The Cutie with the Cardigan

Christmas Eve

It all started coming together around midnight. Quite a few keys were missing on my battered keyboard, but even so, my fingertips flew over the keys. The clacking was one of the few sources of noise that filled my 2-bedroom flat. Believe it or not, the key clicks, along with the unhealthy humming of my dying laptop, created my go-to writing environment. Between the pauses in my typing, I mumbled along to the soulful acoustic through my half-broken earphones.

Just like me, my computer was trying to keep its head above water. I would buy a new one if I had the spare cash. The lack of sleep began to take its toll. But I couldn’t stop now. I took a sip of my triple-shot latte, the third one of the night, and glanced at the time: 12:15 AM. About 6 hours and 45 minutes left on my deadline.

It felt as if some higher power had already conjured the words in my head, and all I had to do was read the script, place my hands on the keys, and let nature take its course. I found this feeling only ever showed itself when I was behind the keyboard, writing. You might call it my “thing.” It paid rent. I was a writer for hire. Letters, books, lyrics—pretty much whatever the client wanted, I would take on and assign a rate accordingly. I’d been doing it since my last year of college, and I’d built quite a resume.

‘Did I like this job?’

It came with its ups and downs, like most jobs. The timing worked great since I was able to get hired for various kinds of work. This was one of the ups. I loved to write and could do it forever. Back in college, I used to charge people to write their papers. But that’s where one of the first “downs” came in. Since I was pretty much freelance, working off commissions, I was screwed when work wasn’t coming in. You could imagine the unpredictability of the “dry season.” A rule of thumb for pursuing art was that having a second job was mandatory, so I worked at this mix of a nightclub and café, which helped a ton during tougher times. Writer by day, bartender by night, broke during both.

Currently, I am in the ending stages of an essay request. My site, “Our Minds,” allowed my clients to either post some of their work themselves, then I would “revise” it, or they’d instruct me on what they needed specifically, and I would start from scratch. Pretty much doing all the work for them. The latter was more fun, depending on what they asked. But this time around, I had some content to work with. I reread the instructions.

“A 200-400 word commentary on a theme from the list provided. Speak with honesty. While you don’t need to bring up any examples from your own life, it is encouraged that the theme you select does have some correlation to you.”

Going by what the client had written beforehand, I could tell he was just some college kid, probably planning on being a little too hungover to turn in his piece before his 11:59 deadline. Shit, we’ve all been there, right? I finished up his piece before scanning for spelling errors and grammar, and just like that, done. The document was sent straight to him, and in return, I got my money. It wasn’t much—only about $55, plus a $5 tip. Much appreciated, "Signmyfender." Interesting name aside, that’s pretty much the job. If you’re curious about what I wrote for the guy, I tried to make it sound like a 20-year-old broke, existential crisis-having college kid. Not the hardest thing to do when you’re a 24-year-old broke college dropout:

“A Commentary on Home”

As the year closes, and we take the time to prepare ourselves for a new year, I find myself in that annoying reflection phase. I am second-guessing the things I’ve said and done, and the steps I’ve taken on whatever path led me to where I am today. We are our harshest critics, and I have quite a habit of focusing on the negatives. Regrets and concerns take up a lot of space in my thoughts, staining my outlook. But within that murky space of self-doubt, there’s something constant: home. It’s a place where I’m valued, where I feel I belong—even in some moments when I may not want to.

Do I have the right to reject my home? Reject where I come from and acknowledge its flaws and shortcomings—yet still find myself tied to it? I wonder if it’s possible to resent home so much that I push it away, only to realize that no matter how far I go, it’s always there, lingering behind me. I can’t outrun it. So I stop running.

Whether home is a physical place or the people we choose to surround ourselves with, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that as we move forward, we come to understand that home isn’t stationary. It’s not just the place we return to after a long day; it’s something that evolves with us. It walks alongside us, shifting and changing as we grow. The challenge is learning to coexist with it—accepting it for what it is and understanding that it’s not fixed. So maybe the best we can do is find a way to embrace it, make peace with it, and learn to coexist.

