DWAYNE
Last night was not the first time Dwayne had been on the wrong side of the law. In his neighborhood, if you didn’t take, you were a punk. Dwayne was no punk. He had been stealing and selling, little and big since grade school.
He took some shit from his Mom. What else could you expect from a woman who went to church not once, but twice a week, giving away paper money she really didn’t have. Still, she was the only person Dwayne cared about. She knew he was dirty. He knew that she knew he was dirty. The paper money they both knew Dwayne put in her oversized purse every week kept their mouths shut. It wasn’t perfect. It was how they lived.
Last night was different. Dwayne had walked by the well kept bungalow almost every day for two weeks, never stopping, never calling attention. Just a kid on the way to the bus stop. A kid who watched a heavy set woman in hospital gear get into her shit car every afternoon at 4:30. Knowing that winter darkness sets in about one hour later, Dwayne made plans to get into her house through the rickety bedroom window off the back yard.
Didn’t matter that Christmas was right around the corner, business was business. It would be easy.
It was easy. In a matter of minutes, he found himself in the dimly lit back bedroom, getting the feel of the house. When he felt comfortable and no dog was tearing up his ass, he flicked on the bedroom light. The wigs lining the dresser top directly in front of Dwayne scared the shit out of him. He was surprised by the high pitched gasp that escaped.
“ Fuck me.”
Sitting in the middle of the dresser, nestled amongst the wigs, was a highly polished wood box emblazoned with “Jesus Saves...Save for Jesus.” Dwayne didn’t know this woman, but he knew her. She believed that there was no need to hide money because Jesus would take care of her. Just like my Mom, he thought as he caught sight of himself in the dresser mirror.
He licked his lips and looked around the room, saw the crucifix with the wilted palms hanging over the bed. “Like my Mom”. This time aloud.
Dwayne turned back to the dresser and opened the glossy box. Paper money, not a lot, but enough. He grabbed the cash, fanned out the bills and nodded appreciatively at the wise face of Benjamin Franklin peering out from among the Washingtons and Lincolns.
He spent the rest of the evening and the gray early morning that followed, driving around by himself, sipping beer, smoking one cigarette after another. He never got drunk, never counted the money, never enjoyed himself either and was surprised when he saw the sky lightening.
Jelly Donut. He pulled into the parking lot, looked around, poured out the rest of his warm beer, and went inside for a coffee, three sugar, two cream.
It took him two tries to understand what he owed the woman behind the counter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his earnings, more than a little pissed at having to ask “What” twice.
When Dwayne left, walking around the working stiff waiting in line wearing a nylon Flanagan Moving jacket, he didn’t notice Ben Franklin looking wisely up at him from the worn tan and brown speckled tile floor.
JIM
Jim regarded his shabby work coat and frowned. Working the day before Christmas, no Christmas bonus (for me anyway), nothing in the house for breakfast, he found himself in line at the local donut shop.
Jelly Donut. Not Tim Horton’s or Dunkin Donut. Jelly Donut.
He shifted from foot to foot, checking out the worn formica and the coffee skinned couple taking orders (probably from India, damn heathens don’t even know that tomorrow is Christmas), and felt his mood darken.
The fat pink sweat pants in front of him was taking forever putting together her dozen donuts (after the fourth donut, while the tears streaked her round cheeks, what difference would it really make).
He resisted the urge to yell “Hurry the fuck up”, but needed to let out some anger the way a child lets air out of a balloon. Jim lowered his head and almost inaudibly said, “Hurry the fuck...”
Looking at him from the worn tan and brown speckled tile floor was the wise face of Benjamin Franklin.
“Up” he finished, bending over and pocketing the bill.
My Christmas bonus found me, Jim thought. He started to recall a short story by O Henry, but the details of the plot were long washed away by drink. Jim knew it had something to do with making sacrifices so that others could have a happy holiday. Not this guy, he thought, stuffing Franklin into the pocket of his nasty work coat.
It was almost time to place his order. Pink sweat pants was pointing out donut eleven or twelve, he had lost count in the excitement. Jim surveyed the room, surprised to hear his ragged breathing. There was pink pants, a young mom and her two kids sitting quietly at the counter, an old man with a red pickle of a nose stirring a steady stream of sugar into his coffee, a young couple not dressed for the cold talking intimately and waiting patiently, and a sharp nosed businessman standing a little too close checking out the greasy donuts in the glass case.
