A Christmas Story
I’m in luck. Saint Anthony’s served a special Christmas Eve dinner this year. My hair might be long and shaggy, but it’s clean, at least for now, courtesy of a shelter shower. I keep my hair tucked under my wool watch cap. And I have a fine new jacket, red and black plaid and made of wool, and it has a down lining. A woman handed it to me when I was begging for change this morning. I took the jacket and said nothing. I am not use to such kindness, but I shall remember the stranger and ask heaven to watch over her, if anybody is listening.
Sitting here in Union Square and looking at the towering Christmas Tree is good. I feel calm now. Red and green and gold and blue lights sparkle in the cold air, and the store windows facing the Square shine brightly as night closes on the City.
The Square’s ice rink has but a few remaining skaters. It is getting late. A boy and a girl slide bladeless on the slick surface. They laugh and slip away from their mother, or perhaps their nanny, who tries without success to snare them in outstretched arms.
A young couple skates around the ice in perfect harmony. The man’s right arm holds his partner securely around her waist, her left hand in his. He wears a light, brown jacket and she a red scarf. They are oblivious to the cold. They stop in the center of the ice. The young man takes the girl into his arms and tenderly kisses her. Soon they will be gone, hurrying home to a warm dinner with family or to a party with friends.
And I will be alone.
I have my sleeping bag. It is a good bag, made of nylon and fake down. It will keep me warm tonight. Everything else that I can call my own is in my army surplus rucksack. I had a shopping cart, but someone stole it. Maybe he needed it more than me.
What shall I do now? It is too early to find a vacant doorway in which to sleep or else the police will roust me. I don’t resent them; they have a job to do. Most of the policemen would leave me be and even watch out for me during the night, but they have their marching orders. The mayor wants a clean, tidy city, and I am neither clean nor tidy.
I need a drink.
No, I don’t need a drink; I want a drink. I must keep telling myself that I have a choice. That’s what the preacher at the shelter tells me. He tells me that he was once like me, but he found the path to peace. Sounds like bullshit to me, but I guess he means well. I wonder. Is he trying to prove to himself that he is better than me, or am I simply weak?
I can’t remember your face.
I need a drink.
I’ve got a half pint of Jim Beam rolled up in my bag. No, I’ll save it for later tonight when it gets bitter cold. See, I can make good choices.
I won’t think about it. I won’t think about you. I’ll just sit here looking at the beautiful lights on the giant Christmas tree.
I’m sorry…, sorry…. Think of something else.
***
Another bum, Patrolman Michael Timothy Mullaney thought, homeless, drunk, disgusting. Why do they hang around here, especially on Christmas Eve. Why don’t they stay in the Tenderloin or South of Market where they belong.
Mullaney cautiously approached the man sitting on the bench in the red and black jacket.
Hope he doesn’t have a knife under his coat, Mullaney thought, you never know what some of these crazies might do.
Mullaney tapped the man’a knee with his nightstick, but the man didn’t move. Mullaney tapped him again but this time harder.
The man woke with a start. He looked around and then at the police officer standing over him, his nightstick at the ready.
“I’m sorry, officer,” the man said. “I just sat down for a moment to watch the ice skaters.”
Mullaney was puzzled.
“Ice skaters? There aren’t any ice skaters,” he said.
“There were some children playing on the ice and a young couple was skating around hand-in-hand,” the man said.
“There’s no skaters. The rink is closed.”
The man looked frightened. He looked around at the vacant square and then glanced at the police officer.
“Oh, I must’ve been dreaming. I sat down to rest and must’ve fallen asleep.”
“Well, you can’t sleep here,” Mullaney said. “You need to get inside, go to the shelter. It’s going to be freezing out here in a few hours.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said and struggled to his feet.
When the man stood, Mullaney got a better look at the man’s face. It was covered with a full, dark beard.
“Don’t I know you,” he asked the man.
The man looked down, not wanting to meet Mullaney’s eyes.
“You look familiar,” Mullaney continued. “I’m sure we’ve met somewhere. Did I ever run you in?”
“I’ve never been arrested,” the man said.
