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Harold Senator’s First Last Christmas

c2009 By Paul Malm Harold Senator glanced around the bus, then with resignation, down at the single candle mounted atop the resented chocolate cupcake. As he lit the wick, the tiny psst it offered gave him his cue and Harold quietly took it.
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c2009 By Paul Malm

Harold Senator glanced around the bus, then with resignation, down at the single candle mounted atop the resented chocolate cupcake. As he lit the wick, the tiny psst it offered gave him his cue and Harold quietly took it. "Happy birthday to me," he sang. "Happy birthday to me. Da da da, dear Harold. Happy birthday to me." He paused then added, "And please no more, from channel four."

"Hey! Harold!" the bus driver intruded. "What in the world are you doing? Put that thing out!"

"Geez, Harve."

Harold took a deep breath and blew. The flame flickered and died. A second later, to Harold's surprise, the wisp of smoke escaping the slender wax taper, disappeared into a bright new burst of flame.

Oh no, he thought. I must have grabbed one of the trick candles left over from ZZ's party. There, at the party, he'd hoped the relit candle had been symbolic. Here, it was just another frustration.

"Hey Harold," said the driver, "I thought I told you to put that thing out."

"You did and I did," said Harold. "But-"

Harold shook his head. Sure he could blow it out again, but it would just come back. He surveyed the bus. Only an elderly gentleman wearing a drooping Santa hat with "Ho, ho, ho" inscribed on the white trim, remained. He sat across from Harold in the handicapped spot, fondling the clear plastic tubes sprouting from his wheeled oxygen tank. Oblivious to Harold, he stared at some point far beyond the blue wall of the number twenty three bus.

Harold glared at the glowing candle. The scent of chocolate mingled with the burning candle intruded. With his one uncupcaked hand he rummaged through his pants pocket. Finding nothing useful, he transferred the cupcake to his other hand and checked that side.

"If you can't put that thing out, you're going to have to get off at the next stop."

"But Harve, it's only a candle."

"Candle, schmandle... it's company policy - an' policy don't change, even for Christmas."

"But I can't get it out - and I can't be late... not today."

"Sorry."

Harold inventoried the immediate area and spotted his sack lunch. He grabbed the brown paper bag with his free hand and reached in. After fumbling for a second, he drew out a can of soda, placed it between his knees and pulled the aluminum tab. The cola spritzed out, shooting a volley of fizz onto his overcoat. Harold quickly raised the pop to his lips and took a long pull. Then, lowering the can, he stared at the burning wick one last time before he turned the cupcake upside down, lined the flame up with the oval opening of the can and finally smushed everything - cake, icing and chocolate wishes - down into the top of the aluminum cylinder.

"Happy birthday tooooo meeee," he sang out his final surrender.

"It's your birthday is it?" said Harve, looking in his mirror.

Harold hesitated. "Kinda," he said.

"Whadaya mean, 'kinda'? It either is, or it isn't"

"Is," said Harold. He turned aside and watched the rain beginning to strike the tinted glass at the top of the front window.

"S'pose you got some big plans," the driver suggested, oozing sarcasm.

"Oh yeah," said Harold quietly in defense. "I got plans."

"Big party, eh?"

"Not exactly."

"Your son Charlie comin' over?"

"No."

"Maybe you can invite Mr. Benitendo here." The driver nodded back over his shoulder at the tube-entwined octogenarian "Bet he's a real party animal."

Harold smiled at Mr. Benitendo.

"Your stop's comin' up," said the driver. He pumped the brakes rhythmically.

Harold swayed forward with each pump. Finally, the bus stopped and the doors glided open. Harold negotiated the grooved rubber steps down to the wet pavement.

"Hey! Hey! " yelled the driver. "You forgot your lunch, here."

Harold heard the voice but continued walking. He scuffed and splashed his way down the street. After a couple blocks the dampness from the sidewalk wicked up through the leather soles of his brown work shoes. He passed the Purple Onion Deli, with their green and red decoration lights flashing and the nativity painted on the window at the White From Wong dry cleaners, before making his usual turn at the corner. Taking the right, he looked up and studied the faded sign; Martin & Co. Design and Prefabrication since 1967 . Harold inserted his key into the green brass lock, opened the faded brown door and began his walk down the shrinking hallway. Big red bows hung from the centre of each office door he passed.

"You're late again, Senator," he heard from the back of an alcove to his left.

Harold looked at his watch. He was not late and he knew it. "Oh," he muttered, noticing that the second hand on his stainless steel Timex had stopped moving. Harold sighed the air from his shoulders. Not another battery. Hadn't he just purchased a new one at Thanksgiving - two days before ZZ's going away party.

"Hey, Senator, got those new samples with you?" a desk barked from another room down the hall.

Harold reached into his overcoat pocket and fingered the plastic container with the child-proof lid.

"I've got everything I need," he responded.

"And that longevity report - the strength issues. Monday's the deadline you know."

