While We Were Dreaming

     The old man braced against the bitter cold, clutching his wool overcoat tight to his meager body. It had snowed only an hour before and already the city streets were dressed in a generous blanket of white. Normally, that would have limited the amount of downtown traffic, as people locked themselves away from winter’s cold embrace. But not on this night, for today was Christmas Eve. Hordes of last-minute shoppers scurried about, desperate to pick up last-minute gifts before the local shops closed down for the evening. Many of the stores would close early. Yet there was so much to do and so little time.

     In this way, the old man did not differ from anybody else. Time waited for no one. He looked small and out of his element as he shuffled his way across Elm Street to Harry’s Hideaway, a used and rare record store. The window had gold garland scotch-taped around its border, but offered little else in the way of festive decorations.

     A little bell chimed above the old man’s head as he entered the establishment and was immediately greeted with a blast of warm air. The store smelled of must and incense, and that tickled his nose.

     A clerk with long, stringy hair and a bushy beard greeted the old man from behind the counter. “Can I help you find something, sir?”

     “You can indeed, young man. I’m having a Christmas party tonight, and I’m looking for some holiday music to liven it up. Do you have any records of Bing Crosby?”

     “Yes, sir. I do. Right over here.”

     The old man followed the clerk on over to a small assortment of used vinyl records, the scuffed floorboards beneath his feet creaking with every step.

     “Bing Crosby,” the clerk repeated, pulling out a well-worn copy of White Christmas.

     The old man clutched at the album cover, tilting his head to get a better view with his bifocal glasses. He grinned.

     “That’ll be ten dollars,” the clerk announced, walking him back over to the register. “Party tonight, huh?”

     The old man nodded, paying the clerk. “Yes, siree. My son’s coming all the way from Maryland with the missus and the two grand youngins. Been a couple of years since I’ve seen them!”

     “Well that’s great! After I close up here, I’m heading down to Town Square. There’s some townsfolk putting on a little get together there. There’s going to be a bonfire and hot chocolate to keep you warm. Going to sing some Christmas carols too. If you’d like to get out and share in the festivities with your family, come on down!”

     The old man thanked him for the invitation, but politely declined. He wished him a Merry Christmas and then shuffled out the door, as he still had places to go.

     Two doors down, the old man found himself at his next stop, Richmond’s Gifts & Boutique. This store was considerably more decorated than the record store, its front windows brilliantly illuminated with white miniature lights and its many featured gifts swaddled in dazzle drape and sparkling bows. The red carpet beneath the old man’s feet was cushion soft, and was whisper quiet as he made his way to the back of the store.

     “Can I help you find something?” The sales associate was a woman of advancing years, though she tried to hide it with the perfect bob and many layers of pancake makeup. Her teeth sparkled white, save for a spot of bright red lipstick marring a front tooth.

     “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for a last-minute gift for my wife. A nice picture frame, perhaps. Something nice?”

     “We have some very nice silver frames over here,” she replied, motioning towards a glass shelf full of perfectly aligned picture frames. Each one sparkled in their own brilliant spotlight.

     “This one will do.” The old man grabbed an elaborately adorned 5x7 picture frame, clutching it to his chest as he followed the sales associate back to the front of the store, where she rang him up. “I think I will surprise her with it tonight, at the party.”

     “A party? That sounds very nice. Family?”

     The old man nodded.

     “Well, if you feel like getting out tonight, why don’t you and your family drop by the First Presbyterian Church over on Broadway. We’re performing the nativity tonight. It’s quite the production,” she said proudly. “This year they have a real newborn to play Jesus and we’ll have live animals and everything!”

     Once again, the old man declined the invitation as nicely as he was able, wished her a Merry Christmas, and hurried on his way. It was nearing five o’clock.

     Down at the end of the block, he found Friendly’s Liquor Store, the final destination on his list. The man behind the counter seemed surprised to see the old man, as he looked to be counting his till and preparing to closeup shop. “Oh, hello!” he greeted warmly. He was middle-aged with a spread that matched, his hair thin and receding, a pair of gold rimless readers perched at the end of his nose. “Come on in. What can I help you find tonight?”

     The old man stomped the snow off of his galoshes, as to be so kind and not track dirty water across the checkered linoleum floor. “I’m looking for a bottle of fine blackberry brandy, young man. Do you have any?”

     The man smiled and nodded smartly. “You betcha. Right over here.” The man walked a couple of aisles over and returned quickly to the counter with a nice bottle of Du Bouchett Blackberry Brandy. “I’ve tried it myself. Quite nice, actually.”

     The old man beamed. “Sounds perfect. I’m having a party tonight and I thought it would be nice to have something to warm everybody’s spirits up, if you know what I mean.”