“I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“Probably just on the street,” the man suggested.
Mullaney doubted that as he tried to never look too closely at the derelicts that lived on the city’s sidewalks.
“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” he said. “Well, move along now and find someplace warm to spend the night.”
“Thank you, officer,” the man said and started to walk away. After a few steps, he turned.
“Merry Christmas, officer,” he said before continuing on.
Mullaney was about to wish the man Merry Christmas in return, but thought better of it. It seemed hypocritical.
“Thank you,” is all he said.
***
Mullaney finished making a sweep of the now deserted square. He returned to his radio car where his partner, Officer Louise Simpson, was asleep in the front seat. Her head bobbed up suddenly when Mullaney opened the car door.
“Tough night out with the girls, Simpson?” Mullaney asked with a hint to sarcasm as he slipped behind the steering wheel.
“Who was the bum you found so interesting?” Simpson asked. “Did you get a date?” she added mimicking her partner’s tone.
Mullaney didn’t like his partner. He didn’t care that she was gay. What people did in their private lives was their business. No skin off of his nose. It was her smugness, her arrogance that put him off. And she was lazy. When he told her that he wanted to check the square, she said it was too cold and insisted staying in the warm radio car.
Mullaney pulled away from the curb and headed west on Geary toward the Tenderloin. The streets were nearly empty now with only a few stragglers remaining. The City belonged to them now, to the cops, the firemen, the whores, the bums.
They rode in silence. Mullaney turned right on Taylor and drove up to the top of Nob Hill then turned right on California. As they passed the Mark Hopkins Hotel, he remembered going to his high school prom there, a hundred years ago, a different lifetime, a different life.
“Joey Wells!” Mullaney said suddenly.
***
He didn’t recognize me, thank god. I didn’t lose it. I know where I am. His voice is still the same. Strange how voices stay the same for years as the rest of the body wastes away? But in truth, my physique deteriorated with a lot of help from me. But so what. Does it really matter in the end? Everybody dies. If not now, then later. You take care of yourself; then one day, you look the wrong way and step off the curb, and bam. You’re a statistic on the obituary page.
Stop thinking like that.
Mike Mullaney. Somebody told me he was a cop. Somebody from the old neighborhood, I think, can’t remember who. Makes sense, he was always straight arrow. Good old Mullaney, you could always count on him. Everybody said so. Guess they were right. He never caused me any grief. He caught that pass I threw to win the game against…, against? I remember they wore black jerseys. What does it matter, anyway. Nobody remembers. Nobody gives a shit about what happened in a high school football game twenty years ago.
Damn it! I need a drink.
There’s a spot in that alley off Stockton if it’s not already taken. It’s out of the way, so maybe it’ll be okay.
***
“Joey Wells? Who in the hell is Joey Wells?” Simpson asked.
“We went to Sacred Heart together.
“So?”
“He was the guy in Union Square. We played on the football team together,” Mullaney said. “During our senior year, he won a scholarship to play football at Notre Dame. He was good, too. His name was even mentioned for a Heisman. When he became eligible for the pro draft, he went in the third round.”
“What team?” Simpson asked.
Simpson loved football and was a big 49er fan. Talking football was about the only thing that she and Mullaney had in common. She was awake now and wanted to hear more.
“How did he end up sitting on a bench in Union Square drunk on Christmas Eve?”
Mullaney was irritated.
“He wasn’t drunk,” Mullaney said.
“How come I never heard of him? What team did he play for,” Simpson went on, taking no notice of her partner’s mood.
“I don’t remember what fucking team drafted him. He never played.”
Mullaney turned right into Grant Avenue.
“What are you doing. This is a one-way.”
“I’m taking a shortcut,” Mullaney said and turned on the radio car’s red lights.
At that hour Grant Avenue was deserted. Mullaney went one block, slowed to cross Pine, and continued down Grant for another block to where the street became two-way.
“Where are we going in such a hurry?” Simpson wanted to know.
“We’re going to find Joey Wells. Keep an eye out for him. He couldn’t have gotten too far,” Mullaney said turning into Geary once again and heading back towards Union Square.
