But I realized that I do know a guy who's kind of a softened criminal. When my shift was over, I went looking for him.
I'd met Arlo Hettle the year before when I was suffering through my Christmas break trapped in a job so crappy it actually made my gig at Fendler's look pretty sweet. Wrapping other people's presents all day isn't any fun, but it's a week in the Bahamas compared to elfing.
Yeah, that's right, elfing. Arlo and I were mall elves together. We worked in "Santa's Workshop" over at Olde Towne Mall. I'd lead a little rugrat up to Santa's lap, Santa would ho ho ho, the kid would start bawling, Arlo took a picture, I'd whisk the kid away and then we'd start the whole hellish cycle all over again. It was like being that Greek guy Sisyphus except with screaming toddlers instead of a boulder and a hill. To make it even worse, not only did Santa have a fetish for girls in green tights and red felt hats, he… ugh, forget it. I swore off that story a long time ago.
Anyway, I had a feeling Arlo would be back at Old Towne again this Christmas. The guy's not exactly a go-getter. The only thing he goes and gets is pot. Lots and lots of it. He's so mellow, half the time it's hard to tell whether he's even awake. He wouldn't be all that dependable as an accomplice, but I figured he'd know more than me about breaking the law, since he does it about a dozen times a day. If I was looking for a bad influence, Arlo was the logical place to start.
I was right about where to find him. Olde Towne's Santa was new and his she-elf was new, but the he-elf was still Arlo Hettle. And it was obvious he hadn't given up his favorite pastime. He was shuffling around like an old man in slippers, his mouth hanging open and his eyelids drooping low over glassy, red-streaked eyes. He was like a "Just Say No" poster come to life.
His lips slowly curled into a dreamy, vacuous smile when he saw me, and not long after that he put up the "FEEDING THE REINDEER" sign we used whenever Santa needed to go sit on a different throne. I met up with him by the unmarked door that led to the employee break room, and he greeted me with the same words he'd spoken to me most often the year before.
"Hey, Hannah! Wanna go get baked?"
"Gee, Arlo, it's nice to see you, too."
The first thing stoners lose after their short-term memory is the ability to recognize sarcasm, so Arlo just gave me a dopey grin.
"Yeah," he said. "So, really… you wanna get stoned? I've got some grrrrreat weed in my car."
This was my criminal mastermind? I almost abandoned the whole stupid scheme right then and there. But I could still feel the hot, angry fire of righteous indignation burning in the pit of my stomach, and I forged ahead.
"Alright, let's go," I said. "I've got something private I want to talk to you about, anyway."
Climbing inside Arlo's Hyundai was like rolling myself up in a giant doobie. I cracked a window, letting in a swirl of fresh, cold winter air, but I didn't think it would do much good. So much pot had been smoked inside that car you could get a contact high from checking the oil. Arlo lit up and offered me a hit, and I shook my head.
"Cool… more for me," he said with a lopsided grin.
I talked while Arlo toked. I told him about Naughty Boy-the sleazy come-on, the expensive gifts, the out-of-town wife. I told him I knew where the guy lived, sorta kinda. And I told him my plan: Arlo distracts Naughty Boy at the front door while I slip in the back, find the Christmas tree and yoink-nab the presents.
"Distract him how?" Arlo asked between puffs.
"I don't know. Maybe you could pretend your car broke down or something. I think he'd believe you."
Arlo's Hyundai is the Frankenstein's monster of the automotive world: It looks like it was sewed together from the dead parts of six other cars.
"Why couldn't you distract him?" Arlo wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Sounds like he'd like that a lot better."
"He knows where I work, Arlo. He could track me down. It has to be someone he's never seen before. Plus, I'm the one who wrapped the presents. I know what the boxes look like. We wouldn't want to go to all this trouble just to steal the wrong gifts, right?"
"Oh. Yeah. Right. So what do we do with the stuff once we have it?" Arlo coughed out a smoky chuckle. "Like, I don't think I'd look good in a fur coat."
"We sell everything, Arlo. To, you know, a whatever. A guy who handles stolen merchandise. A… a…"
My mind went blank. It must've been the fumes.
"I know what you mean," Arlo said helpfully. "A fender."
"A fence," I said. "Do you know one?"
"Me? Why would I know somebody like that? I'm, like, a normal, law-abiding citizen."
Since this was being said by a joint-sucking dude in an elf suit, I had my doubts.
"Come on. You deal with shady types all the time. I mean, you don't buy your pot from the Salvation Army, right? You must know somebody who could help us sell the stuff on the sly."
Arlo furrowed his brow and frowned. He was trying to think. Obviously, it was hard work. After a long, quiet moment, he nodded.
"You're right. There's a guy who could tell me what to do."
"Good. So what do you think? Should we do it?"
I know, I know. That was a cop-out question. I was going to make poor, dope-addled Arlo make the call-because I was afraid to. I mean, daydreaming about a crime is one thing. But actually trying to pull it off… well, that's something else. A part of me was already backing out.
I'd been serious about striking back at Naughty Boy and all the other naughty boys of the world. But I couldn't do it alone, could I? If Arlo said no, then I wouldn't have to feel like I was the one who didn't have the nerve.
In other words, I was counting on Arlo Hettle to bring me to my senses.
Dumb, huh?
"Sure," Arlo said. "Let's go for it."
The fifteen minutes he had for his doobie break were almost up, so we rushed through our planning-where to meet, what to bring-and said goodbye. In two-and-a-half hours, we'd see each other again… and my days as a nice girl would be over. By the end of the night, I'd be a thief. A crook. A skank.
I hadn't even done anything yet, and already I felt guilty. Back home at the apartment, my dinner went down untasted-which wasn't a big change of pace, really, since dinners at home never have much taste to begin with. Our finances being what they are, Mom and I have to rely on recipes in which the primary ingredients are canned tuna, macaroni and either mayonnaise or Velveeta processed cheese product. If we want to add a little zip, we garnish our tuna casserole du jour with ketchup from the little packets Mom stuffs into her purse every time she's in McDonald's.
This particular night, we were feasting on something called "tuna noodle strudel." It wasn't as bad as it sounds. It was worse. Tuna and cinnamon don't belong on the same shelf, let alone in the same recipe. Still, I managed to choke it down. My taste buds were probably screaming in agony, but I was too distracted to hear them.
Mom noticed how far away I was… and totally misinterpreted what it meant. She's pretty touchy about a lot of stuff these days. The apartment, clothes, my car, her car, electricity. Anything to do with money. Including food.
"You don't like it?" she asked, nodding at the still-steaming pan of mushy brown tuna-goo on the table between us.
"No, it's fine."
The words came out sounding flat and tired, like a lie you can't stand to tell even one more time. Which is exactly what it was.