"And the Bells Were Ringing Out" -- a bit of Christmas fiction

Photo from Amboise Daily Photo

And the Bells Were Ringing Out

            No snow had fallen. There would be no white Christmas this year. All that had fallen from the sky had been sporadic showers that left the ground wet and the pavement oily and icy at nights when the temperature dropped enough. A gray Christmas, held at bay only by street decorations, twinkling lights on rooflines, and decorated trees on display in the front windows of small, dreary houses along the streets. Constant, cold wind blew past swaying power lines, the twinkling lights, the leafless trees in tiny front yards, and through patched or aged windows. A small sedan idled in a nearby driveway, gray smoke coughing from a rusted tail pipe, the bells of Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s “Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/31” coming through windows rolled tight.

            As the drums and harmonized guitar began to roar, the bells in the song vanished, replaced by glory bells from the church tower. On the house one down from here, no lights twinkled on the roofline, no decorations hung from hooks, no decorated tree welcomed from the front window. Inside, a small, fake green wreath hung from a wall above the sofa. On the sofa, a man was poised with his shoulders and hips on the cushion, his legs outstretched, and his feet flat on the floor. One arm was draped on the sofa arm, the other splayed out next to him. Opposite the sofa, a wall-mounted television played the end of a Rankin-Bass special in silence. The reclining man turned his head, looking from the television to a general “up” direction. The church bells continued to ring. He counted nine before the silence returned. He looked back at the screen, squirmed himself into an upright position, and knocked over one of the amber beer bottles on the side table next to him while searching for the remote control.

            The screen went black. He dropped the remote on the sofa and stood. He grabbed his coat, hat, and gloves, considered wrapping his red-and-white scarf around his neck, and decided it was too festive.

            “Welp,” he told the void hiding in the corner as he walked past it toward the door. “Time to get merry."

             He gave a chin nod to the woman loading gifts into her sedan, idling next door. She shouted, “Merry Christmas!”

            “You too,” he said, carelessly.

            It was a five-minute walk along damp streets and around frigid puddles to his favorite bar. However, it was closed for the night, as he knew it would be, so he walked another five minutes in the direction of downtown to find the substitute, Connelly’s. The last minute or so took him from a street corner along a radial sidewalk through a small park lined with wooden benches. A few people either sat or reclined on the faded benches, all bundled against the wind. One haggard old man in a flat cap and green scarf yelled out “Merry Christmas!” to him in a drunken slur.

            Mark waved in the general direction of the old man: “Merry Christmas, pops.”

            With that, he left the park and walked the last two hundred feet to the bar’s front door.

 

* * *

 

            The guys back at my regular bar, the Tap, said Connelly’s was a decent place to pass a fair Christmas Eve. It was a bar—nothing more, nothing less. It hadn’t quite sunk to the levels of being a dive, but its top-shelf booze would be middle-shelf anywhere else and only half a dozen beer taps were within reach of the bartender. Most of them read Bud, Miller, or Coors on them somewhere, and half of them also said “Light.” The shelves and the front of the bar were strewn with fake holly and red berries and twinkled with multi-colored lights; it was Christmas Eve after all, and the home for many lonely drunks throughout the holidays. I should know.

            The sign outside had read “X-Mas Eve Karaoke Tonite! NO MARIAH!” Though I rarely did the whole singing thing in public anymore, tonite seemed a good time to hear others belting out the carols. No Mariah, of course.

            “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked. Before I could respond, he said that well drinks were half off until midnight. A red Sharpied sign above him, next to the confiscated bogus IDs and kited checks read: “This is a Whamageddon-free zone!”
            I smiled. “Midnight?”

            “Champagne at midnight for anyone still here, then nothing but sodas until Saint Nick calls last call.”

            “You trying to get some of the cheap booze out of the way?” I asked, turning to look at him for the first time. He shook his head.

            “I’m just fucking festive.”

            I nodded. “Jameson with a bit of ice.” He poured the drink, set it down: “Six-fifty.”

            I set a ten-dollar bill on the counter and waved my hand over it.

            While he put the bill in the register and the change in a greenery-covered pitcher with a “Ho Ho Ho!” sign taped across the front, I turned and watched an older gent started a somewhat-slurred version of Burl Ives’ “Holly Jolly Christmas.” For social niceties only, I let a smile flit across my face and then looked for a seat.

