Counter Culture: The Christmas Swingers

Christmas was always the worst. There were people all over the place. The parking lot became a deathtrap. Shoes would squeak on the scuff-stained floor, and annoying Christmas music would blast from every entranceway. The mall’s decorations, which have been up since November first, flicker and blink at a seizure-inducing pace.

          When shoppers couldn’t find what they were looking for anywhere else, they came to my store. They would request everything from remote-controlled fart machines to lumps of coal to key holders shaped like fake rocks. I didn’t mind helping people, since it made the shifts go by quickly. They were just unnecessary conversations that often ended with the shoppers telling me to make sure I stay in school or something like that.     

“So what are you studying?” the man with gray curls hanging out from the bottom of his Santa hat said. 

          This was one of those conversations.

“English,” I said, looking over the man’s head, hoping somebody else would get in line.

“English, huh?” the man said. He was dressed in a long-sleeve, black shirt and beige khakis. His wife was wondering around the store.

“So you work, go to school, and you’re married?” the man said, looking back to make sure nobody was in line.

I looked at my gold wedding band and felt uncomfortable. I didn’t like him knowing these things about me. I just wanted to stand around and ring up Christmas gifts on a cash register for five more hours. The man turned his head to look at his wife, who was walking around near the back of the store, then to me.

“Hey, you know, I wasn’t going to ask, but she really wants to know,” he said, leaning his head a little further across the counter.

When our register scanners were at rest, the red,lasers inside them would project almost directly onto the middle of the counter.  I always considered this laser line as a divider.  This man was leaning in so close the his ear fell on the laser.

“My wife and I go to this risqué nightclub and she saw something there she wanted,” he said, in whispering proximity, but his tone was nonchalant and loud. “It’s this thong that has a massager inside of it.”

I knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s right over here.”

One of the store’s rules requires the workers to take the customer directly to the item rather than pointing. I’ve been doing it so long, it has become a personality trait. Even at home, if somebody wants to know where the remote control is, I either go and get it for them or lead the way. It can be very annoying. I walked from behind the counter to the adult section.

“Babe,” the man said, “they’ve got it. Over here.”

The woman turned away from the Christmas cards and joined us. She wore heavy green eye shadow with sparkles and wrinkles. There were more sparkles in her hair, which was light brown in some places and blonde in others. 

“Hi,” she said and smiled. I smiled back and pointed to an item pegged to the end of a shelving unit.

“That’s the Pocket Rocket,” I said. The woman reached for it and started to inspect the box.

The Pocket Rocket was a “one size fits most” black thong, with a four-inch vibrator tucked into a pouch on the left side of the crotch.

“The last time we went to this club our one friend had it,” the man said.

Standing next to him, out from behind the register, I realized he was at least three inches taller than me.

“She went nuts over it,” the man said shaking a thumb towards his wife. Then he pulled off his Santa and smacked her in the ass with the white, tasseled end  

“There’s a little remote with this, right?” the lady said. She had a high voice and sounded like she giggled a lot.

“Yeah,” I said and pointed to the advertisement on the box that read “hands free fun.” 

“He’s married,” the man told his wife. Now he was shaking a thumb at me.

“Really?” the woman said. “How old are you?”

“23,” I said, looking for any other customers in the store. The traffic had died down and, because it was the beginning of December, we were overstaffed.

“That’s how old we were when we got married,” she said.

“You guys ever go out?” the man said. “You know dancing or anything?”

“I’m not much of a dancer,” I said with a shrug. Sometimes I feel people are disappointed when I tell them I don’t dance.

“Well this club we go to,” the man slung his arm around his wife and drew her into his armpit, “there’s more to do than just dance.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, nodding my head. I repeated, “Do not invite me” in my head three times before he invited me.

“You should really come check it out sometime,” he said. “It’s couples only and a cool crowd. You’ll fit right in, lots of young people too.”

I wanted to say something like, “If you put your keys in a bowl when you walk in, no thank you,” but I didn’t. I just said, “Sounds interesting.”

“Tell him how to get there, daddy,” the woman said and wiggled out from his arm. She took his Santa hat and put it on the boxed Pocket Rocket. Then she walked around the store making it dance to Chuck Berry’s “Run, Run Rudolph.” 

The man stepped closer to me again. I wished I had my laser scanner so I could tell if he was too close or so I could aim at his retinas.

The phone rang.

“Excuse me,” I said, making a polite patting gesture with my hands and sprinted for the phone.

After I told the man on the phone we didn’t have any of those fake rocks that you can hide your keys in, I hung up and stayed behind the counter. The middle-aged clubbers browsed a little more then came to purchase the Pocket Rocket.

“Here,” the man, said after I gave him his credit card back. “These are directions. And my number’s on there in case you get lost.”

I took the tiny paper and thanked him. I bit my tongue with one of my sharper teeth because I felt I needed to punish myself for not ending this 20 minutes ago.

The man said goodbye and told me to stay in school. I kept smiling and biting as he turned to leave. The woman didn’t move. She just stood there with a hazy smile. Now she was wearing a Santa hat but had to keep reaching up and readjusting it. Her hair was too big. I looked at her and smiled and waited for her to leave.  She just stood there, looking back. Then she turned her head to her husband who was standing in the doorway waiting.

“Should I flash him, daddy?” she said. I thought I heard her wrong until I saw her moving the bottom of her white, button shirt up and down. She was rubbing the corners of each side together, grinding the fabric.

I looked at her clothed chest. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it. Her boobs were saggy even with a bra on and my imagination took the wrinkles from her eyes and placed them there too. I looked over to her husband, who was smirking in the doorway. I made eye contact with him for a quick second and then turned back to his wife who was showing me her outie belly button and stretch marks.

“Let’s go,” the man said. “You can flash him if he comes to the club this weekend.” The woman let go of her shirt and winked at me.

“Merry Christmas,” she said and ran over to her husband in the doorway. She gave him the Santa hat back and kissed him as if there was some invsible mistletoe above them.