Christmas People

One. The Ghost of Christmas Loser

One

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS LOSER

This woman could be me if I’d made better choices. Or I could be her is maybe what I really mean.

She has light Botox, quality work where your face still moves enough that people can’t tell—even I’m not sure—a good haircut and color, no crispy pieces and not too trendy, a classic bob but with something happening at the ends to give it the slightest nod toward edgy.

A well-fitting black blazer, wide-leg trousers, a cream blouse open just enough that she doesn’t look stuffy—the kind of outfit that’s perfect for an LA winter but that someone too entrenched in the LA lifestyle would never wear.

This outfit says she’s aware things happen in the world that aren’t covered by Deadline Hollywood.

And she has an actually cute kid who acts like a kid. Kids can be dicey in Beverly Hills. I see a lot of oddly affected mini adults in neutral-colored organic-cotton loungewear talking about their life force, like little prisoners of Gwyneth Paltrow.

“Mom, can I get two lollipops?” her child asks. He’s got the kind of face that makes your ovaries want to do quality control and send out one of your best remaining eggs, in case you could be so lucky.

“Is one for me?”

“No.”

“Then get three so there’s one for me.”

She smiles at me, and I realize I’m staring. I doubt she gets recognized—most screenwriters don’t—but I’m a screenwriter and I know who she is.

This is Frankie Carroll, the writer known for single-handedly reviving the event rom-com—“event” as in you’ll leave your house to see it in a theater.

She proved women and men will go to them if you hit the right notes, and that determination and a work ethic pay off—she started her career on the small screen and kept drafting away until her big hit.

Her next movie, Gift Receipts , her first holiday movie, is due out soon—on Christmas Day, so you know it’s a big deal.

I could be her. In fact, I moved to LA to be her.

I was a sophomore in college when I saw a YouTube interview she did after one of her early movies in which she said that moving here paved the way for her to make the connections she needed to get her work in front of the right people.

It sold me on the fact that even if LA intimidated me, I had to make it here someday.

And I did, even if my move was more of an impulsive reaction to a bad breakup than a carefully planned career milestone.

And even if my version of making it only includes residing in the city.

So, yeah, I could be her. I wanted to be her.

But instead, I’m Jill Jacobs, who is working behind the redemption counter of Li’l Ballerz, an upscale arcade in the Century City mall. I do not feel redeemed.

“Oh, hi, what can I get for you?” I try to sound casual, like I just noticed her standing there, like I’m not trying as hard as I am to suck down each of her exhalations as if I could shotgun inhale her talent, luck, and drive and coax myself to my own career high.

Frankie’s son slips me his Li’l Ballerz players card and says, “I definitely have enough tickets for three lollipops. Can I have all red, please? My mom and I both love the red flavor. Cherry.”

He smiles adoringly up at Frankie, and—while I have absolutely no idea if I want kids of my own—I suddenly think that having a kid like this wouldn’t be so bad.

It might help that his dad is Gabriel Chen, who won People ’s Sexiest Man Alive the same year his first film came out.

It was also the film where he met Frankie, who’d written it.

In My Sights is about a detective haunted by the murder of his wife.

The detective takes a case from a perennially single thirtysomething to provide insight into a man she’s eager to date—a man who turns out to be linked to the late wife’s murder.

Somehow, Frankie managed to infuse the gritty subject matter with a screwball sense of fun and zingy dialogue that reminded the audience good banter is the best foreplay.

“Coming right up!” I say way too loudly.

Even with all the games in here whirring and pinging and trying to lure more Li’l Ballerz into the space, you can hear me shouting like an idiot.

And it doesn’t matter, because the kid hurls a sweet “Thanks!” as he hops toward the Skee-Ball machines next to us.

I’m handing the lollipops to Frankie, but she notices her son struggling to swipe his game card. She smiles and raises a finger to ask me to hold on. “Sorry, let me go make sure this doesn’t turn ugly,” she says with a wink that’s not corny.

