Christmas Eve
A short story written for my Creative Writing class. Yes, Megan, I used your house; don't worry, you don't live there in the story.
Christmas Eve
Eric Scott
Jimmy huddled against the plastic wall of the bus stop on Jefferson and Market. Snow was starting to fall from the iron gray sky, slow, lazy flakes that drifted along the chill wind; Jimmy watched them in dismay. Little flakes would lead to big ones. He hadn’t seen a weather report in two years, but he knew that a big snow was coming. It was appropriate enough, he guessed; it was Christmas Eve, after all. He shivered and wondered what was keeping his bus.
Jimmy was thin, and his hair was shaved close to his scalp; he looked a little like a holocaust survivor, pulled out of Bergen-Belsen in 1945 with nothing but a too-thin jacket and a stocking hat to his name. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, and he had not eaten in days. The hunger never seemed to matter any more, though; at least, not hunger for food.
Streetlights flashed through the dim gray haze of the early morning; the bus was arriving. Jimmy stood up, still shivering, and waited for it to stop. The red, white, blue and black vehicle halted in front of him and the door opened. A black woman, maybe in her forties, was driving. Jimmy hobbled forward and onto the bus; he slid a dollar fifty into the payment slot and started to walk towards the back of the bus. He was interrupted by the driver.
“Hey,” she said, “the fare’s a dollar sixty-five, honey. You’re a little short.”
Jimmy turned around, a little confused, and dug around in his pocket. His ratty-gloved fingers closed around something small and cold and round; he pulled it out, finding it to be a scratched up 1972 U.S. quarter.
“Don’t s’pose you have change for that?” he asked, and she only responded by pointing to the sign above them that read CORRECT CHANGE ONLY.
Jimmy put his last quarter into the slot and went towards the back of the bus. Nobody else was onboard, but he still found his way to the very back.
“Ronnie turned blue last night,” he mumbled to himself as the bus took off. “Turned blue… Nothin’ I could do about it. Only reasonable thing to of done…” Jimmy took off his sock cap and scratched his head. His scalp was itchy, but then, so was the rest of him; his arms were covered in little self-inflicted gouges. The bus rumbled below him, and the vibrations lulled him into a half-sleep.
He dreamed of a ratty basement somewhere on the north side of the city. There was nothing in it except for a broken television and a couch that had been chewed on by raccoons and used as a urinal by cats; even the light, a single 40 watt bulb, only worked half the time. Jimmy could still smell the cat piss, even on the bus. They- Jimmy and Greg and Luce and Ronnie- were sitting around two nights earlier, smoking a few joints and drinking Pabst and generally not saying anything important. Ronnie had gone upstairs to use the pot, and the others barely noticed that she was gone for half an hour. Then they heard a crash from upstairs. Luce got to her feet quicker than the rest, and got upstairs first; all she could do was stammer. “Ronnie’s turnin’ blue,” she muttered, seeing the cracked syringe on the floor.
The bus creaked to a halt, and the driver’s voice came over the speakers. “We’re at Jefferson and Cherokee,” she said. “You gettin’ off, pal?”
“Yeah,” murmured Jimmy, and he hobbled to his feet and stepped off the bus onto the corner of Cherokee and Jefferson. The snow was starting to come down now; there was about half an inch of powder on the ground, and more coming every minute. He shivered slightly and scratched at his arms. The neighborhood seemed to have gone to seed since he last visited. The only business that seemed to be doing alright at all on the intersection was the run down Save-A-Lot across the street, and even that place was only lighting up the words “Save-A.” There was a large statue of an Indian across the way; Jimmy couldn’t tell if it was speckled white with snow or pigeon crap.
Jimmy started his lonely walk down Cherokee Street. Cherokee was a street that seemed to be at odds with itself. On the one hand, it was a lower-class part of town- not too bad, but rough around the edges. It had been rougher when Jimmy lived there, years before. In the 80’s, for whatever reason it became a fashionable part of the city again, at least anyone who did not already live there. Somehow, beat-up, working class, bar fighting Cherokee Street turned into a historic district with antique shops littering the sidewalks. The people who always had lived there, and people like them who took their place when they died or moved away, were still the same folks Jimmy knew as a child. It was the other people, the foreigner antiquarians, that didn’t belong.
He passed by a shop called Retro 101. It was brick, like everything else on Cherokee Street, but the storefront was painted teal green. It had a selection of ‘vintage clothing and mid-century designs’ displayed in the large picture window, but that wasn’t what caught Jimmy’s eye. It was his own face, reflected in the glass. He saw his eyes, deep and hollowed out sockets, staring back at him. His own sallow cheeks reflected; his own unkempt beard looked out. Seeing it was like seeing some stranger that was nonetheless intimately familiar, the contradiction of seeing his own face and not recognizing it.
