The Ghost of Christmas Present (6 page)

But all the wisdom in the world wasn't going to keep him warm as he felt the cold whip up the avenue and attack his thin costume. A dollar pulled from his billfold and a quick run to the coffee shop bought him a cup that he now cradled in his hands for warmth as he made his way to the bus stop.

At the bus stop, a line of riders crowded the two benches. Patrick shivered and drank the hot coffee as people passing by threw bewildered looks at his Kabuki face and frantic hair. He leaned against the outer wall of the bus shelter and slid down to rest on his heels. Minutes passed and taxis flew by only feet from his face. He turned around to face the storefronts and sat hunched over with his face down toward the sidewalk, grasping the warm cup in front of him to warm his hands.

Plop!

Drops of hot coffee splashed up across his cheeks in a scalding spray. He wiped them away with an angry hand, but again . . .

Plop!

Passing strangers were dropping coins into his coffee. Again the hot liquid splashed up onto his lips and nose and into his eyes. Patrick looked up in disgust, but all he could see was a blur of passing legs and shoes. What did they think, he was begging for change?

Plop!

He looked sideways in the glass partition of the bus shelter and caught a glimpse of himself. Crikey! He looked like a beggar with a cup out for alms. Patrick didn't think he could sink any lower.

Another handful of coins dropped again, and then a bill. Patrick pulled the wet paper out of his cup and dried it off. It was a single. He turned the cup over, letting the liquid drain onto the sidewalk, and then caught a handful of coins: five dollars and fifteen cents. It was more than he'd made on that table of four he'd waited on yesterday for an hour.

Patrick placed the now-empty cup on the sidewalk, stood up, and studied the round paper vessel as coin after coin dropped into it.

T
he moment he arrived home, he called the deep-dish place. He'd come down with a twenty-four-hour thing. They understood. Patrick sat in his apartment in front of the bathroom mirror, his old acting makeup case out. The small jars of face paint, liquid latex, spirit gum, and patches of facial hair lined the shelf just under the medicine chest. The Shylock mask was gone. He wetted a sponge under the faucet and began to apply an undercoating of pancake in a white skin tone.

P
atrick looked at his handiwork of the last half-hour. The face that confronted him looked like something out of a Victorian Christmas lithograph: a white-powdered face, rosy red cheeks, outlined lips, and a bushy beard all topped off with a large curly wig he'd worn years ago in a production of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. From the small Christmas tree in the far corner of the apartment he picked two small ornaments and hung one from each ear. He put on a green velvet robe he'd once worn in
Julius Caesar,
taken from the back of Linda's closet, where he still kept all her costumes. And last, he took the green wreath from his own front door and set it down around his head.

He stood in front of his living room mirror and looked at himself from head to toe. Two pillows from the couch stuffed under his robe completed the picture. Patrick smiled at himself and let out a large Christmas-cheer laugh, letting the sound echo through the apartment like a child's bouncing red ball.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!”

Chapter 7

STILL THE MAN IN GREEN

T
he next morning, the Ghost of Christmas Present descended the stairs into the Midtown subway station. One head turning led to two heads turning, and that gave way to a gasp and then a chorus of laughs as people parted in front of him. He swiped his MetroCard and pushed through the turnstile.

Necks craned the length of the station to catch a look at the large, green-robed, bearded man standing on the platform who stared straight ahead. The arriving train pulled into the station, came to a stop, and its doors opened. The Ghost stepped into a car and walked past faces that looked up at him with laughs and great smiles.

The Ghost didn't say a word but walked to the far end of the car and took sanctuary in the corner. Patrick looked down the length of the subway car, every face staring or whispering, and chided himself for thinking this was a good idea. What was he thinking, that he'd hit the streets as the incarnation of the spirit who'd taken Ebenezer Scrooge through the present-day journey of his Christmas world? Yes, that's precisely what he'd thought was a terrific idea only last night, but now it seemed madness.

The train pulled into a station as people got on and off. He decided he'd jump off there as well, run home, rip off the insane costume and character, and head for the deep-dish pizza place. But his feet stayed put and the doors began to close.

Suddenly they opened again at the last second as a late-arriving passenger jumped on board. “Hello, earthlings!” shouted a voice. Patrick's mouth spread into a smile as he recognized the space traveler, still wearing a wool cap with the two antennae made of aluminum-foil-covered balls. “I hail from the Planet Neptune, and my spaceship has crashed upon your fair orb. I am in need of only a small sum of money to fix my craft and be on my way. If you wish to make a donation to my journey back home, I promise to take Charlie Sheen with me!”

