| General Fiction posted November 19, 2024 |
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A simple Christmas story.
Home for Christmas
by EeanBlack
Christmas Story Contest Winner
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.Sitting alone at the end of the bar, I have already finished a very good, and strong, long island iced tea, heard some good ole' classic song, and checked out the woman at the other end of the bar. She and I are not interested in each other. But, I am feeling good.
The music is loud and the lights are low. Except for the Christmas lights thrown all around the place. They're so bright you could land a 747 right on the end of the bar. My kind of ambiance. If I only had a girl. Not a looker in the place. Except the lady at the end of the bar, but we already know how that went. No worries.
It's this place itself, that gets me. It's on the North East coast, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of winter. Why did I accept this sales appointment anyway? I don't need the money. I don't like the cold. My boss loves me. She would give me any appointment I ask for. But, I didn't ask for this one. She asked me. She said, "Mikey, this is a low to no sale situation. I just feel that someone or something needs you there to sell something to them. Do you even understand that?"
"I do understand that, Monica, but I get the Southwest Region next quarter, or I'm done."
She agrees, knowing she will never give me the Southwest Region. I agree, knowing I will never see the Southwest Region, and we hang up. Period. Why do I do this to myself. I'm very good at my job. I can work anywhere. I'm just too nice of a guy. It gets me nowhere.
I find that being a nice guy doesn't always translate well to others when you are getting drunk, though, and, I AM getting drunk.
I know what's really bothering me, but I would never admit it to anyone else. I'm, just lonely. It's Christmas and I'm on the road, again. No family, no friends, just nobody. But, I'm a salesman. There is no rest for me. These samples won't sell themselves.
Well, they're gonna have to tonight, I'm getting shit-faced.
"Barkeep, give me another one of these!" I can feel the belligerence building, fighting to get out. I can never hold my alcohol. I feel a fight coming on. "Barkeep!"
"Dude, if you yell barkeep at me one more time, I'm throwin' you right out on your ass."
Bullshit, boy, I've been bouncing bouncers since before you even learned how to, well, bounce. Besides, it's Christmas. Everybody's getting loud. Besides, he doesn't know who he's messing with. "Oh yeah. Barkeep!"
So, not only does he not know who he's messing with, he also doesn't care. I didn't actually bounce, while being bounced from the bar, I kind of skidded on my head and shoulder, and rolled over onto my ass. You know, that part of me I just showed to the world to actually get thrown out of this bar in the first place. Yes sir, I'm pretty good at that. "Stop looking at me lady, it takes a lot of effort to get rolled up in this position!"
Getting to my feet wasn't too difficult, but walking to my car is proving to be a pain in my ass, literally. I have slipped and fallen on the ice twice already, and yes, you know my chosen set of landing gear. Those two very firm, little butt cheeks. Thank God I work out. They ARE cold and numb, and still covered with snow, but still firm, or are they just frozen? I don't even know, now. Oh, the things you think of when you're drunk.
Somewhat sober NOW, I pull my keys from my pocket, unlock the door, and enter my car. I have remote start, but I can't manage to push the correct button. I can set off the alarm and make the lights flash, the wipers move, but I can't make the engine start by just pushing a little freaking button. So, now, I have to sit and let my car warm up. It's probably for the best, though. It gives me a chance to be even less inebriated.
*****
Feeling sober and ready to go, I pull out of the bar parking lot and onto the frozen, but empty street. I head in the direction of my motel; when a grumbling in my gut forces me to find a convenience store. "Yeah buddy, a couple of stale burritos to wash down all that beer I'm gonna drink, perfect."
I pull into the store parking lot and park by the door. I kill the engine, and, as I exit my car, I turn and use my remote start, just in case. Got it. I leave the engine running and I don't lock the doors, I'm only going to be a minute.
I set the six-pack, yes, a six-pack. of beer on the counter.
"Is this really all the beer you have?"
The attendant never even acknowledges me, but, I am persistently annoying, as usual.
"What do you have for hot snacks, man?"
