Page 4 of Bed of Roses

“What happened?” Bernie sounded practically frantic over her basket of gingerbread. Geez, you would think I had Fabergé eggs in my basket with how protective she acted.

“No, Bernie, everything is fine. I have to go.”

Except it wasn’t exactly a hundred percent fine. In my collision, I dropped the basket of cookies. Notallof them broke, but enough of them came apart that it would be a short night passing out treats

“Um, you ran into me. Slammed into me is actually the correct term.”

Of course, flippingBear Tucker, morning DJ, and the same thorn in my side who demanded I produce a costume out of thin air the night before.

“Well, well. If it isn’t—” Recognition danced across his face.

“They’re ruined! You ruined my cookies. Did you even bother to look where you were going? Or did you just assume that the sea of people milling about would part for you like you’re some kind of modern-day Moses? I’m so screwed.” The more I talked, the faster my panic rose.

I watched in horror as Bear sorted through the basket, pulling broken cookie after broken cookie out, assessing the damage.

“Bernie ispayingme to hand these out. I can’t hand these out! They’re broken! No one wants a broken cookie.” Some of them were really mangled, like there was no way anyone would be able to discern they would cutouts of the Inn. “That’s great marketing! Come stay at the Inn, I can’t even give you a full cookie at Carol the Square, but I promise we take great care of our guests at the Inn!”

“Actually, I think you’re okay. There’s five or six that are broken really bad. But most of these are completely unharmed, and honestly the ones that are a little chipped and cracked—I’m sure it will be fine.”

Was he serious? Give people broken cookies? What kind of person is okay giving out broken cookies?

“We can’t give out chipped and broken cookies—that is literally the opposite of providing a good image of the Inn. No, they’re ruined. And I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

He shuffled the unbroken ones in his hands, appearing to examine them for imperfections, and once satisfied with his inspection, placed them back in my basket and handed it to me.

“I need to get to on the air. Raven will have my balls in a sling if she has to open this event on her own. I’m telling you, no bullshit, I think you are okay. Just pass them out. Most people will assume they broke them while holding them or walking around with them in their purse or pocket.”

He turned to walk away. I wanted to yell at him. Tell him how classless it was that he was okay with giving away shards of gingerbread during the most important time of the year. But none of those words came out of my mouth.

“I’m not going to be able to fix my car.”

That wasn’t what I planned to say, but the realization dawned on me as I hopelessly watched him toss the broken cookies into a nearby trash bin.

“I’m going to have to tell Bernie that her cookies broke, and I couldn’t pass them out, and then she won’t be able to pay me for tonight because, why would she? I can’t even handle giving five hundred cookies away undamaged!”

I didn’t expect him to stop honestly. I thought he’d just keep trekking through the crowds to the stage without another look back. But he did. It was the first time I got a good look at him. The burgundy crushed red velvet smoking jacket I’d given him had legitimately been the last Dickensian item we had in the store that wasn’t spoken for. He had taken the costume I’d given him and twisted it into sexy rock star front man. He wore the coat and pants that I’d provided, but he had no underdressing’s on. His bare, tattooed chest was exposed, and the costume pants, while probably a hair too tight, worked with the rest of the look. Who knew anyone could make the Victorians, who were the poster generation for sexual frigidity, into something so sinful and delicious? Sexy Victorian rock band front man worked for him.

“Give away whatever you can.” He issued the directive rapid fire. “I have an idea to fix it.”

With that he turned on his heel and headed back towards the mainstage.

3

It’s no wonder the Victorians were miserable. They were suffocating in unending discomfort all day long. If I had been a titled Lord of the time, I would probably have been a rake too, just so I could release my balls from the confines of my pants and let them breathe for an hour or so.

“There is no way I’m doing this costume thing for four fucking Saturdays.” I took the proffered headphones from Raven and slid in next to her behind our makeshift broadcast booth.

“You’re one to complain. I’m afraid to drink any water because I have no idea how in hell, I’m going to take a piss wearing more layers than a wedding a cake. And, to make matters worse, the bottom of my skirts is damp. Did you drop this monstrosity in the snow or something carrying it to your car? I am the literal representation ofmoistand I don’t know if I can handle beingthatfor an entire day.”

“Considering the sky was vomiting snow last night, isn’t it possible that it’s just wet from the weather? How are we doing this thing anyway? Drew didn’t really give much instruction on what we’re supposed to do all day. Is this like any other site visit? Or are we supposed to be the Bear and Raven Show for eight hours?”

She didn’t need to know all of the bullshit maneuvering it took to get her damn costume. If it was still a little damp, well life sucks for all of us today. Meanwhile, the shirt that Marley had packed in with my costume wouldn’t have fit a prepubescent boy let alone me. Thankfully, as Drew had mentioned the day before, giving the finger to the status quo was my thing, so going shirtless while everyone else was in their Dickensian garb toed the line and also said fuck the line at the same. I dug it. It was like channeling my inner Slash but in a Victorian way.

“Good afternoon North Pole! I am Raven and this guy sharing the mic next to me is Bear. We are the hosts of the Bear and Raven Show on 90.9 The Pole.”

Usually I was the one that opened things up, because I loathed having to say, “Be sure to tune your dial to 90.9 every weekday morning from five until nine, because we want to help make your morningsbearable. Stick around, because we open Carol the Square officially at six, and at six fifteen we’ll be announcing the stations first Scrooge in need of some help from the Holiday Elves, so be sure to be back here, in center square by then! Say Raven—what do you say—let’s kick things off with a request?”

I ignored the questioning look from Raven. It was supposed to be the twelve days of Holiday Elves. Surely that meant one of those twelve days could be used at our disposal as we sat here freezing our nards off while Rosenstein sat at home in his Lazy Boy with his hand down his pants, watching the Orangemen get their ass handed to them.

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