Page 2 of Bed of Roses

That was a low fucking blow.

“We. Weren’t. Cut. Our contract wasn’t renewed.”

“Same difference.” Drew waived me off like I was an overly ambitious gnat, and I wasn’t having any of that.

“Huge difference to people like me. I guess when you’re sitting in the gilded chair it’s all the same to you. To becutimplies there wassomething wrongwith you… your ratings, your ability to make nice with people like you, to not have a contact renewed means that people up in the ivory tower… decided with their marketing teams and their focus groups that the station needed to go in anew directionbecause the end of year bonuses were running a little lean, and they had their eye on that new S-Type.” In a nanosecond my entire being coiled like a snake ready to strike. It had been two years almost to the day, and it still burned like new ink.

“Fine. I stand corrected. You’re in your feels—no argument on that one—from your contract not being renewed.”

I owned the rock world in New York City. Raven and I both were the king and queen of the scene. We were adored. We’d been partners for almost ten years, and then suddenly one day, WSKL decided there wasn’t an audience for hard rock anymore. They wanted more “mass appeal” by playing a “solid mix” of “intergenerational” rock music, “kind of like the shuffle feature on your iPhone.” Fuck.Them.

“People here love you, love the both of you.” Drew continued to drone on. “Our ratings haven’t been this high in years. Our listeners have suddenly woken up and are falling over each other to talk to the tattooed guy with fuck it all attitude. The unapologetic bad boy and the mouthy sidekick thing works—most of the time. But when you piss of the advertisers, you’re pulling money out of your own pocket.”

Raven pushed forward in her seat, injecting herself into the conversation. The breath I had drawn in, anticipating a rebuttal, deflated as soon as we locked eyes. The way Raven generally colored her hair and did her makeup made her look much more intimidating than she was, however, the way set of her mouth and the degree in which she scrunched her eyelids could speak volumes as to how she felt about any one subject. Since I could barely make out the lilac tint of her contacts with her eyelids narrowed so intently—her directive for me to shut the fuck up and let her speak, came through loud and clear.

“Bear can apologize at the top of the show on Monday if it will help,” Raven entreated, causing Drew’s tirade to lose some steam, “but honestly I think with everyone’s excitement over Carol the Square this weekend—all will be forgotten by Monday.”

“This can’t wait till Monday, Raven.” Drew opened up his desk drawer, and in the second between its opening and him revealing what he had found, I thought for sure it was our walking papers. Based on the look on Raven’s face she did too. “Since you have suddenly found this ‘let’s get back to traditions of yesteryear’ attitude, you, Ted Tucker, are now the new Master of Ceremonies for Carol the Square. The costumer’s shop is across town. Ask for Winnie and send her my regrets that I can’t host this year.”

Carol the Square was a month-long tradition in which, the downtown area transformed into Ye Olde England, and Dickensian era carolers entertained and delighted every weekend from mid-morning until dinner time. Each Saturday night, the Master of Ceremonies would put on a “show” for the revelers in the holiday village keeping shoppers entertained. As the “Home for Mistle Tunes” 90.9 The Pole, held the tradition of being the Master of Ceremonies. So essentially, I—and by association Raven—had been sentenced to a month of hard labor standing outside in the snow and cold for four Saturdays straight, in tights and a corset, respectively. Fuck, I was going to owe Raven so huge.

* * *

In a town the size of North Pole, New York a trek across town typically took a handful of songs and a commercial break. I use the wordtowngenerously. The locals called North Pole a hamlet and wasn’t that fucking perfect considering the place exploded into literary references andYe Oldethis andGood Morrow! that during the holidays. Wouldn’t it be my luck that the entire town and all of Hamlet’s ghosts were headed in the direction of the costume shop. My eight-minute car ride had turned into an exercise in endurance. I’d already had to sit through three Mariah’s. Three.

The cause of my frayed patience and bad dream sequence of Christmas music sat in the turn lane less than a mile from my destination. Some poor sucker’s car had its hazards on—clearly stalled just as they approached the turn lane. I wasn’t the only one having a day.

With a name like The Dashing Haberdashery, the costumer’s shop looked just as one would expect to. Cramped, dark, stuffed to the gills with fabric draped over anything that wouldn’t buckle under the weight of gathered skirts, corsets, and velvet.

“Hello?”

I fought against the choking scent of moth balls and sweat, trying once again to signal I’d arrived at the front of the shop.

“Is anyone here?”

Neither a stirring creature nor the jangling of Jacob Marley’s chains could be heard anywhere within the narrow depth of the store. The name on the card Rosenstein gave me was for a Winter “Winnie” Snow. Seriously, I couldn’t make this shit up.

“Winnie? Are you here? Drew sent me.” I called, tripping as I tried to make my way to the back of the store. The jangle of, what legitimately had to be Winnie Snow’s interpretation of Jacob Marley’s chains sounded from the entrance as the door burst open.

“Winnie! Omigosh I am so sorry. My stupid car died. Right in the middle of the street. It was so embarrassing. I’m pretty sure literally every resident of this town drove past me and gave me serious side eye. Of course, did anyone stop to—oh, I don’t know—offer to help push me into a parking lot or something? Of course not. Christmas kindness and charity my Aunt Martha. I had to sit there and pray the earth swallowed me whole for an entire hour before Karl came with the tow truck.”

I don’t think the frazzled girl had come up for air once. She was covered in snow. It dripped from the heavy winter coat she threw on top of the check-out counter along with what I assumed to be a purse, though it could easily be confused as carry-on luggage.

“Now before you start lecturing me about how this is the third time I’m late this month, I know. I just—it’s like I need to throw salt over my shoulder to ward off some stupid holiday curse or something. I can’t seem to catch a break this month.” I watched while she continued her diatribe, oblivious to my presence. She shook the snowflakes from her matted hair, while she carried on. “Karl, of course, couldn’t give me a ride here because he had Noelle with him on the run, so I had to walk here, in the snow, in this ridiculous dress that weighs a hundred pounds when it isn’t soaking wet— Jiminy Christmas—who are you? Where’s Winnie? Why are you just standing there leering at me?”

People actually used the phrase Jiminy Christmas, not in jest? This town. I’d been here a little over two years, and it still surprised me.

“I think she went home for the night. I came in and no one was here, I was just about to check in the back when you came storming in with a monologue to rival Poitier. My boss sent me to collect our costumes. Drew Rosenstein? WNPL?”

It was then I noticed the Dickensian dress she wore. I was loathe to spend four Saturdays dressed in a kit and bracers, I couldn’t image having to spend my entire workday sausaged into a corset. Not that she was anything similar to any pork product. Actually, she was kind of cute especially in her frazzled, and more than likely a little cold, state.

“Do you know how late you are?” An elderly voice jolted both of our attention to the back hallway. “If it weren’t the holidays young lady.”

The woman I could only assume was Winnie Snow, fit her name to a tee. Elderly, a braided bun along her crown—the same school marm inspired Dickensian outfit, with a sour grapes look on her face finally realized there was an actual customer in the store.

“Who are you? Do you have an appointment?”

I handed over the business card and explained that Drew sent me to collect costumes.

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