One
It was a late December night when Ron
Spicer stood against a cold brick wall and shivered. Leaning his head back and
closing his eyes he tried to clear his muddled mind. The sound of approaching
footsteps roused him, and in a well rehearsed voice he asked, “Hey pal, can you
spare some change?” The passer-by kept walking without as much as a glance.
It was easy now to beg. Gone was the
embarrassment, the shame and self-loathing. Those feelings were buried long ago
beneath an insatiable thirst, an Everest of countless and forgotten binges.
Six years ago, in what to Ron seemed
like another man’s life, his wife Pamela had stood before him in their marital
home. Holding their one-year-old baby she’d shouted in anger, “I’ve had it Ron!
I can’t live like this anymore. If you don’t stop your drinking, I’m taking
Tommy and we’re leaving.”
What followed were slurred apologies
and empty promises; promises that had echoed within that home so many times
before. Further episodes quickly spiralled downward into a nasty mess of
divorce papers, a surprise change to the door locks, and a restraining order.
Finally, in a sober act of defeat, Ron had left Pam and their son, Tommy. A
chaotic time of imposing upon the hospitality of his long-suffering friends
soon came to an end, and Ron found himself on the street, homeless. It seemed
fitting when, not unexpectedly, he was fired from his job.
So here he was, cold and wet, standing
in front of the East Street Mission. He was preparing to go in but had to sober
up first. The volunteer attendants at the mission strongly discouraged the
‘guests’ from coming in drunk, and would ask them to come back when sober. Ron
was hungry and tired, enough so that he was willing to listen to what he called
the bullshit of those self-righteous assholes. A few false words of praise and
a contrived look of remorse would earn him a warm mattress on a crowded floor,
and a stomach full of something solid for a change.
Ron hadn’t had much to drink tonight,
and after exhaling a big breath into his cupped hands he believed he just might
pull this off. He glanced at his dimly lit reflection in the glass door. It was
hard for Ron to look at himself, to see how he had aged so quickly and
unkindly. At thirty he looked almost twice his age.
He had once been considered
a handsome man, before the drink had consumed him. His face was now etched with
deep wrinkles, his nose bulbous and red. He was gaunt and scrawny, contradicted
only by his distended stomach. Ron ran his hand along his head to smooth down
his thinning long hair. Good enough,
he thought, and with his head down he pushed through the door and entered the
shelter.
The stark lighting inside hurt his
eyes, but he quickly found his bearings in this too familiar refuge. Ahead to
the left was the registration desk. I
hope Marnie is in tonight, Ron thought. She was one of the nice ones, not
apt to judge or sermonize. As he approached the desk it occurred to him how
quiet the shelter was tonight; absent too was the rag-tag collection of
stragglers usually lining the hall. But what really surprised Ron was the
imposing figure sitting behind the registration desk.
A giant of a man with an impossibly
wide grin stood up to greet Ron. From that grin sparkled a large gold tooth.
Like a beacon in the night it drew Ron closer. An enormous hand was extended
forward and Ron watched dumbfounded as his hand was swallowed up in a massive bundle
of fingers and flesh.
“Welcome, Mr. Spicer. I’ve been
expecting you.” The man’s voice was deep, and he spoke with a Russian accent.
“My name is Sasha, but everyone calls me Mr. Jingle.” Ron’s wide-eyed stare
broke free from the handshake and was drawn to the big man’s belt. Hanging from
this belt was a large ring holding a multitude of keys. Each key, of different
shape and size, shimmered with gold, like a charm bracelet of golden teeth.
Mr. Jingle moved out from behind the
desk, his key ring jingling and jangling with every step. It became plainly
obvious to Ron how this man got his name.
“Who-who are you?” stammered Ron. “Are
you new here?”
“New?” he chuckled. “No, Mr. Spicer.
I’ve always been here, but out of sight. I’ve come to help you Mr. Spicer, and
I’ve made some extraordinary arrangements. No one will interfere so please come
with me, this is your special night.”
Somehow, knowing that resistance would
be futile, Ron allowed himself to be led away. They walked through a nearby
door marked “NO ADMITTANCE”, keys clanging and chiming in rhythm to their
steps.