“Did anyone drop some money on the floor?”
Who the hell said that, Jim thought. Was it me? It couldn’t be. Why would I? It’s mine, I found it. Finders keepers (he heard that one in a sing song tone). Everyone turned and was looking at him.
It was me.
CLARK
Clark was not happy about being in Jelly Donut. He had pulled his Audi off the freeway because he was nervous about the morning audit and needed a jelly donut to calm his nerves. He did not want it from Jelly Donut, but there was not a lot to pick from in this part of town. So Clark stood impatiently in line behind a man about his age wearing a frayed nylon work jacket. He looked at his overcoat and wondered what made him a success and this working class stiff a loser.
About my age, a little taller, a lot thicker, he thought, instinctively sucking in his gut. Clark took in the worn boots, dark jeans and nylon jacket. Was that beer? He shifted a bit closer to the man to get a whiff, being careful not to get too close. You know how short tempered these people are he thought. Besides, I haven’t done anything physical in years and I am not about to start by rolling around in Jelly Donut.
Yes, it was beer. At 7:30 in the morning.
Clark’s attention was diverted by a black man walking away from the counter. Their eyes locked for one second. “Fuck you Whitey.” Clark never saw the man’s lips move, but he heard what he heard. He looked away, studying the “to go” menu intently. When he was sure the spade (his late father’s word) was gone, he looked back at nylon jacket.
Clark was surprised by the swiftness of nylon jacket’s next move. He bent down with the ease of an athlete and picked up a bill from the floor. Now it was Clark’s turn to move. Sliding forward as if to inspect the greasy offerings in the glass counter, he shifted his eyes just in time to see Ben Franklin’s face being pushed into nylon jacket’s pocket.
Clark was instantly irritated. That’s my money. Clark felt that all money should be his money. He felt particularly strong about this Ben Franklin, sure that nylon jacket would piss it away on beer or weed or pussy. It’s not that I need the money, he thought fingering the wallet in his breast pocket, it’s just that I know what to do with it.
He watched nylon jacket scour the room. What the hell was this fool doing? He wouldn’t, would he?
“I did, oh my God I did.” Clark moved toward nylon jacket patting both his pants and coat pockets. “I dropped a $100 bill, must have happened when I was looking for change to get a newspaper, please tell me that you have it.” Nylon jacket had turned to face him, only two feet away now, taking him in, hoping for any sign of bullshit, any reason to kick the shit out of this bloated suit.
Clark waited an eternity. Nylon jacket looked around the quiet room, the gloomy headlines from news radio the only sound. Every face was turned toward the odd couple. Nobody moved, nobody protested. Clark was practiced at waiting to get his way. Eventually nylon coat produced the now limp bill from his pocket and looked Clark in the eyes.
Is he moving closer to me?
“Thanks, man, you saved my ass,” Clark said hoping that “man” and “ass” would allow nylon jacket to relate to him. He saw instantly that it failed, felt that everyone in the room hated him, felt the urge to get the money and flee. “Can I offer you a reward?” he asked knowing that there was no way nylon jacket could take it.
“No”.
Clark took the money. “Thank you, thank you so much” Backing toward the door now, like a thief making his getaway. “Merry Christmas”.
At the door now, his silver Audi twenty yards away.
“You forgot your fucking paper.”
He was out.
DWAYNE
Dwayne didn’t think things could get any worse.
Inexplicably lose a Ben Franklin of his hard earned money: Check.
Be woken up at the crack of dawn by his Mother demanding he attend Christmas Mass: Check.
Be informed that he would not be attending Mass dressed like a “hoodlum”: Check.
And now that all of the praying, endless singing and thunderous sermonizing had ended, Dwayne was informed that he would be attending a luncheon for “those less fortunate” at the Parish Center.
Dwayne had already put more money than he would have liked into the green felt lined basket passed around during services. What more would be required at the luncheon?
“Who’s less fortunate than we are? This lunch better be something special”, Dwayne grumbled to his Mom during the short walk across the church parking lot to the Center.
“Coffee and pound cake,” his Mom answered holding her hat to her head in the strong winter winds.
