Underdeveloped Male Character

short fiction, for the holidays

The felt of the Christmas hat is beginning to irritate Alexander’s ears. “Christmas hat” is preferable to “elf hat,” which is the more accurate description. Being just shy of 5 foot 9, Alexander had always been sensitive to comparison to small things, elves included. He leans up against the corner of the wedging table and watches Elsie mill about the room in a Santa hat, correcting form.

“You want to make sure your hands are always rounded,” she says, placing her hand gently on Dawn’s shoulder, “that way the clay doesn’t get away from you.” Alexander checks the time and then wishes he hadn’t. There were still hours to go.

Alexander often felt himself in the position of being somewhere undesirable, even when that place was somewhere he had agreed to be. In the case of the senior’s pottery class, it was a place carefully sought out of desperation weeks ago. Weeks ago, when almost anything seemed preferable to spending Thursday nights alone, watching old Library of Congress lectures on his Lenovo, feeling the red 40 dye of twenty-five Twizzlers leaking into his brainstem.

He used to spend Thursday nights with Stacey after he graduated from what she called “weekend dick” status. They had matched on Hinge over the summer. “The way to win me over is…by telling me about your favorite female founder,” a prompt on her profile read. He responded in two words: Sara Blakely. Stacey replied immediately, first to tell him off about the backward, frankly misogynistic marketing rhetoric of Spanx, and second to acquiesce that she’d had Blakely’s photo on her vision board for a decade. Stacey always liked to get one over on you first, especially if you had said something she liked.

After transitioning from Hinge messages to text, Stacey shared her personal Calendly link so that Alexander could plan their first date. From 8:40-9:50, Alexander and Stacey split a root beer float at a diner downtown before having quick, animal sex in the back of Alexander’s Honda Civic. After she got out of the car to leave, she motioned for Alexander to roll down the window.

“That was fun,” she said. “Feel free to schedule something for next weekend. You have the link,” before winking and turning to walk away, pulling up on the sock that had fallen down inside her Hokas.

So, it went like that. Alexander dutifully booking 8:40-9:50 on Saturday nights, attaching a location in the event description. They met at beer gardens and wine bars, his car and her gym steam room, walking trails and, one time, a movie theater.

“You can’t be serious,” Stacey had said.

“Just watch half,” Alexander said. “Maybe you’ll like it enough to stay for the full thing.”

Stacey did not. At exactly 9:50, her alarm had gone off and she’d set off climbing over the knees of several patrons, played out to the Radar alarm sound on her iPhone.

Then, one day in late August, while performing his weekly email check, Alexander came across a message from stacey@gogirlactive.com. Almost buried beneath a slew of marketing messages and Democratic candidates desperate for donations, Stacey’s email contained an attachment – a Google Calendar invite for that Thursday. 8:30 pm at Dimitri’s, a wine bar on the West side, with a note: “Dress nice and don’t ask too many questions. Need you to do me a solid. XO Stacey”

Alexander replied: “Does this mean I can see you on Thursdays now? :)”

He was about to close the tab before he saw the notification come through.

“We’ll circle back on that. Just be there plz. Sent from iPhone”

On Thursday, after an hour of contemplating what outfit Stacey would deem “nice,” Alexander showed up to Dimitri’s in a patterned button-down he had borrowed from his roommate, grey chinos, a brown belt, and the AllBirds sneakers that Stacey had once given him a compliment on. He felt like one of those pastel cartoon people they use to advertise inclusive medical establishments. He tried to run a hand through his hair, but it was stiff with gel.

Inside, Stacey was leaning up against the bar, talking to a tall man. The bar was dimly lit, with hanging globe lights set to an orange hue and tiny candles set on periphery tables. The place had been relatively cleared out to make space for a dance floor, where several Gen X-ers were starting a half-hearted conga line in front of the DJ, who was playing “More Than A Woman” by the BeeJees. He stood for a moment in the entrance before being brushed past by a couple making their way to the bar and decided to try to head towards Stacey and catch her eye.

He situated himself behind the man and Stacey and glanced at the drinks menu. A slip of paper advertised custom cocktails, which he normally found kitschy in a fun way, but couldn’t bring himself to order “The Glass Ceiling” for $21. He got whatever IPA was on tap, and tried to subtly get in Stacey’s eyeline without making it look like he was intimated by the height of the man she was talking to.

A few minutes later, Stacey’s face came into view. She scanned Alexander briefly before lighting up her eyes and making an introductory noise pitched far higher than her regular speaking tone. She gestured Alexander into a hug and introduced him to the man as her boyfriend.

The night passed by without Alexander, who remembered Stacey’s instructions about not asking questions and remained quiet and bewildered at the alternate history Stacey presented of their relationship. They had met last year, skiing in the Poconos. They were both very happy to have him back in town, after months of his traveling for work. He was very busy – so busy that, even though he and Stacey were dearly serious about one another, this was the first time he was meeting any of her coworkers, also known as her “work fam.” They flitted about, arm in arm, meeting regional managers and marketing directors and social media interns. A little past ten, Alexander excused himself to go to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, fully clothed, staring at the tile for several minutes.

