A Little Something for Santa

A Little Something for Santa By J.M. Snyder There’s nothing worse than pulling down the graveyard shift at Sylvia’s Grill. By seven in the evening, the dinner crowd has thinned out. Maybe we get a few families in before nine for dessert or ice cream. But after that, it’s basically dead until the next morning, when workers from the rubber plant start to trickle in for breakfast. During that long stretch from midnight to five it was just Chris and me, wiping down the tables or sweeping the floor, cleaning the grill, cutting veggies and meats to keep up our stock. The stoplight across the street went on the blink a little after ten p.m. We moved around the diner at a languid pace. The whole night stretched out before us, an indeterminable wait. Chris, the night cook, was a full head shorter than me and twice as big. I wouldn’t say fat, exactly, but he could put away two twelve-inch subs over the course of our shift, and he was always nibbling on the fries. The wire glasses he wore, perched on constantly flushed cheeks, seemed too small for his round face. My first day on the job he spent half the shift going on and on about a girlfriend I suspected was made up on the spot to impress me. Chris was the type who probably hadn’t been out on a date in his entire life and was still waiting for that first real kiss. Before he got too far into his boast, I cut him off with, “Girls aren’t really my thing.” We were between customers at the time, and Chris stared at me for a full minute, turning my words over in his head as if trying to puzzle through them. Finally, he lowered his voice and said, “You mean you’re…” Letting the sentence dangle between us, he raised his eyebrows and nodded at me, wanting me to say it, but there was a shiny interest in his face that made me think I wasn’t the only one who liked d**k. Before I could answer, Chris wanted to know, “So, are you with someone right now?” With a shrug, I replied, “Not really.” Bad move. I should’ve made up a boy to use as a shield between us, because Chris slid a little closer and tentatively touched the counter two inches from my hand. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like,” he started. He had a way of beginning to say something and then stopping to look me over, as if seeking my approval before going on. “You know, with another guy.” “I’ve never been with a girl, so there’s nothing for me to compare it to,” I said. “I’ve just always liked guys.” Chris persisted. “Do you ever hook up with someone just for the hell of it?” he wanted to know. “I mean, to experiment or whatever? Nothing committed. Like, just as friends?” I laughed and took a step back. “Friends with benefits?” I asked. When he nodded, I winked. “Don’t tell me you want to get with me. What about your girlfriend?” “Who?” Then, realizing his mistake, he shrugged. “Oh, her. No, I’m not saying I want you to do me or anything. I’m just…” Flustered, he grabbed a nearby rag and began to wipe down the counter, avoiding my gaze. “I’m just curious, you know? I’m not gay.” “Oh, me either,” I replied. When he gave me a quizzical look, I grinned. “My last boyfriend was, though. What an ass. And c**k-zilla, I’m telling you.” I held my hands a foot apart and almost laughed at Chris’s wide eyes. The bell above the door to the diner tinkled, signaling a customer. I nudged Chris with my elbow before heading through the swinging kitchen doors. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.” Chris paled. “I didn’t make an offer,” he called out after me. He stood on tiptoe to see out the pass-through window above the sandwich counter and repeated, “I didn’t make you an offer.” I leaned on the other side of the window, inches from his scared face. “You know you want to,” I whispered. In a low voice, I sang, “You think I’m s*x-y. You want my bod-y.” The damp rag flew through the window at me. “Shut up,” Chris muttered. I laughed because I knew my words had hit closer to home than he wanted to admit.