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"Look at you," Dad said as he adjusted my tie from behind. "You clean up really well."

The young chipmunk in the mirror was quite dashing in his well-tailored suit, the triangular cuts and sharp vertical lines thinning his portly figure. I hardly recognized him as myself. "Wow," I managed.

"Yeah, you're really gonna wow them tonight," Dad chirped, holding my shoulders, pride radiating from his reflection.

"These clothes are so expensive, though," I protested feebly, truly enamored with how good they made me look. The tailor stood in the corner with his tape measurer in his hooves, stroking his goat beard and watching my father's reaction from three different angles in the shop's massive set of mirrors.

"Stop worrying about the price tag, kiddo," he chided. "Turn around, look at yourself."

It wasn't hard with the way the mirrors were angled. The back of the jacket split perfectly to allow my bushy tail to perk up without getting caught on the fabric, and the cuffs of my pants didn't drag over the ground. The shoes still felt a little tight, but my father had insisted that leather needs to stretch.

"Why haven't I ever looked this good in a suit before?" I wondered aloud. Even when I flexed my arms, my sleeves seemed to stay the right length, never bunched up or too short.

"Because they don't make suits off the rack for short, chubby guys like us," Dad replied, spinning his finger over me to indicate to the waiting tailor that this package was good to go. "If you want to look good, you have to get a tailored fit. There's no other way about it."

I'd never felt particularly attractive before, but my first real suit even made my natural bedhead look dapper. I bruxed at myself, feeling like I could steal the hearts of a hundred dads. "It's actually kind of sexy, isn't it?"

"Clunk." The older chipmunk gave me a disapproving look over his round spectacles.

"You don't think so?"

"You look good. Let's leave it at that," he replied, giving me a wink and a firm pat on the shoulder.

"Alright, Mr. Russell," the well-dressed goat began as he reentered the room. "Your total comes out to--"

"Don't say it out loud. You'll scare the boy," Dad joked, handing the tailor his credit card.

"Remind me again what exactly we're doing tonight that calls for such expensive taste?" I wanted to know.

"I told you," Dad said, adjusting his own tie in the mirror, "it's an office Christmas party. Gonna show you off to my coworkers, so you gotta look as good as your old man."

"Well," I admitted, "We've certainly managed that, beyond what I ever thought possible."

"You're gonna knock 'em dead, kiddo."

---

Darkness greeted us early on the solstice. It was barely five o'clock when we stepped into the night and made our way into the heart of the city, but the street lamps were already in full bloom. For the past couple of weeks, the puffy, black coat my father had gotten me had sufficed to ward off the Chicago winter, but Dad insisted that a tailored suit should be paired with a tailored overcoat. I hadn't argued; I found the camel color to be quite fetching against my ruddy fur, and I'd discovered I liked looking good. Now that we were out in the elements, though, the wool fabric was no match for the icy wind blowing through the city from Lake Michigan, and I was grateful for the heated waiting areas on the train platform.

On the El-Train, the butterflies started setting in as the reality of being at a party full of strangers dawned on me. I grabbed my father's paw and squeezed it.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"What do you mean? Of course it's a good idea." My father frowned, leaning forward in his seat to study my face at a better angle. "What makes you say that?"

"I'm just... a little awkward around strangers. And, you know, I'm not really much to show off."

"Nonsense," Dad said, bumping elbows with me. "You're amazing, and everyone's gonna love you. And if they don't, they're fired," he added, trying to get a smile out of me.

It worked.

"Just stick close to me, Clunk," Dad said, slipping his fingers between mine. "You'll be OK."

"Yes, sir," I said, leaning against his shoulder as the train jostled us up and down. My father was sporting that maple-scented cologne I loved. So many perfumes can be cloying or chemical, but my old man really knew how to pick the ones that made me feel like everything was going to be OK.

From the Loop, we walked a few blocks toward the lake, where the buildings towered high into the night sky. One of those nondescript skyscrapers held my father's corporate office. On the way up the elevator, my nerves got the best of me again, and the sound of my teeth grinding together began to drown out the mechanical whir of the lift. Dad put his arm over my shoulder and pulled me close, kissing me on the temple. "You're gonna do fine," he whispered in my ear.

