The Best Freakin' Christmas Ever

Luke 8:18

The stench of urine was unmistakable even on a cold day. (Photo by author.)

“¡Mírame coño!”

Marisol's feet were soaked, even though she wore two pairs of socks. With the money Luis had given her, she bought a cute pair of boots at la segunda. Ejército de Salvación said the sign out front. Big red letters visible a block away. If you got there early enough, you could find stuff piled by the door.

More than anything else she liked how they treated her.

"Nobody follows you around inside like they do in the Korean stores. They don't sus you just for walking in."

The boots leaked, but they served the purpose. Guys knew what they meant; one after another honked as he sped by.

It had been bitter for days on end, but today was warmer, today of all days. The snow and ice were melting; rivers and lakes of slush appeared where the curbs and potholes used to be.

Marisol stood in the doorway of a building at the end of the block. Elgin Machine Works—faded letters pocked with rust on a door that hadn't opened in years. Taggers had nearly covered it—the dumpster by the alley too. Broken glass, fast food wrappers, and cigarette butts mingled in a puddle beneath her feet. The stench of urine was unmistakable even on a cold day.

The neighbors didn't mind.

Airport Parking—Free Shuttle.

Midnight Blue Gentleman's Club.

Midwest Plumbing Supply Co.

Mannheim Road was something else; rush hour lasted all day. Luis dropped her off at one and went to the Sports Bar or just drove around and checked on business. Mid-afternoon got crazy. One shift let out. Another came in. Quickies in the parking lot. Uno tras otro.

A squad car slowed as it passed. “¡Puñeta! These suburban cops—they liked to follow you and sit across the street and watch.” On Cicero and Roosevelt the cops never hassled her, but that was the City, and things were different.

Tucked in between the factories and rail yards and storage facilities were a string of down-on-your-luck motels, defunct showrooms, and the doze-but-never-close restaurants that truckers liked. The Denny's was boarded up—closed for good after the last robbery. Once a trick offered to take her there, afterwards. The lonely type. She almost agreed, but she knew they wouldn't wait on her, not even coffee to go. She bought that from the lunch wagon. The guys there would tease her, except on Fridays when they got paid. El viejo who owned it told her she could work for him, cooking and cleaning, but he only paid twenty dollars a day.

“What was he thinking? Only the mojados worked for that!”

At least el viejo would let her stand there and try to warm up. That beat the Fuel-Man Mini-Mart. It was there a prieto tried to grab her chain, the one with her name that Luis had given her on her birthday. She put it in her pocket after that. Ese prieto never saw it coming when Luis caught up with him a few nights later.

A van slowed and turned the corner. She stepped out from the doorway, but the driver just looked at her and didn't stop.

“¡Que jodienda!” she thought.

The van turned around at the end of the block. Vans were not cool--vans and back seats. Those guys wanted more than what they paid for, and you couldn't get past them. Timmy slowed down again, but changed his mind and passed Marisol as she faked a smile. She stepped back but not soon enough; freezing water sprayed her legs as the van's tires plowed through a puddle of slush.

“¡Maricón!” she shouted.

Timmy had left work early. He wanted to get a few drinks on board before it was too late, and he had to show up at home.

“Don't want a repeat of what happened last year.”

Last year he had gone to the bar after work.

“What’s wrong with that? A guy has a right to relax. People just don't understand.”

He had too much to drink, and got home pretty lit. “Three sheets to the wind,” as his dad used to say. He doesn't remember much after that, but he woke up late the next morning on the couch. There was a note from his wife.

“Thanks for a great freakin' Christmas.”

He was sick 'til the afternoon but made it to mom's by four.

“What more do they want?”

He vowed not to let that happen again. Too much hell to pay; leaving work early seemed like a good solution. Still have time for a few drinks and get home on time.

He pulled into a parking lot that only got plowed half-heartedly when somebody called in a favor. The snow was heaped in a mound along the fence. Slush-filled ruts crisscrossed the pavement. Ice cracked and popped as he walked across it.

Strictly Business was Timmy's favorite bar, and Mark was his favorite bartender.

“Get down to business is right,” Timmy thought. "Vodka and OJ in a beer stein, no ice—makes it quicker to get lit."

Mark handed him an envelope as Timmy pulled up a stool.

“You hit the squares.”

Timmy smiled. He always played the pools. Parlay cards too. Won sometimes. “The old lady will like that,” he thought. “Get off my case for a while.”

