION?" the emcee yelled.

"Come on, head in the game!" Erin said, and Vicky just barely had time to see Sparks and the mystery woman head for another room off the main bar before she was distracted by aggressive trivia.

***

Tanya Montray checked her hair in the mirror, made sure her collar was straight, and smiled at her reflection briefly.

She'd been a little dismayed by Sparks's choice of meeting places, a northside bar with an Olde English flavor but a very Young Chicago clientele. On the other hand, the music was good, and she'd seen a quiet back room where they could talk without interruption, without having to shout. Although, in her brief experience with Bo Sparks, she had already come to understand that shouting was perhaps a hobby for him rather than a necessity.

She patted her pocket for her voice recorder, made sure her wallet didn't ruin the line of her pants, and stepped back out into a wall of noise.

Apparently, in the few minutes she'd spent in the restroom, Quiz Night had started.

"THIS IS SO MUCH FUN," Sparks shouted, over the yelling of the rest of the bar. He gave her a winning smile. "ONE OF MY MANAGERS HAS A QUIZ TEAM. LAST WEEK THEY WON FREE SNACKS!"

"I'M SURE YOU'RE VERY PROUD," she yelled back. "DO YOU HAVE TIME TO TALK FOR A FEW MINUTES?"

"UH-HUH, LET'S GO BACK THERE," he said, jerking his head at a door in the opposite wall. When she nodded, he took her wrist in one hand -- a lighter touch than she was expecting -- and plowed a path through the crowd, making sure she stayed close behind. When the door swung mostly-closed after them, the noise level abruptly dropped and he let go of her wrist.

"That's better," Sparks said. He slid onto a bench behind a table, shoving out the chair on the opposite side with his foot. It was an odd mixture of casual and chivalrous. "This is very mysterious and intriguing, you know. I'm intrigued. A journalist wants to meet with me outside of my office to quiz me about the non-profit sector. Is there a scandal?"

"Not as such," she smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"As long as none of my people are in trouble. So. What can I do for Weekly City?"

"I've been asked to do a piece on celebrity bloggers," Tanya said, feeling that after two or three interviews she was finally confident enough to say celebrity bloggers without internally wincing at the ultra-trendy way it always came out. "Especially those who choose to remain anonymous."

"Well, I suppose you've come to the right place, we do a lot of work in social media," Sparks said. He looked thoughtful. "But not with blogs in particular, other than our own company stuff."

"At the moment I'm finding out what leaders in various fields think of the social media superstars in their particular niche," Tanya continued. "Famous Twitter users, high-readership bloggers, that sort of thing."

Sparks looked at her for a second with a narrow, incredibly thoughtful gaze -- it was fleeting, blink-and-you-miss-it, but it was there -- and then burst out laughing, head thrown back, white teeth gleaming.

"You want to ask me about Non Prophet!" he said, looking delighted.

"I wanted to get your thoughts, yes," Tanya admitted. "Since we know he works in your industry, I'm hitting the big names."

"Casually," Sparks added knowingly. "Just in case one of us wants to confess to it."

Tanya stared at him, surprised.

"Well, I wish I was Non Prophet," Sparks said, still apparently amused. "I'd shill for SparkVISION more often. Hm, maybe not, after that whole fake-grass thing."

"The astroturfing?" Tanya asked. She felt as if she'd penetrated a mirror-smooth surface -- in that split second when he'd studied her, he'd given away something he hadn't meant to, and he was covering now. He knew what astroturfing was, and didn't want to show it.

"That's the one," Sparks said. "Everyone's saying bad form, and I guess it is. So, no, I wouldn't publicize SparkVISION with a fake blog name, just to be on the safe side." He paused. "But Non Prophet's done a lot to draw attention to charitable giving. It's not like you can just discount him."

"That's true, but he's also a public figure," Tanya said, nodding encouragingly. "I've noticed that he's one of the few bloggers to move out of his niche market. He's widely read, especially in Chicago. What do you think of that?"

"I think it's great," Sparks beamed. "It keeps the public eye on philanthropy, and it proves how powerful social media can be when it's used correctly. That's something we try to get across in our line of business, and pointing out his popularity helps with that."

Tanya pounced on the important part, amidst the business-babble. "What do you mean by 'used correctly'?"