The Geico office party was held on the 32nd floor, the digital elevator attendant announced as she opened the gate for us. We stepped out into a room framed on either side by doublewide glass doors, and my father swiped a key card against an unassuming black box that granted us access to the other side with a click. We disrobed out of our winter gear in a small, brightly-lit room opposite the double doors, where other employees had neatly stowed their coats and scarves. Dad held me at arms length and looked me over, brushing nonexistent fur off my black lapel before nodding his approval.

"You ready?" He asked.

"Yep," I lied, rubbing the nerves out of my cheeks.

"Hey," he said, tilting his short muzzle down to look at me over his glasses. "You look sharp, kid."

"I know."

"Does it feel good?" he asked, his lip curling into a reassuring smirk.

"It makes me feel a lot more confident," I admitted. "Thanks."

"Deep breaths," Dad instructed, leading me through the motions with illustrative paws. His movements betrayed no rush, like he'd stay in that coat closet with me all night until I was ready.

"Thanks," I said again at length, pulling my bushy tail around my middle to fluff it before shaking it out. "I can do this."

"I know you can. Let's go, kiddo."

"Jim!" The boisterous voice greeted us the moment we stepped into the noisy party room. A grey-furred mouse about my height hailed us over, and my dad's paw pressed forward on my lower back, ushering me along with his uneven gait.

"And it looks like you brought a clone. Hello, there!" The mouse shifted a plastic cup from one paw to the other and extended his right paw. I grabbed it automatically, and he shook me fervently as my father introduced us.

"Greg, this is my son, Clunk. He's come to stay with me for a few months."

"Ah, yes, I've heard all about you," said Greg, grasping my shoulder. "Jim didn't tell me you were so grown up, though. Gonna need a step ladder to say hello pretty soon!"

I smiled. Only a rodent could say such a thing about a boy less than four feet tall.

"Not much of a talker, is he," Greg noted, patting my arm.

"He's a little nervous," Dad explained. "Let him get used to the place."

Indeed, the din of the cafeteria-sized room was a little unnerving, not entirely unlike the Christmases I spent in my early childhood at my grandparents, only where their house had been filled with the warm smell of chestnuts and cookies, this place smelled of sterilized linoleum and unfamiliar animal dander. A bar had been set up along the far side of the room with a potluck buffet, and a small, corporate-white Christmas tree stood well-decorated as the centerpiece of the long table. Efforts had been made to make this place a holiday haven, but it still had the trappings of an office building. Somehow, "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" seemed like an inappropriate theme song to underscore the gathering, and it sounded a bit lifeless through the tinny announcement speakers in the ceiling.

I tugged on my father's sleeve, beckoning him to lean his ear a little closer. "Give me a mission," I whispered.

"A mission?" He repeated, equally hushed.

"It'll give me something to focus on. Helps with the nerves."

My father scanned the room, then brought his paw up to his muzzle to hide his secret task. "Every year, Maggie makes her grandmother's fruitcake recipe for the potluck, and not a single person dares to try it. Apparently, it takes her over a month to make. Seems like a waste, doesn't it?"

I nodded. He'd remembered how I'd distracted my nerves the first time we met, and that cheered me up.

"You know what you gotta do?" he said aloud, straightening up with a tug of his silk jacket.

"Yes, sir!" I clasped my paws together, took a deep breath, and started marching my way toward the potluck on the other side of the room. As I walked away, I heard Greg ask my father, "What was that all about?" But idle chatter overtook my father's reply before I could make it out.

I made it about halfway across the office rec room before a sound halted me in my tracks.

"Oh, is that Jim's little man I see over there?" The Minnesota voice clearly intended that question for me. I turned to find a red doe in a tacky Christmas sweater making her way toward me around the circular folding tables clustered together in the middle of the room.

"Oh, my goodness, it is!" she answered herself, now towering a good foot and a half over me and bending down to address me. "Why, I'd almost mistake you for Jim if you didn't have such a baby face!"

"I get that a lot," I replied politely, slightly distracted by the erratic pattern of Christmas lights flashing on her chest.

