The Holiday Mixtape

1. Erika w/ a “K”

one

Erika w/ a “K”

“ O w! Fuc —fish sticks! Archer, that hurt!”

Hopping past my open laptop, nursing my newly stubbed toe, I try not to slip again in my pantyhose.

“Would you calm down and let me see the outfit?”

My work bestie—and only best friend’s—sardonic voice grumbles through my laptop speaker. “And it’s not ‘fish sticks’ for the love of God, it’s fiddle sticks if you’re from 1950. And ‘fuck’ if you’re a normal person.”

“I’m policing myself. I don’t want to get nervous in the room and cuss like a sailor.”

“It’s been years, and I can’t recall a single time you’ve delivered a proper F-bomb. I don’t think you’re capable.”

“People do insane things when they get nervous. Okay. Not people, but yours truly. You’re distracting me and I’m already late.”

“I’m waiting to see the second choice, because the first one makes you look like a Sunday School teacher.

And you’re not late. You can’t possibly be.

Hell, you got me up at five-thirty to sign off on your wardrobe, when you know—undoubtedly, you’ll wear what you planned when you prepped this pitch five months ago. ”

“I want to look different. This one has to go differently. Better. I want them to see me as an equal and in a new light. This is the one. I can feel it,” I yell from my bedroom toward our ongoing Zoom, anchored on the living room coffee table that may have just broken my middle toe.

“Erika. Although I’m known for my patience, there’s no commuter in the surrounding Chicago metroplex on their first sip of coffee yet. Now let me see the damn skirt already.”

Having raced around my love seat to dodge the first two legs of my coffee table, I sink down past my laptop, bringing my middle finger into a close-up on my camera’s view.

“Ah. There she is. She can’t say it, but… hey, if actions speak louder than words—”

“Archer.” I stand in full view in front of my laptop, staring at my true-blue, who’s still in his boxers. “You’re not known for your patience. You’re known for your persistence. There’s a very big difference. How’s this one?”

I roll my shoulders back, suck in and stand up straight.

“Hmmm … ” The highlights of his frosted, dark brown tips spike downward as his brows knit together, and he tilts his chin lower, motioning for me to turn around.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know yet. Turn around.”

I reluctantly do an about-face, giving my back to our Zoom session. An absurdly long pause goes by.

“Archer?”

“Nope. There’s nothing wrong with that. Might not be appropriate for the office, but I wouldn’t look away.

Is that baby blue or turquoise? No. No, it’s peeking through the sheer black netting of your hosiery.

That’s got to be a vibrant aqua lace. Wow.

I always had you pegged as a pink cotton bikini brief girl.

At least that’s what you had on the last time I saw—”

Twisting my head around, I glance down to my ass where my new skirt choice is tucked in my black panty hose, exposing both butt cheeks to Chicago’s biggest womanizing cad.

“Astounding.”

I untuck my skirt and turn to face him. “And you said you didn’t look that night.”

“No. The morning you woke neatly tucked under your covers, fully attired in your cozy pajamas after three Moscow mules and more Dirty Shirley’s than an empty stomach could handle, I said ‘it was like looking at my sister.’ Although I did look, so let’s say stepsister.

No. That, in combination with the lace I just saw, is giving me half a chub. Cousin. I retract to cousin.”

Archer reaches for his French press to pour more coffee. “Now we could say third cousin to keep it—”

“Okay. I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t…” He holds up his index finger. “Count to five. Remember… you, me, the world’s longest Zoom meeting on the company dime. You can’t break our two-and-half-year streak over your surprise choice in underwear, which I must say is a much better choice than either of these outfits.”

“You’re right. It would be your only hope of a long-term relationship with anything.”

“Now I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, before you do, may I explain how to do so properly?” Crouching into frame, I raise both eyebrows at Archer. “This is a friendly reminder when you go off-book, or I should say on-book for you, and have a last-minute bootie call that wasn’t on the table—”

“Who says it wasn’t on the table?”

“Gross. And thus… ‘About last night’…”

“Who? Tamera? Yeah. No. I’m not seeing her again. We’ve already been out twice. She clawed the hell out of my back, and she wasn’t hot enough for me to find that enjoyable. That, and she was really loud.”

“No kidding, Arch! Shutting your laptop doesn’t kill the audio! You know the rules. “Muting is our hanging up. You have to mute! I heard everything!”

“Forgive me. I’m just so used to such quiet nights on your end—”

“That’s because I mute!”