The attendant looks at me coldly, then motions to the only hot snacks in the place. On a dirty little hot dog roller, were three very greasy, overcooked hot dogs glistening under a very dirty glass cover. They look nasty and dangerous, but, a man has to eat. I got all three, with some stale, dry buns and some rancid-smelling condiments to go with them. Don't worry, my tolerance is high. I've been eating like this forever.
Ringing up the dogs and beer seems daunting for the genius behind the counter, so I begin looking around and notice something very strange for this weather, for any weather, for that matter.
A little boy, about seven or eight years old enters the store. It's eleven o'clock at night, there is a foot of snow on the ground, the temperature is well below freezing and a little boy enters the store, alone.
I know, it happens all the time, but this little boy is wearing nothing but pajamas. More importantly, there are no other cars in the lot. This boy has walked from somewhere all alone, in the cold, at night, in his PAJAMAS!
The boy runs down the bread aisle, grabs a loaf of bread and a liter of soda, and sprints out the door into the cold night. Now, to me that IS odd.
"Did you see that?"
"I didn't see anything, man."
"You didn't see anything, really?"
"I said I didn't see nothin', man."
"Whatever, dude. Just ring my shit up."
The attendant finally rang up my purchase. I pay and head to my car.
*****
I pull onto the road and again head toward my motel. I'm glad I've sobered up because these roads are so packed with snow. I'm also glad I'm sober because I have the opportunity to experience the most beautiful array of Christmas lights I have ever seen. Every building, every light pole, every sign is lit to perfection. I have a moderate amount of Christmas spirit myself, but this town, this town is lit, except for the guy at the gas station. I think he is more burned out than lit, and the "BARKEEP". That dude is a serious Christmas party pooper...period. He harshed my buzz in a wink.
I pull into my motel parking lot to see even more decorations and lights. "Okay, that's a little overkill. That Santa must be ten feet tall."
"Mister." THE VOICE is tiny and timid, but it is a true and wonderful little voice. The crackle in it sent a chill down my spine. It's one of those moments where you know you are now sober and really wish you weren't.
I turn around to see the most beautiful, but small boy wearing pajamas, eating bread, and drinking soda in my back seat. I wasn't startled, but I was a little bewildered.
"How did you get in my car, little man?"
"It was unlocked, and I was cold, and the man at the store, he-"
"That man! Boy, I don't think you'll ever have to worry about that man."
"Yeah, he's pretty stupid. I'm sorry I got in your car, sir. I was cold."
"I think I'm okay with that. It's you bein' out here all by yourself that's got me worried. Are you feeling warmer, now?"
"Yes sir. I made a mess of your car though."
"We ain't gonna worry about that. I gotta guy."
"Yes sir. Thank you, sir."
Yeah, I have a guy. Me! I'm the guy that's going to clean up your little mess. It must be the season because instead of getting angry, I felt the need to find out about the boy before I called the authorities. I know, I know, keep your feelings out of these things. But, I'm really starting to like this kid, and it worries ME too.
"Why are you out on a cold night like this by yourself, and why aren't you wearing any clothes?"
"I got clothes on."
"You got pajamas on."
"They're clothes, ain't they?"
"They are clothes, boy-"
"Mister, can you take me home? My momma is sick and hungry. I need to get back to her."
"Your momma is sick. Sick from what, little guy?"
"She's sick from the bottle, sir."
Man, this just ain't gonna get any better, is it?
"I think, maybe I should take you to the hospital and get somebody to check on your mother."
"No, mister! I told you my mamma's sick. I need to get home now!"
"Calm down little man, I'm just trying to help you, man."
"I can't leave her. I gotta get home now. Please mister, now, please."
He beaks down to nothing and I am truly on my way there also. I have to get a grip on myself, for both our sakes.
I have never seen so much anguish coming from a little child before. I decided to go and check out this increasingly strange situation. We will worry about the authorities later. I admit, this isn't me. I'm normally more pragmatic, but this boy has me intrigued. To be honest, he's kind of adorable, and now I just NEED to know.
*****
It is extremely hard for me to concentrate when I am coming down from a good alcohol buzz, I tend to get a little moody, but this young man needs help, and, I need something to do.
"So, which way is your house?"
