Santa's Secret

Chapter 1

Santa’s Secret

By Michael P. Thomas

“The chicken tender is the World’s Most Perfect Food,” Samir is explaining to Lisa, his favorite co-worker. He’s on his third beer, which keeps him from realizing he’s delivered these remarks before, and she’s near the bottom of her second glass of rosé, which keeps her from particularly caring. A paper-lined plastic basket of the perfection in question has just been plunked on the table between them by a teenaged food-runner at Michigan’s, and Samir always takes a moment to sing its praises before he sets about dunking his dinner in a selection of sauces.

He pauses long enough to toss a “Thanks” at the kid who delivers them, then carries on. “They can be whatever you want them to be—tonight they’re Asian-sesame, tomorrow barbecue, ‘Let’s try curry!’ You eat them with your fingers.” He fishes one out of the basket to demonstrate and invites Lisa to do the same. “And you can dip them in bleu cheese dressing all day long,”—something he also helpfully models—”which pretty much qualifies them as a salad.”

“Which approach to nutrition pretty much explains why your pants split when you bent over to pick up that cruller you dropped in the kitchen the other day,” Lisa jokingly reminds him.

But Samir shrugs. “Nobody saw that. Besides, I’m gay, remember; the bubble butt is very popular.” About the bubbling belly he’s fractionally less secure, but nobody stays in soccer shape his whole life, he doesn’t care if David Beckham is three years older than he is. And besides: “What do you want me to do, start a diet tonight? It’s two weeks before Christmas.”

“Aren’t you Muslim?”

“So what, I can’t love fudge? The office is going to be overflowing with Christmas cookies and muffin baskets ‘til the end of the year. I’ll get back to the gym on January first. You’ll see, I’ll probably be the only person there.”

Lisa laughs and finishes her wine. She’s an ardent yoga-goer and rides her bike to work in the nice weather. She doesn’t exactly load up on chicken tenders, which is one of the reasons Samir loves coming to Michigan’s with her: More for me.

“How’s everything tasting?”

With a great wad of half-masticated chicken parts in his mouth and a splash of bleu cheese on his cheek, Samir gamely endeavors to effect his most coquettish smile. Lisa laughs again. Sure, Samir loves a good chicken tender. Michigan’s has great happy hour prices on jug wine and draft beer and they generally play good music; they have a nice patio in warm weather, they’re three blocks from the office, and they have a little punch card. If you buy ten pies from the bakery counter near the cash register, you get the eleventh one half off. They’re a regional chain with a good reputation and sixty locations in nine states, and Samir wouldn’t eat at another one if it was Free Chicken Tenders Day. They come to Michigan’s all the time for one single, solitary reason and, if his nametag is to be believed, his name is Kerry.

At least, Samir sure hopes he’s single.

“So far, so good, looks like,” Lisa replies to his inquiry, citing Samir’s happy-chicken face as her source.

Kerry favors Samir with a grin, then asks Lisa, “You want another glass of wine?”

“Is it seven yet?” The wine tastes fine for three dollars a glass. After seven o’clock it goes back to six, which is a little steep, Lisa and Samir agree, for rosé dispensed from a three-gallon jug.

Kerry turns to look at the clock above the bar, presenting his lithe physique from an especially beneficial angle. He has hips like SpongeBob SquarePants and a butt barely the size of two baseballs, but the twist in his tight torso definitely ac-cent-tchu-ates the positive, and Samir’s nearly busted licking his chops when Kerry turns back and says, “Ten ‘til.”

“Then I’ll do one more,” Lisa acquiesces.

“How ‘bout you?” Kerry asks, setting a hand on Samir’s shoulder. “‘Nother beer?”

“I s’pose I’d better.”

“Atta boy.” Kerry gives Samir’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.” He pats Samir’s arm as he turns to walk away.

Samir watches him go. Watches him pal around with the bartender, watches the beauty-queen swish with which he somehow infuses his non-existent hips as he sashays back to their table. It is the combination of this unapologetic flounce with his roguish, unshaven Dukes of Hazard mug that appeals to Samir—the confidence to mince bestowed by the particular macho brand of his beauty, the twinkle in his sky-blue eyes a declaration of independence from any cultural expectations that same masculinity may engender. Having swallowed his chicken, Samir manages a much more charming expression of appreciation when Kerry sets his beer in front of him.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, enjoy.”

Another pat on the arm, another departure, another spell of gawking before Samir leans across the table and says to Lisa, “If you know who has me for their Secret Santa, please tell them he’s what I want.”