An Early Christmas gift

Posted on Sun Nov 28th, 2010 @ 4:19pm by Commander Basil Hart

3,521 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: On Typhon Station
Location: Basil's Quarters
Timeline: Present

ON

Basil Hart was not usually given to flights of fancy, but he had been unable to sleep since the dream. He couldn't get it out of his head. After uselessly pacing in his quarters for two hours, he decided it was time to do something constructive. Heading to the Holosuite, unsure of why he was going there, he opened the doors and entered into the familiar Yellow grid pattern.

"Computer: Create an environment conducive to writing."

The computer replied without emotion. "Unable to comply. Too many variables. Please specify parameters."

Basil sighed impatiently. "I wish to write something down. It's a story, set in early 2oth century Earth. I need an environment with sufficient tools, implements, and ambiance to facilitate the act of creative writing."

A room appeared around him. Comfortably lit, it was warm. The smell of old paper filled his nostrils. Shelves filled with books lined the walls. There was a desk against one wall, A niche in the bookshelves seemed to be made especially for the desk, as it fit perfectly. Upon the desk was an odd looking device. a sheet of paper was inserted into it, and it had a keyboard, but there was no monitor or other type of display device. He had to think about it for a minute, but finally it came to him. "A typewriter! Computer, replace the typewriter with a 21st century computer, capable of voice recognition, and tie its input into Ship's computer messaging system."

The typewriter morphed into something a little more familiar. A keyboard and mouse appeared, along with a large metal box, and a condenser microphone. There was a logo on it. It looked like an apple with a bite taken out of it.

On the monitor was a reasonable representation of a sheet of paper, and a blinking cursor. Basil began dictating.

"Occurrence at an old city bar.


It was a merry place. I like it that way. My name's Jake, and I run a bar called Mary's place. If you must know, I named it after the second woman I ever fell in love with, but she turned out to be a time traveller from the future with a thing for aliens. But I digress. We're a little out of the way, so don't come looking for us. But if you ever really NEED to visit Mary's place, you'll find it. If you've never been there, God's pity on you. It's warm, bright, and cheerful, but I don't hold with all the neon signs and advertising. Like I said, People who NEED to will find it.

I know what you're thinking: Bright lights in a BAR??? That's heresy! But here's how I figure it: Most bars are there to help folks get blind. In MY bar, folks come here to SEE. Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about. It was December 24th, and the annual Christmas party at Mary's place was in full swing. The fire was roaring merrily in the fireplace (designed just like the one in my friend Mike Callahan's place before we nuked it, and that's another story) and glass shards littered the ground from all the toasts.

I guess I should explain how the toasts work. All the drinks in my place are two bucks. At the end of the bar is a cigar box filled with singles. After you buy your drink, you have two options: you can order another round and pick up a single out of the box, or you can step up to the line painted on the floor in front of the fireplace and propose a toast. The interesting thing is that when you exercise the second option, everybody in the bar shuts up and listens while you are speaking. Then you can deep-six your glass in the fireplace and pony up another two bucks for your next drink. I am very proud of the fact that in my ten years as owner and barkeep, That cigar box has never been empty.

Anyway, The place was merry. Doc Webster had just finished reciting (verbatim) Kip Adatta's "wet dream" string of undersea puns like, "I was driving in downtown Atlantis. My barracuda was in the shop, so I was in a rented Stingray, and it was overeating..." bringing gales of laughter from his audience as Fast Eddie played a few bars of "Yellow Submarine" by the Beatles, earning him a hail of beer nuts. Josie Bauer was off in the corner entertaining a small group with ribald Christmas stories, and Sherry sidled up to the piano, whispered something in Fast Eddie's ear that made the runty piano player blush, and proceeded to strike a pose. Eddie started playing a sexy tune, and Sherry sang in a husky contralto, "Santa, baby, hurry down the chimney for me..." I've never gotten her real name. Until recently, she worked at Lady Sally's, and no, I won't explain more than that.