“That is not because you mute. In fact, don’t you think a bigger problem in your work life balance is that you haven’t had one hiccup of a night where you had to apologize to your best friend for not muting.”

“Just for that, I’m leaving my laptop by the TV speaker on the holiday channel’s countdown to Christmas, where every night I’ll purposely forget to mute and leave you falling asleep to holiday platonic cheer from the world’s favorite forgotten TV stars of the late 90s.”

“A rundown of your actual bedtime ritual is not an insult or a threat. It’s literally what you’ve been doing since November first. Erika, you’ve dated one guy in the last three years, and the minute you slept with him you called it quits.”

“That’s not true. I’ve been working on my pitch every single night since they offered me the floor, and now I’m going to be late.”

“Relax. You’ll be fine. You spent all of Thanksgiving break on it. By the time you finished going over and over your mock proposal to the board, we arrived to Friendsgiving just in time for me to savor a dirty martini and half a turkey leg. All the sides were gone.”

“That’s just it, Archer. It’s the holidays. With Christmas around the corner and everyone focused on their break or going home for the holidays, that’s all they’ll be thinking about.”

“Thank God we don’t have to.”

“What?”

“Home. For the holidays. Thank God it’s not our thing.”

My gaze drifts for a moment, hearing Archer’s words. I’m very aware it’s not his thing. I’d never expect anything remotely associated with a family gathering to be in his arsenal. He’s never taken a single woman he’s dated to meet his parents, or anyone related to him.

Come to think of it… I’ve never met his parents. Still, I’ve been so dead set on the winning pitch for this Harmon account that I forgot all about December approaching. And I love Christmas. Maybe I should hang up before I turn into Archer.

“Hey, I gotta go. I’m going to go do my hair—”

“With your Power Point presentation playing on your bedroom wall while you mock click the changing slides with your curling iron?”

Archer’s voice trails off as I trudge to my bedroom with lead feet. Suddenly the light, nervous energy tingling through me has been replaced with a heavy heart. It’s December. It’s coming on Christmas…

“Wear the red! It’s a power color!” Archer’s voice, shouting from my living room coffee table, brings back all the focus I need.

I’ve got this. I know I do.

“I don’t have it. I don’t think I can do this.”

Archer hands me coffee with a lid from the break room as we walk shoulder to shoulder down the corridor toward the executive offices.

“You changed again.”

“Yes. The red had a weird pocket poking out of my hip.”

“I should’ve let you raid my closet. Hot girl in a man’s suit—you could say anything in there and they’d nod and smile if you dressed like that.” Archer’s lips quirk halfway up to one side.

“I don’t get it.”

“Kim Basinger. 9 1/2 Weeks ? The movie? That scene?”

I blink up at him rapidly.

“Right. Well, it wasn’t PG, so. The point is executives love an androgynous look. It’s a favorite, spanning multiple generations.”

Shaking my head at Archer, I turn from his antics to look toward my destination. The sound of my heels clicking on tile matches my heartrate when I see Sloan and Swartz crowning the opposite end of the hall.

A young man in a suit trails behind them.

“Great. The new sidekick’s here for this one.” Archer tilts his head toward the eager beaver, making our duo of bosses a trio.

“Have you met him yet?”

“Once, and I’m not a fan of the dangled carrot gunning for my job. This is where I leave you.”

“Wait. Do I have anything between my teeth?”

Archer inspects me thoroughly.

“Unfortunately, for the greater male population, no. You do not. What a waste.” He pushes me forward as he peels off down a side hallway.

“Go get ’em, tiger. I’ll see you in there,” Archer calls over his shoulder.

“Erika! Big day today. Was that Archer I saw running for cover? Sloan, let’s make a note not to judge her by the company she keeps.”

A hand extends in front of me, and another anchors on my back in a patronizing pat. “We can’t wait to hear your Harmon proposal.” Swartz forces the largest smile his recent Botox injection will allow. His shiny face nods between me and Sloan.

“That a girl. She’s going to blow us away there and give her buddy a run for his money,” Swartz beams. The sixty-five-year-old’s hand is still on the back of my waist.

“There you go, Tom. We might finally get to replace Archer. Kidding…”

I swear to God if this man, who smells like peppermint after scotch for breakfast, expensive shoe leather and some girl’s shampoo, pinches my cheek, I’m going to quit on the spot.

“We love the little bastard. Just excited to get some fresh blood on the account with your pitch.”

Little bastard. Nice vocabulary Tom Sloan and Erving Swartz. I can’t help but wonder how they describe me when I’m not in the room.