Christmastime

Never been much for Christmas. Even as a kid. Never worked out. If I was set on a blue dump truck I got a red one. Gave me a mind that nobody was listening. I just stopped expecting.

Haven’t been in a church for years and years since Ma finally passed. Don’t begrudge them that goes. Some enjoy Pot Likker Soup, some don’t. I prefer to do my praying in private.

Nobody but myself here now so there’s no shopping as such to be done. The money’s one thing but the crowds are the worst. Too many people. Not just Christmas but in general.

Too many people.

Sis is out West with her two kids. I send them each five dollars. Ten if I have it. Can’t do much with five dollars. New set of crayons maybe. They always color up a Thank You card. Just toss it in the trash. What am I supposed to do? Put it on the goddamn fridge?

Looks and feels like we’re in for some snow, heading up street to Fran’s. Christmas Day Fran helps old Mooney to open up and lets him tend bar over at her tavern. Old Mooney ain’t right. He probably don’t even know it’s Christmastime. But he can serve up a brewski just fine if you let him know where it’s at in the cooler. And we all help him out making change and what not.

Used to when he was a kid go up and down the street making engine noises. Never harmed nobody. Lived with his Ma, then when she passed, his maiden Aunt. Now he has a colored woman in looks after him.

Lawyer pays her from money his Ma left. Pearlstein I believe his name is. Lives over near the college. Jewish I believe. Colored woman spends Christmas with her own. Fran has Mooney tending bar on account of that way there’s somebody to keep an eye on him. Pays him a couple of bucks makes him feel like a somebody. Gives the rest of us somewhere to go something to do when everything’s closed down. She takes in some extra cash. Works out for everybody.

Mostly it’s folks like myself who don’t have nobody or else folks that just don’t make a fuss over Christmas. Front door stays locked and the sign stays off on account of the barrooms are supposed to shut down Holidays. Sheriff Polk don’t give a damn as long as the sign in the window ain’t on and the front door’s locked. Probably be in later himself after awhile.

Eddie Williams let’s me in. He does stone work for over at the cemetery. Stutters when he talks and don’t talk much. No family. Funny thing is after he’s had a few in him you don’t hardly notice his stutter.

Mailman John follows me in grabs a stool, motions Mooney over and orders a Seven and Seven. Mooney looks over to Big Dave, sitting on his bent stool at the far end of the bar, for the okay. Big Dave’s not a drinker. Says he just comes for the company. Looking at him I can’t figure how a person could find the time to eat so much to get so big like he is.

Mooney knows he ain’t supposed to be serving anything but beer on account of Fran not having the license for liquor only sometimes he can go ahead and serve from the bottle of Seagram’s behind the bar so long as it’s just regulars in the place. Of course Mooney can’t keep in his head which is regulars and which not.

So Big Dave tells him it’s okay and Mooney reaches down the shelf under the bar for the jug and a shot glass and pours without spilling any this time. He grabs a can of Seven-Up from the cooler and sets it on the bar with some ice in a Coke glass so Mailman John can mix in the shot with the soda.

“Two dollars!” Mooney says, only he don’t have no idea how much two dollars is. Mailman John counts the two bills out for him, one, two and Mooney drops them in the register.

Mailman John ain’t delivered mail for years. From what they say he lives off a pretty good-sized pension. Got married out of school. The story goes his wife left him for a younger man, a college student, then come back, then left again, this time with Stone Henley one of Sheriff Polk’s deputies. No kids.

Anyhow she’s dead now going on two years. Some kind of cancer.

Mailman John gets a little troublesome sometimes after he’s had a few and Fran’s had to take away his barroom privileges. That’s how she calls it, “barroom privileges.”

Means he can’t come in for a spell, usually a week but then she let’s up and he’s back the next day promising to behave.

It’s getting on noon and little by little the place starts to fill. Still no snow. Radio claims it’s going to be one hell of a blizzard, ten, twelve inches.

Fran put up Christmas lights but nobody’s turned them on.

She has one of them fake silver trees over by the juke box.

At the bar there’s Weasel Hendrix and his wife Margaret come up from the Eat and Drink and Clyde Wilcox from over in Jaspur. Clyde’s skinny as a string bean. He gets the door for Thorn Baxter who it appears is already two sheets, let’s out with Merry fucking Christmas and yells to Big Dave to set up the bar. Setting the bar up is too much for Old Mooney, take him forever to figure what’s what. So Big Dave gets off his bent stool and breathing heavy moving all that weight he goes round the bar to help Mooney out.

