The Ugliest Christmas Sweater Party

A Shorter Short Story

"An ugly Christmas sweater party is as original as depression in dentists," I said.

"My dad's a dentist," he said.

"Well, I'd rather go to the dentist than go to that stupid ugly Christmas sweater party," I said.

"My dad's not depressed," he said.

"Whatever," I said. "So can I borrow a sweater from your mom?"

"My mom's dead," he said.

"Well, shit. This is awkward,” I said, because I had real problems. “How am I going to find a Christmas sweater that's ugly enough?"

He pulled out his phone and started kneading out a text message.

"Are you looking up where to find ugly Christmas sweaters?" I asked.

"No," he said without looking up.

"I bet your dad is depressed. I mean, if your mom is dead and everything...and he's a dentist," I said.

He still didn't look up from his phone. It must be important, I thought, even though I couldn't imagine something more important.

"I can't go with you," he said.

"What?”

“Yeah, to the ugly Christmas sweater party. I can’t go anymore,” he said. His voice was calm, nonchalant.

“But…why not? You promised!"

"Sorry, something came up," he said, tapping away again.

"All of a sudden? Like what?"

Before he could answer me his phone started vibrating with an incoming call and a familiar jingle played. Did he really have “Little Drummer Boy” as his ring tone? Registering my disapproval, he looked at me with hard yellow eyes shaped like splinters felt. When he answered his phone he held a stubby index finger up to my face. As I was trying to decipher whether that finger meant shut up or hold on, he walked away from me.


I went to the ugly Christmas sweater party alone. I wore all black, because that's what you do when things die.

Number 69

A Shorter Short Story

“Mark, can you be a dear and tell me what cartridges you’re using?” Eleanor asked, shifting around the perimeter of Mark’s cubical. Eleanor was old, too old to be working, according to Mark.

“What cartridges? You mean printer cartridges?” Mark asked. Eleanor rolled her eyes and jutted out one hip in a way that would have been considered sassy in her time, half a century before Mark’s time.

“Well of course, silly. What else would I be talking about?” she said. Mark wondered if she was flirting with him.

Mark knew what cartridges he was using but he didn’t want to tell Eleanor. It was his second day on the job and he could sense his coworkers listening, their ears straining against the silence and stretching over the tops of their cubicles.

“Uh, well, I—um—I-I’m not sure I need more—I just—” Mark was uncomfortable with his immaturity, that was the problem, he thought—to most people it was just a number.

Eleanor was standing behind him attempting to open his printer. “Here—let me take a look. I’m pretty sure you have 69," she said. "Oh dear, I don’t have my glasses, can you see that? Does it say 69? Without my glasses 9's and 6's always look the same to me!” Eleanor grabbed a pen and a notepad, ready to jot down his answer.

“Yes, 69.” Mark said, his voice squeaking on the nine. He looked away hoping to hide his flushed face.

“Pardon?” Eleanor looked at him, her face was like a map with deep lines leading to a treasure chest of more eager and antagonizing expressions. Mark wondered if this was a joke, a ritualistic hazing all his coworkers had undergone and now it was his turn to endure the awkward moment. Or, maybe, Eleanor really was flirting with him—he thought she had been overly friendly since he started, two days ago.

“I said 69! I’m using 69 printer cartridges!” Mark said in one shrill, anxious breath.

“Okay, good. Thank you. See that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Eleanor patted Mark on the shoulder. “So, you’re doing 69,” she said, writing it on her notepad. “Okay, I’ll let you have 69 for now but you might have to switch to another printer if 69 is on back order. I don’t know why—it’s just the darndest thing—but 69 is popular so it’s hardly ever in stock,” she paused for a moment, staring at her notepad while Mark sank deeper into his chair, willing the image a naked Eleanor out of his head. “Well, I suppose I need to find out if anyone else is doing 69 with you...” Eleanor looked around for a moment as if considering her next victim before walking back to the reception desk.