"And you're a skosh more handsome in a suit as well, dontcha know." I let her reach down and pinch my pudgy cheek. Her hooves smelled like warm milk and brown sugar.

"Aw, I don't know about that. I wouldn't look this good without his help, I assure you."

"Oh, don't be so modest! Now, what did he say your name was?" she asked, tapping her chin as if searching her own mind for the answer.

"Clunk."

"Clunk," she tested the name out. "Now there's a funny-sounding name if I ever heard one."

"My mum doesn't have a very good sense of humor, but it suits me just fine."

"Well, Clunk, it's good to finally meetcha! I'm Maggie." Maggie curtsied, her large ears splaying out to match the motion of her arms.

"Hey! How about that! I was just heading over to the buffet table to try some of your infamous fruitcake," I said, thumbing over my shoulder.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," she sighed in dramatized indignation. "Who said it was infamous? Did Jim say that?"

"Something like that," I chuckled.

"Infamous, he says. Well, you don't pay him any mind. These cowards don't know what they're missing. Come on, I'll cut you a nice, big slice myself," she said, ushering me along with a wave and leading me from behind.

"Have you ever had a fruitcake before?"

"No, I can't say I have," I replied, allowing her to guide me.

"Well, then I won't spoil it for you. I can't wait to hear what you think!"

Up to this point, I'd only experienced fruitcake as a punchline. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I knew it was supposed to be terrible. For the purpose of focusing nervous energy in a different direction, this kind of adventure perfectly suited the goal -- experiencing the apprehension, working up the nerve, taking the plunge, and knowing that at the end of it all, there would be no dire consequences one way or another. Plus, I'd have a story to tell about my first encounter with everyone's least-favorite holiday dessert. But I did not welcome the added stress of having my reaction judged by the person who spent over a month preparing it.

"Oh, um, OK," I fumbled, unable to mount a protest on my own behalf.

On the potluck bar, the dark-brown, bundt-style cake was helpfully labeled "Maggie's Fruitcake" and coupled with a long cake knife. True to my father's word, the cake remained untouched, but the deer was unperturbed. Maggie cut me out a significant wedge and served it to me with a plastic fork.

I looked down at the small, heavy dessert plate held in my paws, then back up at the doe who had bent down to study my reaction up close, her features alert in a way only deer can manage. I must have made some kind of face, because her brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"Um..." I took a small step back. "It's just a little nerve-wracking with you staring."

"Oh," she said, straightening up and clicking her hooves together, looking for an excuse to flee. "I'll go get you something to drink. Gus made some really delicious rainbow sherbet punch, dontcha know."

"That sounds great, thanks," I sighed out, my shoulders relaxing. I watched her stroll away, her short tail flitting back and forth, then looked back down at my slice of cake.

Well, it wasn't like any cake I'd ever seen. It seemed like a very dense nutbread, with flecks of raisins, sour cherries, and other dried fruit. I decided to forgo the fork and picked the slice up by the thick end of the wedge, bringing it reluctantly to my muzzle. The heavy gingerbread spice stung in my nose, but an even more potent smell like burning honey and wet cinnamon wafted off the cake in unrelenting waves. It reminded me of my father's kiss the day he saved me from drowning in the lake.

For a brief moment, I looked up to see Maggie watching from further down the table, ears perked. As soon as we made eye contact, she turned the other way, ladling punch into a small plastic cup, but her left ear remained swiveled toward me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and took a hearty, fearless bite.

"Oh, my God..."

Maggie hurried over, almost spilling the two cups of punch she held in her grasp. "Well?"

"I thought it was going to be really sweet, but this is very different."

"Good different?" She leaned in.

"Actually, yeah. Hazelnuts and macadamias are my favorites, and it's like..." I gestured with the wedge in my paw to bring the right words to mind.

"Moist?" Maggie suggested, nodding for me to agree.

"Yes, definitely, but it's thick and it tastes like Christmas smells." I took another bite.

"Yes! Cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and molasses. Oh, and a skosh of allspice," she beamed.

"And the fruits are chewy and kinda sour, but they aren't gross. And there's some kind of alcohol in here, I'm pretty sure."