            The male drinkers outnumbered the women by about 3 to 1—exactly what you would expect from a night that attracted only serious drinkers. These weren’t casuals dropping by for a 7-and-7 and a good time. These were the serious drinkers, the drunks and alcoholics who never went home, and the broken and lonely who sought any sort of camaraderie for the holidays, even if it’s more “bar homeys” than “bonhomie.”

            Most of us sat at the bar itself, singly or in pairs—never more than that—close to the bartender. Of the half dozen tables and booths, one was filled with a loud quartet of drunks, and the other held just one woman, who stared at Burl, sipping red wine.

            The auld fella was doing pretty well. I took an empty stool between a couple of other men and ignored them while they ignored me. One of them kept checking his phone for texts. The other was carrying on a conversation, punctuated with sporadic laughter, with the bar-back, the only other employee in the place.

            Burl finished to applause most of the patrons. Another man stepped up, took the microphone, and after entering his choice into the machine, started on a rousing version of “Jingle Bell Rock.” This being a song I utterly detest, I looked away from the singer, the screens, and the machine, and went back to watching my fellow broken toys.

            I finished the drink and set the glass between me and the bartender. This time I set a credit card down with it.

            “Start a tab?” I nodded. He took the glass and card away and brought me another full glass. I glanced at the silent television up in a nearby corner where some Bob was giving the weather report—more rain, no snow. Thanks, Bob!

            “Can I get another?” a voice said from over my shoulder. I glanced back at the speaker, a pretty woman in blue jeans and a green-and-white t-shirt that read “Merry Feckin’ Christmas” in orange letters, under a white dress shirt. She also wore high black leather boots with fur lining poking out the top. It was extremely cute. She held the folder full of karaoke song codes. Connelly’s didn’t seem to be the kind of place to have a machine that used an app to choose music.

            The bartender filled a highball glass with a few cubes of ice and opened a tiny bottle of club soda, emptying the bottle and tossing it into the garbage. “Here you go.”

            “Thanks, Jimmy.”

            “Are you going to sing?” the bartender, Jimmy, motioned at the folder in her hands.

            “Probably,” she answered.

            “Please do,” I said. “I hate this song.”

            She stepped back two steps and looked directly at me. “You don’t like ‘Jingle Bell Rock’?” Her face was smile-free.

            “I hate it.”

            “Heathen.”

            “Guilty.”

            “Do you sing?” she asked, offering me the folder. She took a sip of the club soda.

            “Sometimes. I prefer to sing the instrumentals.”

            She raised one eyebrow and squinted at me. “M’kay.”

            Behind us, before the song ended, the wine-drinking woman at the table stood and started toward the end of the room.

            Merry Feckin’ Christmas looked away from me, toward the other woman. I admit I watched her openly. Pretty woman, but not what some would call beautiful. Her hair split the difference between blonde and light brown. Her nose was a bit too long, more than a bit wide. Her jawline was strong, her chin broad and forward. She had strong features, which some people didn’t like.

            I’m not one of them. I love strong features.

            Only a second or so later, she glanced back, looking at me through light brown eyes and dark eyelashes. Her face remained neutral.

            “Someone told you you were funny once, didn’t they?”

            “Nope,” I said, trying to short-circuit the insult.

            She was still for a few seconds until the corners of her mouth just barely lifted and a hint of a smile appeared. She nodded slightly.

            “Jingle Bell Rock” came to an end, and the soft, mournful notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” began.

            “Well, hell,” she said. “I was going to sing that.”

            “I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s a good song, particularly if you’re always clinically depressed and suicidal every week or so.”

            She set her glass down on the bar and rolled her arm to display the underside of her wrist. She’d had a stylized heart tattooed there. I focused on the red, pink and black symbol, seeing it almost immediately. The bottom right portion of the tattoo was a semi-colon, with the lower part forming the bottom tip of the heart.

            I blinked, nodded, and looked back at her.

            “Thank you,” I said.

            “For showing you that?”

            “For staying with us. Thank you for choosing to stay.”

            Her mouth twitched, a wan smile appeared. The corners of her eyes started to shine. “I appreciate that.” She rotated the tattoo away from me and picked up her club soda again. “My name’s Britt.”

            “It’s nice to meet you, Britt,” I said, holding my glass in a salute of sorts. “I’m Mark.”

            “Do you have a semi-colon as well?”

            “I don’t,” I said. “…I should.”

