So Bigelow woke up late and tired, much to the consternation of his Rottweiler, Bantha. He couldn't leave for work without taking Bantha around the block, letting the dog leave behind evidence of her presence so large and hard to ignore it could easily convince experienced animal trackers that a herd of buffalo had recently moved through the area. And he couldn't pass the neighborhood Starbucks without stopping in for a vente mocha latte. And he couldn't have a vente mocha latte without having two Krispy Kreme doughnuts to go with it. And he couldn't very well have two old Krispy Kreme doughnuts, which might have been sitting in the display case for as long as twenty minutes. So he had to kill time letting Bantha terrorize squirrels in the park across the street until the sign lit up announcing that the fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts were ready.
All of which meant he walked into the office nearly an hour and a half later than the Now! employee manual mandated. No one said anything to him about playing by the rules or giving one's all, however. The only person higher than Bigelow in the Now! food chain was the publisher, Dave Crowley, and he almost never showed up before noon. And Bigelow's only equal/potential rival-the company's editorial director, Alex Sandberg-was too busy actually working to notice Bigelow's comings and goings, not to mention too wimpy to say anything even if he did. (Sandberg was the company's resident Mr. Nice Guy, which was one more reason Bigelow hated him.)
But Bigelow didn't make it to his desk without any censure whatsoever. It just didn't come from his boss, and it had nothing to do with his tardiness.
"You forgot, didn't you?" Marcy Albright asked as Bigelow hustled past her cubicle.
Bigelow skidded to a stop.
"Forgot what?" he said, which answered his secretary's question.
(Officially, Marcy wasn't his secretary. He just liked to think of her that way. She was actually an executive assistant/office manager. The fact that he had to share her with Crowley was fine, a necessary bit of economizing. That he had to share her with Sandberg was a galling injustice he would rectify one day.)
"The 'Secret Santa' thing. It starts today," Marcy said. "Don't tell me you're giving somebody a cup of coffee."
The only thing Bigelow held in his hands was his Starbucks cup. All that remained of the doughnuts was a sugary film that coated his fingers and lips.
"Oh, that," Bigelow said. "Hold on."
He set his coffee down on Marcy's desk, pulled out his wallet and removed a wrinkled five-dollar bill.
"Run across the street and buy me… oh, I don't know. A sandwich or something."
"You're gonna give somebody a sandwich for Christmas?"
"The sandwich is for me. I didn't have time to grab anything for lunch this morning. I'll take care of the present later."
"What kind of sandwich do you want?"
"Oh, whatever. You know me."
Bigelow leaned in to get his coffee, taking the opportunity as he did so to try for a peek down Marcy's blouse.
"I'm easy to please," he said.
Marcy stood and wrapped a coat around herself, and Bigelow headed into his office whistling "Sleigh Ride." His in-box was overflowing and the message light on his phone was blinking, but first things first. There were goodies to unwrap.
Power was always sweet, but in December it had the especially satisfying flavor of chocolate. Now! published three magazines, which meant come the holidays three different sets of vendors and publicists and freelancers tried to curry favor by showering the office with edible bribes. Bigelow saw to it that the cornucopia spilled out in his direction, giving Marcy standing orders that all large packages should be delivered to his office first. The truly choice gifts went home with him. The second tier he passed along to Crowley as part of his ongoing efforts to keep his lips locked to the publisher's posterior. The dregs-tins of stale popcorn, tacky ornaments that had shattered in transit, etc.-ended up in the staff lunchroom with a Post-It note attached.
Merry Christmas, gang! Help yourselves!
– Erik Bigelow
Today's haul seemed to be shaping up nicely. Several big boxes had already arrived via Fed Ex and UPS, and the regular mail would undoubtedly bring more. Bigelow was about to tear into the most promising package-a small but satisfyingly heavy box with the unmistakable rattle of gourmet nuts-when a brightly wrapped package caught his eye. There was a tag attached.
"For Erik," it read. "From your Secret Santa."
Bigelow rolled his eyes. Giving anonymous gifts to a randomly chosen coworker was bad enough. Why should he waste his time and money on somebody he didn't even need to kiss up to? But to make the whole thing even more aggravating, when Marcy had come by with the little red Santa hat full of names, he'd drawn out the one he wanted to see least of alclass="underline" Alex Sandberg. So now he had to find cutesy presents for the man he considered the only real threat he faced at Now!.
He leaned over and looked in his trashcan. The picture he'd dumped there Friday hadn't been cleared out yet. It was a small, tacky, plastic-framed painting of cats caroling outside a snow-covered home while a Scrooge-ish basset hound glowered at them from an upstairs window. It had been a gift from the printer who handled Antiques Now!, Bigelow's least-favorite publication in the Now! stable (mostly because it drew such feeble freebies). Bigelow had been so disgusted with the lame painting, he hadn't even bothered walking it to the staff lunchroom.
But now it had its uses. Bigelow pulled the picture from the garbage can just as Marcy stepped into his office holding a brown paper bag.
"Clean this up and throw it on Sandberg's desk when he's not looking," Bigelow said.
"Hey! You're not supposed to let anybody know who you're-"
Bigelow was already rooting around in the paper bag, which he'd snatched from Marcy when she'd reached out to take the cat painting.
"What's this? Pastrami?" he asked.
"Corned beef."
He handed the bag back to her. "You know what would really be good? Roast beef. With horseradish. Ooooh, and a pickle."
Marcy opened her mouth to say something, but Bigelow managed to close it with the droopy-eyed, tight-lipped, It-Won't-Make-Any-Difference-What-You-Say-So-Why-Bother? boss look he'd mastered since his latest promotion. She turned and left without saying a thing, and Bigelow got back to the business at hand: opening presents.
He saved the one from his Secret Santa for last. The wrapping paper covering it was red with the word "HO!" in chunky white letters repeated over and over again. The gift beneath was flat and rectangular and stiff-obviously a book. Not being edible or formatted for a DVD player, it was of little interest to him. Still, free was free.
Once he'd ripped the wrapping away, he sat for a long moment, blinking down at his present, confused.
It was DON'T Steal This Book! Controlling Your Kleptomania by Dr. Avi Birnbaum.
Tuesday, December 16
Bigelow had almost forgotten about his Secret Santa when he came to work the next morning. He'd spent a few minutes wondering about the "gift"-what did it mean and who could have sent it and was it someone he could fire? But he'd had a good day after that. Crowley hadn't bothered showing up at all, which meant Bigelow didn't even have to pretend to work. Instead he'd surfed the 'net, done some Christmas shopping, caught a matinee showing of The Matrix Revolutions, hovered around the cubes cute girls worked in. Then he'd called it a day early, leaving the office with two shopping bags stuffed with plundered goodies.