The Gift of Absolution - 1. Forgiven

“Lots of features on this one: razor-thin OLED display, sound bar, four HDMI inputs, Web OS menu system, app-capable...”

While the list is rattled off, I run a hand across the bridge of the frame. It’s razor-thin, all right. Amazing how advanced televisions have become. No need for extra space in the room anymore, just hang it on the wall like an oil painting and call it good. “It’s nice,” I say. “But probably more than I need. I don’t want fancy. I broke the TV I had” – with the heel of my boot – “so somethin’ basic would be best.”

Buying a new set feels like a splurge I shouldn’t indulge in. I don’t deserve one, and I sure as hell don’t have the discretionary income to buy one, what with lingering medical bills and unemployment and my inability to rub two dimes together. But Noah keeps prompting me, and I can’t shake him. I’ve decided to put the purchase on my maxed-out credit card and deal with the fallout later, just to shut him up.

The paunchy salesman studies me over wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his wide nose. From the looks of him, he’s a pathetic version of Santa Claus: scruffy white beard, rosacea cheeks, beer gut, coffee-stained shirt, red suspenders, a smile on his mouth that makes me want to punch it away. Not to mention the irony that his nametag actually says “Nick” on it. Fuckin’ St. Nick selling electronics in the middle of Winslow, Indiana. But I listen to his spiel, stand with a hand on my cane and pretend to care about his well-rehearsed sales pitch while my eyes wander around the room, surveying several dozen other television sets and monitors lining the walls. No two units display the same channel, and the result is chaos - images flashing like a kaleidoscope of madness. An ineffective sales approach, in my opinion. But who am I to judge the techniques of retail? I haven’t held a job down for more than a few months at a time since the accident and the jail time.

“Son, I think I have just the TV for you!” Nick exclaims. The direction of his presentation takes an abrupt turn. “Come with me, come with me!” He waddles toward the back of the store like a penguin, beckons me to follow him into a storage room. I hesitate. Wonder what in the hell he wants to show me back there. Then, “Oh, what the hell.” I tap my cane against the Formica-tiled floor and limp along after him. Today, my hip pierces more than usual. Cold weather and the onset of snow has aggravated it, like I’m 20 years older than I really am.

Snowfall on Christmas Eve. A fierce reminder of the mayhem, poor judgment, inability to drive a straight line down an icy road with a gut full of Bushmills and chasers in me. I can still vividly recall that night two years ago – the argument, the jealousy, the accusations I spewed on the way home from the party that ended in a grisly crescendo… my Fastback Mustang wrapped around a tree, Noah’s head wedged through the windshield, a thousand snowflakes melting on his bloodied cheek while the car horn screeched and his ashen eyes stared at me – accusatory, lifeless, letting me know I’d fucked everything up, once and for all.

I shake my head at the memories, shut them out and continue forth, feeling the weight of my body and the weight of my guilt yanking me down like anchors. That badge of shame marked across my lower spine and hip a constant reminder of the accident, my egotism, my failure as a partner. As a person. I pull out the bottle of OxyContin from my coat pocket, pop one into my mouth, swallow it dry before resuming my pilgrimage to the mysterious back room.

On the other side of the wall, St. Nick is waiting for me. His chubby hand rests on a vintage RCA console 25” ColorTrak TV encased in embellished walnut. The same model my family had when I was growing up that I never got to watch until my asshole father allowed it, which was rare. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?” I say, disbelieving this salesman’s approach at selling me an old piece of electronic garbage that probably doesn’t even work.

Still, that beaming smile across his rotund face. If I saw him in the parking lot grinning at me like that, he’d have no fucking teeth left. “It still works,” he informs me, oblivious to my disdain. “Gets great reception. Even has access to channels a regular TV doesn’t.” Peering over his glasses at me, he adds, “Special channels.”

“Special channels…?” I echo his words. Immediately think of illegal porn, access to Darknet.

“This right here is the TV meant for you,” Nick insists. “I didn’t realize it at first, but now I know. I’ll give you a great deal on it, son. It’ll even be delivered to your house this afternoon, before Christmas Eve. What do you say?”

The debate funnels around in my head. Why the fuck would I buy an old TV? But Noah is prodding me, haunting me. That familiar, eerie sensation of his hand touching my spine sends shivers down my legs, makes me want to heave. I know that I won’t be able to shake his lingering spirit until I get this shit done. “Fine, whatever. I’ll take it,” I bellow. Dig out my wallet, extract the credit card.

“Satisfaction is guaranteed,” says St. Nick of Winslow to me. He displays a genuine twinkle in his eye like he knows a great secret. “Trust me, Aaron” – using my name now, culled from my VISA card, such a smart guy – “you’ll be delighted with your purchase.”

As we exit the storage room, I notice the snow has already begun to fall, lightly dusting the parking lot outside. Fuckin’ great. I zip up my coat, anxious now to leave, because it’s three blocks to the bus stop, and I still need to get to the grocery store for eggnog before the blizzard hits. It’s times like this when I really fucking miss driving. But there’s no way I will get behind the wheel of a car. Not. Ever. Again.

