This is a Christmas short story
This is a transcript of the story I related at Moving Stories Cafe in November.
I saw an old man, a very old man. He was walking along the street from shop doorway to shop doorway. This old man, he was not shopping; he was looking for a place to sleep.
I watched the old man and, I admit, I even stared. I was sure I had seen him before. There was something about him that looked familiar. The dirty grey beard and the way he stooped as he walked. It looked like he was carrying a world of worry over his shoulder.
Then the old man looked up and he spotted me.
Of course, I looked away. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious and embarrassed. I did not want to offend the old man, so I turned and walked away.
I forgot about the old man.
Until I saw him again. This time it was on a different street and a different town. He was still walking from shop doorway to shop doorway but, this time, he was not looking for a place to sleep for it was midday. It was also the school holidays.
Mothers, families and children were milling around on the street. Some were gathered together, chatting, gossiping, or sharing the local news. Children played, skated or cycled past. Some even squabbled or sqwarked.
Nobody seemed to notice the old man but I had. I watched him and, I admit, I even stared again. Again, he looked familiar and, again, I could not say why. Then, again, he saw me.
He gestured rudely and shouted in my direction. I could not hear all he said but one word sounded like, ‘off’.
Some mothers heard him and stopped their chatter. They turned silent, looked at the old man then turned and looked at me. I turned and walked away.
This time, though, I did not forget about the old man. Instead, I tried to think why he looked so familiar. I knew I had seen him before in the other town but there was something else; something about him that looked so familiar. But still I did not know why.
It was several months later when I saw the old man again.
Again, it was in a different street and a different town. Just as before, he was walking from shop doorway to shop doorway. He did not seem to be looking for a place to sleep, neither did he seem to be shopping. This time, he was going into each shop and there he appeared to talk to someone inside. I guess that person would be the shop keeper or a member of staff.
I watched the old man for a while. Each time, he went into a shop, he would talk to a person inside, then come out again. Each time he emerged from the shop, I could see his face. He was smiling, or so I thought despite his dirty beard. Yet his smile seemed to suggest misplaced optimism more than happiness.
I watched the old man go in and then come out of three, maybe four, shops. Then I made my decision. I had noticed a shop further along the street which was shut up, closed down, and empty. I went along to wait in the doorway of that shop. My plan was to wait and, as if by chance, get to talk to the old man. I wanted to ask him who he was and what he was doing. Above all, I wanted to find out why he looked so familiar.
As I waited in the doorway, my back against the boarded-up window. I started to feel nervous, I started to feel excited but, above all, I felt worried; worried how the old man might react.
In reality, I had too little time to dwell on my feelings and no time to be concerned for my worries. It was not long before the old man approached the shop doorway.
He stopped.
He turned to me.
“I see you have found me again.” He said.
“I’m sorry. I’m not following you. You just look so familiar. Do I know you?”
He looked me straight in the face. His eyes looking into mine, his dirty beard almost tickling my quivering chin.
“Well, do you …?” he said, more as a challenge than a question.
“I don’t know …. who are you, what’s your name?”
“I am Father fucking Christmas” was his response.
I looked at him. “No, really …” I started but, as I looked at him, I realised that that was who he reminded me of. “But what are you doing going from shop to shop?” I asked.
“I’m looking for work. In the old days, I used to work in all the big stores. I’d give out presents to children and everyone loved me.”
“But now,” he continued, ” nobody wants me; they think I’m just a dirty old man.”
I looked at him but did not know what to say or what to do. There was an embarrassing silence between us.
“Well, now you know..” he said, “now you can piss off”.
I left the old man and walked hurriedly away. I did turn round once to get a quick look but the old man had gone.
I never did see that old man again after that. Perhaps we were never in the same town at the same time again. I sometimes wonder what happened to him. Did he get a job or is he still looking?
Then one evening, I was travelling home on a late bus. The bus was full of mothers and children, many carrying shopping home. It was coming to Christmas and most of us were feeling cheerful.
There was one little girl seated with her mother. A kindly old lady looked down at the girl and asked;
“What will Father Christmas bring you this year?”
Without a thought or hesitation, the girl looked up and replied,
“Father Christmas is dead; it’s just someone dressed up now.”
Perhaps now, I know what happened to the old man.
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