"That would be the bourbon."

"A ha!" Dad's drink of choice, I'd recently learned.

"My grandmother used to soak her fruits in bourbon as far back as the Fourth of July, dontcha know. She'd keep these little jars labeled with masking tape at the back of the kitchen counter until about a week before Christmas. I think it might drive my husband a little coo coo if I started doing that, so I wait until just before Thanksgiving when everyone's already in a feasting sort of mood."

I stood and ate the rest of my slice while she reminisced. Once my paw was free and my cheeks were packed full, Maggie passed me the sherbet punch to wash it all down. It paired nicely with her grandmother's cake, which helped to cancel out some of the sugar of the confectionary drink.

"Oh, Clunk, if only the adults in the room were as brave as you," she lamented over her plastic cup. "I'll bet you half of these animals haven't had a slice of fruitcake in their lives. And the other half, they've had that nasty, mail order nonsense with the fake cherries."

"Fake cherries?"

"Oh, you know the type. Those radioactive green and red pieces of candy they put on top of that dried-up brick of bread they dare call fruitcake."

"I've actually never even seen a fruitcake before tonight."

"Well, you'll just have to take my word for it. My grandmother's recipe kicks the pants off of the competition. You'll have to spread the good word for me, Clunk."

"Yes, ma'am," I affirmed, brushing my whiskers off to take care of any remaining crumbs.

"Well, I've certainly hovered over you enough, goodness knows. Thanks for being a dear. If I don't run into your pop tonight, be sure to tell him Merry Christmas from his favorite doe!"

"Yes ma'am," I repeated. I heaved a great sigh of relief as she walked away. Though this adventure was successful, the pressure of being studied left me feeling unfulfilled and on edge. While the bulk of the office was well-lit in florescent lighting, I'd noticed an unlit hallway on the other side of the coat room where we'd come in, so I moved along the walls of the great room to avoid any further social interaction and slipped down the corridor into the shadows.

It's in a rodent's nature to passively notate escape routes when our nerves are armed with anxiety. I learned early on that dark, empty rooms make for excellent recharging stations during crowded parties. I could often sit in a dimly-lit bedroom or unattended parlor for upwards of an hour in total silence, leaving the din of conversation and music in the distance until I felt able to tackle the noise again.

I padded down toward the end of the hall, guided entirely by the timid glow of emergency lights, until I could barely hear the tin-can echos of "Jingle Bell Rock" bouncing off the linoleum. Most of the doors were locked, but I found an unmanned restroom that was still accessible and hid inside.

The whir of the bathroom fan drowned out any remaining sound once the door eased closed behind me. Despite the intense lighting, this was exactly the escape I was looking for. I made my way into the only stall and locked myself in, climbing up onto the toilet seat and resting my head in my paws.

I closed my eyes and breathed deep, slow breaths. Bathrooms tend to be host to a bevy of pungent scents, but here, the clean smell of lavender pleasantly masked any offensive odors, which helped me relax.

I sat for about 10 minutes before opening my eyes and actually looking around, blinking as my pupils readjusted to the brightness of the room. The floor seemed to roll up into the wall, curving instead of coming to a 90 degree angle where the two met, and the toilet was set deep into the back of the room away from the louvered stall door. Instead of a flimsy wooden divider, the stall was fully separated from the rest of the bathroom by a tiled wall that rose to about five and a half feet above the floor before leveling off. It made for a very cozy bunker within an already intimate space. If I'd wanted to hide away, I thought, I wouldn't even need to pull up my footpaws.

In fact, I realized, my body perking up as it dawned on me, I could get away with a lot of things in a space like this. I began drafting a dozen different brews of mischief in my head, each more salacious than the last, but one plotted out so perfectly, I knew I couldn't pass it up.

Being Maggie's praegustator had left me drained, and I decided I needed a new mission to focus on, one I was certain would do the trick. I climbed out of the stall and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, turned on the tap, and splashed my fuzzy face with water to cool the burning in my cheeks. My heart fluttered, my exhaustion replaced with an invigorating anxiousness, the kind you'd feel just before jumping out of an airplane with nothing but a parachute and a prayer.