Harold waved off the comment and ambled on. Reaching his desk, he studied the towering sheaf of papers on the left. Grabbing the top sheet, he sat down and poured over the charts listed there. He corrected a couple of columns, then scribbled his initials at the bottom. Finally he dealt this first card to his immediate right, beginning a new pile. So it will be, he pondered; one paper just like the next, one moment just like the last, one hour... one twenty-fourth of his daily sentence. For years, it was his gift to her.

By noon the stack on the left was down halfway and the pile on the right, its equal. When the clock in the hall was on its fourth bong , of twelve, Harold reached down instinctively for his lunch sack, before remembering there would not be one.

He shook his head slightly. It wasn't much of a loss anyway, he reminded himself, nothing like the lunches ZZ had made for him; her homemade potato salad, the crunchy dill pickles... her grandmother's brownies. Still, it would be a long day and the afternoon would grind away like two if he had no sustenance. But pay for lunch? He caught himself. What would it matter anyway, after tonight?

Harold grabbed his coat from the rack behind and threw it on. He slid his hand inside its secret pocket, making sure his wallet was there, then turned back to the desk. Whenever he left, he placed a paperweight on the largest pile. He stared at the heavy brass horse and rider, disowning it forever, then strode on out of the room and down the hallway.

As he walked he enjoyed the tock, tock, tock sound of his heels hitting the hardwood floor. He wondered how he'd missed it earlier when he'd first arrived. It was his favorite sound in the whole building. Soon the wood beneath abdicated to the pavement outside. Harold shook his head, wishing that the whole world was a wood floor, with each person sharing their own particular resonance upon it.

It seemed so silly to come to work today - and his lunch, why did he even make it? Why eat at all?

Opening the door of the Purple Onion he heard the bell tinkle above him. He considered the sound privately, wondering how many man-dog Pavlovians had salivated to this bell over the years. He hadn't of course, for it was not his routine. It was ZZ's lunches he longed for - and those, really not even for the wonderful tastes, but for the knowledge that it was her hands that had made them.

"Mr. Senator? Harold?" A voice behind the counter interrupted.

"Yes," he said, even as he thought, oh you stupid man. How could you not remember her name? Harold cast a glance to the right and closed his left eye. Slowly he brought his head toward centre so it would appear to the young lady that both eyes were closed, even as he scanned her nametag with his right.

"Hello, Judith," he responded.

"It's been a while hasn't it?"

"Yes. Quite a while."

 

"You decided, Mr. Senator?"

She was not insistent, only trying to help, and he knew it.

"We've got some specials today. Did you see them?"

Harold perused the blue pastel chalk on the black board just beyond Judith's shoulder. Though he had indeed seen them, he looked back to her and replied, "No."

"Well, there's hot turkey with dressing - just like your mom made on Christmas day, and our own garlic mashed potatoes on the side." She ran her finger along the crisp white collar of her blouse, then whisked an auburn strand from her forehead and continued. Harold listened intently, holding each word yet assimilating nothing. It was just the melody in her voice; the rise and fall, the enthusiasm. Her sweet tone resonated in his ears, then slowly trickled down into his soul, seeping even into the hard cracked places.

"And that's about it," she finished. "What would you like?"

"Uh ... I'll take the last one please," he said without a clue as to what he was ordering.

"Sourdough or whole wheat?"

"Whole wheat."

"Then whole wheat it is," she said, jotting her code across a light green pad. "And to drink?"

"Coffee, please."

"We've got cider and eggnog, you know. Still, want coffee?"

He paused. "No... no! Make that root beer, okay?"

"You got it. Will that be all?"

"Yes. That's all."

"Okay. I'll put in your order then." She smiled, then jokingly said, "Should have it ready to go by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But... but... I can't -"

"Just kidding, Mr. Senator. "It'll be out to you in a few minutes. I'm sure."

"Oh... right. Thanks, Judith. Thank you very much."

"It was my pleasure, sir." She smiled again. "And a very merry Christmas to you, Mr. Senator."

How odd, he thought. It actually seems like she means it.

Seven minutes later, a pimply faced high school drop-out, wearing an elf hat with felt ears, slammed down a plate supporting a huge roast beef and swiss sandwich.

"Number twenty-two, right?" he said.

Harold nodded. Before he could say thank you, the delivery man wiped his hands on his apron, grabbed the red tented plastic twenty-two from the table and scurried off.

A moment later, Harold took his first bite.

"Mm" He munched. Good sandwich. He took another bite and felt the horseradish opening his pours. He grabbed a napkin and caught the first bead of sweat as it trickled past his temple. He reached for his knife and sliced through the bread leaving two ample halves.

Finishing the first half and all of the pickle, he leaned back against the slatted rungs of the wooden chair and patted his stomach. He stared down at the second portion, tempted, but not yielding. It would give him something to look forward to after work, he thought. To look forward to - the phrase had been applicable for so many years.