He is a little confused at first, but eventually finds his orientation.
"Go that way and then turn right at that light. I'll tell you when we get there."
"So, how about you telling me your name, so I don't have to keep calling you boy all the time."
"My mamma told me not to give my name to strangers."
"Boy, you are sitting in the back seat of a strange mans car right now!"
"You are strange."
"Boy. Look, I think I, at least, need to know your name?"
"Maybe so. I probably need to know yours too, in case you try to rob my mamma."
"Boy, I ain't no crook. Rob your mamma, my ass. What I should do is spank your mamma's sons butt. But, that's not how I do things. My name is Eean. My friends call me Mikey."
I am not a crook, but he is. That little smart-ass just stole my heart.
"And your name is?"
He hesitates, then answers.
"My name is Patrick."
"Patrick? You do not look like no Patrick to me."
"But, my friends call me Mikey too."
"Your friends call you Mikey too, huh? You little smart- I'll just call you boy."
I am loving this little guy.
He takes a huge swig of soda. He puts the lid on the bottle and drops it on the floorboard, then ties the end of the bread sack as best he can and places it beside the soda. A very excited, but determined look crosses his face.
"Turn in there. That's my mamma's house. There! There, there, there."
"I hear you. Jeez, boy. You've got to lay off the soda."
I drive up the short, dirt drive and place the car in park. Immediately the boy jumps from the car and enters the house. He leaves the door open. I assume that is for my benefit.
The exterior of the house is just a shack. I can't judge though, I grew up in a similar place. I pretty much know what I'm going to find, beer cans and bottles everywhere, food and food wrappers everywhere, dirty clothes and all sorts of clutter, and, that nasty, greasy film that seems to cover every solid surface. I entered the home slowly.
A huge sigh of relief sneaks its way out of me when I see the condition of the interior. It is meticulously clean and surprisingly in good order. It is still just a shack, but livable.
I can hear the boy, in another room, talking to whom I could only assume is his mother. I can faintly hear their words, but can't make out what they are saying.
"Boy! Where are you?"
"I'm in here with my mamma."
He comes from the room and stands directly in front of me. With his head hanging low, he reaches his right hand out toward me.
"Here, this is the bottle she's been drinking from."
I take from him a clear plastic bottle with the remains of a thick, green, syrupy liquid in the bottom.
I hold back a huge giggle.
"Boy, this is just cough syrup. She's not sick from being on the bottle. She's on the bottle because she's sick. It's medicine, son."
He looks up at me with fear in his eyes.
"Is my momma gonna die like my daddy did?"
How can I answer that question? How can I not answer that question? I can't just leave him without any comfort.
"Can I talk to her?"
He immediately turns and runs into her room.
As quickly as he left, he returned.
"Mamma says she wants to talk to you."
"Will you take me to her?"
"She don't wanna talk to me. She wants to talk to you."
"Boy..."
I place my hands on each shoulder and turn him facing the room.
"Get in there, little Patrick or Mikey, or whatever you're calling yourself."
The door is half open. The boy quietly pushes it fully open and proceeds to the side of his mother's bed.
I stay just outside the door.
"Mamma. Mamma!"
In the faintest of light, I can see the boy's mother moving.
She answers very quietly, "What is it, Patrick?"
"Ha, your name is Patrick," I said quietly.
I was quiet, but his mother overheard me.
"Patrick, who did you let into my house, son?"
Patrick shyly answers.
"This man brought me home from the store."
"Patrick. Not again. How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak out at night? You're gonna get hurt." She is not amused.
I step into the room, curiously.
"Ma'am, is everything okay?", I asked.
"We're fine, sir. You can leave now, but thanks for bringing Patrick home."
I began remembering my childhood. I remember how isolated and lonely it can be as an only child of a single parent. I remember learning very important life lessons from very erroneous individuals, and, I remember the consequences of that education. I know it sounds crazy, but I can already picture my future with this kid in some weird fashion. If I can help it, I am not going to let my new friend Patrick down. What is pulling me toward this little smart-ass kid? A word to the wise, never make important life decisions suffering from a massive hangover. It can cause a broken heart.
