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me of when I was a little boy and my father took me Christmas caroling.  It's warm in here. The snow on my face and jacket begins to melt. It forms small rivulets of water and mixes with the tears that well in my eyes. The music makes me sleepy, and I lie down on the bench, closing my eyes.
Nine: I decided to frown. I sat on those cement steps, on that spring afternoon, eating my crushed fistful of apple pie. As I ate, I made up my mind that I would wait there until that woman came out, and when she did, I would thank her for that nickel. It seemed like a silly plan, but a bum like me doesn't have a busy schedule.
Ten: I must have fallen asleep, because the choir is gone. If I slept through the night, that means that today is Christmas. "Well, happy Christmas, somach," I say. I get up and leave the church.
Almost three inches of snow fell last night. My feet leave the only foot prints on the sidewalk; everyone else is inside on this Christmas morning. I wonder if I am on Santa's good list this year? I think. Maybe if I had a house with a fireplace and a stocking to hang over it, I could check to see if there was any candy or coal inside.
I walk throught the park, and in my mind, I replay that day back in spring when I chased a platinum haired woman through here. I come out on the other side of the park, and I stop, staring at the big, brick factory, and I wonder. Where is the meaning in all of this?
I walk to the cement steps, and I build a snowman on top. I pick up a few pieces of gravel from the ground and make two eyes, a nose and a smile. My fingers are frostbitten. I walk back to the park and snap two stick off of a dogwood tree and stick them in the sides of my snowman. He needs a hat and a scarf, but I have none.
I press the pockets of my jacket, searching for something with which to write. I find a tiny golf pencil. On the back of a receipt for a pack of cigarettes, I write a note.
Dear Madame,
Thank you ever so kindly for your extended kindness
on that spring day.
-A friend.
I spear the letter on one of the snowman's stick fingers and then walk down the stairs. At the bottom I turn around a pause, marveling at my work of art. Then I turn around and start walking towards the train station. All of that playing in the snow made my hands cold. I shove my fists deep in my pockets and notice something which I do not recall being there before. It's small and round and lodged in the lining. I wiggle my fingers through the hole in the bottom of my pocket, trying to grab whatever it is. I can almost reach it, I think as I poke it with the tip of my finger.
"Got you!" I yell, and then I pull it out. It's a nickel.
--James Moening |
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