Sparks gave her another split-second look and then launched enthusiastically into a detailed and passionate explanation of How The Internet Worked -- something she'd heard many times, in tones from fascinated to condescending, but not usually with such concise efficiency. He leapt disjointedly from idea to idea, but she was confident when she played back the recording she'd be able to follow his logic. She was more interested in watching how he lost himself in talking.

When he was working Lacan and Asimov and Aristotle into his theory of cyberspace, he forgot to play the part he was so good at: the charming, slightly-deranged fool. He honestly loved what he was talking about, she could see that. His enthusiasm put him a step ahead of most social-media experts. And he was being subtle and intelligent, and she didn't think he realized it.

He was still talking when they'd finished their beers, and it was only when he picked up the glass and found it empty that he stopped.

"I'm probably wasting your time," he said, flashing the teeth again, settling back down to Earth. "And I'm afraid I need to get back out there and cheer on my people. We are going to laugh about this tomorrow. Me! Non Prophet! Anyway, Tanya, it's been great. Do you have everything you need?"

"And then some," Tanya answered, matching his smile. "This will be very helpful. I'll drop you a line when the article goes to print."

"I look forward to reading it. If you have any questions, you have my number, or email Cee and she'll pass it along."

He offered her his hand, shook firmly, and walked with her back into the bar, where a crowd of people were cheering on the quiz contestants.

"THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU," he yelled. "GOODNIGHT, TANYA!"

She watched thoughtfully as he elbowed his way through the crowd to the bar for another beer. It wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on SparkVISION for a few days. Bo Sparks was polite, well-spoken, and very, very intelligent, with some internal reason to hide it. Thus making him as good a candidate for Non Prophet as she'd seen yet.

***

Even as mild as winter had been so far, Sarah was very much looking forward to a night in.

She'd opened a beer from the fridge, located the thick, fuzzy blanket she preferred to curl up in, and arranged the sofa pillows just right. She had her book, and was confident sooner or later she'd have her cats --

Almost before she'd thought of it, Boudicca jumped up on the arm of the sofa, licking her whiskers and smelling faintly of tuna dinner. Hildegarde was apparently still considering whether it would profit her to get up from the nearby chair's deep cushion and join them, or whether only the prospect of snuffling around for loose food in the kitchen was worth that effort.

Sarah gave up waiting for Hildegarde and set the beer bottle on the coffee table, opening her book to the place she'd marked. Only then did Hildegarde decide, and Sarah heard the heavy thud as the cat landed on the floor. She grabbed the beer bottle just in time.

"You are a jigglybutt," Sarah said to her, as the enormous cat leapt onto the coffee table, and from the coffee table to the blanket. Hildegarde gave her book a disdainful swipe with a paw. "Yes you are. Jigglybutt. Yes you are."

Boudicca, as if to rub it in, padded down onto Sarah's shoulder and perched there, watching the pages turn. Hildegarde made a strong play for the beer, but Sarah tugged it out of reach. Hildegarde hissed.

Both cats' heads turned, their ears perking forward. Sarah didn't bother looking out the window, but Boudicca meandered over and slipped between curtain and glass, yowling.

From the outside hallway there was a noise -- a thud, and then a skrrrr-sound like something being dragged along the wall. Sarah sighed. Her landlord knew who put the marks on the hallway plaster, and she was never going to get her security deposit back on this place. Not that Chicago landlords ever gave it back anyway.

The door opened and Boudicca yowled again, bursting out from behind the drape and skidding across the slick wood floor. Hildegarde thumped to the ground and followed.

"Your kids are fat," a voice yelled, as the front door opened.

"I'm a terrible mother," Sarah yelled back, sipping her beer.

There was a thud-and-creak as Mark put his massage table down in the entryway, and then a handsome, grinning face poked around the door.

"You look like you're auditioning for Crazy Cat Lady," he said, stepping into the room and trying not to trip on the cats twining around his ankles. "Long day?"

"Not too bad," Sarah replied. "I have intern angst."

"Hmm, intern angst." Mark put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them gently. "Yep, your internio-annoyus group is tense."

"Those are not real muscles," Sarah said. "The Sparkcep is also fictional."

"What's he got you doing now?"