I had just finished pouring a large serving of Bushmill's to Ralph von Wau-Wau, and in between his howls of approval at Sherry's performance, he was lapping it up with much gusto. Ralph is a German shepherd, you see. Through an interesting mutation and a little creative, but unorthodox surgery, he is not only intelligent, but has the power of speech. He still prefers canine to human company, at least of the female variety, but Sherry could make even The Thinker statue stand up and take notice! As it was, she got quite a few wolf whistles (no pun intended).

The door flew open, allowing a large quantity of wind, snow, cold air, and a man who made even the great Doc Webster's girth look small into Mary's place. He was dressed in the typical Santa suit, red fur, giant black boots, white fur trim, red mittens, the works. His beard was so full and so white, I thought it must have been fake, until he bellied up to the bar, and I got a closer look. It was real, all right. This guy was cliche from head to foot! He even had dimples, a cherry nose, and the pipe in his mouth exuded a scent of pine and cinnamon. He slapped two singles on the bar, smiled at me, and said, "Hello Jake. I haven't seen you in quite a while."

I shrugged. "Well, I see a lot of folks come and go in this business. You'll forgive me if I don't recognize you."

He looked shocked. Then he covered it with another smile. His rich bass voice sounded joyful and full of cheer. "I forgive you." He turned and looked at the general merriment around him. "This is how Christmas should be." I couldn't argue with him there. I also couldn't shake the feeling that I did know him from somewhere, but I couldn't place him, and I pride myself on having a memory for faces.

"So, what can I get you for two dollars, Santa Claus?" I smiled at him, using his appearance since I didn't know his name. His face lit up, and with a broad grin and a hearty laugh, (it was even a ho ho ho, for Hell's sakes!) he clapped me on the shoulder and a friendly manner.

"So you DO remember me!" He was positively beaming. Oh, great, I thought, just what I need in my place on Christmas Eve! A nut who thinks he's really Santa Claus! Well, I'll keep him occupied at the bar, so that he doesn't embarrass himself in front of the others.

Josie's group was getting pretty loud over in the corner, and in the course of her stories I heard her drop the "F" bomb a few times. I thought nothing of it, being used to that kind of language in a bar (especially my bar), but with every overheard snippet of foul language, the guy in the red suit *diminished* a little. That's the best way I can describe it. It wasn't just that his countenance fell, or that he became depressed, he actually seemed to fade or shrink or recede from view a little. I know that's kind of a weak way to describe it, but that's how it seemed to me. I handed him a beer, and I hoped he'd make a toast. He was starting to look like he could use it. He downed half the mug in one gulp, and proceeded to step up to the line. Once again, my friends did me proud, and there was attentive silence as he raised his glass.

"Here's to the true spirit of Christmas, what ever that may be!" he drained the mug, and deep-sixed it into the fireplace with such force that glass shards flew back out in a spray and landed, tinkling on the floor up to 5 feet away. My fireplace is designed like a parabolic reflector. It's very difficult to get glass shards to bounce out of it, but he managed to do it through the sheer force of his throw. I was dying to ask him what his enigmatic toast meant, but House rules are house rules. In my joint, anybody that asks a leading question after a toast gets sapped by the blackjack in Fast Eddie's boot, and then they get a permanent invitation to the outside world. So we all sat there trying to look sympathetic and helpful, waiting for the big guy to unload. He turned to face us, and a single tear trickled down his cheek and a strange nostalgic pain welled up into the heart of everyone in the room. He didn't say a word, but gathered his red mittens and started towards the door. Mary's place wasn't feeling very merry, and I didn't like that. I was just about to break my own rule and risk getting sapped by Eddie when the door flew open again.

