WHAT COULD GO WRONG AT A YANKEE SWAP?

Les Clark                                                                                                                                                            978-857-2127

PO Box 143                                                                                                                                          lclark9247@aol.com

Ashland, MA 01721

WHAT COULD GO WRONG AT A YANKEE SWAP?

By

Les Clark

If I were a betting man, I’d wager that the Richter scale at NOAA HQ swung wildly off the chart when Henry Wadsworth, owner of HARDWARE WORLD (you know, the one with the thirty foot socket wrench sticking out the roof) announced we were having this year’s Yankee Swap. The groans were deafening. Despite protestations, he does it when the books close at the end of the fiscal year. It coincides with Christmas.

Why didn’t I do a better job of scheduling my vacation? Altoona. Fiji. My cellar.

It was break time at the back of the store. We have a rule: no one talks during break. We neither want to share, nor listen to, anecdotes about customers---what they did, said or walked out of the store with. Where’s the Cone of Silence when you need it? Retail is tough. We need to decompress.

Well, some of us are rebels. I bring sandwiches with lettuce, so crunching is my thing. Marie, the lady who runs the Tool Corral, slurps her coffee and noisily sucks the last molecules of soda from the bottom of her bubbly can du jour. Nate runs Lumber and Millwork. He’s a wiz when it comes to windows and doors but a mouth-breather around shovelfuls of mac and cheese---like wind sweeping through a canyon. We’ve asked him to have his deviated septum looked at. “Whatdayamean?” he wheezed.

 All in all, we’re a cranial symphony. But the break room---that’s our sanctum sanctorum. However Mr. Wadsworth himself decided to invade our space. Well, it’s his space. Technically that is.

“How is everyone today? How are sales? What’s the latest? Any good stories?” Meredith Faulkner, the Electrical Supplies supervisor, once whispered that when she kneels to do her bedtime prayers, she suggests God create a job opening for Mr. Wadsworth as a casino greeter somewhere in Nevada. Or Hungary. God is taking his time with a response.

To repeat, we have a rule: NO TALKING IN THE BREAKROOM! We stopped short of hanging a sign on the door. We like our jobs. Anyhow, Nate, the bravest of us all, turned from his thermos full of chicken noodle soup (his breath echoing the length and breadth of its silvery tube) and smiled at our boss.

“Why Mr. Wadsworth, what a nice thing to have.” His insincerity bounced off Wadsworth’s effusiveness. It’s that irresistible force meeting the immovable object thing. “What where and when in case we have other plans?” Later Nate shared he should have made plans for a fast trip to Cleveland or Kazakhstan to be at the bedside of one of his many ailing grandmothers.

“Well,” Wadsworth, totally unfazed, continued his pacing back and forth from the door to the microwave. It was like a moving target at a water balloon charity event. He’d be hard to miss. “I was thinking when the store closes next Friday night, we’ll do it here right in my (our, sir!) breakroom. I’ll have it catered like last year.”

We had spray cheese and crackers from the dollar store. Thank you very much.

“Now, don’t buy anything that costs more than twenty dollars and while I trust your judgement, let’s not have a repeat of last year with what Peter Samuels brought from that adult bakery. It wasn’t in good taste.”

Oh yes it was! Funny and tasty. Pete thought other employment was in his future. Mr. Wadsworth thought so as well.

I’m a tool kind of guy so I went to the local big box superstore and bought something from their tool area. I didn’t shop in my own store because, you know, why give anything away? I’d get some crap if I revealed it, but I believe one of the unwritten Yankee Swap rules is that you can keep it wrapped. You know...mystique.

A few nights later, the store closed on time although we had to help a guy in his pajamas two minutes later crying he needed a washer for a leaking faucet. Sal, the plumbing supervisor, rolled his eyes as his hands went out in that “Gee, that’s too bad” expression. When the customer fell to his knees and sobbed, Sal relented and found the proper replacement, slipped it through a crack in the door almost catching the guys fingers at the lock. They waved goodbye to each other with single digits. Mr. Wadsworth took on his “I’ll remember that” look.

“Okay, troops, let’s head back to the breakroom.” (We’re his troops now? Some of us already served.)

“You don’t have to call cadence, sir,” Phyllis muttered under her breath. She runs a tight Customer Service and Front End. Her cashiers are never more than a dime off. Depending on the day, even that could be a capital offense.

My eyes widened when we got to the back of the store. When did this feast get delivered? Who did the set up? Chafing dishes with bubbling stew, fragrant pasta and broccoli, warm rolls and more. At the back wall, aside the Emergency Door, sat a linen-covered table with an over-burdened cake dish, a triple stack of cupcakes and three tubs of ice cream. Pinch me.

Mildred Callahan, she the rough and tumble foreman of Shipping and Receiving sidled up and whispered out the side of her mouth, “What do you think Scrooge is up to?”

“Your first borne, Milly.”

