The holiday season was upon us once again. Frank Sinatra crooning Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas blared from the speakers above my head, and filled State Street with its insistent reminder. Last minute, maxed-out shoppers pushed past me, their arms laden with hastily purchased Christmas gifts, trying to get home before the imminent storm.
Having succumbed hours earlier to my cyclical depression, I positioned my empty-handed self under one of Marshall Field’s green canopies, lit up a Virginia Slim, and waited to be rescued—willing the family Escalade to suddenly materialize on this ‘great street’.
Earlier in the day, we had done our traditional family bonding: we had eaten lunch at the Walnut Room; the kids had seen Santa—Marshall Field’s version of the fat old man; we had ‘ooed’ and ‘ahhed’ at Field’s Christmas window displays, and purchased ten boxes of Frango Mints for holiday gift giving. Then Steve, my husband of seven years, had taken our three little girls 'off my hands', so I could shop in peace, which I hadn’t.
A strange little man, vodka bottle in hand, shuffled past, his soiled stocking cap pulled down over his ears. A sharp wind gust sliced at his sunken cheeks. He was coatless, not yet having confiscated an outer garment for his winter survival; his baggy, chino pants were held together with bailing twine. A holey, shapeless brown sweater hung loosely on his sparse, stooped frame; mismatched sneakers covered his naked feet.
My common sense told me he should be in search of socks and a coat, but as he tossed the empty vodka bottle toward the curb, I knew how the rest of this day before Christmas would be spent—how every waking moment had been spent. Vodka will do that.
He stopped abruptly, turned toward me, and smiled—a drunken, toothless grin. He was younger than he had appeared at first glance. He resembled my nephew, who was safely tucked away in his dorm room at Notre Dame, downing vodka shooters.
He held out his calloused, crusty hand. “Can you spare a buck, lady?”
I had a five-dollar bill in my right coat pockets. Pocket change.
“I’m sorry, I don’t carry money.” I lied, as I held fast to the strap on my Prada shoulder bag as the snow started to fall from the darkening sky.
“In that creamy leather bag?” he countered, his smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
Uneasy, I pulled my purse toward me as I looked away. The sign in the front window of the restaurant across the street caught my eye.
“Best Burgers on State Street—Bar None!”
I turned back toward him. “How about a burger and a cup of coffee?” I pointed toward the sign. “I’m sure they take credit cards.”
I stepped out from under the protection of the canopy as I moved into his personal space, “How does that sound?”
He backed away, turned, and shuffled on.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I called after him as I crushed my cigarette into the wet sidewalk with the toe of my leather boot.
He continued his journey.
“I could do that.” I raised my voice above the wind gusts. “Buy you a burger with my credit card.”
I fingered the five spot lounging in my cozy pocket. He wanted vodka. I knew that. Another pint for now would do. I knew that. Take off the edge. Ah, yes—the edge.
I hurried after him, “Wait! I found some money!”
I pulled the five-dollar bill out of its hiding place. Pocket change. The wind howled around the corner, stung my face and peppered me with snow pellets.
The young man shuffled toward me, fighting the gust.
I held out the five dollars. “You could probably get a side of fries, too.”
He looked toward the restaurant, his eyes lingering for a moment. He looked into my eyes, connecting for an instant. Then he looked down, slipped the money out of my hand, rolled it up and stuffed it into the front pocket of his chinos. He mumbled something as he turned and shuffled off into the deepening storm—sock less and coatless—in search of his master.
I spotted the Escalade as Steve made the turn from Randolph Street onto State. He stopped in front of Marshall Field’s, tires crunching on the icy accumulation at the curb.
The vodka bottle caught my eye as I stepped from the icy curb toward my waiting family. I could almost feel the clear, bitter liquid going down my throat, coursing through my body, as the edge melted away.
Steve tapped the horn and startled me sober. I looked up to see the worry hidden behind his smile as he reached over and unlocked the passenger door. I stepped over the vodka bottle, opened the car door, and climbed into the warmth of my life.
I glanced toward the sidewalk in front of the restaurant as we merged into the snail-paced traffic, and that’s when I saw him, his soiled stocking cap pulled down over his ears. He was standing in front of the restaurant looking in the window.
I undid my seatbelt, reached back and touched each of my sleeping angels, then I kissed Steve on the cheek, and whispered, “Merry Christmas”, and I meant it—for the first time in a long time.
Steve reached over and buckled me in.
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