"It's not him directly. Erin drew him for Secret Santa and she wants me to feng shui the office for him," Sarah said, pointing to a sheaf of paper on the table. The top sheet had a rough sketch of the office lobby on it, with a large red line labeled GONG behind the front desk. "Ian says he'll do all the furniture rearranging, which probably means a trip to the hospital, so I'm just going to move a few lamps, buy a couple of plants, and hang a mirror."

"You are terribly new-age, for a workaholic," Mark said. "Which reminds me, woman, where is my dinner?"

Sarah smacked him with her book. "I feed the cats because otherwise they'd try to eat me in my sleep. You, fend for yourself."

"Good thing I made a stop on the way home, then." Mark reached into the pocket of his coat and dangled a plastic bag in front of her.

"Ohh, you brought cheese," Sarah said, reaching for the bag just as Mark pulled it away.

"I'm ransacking the kitchen for crackers and crusty bread," he announced.

Sarah smiled fondly as he went to the kitchen and began banging cupboards open. She felt there was probably a reason she and Mark had survived as long as they had: working for Sparks had long ago made her immune to the more annoying aspects of zealous enthusiasm.

***

"Attention, passengers," said a crackly, overloud voice on the train's PA system. John reflected that they never got it right; either the announcers were totally inaudible, or they deafened you. "There has been a mechanical breakdown on the elevated tracks. We will be standing here briefly while the track is cleared. Thank you for your patience."

"Briefly," John said, "is in the same vein of untruth as there's another train directly behind this one. It's not true, and everyone knows it's not true, and we resent the implication that we're idiots more than we resent the delay."

Cee scooted closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder when he put his arm around hers. "Ten bucks says we're here longer than twenty minutes."

"Fifteen bucks says -- " John stopped abruptly as the lights went out and the subtle vibration of the train's engine died. He groaned, along with every other passenger in the car. "Fifteen bucks says we're the mechanical breakdown."

***

When Ian arrived at the front door of his apartment, there was harmonica music coming from inside. He cocked his head and listened, trying to catch the tune, then unlocked the door and dropped his bag in the living room. The music didn't stop, though it did increase slightly in intensity. Ian hummed along with it, pulling his hat and coat off before joining in with the lyrics.

From God our heavenly Father a blessed angel came,
And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name,
Oh-h tidings of comfort and joy! Comfort and joy...

The music stopped abruptly.

"Keep going!" Ian yelled. He hung up his coat, sighed, reached down to picked up Zeke's, and hung it up too.

"I don't know any more verses," Zeke called.

"You're playing the music. You don't need to know the words," Ian told him, walking into the kitchen and going straight for the beer in the fridge. "What are you cooking?"

"Tortellini," Zeke said defensively, stirring a pot on the stove.

"My tortellini?"

"I made enough for two. There wasn't any food on my shelf of the fridge."

"That's because you ate it all," Ian told him, passing him the beer. "It doesn't magically restock itself, you have to go to the store and buy more food." Zeke opened the beer, sipped it, and passed it back. Ian wiped the mouth of the bottle before taking a drink and continuing. "You probably had raw oats in mayonnaise for breakfast this morning. You're lucky I'm the coolest roommate ever."

"Hey, check this out," Zeke said excitedly, holding up his harmonica. It was his new Chromatic, which was special in a way Ian hadn't quite figured out yet, and Zeke had just started getting really good on it. Which meant he tended to play it nonstop. "Do you know how fucking hard it is to play the Gloria on a harmonica?"

"Not personally," Ian said, "but I'm sure you're going to show me."

Zeke abandoned the pot he was stirring and put both hands over the harmonica, making one or two false starts first. Ian sang along, pausing every time Zeke did and, after about thirty seconds of trying, they got through the whole thing -- Glo-ho-oh-oh, ho-oh-oh, ho-oh-oh RIA! In Excelsis Deo!

"THAT WAS AWESOME," Zeke declared. "What does the end part mean? Is that Greek?"

"Latin," Ian told him. "It means to God on high. Is there a reason you're playing Christmas carols?"

"Holiday party gigs, man. Nobody goes to blues clubs at Christmas. I have to diversify."

"Uh-huh. By the way, is that meat sauce?" Ian picked up a spoon and poked at the lumpy mass in the pot, uncovering the edge of a tortellini soaking up the sauce.

"Maybe? It was in the fridge."

