Mr. Christmas

stmas

  Copyright 2011 by Shine LeFlur

  All rights reserved

  Mr. Christmas

  The smile may have been the biggest thing about him. He would never be mistaken for Santa Claus. Although he had a round face and a pot belly, he had no whiskers or beard and barely stood 5 1/2 feet tall.

  Still, there was that smile and an infectious "Ho Ho Ho" that just made the season come alive and seem real for those he touched. Christmas came on Friday this year and Mister Christmas started his first rounds Monday evening.

  An aged bag lady stood in the shadows outside the Baptist Church on Wells Street, trying to clap her hands to the joyful Christmas singing coming from inside. Mister Christmas watched her a moment then stepped closer, slowly so as not to frighten her away.

  "Why don't you go inside and join in, ma'am," he suggested, noticing her shiver. "It's probably warm inside, too." The little man appeared to offer no threat.

  "I can't go in," she explained. "Not in these shoes." The old woman's clothes were shabby but clean, only a few small holes here and there. Probably the best she had, but the stained and broken house shoes were indeed another story.

  "I had a nice pair, brown loafers they was, still a good bit of wear left, but some sucker stole them last night while I was sleeping. Old Annie's usual luck."

  "I see," said Mister Christmas. "I bet you wear a size 5. Me, I'm a six."

  "I'se only a 4 1/2," Annie retorted quickly. "Oh, listen to that." As she began to clap again quietly to the music, the little man slipped away.

  Down and around and over to the Goodwill store on Second Avenue, where he hurriedly picked out an almost new pair of brown penny loafers, paid the five dollars cash, and retraced his steps.

  This was always the hard part. Shoes in hand, he again approached the woman. She did not notice the shoes at first.

  "You like the music too, huh Shorty?"

  "Yep," he nodded. "But look what I found on top of a trashcan around the corner. I don't know if they'll fit, but you are welcome to them."

  Annie glared back, not wanting to look at the shoes.

  "And whatta you want for them?" she asked, her voice full of suspicion.

  "Well, I can't wear them," he laughed. "And they're not worth anything, so I can't sell them. Guess if you can't use the shoes I'll just throw them back away." Mister Christmas turned to go.

  "Lemme see 'em," she ordered gruffly.

  She put them on and could not help admiring her new look. The little man smiled to himself and started away. Mission accomplished.

  "Say, Mister," she called, and he looked back. "Thanks. What's your name anyway, Shorty?"

  "Mister Christmas," he replied, his smile crossing the gulf between them.

  And she felt her own smile coming over her face. An alien thing, but it felt good. As Mister Christmas disappeared, she looked down at her feet again, then hopped for joy and hurried into the church. The new pennies Mister Christmas had put in the shoes glittered bright and shiny, like the stars of Bethlehem.

  Mister Christmas found three more people to help that night, and one dog. The puppy, little more than a skinny bag of bones with a whine, dragged itself along an alley off Second Street. The little man approached it cautiously. Although hurt, it did not try to bite him.

  The creature was filthy and smelled to high heaven, but under the matted fur around his neck, Mister Christmas discovered a collar. Under a streetlight, barely visible, one word. "Davy". He took the little fellow by his apartment and cleaned it up. The foot was cut and bloody, but not broken, so a bandage made from an old piece of shirt worked just fine. The pup look much better now all clean, and he must have felt better because he licked Mister Christmas's hand in gratitude.

  It took almost 2 hours to find Davy, but after trudging up and down streets, asking every kid he saw, Mister Christmas found the 10-year-old boy sitting on the stoop of a gray tenement building. Sitting there huddled and desolate in the cold, eyes red and swimming with tears. Until he saw the pup in Mister Christmas's arms.

  "Wolfie!" he shouted. "That's my dog, Mister! You found Wolfie!" The pup also squealed for joy, and his tail beat a tattoo on his rescuer's arm. Mister Christmas smiled at the reunited pair and had started away when Davy remembered his manners.

  "Hey man, thanks! What's your name, anyway?"

  "Mister Christmas, Davy. And you and Wolfie have a good one, okay?"

  "Sure thing, you too. C'mon, bad dog. Let's get you something to eat."

  By the time Mister Christmas called it a night and got back to his tiny one-room apartment, midnight approached. The tired little man fell into bed after eating a can of wieners with crackers and water.

  A hand came down on the battered alarm clock and shut it off, but it was not Mister Christmas who crawled groggily out of bed at 5 AM. His real name was Freddy Fartle, although many of his fellow employees at the factory where he pushed his broom and swished a mop called him Freddy Fart! They didn't mean to be unkind, but the factory had a grimness that inspired few laughs.

  Freddy didn't mind their jokes, but like all of them, he feared Mister Tuttle, the foreman. Mister Tuttle, a burly bully who clumped around incessantly, in his mouth a massive wad of chewing tobacco he worked on like an enemy.

  Between constant streams of smelly tobacco juice into (and beside) every wastebasket and trashcan (which he then berated Freddy for not keeping clean), Tuttle hurled invectives.

  Get moving!

  Look alive!

  Back to your station!

  Quit goofing off!

  I'm watching you!

