I manage to paw the door almost shut, so it is coal-cellar dark within, except for a pinstripe of light. The voices are coming closer, which is the only reason I can understand what they are saying. Both speak in cautious whispers, so I cannot tell whose voices I hear, or even what gender they are.
"Will they not miss you in the conference room meeting?" I hear one voice ask.
"Not in the dark," is the sardonic answer. "You sure that no one saw you come in today either?"
"Not even a mouse," says the other person with a chuckle. "As you suggested, it is going to be a big surprise. I can hardly wait for the unveiling afterward, when the others figure out who I really am. Will that blow them away!"
"Please! That phrase might bring back some bad memories."
"All my memories are bad ones, which is why it is so great we ran into each other again. Nothin' like old friends gettin' together and talking over old times. I bet some of us have forgotten more than we remember. Except me. I may not have a pot to piss in, 'scuse that phrase, but my memory's A-one. Hey, I even recognized you first. Imagine that, running into each other by coincidence in a great big city like New York. I bet that now that has happened, you will be seeing me again. And again. That is the way it goes. And I, uh, appreciate your doing something extra special for the Christmas kitty. You were always a big-spender... especially when the money was not yours."
"Whatever, whatever. We do not want your cover blown now. Better duck out of sight for the duration. Then you can hit the scene on cue. Got a glow-in-the-dark watch?"
"Hell, I think I still glow in the dark from the old days. Orange. Okay, I am outta here. See you later. I can hardly wait to see the others' expressions, afterwards."
"I guess you could say you are bringing them some extra holiday presence."
"Presence, spelled like presence? Pretty good. You were always clever. Well, why sure I am gonna give 'em the Christmas surprise of their lives. I am supposed to be a jolly old soul."
At that point, somebody laughs, not a nice laugh at all.
I sigh in my closet, waiting for the parting rustles to subside. That is when I realize that I have been so intent on hearing this conversation (for I am nothing if not curious, to a fault), that I have been derelict in scouting out my refuge.
In fact, I realize that the background sound that was making my ears twitch now and then in annoyance was not the distant drone of some heating unit, but was a soft, rhythmic subsonic hiss like . . . breathing. Whoops! I am not alone. Something is in here. With me. In the dark. Making not a peep, like it does not wish to be detected either.
Too bad I do not have one of those bowser-quality snouts that can scent anything from garbage to Garbo at fifty feet. My sniffer is pretty sharp on a certain range of odors, mostly animal and vegetable, but I am not a tracker by profession. If I cannot tell who is my closet-mate, I am also not sure what is confined with me.
I hear the rustle of motion behind me. The odors of turpentine and lemon oil clothe the intruder in a miasma of mystery. This could be a tiny little Manhattan house mouse, for all I know, or Jurassic Alligator.
I am trying to decide if it is worth my while to find out which when an aluminum pail comes sweeping down over me like a bell, doubling the darkness and caging me with an overbearing scent of Mr. Clean.
I loathe any kind of involuntary confinement, so I bolt out from under the descending metal prison at the last instant. I head for the spaghetti-thin line of light where the door do-si-dos with the door-jamb. In my haste, I manage to go dancing in the dark with one of those old-fashioned string dust mops that is all cotton-twist tendrils dripping oil and allergens. I am about to sneeze, and the floppy mop part is hanging over my head like a wig.
I hate being in the dark.
So I lose the dust mop and bust the door open without looking back to see what creature is stirring behind me. I also loose a big sneeze as I head back toward the home movies, where I know what I'm keeping company with in the dark, feeling as if a herd of demonic reindeer were behind me. Down the hall, I dart into the first ajar door, under the mistaken impression I will be greeted by my own lovely mug up close and personal on a big-screen TV.
Have I taken a wrong turn!
I am in a conference room, all right, but every light in the place is blazing and a lot more that do not normally belong here, even though this is New York City and they do a lot of things that are not normal here all year long. Some people think that my hometown is a bit unreal, but they have never explored the outer limits of this toddling town, let me tell you.
Anyway, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer?
They are hanging high on the wall, just under the ceiling, and Rudolph's nose is blinking like a big red stoplight. (I wonder if Rudolph is any relation to that chef, Reuben?) Beneath this poster paint stands this awesome 3-D chimney, all red brick and dripping cottony snow from the top as if it had the sniffles.
I think fondly of the chimney through which I made my dramatic but sooty entrance at the Halloween seance to revive Houdini. Perhaps I can manage such a trick tonight. That would impress Solange, the ad people and The Client. Maybe even Miss Temple, but I doubt it. She does not seem to be surprised by anything I do any more.
Just call me the Mystifying Mr. Midnight.
I trot over to investigate the scene of my next transportation triumph.
I pass a real live Christmas tree in one corner, smelling like pine room deodorizer. It is decked with golden garlands and little glass . . . well, I will be a monkey's uncle, but only if one of my relatives has gotten into something kinky! Tiny glass cats hang all over the tree, dangling from golden cords around their translucent necks. I edge over to investigate, and recognize statues of Bast, upright, with her front legs straight as columns and a twenty-four-carat gilt ring glimmering in one ear. I shiver a hair. Actually, several hairs. I could stand a little less Bast in my life of late.
But I am immediately distracted by a swath of wrapped presents under the tree. Dozens and dozens. Here and there I scent the real smell of Christmas . . . exotic, imported catnip!
I can hardly restrain myself from snicking out my shivs and tearing into that primo stuff.
But I am applying for a job here. It would be best not to display any addictive habits until the position is in the bag. Or I am.
My eyes narrow. I know that rat Maurice has been waiting to make his move on me. I wonder if I can turn the tables on him before he even knows we are talking furniture.
At least I have a preview of the treats to come. I study the empty folding chairs, the long table lined up against a wall with an empty punch bowl on one end. Enough of the media feeding frenzy in the other conference room, folks! I have had my hour in the spotlight, and am now ready to eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we vie. Again.
"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on Donner and Blitzen!"
I can hardly wait to meet those naughty-but-nice girls, Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, and having Cupid in there does not hurt a bit when it comes to Christmas merriment. Then we can all get Blitzened.
But for now I slip back into the darkened conference room, where all present are gazing raptly at my onscreen pirouettes, unaware that I was not merely performing but running for my very life from a lurking assassin ... and have likely just done so again!
What they do not know will not hurt them, or my film career. What a pro I am! At both of my professions. I pussyfoot up to the familiar form, scent and foot of Miss Temple Barr. She was not loitering anonymously in any closets, and she will have no notion of my recent close encounter. When the lights come on, I will be sitting meekly beside her, ready for shoveling into whatever distasteful means of confinement and transport she finds necessary in the Big Apple.