---

"Oh, hey, there you are!" My dad grinned, pulling me under his arm in a hug as I returned to his side. "This is my kid," he explained to a lithe cheetah and a broad-shouldered timber wolf who looked down at us over their plastic cups as if we were both children.

"Oh, he's like your little twin!" the cheetah cooed. "You're even wearing little matching outfits!"

The wolf elbowed the feline. "Dude. He's ten years older than you and your senior. Stop calling him little."

"Jesus, Brady, you're like a linebacker!" the cheetah winced, nursing his ribs. "I'm sorry, Jim. But seriously, that family resemblance is Un. Canny!"

"Don't worry about it," my father waved off the offense in good spirits. "He certainly does take after his old man, doesn't he?"

"Hey, Dad?" I interrupted. "I gotta use the bathroom. Can you show me where it is?"

"Oh, sure, kiddo! There's one right over there on the other side of the elevators," my father said, shifting me out of his grip and pointing me off into the distance.

"Can you show me?"

"Oh, um..." Dad caught my drift. "Yeah. Hey, Gus, will you excuse us for a moment?"

The cheetah released us with a wave of his paw. "Of course, Jimbo!"

As we maneuvered through the tables and chairs, my dad leaned in. "Everything alright, Clunk?"

"Yeah, I just wanted your help with something."

As we approached the elevators, I shifted to the front and grabbed my father by the wrist, leading him past the coat room into the darkened corridor instead.

"Where, uh... where are we going?" he asked, nearly tripping over his stiff leg as he looked back at the party I'd pulled him away from. "I thought you had to use the bathroom."

"I wanna show you something."

"Clunk, remember that I work here."

"I know."

I heard his teeth start grinding behind me.

"Don't worry, it's nothing bad," I reassured him over my shoulder.

When we reached the secret bathroom, I gave a quick glance down the hall to make sure we weren't followed, then beckoned him inside.

"What's wrong with the other bathroom?" Dad wanted to know as the door fell shut behind him.

"This one's more private," I said, sidling up to him like a shy date hoping for a goodnight kiss.

"Clunk," my father sighed as his back pressed against the door. "Not here."

_ Wanna see what happens here? You'll have to check it out on Inkbunny! _

https://inkbunny.net/s/3205040

I led my father by the wrist as we scurried down the dark hallway toward the noisy rec room. We snuck in along the back wall and managed to get all the way to the buffet table before anyone noticed.

"Jim! Where the hell ya been, man?" Greg waved us down and made a fast approach. "I've been lookin' all over for ya!"

I could sense my father beginning to panic. Quickly, I grabbed the long cake knife on the table and carved out a hefty slice of Maggie's infamous fruitcake.

"Eat this," I said, shoving the wedge into my father's face.

Dad was clearly distracted, as several coworkers were now moving toward the potluck where we were standing. Without even considering what I'd put in front of his muzzle, he took a bite.

"Oh my god. What is this?" He said, suddenly pulled from his anxious trance.

"Fruitcake," I said, taking a bite for myself.

"This is really good!"

"What is?" Greg the mouse had arrived.

"This," I said.

Greg's brow furrowed as he sampled the cake I'd presented, his eyes wandering as he analyzed what he'd put into his mouth. Suddenly, he was two inches taller, as if his dumbo ears had lifted him out of his natural slouch. "Oh, wow. Is this Maggie's fruitcake?"

"The very same!" I replied, taking another chomp.

"It's so moist! This isn't what I was expecting at all!"

"Hey Jim, there you are!" A vixen had made her way into our circle. "What's gotten into the two of you?"

"You have to try some of this, Julie," Greg insisted.

"Some of what?"

"Maggie's fruitcake," I chimed in, offering a chunk of the thick wedge.

Before long, we had a crowd of animals gathered, wondering what the commotion was.

"That bourbon flavor really brings just the right amount of sweetness, doesn't it?" my father commented, completely forgetting his anxiety. "I've never had a fruitcake that tasted like this."

"How can it be this good?"

"Let me try a slice!"

"Whoa, I could get totally schnookered off of this!"