****
I slam the door to my car and start the engine. My heart is sinking into an abysmal state of melancholy. I feel empty. I feel lost.
Looking through the windshield, I slowly follow the lights of the car the length of the dirt drive, past the tiny little hedge by the front porch, and come to rest upon a little boy, standing in the doorway of a run down little shack, crying.
"Oh, hell no."
I quickly kill the engine and exit the car. As I start my way back to the house, Patrick begins to walk toward me.
I can feel his tiny arms wrap around my leg. I can no longer choke back the honesty, and pick him up and carry him inside.
****
Patrick has fallen asleep on the sofa. I sit beside him and admire his beautiful little face. I feel I've known him forever. It is such a strange feeling.
While he sleeps, I take the opportunity to go check on his mother. She and I need to have an understanding if I am going to be able to help them through this.
Why am I doing this? The feeling of imposing or encroaching on a family, weighs heavy. I do not like feeling like a creep. But, the guilt of my abandonment of such a needy little soul, rakes my heart. He needs someone more desperately than I need my comfort.
I knock on the door, but get no answer. It is partially open, so I force myself to enter. The fear of being arrested for trespassing, or being accused and charged with something worse, is real, but I can't give up now. Any preemptive phone call to the authorities will certainly cause more harm than good for Patrick. I'm hoping that the same attitude toward me will hold some authority over his mother.
"Ma'am."
I take one step closer.
"Ma'am, are you awake?"
She is sleeping with her back to me, so I take a huge step toward her and reluctantly reach out to shake her shoulder.
"Ma'am."
To my horror, she roles in my direction, and opens her eyes.
The look on her face and the recoil of her body are more comical than can ever be imagined. I would have laughed allowed, had I not tripped over my own feet and bumped my head on her door during me own recoil.
She screamed, "What the hell are you still doing in my house? Get out, you creep, before I call the police."
I just knew somebody was going to call me a creep eventually. I just knew it.
"I found YOUR son running around in freezing temperatures, wearing nothing but pajamas. He stole food from the gas station down the road. You obviously need someone to help you for few days."
"Sir, I don't know you!"
"I know that. But, Patrick knows me. He trusts me."
"He's a child, a little boy! He can't-"
She begins to cough heavily. It becomes so heavy, so quickly, she loses consciousness.
Patrick woke, helped, of course, by the noise of his mother's and my encounter, and rushed into the room.
He leaps upon the bed.
I instinctively rush to check her.
"Patrick, let me in there to see what's going on."
Patrick moves to the side and I check her and find her not breathing. I reach in my pocket and retrieve my cell phone. I dial 911 and got an immediate answer.
"Yes, I have an unconscious woman here, and she's not breathing. I can, I guess. No. Patrick, what's the address."
"221 Poulson Street. Is my mamma gonna die?"
"It's 221 Poulson Street."
Another question I can't possibly answer. God, I am so not prepared for this.
"We're going to do everything we can. Right now I need you to take this phone and keep talking to this lady until the ambulance gets here. It's really important, okay."
He takes the phone like a pro and begins giving them directions to their house. I begin CPR. I've taken many, many classes on how to properly perform CPR, but, like most of us, I have never had to use it.
Per my last CPR training, I immediately began with 30 chest compressions, followed by 2 breaths, and then 30 more compressions. I will try to keep that rotation until help arrives, keeping between 100-120 compressions per minute. God help me help her.
She begins breathing on her own just minutes before the ambulance arrives. This is honestly not what I expected, so it is a very welcomed surprise.
Patrick and I follow them to the hospital.
I know I'm going to have to lie to be able to see Patrick's mother, so I take her purse and on the way to the hospital, I pump Patrick for all the information I can get.
****
By the time we arrive at the front desk, she has already been placed in a room for an overnight observation.
I give the bull squat information about being Patrick's uncle "Mikey", on her father's side, and we're able to go to her room.
Trying to explain the genuine feelings I have for Patrick and his situation to a woman with a severe respiratory issue, who is high on some medication that I have never heard of, is extremely difficult. She finally agrees with Patrick and me and then fell into a deep sleep.