     “Is that right? A dinner party?”

     The old man shrugged as he fumbled through his billfold for some cash. “Oh. I hadn’t given much thought to food.”

     The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows, his interest piqued. “Well…in case you decide to have a meal tonight for your guests, let me recommend a nice wine for you. Perhaps a fine Riesling? It goes with most anything.”

     The old man nodded, a smile returning to his face. “That sounds wonderful.”

     The shopkeeper grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him and placed it on the counter next to the brandy. He then rang up the sale and double bagged the two bottles separately, to keep them from breaking. He scooted them on over to the old man. “The name’s Bob. I’m the store owner. And you are?”

     “Harding. George Harding.”

     “Nice to meet you, Mr. Harding. So you said this is a family get together tonight?”

     The old man nodded again, his false teeth clacking together as he did so.

     “Yeah, I was having family over tonight too, but my daughter got stuck in that big storm out in Denver. They had to shut down the airport, I guess. Shame. Hopefully, we’ll get to see her tomorrow.”

     “I wish you the best of luck then, young man. Christmas is no time to spend alone.”

     The shopkeeper was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Harding. My wife was making this wonderful turkey dinner for tonight—complete with all the fixings: stuffing, mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole and even homemade pumpkin pie! That sure is a lot of good food to waste on just me and my wife. I tell you what…why don’t you and your family stop on by this evening, and share in a nice Christmas Eve Dinner with my wife and myself. There will be plenty of food and we’d be glad to have you.”

     “That’s mighty nice of you, young man. But my family is coming from a very long way and they’re sure to be tired. Besides, the snow is really coming down. I think it’s best we stay home tonight.”

     Bob nodded. “Sure thing. But should you change your mind, stop on by. We live on the corner of Morning Glory and Sunset, in the blue two-story bungalow.”

     The old man nodded but said nothing else as he reached for his liquor.

     “How about you Mr. Harding? You going to be okay taking that to the car?”

     “I didn’t drive, young man. I walked.”

     Bob frowned. “That won’t do! I can’t have you walking home with all those packages. I’ll drive you home.”

     “No need. I live just down on the corner, in the Pinedale Apartments. It isn’t far.”

     Bob looked at the smallish old man and then glanced out the window. It was snowing so hard now that he could hardly see the clock tower across the street. “Nonsense! It’s really getting nasty out there. Just let me grab my hat and coat from the back room and I’ll lock up, drive you on home.”

     Bob nodded sharply, as if that had settled it, and walked on back to the stockroom to get his things. But the old man wasn’t about to wait around. He just couldn’t wait any longer.

     Grabbing his bags of liquor, he bid the shopkeeper a farewell and a Merry Christmas, then headed out the door to make his way home.

     The wind had really picked up, and it bit at his exposed face like icy talons. But true to his word, the old man didn’t live very far, and soon he was back at his apartment on the second floor.

     The air in the apartment was stagnant and heavy, but equally warm, for the old man had left the fire going in the hearth. It felt good on his timeworn bones. The apartment was cluttered with furniture and nicknacks of various kinds, but lacked the finer sensibilities of a woman’s touch. Its dark chamber greeted him with silence, its only sound the ticking of the wall radiator on the far wall.

     The old man tossed the house keys onto the entryway table. Lying there next to it was the open letter from his son, where it had sat for the last month. He picked it up as if to read it, but then changed his mind. He knew it by heart, anyway.

 

     I’m sorry, pops, but we won’t be able to make it for Christmas this year. Linda and I can’t get time off from work. Maybe next year.

 

     The old man wheezed and then peeled off his many layers of winter garments. Relieved of the heavy burden, he slowly made his way across the room to the old record player, where he unwrapped his new Christmas record. In a matter of minutes, he was listening to the rich baritone crooning of Bing Crosby. Loudly.

     With that settled, the old man turned his attention to the brown paper bag of brandy he had purchased at the liquor store. It was then he realized he was missing the bottle of wine, apparently forgotten during his hasty retreat. No matter. There would be no one to share it with this night. Instead, he poured himself a glass of brandy.

     Never one to dawdle, the old man scuffled over to the lounge chair by the fireplace and removed an old wooden picture frame from the end table. It only took him a moment to slip the old photograph of his wife into the new silver frame he had purchased. Then, with a meaningful nod, he toasted his beloved wife one last time before swallowing the sweet fiery liquid in one burning gulp.

     He settled into the creaky lounge chair, finally closing his eyes, and slowly succumbed to the mollifying effects of the brandy. Finally, the old man dreamed. He dreamed of Christmas. He dreamed of family. And on the record player, I’ll Be Home For Christmas was pining away.