            “Well, then, thank you. Can I sit here?”

            I nodded.

            She sat on the stool next to mine, set her boots on the bottom rail of the bar, and spread the song folder out on the bar. “What are you going to sing?”

            I shook my head. “I used to do that, but I don’t think my voice is up to it. Also, I’m here to get pleasantly drunk and hear you sing.”

            The smile on her face vanished. “It’s not fun singing alone.”

            “You would be singing alone if I wasn’t here.”

            “True,” she said. “But it wouldn’t have been fun.”

            “Why do it, then?”

            She was quiet for a few seconds. “Singing makes life bearable.”

            “What are you drinking?”

            “Club soda. Only.”

            “Are you a teetotaler who loves karaoke or…?”

            “I’m looking for my one-year chip.”

            “But you’re in a bar.”

            “I like karaoke. Next time I see a karaoke machine at a White Castle, I’ll go.”

            I smiled. “Congratulations on getting that far. Do you want me to—”

            “No,” she said. “Enjoy the whiskey. I’m okay with that. That’s just part of the challenge.”

            “You sure?”

            She nodded.

            “Okay. So can I ask why you’re here alone?”

            “What’s a girl like me doing in a nice place like this? I’m not everyone’s cup of tea and I’m enough of a misanthrope that I don’t give a shit.”

            “But you love to sing?”

            “I fucking love to sing.”

            “That’s cool.”

            “I’ll make you a deal,” she said. I responded by touching two fingers to my ear.

            “If I can impress the hell out of you, you’ll sing.”

            “I’ll just tell you that I wasn’t impressed.”

            “You won’t do that. That would make me think you’re an asshole. Right now, you’re trying to impress me.”

            “You’re probably right,” I admitted.

            “I know I am.” She gave me another little smile. “You’re not the only one.”

            “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” had been replaced by a drunken, off-key Rudolf.

            “I can’t do another carol,” she said. “I’m going to go wait. Don’t you dare roofie my drink.”

            Her boots clomped as she went to the nearest empty table to the karaoke machine. She sat facing away from me, but as I smiled watching her, she glanced back over her shoulder toward me. I did not avert my gaze. She smiled broadly enough for me to see, flipped her hair, and watched the drunk blare out, “You’ll go down in hissss toe reeeeeee!”

            He set the microphone down. She picked it up and entered a number into the machine. A few seconds later, the screens lit up and the music began.

            She had selected Sia’s “Chandelier,” an ironic choice for this situation. She tore though it. I sat back, not touching my drink as she began to purr, “One, two, three, one, two, three, drink,” and sat forward as she hit every damn explosive note of “I’m going to swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier.”

            I swear I didn’t move while she went through the entire song. It ended, and I knocked back the rest of the whiskey before applauding. She set the microphone down and walked back toward me, high-fiving another one of the singers.

            “I’m going to need the book,” I said as she sat down.

            “Impressed?”

            “You were fantastic. I’m not joking at all; that was incredible.”

            “Thank you.”

            “I’ll sing, but I’m not sure what to do.”

            “Do a Christmas carol. If you suck, everyone will forgive you. Just don’t pick a lousy one.” She slid the book toward you.

            “I don’t feel like singing a carol.”

            “Not your thing, or just… not your mood?”

            I shook my head, then nodded.

            “I’m sorry to hear that. You, um… are you okay?”

            “I’m never really okay.”

            Jimmy leaned in. “Do you two want anything else?”

            “Another one,” I said. Britt nodded. Jimmy went to pour the drinks.

            “How many meds are you on?” She asked.

            “Three for depression and a small dose for anxiety.”

            She mouthed “fuck” and leaned forward.

            “All the time?”

            I nodded. “It never goes away. It’s a constant feeling of emptiness, loneliness, self-loathing. It’s always there—the void, I call it. No matter how happy I am, the void is always there, riding along about… there.” I pointed to my left shoulder. “Always.”

            “Hence the semi-colon?”

            “I was afraid that putting it on me would fuel the void. I don’t want to risk it.”

            Britt turned her head as Jimmy set glasses in front of us. We thanked him and she looked back at me. “Since I’m being incredibly pushy and nosy, I’ll ask: what happened?”

            I looked away from her for a moment and picked up my glass. I set the swizzle stick on the coaster, drank about half, and set it back down.