Near midnight, Stacey suggested they take an Uber home. She knit her eyebrows together in faux-sadness and made the rounds to every person she had spoken to that evening, elapsing another half hour while giving heartfelt goodbyes with Alexander attached to her arm like an old handbag.

As soon as the door shut behind them in the Uber, Stacey grabbed Alexander by the shoulders, her eyes animated.

“You did SO GOOD tonight. So good. Wow, I really didn’t know what to expect,” she said, letting go of her grip on him to place a hand on his thigh. “Everybody loved you. You were so great.” She sighed, smiling.

“I hardly said anything,” Alexander started.

“I know!” Stacey said, incredulous. “It was perfect. So perfect.” Alexander looked towards the floor, and a silence hung in the air.

“Sorry, I know it’s probably a little weird,” Stacey said, squeezing his leg. “It’s just… I’m up for a promotion pretty soon, like a big one, and the feedback I got in my quarterly was that I could stand to be a bit more personable.” Alexander stared back at her blankly. “Which, I know, right, I feel like I’m very fun and interesting, so that didn’t make much sense to me. They also told me that I need to start taking my vacation days, which was super weird because they should have no problem with me wanting to work. I mean, I don’t even rack them up and spend them all at once like some people do. That’s the real problem.”

The car takes an exit off the highway, towards Stacey’s apartment.

“But anyway, I guess I just wanted to show them that I’m not just a machine all the time. Like, I have a real life. And people who love me. So, thank you for playing along tonight.” Alexander nodded. “And maybe it was even a little bit fun? Like dressing up?” Stacey’s voice pitched up towards the end, guiding Alexander to an answer.

“Don’t you want a real life though, Stacey?” He turned to look at her. Stacey shook her head like she wasn’t hearing him correctly.

“What do you mean? I’m building a real life right now, all the time. Do you think you can just waltz into your perfect existence?” She blinked at him.

“But isn’t this your life right now?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” Stacey said, removing her hand from his leg and placing it in her lap. “But this is like… the incubation phase or something. I’m working towards the life that I want.”

“So this isn’t the life that you want?”

“Well, of course it isn’t,” Stacey snapped. “I know that I’m, like, really privileged and it’s probably very annoying that I’m still not satisfied with everything that I have. I can see it on your face that you think that about me.” She looked at Alexander, who said nothing. “And I know that it’s not normal to schedule dates in a Calendly,” she said, looking down. “I know that’s kind of, like, robotic and insane. But it wouldn’t be fair to you to make you my real boyfriend. I just don’t have the time for that. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Alexander slept over at Stacey’s for the first time that night. When they fucked, he took her hair in his hands and pulled backward, his cock ramming into her. He slapped her ass and she squealed. He came inside her and she groaned. After they were done, he watched her set a reminder on her phone: BUY PLAN B. As they were falling asleep, he wanted to kiss her head, but she had a red light mask on.

The next week, as he went to select his timeslot on Stacey’s Calendly, he noticed something. The work week, usually blacked out with unavailability, had a single slot open. Thursday night, from 6:10-8:10.

On Thursdays, they saw movies.

Stacey hated Triangle of Sadness (“although it is really sad that the actress died so young”) and loved the Halloween screening of Carrie (“that was legit JUST like my childhood,” said while squeezing Alexander’s arm on the walk home). Alexander cried through a dramedy about a son addicted to drugs, and Stacey rolled her eyes while passing him Kleenex from her bag. Stacey cried through the holiday screening of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t fuck on Thursdays – that was still reserved for the weekend – but occasionally, Alexander would sleep over after the movie and wake up to the whir of Stacey’s Peloton coming from the home office.

One Thursday, Alexander went to meet Stacey at the box office and found a crowd congregating outside, fire trucks stationed by the curb. As he walked closer, he could see her ponytail bouncing towards him, her breath coming out in short spurts into the cold air.

“Looks like there’s been a fire or something,” he said.

“Wow, you’re a genius,” Stacey said, putting her hand on his arm. Alexander broke out into a smile. “But, yeah, I asked about it and they said it’s pretty minor. All showings are canceled for today, though.”

“Ah,” Alexander said. “Well, I have another genius idea.” Stacey’s head cocked to one side. “Dinner?”

Their plates had been cleared an hour ago. Stacey leaned forward, elbows on the table, laughing, mouth open, with a tongue coated purple from Cabernet. Alexander leaned back, smiling, rubbing one hand on his leg. Under the tablecloth, their feet rested casually on each other. Stacey had an eyelash on her cheek. Wordlessly, Alexander reached out to collect it, and Stacey blew it away.

“I feel really terrible,” Stacey said.

“Why?” Alexander asked, amused.

