Something

He had skated at Rockefeller Center in the shadow of one of the nation's largest Christmas trees. He'd even wished Mele Kalikimaka on the beaches of Hawaii. What he'd never done, however, was truly celebrate Christmas with someone he loved. Sure, he'd been married, and had been dating at the holidays in the past, but something had always been missing. If you asked him what it was, he'd be unable to explain. It was just… something.

 

"Hey pal. I'm headed out. You sure you don't want to swing by tonight? The kids would love to see you."

 

"Nah, you enjoy your family time. But thanks Peter, I appreciate the offer."

 

"George, come on. You know you're family."

 

"I know, and I do truly appreciate it. You know how it is for me though."

 

"Alright man. Try to enjoy it if you can. Merry Christmas."

 

"Merry Christmas, Peter."

 

Once Peter left, George Booker remained as the only person in the office. Scents of snacks and alcohol emanated from the conference room where the trash pails overflowed with plates and party cups. Most offices were dark, and there was an eerie silence throughout the office. George kind of liked it. His environment matched his mood; silent and empty. George had long since forgotten why he'd lost his Christmas spirit. Perhaps it was the ghosts of Christmases past: a wife that looked forward more to the gifts than the giving, or maybe the family fights. At this point though he honestly couldn’t remember the mast time he'd had a merry Christmas. For George, it wasn't something to celebrate, so he didn't.

 

After he'd locked up, George decided to walk the fifteen blocks from his office to his brownstone, less to take in the lights and cheer that adorned his path than to partake of a beer or two at McGuire's. The bartender knew George well, and had been expecting him. "I figured you be rollin' in here soon," the gruff man said.

 

"Sure you did, Mickey," George replied as he shook the snow from his overcoat and hung his coat on the rack near the door.

 

"It's Christmas Eve, isn't it?" Mick reminded him.

 

"That it is, my friend." George sat down and took hold of the glass of Jameson that Mick had already poured.

 

"You used to drink that with ginger."

 

"I used to do a lot of things differently, Mickey." George took a long sip and let the amber elixir burn its way down his throat. "Besides, your ginger is watered down."

 

Mick laughed. "That one's on the house. Merry Christmas, George."

 

"You too, Mick."

 

Mickey went to the other end of the bar to tend to other customers and left George alone with his whiskey and his thoughts. For a long time George just stared into the glass as he swirled. Minutes went by, then hours. George had lost count of how many times Mickey had topped him off, but he really didn't care. He'd do as he always did; George would pay his tab, leave Mick a $100 tip, and walk home where he'd put It's a Wonderful Life on, imagine himself as George Bailey, and pass out on the couch until Christmas morning.  

 

The ironic thing this time was that Mick had only filled the glass once. So entranced had George become, he'd forgotten to sip. Something was different this year. Something had affected him a little more deeply. Something. George scoffed. He hated the word something. It was too generic; something was what you called a thing when you didn't know what to call it. That this unknown something vexed him so, year after year, was beginning to take its toll. George had tried tMarypy, medication, and even meditation. Whatever the something was, it eluded him as it plagued him. So he sat and swirled his whiskey, waiting for something.

 

****

 

She'd always loved Christmas. Now she hated it. Mary Raines couldn't decide what she hated more: the fact that she now loathed Christmas, or that she'd used to enjoy it so much. So much had happened to spoil the season for her the last few years, but she couldn't quite put a finger on it. There was just… something.

 

"I'm only going to ask you one more time, then you're on your own! Please come over tonight," Kate begged.

 

"Katie, I adore you, but I'm fine, really. I'm just going to go home, watch my movie with a bottle of wine, and ride it out."

 

"Suit yourself, girlfriend. But if I were you? Lookin' like that? Damn, girl. I'd find me a Santa's little helper to take home."

 

Mary frowned. "Well I don't need any little helpers… unless they come with batteries."

 

The two friends laughed, and hugged. "I love you. You're my lobster."

 

"Always will be, Katie-kins. Go home. Tell Zach I say Merry Christmas."

 

When Kate had gone, Mary enjoyed the moment of blissful solitude. Kate meant well, but Kate had a blessed life Mary truly believed that the woman was incapable of feeling sorrow. Mary envied her for it. With a heavy sigh she locked up and stepped out onto the street. A light snow had begun to fall and the flakes clung to her red knit hat and mittens as she walked. As much as something had stolen the joy of Christmas from her, Mary still strove to let the feeling of the season envelope her. She'd stop here and there and watch the snow fall in the glow of a streetlight, or try to smile as she watched couples walking hand in hand. Still, something was amiss. Something just wasn't right. Something.

 

****

 

"What do I owe you, Mick?" George asked.

 

"I barely poured you two glasses! I told you, on the house." George feigned a smile, slapped his hundred dollar bill on the bar top, and bid Mickey adieu. "Merry Christmas, George, and thank you."

 

"Thank you, Mick. Best to you and yours."

 

George wandered out of the bar even more disillusioned than when he'd gone in. He couldn't even get properly drunk anymore. Whatever the something was that delivered him to such a state, he hated it with the fire of a thousand suns. So he thrust his hands in his pockets, lowered his head, and began the rest of his trek home.

 

****

 

When yet another happy couple passed her, Mary closed her eyes and tried to shut the image out of her mind. She'd forget to open them and continued to walk, blindly and aimlessly, hoping that something would happen, that something would jar her from this state of malaise into which she'd slipped. Something. Though she squeezed her eyelids together to keep the tears from escaping, they opened widely upon the impact.

 

****

George focused on little more than the snowy patch of sidewalk immediately preceding his next steps. He didn't want to look around. George had no desire to see decorations, or lights, or revelry. All George wanted to do was go home, and be alone. His eyes hadn't been closed for more than a second when something stopped him abruptly in his path. The shock caused them to open, and just in time; George reached forward and caught a hold of Mary's hand a split second before she'd lose complete balance and tumble to the ground.  In overcompensating, though, her inertia brought her upright and propelled her back against George's chest.

 

"Oh my God, I am so sorry!" George dried apologetically. "Are you alright?"

 

Mary stepped back, her cheeks flushed more from embarrassment than the cold. "No, totally my fault. My eyes were closed and I…." Mary's voice trailed off when she looked up to see George's face for the first time. Her words failed her in that instant.

 

"Are you sure you're okay?" George asked as he looked her over to ensure she wasn't injured. She wore black leggings and an oversized, white, cable-knit sweater, with red knit mittens that matched her hat. There was something about her. Something luminescent. Something that reminded him of… Christmas.

 

Mary looked up and George, who stood a good six inches taller than her. He appeared about her age, with short, brown hair and a day's worth of beard. He wore a tailored suit beneath an equally tailored tweed overcoat, and his hazel eyes pierced her. Mary couldn't help but stare. When she could finally speak, the only words she could muster were "It's you."

 

Confused, George replied "What do you mean?"

 

Mary shook her head. "Sorry. It's nothing. It's just –"

 

"Something," George added. "It's something."

 

Mary smiled broadly. "Yea, maybe it is." Neither noticed that once he'd steadied her, George's hands had slid down her arms until he grasped her hands in his. George smiled and blushed as he let go. "No, it's okay," Mary assured him. "I, um, I was just headed home. Christmas Eve tradition.… Bottle of wine and It's a –"

 

"It's a Wonderful Life?" Mary's eyes widened. "It's my tradition, too. One of my all-time favorites."

 

Mary couldn't stop smiling. "Well, isn't that something."

 

 

© 2015 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.