Chapter 8
Chapter eight
NPC: The Mirror Vendor.
A sly figure who sells faces and names, none of which are his. "They stole your coin. Your image. Good. You were never that shallow mask. To pass, surrender what you clung to."
"I wear many faces and tell many lies.
Yet when you cast me off, you finally see why.
Who am I?"
Patrick
"No! No! He can't do that!" exclaimed my Uber driver. This was followed by a barrage of angry words in a language I didn't understand. Fortunately, those words were spoken into the driver's cell phone and not aimed at me.
Language barrier or not, it was still awkward. I sank against the back seat and watched the lights whisk by outside. Or, more accurately, stop and go outside. The traffic was gnarly. I looked at my watch. It was almost six on Christmas Eve. Where exactly was everyone going?
"No! No! No!" exclaimed the Uber driver. There was more incomprehensible yelling.
The driver was around fifty and looked Middle Eastern.
He wore a nondescript black wool beanie and an even more nondescript black wool coat.
The car was clean but smelled faintly of cigarettes and cumin.
The man had been distracted but polite when he'd picked me up at the hospital, but now he was engaged in a furious debate.
Whoever was on the other end of the phone—Daughter? Son? Mother-in-law?—I was glad not to be them. I bit my lip and tried to figure out how long this ride would take. In this traffic, probably at least forty minutes to get to my apartment in Streeterville from here.
Or not. Suddenly the driver yanked the wheel left, crossed a lane of traffic, and swung into the driveway of the Radisson hotel, nearly getting hit by oncoming traffic in the process.
"Hey!" I yelled. "I'm too young to die!"
The driver said something into his phone, then turned to look at me. "Sorry. Sorry. You get out here now. Sorry."
I wasn't sure I heard right. "No, I'm not staying at the Radisson. You need to take me home. It's 112—"
"No. No. Big emergency. Big emergency. Family trouble." He waved his phone. "You get out here. Sorry."
"You're kicking me out of your Uber?"
"Get out!"
I got out. I'd barely closed the door when the driver took off with a squeal of tires and bounced into the traffic, going the opposite direction of the way we'd been headed.
"Oh my God. I was dumped by my Uber driver," I said in disbelief.
"You think that's bad?" came a man's voice. "My ex once stranded me in Vegas. Took off with a lion tamer. And, before you ask, it wasn't one of the gay ones."
I turned to see a little man in a red valet uniform. "Um… Good?"
"For her, maybe. Sucked for me," the valet said. "Anyway, Merry Christmas."
"Um. Merry Christmas."
"You want I should call you a cab? Or you could go inside and warm up for a bit. Tell Randy at the bar that Benny said to give you a cup of coffee. On the house."
I looked around. I was only a few blocks from the hospital.
My office was not super far away. I'd told Dr. Gray Eyes I wouldn't drive my car, but I knew the way to and from home so well, I could drive it on autopilot.
Even with my left arm in a sling. And if I picked up my car now, I wouldn't have to venture out tomorrow, on Christmas Day, and try to find a cab to drive me back to the office.
That sounded infinitely preferable. Plus, the boredom in the ER had woken me up. My head felt clear.
Well, my head felt mostly clear.
To the south was Millennium Park. I could cut through there. The office was only a few more blocks on the other side. I'd seen the big Christmas tree in the park—a Chicago landmark—on my Instagram but had never bothered to go look at it in person.
My mind made up, I turned to say thanks to the valet, but the guy was now helping a couple in a tux and fur coat into a cab. So, I set off.
I crossed Randolph Street and entered the park.
I found the Christmas tree near the park entrance at Michigan and Washington.
I stood and stared at the colossal fir for a while.
It was spectacular. Like, three-stories high and decked out with white lights.
It was full-on dark out, but the tree lights and various streetlights and Christmas lights in the park made it bright as day.
There were lots of people milling around, despite the snowy weather.
Happy young couples in hip winter woolens held hands and strolled, enjoying their Christmas in the city.
Families sat on benches watching the little kids run around.
A group of teenagers slouched by in a pack.
Victorian-costumed carolers wandered around wassailing.
At the ice rink nearby, skaters sailed around to holiday tunes—not a bad way to spend Christmas Eve with friends.
There was even a horse and carriage. It clopped by, the white carriage magically festooned with lights and greenery, and the white horse trotting proudly, as if saying he knew he was rocking it with red ribbons in his mane and a red blanket across his back.
It was all exceedingly Christmasy. Norman Rockwell meets a Chicago modern aesthete. And I appreciated all of it. But a pang of loneliness struck me hard. This would be so utterly perfect if I were with someone. Dr. Gray Eyes, for instance.
I indulged myself imagining what that would be like.
Me and him walking in the snow, sipping hot chocolate, sharing a kiss when no one was looking.
Holding hands and not caring when they were.
Dr. Gray Eyes was big and strong. I imagined him in a coat, one of those suede ones with sheepskin lining, because I'd always thought they were hot—though I'd never admit it out loud.
He'd be sturdy and gentle and warm to cuddle up next to.
His eyes would be full of laughter, his mouth warm and sweet.
But imagining that hurt. It was too strong and too real. It was too depressing to linger on what wasn't and couldn't be. So I made myself move on. I just needed to get to my car. I just needed to—finally!—get home.
I continued walking south, taking paths through the park to get away from the street traffic.