In with the snow in the wind in the cold blew a little kid. He couldn't have been more than twelve at the oldest, but he walked into the joint and closed the door as if he had no idea that he didn't belong in a bar. The kid was dressed warmly for winter, and there wasn't a mark on him. I began to wonder what a 12-year-old kid was doing out this late (it was after 10 o'clock) without his parents. The guy in the red suit stopped in mid-stride and stared. Then abruptly he chose a seat and sat down, not saying a word and hastily wiping the tear from his cheek. But the kid went right past him, and straight to me. He was old enough to have become disillusioned with Christmas tradition. I smiled at the kid. "Howdy, son. I know it's Christmas and all, but if I get caught with a minor in my place. I'll lose my license. Is there anything I can help you with before you leave?"

The kid ignored my blatant invitation to the door. "Did you know there's someone out there who's lost and who can't get home?" He jerked his thumb back toward the door. The windows were pretty frosted over by the cold air outside, but I could still see the street light across the street. Nearby, standing next to the broken payphone that the city refused to fix was a girl. Her head hung down, and her long dark hair billowed with the wind as she gathered her meager coat closer about her in an attempt to keep warm.

I hate to admit it on Christmas Eve, but I was a bit suspicious. "Do you know this girl?" I eyed the kid for any hint of a reaction. There was none.

"No Sir, I don't."

"And how do you know she can't get home?" I was remembering how that swindler from the future had almost sold us a bill of goods when we were still over at Callahan's place, and I wasn't going to let my friends get taken by a pint-sized con artist.

The kid looked up into my eyes, and both his voice and his face were clear. "Well, it's Christmas eve, isn't it? I figure if anyone could get home, they'd already be there."

Josey and Sherry both have a soft spot for kids, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw them both start towards the child with a desire to comfort him. But the guy in the red suit held up his hand, and they stopped, perplexed. There was something in the air that I still can't describe, and I knew that if I passed the hat around everyone would contribute to help that girl out there, but something kept me from passing the hat. The guy in the red suit was looking at me, and I got the feeling that he was asking, what I was going to do about this, even though he hadn't said a word. I opened up my till, and as quietly as possible, emptied its contents into my hand and stuffed the bills into my pockets. Without a word, I stepped out into the snow and the wind without my coat and started across the street with a 12-year-old kid close behind me. I don't know how, but I knew that the eyes of the guy in the red suit were glued onto me as I made my way across the snowy street.

I approached slowly, so as not to startle the girl. But when she saw me coming she hastily wiped her tear-stained face and straightened up, looking defiant. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk. What's your name?"

"None of your business, buddy! You don't know me and I don't know you, and I don't want to. So just go back into your hole with the other drunken bums and leave me alone!"

She sure was putting on a brave face for someone who was obviously freezing and brokenhearted. But I'd seen enough brokenhearted brave faces to know it was just an act. So I didn't back down, but I looked her right in the eye. "Listen, kid, you and I may not know each other, but I know a lot about you."

"You don't know nothing, Mister." she hung her head.

"I know you're lost. I know you're alone. I know you can't get home. I know you need help, but you're too proud or too scared or too stupid to ask for it. Now here's how it's gonna go down: you're going to take this money." I pulled the wad of bills out of my pocket, "and you're gonna go to JFK and get a flight to wherever home is. You're gonna enjoy Christmas with your family, and you're gonna forget all about me, my bar, and thos drunken bums across the street."

She looked really scared. Sherry had told me about her life before she started working at Lady Sally's, and how her pimp, big Travis had almost killed her because she wouldn't take a John. I saw the same kind of fear in this little girl's eyes as she said, "What do I gotta do for the money?"

When had the human race becomes so cynical? I smiled, and tried to look as gentle and harmless as I could. I slowly took her hand and placed the cash in it, closed her fingers about the bills, then backed away. "Nothing. Just have a merry Christmas." As I said this a cab came slowly up the street, the chains on its tires crunching into the snow. I hailed the cab he pulled over. Confusion had replaced fear as the predominant feature on the young girl's face.

"Why are you doing this? Nobody gives away money on Christmas Eve (or any other time of the year.)"