Mailman John points to Margaret says to Thorn watch his mouth there’s a lady present! Great big guys Thorn and Mailman John.

Margaret looks up from her Duquesne and tells Thorn merry fucking Christmas your own self you crazy sonofabitch! At least a half dozen Duquense empties on the bar. She’s as tanked as he is.

Used to be Margaret was a pretty gal. Well, attractive maybe, not pretty, attractive. Had a shine to her. A sparkle you might say. Weasel always said she put him in mind of Ann Margaret the movie actress. Not too far from the truth.

Hadn’t seen her for a time then a couple weeks back I’m in the Eat and Drink for some smokes, a Snickers bar and a sixer and behind the counter looks like some old woman with booze breath in a stained housedress. Not hardly Ann Margaret.

Weasel doesn’t look so hot himself nowadays. But he never did take after no movie star.

Little Bobby Day shows up and Mailman John lifts him up to a stool and sets him up to a PBR and a shot. Mooney looks to Big Dave again for the okay. Then Mooney can’t find the other shot glass so Big Dave has to get his large carcass up again and help him out.

Bobby Day don’t take to being called midget. Says little person is the proper name. I don’t know. I could see dwarf maybe, but little person is something you might call a young kid.

He pulls on his beard for a bit then downs the shot and takes a chug of the beer. Peculiar sort. Even for a midget. Quiet.

Where the drink gets Mailman John all wound up and loud it goes just the other way with Bobby Day. More he drinks the less he’s got to say. Not like he has a whole lot to say to start with. Don’t care for us calling him midget though. Says we need to call him a little person.

Only sounds is the stools squeaking and the noises of bottles and glasses coming down on the bar and folks drinking.

Clyde asks Weasel for a match for his Camel. Big Dave tells Mooney get him another Coke.

Mailman John says to nobody in particular it’s going to snow I can feel it in my bones. You know how you get that feeling sometimes? That’s exactly what it feels like…

Nobody says nothing.

Mailman John goes on, saying the college kids are at it again causing a ruckus. Every goddamn Saturday night it’s the same thing! Over at the bridge by College Avenue, boozing it up and smoking their dope and carrying on like nobody’s business. And you can smell that dope all the way up Hyde Street, six seven blocks away. If he weren’t so goddamn lazy that good for nothing sonofabitch Polk would put them all away…

When nobody speaks Mailman John slams his bottle down hard and says dammit! Can’t none of you sonsabitches be sociable?

He stumbles over to plug in the juke box and damn near knocks over the tree, drops a quarter in and presses some tunes.

“…I’ve been cheated Been mistreated When will I be loved…

The snow’s coming down like all get out and a couple is banging on the door to be let in. Strangers. Probably with the college. An older fellow with a beard and a gal who looks to be in a family way only it’s hard to tell for absolute sure on account of the way she’s all bundled up. …Let's pretend that we're together, all alone…

Clyde slides off his stool and yells through the door “Closed! Private party!” Then over Jim Reeves on the box I hear Margaret scream “Go way! No room at the inn!” But the couple they don’t budge. The old fellow’s trying to say something but Clyde cracking the door cuts him off says, ”Sorry folks. Private party. This establishment’s not open to the general public...” As he’s closing the door the old guy is still saying something but between the music and the wind outside I can’t make out what it is. …on tap in the can or in the bottle Oh bartender bring it to me…

Counting the empties Old Mooney don’t have the sense to clear off the bar by now I’m working on number five and I’m feeling no pain. I’m thinking I’ll wait and see if the snow lessens up before I head home. …There’s no place to go and hide myself The only sanctuary I see…

I see Polk on a stool next to Margaret and don’t even recall when it was he came. She’s whispering in his ear and he’s doing his damndest to look not bothered about it. Meanwhile Weasel looks to be concentrating really hard on that shot of Seagram’s in the Coke glass in front of him. Fran ain’t got but two shot glasses. …blue ain't the word for the way that I feel, There's a storm brewin' in this heart of mine…

Margaret has her arm around old Polk, reaches up and rubs the bald spot on the back of his head. She’s sloshed. Polk takes a big swig of his Old German, another swig to polish it, then reaches back takes Margaret’s hand in his and puts her hand on the bar covering it with his own.

