THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS REMEMBERED

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It’s morning on the Eve of Christmas, 2011 A.D.

The last two weeks have been very busy at the Museum of Fond Memories, so I’m happy that the shop doesn’t open till 11 a.m. Since Liz is up and out , I’m alone to determine how to spend a much-needed quiet morning. The usual breakfast haunts are either crowded or closed, so I take my New York Times and head for McDonald’s, hoping for an isolated table and a few moments of meditative non-work activity.

The stressed employees humor me with my order—scrambled eggs, grits, two tomato slices, sausage and biscuit, with iced tea on the side. A rare chance to gorge—after all, it’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it?

While I’m just settling my brain for a long winter’s fast-breaker, a couple arrives at the next table, she with Santa hat and earphones, he with strained countenance and long gazes through the window. She doesn’t notice his inattentiveness, nor does she recognize my solitude. “I’m dreamin’ of a white Christmas,” she sings loudly, boogie-ing her body to the earplug sounds, blissfully unaware that there is anybody but herself in the establishment. She continues singing out-of-tune parts of other carols while her partner and I try to concentrate on our own tiny universes. The speaker system at McDonald’s is blasting other Christmas-related tunes, so my mind has to delegate two sets of simultaneous lyrics to their respective hiding places while I attempt to focus on the Times.

Later, on the way to the car, I begin to appreciate the girl’s annoying joy and realize I could use a little less grouch and a bit more Christmas boogie myself.

“Hey, what church are you from?” a shouted question careens over my left shoulder just as I’m trying to pile into the automobile. I have to twist around to see who’s there. A large wrinkled smiling face is staring at me and repeats the question, “Hey, what church are you from?” My first reaction is that I’m being panhandled, so I slam the door. Then, realizing I’m being testy, I lower the window to reply—suddenly realizing that the street man has assumed I’m some sort of clergy because of the black shirt, trousers and jacket I’m wearing, probably contrasted with my white Santa beard.

I don’t try to look like something special, this is just the way I am.

“No church,” I reply. Then, my fast mouth getting ahead of my thought processes, I add, “I’ve got a long night ahead of me, delivering toys.”

He looks startled and backs away, as if he suddenly believes me.

I drive to work and begin to focus on my shop and my customers.

Does Street Man think he’s just encountered some sort of Santa Claus?

Does Book Man think he’s just crossed paths with a needy soul who thought for a moment he might find peaceful words?

How many more opprotunities might I miss this day? Or did I do exactly the right thing?

How will I ever know?

I hope you have many good and mysterious encounters this and every week in this Land of Perpetual Post-Christmas

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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