Jimmy shivered and scratched his arms. He started to walk again, but then he saw a sign in the window of the shop: Open since 1991. 1991. That was the year he started college. Two years before he met the love of his life.
He sighed and watched it turn into dragon’s breath. Too bad he couldn’t afford her right now. At least he wasn’t having the shakes at the moment. He kept walking.
The street really hadn’t changed so much, Jimmy decided, despite the gaudy antique shops. As long as he kept looking down the street, at the long lines of brick arches and pinnacles and the balled up potato chip bags and busted beer bottles on the asphalt, it was the Cherokee Street of his past again, just the way he left it.
Somewhere a church bell rang seven times. People might start to wake up soon; although he doubted anyone would recognize him, he didn’t want anyone to see him. It would be better if nobody saw where he was about to go.
He passed the old dairy, where a sun-faded sign read “STORE CLOSED,” and Jasper’s Radio Museum, which advertised itself as the largest collection of radio materials in the world; in addition, it sold fruit baskets. This was the block. He stopped halfway down it and looked across the street. An old four-family flat stood there, next to a flat that had been turned into a coffee house and another vintage clothes store. Jimmy looked at the house for a long time, wanting to cross the street and knock but not wanting to at the same time. He didn’t like what he was doing; this was the sort of situation he swore he would never find himself in again. But he didn’t really have a choice. He already spent his last quarter.
Jimmy started coughing, the bitter, hacking kind that rubs against the cold like sandpaper. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, there was blood on it. He wiped it off on his coat and walked across the street, coming up the baby-blue steps to the door.
They never even changed the doorbell. He pressed it, and it gave the same ding-dong tone he’d known forever. Jimmy heard the sounds of somebody moving around inside; a woman’s voice called. “That someone at the door?”
“Yeah,” whispered Jimmy.
The door opened, and an old woman answered, dressed in a white nightgown striped with tiny brown velveteen rabbits. She opened the door a crack and leaned out. “Yes, who is...” She paused, and then opened the door wider. “James?”
“Hey, mom,” said Jimmy, and he stepped inside.
Christmas Eve
Eric Scott
Jimmy huddled against the plastic wall of the bus stop on Jefferson and Market. Snow was starting to fall from the iron gray sky, slow, lazy flakes that drifted along the chill wind; Jimmy watched them in dismay. Little flakes would lead to big ones. He hadn’t seen a weather report in two years, but he knew that a big snow was coming. It was appropriate enough, he guessed; it was Christmas Eve, after all. He shivered and wondered what was keeping his bus.
Jimmy was thin, and his hair was shaved close to his scalp; he looked a little like a holocaust survivor, pulled out of Bergen-Belsen in 1945 with nothing but a too-thin jacket and a stocking hat to his name. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, and he had not eaten in days. The hunger never seemed to matter any more, though; at least, not hunger for food.
Streetlights flashed through the dim gray haze of the early morning; the bus was arriving. Jimmy stood up, still shivering, and waited for it to stop. The red, white, blue and black vehicle halted in front of him and the door opened. A black woman, maybe in her forties, was driving. Jimmy hobbled forward and onto the bus; he slid a dollar fifty into the payment slot and started to walk towards the back of the bus. He was interrupted by the driver.
“Hey,” she said, “the fare’s a dollar sixty-five, honey. You’re a little short.”
Jimmy turned around, a little confused, and dug around in his pocket. His ratty-gloved fingers closed around something small and cold and round; he pulled it out, finding it to be a scratched up 1972 U.S. quarter.
“Don’t s’pose you have change for that?” he asked, and she only responded by pointing to the sign above them that read CORRECT CHANGE ONLY.
Jimmy put his last quarter into the slot and went towards the back of the bus. Nobody else was onboard, but he still found his way to the very back.
“Ronnie turned blue last night,” he mumbled to himself as the bus took off. “Turned blue… Nothin’ I could do about it. Only reasonable thing to of done…” Jimmy took off his sock cap and scratched his head. His scalp was itchy, but then, so was the rest of him; his arms were covered in little self-inflicted gouges. The bus rumbled below him, and the vibrations lulled him into a half-sleep.
