Fishbowl (Naughty or Nice) - Dawn Kimberly Johnson, 2010 Advent Calendar - Naughty or Nice
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Dawn Kimberly Johnson
Fishbowl [2]
A
FTER
finding his way to the freight elevator, exiting at the
basement, and walking down a long, dark, lonely corridor,
Mick knocked lightly—probably too lightly—on the “third one
down on your left,” as a stock boy on the main floor had
instructed. Mick waited, shifting from one foot to the other,
but no invitation came. He knocked again, a bit louder this
time, but still no response. He sighed, shoved the double
doors open, and walked in.
He heard music, hard, aggressive, and grating. The poor
lighting made it difficult for him to navigate through the
racks of clothing and piles of material and mannequin limbs
hovering like sentries on either side of the doors. But
eventually he stepped free of the encumbrances and into an
oasis of light. It shone down from a high ceiling and onto a
lone figure hunched over a sewing table.
The sewing machine whirred and the young—
woman’s
?—hands moved quickly over the advancing
material to keep up with the pull of the machine’s teeth. Her
foot tapped to the beat coming out of a small pink iPod
docking station.
“Hello?” Mick said, stepping forward. He paused and
looked up at the ceiling as the music and cavernous room
swallowed his voice. His eyes fell back to the woman, and he
cleared his throat, tuning himself up to raise his voice.
“Hello?” It came out only a tiny bit louder than the first, and
Dawn Kimberly Johnson
Fishbowl [3]
he frowned. He didn’t want to startle her, but he opened his
mouth and drew a deep breath—
The woman sat up straight, and her right hand shot out
to pause the music. When she suddenly turned in her seat to
look at him, Mick gulped back the shout before it passed his
lips. Her rust-colored hair was parted into two playful,
pigtails that hung to the bottom of each ear.
“Yeah?”
“I’m… I’m—”
“Lost?” she asked, inclining her head and instantly
bringing the image of Toffee, his Springer Spaniel, to mind.
His chest ached a bit at that. She was back home in Arizona
with his parents and siblings and probably the only member
of his family who missed him. “Hello?” the woman said,
getting to her feet and waving a hand in the air to recapture
his attention.
Standing there, she looked much taller than he’d first
thought, easily his height or even an inch taller. “I’m sorry.
I’m Michael… Michael Argall. Human resources sent—”
“Oh yeah,” she said, strolling toward him and donning
the red-framed glasses hanging around her neck. “You’re our
new window candy.” She looked him over slowly. Mick fought
the self-conscious knot that landed in his stomach and
struggled not to fidget. “I’m Chelsea Roberts,” she said as
she walked behind him, “but you can call me Bob.” Once she
was standing in front of him again, her glasses making her
green eyes look cartoonishly large, she said, “Good to meet
you… Michael? Mickey?”
Dawn Kimberly Johnson
Fishbowl [4]
“Mick.” He took the hand she extended, as firm and big
as his, but with shiny, silver manicured nails. “Nice to meet
you too.” He handed her the paper the HR clerk had given
him, and she looked it over.
“So you played statue one summer for school money?”
Mick nodded, and she glanced up from the paper, smiling.
“You were one of those metal men? Standing outside a
bank?” Mick nodded, and Bob narrowed her gaze at him.
“You don’t talk much, huh?”
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize, hon.” She shook her head and
headed back to her sewing station. “That Butterfly’s the best.
She has a real good eye.”
He followed hesitantly. “Um… Butterfly?” That name
hardly fit the woman he’d spoken to. Bob must be confused.
She took her seat and smiled at him. “The HR chick?
Her real name is Agnes.”
Okay, that fit her.
“Butterfly’s her stage name. She’s a sweetheart.”
“Really?”
Bob laughed. “Trust me. Underneath that chilly,
businesslike exterior is one warm and wacky individual.”
Bob pulled a small, plastic, rolling container of files from
under a table on her right and added Mick’s document. “Just
get a couple drinks in her.” He nodded and glanced around
for a seat. “Oh, pull up another stool from over there.” Bob
gestured vaguely to Mick’s right as she dug into yet another
box at her feet.
Dawn Kimberly Johnson
Fishbowl [5]
He took a couple of steps that way and found a metal
stool slightly covered by a rack of dresses. “Uh… stage
name?”
“Yep, she does a bit of acting and even writes poetry.”
“You sound smitten,” he said, scooting the stool closer
to her station with his foot and taking a seat.
Bob chuckled. “Hardly. Just impressed.” She rose up
from her search to look at him for a moment. “I think I’d like
to be her when I grow up.” Bob returned to searching for
something beneath the table. “Besides I’ve got Clyde. Works
construction. He might be around here sometimes to help
out, but don’t let him scare you.”
“Scare me?”
“Yeah. He’s a big guy.” She continued to dig through the
box, and when Bob rose again from her search, she held a
digital camera. “But he’s a sweetheart. Smile!”
The flash blinded Mick for a moment, and he reflexively
raised a hand to protect his eyes. “Uh….”
“Relax.” She took another picture from a different angle.
“I need to get some shots so I can figure out the best way to
use you.”
Mick reluctantly lowered his hand and rose to his feet
as Bob silently urged him to. When the flashing stopped, she
approached him, staring intently into his face. Her eyes
roamed upward, and she reached out and ran her hand
through his thick, blond hair.
“Nice,” she whispered absently. Mick blushed slightly.
“You’ll definitely rate the front window.”
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