I knew that this particular job would be special immediately.
It found me sitting in Yo On The Go, a frozen yogurt shop specializing in a single yogurt flavor supplemented with topping choices ranging from sad-looking strawberries to stale cookie crumbs. The owner proudly described the flavor as "tangy, sweet, and delicious." Gloria joked that it tasted like a tub of Dannon that had been mixed with sugar and stuck in the freezer. She called it yogurt, frozen instead of frozen yogurt. Still, the place was only a two-minute walk from the Mount Verdant College Library where we worked—perfect for those treasured fifteen minute breaks while our less health conscious coworkers sucked on cigarettes.
"Seriously, I think that something weird is going on this month. We've had twice as many damaged books as usual," Gloria said as she untangled a hand knit scarf from her airy blonde curls.
The scarf accented her modest outfit and gave her a soft, approachable look. The only thing tastefully accenting my jet-black attire was a vibrant streak of hair dye in the distinctly unapproachable shade of Soylent Green.
As we idly contemplated the possibility that our town was in the throes of a bibliovandalism epidemic, an unusual little man entered Yo on the Go. He was very short and entirely wrapped in an overstuffed coat that made him look like a squat version of the Michelin Man. His nose was red from the cold and covered in a network of purplish capillaries.
"Gloria!" he said in a voice that seemed too big for his little body. "How is my favorite student?"
A loud and intensely boring conversation followed, centered on what the two of them had been up to since Ancient Indonesian Literature III. (Gloria had been working at the library and the small man was now teaching Modern Indonesian Texts II.) I tuned out and considered the possibility that Yo on the Go was actually a front for a money-laundering service until my thoughts were interrupted by the magic words.
"You wouldn't happen to be interested in house-sitting for some extra money?" the small man asked. "My wife and I are going out of the country to do some field work for a paper. I would love to find a young, trustworthy person to do the job."
Alas, Gloria would be in Iowa this winter break visiting her wholesome family. There was simply no way she could tear herself away from her seven brothers and sisters, three fat cats, and new litter of puppies. I saw my opportunity immediately and swooped in for the kill. Ten minutes later, after I had established myself as a dear friend of Gloria's and a fellow upstanding librarian, and possibly even an amateur reader of Indonesian texts, the small man had left me with his name (Professor Isaiah Fink) and a number scrawled on my yogurt receipt.
"Are you sure that you don't want to go home for winter break?" Gloria asked after he had left. She always seemed slightly uncomfortable with my zeal for this particular odd job.
I shrugged. "My family’s not really into Christmas."
That was an understatement, to say the least. My childhood holiday experiences were about as far removed from the concept of Christmas cheer as Gloria’s guileless mind could imagine. My mother routinely asked for three things during her office's Secret Santa exchange: cigarettes, aspirin, and fishnets. Armed with this ammunition, she used Christmas Eve as her prime dating night. Without fail, mom spent the night of the blessed baby Jesus's birth in skeezy dive bars seeking lonely men intent upon pulling an It's A Wonderful Life-style exit from the world.
"Mummy's going to bring you home a new Daddy for Christmas," she would announce on her way out the door.
In her absence, Aunt Jackie and I would watch stop-motion holiday specials on TV. I wore my candy cane PJs and balanced a bowl of Kraft macaroni and cheese in my lap. Aunt Jackie nursed a carton of eggnog.
I remember awaking on the couch once to the sound of muffled predawn footsteps. It wasn’t Santa Claus placing presents under the tree. No, it was just a Christmas Morning Daddy skulking out the door, pants unbuttoned and shoes in hand.
"Virginia!" Gloria said for the third time. Sometimes it took a moment for the word to register. It wasn't my real name, just one I had claimed for myself after leaving my home state.
"Mm hmm."
"Break's over and you've barely touched your yogurt." Gloria pointed her plastic spoon at my still-full cup of mucus-colored frozen dessert with its scant smattering of toffee bits.
"As utterly unimaginable as it may sound," I said, throwing the yogurt cup and its contents into the trash receptacle, "this isn’t a loss I’ll be regretting on my death bed."
The bell above the shop door tinkled merrily behind us. We linked arms and used our free hands to hold our coat collars closed against the biting December air. I never ceased to marvel at how distinctly un-verdurous Mount Verdant, PA is in the winter. The breath rose from our mouths in wispy puffs as our high-heeled boots (mine knee-length and purchased from goodgoth.com, Gloria’s ankle-height and no-doubt from Anne Taylor) clicked on the salt-stained sidewalk.