I notice she leaves her phone on the counter, and it lights up with a text. I see the bold name Gabriel with a heart next to it and tell myself not to read it. But don’t I deserve to read it? Can’t I have that little pleasure?

I peek at the words, and they are I made your favorite .

Then it buzzes again. This time, a photo appears on the screen— Frankie really shouldn’t have her notifications come up like this—and it’s Gabriel Chen, holding up a homemade pizza with a bubbly crust, perfectly melted cheese, and those little pepperonis that are like cups for the grease.

Hot husband, cute kid, excellent career, and carbs, dairy, and the pinnacle of the cured meats.

She’s living the fucking dream and I’m…

“Ma’am, that game didn’t give me a prize, and my self-worth has a boo-boo now.” A girl about nine is rapping on the counter with one hand and pointing at a claw machine filled with allergen-free stuffed animals with the other.

“Um, just a moment. I was with another customer.” I pray for Frankie and her kid to come back so I can avoid a discussion of self-worth, a subject about which—judging from the fact that I haven’t washed my Li’l Ballerz uniform in at least two weeks—I know nothing.

“You’re not helping. If I can’t work a claw machine and I can’t be assisted when I ask for help, how am I going to live my best life?”

Thinking you can live your best life is for suckers, kid , I want to say. Although, she’s living a better life than me, because she hasn’t even reached puberty and already holds all the power as the Li’l Baller to my Big Loser.

But I can’t get fired from this job. Only six weeks ago, I got the axe at my barista job when this customer who everyone at the shop hated overheard me mocking his absurd mobile coffee order.

Usually, he sent a Postmates driver to pick it up for him, but on that particular Thursday, he’d shown up just in time to hear me say that “eight pumps of vanilla” was probably what his sex partners experienced on a good day.

“I will absolutely help you, as the machine is clearly broken if you didn’t win,” I say with every ounce of deference I can muster.

“I just need to wait for her to get her prizes and her phone since I’m the only one here today.

” I point at Frankie and her kid, who are finishing up at the Skee-Ball machine.

The little girl, who’s dressed in a long-sleeved smock printed with what looks like dead flowers, sulks back to the machine. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Wow, maybe someone should extract some of her self-worth.” I was hoping Frankie couldn’t hear the exchange with the kid, but I’m glad she’s on my side.

She picks up her phone and I can’t help but peek over her shoulder to see the picture of Gabriel and the pizza again.

She smiles. “Daddy made dinner,” she tells her son.

“Here are your lollipops,” I say, handing her the prizes, hoping my palm sweat isn’t too obvious.

“Thanks so much,” she says. “Come on, Peter—let’s get our pizza while it’s hot!”

They leave, and I wish I could go with them. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see it’s a text from my agent, Lacey, and my heart leaps—maybe I’m getting a Christmas miracle!—but…

“Ma’am!” The claw-machine kid waves me over like she’s the one who can’t waste another minute rotting in here. I hurry to unlock the machine and open the front, exposing the hypoallergenic stuffies to mall air.

“Which one do you want?”

“Hmm.” Little Miss Self-Worth crosses her arms and examines the horde of neutral-colored stuffed animals packed inside the machine. While she’s doing this, another girl about her age—in kid yoga wear that costs more than all my yoga pants combined—sees her and points.

“Why does she get a prize without winning it?”

My phone buzzes again in my pocket.

“The machine failed me,” the first girl says.

“Or you failed,” Yoga Girl flings back.

“It’s not a failure if I end up with what I want.”

“Then I should get one, too. I did nothing for it. Just like you.”

“I will call my mom’s lawyer if you don’t go away.”

I debate whether to intervene in this Baby Housewives of Beverly Hills scene, but fuck these kids—my big break might be here.

Lacey long ago locked in on a texting affectation where she spells out select words in all caps, and I always look at those words first in case they give a clue.

Jill, I hope you’re doing WELL. We should have a little CHAT. I have NEWS. KISSES. (Call me.)

NEWS? My heart leaps again. I type Give me one sec.

Of course. LOLOUD , Lacey types back, defying the handiness of shorthand.