The sidewalks were mostly snow free, though there were icy spots, so I walked with care.
I was approaching the Cloud Gate when I heard the clop clop of a horse behind me and the jingle of sleigh bells.
I ducked off the path to let the carriage pass.
The driver, dressed in black velvet, tipped his hat.
A couple around my age were in the back seat kissing sweetly, oblivious to me, the park, or anything else.
Sure, rub it in. It's fine. I can take it. It doesn't bother me at all. Head down, I walked on.
I was in the last section of the park, when I saw a figure trudging wearily toward me in the dim light of the park's lampposts.
I grinned. "Long day, Santa?"
The man in the red suit and hat spotted me, wobbled, then pulled out what looked like a toy gun. "Shut up and give me yer wallet."
I gave an uneasy chuckle. "Yeah. Real funny."
"Ya won' find a bullet hole sho funny. Cough it up! Less ya wanna die tonight."
The Santa was not weary from a long day of ringing a charity bell, I realized. He was drunk. Very drunk. And he wasn't kidding.
"Are you serious right now? You are seriously mugging people in a Santa outfit?"
"Yer wallet! Now!"
"Geez, that's, like, eleventh level of Hell right there. Congratulations," I complained, but I patted down my pockets with my good hand. Because, despite the absurdity of the situation—being held up by a drunk in a Santa outfit on Christmas Eve—I was a wee bit scared.
Because people died in the most ridiculous ways.
I knew because of an Instagram account I followed.
They tripped, fell into an open dishwasher, and got impaled on knives.
They were hit by a rogue puck while at a hockey game.
They were crushed by a falling Taco Bell sign.
These were all things that had literally happened.
So being shot by a Santa in Millennium Park, silly or not, could prove fatal.
Given my luck tonight, it probably would.
"Hurry up!" Santa waved the gun.
I finally realized, after patting down my pockets repeatedly, that my wallet was in my backpack. "Oh, right. Just a sec." I pulled it off my back—awkwardly because of my sling and the fact that my coat was half-on. I started to unzip it.
"The whole thing," Santa snarled. "Hand it over!"
"You wanted my wallet."
"Throw the damn bag, kid!"
Maybe he thought I had a gun in there or mace. I didn't. I tossed Santa the backpack.
Santa squatted down so he could put the bag on the snowy path and open it with one hand while holding the gun on me with the other. He started tossing stuff out. A plastic sandwich box that often held a PB&J—now empty. A Chicago highlights book.
He pulled out the Krampus and squinted at it. "What the hell is this?"
"Oh, that? Highly valuable. And it's good luck!" I said.
At that moment, I believed everything the Internet had ever said about Krampus. All of it. And I was more than happy to pass the curse along.
"Butt ugly," Santa said, tossing the figurine over his shoulder. He zipped up the bag, stood, and slung it over his back. "Don' try to follow me. 'Member I got this!" he waved the gun.
"Seriously? Come on! Take the cash but leave my driver's license. Please."
"Bite me." Santa stumbled away with everything that made me me slung over his shoulder. Wallet. ID. Cash. Bank card. And, damn it, keys to my apartment, office, and vehicle.
"At least leave my keys!"
Santa looked over his shoulder, sneered, and flipped me off before hurrying away.
"Just know that you're tarnishing the image of the most beloved figure on Earth!" I called after him. But there was no reply.
I stood there, snow collecting on my head, not quite able to believe that had just happened. There was a trash can and park bench nearby and I slunk over to it, cleared the snow on the bench seat with my right hand, and plunked into it. Now what?
There was no point going to the office. I had no keys to start my car or even unlock it. A wiser man might have a hidden key somewhere attached to the car's exterior. I did not.
I couldn't call a cab because I had no money or bank card.
I could call a friend. Or someone I was friendly with, at least. Traya?
Maybe she would come out and rescue my ass in exchange for the Krampus.
She had wanted it awful bad. And, yeah, I'd never hear the end of it at work, but at this point, I didn't have a lot of options.
Eleanor would also come get me, if I asked, but she lived out of town.
Out in the country near Wayne. I knew Traya lived somewhere close to the office because she always walked to work.
I reached in my pocket for my phone, and… "Damn it! No! No, no, no!" I'd put it in the backpack. Why had I put it in the backpack? "Not my phone!" I shouted to the dark sky. There was no reply.
That's when I spotted Krampus lying in the snow along with my plastic sandwich box.
"You bastard!" I exclaimed.
That stupid statue had done nothing but make my life miserable since I'd first opened the box at lunchtime. A whole, long day of nothing but the worst possible luck. I suddenly hated the damn thing with the power of a thousand suns.
I jumped up, stomped to the Krampus, picked it up, and glared at it.
"Enough! You got me. Okay? I surrender. I'll give you all my gold, gemstones, and magic runes.
I'm quitting the game. I. Quit. Now leave me alone!
" I stomped back to the bench and threw Krampus in the trashcan.
The trashcan was the type with a dome on top, so I didn't see it fall, but I heard it rattle and ping all the way down to the bottom of the can, which must have been emptied recently.
I had a twinge of guilt. It had been a gift. And it was an antique. Besides, would throwing it away just piss Krampus off more? Make things worse?
But it was done now. Even if I wanted to retrieve it, it was out of reach. And it was for the best, I was sure. Okay, I was pretty sure. Krampus was out of my life.
I turned to walk away. That's when I was run over by a horse.