Once the transaction is complete, Nick hands me my receipt, and with it, his business card. Pats me on the shoulder and says, “Call me if you need anything, son. And Merry Christmas to you.”

“Sure thing,” I mumble. I shove the receipt and card into my coat pocket and hobble toward the door. Mentally prepare myself for the blast of cold air and snowfall beyond. Merry fuckin’ Christmas to me.

*  *  *  *  *

Zuzu Bailey: Look, Daddy. Teacher says, every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.

George Bailey: That's right, that's right. [Looking heavenward] Attaboy, Clarence.

Jimmy Stewart speaks the final line with a smile and a wink while the townsfolk around him croon “Auld Lang Syne” like it’s an old 1920s radio program. The melancholy of the moment is overwhelming. I clamp my eyes shut to prevent the moisture escaping. Bite my lower lip. Refuse to release the grief. Even without seeing the screen, I know that George Bailey is standing at the Christmas tree with little Zuzu is in his arms and wife Mary at his side, and that the world is right again, at least in Bedford Falls, because this father and friend has learned the lesson of appreciating what you have. The question is: How wonderful of a life is it, really? Stuck in a small town, saddled with responsibility, forced to accept what you have rather than what you aspire to… Sounds goddamn wretched to me.

Of course, Noah would disagree. Ever the optimist, he was a firm believer in hope and redemption and the general goodness of others. Which is why we binge-watched holiday movies and sat through It’s a Wonderful Life every single Christmas Eve for six years straight. A holiday tradition, along with eggnog and caramel popcorn and the fight for dominance over the blanket we wrapped ourselves in, limbs entwined together like roots of the same tree. Frigid toes. Raucous laughter. The way he pushed his blonde head against my chest as though wanting to burrow inside me and stay there forever, if that were possible.

If that were possible.

“Well, you are with me forever,” I mumble into the dark room lighted only by the flickering television screen. Every fuckin’ day you’re with me. Prodding me, haunting me, reminding me I’m a failure, a killer. I can’t shake you. I don’t want to. I deserve the constant reminders like fingers poking the inside of my hip, refusing to give me reprieve because I’m the one who’s living – not you.

I’m the one who’s living. Not you.

How wonderful of a life is it, really? Well, let me tell you, little Zuzu: It’s fuckin’ wretched.

My eyes are closed, too heavy now to open because of spiked eggnog and painkillers. I can’t recall how many pills I’ve already taken, but I figure not enough, so blindly reach for the prescription bottle. Manage to knock it off the coffee table, along with the last few drops of Plantation rum, which soaks into the rug, wasted, what a shame. Luckily, there’s still some eggnog in the pint glass. From my half-prone position, I shake out the final few OxyContin from the bottle and chase them down with the remaining liquid, now warm and disgusting but sufficient for my needs. Just get the pills down the gullet. Let the rest happen.

The movie ends, and along with it, my resistance.

I. Don’t. Give. A. Flying. Fuck. Anymore.

It doesn’t take long for the haze to sink in, for my blood pressure to drop, for my limbs to go numb. Comfortably numb… becoming comfortably numb… brain turning to liquid… not one ounce of fuckage given… Wish I could say “see you soon, my love,” but my voyage won’t take me to you, only further away, to that other place, down in the depths where the angry demons wait for me. Even in death, I won’t find peace.

Sickness is abrupt. I roll halfway off the sofa and vomit. Eggnog, caramel corn, and a few undigested pills pool out onto the rug. I fumble for the pills. Pop them back into my mouth, already moist, no need for a chaser. But the little fuckers don’t stay long, barely slide down my esophagus before channeling back out to the carpet in a violent surge. More contents from my stomach appear, pooling with the rest.

God. Fuck. Fuck everything. Fuck me. Fuck Christmas. Fuck George Bailey and his Bedford Falls. Fuck the angels and Clarence and second chances. ‘Cause nobody ever gets second chances, only first mistakes. Fatal mistakes. Irreversible mistakes.

From somewhere, a bell jangles. A small bell. A delicate bell. Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings… Not me. Not my wings. Noah, maybe. Yeah, Noah deserves wings. Goddamn gossamer wings threaded with gold.

Again, the sound of the bell. In my head? No. I hear Noah’s voice, velvety: “Babe. Babe. Wake up. Look at me. Come on, open your eyes and look at me.”

I struggle to obey, but my eyelids are lead now.

“Aaron,” Noah calls out, a little louder this time, a little more urgent. I force my eyes open… or something does… and I see my blonde boy on the television screen. He’s standing where George Bailey was standing not more than 20 minutes ago – next to the family Christmas tree in idyllic Bedford Falls. Wearing the same coat and scarf. Holding a small bell.

“Noah…?” I whisper. Or, at least, I think I do. In my head, I do.

Noah reacts with a smile that tears me in half. Steps forward in front of the camera and says, “I miss you, babe.”

Oh, God, oh, God, you have no fuckin’ clue.

“Aaron.” He takes another step forward, so close to the lens he could kiss it if he wanted to. “Aaron, listen to me. Are you listening?”

I try to nod. Drum a couple of fingers on the coffee table instead.