            “I think you know better,” I began, “but it surprises me how many people think there is an easy answer to this. I was dumped at the altar. I had a massive coronary and never really recovered. I accidentally ran over a boy on a bicycle in traffic and I am haunted—metaphorically speaking—by his presence.” I picked up the glass and started to lift it. Britt reached over and rested her fingers on my wrist. I stopped and set the drink back down.

            Her fingers remained.

            “All of that is bullshit,” I said. “I was born this way. I was a miserable goddamn kid and I’m worse as an adult. The fucking void has always been there.”

            Britt moved her fingers and rested her hand on mine.

            “And I drink too much,” I said.

            “Is this a bad year, or pretty much a regular one?”

            “It’s bad,” I said. “I keep up on politics. The coming year terrifies me, and that depresses me further. We have people in this country who support a fascist conman for president. The other knucklehead, the one still in office, is telling Israel that killing civilians is okey-dokey. I can’t afford insurance or a shrink. Shane McGowan, singer for the Pogues, died the end of last month.”

            “Love the Pogues.”

            “Me too.”

            “I take it back,” Britt said. “You’re not a heathen. Do you like just them or other kinds of Irish or Celtic music?”

            “I like all of it: traditional, rock, punk, fiddle music from the Maritimes, you name it.”

            “Does it make you happy?” she asked.

            “Yes,” I said. It helps keep the void quiet for a time, but the void never goes away.”

            “What else makes you happy?”

            I stopped talking for a moment, trying not to look away from Britt. Her fingers tightened on mine.

            “Good company.” The fingers tightened further. “I haven’t had good company for a long time.”

            “Why?”

            “It’s me. I run off everyone I know.”

            “You haven’t run me off.”

            “You don’t know me.”

            “Whose fault is that?”

            I smiled.

            “You’re not with anyone this year, are you?”

            I shook my head. “Pretty obvious, isn’t it? It’s been months since I’ve been with anyone. It’s been more than five years since it’s been anyone I cared about more than a week.”

            “You remember when I told you not to roofie my drink?”

            “That was hard to forget,” I said.

            “I wasn’t telling you that to be an ass or to warn you. I was trying to let you know you wouldn’t need it.” She smiled a faint smile and looked away.

            “You know, that… that was… that was really oblique.”

            “I’m not really good with being nice,” she said. “I’m a misanthrope.”

            “No, you’re not.”

            She lifted her hand and picked up her glass. I used the opportunity to take a sip from mine. Not a gulp, a sip. Behind us, the karaoke machine came to life again, heavy brass started to swing, and two young, bro-looking guys started in on that Cold Miser/Heat Miser song. I laughed. Britt laughed, coughing on her soda. I grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and handed it to her. She wiped her face, still smiling.

            “See?” I said. “You’re not misanthropic at all.”

            She pushed her glass away. “It’s easier to say that than it is to say that I suffer from PTSD and I’m a twice-divorced, anxiety-riddled, impulsive, suicidal drug addict.” She put her hands in her lap, crossing her wrists.

            I held out my hand until she uncrossed and put her right hand in mine. “The one-year chip you want is from N.A., right?”

            She nodded. “I’m almost there.”

            I smiled at her. “Congratulations. I’m ready to sing.” I motioned over my shoulder at the bro-misers. “It’s going to be a duet, so I need you.”

            She smiled back.

 

* * *

 

            I took a deep breath, knuckles tight on the microphone. It had been five years, not coincidentally, since I had sung in public. As the screen lit up and the first piano note struck, I told the room: “This isn’t New York, but why not?”

            I glanced toward Britt, who was standing to the side.

            “It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank,” I sang directly to her. “An old man said to me, ‘won’t see another one…’”

            I turned back to face the room as I sang. Most of the other karaoke singers were watching me, as was normal.

            “...I turned my face away and dreamed about you.”

            I would not sing this like Shane. I refused to slur my way through it, even though the empty glasses here and the empty bottles at home said I should. I just had to hit all those A-major sharps, stay on key, and be me.

            Still, it had been five years.

            “I’ve got a feeling this year’s for me and you. So Happy Christmas. I love you, baby…”

            Britt took a step toward me.

            “I can see a better time when all our dreams come true.”

            I moved a step away from center, letting her take the spot. I wasn’t surprised when her voice rang out, clear as a bell:

            “They’ve got cars big as bars, they’ve got rivers of gold…”

            I couldn’t keep my smile silent. Her voice sounded nothing like Kirsty MaColl’s, but the spirits were identical. It would have made her proud, even if I worried how well they would sound together.