***
This alley is too dark, too secluded. It’s not safe here, but what choice to I have? Damn it, I should have found a good place earlier. But Union Square and the Christmas Tree were so beautiful. I wanted to stay there. I could’ve hid under a hedge or bench or something if Mullaney hadn’t rousted me. Hell, he was only doing his job.
I love Christmas Trees. When I was a kid, we didn’t have much, but dad made sure we always had a Christmas Tree. He bore holes in them and put extra branches in the holes to fill out the cheap trees that were all we could afford. Mom decorated them with old-fashion lights, and she made tiny angels out of paper and strung popcorn together for garlands. She had a dozen hand-blown glass ornaments, handed down from her grandmother, that she carefully hung from the tree branches.
Here’s a doorway. My sleeping bag is warm. I can spread it out where nobody can see me. And I’ve got a good, warm coat. Careful now, don’t drop the Jim Beam.
***
“Give it up, Mullaney. We’ve been tooling around for two hours. We ain’t going to find your pal,” Simpson said.
“He’s got to be around here somewhere.”
Simpson crossed her arms across her breast an looked out the window.
“He probably went to the shelter. It’s getting cold.”
“These guys don’t go to the shelter. If they go there, they’re robbed of what little they have.”
“What’s he doing on the street if he was such a high and mighty football star?” Simpson pressed.
Mullaney slowly cruised down Market Street, checking out the sidewalk homeless camps that seemed to grow up from the concrete in the wee hours after midnight. Just like pigeons he thought, feed one, there’ll be ten, feed ten and there’ll be a hundred. But he felt a pang of guilt and even pity when he allowed himself to think about it. He knew that nobody could possibly choose to live that way. They were damaged. Damaged by mental illness, drugs and alcohol, and poverty. Or, like Joey Wells, by happenstance.
“Well?” Simpson insisted.
Mullaney knew she wouldn’t let it go. She was a pitbull when she wanted to be.
“In the last practice before his first game at Notre Dame, he tore out a ligament in his right knee. That benched him for most of the season. He did get in the last game before the regular season ended, which made him eligible for a bowl game, but he didn’t play.”
Mullaney paused.
“Is that him over there?” Mullaney asked, pointing to two shapes huddled together over a warm vent in the sidewalk. “One guy’s wearing a red plaid coat.”
“That’s not him. They’re too old, a couple of graybeards,” Simpson said.
“Let’s check them out. That’s Joey’s coat, I’m sure of it,” Mullaney said as he pulled the radio car to the curb.
***
Shit, shit, shit! How could I be so stupid to take my coat off and use it for a pillow. I didn’t even see those two assholes coming. I must’ve passed out. They just grabbed it and ran. I didn’t even get a chance to get my knife out. That would’ve scared them off. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I’ll be ready for them next time. If I don’t freeze to death first.
Damn, it’s cold. Did I leave any of the whiskey for later? I don’t remember. Where’s the bottle? Here it is. Ah, good, there’s some left. Might as well finish it. Waste not, want not, mom always taught me.
***
“This must be the alley,” Mullaney said. “‘Christmas Gift’ my ass.”
Mullaney parked on Stockton Street, got out, and grabbed the red and black plaid jacket.
“I’m going to find him,” Mullaney said and started down the alley.
Simpson got out of the radio car, too.
“Not without me, you’re not. You might be an asshole, Mullaney, but you’re my partner, asshole or not,” she said pulling her service weapon from her holster.
“Unless you’re thinking of popping a few rats, put that away. He’s not dangerous.”
Simpson replaced her gun in its holster and followed Mullaney down the alley.
The beams from their flashlights searched behind empty crates and a garbage bin upon which a wharf rat sat feasting on god knows what. Bigger than an alley cat and fearing nothing, the rat gave Simpson the willies.
“I don’t see anybody down there,” Simpson said.
“Check behind that dumpster down farther,” Mullaney said.
“Check it yourself, Mullaney.”
Mullaney shrugged his shoulders and walked farther down the alley.
Bitch, he thought.
***
Back in the radio car, Mullaney tried to think about something besides Joey Wells.
