Secret Santa

Secret Santa. It's about trust. The kind of trust you have when you put on your shoes each morning - trusting there’s nothing waiting inside them. They didn’t want to do it this year, like every year. Called it “old fashioned”. I cultivated this trust, and I'll be damned if the tradition ain’t upheld.

We’re in the boardroom. The lighting in here is as oppressive as the noonday sun. I squint at the staff, rocking slightly in my squeaky swivel-chair. Sandra keeps telling me to replace the damn thing, but don’t we all creak with age?

A lot of expectant faces looking my way. The smell of sweat hangs on the tension in the air; damned air-con on the fritz again. They may have been reluctant to buy the stuff, but they ain’t stupid enough to leave them wrapped. The Mexican standoff. Nobody can be the first, nor the last, to make a move for the pile of neatly wrapped gifts and gift bags. And besides, work ain’t over yet, even if they aren’t at their desks.

A quick glance at the clock. Almost five. I spin my biro, waiting for the last few seconds to pass. Sandra gives me a nod and I almost start the free-for-all there and then. Human resources, the cheek. Who runs this company again?

I bite down on the biro, grinding it with my teeth. Ain't nobody runs this here business but me. I can't wait much longer though, Jim's practically foaming at the mouth for his yearly “choccy selection box”.

With a wave of my hand, the carnage commences. Jim is practically on all fours, with his sales buddy Carlton "slim pickings" Matthews not far behind. Joyce, who is usually the quiet one, from accounting, almost mounts the table to find her present. Even Sandra is in the mix. Now that I think about it, that clock's three minutes fast.

There should be plenty of space, but it seems like it ain’t big enough for the twenty of us. A few off sick (and a few that ain’t pretending), haven’t shown. They'll know about it next week when the coffee machine breaks down and I'm "too busy" to get ol' Randy in to fix her. In mere moments the pile goes from “shrine of Santa” to Carlton’s namesake.

I stand. The room goes quiet. Good. They part in my wake as I stride over to the table, heels clacking on the laminate.

“Here you are, boss” says Herschel, the marketing guy we took a chance on. It's nice to see the corporate pressure keeping good men in line.

I take the oblong in one outstretched paw and look around the room to check if everyone’s “loaded”. They can barely look at me. Either they’re too distracted by the excitement, or something more sinister‘s afoot.

I sniff and adjust my belt (winter ain’t been kind on my diet). I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what goes down. I reckon they’re scared. When it comes to secret Santa: I don’t miss. I always get that perfect gift that leaves others in the dust. I sit back down. HR gives me a look. I give the nod.

“Alright then everyone, shall we go around alphabetically like we did last year?” Sandra asks.

Immediately, Alison nearly cleaves her package in two. Her’s was one of the best wrapped too. That’s just how she is. Ever since Christmas of ‘03 when her husband got her that mop: she’s been desperate for these secret Santa sessions. Her eyes light up. Someone knows how to play the game. Earrings. Nice.

I’m next. As much as I want to be respected in this here establishment, ol’ Bill Bradley ain’t never been one to dance in the limelight. I thumb open the wrapping on the smaller edge, the one where the loosest flange of paper always is, and am glad to find it ain't wrapped like mama used to do - all tape, no openings. The end rips off easily enough, and I slide out the cardboard box within.

“A- A nose hair trimmer?” I say out loud.

Damn. It ain't my intention to downplay the atmosphere. It's actually a damn good gift. A lotta thought and just a sprinkle of comedy for an aging, hairy, and grouchy man.

The room bursts into snickering and smiles, and gosh darnit, I’m relieved to join in. This is what secret Santa is all about: a bit of fun to brighten up the workplace.

It goes around the chamber a few more rounds. Carlton gets a watch. Maybe now he’ll be on time and “pick up” a few more sales. Herschel, a hip flask with his name engraved. Nice to see a personal touch. And then there’s Jim, grinning ear to ear, holding his selection box like a babe. Or should I say barrel? From the smiling and nodding around the room it looks like Joyce has outdone herself to meet this year’s chocolate quota.

Joyce is next, bless her soul. She’s been with the company twenty years, and I’ve gotten barely as many words from her. She likes to keep her head down. Don’t bother nobody. But gives everyone a smile and a wave each morning. It pays off every Christmas - she always ends up with her “just desserts”. That’s the name of her favourite doughnut shop, the one on the corner just off the high-street - the premium one.

Anyhow, it gets around to Olivia. I got her the envelope she’s holding, all bemused like. Everyone has that look on their face again, the one from earlier, the one that makes their eyes avoid me like the plague. Looks like this year’s secret Santa ain't so secret after all.

She opens it slowly, and carefully, hesitant to find out what’s inside. The cash can’t help itself. It starts spilling out down her worn blazer and slacks, and onto the floor. She steps back uneasily, crouching down to ebb the flow and collect the “Season’s Greetings” card that slipped out too. She’s careful not to grab at the notes, in full view of her co-workers.

I spin my biro. Helps me think. These estranged faces look about ready to lynch me. Looks like they knew the “who’s who”, but not the “what’s what” - up till now.

“What the hell Bill!” Sandra looks at me - teeth bared.

Olivia opens the card.

“What’s this all about boss?” Asks Herschel.

Olivia bursts into tears.

“What did you have to go and do that for?” Asks Joyce. First words I get from this woman in months, and it's mixed with more venom than a copperhead bite.

“Are you okay Olivia?” Asks Alison, crouching down next to her.

A shade takes over the room, masking everyone’s faces. The silence is audible, and yet the murmuring ain’t truly gone. There’s a ringing in my ears drowning it out. Snap out of it Bill; ain't no use second guessing yourself now.

“Right then everyone. Fun’s over, we’ll see you all in the new year - let’s not crowd poor Olivia!” Sandra hollers, rounding up the cattle of onlookers that are soaking up the scene. Damn gossip vultures.

“Now, let’s not be hasty Sandra.” I call out over the grumbling and groaning of the crowd.

The vultures perk up as Sandra turns into a grizzly bear.

“NOW YOU LISTE-”

Sandra’s outburst gets cut short by a hand on her shoulder.

Olivia’s hand. She’s hanging her head, long black hair drooped in front of her face. She stumbles forward towards me. I can’t read her emotions, but she looks about ready for the gallows right up until she’s within spittin’ distance.

She looks up at me. She’s all bleary eyed and smiling.

“Thank-you.” She says.

“That’s quite alright.”

“Thank-you so much,” Olivia repeats, “you’ve saved my Christmas, Mr. Bradley”

“Wha-”. Sandra is left speechless.

Poor Olivia. Her Son’s been stuck in the hospital for the past seventeen months. Christmas is his favourite time of year - she told me that in her review when I asked about her low mood. It's not my place to interfere. Dammit I know that. Strike me down if y’all have to, I’ll talk it out with the devil himself. But if it's within my power (what little it is), I’ll get this wretched boy home, happy, and healthy: in time for Christmas.