—End

I sat with my fingers tracing over my temples. Headaches, as per usual. At least I was done with my work for the night. It was only around 1:00 AM. I looked to see if I had more requests for writing, to no avail. Kind of hoping I didn't just speak the dry season into existence. I could use the extra cash. I read across the screen: “No New Requests.” Then suddenly there was a loud knock on my bedroom door.

“Toby! Buddy! You there” The husky voice carried a mix of familiarity and urgency.

‘Adrian...’ He’d been my roommate since college, and it was up until this very moment that I regretted all of it. He’s the loud type—extremely loud, quick to act, and not so quick to think. But even so, he was my best friend. I would never tell him, but it was because of him, dragging me along on random outings, that I was able to get the inspiration to write as much as I do now.

The knock before must’ve been all for show because the door swung open with a force that sent it slamming against the wall. The impact knocked over my entire roster of POP figures on the shelf, each one falling after the last like dominos, followed by the sharp crack of glass shattering. My laptop screen instantly went black, and for a moment, I just sat there, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Yes, Adrian. What do you need?” The hints of impatience coated every word.

The athlete, easily over 6’, stormed into my room, placing his hand over my fro. “Damn, you’re still clinging on to that thing?” He laughed. His breath had a faint scent of ale. “Your laptop is one shutdown away from... never turning on again.” His words slowed down as he proceeded with what he had done. It was a surprise to me that he had caught up as quickly as he did.

I stayed silent, walking over to my laptop. One attempt after another, I tried to power it back on. Nothing. Frustration started to build within me as I spun around, shooting Adrian a glare. It was probably due to the lack of sleep, but I was ready to rip into him. I was about to let him have it, give him a piece of my mind, when my eyes wandered, noticing something else that had dropped. The glass that had shattered was a picture frame. It was a picture of the three of us—me, Adrian, and Mavis. I walked past Adrian, crouching down to pick up the photo, freeing it from the frame, or what was left of it. As I did, the edges bit into my fingers. Adrian spoke.

“Tobe. I’m so sorry, brother. I’ll get you a new laptop.” His voice softened more than I expected. As he stood over me, patting my back, he was heavy-handed but oddly reassuring. “I’ve been meaning to figure out what kind of gift to get you for Christmas anyway.”

I heard him, and I knew he meant every word. But my focus was elsewhere. It had been ages since I last looked at this photo—since I last looked at her. Everything had hit as if I was meeting her for the first time all over again. Her eyes and her smile went so perfectly together that you couldn’t help but smile back, even if it was just a photo. Without thinking, that’s what I did. What started as just a smirk broke out into a smile the longer I laid eyes on her. But just seeing her again brought ease to my worries and peace to my mind. So I couldn’t look away. Soon after, I picked myself up from the floor, taking off my glasses to rub my eyes. Gently placing the photo down on the shelf where it had fallen from, I spoke:

“Drinks are on you tonight, Adrian.”

He froze. He stood behind me, but I could feel his disbelief all the same. He was likely shocked that I was leaving the confines of this two-bedroom box somewhere that wasn’t working. Probably afraid I would change my mind and yell out.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want!”

We cleaned up, and as we did, my mind kept drifting back to the photo—her eyes, her smile, but most memorable of all was her white cardigan. You couldn’t tell from the picture, but there were countless tiny holes and patches, all efforts to keep things together no matter how worn they got. Even when it probably would’ve been best to trash it, Mavis didn’t. She was stubborn, and it drove me crazy. But at least it was the best kind.

I smiled again as we left the apartment. Once we got outside the crisp air hit us all at once. Little to no snow had fallen, but even so it was quite a pleasant walk. We filled in some moments with small talk. But the majority of it was silent, giving me time to think.

Suddenly Adrain placed his arm over my shoulders. It was unexpected and caused me to stumble almost crashing into the icy pavement.

“Merry Christmas Eve Toby!” He shouted as if it wasn’t early in the morning in the sketchy side of our neighborhood. His voice bounced off the bare buildings.

“Yeah..Merry Christmas Eve Adrian” I replied much softer than he had. Our mismatched energy was always something that I could look forward to. I muttered under my breath too softly for him to hear as if it was between me and the brisk air.

“Merry Christmas Eve to you too, Mavis.”