One Christmas Eve

Memoir Contest First Prize

by Ned Burke

I never caught his name. But I had watched Sad John each winter make his home over that rusty hot air vent next to the Hotel Jermyn in downtown Scranton. I worked in a parking garage directly across the street. It was my first job and I worked as many hours as I could to support my young family. So around midnight this particular Christmas Eve in 1965 I found myself in the parking garage’s small heated cashier’s booth, staring across the street at Sad John.

It was almost midnight, a heavy late night snowstorm had blanketed the downtown streets and had turned the city into a wintry white wonderland. I heard a faint tap on my window and turned to see Sad John’s lethargic eyes staring at me. The old man’s white hair was crusted with ice and his woeful face was covered with a stubby beard. He had on an old overcoat that had seen better days. Beneath the coat was a newspaper he apparently used for insulation against the winter weather. He looked frozen, and embarrassed.

He wasn’t like the other outcasts of society who frequented downtown Scranton back then. Never once did I, or anyone for that matter, ever see Sad John smile. I guess that’s how he got his name. He never asked anybody for help or a handout. He appeared to have an inner dignity his peers did not possess. The story around town was that he had been accused of some petty theft years before when he worked in a local bank. Others speculated booze and a faithless woman led to his downfall. Nobody really knew for sure. Few cared, and Sad John never talked about it. He just stood over that iron grate, hour after hour, and pretended to read his tattered newspaper as blasts of warm air fluttered up the legs of his baggy pants. The thin gloves on his hands had no finger coverings. So he was able to turn pages and give the illusion he was actually reading.

As I said, Sad John never asked anyone for anything. So it startled me when he knocked on the glass of my booth that Christmas Eve and asked for money for a cup of coffee. Up the street there was an all-night diner. He jerked his head in that direction. His voice was soft and polite. Only his eyes displayed his utter hopelessness. Somehow I sensed his despair and shame, so, without too much thought, I withdrew a bill from my wallet and handed it to him.

He looked at the money and appeared perplexed.

I quickly realized I had handed him a twenty, nearly half my weekly wage. Except for one remaining dollar, that was all the money I’d have for another five days. I reached for my wallet to exchange the twenty for the one, but then stopped.

Instead, I said, “Get me one too, okay?” I said it like someone would say to a trusted friend.

Sad John nodded, and left without saying a word.

At that moment, I was certain I had seen the last of my money. I had only one dollar to my name now, and the next day was Christmas.

I tried not to think about it. I wanted to keep the holiday spirit in my heart. I told myself the booze Sad John would surely purchase with my money would keep him from freezing that bitterly cold night. But as the minutes ticked by and the silence of the lonely city settled over me, I became despondent.

“What a stupid thing to do!”  I said, but there was not a living soul around to comfort me.

Then off in the distance, I saw a figure, head bowed, fighting to stay erect against the chilly gusts of wind and swirling snow. It was Sad John, battling his way down the middle of the snow-covered street. With his tattered overcoat flapping over his knees, he trudged forward, nearly stumbling at one point, but then found his balance and continued on until he reached my enclosed booth. Breathing heavily, and without uttering a word, he handed me the brown paper bag he had in his left hand. It contained two containers of hot coffee. Then he opened the stiff fingers of his right hand and gave me my change. Not a dime was missing. I thought of giving him a big tip, but something in his eyes told me he would have been insulted.

We exchanged glances. I really didn’t know what to say to him. I only hoped my initial gesture warmed his heart in some small way. At the stroke of midnight, sounds of laughter and song escaped from the hotel across the street. It lasted briefly, then the city was silent once more.

I withdrew the two containers of coffee and handed one to Sad John.

“Merry Christmas,” I said.

The old man studied my face for a long time. Then, with tears in his eyes, he turned and went back to his position over the iron grate. From across the street, he stared at me, his frail body shivering. Then he raised his container of coffee, and finally returned my toast.

And that was when I received a special, surprise Christmas gift.

For the first time, Sad John smiled.