“Wally, I don’t think I’m going to be home, and that’s just the way things are going to be this year,” said my mom over the cold, metal pay phone, “I’m so sorry. At least dad will be home this time. Maybe you guys can go over to Pier Thirty-nine and get that bread bowl clam chowder that you love. I also thought that I read in the paper Santa is visiting Marley’s Liquor this Saturday.” I’m sure she had a lot more to say, but my quarter ran out and the call was ended with a soft “click”. I turned around and grabbed my dad’s arm and we walked home in silence.
When we got to our town house on Second Street dad broke the awkward silence, “I remember seven years ago, when you weren’t even a year old, Santa got you this big soft blanket for Christmas and you were so happy,” he finally finds the right key and opens all three locks, “eventually though, you outgrew the blanket stage and we gave it away. You were so proud because you thought you were ‘a big boy’ after that.” I have had to be “a big boy” ever since. With how poor our family is and how my mom is always away assisting her boss with selling exotic furniture, I have never had the chance to be a little kid. Too late now, now that I’m almost eight years old, now my parents say I’m ready to do chores. I guess that is true, yet on my Christmas break? My parents just don’t get it. I am not a big boy yet.
I open up 23 on my chocolate advent calendar the next morning. The smell of creamy milk chocolate floods through the house. My dad has his cup of coffee clutched in his hand already, staring out of a window. I feel lazy today, but dad offers to take a walk with me. I accept and we head out. The street we usually take to get to Marley’s Liquor is blocked by a protest on mandatory work days over Christmas. We head left down another street and we see several homeless people sitting in the cold and they look up at me, and I’m wearing my big winter jacket. I can’t help feeling guilty that I have warmth and they don’t. We both walk faster and get to the shop, yet I don’t feel like bracing myself for the smell of alcohol just to tell a drunken man in a costume what I want for Christmas. We head over to the pier to see the seals. Somehow they calm me, they clear my mind. I can forget my mom, my chores, the homeless people, and the pity I feel for them. We stand there for more than twenty minutes and I can’t forget about anything. We walk home and on the way I have to bear witness to San Francisco’s poverty once more.
Christmas Eve is my favorite night of the year. My dad and my mom usually call family members while I sip on a glass of apple cider, a special treat that we get every Christmas. I also get to finish my advent calendar which is always a relief, because I think those things are supposed to get you excited about Christmas. We didn’t have enough money for the apple cider this year though, so we had to open some apple juice we had in the cupboard. My mom isn’t here, the phone broke over the summer, and the last piece of chocolate was moldy so it really doesn’t feel like Christmas Eve. I am not excited for tomorrow morning; oddly, it just feels like another evening sitting on the carpet in our living room. So, I tell my dad, “Good night, Merry Christmas.” He mumbles back, “Good night, Merry Christmas to you too.” I then head upstairs and go to bed.
I wake up and go running down the stairs to see a welcome sight: my mom is standing there with my dad, and behind them for the second time in my life, I see a Christmas tree with some presents under it. I run into my parents arms and they explain how my mother got a huge order in China that paid for her vacation over the holiday, the tree, and the presents. I remember the tree and rush towards it and instantly start shredding the wrapping paper off. I open up a new jacket, a tin car that rolls, colorful socks, a cup with my favorite baseball team on it: the New York Giants, and a big piece of candy. I play with that little tin car for hours until one of the little hub caps falls off, I wanted to sprint to the store and get some glue immediately, yet my parents just had to finish their coffee.
I don my new coat and socks and get ready to go. When they finish, the wooden door is already open and I’m waiting for them impatiently halfway down the block. I am so excited to try out my new clothing against the cold when I see that the protest is still in progress. We have to go down the street on the left again I see all the shivering people huddled together in clumps. I begin to cry but I hold back the tears and continue towards Marley’s Liquor. We grab the smallest package of glue and we pay the ninety-nine cents. The coins seem to fall in slow motion towards the counter until they finally clatter on the cheap plastic. We walk back towards the street that I dread and we again see all of the cold, unfortunate people. I can’t help staring at the horror until I see something out of the corner of my eye. A kid, about my age is waving at me with a weak smile on his face. I am torn apart, I can’t bear to witness this and just do nothing about it.
I suddenly realize that I may not have had a perfect Christmas, but this child did not have family, apple juice, presents, warmth, or kindness. I walked up to him with my parents trying to stop me and held my tin car out waiting for him to take it. He looked at me with confusion. “Merry Christmas,” I say and extend the car out further. He stands, gives me hug, replies, “Merry Christmas,” and accepts the car.
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