I didn't answer her, but opened the back door of the taxicab and motioned her to get inside. She started to climb into the cab, a look of wonderment on her face, and as she did so I turned to the driver. "JFK airport. This young lady's got plane to catch." Maybe it was the Christmas season, but even the cabbie looked familiar. He had long shoulder length brown hair, piercing blue eyes, a beard, and a kind smile.

"Sure thing, brother. I'll have her there in time to make her flight." I couldn't place the accent, but it sounded middle eastern, maybe Hebrew or Yiddish.

The girl suddenly jumped out of the cab and with a face wet with tears, hugged me and said, "Thanks, Mister." Without another word she jumped back into the cab, closed the door and the cab drove away into the snow.

"Well, kid, I guess you've done your good turn for the day. Why don't you go inside and see if Santa has a present for you?" But the kid was gone. I looked around for a minute, and then decided he'd gotten cold and headed back into the bar. The funny thing is, though, that as I walked back across the street, there was only one set of footprints.

The bright lights of Mary's place warmed me as I crossed the threshold of the door and closed it behind me. The fire seemed brighter than before, the bar seemed cheerier, and before I could do a thing to stop it, Josie and Sherry came up with malice aforethought and kissed me soundly on both cheeks, hugging me tight. The guy in the red suit looked like he'd spent a week in a health spa. He seemed jollier, bigger, and more full of life than when he had first come through the door. He grinned broadly at me, his eyes twinkling, and said, 'Merry Christmas, Jake. I want you to remember something I read in a book once when I was very young."

In my mind, I saw printed words. Don't ask me how they got there, or what language they were written in, but I could read them clearly and distinctly nonetheless. I smiled as joy welled up inside me. I went behind the bar, and filled a shot glass with my oldest and best whiskey. Then I toe'd the line in front of the fireplace, raised my glass high, and a clear voice that only wavered once, I proposed a toast. "To Christmas, and its true meaning! Let's make it last all through the year."

A rousing cheer shook the rafters at Mary's place, followed by shouts of "hear, hear!"

Then the guy in the red suit made his way towards the door, but not before stopping and whispering one more thing in my ear. "Just remember what the book says, Jake. Never forget that. It'll help you bring about Harmony." There was just a hint of an Irish accent, and only the faintest smell of El Ropo cigars on his breath. Without another word, he stomped out into the snow, and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. The wish was heartily returned by all.

Doc Webster came over to me and said, "Jake, I was thinking about what that kid said. Did you ever wonder why we spend each Christmas eve here instead of at home? It's because this is our home. Merry Christmas." He smiled and placed a big meaty hand on my shoulder.

Now before you start griping and complaining about me not telling you what the words in my mind said, I'll tell you: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." Now I'm not religious by any stretch of the imagination. But I remembered who said that. Then I remembered the guy driving the cab. And as the night wore on, I remembered what we had started to build with Mike Callahan. I remembered the symphony of love and joy we made on the night he left us. I remembered that he told us he would not be back for visits. You old Irish fraud, I thought to myself. You're still watching us mortals! Just to make sure we finish what we started! Maybe there is more to this Christmas thing than the presents, and worldly trappings, maybe not. But in either case, just imagine what we could do if we kept it going all year long. The Harmony of Mike Callahan's time, far in the future, could be started with a simple act of kindness, and the smile of a child going home.



The End"

Basil sighed. It was done, and a great weight was lifted from his mind. "Computer: Save that story as Hart alpha two zero one zero."

The computer chirped compliance. Basil continued. "Tie into the station's replicator system. Replicate a copy of the story on paper to all crewmembers, along with a card saying, 'Merry Christmas from Santa Claus'.

Once again, the computer chirped in compliance to the command. All over, people's replicators came to life and within a few seconds, a story on paper was delivered to them.

OFF

Commander Basil Hart
Chief Medical Officer,
Star Base Typhon

OOC: Merry Christmas, everyone. -- Steve

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