A minute later, Harold Senator stood up, holding the white clam-like styrofoam container which protected his dinner and made for the front door. Against what he knew was his better judgment, he'd decided to head back to work, even though the whole thing made no sense. As he reached the exit, a familiar voice called out from behind the counter.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Senator," said Judith.

Harold turned and nodded.

" Merry Christmas!" she sang, as he pressed on out through the door.

Sitting at his desk, late in the afternoon, Harold studied his paper piles. Yes, he thought, they are both the right end-of-the-day sizes. He glanced at his watch. Oh... right - still nine o'clock exactly.

Down the hall the bong bonged five bongs and Harold was ready to bong himself outside again. He stood and reached for the ceiling, then arched his back over as far as he could.

"Ahh," he said, feeling the vertebrae pop.

He looked down at his desk and contemplated one drawer then the next, each time thinking about what was inside and whether it made any difference whatsoever, or even could, to anyone outside them. What did any of it matter?

Harold grabbed his beige overcoat, noticing the cola stain still speckled across the midsection. He drew in one arm then the other as he looked at the mirror on the wall behind. The coat had always looked too big, he thought, but it wasn't. He shoved his hands in his pockets and fingered the small plastic cylinder again. He shook it for an instant. Should be enough, he thought. It better be. He'd stopped his health insurance only two weeks before. What a stupid irony it would be if... well, he knew he wouldn't need it. Of course he wouldn't.

Soon Harold was tock, tock, tocking down the hall towards the front door. He paused and thought of turning back for one last look, but concluded there was no point and just kept walking. He'd planned on taking the bus, but striding past the Purple Onion's empty "Specials of the Day" sign, he stopped, pondered Judith's farewell and decided he wasn't in such a hurry after all and would just walk. Sometime that afternoon, the rain had given up. So, he mused, at least I won't catch cold.

Arriving home later than usual, he headed for the refrigerator. He put his plastic bag on the counter next to it, then drew out the styrofoam clam. He flipped open its lid and took a whiff of the leftover beef. As the aroma filled his nostrils, Judith's smile returned easily, seducing him gently. He pulled the fridge door open, glanced at the empty shelves, and placed his white container front and centre. Closing the door, he wrestled briefly with his overcoat then tossed it aside - but not before he'd extracted the white-capped amber tube and its necessary contents.

Harold pondered the container in his hand, then drew it close. He donned his glasses and read the label through the lowest field of the lens. He walked over to his bed and sat down. The springs gave way invitingly. You don't have to live this way, they said. Just one more sleep.

Harold focused intently at the child-proof cap, then set it all down by the scribbles he'd left that morning on the notepad propped against the lamp on the nightstand. He'd tried... to say it right... to say it all right, so no one would take on any of the blame. He didn't want that for anyone - especially Charlie. Charlie had his own problems now, with his family and all. But he'd lick 'em. He'd do better than the old man.

Harold got up and reached out again for the medicine. He pushed down on the cap and felt it release. He perused the nightstand. Awk... no water.

"Stupid, stupid," he muttered as he shook his head. He filled a tall clear tumbler from the washroom sink.

Sitting back upon the bed, he read once more, the lines he'd scrawled across the notepad that morning. Despite all his efforts otherwise, a single tear leaked slowly from his right eye and ran down his trembling face. In that instant a river of memories flooded his mind; the most important voices of his life, the ones from his past, the ones he so wanted to hear again, but were no more - at least not on this side. He thought of the voices of the day; the bus driver, the head engineer down the hall. And then he came to Judith's.

Judith... the high and low of each tone, the warm timbre. She was just a kid after all and meant nothing to him and yet... yet, what she gave in the sweet richness there, struck him. Why... why did she have to be so... so genuine? Why? Why couldn't she just go about her business without intruding upon other people's lives? Why did she have to reveal such a goodness, as to have others want to get close to her once more, even if only to hear the day's line-up and order another one of her daily "specials"?  Harold closed his eyes. He heard her voice again and wondered about the something more behind it. Given time... given time, maybe he would even find out what that more was.  Time... the something he had little of, or at least didn't want... didn't desire, he'd thought.

With eyes still closed, Harold sighed permission to himself and finally let all his ZZ tears fall unrestrained. When the last bead of grace trickled down from cheek to chin, Harold glanced back at the words propped up on the nightstand. Slowly he reached for the pad, grasped the top page and ripped it off. He folded it with both hands, then gathered up the amber tube of sleeping pills and put them together inside the nightstand drawer. Closing the drawer firmly, he pondered what the next "Specials of the Day" might be. As he did so, he clung tightly to the most meaningful words he'd heard in a long time; so simple... yet profound, sincere and sustaining, pure, noble and affecting; "Merry Christmas, Mr. Senator.  Merry Christmas."

 

Paul Malm is a Seattle writer and part-time Whistler resident who has written several works of fiction, including Christmas stories, that have been published in Pique Newsmagazine.

 

 



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