"Where the heck is Maggie?"

The unexpected star of the office party, Maggie beamed as she was showered with praise, all too happy to share stories and spill her grandmother's secrets. Meanwhile, the spices and alcohol effectively killed any last trace of mischief from our breaths, and Dad and I got away scot-free.

There's nothing like a plan coming together to give you the social confidence you need to schmooze with strangers. Dad told me I lit up like the Las Vegas Strip after that, laughing and trading chitchat like it was second nature.

--

"I gotta say, you were pretty incredible tonight," Dad said as we huddled in front of the fireplace in our Christmas-themed pajamas, drinking hazelnut hot cocoa in our dark apartment. "In more ways than one."

"I try," I smiled, warming my lips with the rim of my oversized mug.

"And what you did for Maggie was very kind."

"I can't take all the credit for that one. It was your idea to try Maggie's fruitcake in the first place."

"Well, she's gonna have to make two of them next year, that's for sure."

My Dad sighed. He looked serene in the flickering fireglow, and that made me feel more warmth than the gas flames could ever give off. We sat in silence together for a few minutes, while the stereo on the far side of the room hummed an instrumental version of "Christmas Time Is Here" in the background. It made a much better soundtrack for the night than the sterile holiday pop music that had overpowered the office speaker system. It felt like my father: warm, familiar, and full of hope and longing.

"You know what," Dad said, setting his cocoa to the side and standing up with a grunt of effort. "I have something I wanna give you. Wait right here."

I turned to watch him hobble over to the closet where we'd hung our tailored overcoats, pull out a step stool with his footpaw, and search for something high up on the top rack. Whatever it was, he hid it behind his back as he limped back over and plopped back down on the wooden floor next to me.

"So, typically, you wait until Christmas for this type of thing, but pagans celebrate Yule on the solstice, so I think this is close enough."

He stretched his paw toward me and presented me with a small, thick package wrapped in green and red striped paper.

"Merry Christmas, Clunk," he said with an expectant smile.

"Dad..." My ears pulled back. "But... I didn't get you anything in return."

"Don't worry about that, kiddo. People your age should be receiving gifts on Christmas, not giving them." He gave the box a shake.

"I don't... know if I deserve this," I continued to hesitate. "You've already given me so many things."

"Well that's the great thing about gifts, Clunk. You don't have to earn them. You just have to accept them."

My teeth clicked together.

"And it would make your old man really happy."

I put down my mug. Slowly, I reached out and took the box from his paw, then held it in my lap.

"I'm sorry, I'm just not used to this."

"I know," my Dad said. "I'm sorry, too."

"Should I open it?"

"I am dying for you to open it."

I carefully slid my claw underneath the folded corner of the neatly wrapped package, removing the scotch tape without tearing the paper.

"Clunk, I have never seen a 15-year-old boy open a Christmas present so solemnly in my entire life."

"I'm supposed to rip into it, aren't I."

"Tear that sucker up, kiddo! You're killing me!"

I laughed, and ripped through the rest of the paper to reveal my prize.

"Chrononauts?"

"Yeah! It's a card game where you're a time traveller, and you have to change history in order to get back to the future you came from. And each different character you can play comes with their own mini science fiction story on the card."

"Oh, wow! That sounds really cool!"

"And," Dad was excited to explain, "it can be played with just two players, so you and me can play it here at home without having to go to the game store. It even has a single player option if you get bored while I'm at work."

I was smiling so hard I thought I might tear up. "That was really thoughtful."

"Yeah, well..." Dad's whiskers betrayed a bashful blush beneath his fur. "I hope you like it. Merry Christmas."

"Thanks, Dad," I said earnestly, crawling over to give him the biggest hug I could manage. "I love you."

Dad held me and kissed me on the forehead. "I love you, too, kiddo. I really do."

We might have camped out on the floor that night, but Dad said he was too old to sleep on hardwood. Instead, we finished up our cocoa and pulled out the couch bed so we could sleep where all the heat was in the apartment. My father layered up three thick comforters he had hidden in his bedroom closet, and we cuddled up and kept each other warm through the cold, winter night.