Two
Ron found himself walking along a
gloomy corridor, both sides of which were lined with strange doors. To Ron it
brought to mind the hallways inside those sleazy hotels, the ones that didn’t
ask questions, or waste money replacing light bulbs. He broke through his
uneasiness and asked, “Where are you taking me? All I wanted was something to eat
and a place to sleep.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Spicer, we have
arrived,” replied Jingle. They were standing outside a series of framed glass
doors, like the entrance doors to a mall or theatre. “Now, let’s see. I believe
this is the correct key.” From the ring on his belt Jingle produced a gold key,
slid it into the lock, and opened the door. “Please enter, Mr. Spicer, and
enjoy the show.”
Ron passed through the door and
surprisingly found himself to be dressed in a tailored suit, walking down the
aisle of a theatre auditorium. He stopped and just stood there, dumbfounded
until an usher approached him.
“Can I help you find your seat, Sir?” the
usher asked. “The awards ceremony is about to begin.” Without thinking Ron
reached into his suit pocket and found a ticket stub. He handed it to the usher,
who examined the ticket and said, “This way, please.” He led Ron down to the
front row. “Here you are, Sir, front row, aisle seat.”
Ron took his seat and looked around. The
centre aisle was on his right; a fidgety woman was in the seat to his left.
“Isn’t this exciting?” she asked. “My
son Bill is up for an award. Do you know someone receiving an award tonight?”
Ron said nothing. He pulled his ticket
out of his pocket again and read its bold print: 13th Annual Young Entrepreneurs Awards Gala. Suddenly,
the stage lights came on and a hush fell over the crowded theatre. A spotlight beamed
on the emcee standing at centre stage.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the
Young Entrepreneurs Awards ceremony,” he announced. “Tonight we honour those
bright young people who have shown incredible ingenuity and--”
“Excuse me pal, I believe you’re in my
seat.” A visibly irritated man had appeared next to Ron. He was glaring down at
him, his cheek twitching rapidly as it began to redden. Ron felt an immediate
dislike for the man. Reluctantly, he began to get up from his seat as the usher
appeared.
“Is there a problem here?” asked the
usher.
“Yeah, this guy’s in my seat,” said
Twitchy.
“That can’t be,” replied the
usher. “I sat this gentleman myself. May
I see your ticket, Sir?” Twitchy handed him his ticket. “My apologies, this is
indeed your seat.” The usher turned to Ron. “May I see your ticket again? I
must have misread it earlier.”
Ron reached into his suit pocket once
more. Instead of his ticket, he withdrew a weathered old tarot card. Puzzled,
Ron slowly flipped over the card. They all stared at it for a moment. It was
the Death card.
“Your ticket please,” said the usher.
“This is all I have,” replied a baffled
Ron, patting down his pockets.
“Sir, if you don’t have a ticket you’ll
have to leave.”
“Alright, sure. I don’t know what I’m
doing here anyway.” Ron turned and proceeded up the aisle towards the exit. He spotted
a program lying on the floor and scooped it up. Once through the doors Ron
expected to be back in the gloomy corridor of the shelter, but instead he found
himself inside the well-lit lobby of the theatre. He stood there, lost and
confused, and looked down at the program.
He began to read it and was surprised
at the date: December 21st, 2036. Must be a misprint, he thought.
He then glanced down at the honourees and a name jumped out at him. Tom Spicer – Recipient of Top Entrepreneur
Award was atop a list of other winners. That’s
my son’s name. He glanced at the date on the program again: 2036. Twenty
years had gone by. Could this be? My
little Tommy? I must be dreaming. Ron
went back to the theatre door and cracked it open. He looked down at the stage.
A handsome young man was shaking hands with the emcee and accepting an award.
“Ladies and gentlemen I present to you
the recipient of this year’s Top Entrepreneur award, Tom Spicer,” the emcee
pronounced.
For a brief moment Ron thought he was
looking at himself on his wedding day – the resemblance was unmistakable. There
was a round of applause as Tom stepped to a lectern to speak.
“Thank you, thank you,” said Tom. “I’d especially
like to thank my mom for her support and encouragement over the years.