She giggled behind my shoulder. “He’s a Marine. Special Forces. It won’t be a fair fight.”

Everyone had a package in their hands. I recognized from the wrapping what some things were. Nate belongs to an axe throwing club, so it was an easy guess from the wrapped shape what he held. I don’t blame him for holding it gingerly. I feigned ignorance.

Others fidgeted with small flat packages I discerned to be scratch tickets. They’re always fan favorites. Meredith was our champion wrapper---such beautiful metallic foil paper, perfect corners, invisible tape and a pink bow. Ah...the giveaway. It’s baby clothes. I saw Ruth, the lead cashier and pregnant with a trio, eyeing it with anticipation.

We stood around the table, nervously awaiting the lord high mayor and what awfulness he had as his secret offering. We didn’t have long to wait. His royal cheapness waddled in with a large square box wrapped in wrinkled kraft paper.

Milly repositioned herself slightly behind me again. “He did that in the dark.”

“You think?” I smirked.

“Yes...with his toes.”

I almost lost it. What could he possibly be offering? Why would we ever choose what he had? We waited for his usual opening speech, the one he spends forever spewing just before our morning opening. “Give me an H, an H, an H---Give me an H!” We had to do that until all of Hardware World had been spelled out. So tedious.

“Ok, troops (will he never stop?), you’ll notice there are eight upside down dollar bills on the table...”

Millie, always with a comment, whispered, “That’s the bonus.”

“...whose serial numbers end with the order of swap. Now, no rush but pick a bill.”

I noticed Mr. Wadsworth actually looked happy. I’m suspicious. What’s he up to? We all grabbed for a bill including him, still clutching that square innocuous box. Here’s how the sequence came out: Mildred, Sal, Phyllis, Me, Marie, Nate, Meredith, and strangely, the boss himself as number eight. How’d he do that?

"Now, troops, ready...set...unwrap!” I’d never seen him so happy. I know, he sold the business and like Bob Cratchett, we’re all sacked. I’m the assistant manager and ready to retire but what about the people I like working with, even Sal with the affronting finger? We’re doomed! I looked around the room. What an interesting assortment of Yankee Swap gifts we bought. The axe (which turned out to be chocolate), a Three Stooges Blu-ray, scratch tickets, my drill bit set and four other things.

“I go first since I’m number eight,” Wadsworth announced.

Millie ducked behind me with “Beware Henry the eighth.” She should do stand up.

“Sal, I’ll take your scratch tickets for the box I hold here. It’s been in my family for years and I hate to give it up but who knows what wealth lies in your hands.”

Sal looked down, shaking his head. He accepted the box like he’d been passed a porcupine. Number seven was Meredith, who swapped her oversized coffee mug emblazoned with WHATEVER! for the baby clothes. I was right. Further along, Phyllis swapped her Moe, Larry and Curly DVD for the axe. “No, you can’t take a bite,” I called across the table.

 And so it went until everybody had something different. Mr. Wadsworth, however, was bouncing about, checking on the food until Sal, whose number was one, asked the boss for his scratch tickets back, gladly returning the box.

“Now, my vaunted and valuable (oh, what now?) front line managers, it is time for round two. Anyone want to swap for the last time? I’m getting hungry.”

Phyllis reached across the table for the fleece-lined gloves I got from Mildred. Good pick. I scratched the four five dollar tickets I got from her, the same ones Sal sadly gave up for the box. “Hey, I won two dollars.” There was a smattering of applause. With a halfhearted sneer, Sal mouthed lucky you. I think it’s more fun with friends than what’s definitely loser tickets.

Mr. Wadsworth cleared his throat. He was still holding the brown recipe box no one wanted.

“Did no one want this non-descript thing (decrepit, I thought) I hold in my hand? Does it not hold any mystery? Did you think my grandmother would give up her secret apple pie recipe? Or does it contain one of those spring loaded snakes?”

Millie coughed behind my back with another of her secret snarky comments. “Take the snake.” I gave her an elbow.

We shifted nervously. Sal eyed the food, swallowing his hunger. Mr. Wadsworth went on.

“Had anyone swapped for the box, there was a real surprise inside. We had a good year and I wanted to share with you. Whoever kept the box got everything inside.” He lifted the lid. Inside, neatly banded, lay stacks of freshly minted hundred dollar bills. He passed the box around for the reluctant public viewing.

“I knew no one would touch it. We all know why. So...” Mr. Wadsworth turned and handed the box to me. “...I’m entrusting you to count it out with your fellow supervisors, divide it so every company employee gets an equal amount. They have swapped...I mean contributed their loyalty for a well deserved bonus. This is for them, not for you. I will take care of you separately...” Uh-Oh!

Sal was simultaneously stuffing a napkin in his collar and scooping stew when Mr. Wadsworth finished his sentence. “...when we have our management Yankee Swap. What will the box contain then?”