“What are you doing tomorrow, Simpson?” he asked.
“I’m going to dinner at my girlfriend’s parents’ place in Walnut Creek.”
“First time meeting the future in-laws?”
Simpson snorted. “Nah, they’re cool enough. Kinda accept everything that’s going on. Makes them think they’re liberals.”
Simpson didn’t say anything for a few minutes, then added, “My girlfriend’s got an older brother who her parents think could walk on water if he wanted to. All-star this, all-star that. He’s at Stanford now studying to be a lawyer. They don’t pay much attention to…to my girlfriend.”
Mullaney wondered why Simpson never used her girlfriend’s name. Maybe she’s still in the closet, he thought. Maybe she’s in the Department and wants to keep their relationship quiet. Maybe…, what the hell, he didn’t give a shit one way or the other. He was only glad she didn’t ask what his plans were for Christmas Day. Mullaney’s parents had died only months apart a few years back, and his wife, ex-wife, lived in Greenwich Village in New York with her new husband, an assistant professor at NYU, that arrogant prick.
“You didn’t finish telling me what happened to your pal from the alley,” Simpson said.
A pitbull, a fucking a pitbull, Mullaney thought.
“Like I said, he blew out his knee which put him on the bench for his first season at Notre Dame. It looked like he would lose his scholarship and have to quit school, but he worked real hard at rehabilitating the knee. In his sophomore year, he got stronger, and by his junior year he was starting quarterback.”
“Let’s cruise down Mission for a few blocks,” Mullaney said trying to change the subject.
“Yeah, fine,” Simpson said. “But what happened to this guy Wells?”
“He reported to pro camp in August. There was a routine scrimmage. He was quarterback, and he was blind-sided when a guard missed his block. And that was that. This time the tackle took his knee out for good.”
“Okay, but that still doesn’t explain how he ended up here…, you know, like he is.”
Mullaney didn’t say anything and drove across Market Street and turned left into Mission heading towards the Bay. He slowed when he saw a homeless man curled up in a doorway near First Street. It wasn’t Wells.
“There was a girl.”
“Isn’t there always,” Simpson said.
“Well, Jim tried rehabilitation again, but it was no go. The knee was too badly damaged. He got hooked on pain killers, then the booze. He even tried to get into the Fire Department, but he couldn’t pass the physical with that bum knee. He fell into a deep depression and things got worse.
“Then his girlfriend left him. She loved him, but you can’t really blame her for leaving. Things had spiraled out of control. A couple of cops found him wondering around on Market Street. He didn’t know who or where he was. They took him up to the psych ward at Langley Porter. He hadn’t done anything wrong, so they could only hold him for seventy-two hours and then let him go.
“I heard that he had left town after that. That was sixteen, seventeen years ago. And that was the last I saw of him until today.”
At the Embarcadero, Mullaney turned right and then right again. The streets were deserted. They cruised slowly up Howard Street. Just before Sixth, they spotted him. He was walking slowly, wrapped in a tattered, old Army blanket, his watch cap still in place. Mullaney pulled to the curb, but Wells didn’t notice. He was in a stupor.
Mullaney grabbed the red and black plaid jacket. Then he and Simpson got out of the radio car and hurried after Jim Wells.
***
“Joey, hold up. It’s Mike, Mike Mullaney. I’ve got your coat.”
Mullaney caught up to Wells and put his hand on Well’s shoulder. Wells spun around and stared at the coat. Then he raised his hand and plunged his knife into Mullaney’s chest.
Wells turned and took a step towards Simpson who was still a few feet away. Simpson fumbled for her automatic, managed to get it out of its holster and fired twice, hitting Wells square in the chest. He slumped to the sidewalk, dead.
She ran to Mullaney.
“Hold on Mike.”
Then she ran to the radio car and called for an ambulance. When she rushed back to Mullaney, blood was gushing from his wound. She tried to stop it with her hands but couldn’t. She knew that there was nothing she could do. Hours seemed to pass before she heard the wail of a siren approaching.
Mullaney open his eyes and looked up at Simpson.
“I’m sorry,” was all he said.
The End