“I got to go now Margaret. Weasel, I suspect it’s time for Margaret to go home as well. Looks like she might could use a good lie down.”

Weasel downs his shot and goes back to staring into his Coke glass.

“Aw Gerald, don’t tell me you’re leaving already,” Margaret says, “Gerald honey you don’t want to be going out in that mess, you’ll catch your death…” Sloshed.

Polk turns and wishes everybody Merry Christmas, then unlocks the door and already just two feet away you can’t make him out on account of how it’s snowing so.

I’m thinking just one more and then I myself ought to be getting as well.

I look over to where Clyde was at and see he must of left else he’s in the head. Mailman John is over to the juke box again, helping George Jones out at the top of his lungs on “Tonight the Bottle Let me Down.”

Margaret’s out cold, head on the bar, breathing deep from her mouth. Big Dave puts another shot in the Coke glass on the bar in front of Weasel, next to a can of PBR.

Bobby Day jumps down from his stool and leaves, mumbling Merry fucking Christmas but I don’t think anybody hears aside from myself on account of the racket from Mailman John who has now grabbed Clyde coming out the can and is trying to get him to sing with him and George Jones without much success, Clyde trying to get out from under.

Thorn Baxter growls at Mailman John to let Clyde be.

Mailman John drags poor skinny Clyde over to where Thorn is at leans in close as he can to Thorn’s face and says “Who it is you’re telling to do exactly what?”

Thorn tells him, “You just ain’t only an ugly bastard you smell like a skunk.”

Mailman John still hugging Clyde says, “Get your fat ass off that stool an let’s see just who it is is the skunk!”

The song is over and the barroom is quiet except for Old Mooney making his worried noises on account of it scares him when voices is raised like that.

Thorn Baxter slides off his stool holding his bottle of Bud, takes a long swig and sets it down on the bar.

Then Big Dave yells, “Hey! It’s goddamn Christmas for Christ’s sake! Either take it outside or give it up!”

Thorn looks over at Big Dave, then long and hard at Mailman John. He finally buttons his coat and gathering up his change from the bar he points at the door says to Mailman John “You got any more to say I’ll wait for you.”

He makes it to the door working hard on putting one foot in front of the other without falling over.

Mailman John lets go of Clyde and says, “Good rubbish to bad rubbish riddance…”

Eddie Williams shifts his place over to where Margaret is at, reaches over to bum a Lucky Strike from Weasel and tells Mooney to fetch him another Rolling Rock. Can’t hardly notice the stutter now that he’s had a few.

Mailman John is over at the box, can’t decide on a tune, and finally presses some buttons.

I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus…

Slams his fist down on the box.

“Dammit that ain’t what I played! I played Conway Twitty!”

Bends down to unplug Brenda Lee and hits the floor with a thump out cold.

I hear a snow plow come up over the hill. They’re pretty good about plowing on account of all the snow we get and trucks has got to be able to make it up and down 40 which becomes Main and then 40 again.

Weasel gives Margaret a shake to wake her, buttons her coat and all but carries her out the door. Clyde polishes his shot of Seagram’s, takes a long hit off his beer and follows, mumbling a Merry Christmas on his way out.

It’s getting dark and time for me to head back too, past time.

I tell Mooney bring me one last PBR.

Eddie Williams comes over and bums a Winston, tears off the filter and lights the cig then takes the stool next to me where Clyde was at. Just him, Big Dave and me now, and Mailman John laid out on the floor by the juke box and Old Mooney, pacing behind the bar still making his noises still scared from the ruckus with Mailman John and Thorn.

Big Dave says “Last call.”

Eddie swallows one last Rolling Rock in two long gulps and mumbles M-merry Christmas as he leaves.

Big Dave gets on the phone and calls Fran tells her he’s closing up and he’ll bring her over the key on his way home.

Then he goes over to give Mailman John a kick in the side to wake him. “Closing time,” he says, “Come on John. Time to go home.” John sits up opens and closes his eyes a few times groans and finally stands up.

“Need one more,” he says, “For the road.”

Big Dave takes a deep breath then pours Mailman John a shot and puts a cold PBR on the bar next to it.

I look at the front window and watch the snow for a bit. The way I figure it it don’t matter one way or the other whether I have one more or not so I do.