Window Watching

Two years ago I lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Plaza. It was my first brush with "city living." My desk was set up in what the leasing office referred to as a "sun room" and it faced out towards Brush Creek. Many days were spent sitting at my desk, watching people and the traffic on Ward Parkway. Below is a brief (revised) excerpt from something I wrote during this time. I’m not sure how to classify it, so let’s just call it true-ish fiction.


Looking out this window is like looking into a glass display case at a department store. You see things you might want, consider needing, but can’t bring yourself to investigate further. Cars race side by side, honking out their frustration. I know they just need to be heard by someone. I hear you, I say. But no one listens. I see possibilities, things I want to know about, but my interest is lost in the effort it takes to get outside.

It is a big bay window, though there isn't a bay to speak of, this being a landlocked state. I do have a river in view but it’s more of a polluted creek. Sometimes I imagine myself gazing out of this window onto a different scene, but I never go to the trouble of envisioning a view. No, I prefer to imagine myself imagining. There's less disappointment that way.

I hear other city noises from this window. Sirens from ambulances, fire trucks and police cars whip through the air and the brief moments of silence are interrupted with blaring car alarms. I don’t mind the noises. I’m curious about the carnage. Once, there was a police car in the middle of the street, blocking traffic both ways. The officer was bent over examining the pavement. I watched the scene unfold as if it was a movie and my window was the screen. The officer picked up a white trash bag that had been abandoned, haphazardly left to rest on the streaming yellow lines. From where I sat, a dark, weighty object appeared to be inside the plastic bag. A lost appendage, suicidal squirrel, contaminated clothing—what was inside? The officer wore gloves that made him look guilty even though I knew it was for a purpose: fingerprints or DNA, or maybe the bag held a toxic material that would burn the skin of anyone who touched it. Holding the plastic bag away from his body, the officer dropped it into his trunk. When he drove away traffic flooded as if nothing ever happened.

There was another time, late at night, when I saw a couple arguing from my window. I turned off all the lights so I wouldn’t be seen, grabbed a bag of chips and pulled up the blinds. It was cold outside and I watched their words freeze in the air until the space between them seemed dense and impenetrable. Even I could see from my window five stories above that she was taller than him by a head. I recognized the man as the guy from the sixth floor who was always sweaty and carrying a gym bag (I called him cranky workout guy), but the woman was unfamiliar to me. I wondered if they were arguing because she was so tall, or maybe it was because he was so short, or maybe it was because they loved each other, once. The man sat on the building's designated bench holding his head in his hands as the woman climbed into a car that seemed too small to carry all of her rage. I kept watching, waiting for the man to move. When I woke up it was morning. They were both gone.

I also like watching bathrobe lady. I don’t know bathrobe lady’s name, but I imagine it to be something like Ethel or Marge. When the weather isn’t bad, she wears a housedress and carries her cats outside like two footballs, one under each arm. She sits on the bench, smoking skinny cigarettes and petting her cats. When she walks through the halls inside, she hums a tune without a melody like she wants to announce her presence to those trying to ignore her. The only interaction I've ever had with bathrobe lady happened as I was standing outside, trying to light a cigarette and she was walking inside. When she saw me struggling she put one cat down, holding it still between her feet and said, "This will kill you when you get old," while cupping her hand around my lighter to help block the wind.

And then there was Gene. I called him Walker Texas Drunkard, which turned out to be a pretty accurate nickname, and I watched from my window as people pitied him and held doors. Gene was the middle-aged drunk with a walker who fumbled his way in and out of the building while yelling obscenities at the cab drivers that took him everywhere he went, which appeared to be mostly bars and liquor stores. We met in the elevator once, he was carrying a heavy white plastic bag; we were both going down. He talked about loneliness nonchalantly and smelled like cauliflower and malt liquor. I was never curious enough to ask why a man his age was using a walker, but as I held his arm and guided him down the stairs he told me a botched surgical procedure, lots of pain pills and too many bottles of Scotch were to blame. He slurred, spit, stumbled and swayed as I tried to steady him in a way his walker couldn’t. We talked briefly about his broadcast career and his glory days. I asked questions to avoid the awkward acknowledgment of his blatant instability and he gave me sad answers with a smile. As I sat Gene down on the bench I asked if he was going to be okay and he looked at me and laughed. I asked again, this time with more purpose, if he was sure he was going to be okay—all I needed was the peace of mind so I could leave him and not feel bad. But he saw right through me; I was just like everyone else. Then he heaved his plastic bag onto his lap and said, “Thank you, Kim. I’ll be just fine right here.”