            “You were handsome—” My cue: “You were pretty, queen of New York City.”

            “When the band finished playing, they howled out for more,” we sang in unison. Her crystal-clear voice soared into the room while my not-on-point baritone exploded straight into it. “Sinatra was swinging, all the drunks they were singing. We kissed on the corner and danced through the night.”

            Simultaneously, we looked from the room to each other.

            “The boys of the NYPD choir were singing ‘Galway Bay’ and the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.”

            The flute-led bridge started. We had fifteen or sixteen seconds before the next bit. I looked back into the room, made an angry face, and then dismissive shoo-ing gestures at her. Britt stepped back, grinning, then showed me two fingers, one on each hand.

            “You’re a bum, you’re a punk!”

            “You’re an old slut on junk!” I responded. “Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed.”

            Honest to Christ, I don’t know if the anger on her face was real or make-believe. She continued:

            “You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot! Happy Christmas, your arse. I pray God it’s our last!”

            We faced each other from several feet away as we sang the second refrain. I glanced back at the audience and saw that the bro-misers and the wine-drinking woman had joined in. I couldn’t help but grin. I waved my hand, letting the room know they could join in.

            “I could have been someone,” I sang as mournfully as I could.

            “Well, so could anyone.” She retorted, still from several feet away. The voice of the lone woman joined with her. “You took my dreams from me when I first found you.”

            “I kept them with me, babe, and put them with my own. Can’t make it all alone, I’ve built my dreams around you.” At least three male voices joined in for the last line. I turned to face the room as we started the last refrain. Jimmy, the lone woman, the bro-misers, Burl Ives… everyone sang together.

            “The boys of the NYPD choir still singing ‘Galway Bay…” I raised my hand, and only one voice sang, “And the bells were ringing out…”

            “...for Christmas Day,” I joined her in singing those last three words.

            The band played. I walked to Britt and wrapped my arm around her and felt the warm sun of a beautiful day. She kissed me on the cheek, and as the drums began to rat-tat-tat-tat, we set our microphones down and went back to the bar. By the time we made our way through everyone else, the song had faded and Britt shined. Tears ran down my cheeks.

            “What’s wrong?” She asked. “That was amazing.”

            I wiped tears from my eyes and cheeks with the palm of my hand.

            “The void’s not here right now.”

 

* * *

 

            Very soon after, Jimmy set our cards in front of us, each paper-clipped to a receipt. “It’s champagne only in just about five minutes,” he said.

            We both signed the slips and took our cards.

            “It’s almost midnight? Doesn’t seem like it’s been that long,” I said.

            “Come on, Mark,” he said. “It’s only once a year that time and magic intertwine.” He picked up the signed bills. “Magic is everywhere tonight.” He went back to the cash register.

            “He’s right,” I said, realizing something. “He knew my name, and I never told him.”

            “He had your credit card, dumbass,” Britt said.

            “Oh my God!” I cried out. “He is a wizard of the Old Ways!”

            Britt laughed out loud. “You are so stupid.”

            I smiled back. “Thank you.” I took the last drink from my glass and pushed the empty toward Jimmy’s side of the bar. “Come on, let’s go.”

            “Don’t you want some champagne?”

            “It’s been a very long time since I’ve been this celebratory, this happy. I don’t need champagne. I’d rather share this time with you.”

            I stood, putting on my jacket. She had a long overcoat. I held it open for her. When we were bundled up and ready to go, we slipped out just as the bells from the nearby Catholic church started pealing to let us know that midnight mass was beginning.

            Outside, the wind has stopped. The air was cold, but not biting. We waved farewell to Jimmy through the big glass window, but he was busy opening bottles.

            A few yards from the doorway, we kissed. It was spontaneous, simultaneous, and passionate. Britt stepped back and looked at me with a serious expression.

            “I want to go home with you,” she said.

            “Then please, let’s do it.”

            “I… I don’t think I can.”

            Confused. “Why? I thought I didn’t need to roofie you.”

            She shook her head. “You didn’t. We’d just met and I had every intention of going home with you.”

            “I don’t see the problem.”

            “Can I ask you why you were attracted to me? Was it because I flirted first, or my looks, or my fucked-up personality?”

