Rest Ye Merry
by JC Reilly
The air conditioning inside the Sandpiper and Shrew cloys at Nick today, not unlike the sticky hands of the little kids who sit on his lap when he moonlights at the mall. He doesn’t like the cold, real or artificial, but he’s thirsty, and they know him here. He discovered this place the first time he’d flown down from the Pole to Hollow Shoe Key (the conventional way—crammed into coach like hens at an egg farm) sixteen years ago. He’d returned every summer to get away from the Missus, his retinue, and those eight stinking reindeer. And, more importantly, to get his drunk on.
“Two chocolate martinis,” Nick says. “Make ‘em doubles.”
“Buddy, now you know we don’t serve them prissy drinks,” the bartender drawls.
“Do you want to make the Naughty List, Aaron?”
Aaron frowns and drags out the chocolate liqueur, vanilla vodka, and half-and-half, and dumps them into a shaker. He makes a big show out of shaking and pouring the drink, à la Tom Cruise in Cocktail, gyrating his hips seemingly in spite of himself. Nick rolls his eyes, but accepts the martinis, slapping $30 on the bar.
“So, how’s your vacation going this year?” He hands Nick a stack of two-dollar bills in change.
“Can’t complain. Worked on my tan. Watched the surfers and the girls sashaying by in bikinis smaller than an elf’s goatee. Wish I could live here full time.”
“Why don’t you?”
Nick grunts. It’s the same question he’s asked himself for a decade. But moving corporate headquarters? Think of the children. (Think of the Russian tax breaks.) He grunts again. “Maybe someday.”
The bartender shrugs, and when Nick doesn’t elaborate, serves another customer.
***
The fact is, Nick loves Florida. The sleepy pace here in the Keys, the 14 hours of sunlight every day, and the dusty beach bungalows in peony pink and citron yellow make him forget all the hassle of home. He loves the stray cats that stretch out in the shade wherever you look, and the white soft sand that lodges in every crevice. He loves that people drink mai tais for breakfast and don’t give a rat’s ass about their cholesterol. Hollow Shoe, with its colony of faded stars, has-beens, and never-wases, had welcomed him as just another addition to the local scene. Nobody even asked for his autograph, after all this time.
Nick downs the last of the martini and motions for two more. Aaron nods.
“I leave tomorrow,” Nick says, feeling glum.
“Headin’ north already?”
“It’s four months to the big day.” Nick shudders. “Time flies or whatever.”
Aaron hands him two drinks. “People disappear down here all the time. You could too.”
Nick considers this a moment and laughs ruefully. “What are you saying? Just…don’t go back?”
“Why not?”
“Can’t you just see the headlines? Toy CEO Disappears in the Bermuda Triangle. World’s Children Devastated.” He feels a twinge at his heart when he thinks of the kids. And then he remembers the stench of mucking out reindeer stalls.
“Hollow Shoe’s a little outside the Triangle, Nick. But yeah. Disappear.”
The third and fourth martini ease Nick into a daydream. How much simpler his life would be. No more endless “Jingle Bells” and “Silent Night.” No more tinsel.
“But how?” he asks.
“Hell, same way we all did it. Me, Norma Jean, Kurt, Tupac. Prince, he’s the latest. Moved into Gull Alley Cottage two blocks over.”
Nick waits expectantly, his heart beginning to pound. Could this really be true?
The bartender continues, “I know a gal. Money changes hands. A plane mysteriously goes down. Believe me, they’ll search for you for a month, then find the wreckage off the coast of Miami. They’ll say you got eaten by the sharks when they can’t find a body. Easy as a fried peanut butter and ‘nana sandwich.”
He slides a business card across the bar to Nick, who examines it. A. Lindbergh, Deluxe Disappearances for World-Weary Clientele. And a phone number.
“She’ll help you out. Give her a call.”
Could he do it? Could he really vanish for good? And then he remembers the business, with all its built-in bureaucratic redundancy. That place practically runs itself. Surely any of his VPs could take over? Or his wife? (She’s always taking over everything anyway.) Nick slips his phone out of his pocket, his eyes staring at the number on the card.
“Well, Aaron—thank yuh, thank yuh verruh much,” Nick mimics, in his best impression of the other man, and laughs at the bartender’s expression.
“Ho ho no, that ain’t funny, Nick. Ain’t been funny for years.”
“Yes it is.” He hums a few bars of “Love Me Tender” as he dials. “Thanks again.”
Aaron winks, his lip curling in the process. “Sure thing…Santa.”
JC Reilly writes fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Grand Dame Literary Review, Boudin, Louisiana Literature, and many other journals. Her most recent chapbook, Amo e Canto, won the Sow’s Ear Poetry contest. Follow her on Twitter @Aishatonu or on IG @jc.reilly.