  Mister Tuttle took special joy in browbeating Freddy. The little man always nodded, "Yes, Mister Tuttle. Yes sir, I'll try to do better." And Tuttle would shake his head and stomp away.

  Freddy feared Mister Tuttle, but he tried not to think about that. Instead, he kept his mind on the coming Christmas. When it passed, Freddy immediately began planning for the next. After all, he was Mister Christmas, and that is what Mister Christmas does. Being an orphan, Freddy had no family. So he had decided to make anyone in need his family for Christmas.

  All year long Freddy Fartle saved as much as possible from his meager salary. He ate mostly beans and oatmeal, sometimes old fruits and veggies from the half-price bin at Ed's produce on Market Street. Freddy did not need that much heat in the winter, and he had no summer air-conditioning (except for a small fan). Clothes from the Goodwill store were as good as any, and Freddy's Philco radio supplied all the entertainment he desired.

  Freddy saved almost ten dollars a week from his ninety dollar paycheck, giving Mister Christmas $500 to help the needy during the holiday week. The aid he gave did not always involve money. Often it was simple things: helping an old lady find her way or carrying her bags, reading to a blind man in the park, pushing a tired wheelchair-bound stroke victim up the overlook on Hill Street.

  Mister Christmas made no attempt to ration his funds. One person's need might only take ten dollars, while another required fifty. If his money ran out, it would just run out, but somehow Mister Christmas's funds always seem to suffice.

  Now it was Thursday, Christmas Eve, the streets bright and merry with lights and laughter, crowds of last-minute shoppers, carolers, and well-wishers. Mister Christmas still on his rounds, now only a few dollars and change remaining. He was tired, but he hardly noticed the aches and pains or the bone-chilling cold that came through his old camel hair coat.

  Mister Christmas felt only happiness and joy, for by giving he had received much more in return. His life had purpose and meaning, his heart filled with satisfaction at a task well done.

  A wino staggering around a smoldering trash barrel trying to warm himself caught the eye of Mister Christmas.

  "Wha'shis?" The dru
nk man bleared, almost falling as he recoiled from the helping hand.

  "There's a warm bed and sleep at the mission, my friend," offered Mister Christmas gently.

  Despite the man's feeble protests, he allowed Mister Christmas to steer him to the mission, stopping along the way to buy hot coffee and a sandwich from a street vendor. They poured out what little remained in the bottle of cheap muscatel wine, and joined along in singing with a church choir on the way. At the mission door, Mister Christmas slipped his remaining few dollars into the drunk's pocket as he bid him a Merry Christmas.

  A wreath hung on his apartment door and Freddy stopped, confused as he looked around. No, this was his apartment. Still, he nervously unlocked the door and very slowly pushed it open. His place, all right. He stared at the wreath – it said nothing – then he entered. His room bare but for Freddy's few belongings, and cold… His radio, clock, a sink faucet still dripping.

  Freddy closed the door and suddenly felt very tired. He stepped over to the cot and sat down heavily, his mind wandering, seeing the people he had helped. The dog. The love in that little boy's eyes. Maybe he could get a dog. Company. A small dog would not eat much. The dog barked. Freddy blinked his eyes open. Had he been dreaming? Another bark, much closer now… It sounded like –

  Knocking at his door. "Rat a tat, tat tat."

  Who could it be? No one ever came to see Freddy. Goosebumps of apprehension rose up on his arms and neck. Freddy willed himself to open the door.

  They were all there, many of them, anyway, led by the small boy and his pup who had remembered the way to the apartment. The boy and his young friends had spread the word. A Daily News reporter had caught wind of the story; he busily took pictures of the people giving Freddy gifts – often nothing more than a photo or some other small remembrance.

  After they all shook Freddy's hand and thanked him properly, the old shoe woman led them in singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" and they left. But the shoe woman, all clean and neat now – and working a real job again, she said – turned out not to be so old at all. And, with a twinkle in her eyes, she told Freddy she'd be dropping by if it was okay with him (and it was!).

  Freddy Fartle arrived at work bright and early Monday morning, ready to start another year of saving and planning. A note on the time clock sent Freddy's spirit plunging in shock.

  "Freddy Fartle: Come to the office."

  Tuttle had finally done it. Gotten Freddy fired. He had been threatening it long enough. With a heavy heart and cap in hand, Freddy trudged slowly over to the door separating office and factory. He steeled himself, took a deep breath, and went inside.

  It was even worse than he had thought. Mister Hightmeyer's secretary spotted Freddy, and with a quick "Come with me", ushered him right into the company President's office. Freddy gulped, his heart raced, and his body quivered in fear.

  Hightmeyer, an open newspaper on his desk in front of him, wasted no time.

  "Good work, Mister Fartle. The directors and I are pleased by your excellent job of public relations for our company. Starting today, you will be our new PR Manager. Your office is not a large one, but perhaps it will do until the new one is finished. My secretary will give you your new salary and other details. Keep up the good work!"

  He stuck out a big hand. "Mister Christmas," he added with a smile.

  Freddy reached and shook his hand.

  The End.

  A Shine LeFlur story

  All rights reserved

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