            “First of all, your personality is actually kind of sweet and very funny, despite what you think.” She nodded. “It was your face, your hair,” I answered. “You reminded me of my ex. There are some similarities,” I said.

            She tried to hide a frown.

            “To be clear,” I said. “That was my first impression. My ex was pretty. You have the same type of features, similar jaw and nose, for example.” Her eyes narrowed a bit.

            “I also think you’re really pretty. But that was the first impression. You see, I was the one who ended our relationship. I did it because I couldn’t stand her personality. My second opinion was that I desperately wanted to get to know you. You have similar looks, but you seem so much more… human. More real. More I-really-want-to-get-to-know-you. Just ‘more.’”

            “Okay,” she said. “I understand that. I had a similar reaction to you. You put to mind of both of my ex-husbands.”

            “How’s that?”

            “Because you have nothing in common with either one of them. Not in looks, attitude, ways of talking. Nothing. It was refreshing.”

            “And you wanted to come home with me?”

            “So much.”

            “But…?”

            “But… it’s been over a year since I’ve been with someone I wanted to be with. It’s not that I haven’t had sex in a year, it’s that I haven’t been with anyone I thought was…”

            “Was…?”

            “Worth it.”

            “I’m worth it?”

            “I really think so,” she said. She turned her body and leaned against mine. We started walking in the direction of the little park. “I’m not sure I’m worth it.”

            “Don’t say that,” I said. “You’re definitely worth it.”

            “To you, maybe,” she said, looking down at the sidewalk as we walked. “But this isn’t about you. It’s about me. I’m still short my one-year chip. I want to prove to myself that I can be clean for a full year before I think I’m worth it. I need to show myself that I can make it.

            “I’ve been testing myself for almost a full year,” she said. “I want to do this. I can make it. I want you to know that I can do this.”

            “That doesn’t matter.”

            “Yes, it does. Tell me—and don’t try to give me any hair-splitting or freshman lawyering—wouldn’t you be more interested in someone who has a full year of sobriety or someone who has almost a year. Seriously, don’t try to screw with the question. Just “yes” or “no.” Wouldn’t you find the one to be a better choice than the second? Yes or no.”

            I started to speak.

            “I’m not kidding. If you try to jerk your way out of answering this, I’ll walk away.”

            I held up both hands. “If I had to choose, knowing how important this is to you—I’m guessing this has been a goal for you?”

            She nodded.

            “Knowing how important this is to you, and how you would want to focus on yourself and make yourself your priority… then absolutely. The one who had accomplished her goal and was happier with herself for being able to make it…? Yes, definitely yes.”

            “That’s where we are,” she said, in a voice colored with genuine regret.

            “How much longer do you have?”

            “Until January 8^th. I was so messed up for New Year’s Eve that it took me three full days to get all that shit out of my system and for me to sober up. The rest is how much time it took to get up the strength to go into rehab.” She sighed. “I haven’t relapsed in all that time. I’ve been telling myself that if I can get through this first year, I can get through the rest.”

            “In that case, how about we meet here, that day, midnight, end of the day?”

            “If I don’t make it, I won’t be here.”

            “I expect that would be the case.” I sat on one of the wooden benches. She sat and leaned her body against mine, all kinds of warm.

            “Will you be okay?” she asked.

            I nodded. “Don’t get me wrong: this will be a bit of a challenge for me. The void will come back, even if he’s still gone right now. I’m willing to wait. I think you’re worth waiting for. I also know the difficulty of my challenge is nothing compared to yours.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Can I ask you one question?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Why did you want to kill yourself?”

            “I didn’t want to. I tried to.”

            “Because of the drugs?”

            She was still and silent for several seconds. “Mm-hmm. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to get clean. A few years ago, I tried and failed. Derek, my second husband, left. I actually failed at OD’ing. I don’t know how it happened, but I survived.”

            “I’m glad.”

            “I like that you’re glad.” She pushed away and stood up. “I need to go. I hope we see each other again.”

            “Me, too.”

            She leaned down and kissed me on the mouth once again. She stood straight and started walking in a direction from which I had not come. I watched silently as her boots knocked along the short radial sidewalk and she vanished into the quiet of Christmas morning.

 

* * *

             

            The days passed slowly, made worse by the fact that he knew she lived within walking distance. He went back to work on the morning of the 27^th, working every day until mid-afternoon, then going home to sit on the sofa in silence. A few times each hour, he would idly check to see if anyone sent him a message. They did not; nor did he feel the urge to go back and check his social media. He would occasionally watch a little television, with the sound muted and a little bit of music coming from the laptop.