He dreamed of a ratty basement somewhere on the north side of the city. There was nothing in it except for a broken television and a couch that had been chewed on by raccoons and used as a urinal by cats; even the light, a single 40 watt bulb, only worked half the time. Jimmy could still smell the cat piss, even on the bus. They- Jimmy and Greg and Luce and Ronnie- were sitting around two nights earlier, smoking a few joints and drinking Pabst and generally not saying anything important. Ronnie had gone upstairs to use the pot, and the others barely noticed that she was gone for half an hour. Then they heard a crash from upstairs. Luce got to her feet quicker than the rest, and got upstairs first; all she could do was stammer. “Ronnie’s turnin’ blue,” she muttered, seeing the cracked syringe on the floor.
The bus creaked to a halt, and the driver’s voice came over the speakers. “We’re at Jefferson and Cherokee,” she said. “You gettin’ off, pal?”
“Yeah,” murmured Jimmy, and he hobbled to his feet and stepped off the bus onto the corner of Cherokee and Jefferson. The snow was starting to come down now; there was about half an inch of powder on the ground, and more coming every minute. He shivered slightly and scratched at his arms. The neighborhood seemed to have gone to seed since he last visited. The only business that seemed to be doing alright at all on the intersection was the run down Save-A-Lot across the street, and even that place was only lighting up the words “Save-A.” There was a large statue of an Indian across the way; Jimmy couldn’t tell if it was speckled white with snow or pigeon crap.
Jimmy started his lonely walk down Cherokee Street. Cherokee was a street that seemed to be at odds with itself. On the one hand, it was a lower-class part of town- not too bad, but rough around the edges. It had been rougher when Jimmy lived there, years before. In the 80’s, for whatever reason it became a fashionable part of the city again, at least anyone who did not already live there. Somehow, beat-up, working class, bar fighting Cherokee Street turned into a historic district with antique shops littering the sidewalks. The people who always had lived there, and people like them who took their place when they died or moved away, were still the same folks Jimmy knew as a child. It was the other people, the foreigner antiquarians, that didn’t belong.
He passed by a shop called Retro 101. It was brick, like everything else on Cherokee Street, but the storefront was painted teal green. It had a selection of ‘vintage clothing and mid-century designs’ displayed in the large picture window, but that wasn’t what caught Jimmy’s eye. It was his own face, reflected in the glass. He saw his eyes, deep and hollowed out sockets, staring back at him. His own sallow cheeks reflected; his own unkempt beard looked out. Seeing it was like seeing some stranger that was nonetheless intimately familiar, the contradiction of seeing his own face and not recognizing it.
Jimmy shivered and scratched his arms. He started to walk again, but then he saw a sign in the window of the shop: Open since 1991. 1991. That was the year he started college. Two years before he met the love of his life.
He sighed and watched it turn into dragon’s breath. Too bad he couldn’t afford her right now. At least he wasn’t having the shakes at the moment. He kept walking.
The street really hadn’t changed so much, Jimmy decided, despite the gaudy antique shops. As long as he kept looking down the street, at the long lines of brick arches and pinnacles and the balled up potato chip bags and busted beer bottles on the asphalt, it was the Cherokee Street of his past again, just the way he left it.
Somewhere a church bell rang seven times. People might start to wake up soon; although he doubted anyone would recognize him, he didn’t want anyone to see him. It would be better if nobody saw where he was about to go.
He passed the old dairy, where a sun-faded sign read “STORE CLOSED,” and Jasper’s Radio Museum, which advertised itself as the largest collection of radio materials in the world; in addition, it sold fruit baskets. This was the block. He stopped halfway down it and looked across the street. An old four-family flat stood there, next to a flat that had been turned into a coffee house and another vintage clothes store. Jimmy looked at the house for a long time, wanting to cross the street and knock but not wanting to at the same time. He didn’t like what he was doing; this was the sort of situation he swore he would never find himself in again. But he didn’t really have a choice. He already spent his last quarter.
Jimmy started coughing, the bitter, hacking kind that rubs against the cold like sandpaper. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, there was blood on it. He wiped it off on his coat and walked across the street, coming up the baby-blue steps to the door.
They never even changed the doorbell. He pressed it, and it gave the same ding-dong tone he’d known forever. Jimmy heard the sounds of somebody moving around inside; a woman’s voice called. “That someone at the door?”
“Yeah,” whispered Jimmy.
The door opened, and an old woman answered, dressed in a white nightgown striped with tiny brown velveteen rabbits. She opened the door a crack and leaned out. “Yes, who is...” She paused, and then opened the door wider. “James?”
“Hey, mom,” said Jimmy, and he stepped inside.