“That ain’t no...”
He stopped when he noticed the look his Mom was giving, the same one she had been using on him for twenty-two years. The one that said, “ I will put up with only so much bullshit.”
His Mom was pleased that the look still worked. Dwayne allowed a small smile.
“That’s better son,” she offered. “We’re going to get something to eat and see about helping others less fortunate than ourselves.”
Dwayne put his arm tightly around his Mom’s rounded shoulders and pretended to help with the chore of keeping hat on head. His mom laughed and playfully pushed his hands away.
Once inside the Parish Center, Dwayne helped his mom find two seats next to her church friends and went to get coffee and cake. He shook hands and chatted with two of the ushers and was almost back to the table when he caught sight of the blonde tipped wig talking with his Mother.
It had to be her. Too late to walk away. Too late to do anything but set the coffee and cake down and act like nothing was the matter.
‘Cause nothing was the matter, Dwayne reasoned.
“Selma, Mrs. Givens, I mean, this is my son, Dwayne.”
She took Dwayne in, made no effort to hide her up and down once over. “I think we’ve met.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Dwayne began, “I’m sure I would have remembered.” He forced a smile.
Dwayne’s mom laughed a little too loud. Ms. Selma Givens did not. She continued looking Dwayne over. Like I’m in a police lineup Dwayne thought holding her stare.
“ Maybe you’re right, but you do look familiar,” a long finger bobbing up and down in the air between them. Quiet for a moment. “Well, I better make the rounds. I’ll see you before you leave. Nice meeting you Dwayne.”
He was shaken up, even more so when his Mom whispered to him that poor Mrs. Givens house had been broken into. While she was at work no less. Took all of her church money. From her Jesus Saves box.
Mother and Son looked at each other a beat longer than usual before Dwayne turned his attention to the pound cake.
“Not as good as yours.”
Dwayne spent the next twenty minutes avoiding Ms. Selma Givens and keeping tabs on her at the same time. He thought he saw her checking him out on a couple of occasions, but was not sure.
When his Mom was finally ready to go, it was Dwayne who delayed. The church coffee and Ms. Selma Givens had unnerved him. He would need relief before the ten minute drive home.
The piss took forever. And, as Dwayne washed his hands and regarded himself in the mirror, he knew that Ms. Selma Givens would be waiting on him.
He was right. She was talking intimately with his Mom. Both ladies turned their heads his way. Dwayne walked right over, nothing wrong.
“You do look familiar Dwayne. I live at Ogden and Pence. You work that way? Catch the Ogden Street bus?”
“No Ma’am. I don’t get to the east side much, I’m...”
“Dwayne doesn’t have a steady job,” his mom interrupted. “He does this and that to make ends meet, ain’t that right Dwayne?”
Mother and Son looking at each other.
“That’s right Mama, I do this and that to help make ends meet.”
“Dwayne.”
“Dwayne.”
He turned to face Ms. Selma Givens.
“Dwayne, I supervise the afternoon shift at Centennial Rehab. Been there for fifteen years and got a little pull. If a strong young man such as yourself was interested, I could probably get you a job working afternoons. Hard work. But you get treated fair, get a paycheck every two weeks.”
It was the last thing that Dwayne wanted. Working with a bunch of old people, facing Selma Givens every day. A list of all the reasons a steady job was bullshit began to pile up in his head. He was still compiling his list when he felt the tug of his mother at his sleeve.
“Dwayne, Ms. Givens is talking to you.”
He looked not at Ms. Givens, but at his Mom and answered.
“Thank you Ms. Givens. It might be nice to have steady work for a change. I’ll stop in early next week and look you up. ”
Ms. Givens said no more, nodded her head slightly and walked away.
The ride home was quiet. Dwayne saw his Mom glance his way on more than one occasion, heard a sound die on her lips a couple of times.
When they entered their home, Dwayne announced that he was tired and was going to lie down before dinner.
As he started to walk away, he heard his Mother say, “It was a nice service, wasn’t it son?”
Dwayne turned and faced his Mom.
“Yes it was.”
JIM
Christmas morning for Jim and his girlfriend of two years Patricia got underway at one in the afternoon. They both looked like early morning, hair piled on top of tired faces, rumpled sweat pants and t-shirts under old fashioned terry robes. Jim carried a large mug of coffee into the living room, Patricia sipped at the remains of her bed side Coke Zero.