            He didn’t’ play “Fairytale of New York” again, afraid of marring or erasing the memory of their own version. He tried Burl Ives, Nat King Cole, Vince Guaraldi, even Mannheim Steamroller and TSO, but none worked. The holiday was behind him, the music no longer gelled. He may as well have festooned a jack-o’-lantern with tinsel.

            Finally, New Years’ Eve made its way to him. Temperatures had fallen consistently if slowly since Christmas, but no snow had yet fallen. The air so dry that it crackled around him as he made his way and back and forth to work every day, he had taken to throwing his heavy jacket over the back of his chair and never left the apartment without it.

            In silence and darkness, he wiped doughnut crumbs from his shirt, brushed his hair, checked his teeth in the mirror, and put on his jacket. He sat back down and put on his shoes. He laced them tightly and rested his arms and hands on the chair arms. Leaning back until his head rested on the back, he stared at the water-stained, off-white ceiling, knowing that if he went out, he would look for her. The idea of not finding her was a kick in the head. The idea of finding her somewhere she shouldn’t be—a knife in the heart.

            His laptop was closed, the TV screen blank, the music unplayed. He inhaled through his nose several times, exhaling each time with a blast. Unlike a lot of folks, he had always hated New Years’ network-mandated time travel. The ball would drop, Times Square would go insane, and the East Coast minority forced the majority of the country to celebrate an hour, or two, or three, earlier.  Every year since he could remember, New York had stolen two hours of his life.

            “Just another fa— fable of New York,” he spoke to the void. The void responded with an overwhelming sense of shame and selfishness. He didn’t need to question from where it came. He knew. One person’s annoyance is another person’s crisis, and only a miserable bastard tries to equate them. He glanced up at the void:

            “You didn’t get me this year, and this won’t do it either.” He found the TV remote between the cushion and the arm of the chair. The screen flashed, came on. He put one shoe against the other, pushing them off. He untangled himself from his jacket, tossing it over his shoulder and let it fall on the chair back. He stared at the screen in silence for a few more seconds before turning the volume up, knowing that, for him, two hours of celebration were only an annoyance.

            “Only an annoyance,” he said. “And that’s all right.”

 

* * *   

 

            Six nights later, his shirt was clean, his teeth clean, his hair brushed. Shoes were laced, the jacket zipped up against the cold. Gloves were in the pockets, a hat was on his head, his scarf around his neck. Tiny flakes had begun to descend, only slightly coloring the sidewalks. The shards of brittle cold, however, had grown more vicious since walking home from the bus stop that afternoon. He glanced around, past the void. The television was off, the laptop was closed, but an entire playlist of songs was cued up and ready to start playing when he got home and opened it. The place was as neat as he had the strength to make it, even if the only real change were a few things in his cabinet that had been moved to cover the sudden absence of several different bottles.

            It might not be necessary, he knew. In fact, it might be a little insulting. Regardless…  

            He shut off the lights and walked into the cold hallway, ignoring everything the void said to him, even if they would echo inside him for a long, long time. He descended to the ground floor, stepped into the cold, and put on his gloves. It was only a ten-minute walk and he had left twenty minutes early.

            In the park, the snow blew and drifted through the small number of trees, settling on the empty benches that lined it. Late-night dark was striped with beautiful flying white, but the air itself meant the park was nearly empty. A man in a flat cap and a woman sat together on a distant bench, bundled against the cold in similar green scarves. Another man was giving his border collie a very late walk in the flake-dusted grass. The dog jumped and cavorted happily in opposition to the man’s dour movements. No one should have a border collie in the city, the inescapable void told him. They need too much exercise. Shouldn’t be in an apartment.

            “Shut up. Shut up,” Mark responded in the same voice the void used. “We don’t know the story. Maybe he’s visiting. It could be any number of things.”

            He remained standing in the middle of the park, surrounded by sidewalks radiating out to the nearby streets, knowing he was early, feeling weak legs, yet opting not to sit. No matter the outcome, no matter what the void told him, he was going to meet the next few minutes standing. She might be late; he could accept that, and he would wait. But he had come early, on the off chance that she had also done so. He ignored the voice in his head that said that perhaps he was just looking to prolong his disappointment, to give him a story for the next drunken conversation he shared.

