Christmas Story
(Inspired by an episode of This American Life on NPR)
by Jack Kimball
Steve walked out the ground floor of a Manhattan office tower in the middle of the financial district at rush hour feeling like a man renewed. When his boss told him earlier in the day he was laid off he felt confident, like a new beginning was starting, like he was sacrificing for his team. He was tired anyway after almost thirty-five years on Wall Street. He welcomed no more cocktail party accusations about his employer being too big to fail. He was relieved his role of making questionable compromises with corporate integrity, (all in the interest of protecting quarterly earnings), was over. He could finally put the hypocritical dissonance between who he was now and who he was as a young man behind him, be on the moral high ground, and be confident to make a new start.
At home he looked in the mirror and saw a winner, a seasoned executive with grey hair and a distinguished close-cropped beard, someone who looked like they belonged in the senior executive cafeteria. Thinking about being laid off, he could feel an adrenaline challenge starting in his stomach and rising to take over his chest, then shoulders, and back of his head. He thought about how this could be the best thing that ever happened to him. A street warrior in sales, he could re-invent himself. He would re-invent himself.
Some days later he realized it wasn't adrenaline though. It was fear. No one knew, not his wife of thirty years, or his four adult children, or his friends. At the neighborhood Christmas party (wearing the proper red cashmere sweater), walking the dog, meeting friends for dinner, he went through all the motions of everyday but he knew he was faking it.
This was the recession and it was deep. Months had now turned into over a year since Steve’s layoff. He interviewed some but it was always the same, the drop in his belly as he entered the room, noticing instantly what he called the look, which in two seconds said he wouldn’t fit in, his suit wasn’t trim, and he wouldn’t measure up to the masters of the universe hanging out in the corporate sports box. He played it out though, signifying nothing, feeling his internal deferential shame, a sycophant kissing ass. During that year the house was sold as the mortgage had drained the savings, the country club membership was canceled, the BMW was traded in to get rid of the car payments. Fine dining meals were out, art was sold for pennies on the dollar, friends in the old neighborhood stopped calling as much. No harm was meant. They just didn’t. Steve and his wife didn’t talk as much anymore.
Sitting in his doctor's office for his annual physical Steve looked at the form they gave him. Blanks needed to be filled in and boxes checked which said things like prescription medicines, change of address, and symptoms he might have. The little empty box next to suicidal thoughts caught his attention. He hesitated, started to check the box, but left the box empty. That was a conversation he just didn’t want to have with his doctor, or anyone. The TV was on and he watched CNN. The news was dominated by arguments over land in the Middle East, fiscal cliffs, nuclear proliferation, and grid-lock in Washington. A guest came on and talked about the anxiety of the nation and the woman across from Steve silently stared at the TV chewing her nails. Later, when the doctor entered his examining room and asked him how it was going Steve said, "Fine, looking forward to Christmas." The Doctor seemed preoccupied.
Steve sat in his car after the doctor’s appointment in the parking lot. He reflected back on watching TV before his layoff. A reporter was interviewing, pestering Steve thought, a middle-aged woman living in her car. She looked like anyone in his neighborhood, like someone he'd see at the grocery store, only in need of a shower. The reporter pried out of her that she had lost her job some months before. In the background Steve could see both the front seat and back seat of her car trashed with dirty clothing, boxes, stuff in plastic bags. A greasy looking blanket was on the front seat carving out a place for her bed. The reporter asked how it felt to be homeless. She seemed surprised by the question and looked away. Her hand went to her mouth like she was holding back her emotions as she looked to some unseen horizon. Then she looked directly at the reporter, tears in her eyes, and said, “There is a lot of fear in poverty." Steve thought at the time ‘Thank God that's not me’, and quickly moved on. But for a second he could feel her emotion and wondered if it ever would be him. That it could be him. And now it might be him. Steve was upside down on his net worth, more credit card debt than he would ever have imagined trying to keep up over the last year. Bankruptcy was just around the corner. And then what, he thought.
He remembered when he first made big money, enough for the house, country club membership, art. It had astounded him that it wasn’t enough and they spent everything they made. So he worked harder and made more money. Later, he couldn’t risk losing his job as he aged, so he risked less at work, offered only mainstream ideas, agreed with compromising his integrity more .The extra hours meant going into the office on weekends, spending less time at home, missing more birthdays. But the truth is he liked the big house, the country club, the art, and the fine dining. One time a decision had to be made to sell the big house they were in and buy an even bigger house. The kids were older and they talked about needing more room. Steve asked his son, who was about nine at the time, and liked the woods behind the house they lived in, what he liked better. The smaller house with the woods and more time with his dad, or a bigger house in a better neighborhood with a larger bedroom and a pool? His son told him it wasn’t the woods, or the bigger bedroom, or the pool. It was the time with his dad he wanted. Steve ended up buying the bigger house. He didn’t remember why exactly.
And now here it was, Christmas season once again, a year after his layoff. On the way home Steve ran into a Walmart to buy a hat. On a whim he tried on a Santa hat. Steve's grey beard had grown out over the past year, no longer with a corporate trim, and he was curious to see how he'd look. As Steve was fitting the red felt hat on his head, he wondered how many guys with grey beards did the same thing. A kid, maybe four years old or so, in a wheel chair was just going by and said "Mama, es Papa Noel!" excitedly in Spanish. Two clerks nearby said something in Spanish also and laughed to each other. Steve turned and asked them, "What did he say?" The younger of the two said, "He believes in you." Steve looked and his eyes met the boy's. The boy's brown eyes were shining.
Another year went by and Steve's wife strolled down Fifth Avenue holding a brown paper bag. It was a long way from Queens to Mid-Town and she’d taken the subway. The days of living in Manhattan were gone, which she didn't mind so much, and anyway, she thought, this gives me time to enjoy window shopping at Christmas, never going into the stores of course; but still seeing the displays each in their own street facing cubby, the decorations on the buildings, the wreaths, and the lights. People are always in a good mood on Christmas Eve she reflected, especially this year with Capital compromise having stepped away from the cliff and Jerusalem sleeping in peace. Light flurries of snow in the air only added to the mood. She reflected how much better her life was over the last year. She had more time with Steve in their little apartment, they read together, talked more. It was hard to live on Steve’s income but she helped with her part time job. She was astounded by how little they could live on and still enjoy small things like walks and having simple dinners with their neighbors.
As she turned the corner, a family passed her with two children, out Christmas shopping she supposed eyeing the bags. The youngest was arguing with his older brother. "He is real! I can tell because his eyes sparkle!".
Steve's wife crossed the street and saw the Santa she assumed the boys were talking about dressed in his red suit and black belt, lines up the street of parents with children.She knew she had to wait until Steve’s break to give him his paper bag lunch. Steve was busy but she agreed with the young boy she had passed. Steve's eyes did indeed sparkle.
END