Unfortunately she can’t be here due to illness, however my step-dad is sitting in
for her tonight.” Tom waved to a man in the front row and the spotlight
swivelled over to him. To Ron’s disbelief it was the jerk who’d bumped him out
of his seat, Twitchy, who now stood up and waved back to Tom.
“Excuse me Sir, you’ll have to keep
this door closed,” said an usher. Ron stepped back, letting the door close
softly. He’d seen enough. He left the lobby and stepped outside in the street,
more confused than ever. Maybe some fresh
air will snap me out of this twilight zone. Ron couldn’t believe any of
this. What the hell is going on? That couldn’t be my son, could it? He
had to be sure. He decided to wait for the ceremony to end and catch Tom on his
way out.
The awards ceremony went on for hours,
but Ron had spent enough time on the streets to know how to let his mind go. It
was like sleeping standing up, but without dreams, just vacant. This was different
though. Ron was struggling to make sense of tonight’s strange events or accept
the notion that he had gone completely insane.
Finally he saw the theatre doors
swing open. A large crowd poured into the street. He scoured the crowd,
searching for someone who, through some bizarre occurrence, could be his
grown-up son. And then, there he was. Can
it really be him? There was a twinge in his heart that said yes. Tom had come out of the far doors,
accompanied by his step-father.
Ron pushed through the throng of
people, hoping to have at least a word with his boy. The people in the crowd,
initially blocking his path to Tom, began to step away. Women cringed and averted
their eyes while men stared at him with disdain. Puzzled, Ron looked down at
himself and discovered he was once again wearing the tattered clothes of a
homeless beggar. His foul body odour was rife. Without time to mentally process
this transformation, he looked back up and was face to face with his long-lost
son.
“Tommy. Tom, can I have a word with
you. I think I know you.”
“Get lost, you bum,” said Twitchy. He
gave Ron a hard shove which sent him sprawling onto the sidewalk. “Let’s go,
Son. These guys are always looking for a handout.”
Tom and his step-father began to walk
away. Tom stopped for a moment and looked down at Ron. Their eyes met and a
flicker of recognition passed between them. “Have we met before?” Tom asked.
“Don’t waste your time, Tom, let’s go,”
interrupted Twitchy. “This guy’s just a waste of skin.” He threw a pocketful of
change at Ron. “There, go buy yourself a drink.”
“Just a minute,” snapped Tom, glaring
at his step-father. “I asked this guy a question. Mom was right about you, no
compassion whatsoever.” Tom looked back to Ron. “Well, Mister, what have you
got to say?”
Before Ron could reply, a pair of
security guards arrived. They quickly picked him up and dragged him around the
corner and into an alleyway. They threw him down roughly, causing Ron to bounce
his head off a concrete wall. He grabbed the back of his head and slouched down.
Ron sat there in a daze. He could hear
music playing through the open window of an upper apartment. He vaguely
recognized it; it was the song, “Aqualung”, by Jethro Tull, broadcasting from a
classic rock radio station. As the song played Ron felt light-headed, ready to
pass out. Snot ran down his nose as if to mimic the lyrics of the popular song,
and he drifted off to sleep.
Three
Ron awoke. He was lying on a mattress
on the floor. He sat up and discovered that he was in the sleep hall of the
East Street Mission. There was no one else in the room, and he had no idea how
he’d gotten here or how long he’d been asleep.
“Hello, Mr. Spicer. Did you enjoy the
ceremony?” It was Mr. Jingle, who had suddenly appeared.
“You again. What are you anyway, and
where the hell did you take me?”
“I’m just a friend, here to help you,”
replied Jingle. “Come along now, I’ve something else to show you.”
Struggling a bit, Ron stood up from the
mattress. “Just leave me alone, I don’t want your help. You must have drugged me
or something. I’m getting the fuck out of here and reporting you to the cops.”
Jingle’s massive hand instantly grabbed
Ron’s neck and squeezed. “Now, Mr. Spicer, you must let me help you. Please,
don’t make me do things the hard way.”
Ron was choking, he tried to speak but
couldn’t. He could feel himself blacking out.