“I, like…” Stacey began, “Don’t really know what you do for work.” She burst out laughing, but quickly stifled it. “Like, I know you don’t have a traditional job, ‘cause you always give me shit for the corporate stuff, but you just picked up this check that was probably three hundred dollars.” Alexander raised his eyebrows. “It’s okay if you work at, like, Trader Joe’s or something. I’m not judging. That’s kind of what I figured.”

“Right,” Alexander started, “well…”

“Based on the clothes and stuff”

“Okay,” Alexander snorted, “well…”

“Are you spending your piggy bank money on me?” Stacey asked, smiling and lowering her head bashfully into raised shoulders.

“No,” Alexander laughed, his face turning red. He shifted slightly in his seat. “It’s…” He looked around the room before landing on Stacey’s face. “It’s sort of complicated.”

Stacey’s mouth fell open.

“Oh my god, you’re rich,” she said.

“What?”

“You’re rich! That’s what rich people say.” She started laughing. “Are you rich?”

“Well, actually,” Alexander began, clearing his throat. “I actually have a pretty tough relationship with my family.”

“But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“About being rich?”

“Yes,” Stacey leaned back, “about being rich.”

“Umm, well, yeah,” Alexander says. “I am.” Stacey’s eyes widened. “Well, my father is, you know, not me. He’s an investment banker.”

“Oh my god,” Stacey said, smiling in a way that is scary. “I really can’t believe this.”

“What?” Alexander leaned forward onto the table, nearly toppling his wine glass, “what can’t you believe?”

“That you…” Stacey gestured around with her hands, in the way women do when they’re forced to explain something nebulous yet obvious, “pretended like I was so full of shit for pursuing a life where I could make money!”

“I don’t think you’re full of shit,” Alexander said. “I just think that money is not the most important thing in the world, and it’s certainly not worth putting your life on hold to chase after.”

“What an incredible insight!” Stacey yelped, her eyes gleaming. “What an absolutely incredible thought from a little boy who grew up with everything money could buy. Here he is now, telling me that it’s just not that important.”

“Well, shouldn’t I know? If I have everything and I’m still not happy?”

“You are not happy,” Stacey said, pointing across the table “because you lack ambition and forward momentum. That is why you are not happy.”

“Oh my god,” Alexander leaned back, laughing, “is this my quarterly review? Is that my corporate feedback?”

“No, Alexander, it’s not,” Stacey said. “I know that you think corporate life is soulless and stupid and that you’re so far above it. But some people don’t have a fucking choice. Some people weren’t handed a bucket of gold, they were handed a ladder, and all they can do is climb it as fast as they can.” She takes a sip from her wine glass. “And you,” she said, putting the glass back down on the table, “are full of shit.”

“Yeah,” Alexander said, arms crossed. “I’m so full of shit that I took a guy who I thought was just a lowly, hourly employee to a fancy work event and paraded him around pretending he was someone else. I’m so full of shit that I made this guy grovel for 50-minute increments of my time every single week, for months. I’m so full of shit that I barely asked him a single question about himself, to the point that I am now shocked at the person he’s been this whole time.” Alexander reached for his coat, which was hanging on his chair. “That’s how full of shit I am.”

He shifted his arms into the coat and began to zip it up. Stacey sat across from him, still and silent. Eventually, she spoke quietly.

“It’s 10:30.”

“Yeah,” Alexander said, standing to leave. “I guess my time is up.”

Stacey watched him walk out of the restaurant and into the cold night, knowing that wasn’t what she meant.

Two weeks later, Stacey is selected to lead a team that’s expanding GoGirl Active into Oahu. Over the course of ten days, she used a sticker that said “ISLAND TIME” twenty-three times on her Instagram stories. She bought bikinis, tried them on, hated them, and bought more. She hit number one in her virtual Peloton class for the first time. She re-homed her betta fish named Simon to a coworker who had recently lost her dog. She deleted Alexander’s number, realized she still had it memorized and paid an Etsy witch $35 to cleanse his energy from her mind.

Alexander, determined to prove himself against the accusation of having no “ambition” or “forward momentum,” decided to involve himself in the community. He has food distribution on Monday afternoons, visitation with sick children at the public hospital on Tuesday mornings, and, most importantly, volunteer assisting the pottery class for seniors on Thursday evenings.

Over the sink, he tries not to dry heave as he wipes off the slip from plastic buckets. He thinks of Stacey in bright flashes. Her big teeth. Her baby pink fanny pack. The new header for her LinkedIn page. Hawaiian flower emoji. Her tongue coated in red wine. Movie theater popcorn butter. Her huge sneakers. Her quiet snore. Something stuck in his mouth.

The Christmas hat begins to migrate down the side of his head, and he reaches out to catch it but misses by just a moment. The hat flops down into the bucket filled with water and clay scraps. Alexander stares at it, looks at the faucet pounding water over its felt surface, and watches as the water begins to fill up the bucket, then the sink – the drain of which is blocked by the bucket.

Twenty minutes later, Elsie will run in and find him standing there still, a quarter inch of water coating the floor, and decide that not even someone’s free labor is worth putting up with this much of a mess.