“I forgive you,” he announces. The statement is like an epiphany, like he’s presenting me with a gift. The gift of absolution. Here it is, Christmas Eve, the second anniversary of his death, and he’s handing me impunity, as though I’m deserving of redemption and grace.

Against my will, I tumble the rest of the way to the floor. My cheek smears into the mess of vomit. I don’t move. I can’t move. This is where I will die. This is my atonement. We were happy once, Noah and me. Actually, more than once. We were happy a goddamn lot of the time – except when I drank too much, which turned out to be a goddamn lot of the time once I lost my job. But the good still outweighed the bad. Didn't it? Until that Christmas party. Until my overactive imagination and alcohol consumption got the best of me and made me a furious, wasted asshole. I should never have gotten behind the wheel… Noah should have never gotten in the car with me.

“Why’d you get in the car with me?” I sputter. Tears come, but I feel nothing. Only that I want to become fibers of the rug I’m lying on, covered in my own puke.

“Aaron,” Noah says. His voice is so clear, so loud, it’s as though he’s on the floor beside me. A hand shakes me. How is that possible? “Aaron,” he repeats. Another shake. I manage to open my eyes a fraction. He’s still inside the TV. The old RCA console TV which that nut-job St. Nick sold me this morning at the electronics shop. Is this what he meant by special channels? Holy fuck. He gave me Noah.

“I forgive you, Aaron,” Noah says. “I forgive you, and it’s time for you to forgive yourself. Now answer the phone.”

What?

From a great distance, I hear the ringing of my phone. It’s a repeating shrill traveling through a tunnel that’s echoing off the walls of another tunnel, fighting to reach my melted brain.

“Answer the phone, babe,” Noah urges. Taps his knuckles against the glass of the television screen to get my attention.

But I can’t move. I cannot move. Who the hell is calling? Nobody calls me anymore.

The ringing grows louder. It becomes persistent, piercing, painful in my one exposed ear. Through much concentration and exertion, I manage to move a hand out. And there it is at my fingertips – the goddamn phone, right beside me on the floor. How the hell…? Through more exertion, I pull the receiver off. Scrape it across the wet rug to my face. “Mmph,” I mutter.

“Aaron?” A strange yet familiar voice greets me from the other end of the line.

“Whas,” I answer. Words no longer forming, my lips dead. I rest the phone receiver on my face, close enough to my ear so that I can still hear.

“Don’t worry, Aaron. Paramedics are on the way. Just stay on the line with me until they get there. Okay? Let’s keep talking. Keep talking to me, Aaron. Can you hear me?”

“Uh.”

Familiar yet strange voice. Stranger.

No, not stranger. Friend.

The stranger friend babbles. About snow, traffic, wife, Christmas, how he can’t resist the Oreos, they’re his favorite. Something about deer. His voice lulls me into a quiet sleep. I close my eyes and feel the numbness pull over me. No more pain in my back, hip, heart. Eyes like lead. Catatonic. I’m going, going… I don’t want Noah to see me die… but I saw him die… brutal, eyes staring, blood and bones, no goodbye.

A knock at the door. A loud thud. People surrounding me, peeling me away from the soiled area of the rug I’m stuck to. Is the phone still at my ear? No. The man, the stranger-friend, no more. They’re talking to me now, peppering me with questions, making sure I’m not dead. I’m not dead. I’m not dead. Mask on my face, oxygen in my lungs. Checking pupils. Checking blood pressure. Needle in my arm. Talking to me, talking to me, making sure I’m coherent. Making sure I’m not dead.

Gurney. Lifted by two, pillow under my head, blanket over my body, soft and warm. Rolled away, rolled out into the cold. Snowflakes hit my sizzling forehead, jerk me awake. I stare up at the two angels guiding me down the front walk to the ambulance at the curb. One angel looks just like my Noah.

Along with the gurney, I’m lifted into the vehicle. Lights and sounds and an IV hooked to my left arm. “It’s a good thing you called your friend,” the Noah angel says to me. His fingers are at my wrist. Comforting touch. I stare up at him. Noah. Not Noah. A blonde paramedic. Handsome. Nice. But not Noah. Noah is dead. Noah forgives me. I am forgiven.

“Nick’s his name? The man you called?” The fellow holds up a crumpled business card half-covered in my puke. “You had this in your hand. Good thing you reached out to him. We might not have gotten to you in time.”

Nick.

Fucking St. Nick of Winslow. That strange, familiar voice on the phone had been his. “Call me if you need anything, son.” But I hadn’t called him. He’d called me. Right…? What the fuck…? Then it hits me: the special TV, Noah, Nick, even good ol’ George Bailey and little Zuzu – they all fucking saved my life.

Me. The loser. The addict. The drunk. The asshole. The one who deserves nothing. They saved me.

I reach out with shaky arm. Take the crumpled, moist business card from the paramedic’s fingers and tuck it tightly into the palm of my hand and refuse to let it go. More tears escape my eyes – not from grief or shame or hatred this time but from the wave of relief that’s washed over me like the tide slinging me onto the shore of absolution.

I am forgiven.

I am forgiven.

I am forgiven.

And somewhere far away, an angel gets his wings. Gossamer, with threads of fucking gold.