Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Now, I need to explain something.
Inhaling in Manhattan? Risky. Very risky. Midtown’s “perfume” typically has distinct notes of trash, exhaust, and horse poop. Ask any local the key to surviving summer in this city, and they’ll say breathing through one’s mouth is essential. Well, unless they’re rich. Because they’re in the Hamptons.
But again, Christmas in New York is different. It smells like the holidays in the city are supposed to smell, starting with that incomparable aroma emanating from the “hot nuts” guy on the corner.
(Normally, I’d make a hot-nuts joke, but in December, I leave it alone.)
Chestnuts are the star of the show this time of year. Roasting on an open fire and all that. But I myself am partial to the honey-roasted peanuts.
My current contentment slips, just a tiny bit, as an unwelcome memory creeps in, an echo of my own Ghost of Horrible Christmas Past pontificating about how peanuts are not actually nuts. And how, if street vendors had any self-respect, they’d be yelling “hot legumes.”
But I’m well practiced at shoving that ghost back where she belongs, deep in the cave of deliberately forgotten memories.
Back to the smells. Mingling in with the nuts is the exhaust (admittedly, even December can’t improve upon that) and the waft of searing street meat—and if you’re cringing right now, you obviously haven’t enjoyed the pleasure of inhaling a gyro on a quiet street corner after midnight because you forgot to eat dinner.
But there’s a little extra something in the air today:
Snow. Or rather, impending snow, and if the meteorologists know what’s up, a shit ton of it.
I like snow as much as the next guy. There’s still a little part of the boy from Chicago inside me who remembers what it felt like to hear that school was canceled, and instead of my long-division test, my day would involve sledding with my friends, throwing snowballs at my sisters, and sipping hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.
But currently overriding that little-boy memory is the slightly stressed-out grown man who needs to get back home to Chicago in time for his mother’s annual December 23 Bolognese by the fire.
Snow might be magical and all, but I just need it to hold off until I can accomplish the mission that’s brought me to Fifth Avenue two days before Christmas in the first place.
I try to pass a slow-moving family in front of me, but another woman has the same idea at the same time. My leg collides with her Bergdorf bags, sending one of them to the ground, a gift box tumbling out and sliding onto the sidewalk.
A quick glance at my watch tells me I really don’t have time for this. But a quick glance at my conscience tells me I won’t be able to face my mother this evening if I don’t do the gentlemanly thing.
I manage a strained smile at the woman. “I’m so sorry. Let me help you with that.” I kneel and slide the rogue box back into her shopping bag.
When I stand and hold out the handles to her, she’s still scowling ferociously.
It’s a bruise to my ego.
Honestly? Most people find me effortlessly charming, and I’ll confess that when they don’t, it’s a bit of a red-cape-and-bull situation. I can’t help but engage.
“My fault entirely, miss,” I say, turning the wattage of my smile up as I say it. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Bingo.
As I knew it would, her scowl turns into a delighted smile at my generous use of the word miss.
The woman is nearer to my mother’s age than mine and, technically speaking, is solidly in the ma’am category. But I’ve learned over the years that technically speaking will rarely get you where you want to go.
A well-timed “miss” will earn you a smile nine times out of ten. And because it’s Christmas, I decide not to stop there.
I give the handles of the shopping bag a little jiggle. “Hmm. What are we dealing with here?”
I squint thoughtfully, pretending to test the weight of the bag. “Cashmere sweater? For your husband. Black, because it’s the only color he’ll wear. Because he doesn’t listen to you when you tell him that purple would bring out the brown in his eyes?”
She laughs. “Aren’t you the charmer, young man.”
Young man? Now it’s her turn to be generous. I’ll be thirty-eight in March.
I hand over the bag, and she accepts it with a grin (score!). “You’re only partially correct. It is a sweater. A dark blue, for my son. Gray would suit him better, but he doesn’t listen to me either.”
I run a hand once more over my gifted red tie. “A shame. A son should always listen to his mother. Happy holidays to you.”
She waggles her fingers and continues on her way. I’ve started walking in the opposite direction when a familiar red kettle and the sound of a bell catches my attention. I open my wallet and pull out the only cash I have—a five—and, folding it up, use it to shove someone else’s more generous twenty into the kettle.