Jim reached behind the artificial Christmas tree and produced a poorly wrapped gift box and held it out in front of him. Patricia feigned surprise and theatrically asked, “For me?”
“It ain’t much babe, but I saw you checking it out the other day at the mall, and I thought it might help keep you warm while you’re standing on the corner turning tricks.”
“You are so fucking funny”, scrunching up her face and taking the box from his hands.
Patricia tore the paper from the box like a little kid, opened the top, and took in a deep breath. She held out a matching beret, scarf and mittens. Green, with orange and white trim, small shamrocks here and there.
“I love it.”
“It’ll go good with your red dyed hair.”
“I’m wearing it tonight, when we go over to your Mom’s for dinner. Let her know she’s not the only Irish woman in this world.”
Patricia modeled the outfit for Jim. It really did look good on her. He could not understand how a woman could match him drink for drink, go straight from snoring to the living room, plop a beret on her head and look so damn fine.
“I wish I could have afforded more,” Jim started, “but you know how tight the Flanagan’s are. The Scots are supposed to be the cheap bastards, but the Irish can’t be far behind.”
Patricia was barely listening. She was busy checking herself out in the large hall mirror, turning her head from side to side, pulling in her cheeks slightly.
“If I hadn’t had a moment of conscience yesterday, I could have bought you that cameo you were eyeing. I let a hundred bucks slip through my hands,” Jim said his voice trailing off. “Still not sure how that happened...”
Patricia was back in the living room now.
“You did get a bonus didn’t you. What pub did you blow it at? Or did it go to that no good brother of yours? Wait, I’ll bet you spent it on an expensive gift for your Mom. Fucking cliched Irish Momma’s boy.”
Jim stood and took Patricia by the shoulders, guiding her gently onto the sofa. He recounted the scene at Jelly Donut from yesterday morning. His voice was monotone, no drama, a man reciting facts. He looked out the window at the gray afternoon all the while, looking back at Patricia only when he was finished.
She said nothing, gave no clue as to her thoughts.
Looking back out the window now.
“I’m not sure the money even belonged to the suit behind me. I hoped I would give it to the Mom with the two kids at the counter. I could see her hugging me, feel the slaps on the back and the looks of admiration from everyone around, including Mr. Suit. I just knew the money wasn’t mine. That if I took it, I would spend it on some bullshit that I thought would make me happy, but would make me more drunk, more ashamed, more useless.”
Patricia was on her feet now, the suddenness of her rising causing a sofa cushion to fall to the floor.
“What is wrong with you. Getting shystered by some fat ass businessman. That money was yours, not his. Not the bitch with the two kids she can’t support. Yours. Mine. Ours. What is wrong with you anyway? Do you like being poor? Don’t I deserve the cameo?”
Pulling off the beret, scarf and mittens.
“You used to be fun. The booze never made you sad. It made you flirt with my girlfriends or threaten any guy who looked my way. Now you’re so damn quiet. What’s there to think about so much? Asshole.”
The beret, scarf and mittens were in the air now, missing their intended target still sitting on the sofa, and landing in and around the small artificial Christmas tree. Jim turned to look at where they landed, then back to Patricia.
“Patricia, you may throw like a girl, but you are no lady.”
She turned, marched loudly into the bedroom, emerged after making a tremendous amount of racket, screeched “Merry Fucking Christmas” and slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind her.
Jim remained on the sofa, said nothing and did not move for ten minutes. When he did finally move, it was to carefully remove Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks from his record collection. He and Van locked eyes for a solid minute, before the album was carefully pulled from the jacket. Jim dropped the needle with the touch of a surgeon before falling into the crook of the worn sofa.
After listening to both sides (“I kissed you on the lips once more, and we said goodbye just adoring the night time, yeah that’s the right time, to feel the way young lover’s do”) he stood and gathered up the beret, scarf and mittens from around and on the artificial tree, straightened out the box and gift wrapped them to the best of his limited ability.