He finished another drink. Finally, it started kicking in. He felt good for the first time today, relaxed. Guys he knew were coming in. He waved them over.

“Round's on me,” he bellowed.

He always felt good to be with the guys. The lucky ones had old ladies who understood, let them stay out, didn't nag. “He just left.” That was Mark's standard answer when the phone rang and “wifey” was on the line. Nobody fell for it, but it bought time. “Screw ‘em if they can't take a joke!” Everybody grinned when he said stuff like that, even though they'd heard it a hundred times before. He liked it when they laughed at his jokes. Made him feel like he fit in, like he belonged, like he wasn't being judged all the time.

Conversations came and went. Familiar faces and voices ran together in a blur. Just the way he liked it. This was the only part of the day that made sense. Timmy felt more at home here than, well, anywhere.

He glanced at his watch. “Son-of-a...” his voice trailed off.

“Eight fifteen already and a 40-minute ride home. Time to hit it."

"Mark! One for the road.”

He thought better of it. “Just give me a go cup.”

He filled the empty cup with what was left of his last drink. Was this six? Or seven? “More like eight or ten,” he chuckled. He slid off the stool and felt the floor sway beneath his feet. Sponge met rubber, and he reached for the bar to steady himself.

“Come on. Pull it together.”

He struggled to get his coat on, frustration returning.

“Where has everybody gone?”

Most of the stools were vacant. Whatever mood he had sought and found a few hours earlier had vanished too, and something familiar had taken its place, something gray and cold, a combination of loneliness and shame that nothing ever really took away. Not his getting loaded or his gambling, not his making himself the center of attention, not his after hours prowls down side streets with twenty dollars crumpled up in his hand and his wallet hidden beneath the seat. Nothing he had ever tried made the stuff he couldn't stand about his life go away more than momentarily, before it came back in spades.

He made his way to the door, clutching the go cup, fishing for his keys, and patting the wad of twenties in the envelope he had stuffed in his pocket a few hours earlier.

“Get home in one piece. Done it before. Do it again. She'll calm down when she sees what I won.”

“Temperature's dropped,” said Mark who had just finished stocking the cooler as Timmy passed. “Stay safe.”

Timmy started through the door out into the cold.

“Merry Christmas,” Mark shouted.

“Merry Christmas,” Timmy mumbled as the door closed behind him.

Keys in hand, Timmy stumbled across the lot toward his van, wondering if he should have had another drink anyway.

“One for the ditch” he muttered, but no one was there to laugh.

He slipped as he neared the van and caught himself on the door handle, the contents of the go cup ejected as he gripped the Styrofoam too tightly. He let the cup fall to the ground in disgust. Distracted, he failed to notice what else ended up in the snow beneath his feet. He climbed in the van and started the motor. Overly cautious, he eased it out of the lot, heading south toward the expressway ramp.

One by one Mark pulled the chains that shut off the neon signs in the windows at the front. The huge G. Heileman's Old Style sign that hung outside the building stayed lit until he made it to the back where the breaker box was.

Closing time came early tonight.

No one noticed the lone figure of a shivering young woman in too thin and too short a jacket gingerly making her way across the parking lot from the alley, avoiding the puddles that had refrozen into patches of ice, looking for a warm place to pee.

“To anyone who has, more will be given, and from the one who has not, even what he seems to have will be taken away.”

Words spoken long ago—a riddle that has puzzled men for ages and even to the present day. Some kind of out-of-this-world compensation scheme that kicks in for some when they go too far and for others when they haven't come far enough.

No one can say for sure what Marisol is going to do with the two hundred dollars she found. Even she doesn't know yet, but it's one hell of a rush just thinking about it.

Maybe she'll give it to Luis—he's been paying too much attention to that prieta he brought home. “Now he'll pay attention to me,” she figures.

Maybe she'll give it to her sister to pay some bills, so Com-Ed doesn't threaten to turn off the gas again.

Maybe she'll give it to her mom to buy something for the little boy she's raising for Marisol—he's lived with his abuela for four years now, even calls her “mom”, thinks Marisol is his sister.

Maybe she'll smoke a blunt—the biggest one she can find.

Paco's Liquors has pints of 151 behind the register, on the top shelf.

“¡Qué chévere! Party time! Wake up when it's over.”

But whatever she does, one thing is certain.

Marisol has the first real smile on her face in ages.

For Marisol, it's already become the best freakin' Christmas ever.

“One for the ditch” he muttered, but no one was there to laugh.” (Photo by author.)