I pushed the rewind button. The tape started to wind back just fine, but the little wheels quickly slowed to a lurchy crawl, and the red power light began to flicker and fade.
Great. The batteries were dying.
I pushed play and heard what sounded like the moans of a depressed cow.
"… mmmmmmmmeeeeelllllllllllooooooooooodeeee…"
I took the tape out and put it in the cassette deck of the old stereo I'd appropriated from my parents when I was in fifth grade. When I pushed play, ear-piercing squeaks and squonks blasted from the speakers. It was like Alvin and the Chipmunks after they've sucked in a tank of helium. The tape had recorded so slowly, the voices were being sped up and distorted when played back at normal speed.
I rewound the tape to the beginning, hoping the recorder had captured something incriminating before it ran out of juice.
I pushed play.
"Your elf is lookin' nice today," someone said with a nasal, whiny twang. It sounded like Kev.
"She looks nice every day. Heh heh."
Big Buck.
"I don't know how she squeezes into those tights."
"I'm gonna squeeze in there with her onea these days."
Laughter.
I wanted to barf.
Kev: "That's what you say about all of 'em. Alright, here come the brats. Whadaya think of these first two?"
Big Buck: "Ahhhhh, I don't know. Look kinda trailer trash to me."
Kev: "Some of those trailer trash types don't believe in banks, if you know what I mean."
Big Buck: "Yeah, but a lot of them believe in shotguns, if you know what I mean. O.K. Here we go. Excuse me while I get into character."
A fart erupted from my speakers. In stereo.
The urge to hurl got worse.
Then another voice could be heard, very quiet, saying, "… up and tell Santa what you want." It was a quavering yet still oddly flat and toneless and insincere sort of voice. A voice I really hated.
My own.
Big Buck: "Ho ho ho! And how are you doin', little fella?"
The words were starting to sound sped-up, distorted. The tape recorder hadn't made it far before it started slowing down.
Little Boy: "O.K."
Big Buck: "Why don't you come up here and sit on Santa's lap?"
Little Boy: "O.K."
Big Buck: "Therethat'sbetternowwhy don'tyoutellSantayourname?"
The distortion was getting worse and worse.
Little Boy: "Paul."
Big Buck: "What'syourlastname,Paul? There'salotofPaulsonmylist."
Little Boy: "Rodes."
Big Buck: "Andwheredoyoulive,PaulRodes?"
Little Boy: "Melodyhills."
Big Buck: "Andareyougonnabehomefor Christmassqueaksqueaksqueak…?"
The squeaking went on for another 15 seconds or so, then click. I was listening to an Introduction to Medieval Narrative lecture from three weeks before.
So that was all I got on tape-a vaguely sinister exchange about "trailer trash," a few comments about my booty and the sound of Big Buck cutting the cheese.
As the testy bureaucrat always says to the unorthodox-but-brilliant profiler in my favorite paperbacks (no matter who wrote them): "It wouldn't stand up in a court of law." It wouldn't even stand up in the food court at the mall. It wouldn't do anything. It was useless.
So I did the only thing I could, being kind of stubborn and kind of mad and kind of bored and maybe a little bit insane. I bought new batteries on my way to work the next morning. The tape recorder went back under Santa's throne.
The rest of the day passed even more slowly than the day before. It was indescribably creepy seeing Big Buck and Kev up there eyeing me and knowing that, no, I wasn't being paranoid-they were talking about me. And looking at my butt. Eww!
I tried to put all that out of my mind by focusing on my elfing, making sure the "youngsters" had a good time while they were with me, anyway. You know. Doing a good job.
That lasted about a ten minutes. Then an eight-year-old called me a "biyatch" because I wouldn't let him and his buddy have a lightsaber duel with our plastic candy canes. After that, I was back to not giving a crap.
The only thing that broke the day's routine for a few seconds, other than the Biyatch Incident, was a surprise visit from our beloved employer just as our first break was coming to an end.
"Gather 'round, troops! Chop chop!" Missy Widgitz commanded, snapping her fingers.
The four of us sauntered over slowly, Arlo and Kev and Big Buck exchanging surly, silent glances. For just a moment, they were united in their contempt for the She-Hulk. I kept my eyes down.
"I'm going to need all of you to come in an hour early tomorrow. We've finally got a way to top River Valley Mall."
Missy flashed me a happy smirk as she announced this, maybe thinking, in her deluded, self-absorbed way, that I gave a rat's ass about topping River Valley Mall.
Arlo took the bait.
"What is it?" he asked.
Missy placed a long, enamel-encrusted fingernail to her lips.
"Shhh. Top secret."
"That's gonna count as over-time, ain't it?" Big Buck asked.
Missy looked down at him (he was "Big" Buck to the rest of us, but she had three inches on him, at least) and pretended to mull it over.
"We'll see about that." Then she dismissed us with two claps of her big paws. "O.K., that's all. Let's see some smiles and Christmas cheer, huh?"
We marched away looking very uncheery.
"All I want for Christmas are her two front teeth," I mumbled to Arlo.
Big Buck guffawed and turned to face me, and I suddenly wished I'd kept my mouth shut.
"Are you sure that's all you want? Cuz ol' Santa would love to fill your stockin', if you know what I mean."
"No, I don't know what you mean," I snapped back, so disgusted I finally forgot to be scared. "Why don't you explain yourself?"
Big Buck waggled his bushy eyebrows. "I mean I'd like to come down your chimney some night."
Kev snickered.
I shook my head.
"I still don't follow you, Buck. Be more clear."
"I'm sayin' I'd like to…"
Big Buck furrowed his furry, Neanderthal brow. He'd already run out of metaphors.
"… uhhhhh… jingle your bells."
That actually made me laugh.
"You want to 'jingle my bells'? Chuh? Please, try to choose your words carefully and speak slowly, Buck, because I am not following this at all."
Big Buck's face turned as red as his Santa suit.
"You think you're pretty smart, don't you, college girl? Well, you ain't. You're just a dumb bitch. And one day soon you're gonna learn just how dumb you are. I guarantee it." He turned away, stomped off toward his throne. "Come on, Kev."
"Nope, still don't get you, Buck!" I called after him. "Maybe you oughta try writing it down!"
Kev lingered a moment, a scowl twisting his small, sharp face. He reminded me of a little, snarling Schnauzer. The image helped me keep a smile on my face until he turned to follow his master.
The second he was gone, my smile melted. I felt like I was going to melt with it.
"Oh, God…why do I do these things?"
"Don't ask me," Arlo said with a shrug.
"I wasn't asking you, I was asking God. But as long as you're butting in, I should thank you for standing up for me. You're a real hero, Arlo. My knight in hemp armor."
Sarcasm doesn't work too well on stoners, so all I got was a puzzled "Huh?" I gave up and went back to work.
I endured hours of stares and glares from Kev and Big Buck before it was finally quitting time. The last thing I wanted was another after-work encounter with either of them, so I retired to my home away from home-my stall in the women's room-and spent the next hour plugging away at Run for Your Life or whatever it was I was reading.
When I finally emerged, it was closing time. The shoppers had scurried home-or over to River Valley Mall-and the stores were locked up for the night. They'd even pulled the plug on Santa's Workshop. The lights were off and the robotic reindeer were frozen in mid-prance.