He showered, shaved and slipped on his sports coat for the ten minute walk to his Mom’s house for dinner, the gift wrapped box under his arm. Half way there, he bound up the steps of St. Martha’s knowing that the doors would be open for some service or another. He walked inside, paused briefly to take in the familiar smell, and placed the box under the huge Christmas tree in the back of church.
The outside of the box simply said, “For anybody who needs warmth.”
Without being noticed, without a word to anyone, Jim was back outside thinking only of dinner with his Mom in the house he grew up in.
CLARK
It had been a typical Christmas for Clark and his family. His two children and wife cooed appropriately over gifts, watched television together and ate dinner talking about past holidays before retiring to their rooms tired from a day of too much.
As Christmas started to fade along with the winter’s sunlight, Clark appeared in the family room to let his wife know that he was going to his Mom’s for a visit. She offered to go with, both laughed at the lameness of the attempt, and then turned her attention back to the computer and after holiday savings. “Be careful,” she offered.
Twenty minutes and two neighborhoods later, Clark pulled into the driveway of the modest bungalow he had grown up in, pleased to see no other cars, no family or friends to complicate the visit. He pushed open the the dented steel entry door, unlocked of course, and walked all the way to the back of the house, before he heard the familiar voice coming from the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas, who is it?”
“It’s me Mom, don’t you ever lock that front door? Do you know what kind of people live in this neighborhood?”
“Clark?”
His Mom came shuffling quickly into the hall. She had always moved fast, and at eighty two years of age, she still did. Her arms reached up and around his neck and she hugged him tighter than he thought possible.
“I knew you would make it.” Clark was delighted to be smothered in his Mother’s love, but the thought that others, his brothers and sister no doubt, had speculated on whether he would even stop by gnawed at him.
“Of course, I made it.” Irritated.
His Mom pushed him slightly away. “Oh Clark, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“I know you didn’t Mom.” He could not bear to upset her, never could. “I came here to take the only woman in my life to Christoff’s for lemon meringue pie, like always.”
“I’ll get my coat.”
“Wait a minute, what do you say to me every Christmas when I offer to take you to Christoff’s?”
Clark’s Mom, already flying toward the hall coat closet, stopped on a dime and turned around and said, “Let’s go to Christoff’s, I’m sure they’re open, those Greeks don’t give a damn that it’s Christmas.”
Satisfied by this response, Clark helped his Mom on with her coat, made a big show out of locking the front door, walked arm in arm with her to the Audi and drove five minutes to Christoff’s.
It was open, of course. The lemon meringue pie was nearly flavorless, of course. Clark’s Mom went down her motherly checklist of topics, of course.
The wife and kids are fine, I am not working too many hours, I am watching my weight, this lemon meringue pie is not helping, I am stopping to enjoy the little things.
“Like eating lemon meringue pie with my best girl.”
Mother and Son sat at the brightly lit booth long after the pie disappeared and the crew began cleaning up around them. “I guess even the Greeks close shop some time,” Clark offered. He helped his Mom on with her coat and they walked slowly to the counter. When they got to the register, he looked down at this Mom, still clutching tightly to his arm.
“You never walk this slow, Mom.” Nothing. “I need my arm Mom. I have to pay.” She squeezed his arm fiercely before letting go.
Clark opened his wallet, saw a couple of ones, a five and the learned face of Ben Franklin staring at him. The ones and five would not clear the bill, Clark fingered the Franklin, looked at his Mother. He flipped the wallet to the credit cards and pulled out his American Express.
“This younger generation and their credit cards,” his Mom said to the cashier and got a knowing nod in return.
“C’mon Mom,” hugging her, noticing how small she was. Clark motioned to the large glass windows and said quietly, “It’s starting to snow, and these nice people want to go home.”
His voice trailed off, as the three looked at the huge flakes floating lazily by the bright neon Christoff’s sign.
“I almost forgot the tip.” He made his way back to the booth, produced his leather wallet and left Ben Franklin on the black and white formica tabletop, face down.
Mother and son listened to Christmas music and talked about nothing on the way home. Once there, Clark made a big deal out of demonstrating the lock on the front door, about lecturing his Mom to always lock up. He made their good-bye kiss a quick one, could feel the tightness in his throat that he always felt when saying good bye to his Mom.
“Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you.”
The drive home would be difficult, and take twice as long as the drive there. Wet conditions inside and outside the car were to blame.