I know all of the people who live in the building from my window. I know when they go grocery shopping, I know their visitors, I know their parking spots and how often they leave and come back. I developed a story for each of them and I don’t want to spoil it by learning the truth. For the most part I keep my communications to quick head nods and forced smiles to discourage any worthwhile interaction. I go around knowing as much as I want to know. I tell myself it’s better this way as I sit at my window and wait, I'm always waiting now, for something interesting to watch.

1st Draft: "Rules of Leaving"

So I feel like I've been neglecting this blog since I've been in Chicago. Don't think that this means I haven't been writing, because I have, practically non-stop. But in an effort to feel less guilty, I've decided to share some of my "works in-progress" with you. Below is a snippet of a story that just sort of jumped onto the page when I sat down to write today. I have no idea where it's going, what it's doing, or why these characters won't get out of my head...but here it is. Again, try to keep in mind that this is a first draft, and therefore completely rough and in obvious need of work--uh, so, in other words, don't judge me too harshly.

Rules of Leaving

Betsy was always just visiting. Anyone who saw her knew she wasn’t there to stay. She seemed like a perched bird, temporary, on display, and just hanging out until a loud noise made her fly away. She had a heavy bag that draped over her shoulder, carrying most of what must be her life, and her shoes looked like they had been slept in, spit on and dragged through puddles of city slop, but the laces were new and neon green. Betsy spoke with whatever accent was in her ear, this made it so that no one knew her after meeting her, except for maybe Chuck.

They had been living in the same place for nearly three months. For Betsy it was too long. She was ready to pick up and go at any moment, at the first mention of opportunity, but this hadn’t happened since they left the place they were for the place they are now. Chuck thought she was staying for him, trying to give him a break, but he also thought that maybe she was staying until she knew he wouldn’t leave with her.


“I feel like we just got here,” Chuck said, packing up an olive green suitcase that lay open on his cot.
“And so it be the time to depart, dearest Charles!” Betsy said. She was sitting on the balcony, which wasn’t a real balcony, according to Betsy, it was an “exaggerated windowsill,” smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
“There’s just no sense in it. Why, in the middle of February, would we leave this beach, where it’s warm and sunny, for a place where it’s so cold your snot freezes?” Chuck asked.
“Who told you your snot would freeze? That’s sheer rubbish,” Betsy said. She was taking swigs out of the bottle of Jameson they had found in the nightstand where a Bible should’ve been and slurring between a Scottish and British accent.
“I don’t know, but I get runny noses, like, real easily, and I know it’s cold there—it’s all anyone talks about when you tell them you’re moving to Chicago,” Chuck said.
“Who did you tell?” Betsy suddenly changed her position, throwing her legs over the edge and inside as if she was going to run at Chuck.
“No, no one. I mean, I told Pete, but I had to because he’d get in trouble if the dishes weren’t done and I was gone,” Chuck said. He turned back to his packing, avoiding Betsy’s eyes which were searching him like two florescent lights, lifeless yet blindingly bright.
“You know the deal, Chuckster—don’t tell anyone where we are going or where we plan to go. I mean, what if I’d told that tattoo artist I was seeing in Atlanta that we were headed to Miami…? I’ll tell you what, he’d be beating us for the money we owe him by now,” she said.

They were staying in a hostel after Chuck made an arrangement with the management. The room wasn’t a room they gave to paying customers; it was a room off the kitchen, reserved for workers who couldn’t pay to stay.

