Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

December 20th

New York

Christmas is almost upon us, with its glad tidings and ho ho hos ringing in the New Year. Bad music abounds, blaring from cheap speakers, spreading its tinny cheer, accelerating my already aching head to migraine status. Crowds of irate shoppers grab at every bargain and when I get to the counter, I'm left with Brut and Jean Nate in the 15 oz. size.

"Excuse me," I start politely, stopping when a hennaed young woman with overly kohled eyes raises a black fingernail and goes back to her private phone conversation. Two or three minutes ticks by on the cheap knockoff that passes for a time piece and I round the corner of the counter. It's lunch hour and I have to be back in less than ten minutes, and if I don't find something soon, I'm screwed. As in hosed. Totally fucked. The girl turns her back on me and hisses something into the phone. Great. It's Christmas rush and she's having a fight with her goddamned boyfriend.

"Do you mind?" A hint of a French accent slips out and she straightens suddenly. Dropping the phone and practically lunging at me. Now that I have her avid, even adoring attention, I add, "Issey Miyake."

"Wot?" she says through a wad of Cockney and clove gum.

I contain my disgust. "Perfume. Do you have it?"

She looks at me blankly and shakes her head. "Sorry, 'guv. Never heard of it."

Taking a cue from my snobby mother, I sniff the air like I smell something rotten. "I thought Bendel's had everything."

The girl rolls her eyes and points to the front of the store. "Ask the manager," she says tiredly, already moving past my French accent and seeing my half pressed suit and crooked tie. With a smirk, she snatches up the phone and picks up where she left off.

Shit. The accent works every time in LA. When I try squeezing past Aunt Bertha and her coterie of gal pals, I get stomped and goosed before making it safely to the end of a line that winds through the aisles like the kid from Family Circus.

Suddenly the Jean Nate doesn't seem so bad. With a tired sigh, I saunter out to the sidewalk and manage to flag a cab on my first try. As the Indian driver's head bobs to the deafening thud of Iron Maiden, I wonder what I'm doing here.

Christmas in New York.

Alice's idea, not mine. "We can skate at Rockefeller Center and rent a room at The Plaza," she effuses, her dark eyes lighting up for the first time since her father got sick. "And ride in one of those carriages through Central Park."

It's hard to dampen her enthusiasm and she waxes on about this wonderful, romantic weekend that comes straight from all those chick flicks. You know the kind I'm talking about.

Serendipity. It Had to Be You. Sleepless in Seattle.

I've slept through them the best of them, so I can speak as an expert on this subject.

The driver cranks the music and Bruce Dickinson's yowl morphs into Rob Halford in heat. The worst part isn't the driver's taste in music, it's the fact that I recognize it. And hell…a tiny part of me even likes it. It brings me back to days of playing air guitar in nothing but a towel, butt hanging off my lip, long hair dusting my shoulders, cracked mirror reflecting the deadness in my eyes as I dress for the role I played in those days.

Hour after hour in smoky biker bars, playing nothing but pool. Winning more than I lost, keeping me in cigarettes and beer. Rail thin body bent over, lips pursed in concentration as I set up my shots. Hiding my eyes with perpetual shades.

For what it's worth, it was a good life. I set my own hours and answered to no one. Not my mother, or any of her sisters. A shiftless existence to be sure, but there was no pressure. No responsibility.

I liked that part the best, because I'd spent most of my life pleasing my mother. Making up for the husband that left her behind. Helpless to do anything but depend on me. All through high school and my first year of college, I worked long hours. All so my mother could live in the style to which she was accustomed. And I didn't think much about it, because I felt I owed her a lifetime or two. To make up for Dad not being there. Hey, what can I say, it's the way I was.

Anyway, it all came to a head on the day when she kicked Trish out of the house. It was close to Christmas and the house was full of pumpkin spice and eggnog. Relatives jammed the rafters and tempers flared. And when she caught Trish fucking the college boy next door, she tossed her out on her ear. Followed by her valise and carton of cigarettes. And there was my aunt, defiant green eyes raised to the leaden sky, rain falling around her in sheets, middle finger raised, looking happier than I've ever seen her.

I stood there watching from the attic and she waved at me. Then she gestured for me to follow as she danced down the path in her teetery shoes. Skating over the slick leaves to wait for the cross town bus. And then I heard my mother, sniping to her sisters in that infuriating way she had. Sharp, stinging words that caught me up with their viciousness, a torrent of hate. All because of Trish and the things she dared to do. Defying the others. Being who she wanted to be.

The way I wanted to be. Away from my mother.

And that decided it. I grabbed some clothes and tossed them in my gym bag. Found the old watch that belonged to my father and slid it on my wrist. Pocketed my few CDs and the pack of smokes. Grabbed up the change on the bureau and my Mets baseball cap. And before the startled eyes of our company, I walked out. No good-byes, and for sure, no happy holidays.

Not then, and certainly not now, with my permanently wrinkled brow and my Columbo coat, here in NY for the holiday from hell.

But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's back track a bit, to the office Christmas party and my continuing inability to say no.