"On my shelf?"

"Dude, seriously, you're still on that?"

"I didn't have any meat sauce on my shelf," Ian told him. "That's sloppy joe."

Zeke looked down at the pot of tortellini-in-sloppy-joe. "Seriously?"

"Yes, Zeke."

He dipped out a thick spoonful of the mixture and ate it. "Tastes okay."

"This is going to be the cheesy macaroni soup all over again. You eat it," Ian said, laughing as he walked back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. "I'll make some real food later."

"This is real food!" Zeke called. Ian pulled his laptop over onto his lap from the side table and propped his feet up. "I cooked it in a pot and everything!"

"You have low standards," Ian yelled back. "Don't bother me, I'm working."

"Writing the Great American Novel?" Zeke asked, carrying the pot into the living room as he ate directly from it.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Ian answered, and left Zeke to vacillate between eating, watching the evening news, and practicing Dona Nobis Pacem on the Chromatic.

***

It started to snow around the time the CTA security agents showed up to open the train doors and help people down to the tracks.

John thought about offering Cee his coat, but she had one already, and he was cold. The agents lined them up on the tracks and marched them through the flurries down to the next station, where half of the passengers began to demand a refund on their fare and the other half hurried down the stairs to catch buses and cabs.

"Let's go to your place," he said, holding out a hand fruitlessly as another already-engaged cab zoomed past. "And burn some sage to get rid of the terrible karma of this evening."

"No argument here," Cee replied, her voice muffled a little by the scarf she'd wrapped around her face up to her cheekbones. She'd offered it to him as a head-covering, but he'd decided the night had been mortifying enough without trying to catch a cab dressed like Mother Courage.

By the time they'd finally flagged another ride, made it to Cee's apartment, and climbed the four-floor walkup, John was exhausted. They stood there together, snow dripping from his hair and her coat, and looked at each other.

"Can we just go to bed?" Cee asked in a small voice.

"Oh God please," John agreed, and began hurriedly stripping off his coat and pulling his boots off his feet. Cee was already under the covers by the time he climbed into the bed. There was a second of bliss -- and then then he got up, swore, switched off the bedroom light, closed the bathroom door so the drippy faucet wouldn't bother them, tripped over his own pants, and managed to burrow back under the blankets.

"Look at it this way," he said. "None of our other anniversaries could possibly be as bad as this one."

His cynicism was met with a small snore from Cee.

***



Date: Thursday, 12/17/09
Subject: Silent Night, emphasis on the Silent.

It's snowing in Chicago tonight. There may be drifts by morning. According to Chicago law, landlords are required to remove the snow from walkways within a certain amount of time, but sometimes I miss crunching through the snow. I enjoy making a path. I hope to be up early enough tomorrow that I can, but it's late and I'm not in bed yet, so I don't know that it's likely.

I am inside and warm, well fed, possibly just slightly drunk. While my work here and my actual work are never far from my mind, I like staying up late to watch the snow fall. In the quiet, things settle and peace prevails, if only in my little corner of the Earth. I've learned from many others that always going, always caring, it burns you out. Sometimes it's good to be selfishly happy for what we have. Knowing it prepares you to be generous and offer it to others.

In that spirit, I hope you all are warm and safe tonight. Or, for our cousins across the seas, this afternoon (this morning?).

I do need to address one point of business before I wander off to bed, and that is an increase in the number of distinctly probing questions I've had lately. I love you all, and I love talking to you, but I think it's time I reminded everyone of some ground rules, which were established when Weekly City started poking around in my private life.

Please don't ask me who I am. I'm not telling. Likewise, don't ask me where I am, or what company I work for. I live and work in Chicago, and that will have to do. Besides, even if you guess correctly, I won't tell you that you did.

Here's a really important one: Don't send me naked photos.

(I know, right? It's a hard life, being me.)

While I appreciate the spirit of giving and the literal flexibility some of you display, I'm sure this breaks some kind of federal obscenity law. And in one case (you know who you are, young man) could possibly get me arrested for possession of underage pornography. So don't do that.

I'm not a mystery or a rock star or anything like that. I'm just some guy who was in the right place at the right time. A guy buried under a blanket in the living room, watching the snow fall tonight.

Also, I have a new banner. D'aww. Owl puppies.

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Chapter Eight