The car broke into laughter as the alien made his way down the line of people. “A one-spot from the man with the red shoes! I thank you, and my wife, two children, and dog back on Neptune thank you.”

The alien finished with the long line of people and came out of the crammed crowd to suddenly see Patrick standing there. It was then the alien's smile collapsed. He walked up to Patrick and stuck a dark scowl in his face. “You working my train?”

Patrick shook his head, but the alien wasn't buying it. “You plan on working my train?”

Patrick finally found his voice. “I'm going to find my own place. Don't worry.”

“How can I trust you?”

Patrick thought for a second and then leaned into the man's ear. “Because I'm still the man in green.”

The alien cocked his head in confusion and looked at Patrick's green robe. “What you talking about?”

“I won't mess with your Christmas. I know Neptune needs it most of all . . . being the planet farthest from the sun.”

The alien's eyes widened with recognition. “You? From the other day?”

Patrick nodded.

“Why's someone like you doing this?”

“For the same reason you are, my family . . . though they're here on earth.”

The alien nodded and then looked at the empty coffee cup Patrick held in his hand. “That gonna be your bank?”

Patrick nodded.

The alien reached into his can, took out a dollar bill, and dropped it into Patrick's cup. “Merry Christmas,” said the alien, and he moved into the next car.

The train stopped at a station where the signs read 34th
STREET
. The doors opened and Patrick waited for the commuters to disembark before he got off.

He walked to the stairs as the morning light from the street shone and the street sounds of Broadway bounced down into the station in echoing waves. He caught sight of himself in the plastic window of the token booth, where the transit workers shook their heads at his appearance.

Perhaps he had gone too far with the costume. Perhaps he had gone too far thinking he should even attempt this madness. Perhaps what was worst of all was even thinking he could save the semblance of a life that he had carved out for himself with Braden.

Maybe Braden would be better off without him in his daily life. Maybe . . .

Patrick shook off the thought as the noise of Broadway waited for him above. He drew in a breath and exhaled. “Into the breach, dear friends.”

He began to climb the stairs.

Chapter 8

SPARE SOME COIN

T
he young woman's laugh rose above the heads of the lunch-hour crowd. Passersby couldn't help but glance back to where she stood in front of the jolly green giant. It was an odd sight, a costumed creature of the streets addressing a hip young woman in her early twenties accompanied by a stylish man in his sixties.

“Sing it again,” the young woman said.

“Here comes Mistletoe that is so gent, to please all men in their intent,” sang the bearded and rosy-cheeked man as the girl tapped her toe in time. “But lord and lady of this hall whosoever against Mistletoe call, whosoever do against Mistletoe cry, in a leap shall he hang full high, whosoever against Mistletoe do sing, may he weep and his hands wring.”

“So it's an old ditty designed to get girls to give up kisses.”

“Pretty racy stuff in medieval times.”

“Pretty racy stuff now. You be careful you don't sing that to the wrong woman. You'll end up in jail.”

“Or in love,” he said.

Mila laughed as Patrick glanced at the silver-haired man looking at his iPhone.

“I believe your father has business to attend to.”

“He's my uncle, and he wields way more power over me than either a father or an uncle. He's also my boss, at least for another week.”

“But I am right, am I not, sir? You are a busy man?”

“You are, and I am,” Ted Cake replied as he looked up from his iPhone to the panhandler's Christmas clown face, to which he still had not grown accustomed. Before last week, Ted never would have dreamed of letting a begging nutball like this say more than three words to him, let alone to his niece, but this bum, if a “bum” was what you'd call him, was different.

This panhandler was nothing like the others he had seen come and go on Broadway through the years, listlessly sitting in front of homemade signs that proclaimed they would work for food. If they were so anxious to seek employment, perhaps a hot shower, a collared shirt, and an hour with the want ads might prove a better recipe for success.

The truth was, years ago Ted had been a soft touch for panhandlers. He regularly reached into his pocket for any who asked. But over time he began to despair at his paltry offerings of relief for what seemed to be a relentless river of never-ending need. No matter how much he gave, there was always another outstretched hand. He felt powerless and guilty and frustrated. Impotent. So Ted began to avert his eyes and shut down until finally he stopped seeing the beggars altogether. Better to feel that they were somehow responsible for their own troubles. Better not to feel much at all.