A Christmas Story - 1. Story

A Christmas Story
by Jamie Anderson

Trust this to have been the first white Christmas in decades. John sat shivering on the park bench, cursing his luck, which was really a bit unfair. True his dad finding the magazines under his bed had been the last straw, but in the screaming match that followed, John was at least as much to blame as his dad. Then of course he had done the typical teenage thing, rushed out slamming the door behind him.

John suffered from pride, this he had inherited from his dad. Now there was a proud man, Regimental Sergeant Major, no less. Straight back, stiff upper lip and did not suffer fools gladly. So it had been a bit of a blow to him to discover his only son was gay. In any event words had been said, on both sides, and these words could never be recalled. So John sat, shivering on a park bench, in the dim light of a distant lamppost and watched the snow falling. If only he had had enough sense to grab his coat on the way out. If only he hadn’t said all those things. If only, if only…

One of the nice things about snow is its sound deadening qualities. Although the street was not very far away John couldn’t hear any traffic. Not that there would be much at so late an hour on Christmas Day. Then he heard the crisp crunch of footsteps in the snow. Fully expecting a park keeper or policeman to appear through the snow flurries John prepared to make a bolt for it.

But to his surprise the familiar figure dressed in a red suit with white trimmings emerged from the swirling white background. Obviously one of the many Santas who had been at some posh party or other was on his way home. ‘If he says Ho! Ho! Ho!’ thought John, ‘I’ll fucking scream.’

But the stranger’s opening words were less predictable, but much kinder, “Gosh, you look cold. Have you lost your jacket?”

John shook his head and replied, “No, it’s at home.”

“But you’re freezing to death. Let me see I’m supposed to have something for everyone in here,” he joked, rummaging in his sack.

The sack was not the traditional cornucopia of brightly wrapped packages; it was just an almost empty large sack. But after a moment he produced a jacket. Obviously, John thought, he kept his street clothes in the sack. The jacket wasn’t one that John would have chosen; his dad might have liked it. It was a fur lined, leather bomber jacket, and it was very warm. John’s pride knew better than object and he quickly put it on.

“Had a fight? Run away from home?” asked the old guy.

John nodded.

“Next time, do it in the summer. Then you’re less likely to freeze to death on the first night.”

John smiled wanly.

“Want to talk about it?”

John shook his head.

“You got caught?”

After a moment John nodded in agreement.

“Stealing?”

“No!” said John, indignantly.

“You don’t smell of drink, and you don’t look like you’re on drugs. So what could it be? Get a girl into trouble?”

Here the utter ridiculousness of the suggestion made John laugh out loud.

“Is it worse than that?”

John sighed and nodded.

“And now you are going to sit and freeze rather than talk about it?”

Inside John, the dam broke and the story flooded out. How his dad was so proud of him and was determined to ‘make a man of him’. How he was expected to go into the Army, which he hated. How he was supposed to get married and produce grandchildren. How unfair it all was, and of course how he wanted to be normal just to please his dad.

Gradually, as more and more of his life poured from his lips the scene started to become slightly surreal. This couldn’t be him talking. He had never revealed his inner secrets even to his friends, never mind a total stranger. But the old man had the knack of making him talk. He asked just the right questions to make John tell more and more.

Then the old guy said, “In this game of life we are each dealt a hand. The best way to get through life is to play with the hand that you were dealt, not to sit and moan about how bad it is. You are what you are, and that is how you must live.”

Eventually John said, “But what can I do? I’ve left home. I’ve made my bed and now I must lie in it.”

In the distance a church clock began chiming midnight.

“Well,” said the old guy, “I must be on my way now. But I think that I’ve just got time to deliver one more present, to both of you.”

“Huh?” said John.

“A second chance. Your father is worried sick, he has been looking for you for hours and unless I’m mistaken that’s him over there.”

John turned to look in the direction that the old guy was pointing and he was blinded by a powerful lamp. Instinctively he knew that it was his dad’s 500-candle power flashlight. Shading his eyes he got up and took a few paces then staggered. He felt very light-headed and had to grab a tree to steady himself. He called out and to his great relief his dad’s voice answered him.

“Thank God you’re all right,” said his dad. I almost missed you, sitting there alone on the bench.”

“Alone?” John said.

He turned back to the bench and got the shock of his life. Not only was it empty, there was only one place where the snow had been disturbed, the place where he had sat. There were only his footprints in the snow.

“Yes, you were just sitting there, stating into the distance.”

“I must have dozed off for a moment,” said John.

Shaking his head he moved towards his dad and soon his dad’s arm was round his shoulder, just like it used to be when he was little. They made their way back home, both talking at once. His dad asked him where he had been and he said that he had been sitting and thinking. Gradually he realised that it must all have been a dream and, by the time that they were home, the world was back to normal.

But, as the entered the house and the light fell on them, his father said, “Nice jacket!”