I take Patrick to my hotel for this one night. As we spend our time watching television and eating all the junk food we bought in the vending machine downstairs, Patrick reminds me that it's almost Christmas. More importantly, he informs me that he hasn't bought his mom a gift this year. I also find out that his father died only a few months back.
God only knows which way this situation is going to end, but for now, we are together.
"I got an idea. How about, first thing in the morning, you and I go Christmas Shopping."
"I ain't got no money."
Of course, I already assume he doesn't.
"This Christmas is on me, buddy. If it's okay with you?"
"Momma says not to take money from strangers."
"But you already know me, so I don't count as a stranger."
"You count as strange though."
We both laugh.
"Okay, we'll figure this all out tomorrow. Now go to sleep. We have to see your mom tomorrow too."
"I don't know how I'm gonna sleep after eatin' all this sugar."
"Well, you better figure that out. No sleep no Christmas shopping."
A loud fake store echoes around the entire room. All is peaceful.
****
My neck is so stiff from sleeping on a hotel sofa, but Patrick, is feeling wonderful. He is excited and full of energy. Great.
"Let's go Christmas shopping!"
His enthusiasm is a little annoying, or, it would be if I weren't excited myself.
"Let's go get breakfast first. I needs my coffee, boy."
"I needs me some Christmas presents.", Patrick yells. He then starts changing the stations on my car radio.
"No coffee, no Christmas. And keep your little grubby hands off my music."
Patrick turns to me with a very serious look on his face. He leans toward me as close as he can get.
"You...need...coffee."
"You...need...a tooth brush.", I said. "We both burst out laughing, then, go get breakfast.
He did continue to mess with the damn radio though.
****
Patrick placed a tiny little present on his sleeping mother's pillow.
"Mamma. Mamma."
The attending nurse exited the bathroom. She moves to Patrick's side. "She's been asleep all night."
"Should we let her sleep?"
"The doctor says she's responding well to the antibiotics, but, she is still sick, sir."
"We'll just let her sleep for now. Patrick, come on. We need to let her rest."
He takes my hand without reservation and we walk toward the door. The very moment his feet touch the hallway, he breaks our grasp and runs back to his mother's side.
He retrieves the present and as turns to leave again, his mother wakes.
"Hey, baby."
"Mamma!"
Patrick turns and runs to her side.
"Mamma, me and Eean Mikey got you a Christmas present."
She looks a little startled by Patrick's reveal, but smiles and accepts the gift. It is a little, cheap necklace, shaped like a heart, with the name Patrick printed across a banner in the middle.
"Do you like it, mamma?"
"I love it. And, I love you."
"Eean Mikey helped me, but it was my idea."
She hugs him tight, so tight. I could feel a tear, but I fought it successfully. My dad would be proud of that. But, that is another story. This story is about life and love and standing strong in the face of adversity. It's about moving forward even when the means to do so seem scarce.
And, of course, it's about reality. It's about knowing that sometimes things aren't going to go the way you want them to.
*********
I fell in love with Patrick. I felt like a father. I don't know where it came from, but I know that feeling won't end. Unfortunately, I do know that this is not a sustainable activity.
Patrick's mother stayed two more days in the hospital. She trusted me with Patrick and returned home to a house with a Christmas tree and more presents under it.
Patrick was my Christmas miracle. A little angel. Go on and laugh. I still do. The change from a drunk to a caring and giving person was just too swift and permanent for anything less.
I left them that evening. Patrick was deeply involved with heavy equipment operations and his mother and I just couldn't find that important connection.
I think of them both. I can't help but hope they think of me.
"Merry Christmas Eean Mikey," were the last words he said to me. The four words I know I'll never forget.
"Merry Christmas, Patrick Mikey and Mamma Mikey."
Patrick and Solodad Olivara, I send you love.
Christmas Story Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
Writing is difficult. Sometimes the muse is NOT there. There is love in this story, somewhere I'm sure. This is the first half of a longer story. I hope to have the ending by deadline.
Pays
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and 2 member cents. Artwork by Linda Bickston at FanArtReview.com
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