            He shook his head, ignoring the hateful advice that he had waited too long, that she had come much earlier and had given up on him.

            Not long after, the man and his happy dog exited the park. The snow fell a bit harder. He pushed the sleeve of his jacket back and glanced at his watch. He still had a few minutes. Turning in a slow circle, the only people he saw were the bundled couple. Beginning to wonder and worry they might need something, he started toward them. As he did, he saw a figure in a long coat and longer scarf come into the park from the street. He glanced down at her feet, at the black fur-lined boots that knocked heavily on the sidewalk with every step. He dragged a leather glove across the corners of his eyes and tried to find the right thing to say.

            She stopped next to him, looking up from under a warm hat and through snow-flecked moist lashes.

            “Hi,” he said. He smiled.

            Britt’s wet eyes looked into his. She smiled back. “I made it                       .”           .

 

* * *

 

            The couple sitting on the park bench together watched Britt and Mark walk away, her leaning slightly against him. The snow had started to fall now with purpose. The woman looked up at her companion.

            “They’re a nice-looking couple.” He nodded in response. “Do ye’ think they’ll make it?”

            He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Well, that’s up ta them now.”

            “I think they will.”

            “I hope you’re right.”

            They watched through the falling snow for a moment more, as Mark wrapped his arm around Britt’s waist and pulled her gently toward him. A gust blew down the street, their scarves blew into the air. The man on the bench chuckled. As the pair passed the door of Connelly’s, the bells of the church began to peal.

            The woman on the bench looked up at her companion again. “Well, give us a hug, luv.”

            The man wrapped his arms around her. “It’s good to see you again.”

            “And you.” The woman looked back at the two, who had stopped outside Connelly’s to listen to the bells ring.

            “I think they’ll make it,” her companion said. “Won’t be easy.”

            “Nothing good ever is,” she said.

 

* * *

           

            Mark held Britt as she shivered, not from the cold. “This is hard on you?” He asked.

            “Not really. It’s where we met,” she answered. “I needed to know that I can stand here with you and not feel any urge to go inside.” The bells continued to ring.

            “You don’t have to,” he said. “But it’s still kind of our place and knowing that won’t be easy.” He had to pitch his voice to be heard over the sound.

            “Nothing good ever is,” she answered. “How are you doing? Is the void still there?”

            “It’s always there somewhere, but right now it’s gone. It’s just hiding.”

            “Does this mean you’re happy?”

            “I’m very happy,” he said. “But you know that won’t always do it.”

            Britt smiled at him, then grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him. “We won’t always be happy, but we might always have something to be happy for. Don’t you agree, you bum?”

            He smiled. “You punk. Let’s go.”

            She nodded. The last bell rang. The snow continued to fall. From a passing vehicle, they both heard their song—a bit of the bridge before the last verse.

            Mark turned back and looked toward the park. Enough fluff had fallen to cover the sidewalks, the trees, the planters, and every empty bench.

            “The boys of the NYPD. choir were singing Galway Bay,” Britt sang quietly to him.

            “…and the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day,” he finished. “It’s not Christmas anymore.”

            “You idiot,” she said. “It hasn’t stopped being Christmas.”

            Mark pulled a glove off one hand and held his bare hand to his side. Britt slipped her hand out of her mitten and tangled their fingers together before leaning again against his side.

            “Happy Christmas,” he told her.

            She nodded. “I think so. So where are we going?” she asked.

            He waved his free hand in the direction of everything not them: “There.”

            “Do you think we’ll make it?”

            Mark was silent for a moment. He pushed her hat away from her face and kissed her on the forehead.

            “I do,” he said.

The End

In Memory 

Shane MacGowan (25 December 1957 - 30 November 2023)

Kirsty MacColl (10 October 1959 - 18 December 2000)

I have no rights to use these lyrics to "Fairytale of New York." Because of the short time between MacGowan's death and the time I wanted to publish this, I never asked nor received any punishment to use the lyrics. As such, I am not selling this or seeking publication for it.

This is shared with loving thanks to Jem Finer, who wrote "Fairytale of New York" with MacGowan, and to every Pogue, then, now, and forever. 

Lastly, this is a gift to everyone who ever finds themselves, due to depression, PTSD, addiction, anxiety, or any other reason, suffering through the holidays. I am with you.