The other day, I was wandering around the streets of downtown on my break. This is only slightly dangerous, as I’ve been learning a lot about my surroundings, i.e. how to find my way back to The Law Firm. I decided that I wanted to check out the Christkindlmarket in Market Square, which is basically a fancy way of saying, “Look, we built tiny store fronts full of European wares.”
Of course, I needed to see if there were any Bavarian-flavored goods being sold, but while I was out there, I noticed that SANTA CLAUS IS THERE! AND HE HAS HIS OWN HOUSE!
I have been around many Santas in my day, but never have I felt so strong a desire to have my picture taken with one.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have any money on me, and besides, I was already “accused” of having “no friends” so why get a picture taken proving that? It would be way more fun wrangling some of my work friends, I mean “colleagues,” to join me.
I came running back to work and burst into Carey’s office. After I panted out my request, she promised that she would go with me the next day.
So yesterday I painted my nails all Christmas-like, put on an emerald green silk shirt for extra yueltide flair, and even spent some extra time straightening my hair all nice and un-hobo-like….
…only to get to work and have Carey tell me she was “too busy.”
“But your hair looks really nice today!” she said as a way to compensate for my rapidly falling face.
“Yeah, because I THOUGHT I was getting my picture taken with Santa today,” I said in a huff.
Meanwhile, Barb had left early, Wendy said she was too scared (like I brought my own Santa or something), and Gayle and Amber1 had already taken their breaks. However, Amber2 told me that if I could hold my red-nosed horses until Monday, she would happily go with me. (I should have just asked her in the first place, since she’s also the person who went Furry-hunting with me last June.)
But then today Carey casually proposed that we go get felt up by Santa. At first I was like, “WTF, I look like crap* today!”
*(See also: “normal”)
Whatever. Sane hair or Hobo hair, I was getting my fucking picture taken with Santa’s fat ass one way or another. I was so excited and ran around rubbing it into everyone’s faces (Glenn responded with a blank stare).
But when Carey and I got down there, we found out that it was cash or food donation only. No credit cards. My heart sank—I didn’t have enough time to run to an ATM because my break was halfway over by then.
Carey shrugged and said she had nothing, so I hung my head and we walked away.
As we retreated, I noticed an older black woman up ahead and recoiled at her appearance. But then I thought to myself, “Oh, she has zombie makeup on. There must be a zombie event happening.”
(Pittsburgh is the Zombie capital of the world, so…not unusual.)
But as we got closer, I realized that there was actually something wrong with her. Her face was ashy, about four shades lighter than the rest of her, and she was wearing bright red lipstick.
Her hair? THAT was legit hobo hair.
And then she opened her mouth to reveal a pit full of rotted stubs.
“Excuse me, do you got any money so I can get some dinner?” she asked in a panhandling drawl.
“No,” I replied, walking away and leaving Carey to have her face gnawed off for dinner by Hobo Zombie.
I didn’t really think anything of it. I knew that Carey was going to Chipotle to get dinner and I had to get back to work.
Ten minutes later, I was at Barb’s desk, whining about how once again, I was Santa pictureless, when Carey marched by with her bag of Chipotle.
“Thanks for leaving me with that homeless woman,” she spat. “What a great way to treat your Santa wingman.”
I lost it, totally folded myself in half with giddy laughter.
“Wait, what’s this?” Barb asked. “You conveniently left that part of the story out!”
“And just so you know, when I was in Chipotle I discovered that I actually did have leftover cash, so that’s what you get for deserting me.” And then, as her office door shut behind her, Carey tacked on an effective, “Asshole.”
I walked away, crying with laughter, while various co-workers noted with sarcasm my valiant propensity at having the backs of friends.
Later, upon further discussion, Carey and I deduced that the beggar may have been a black albino.
“How terrible to be TWO minorities,” Carey said solemnly, but I only started laughing harder. Then I returned to my office, where I laughed alone for the next 30 minutes.
In other work news: I used the microwave here for the first time last night and totally fucked that up.
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