“Shitfuck! What are we going to do about Pete? Maybe we shouldn’t go to Chicago now...maybe Nashville instead,” Betsy said, flicking her cigarette into the night.
“What’s Pete going to do? We don’t owe anyone here nothing, do we? Bets…do we?”
“You’re right. We owe nothing. Off we are as planned then!” Betsy was suddenly standing next to Chuck and staring into the tidy suitcase, which was mostly full of underwear tied-up with neon green shoelaces and hotel toiletries.
“Still haven’t learned to travel light, have you? You don’t need half of this crap,” she said.
“You’re the one that stole this shit, and almost had us put in jail for it, now you’re telling me to just leave it?” Chuck asked.


Chuck knew Betsy better than anyone. He knew how she liked her coffee, and that she really liked tea more; he knew the scar lining the crease of her nose was from a wire hanger and not a nose job; he knew her eyes were really grey and not blue; he knew her birthday was October 1st, not January 1st; he knew her hair always smelled like green apples before it always smelled like smoke; he knew that her real name was Dikranouhi before she had it legally changed to Betsy.

Chuck knew Betsy would leave without him next time. They'd been all over the East coast together, but Chuck felt like they spent most of their time leaving, and his baggage was getting heavier, harder to carry.

They sat on the floor of the studio apartment they were renting on a monthly basis in south Chicago, Chuck was leaning against the bed while Betsy sat on the floor with a map spread out between her legs. The place smelled like an ashtray and Mexican food; when the train passed the walls shook and the floor vibrated. That was Betsy’s favorite part, the shaking and vibrating.

“I love that this place never stops moving. It’s metaphorical, right Chuckster?” Betsy asked.
“Yeah, sure, I guess,” Chuck said.
“So. Where’d you get all them books from?” Betsy asked, pointing to a stack of books sitting next to Chuck’s bed. She was speaking with a hint of a New York accent this time and chewing on strands of red licorice.
“Library,” Chuck said.
“You have a library card?”
“Well, yeah, I had to get one to get the books,” Chuck said, trying to keep the defensive tone out of his voice.
“Damnit, Charles! Why not just go buy a condo on the lake while you’re at it,” Betsy said. Her hair was down, engulfing her face in black chaotic curls. Chuck always thought she looked prettiest with her hair down, but it only lasted a few seconds before she was sweeping it back again.
“It’s a library card. Pretty temporary,” Chuck said.
“We’ve been here for a month and you’re acting like we’re settled. It’s a library card now, but you know how it is...one attachment leads to another,” Betsy said, twisting her hair into a braid.


Chuck was never comfortable anywhere they went. Not because it wasn’t home, home wasn’t anywhere, but because he was always trying to keep to Betsy’s plans and rules. Buying a library card was against the rules; anything permanent, anything traceable, anything lasting was against the rules. When they first met, Chuck understood Betsy’s rules to be anything that went against other real rules—rules for living abnormally, he thought. He liked how Betsy, a woman no one would expect to have rules, actually had a list she kept and followed.

1. Don’t stand still
2. Borrowing is not stealing
3. Don’t tell anyone where you're going when you go
4. Don’t buy things that are permanent, traceable or lasting
5. Use what’s wasted
6. Move with other things that move
7. Any open place is a place to rest
8. No phone numbers
9. No extras (people, baggage, obligations, etc.)
10. No missing (people or places)

It was number six that worried Chuck. Since they’d come to Chicago, one or both of them had broken a rule on this list. Chuck was the greatest offender, everyday left him more still. Betsy recognized this in him, but she feared rule number ten more than any other which is why she hadn't really left, yet. But there were times when Chuck would wait all night for Betsy to come back to their shaking, vibrating studio just so that he could see her close her eyes and feel safe again. After the first month in Chicago, she started coming back to him less; several days would pass and Chuck would think she was gone for good, but then she would appear in her neon green shoelaces with a bag of someone's forgotten (stolen) leftovers. She never explained her absences, but she would talk about things Chuck didn't know about in a new accent, like a dog that developed a new bark after coming home from running away.

Once, Chuck asked Betsy if they could make amendments to the rules. It seemed like a reasonable request, all rules should be amendable so that they are continually applicable to the present, he thought. But Betsy told him he could make his own rules if he wanted to change hers. This is when Chuck knew that Betsy's rules were nothing more than rules for leaving, and this is when Betsy left Chuck and didn't come back, for good.