“Now, will you behave and come with me,
please?” asked Jingle. “Nod if you will.” Ron nodded as best as he could.
“That’s better. Now let’s get going.” Mr. Jingle relaxed his grip as Ron sucked
in big gulps of air. They left the sleep hall and moved towards the same door
they had entered earlier in the night, marked “NO ADMITTANCE”. Walking together
they looked like old friends, with the larger of the two amiably resting his
hand on the other’s shoulders, just below the neck. They stepped through the
door.
Once inside the corridor, Jingle
stopped them at the first door on the right. There was a small window in the
top half of the door. Ron tried to peek inside while Jingle searched for the
appropriate key. Straining his eyes Ron could make out a green tiled wall,
similar to those in a hospital or institution. There were some words scrawled
on the wall in bright red letters, like graffiti. Ron strained his eyes further
but found the words impossible to read from this side of the door.
“Ah, here it is,” said Mr. Jingle. He unclasped
the gold key from his key ring and pushed it into the door lock. “Now remember,
Mr. Spicer, you agreed to behave. Please enter and have a nice visit.” Jingle
turned the key, opened the door, and gave Ron a gentle push inside.
The smell of disinfectant filled the
air. Ron found himself standing in the hallway of a hospital, just outside the
emergency operating room. He was dressed in scrubs, surgical gloves and mask.
He felt a strange compulsion to enter the operating room and he quietly stepped
inside. Standing at the back of the room Ron was unnoticed by the operating
room’s team of doctors and nurses. They were
frantically working on a patient in obvious distress.
“Blood pressure 50 over 20, heart rate at 35
and dropping,” reported the attending nurse. “Blood pressure now 30 over 15,
pulse at 20. We’re losing her, doctor.” Then the steady flat-line hum of the
monitor. “Cardiac arrest!”
“Two milligrams of adrenalin, stat,”
the doctor ordered. The nurse complied and returned her eyes to the monitor.
“Beginning CPR,” the doctor stated. He
stood over the patient with his arms firmly braced over her chest and began to
thrust downward.
“Prepare the defibrillator.”
There was a flurry of activity as the
surgical team prepared the patient for heart fibrillation. The doctor pulled
away momentarily as the shock paddles were put in place. He grasped the
paddles.
“Clear!”
A deep thump was heard followed by a
sudden upward jerk of the patient. The team watched the monitor for a positive
response – nothing.
“Clear!” the doctor repeated, the
ensuing electrical thump once again jerked the patient upwards. No response. A
third attempt was made, followed by the same result.
“Manual heart massage?” another doctor
suggested. He picked up a scalpel.
The first doctor paused, studied the
patient for a second longer, and then shook his head. “Too late, we’ve lost
her. There’s nothing else we can do. Nurse, please record the time of death and
notify the orderly.”
“Yes, doctor.” She made the entry on
the patient clipboard and took one last look at the dead woman.
“What a shame,” she said to no one in
particular. “EMS who brought her in said she’d been in a bad car accident. Her drunken
ex-husband was driving, and not a scratch on him, the lucky bastard.”
Ron watched with apprehension as these
events unfolded before him. Why am I
seeing this? Then the unthinkable happened. The surgical team moved away
from the operating table allowing Ron a full view of the deceased patient. He
looked at her face and became petrified. It was Pamela, his ex-wife, laying
there dead. Her head slowly turned towards him. Her eyelids flew open to reveal
cloudy white eyes, no pupils. Her bluish lips trembled as they parted.
“Why, Ron?” she asked. “Why?” Her eyes slammed
shut, her mouth and lips falling limp. He watched in horror as a ghostly aura
rose from her chest.
Stunned and shaken, Ron bolted out of
the operating room. In the hallway outside, he frantically searched for the
door back into the shelter.
What he found instead made his heart
jump into his throat. It was the graffiti he had seen earlier through the
window of the door. Scrawled in blood on the tiled wall were the words: I’VE HAD IT RON! I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS
ANYMORE. Ron turned away to flee but ran straight into a gurney. The crash
sent him head-over-heels and he slammed his head hard on the floor. Then,
darkness.
Four
When Ron awoke he was sitting at a
table inside the dining hall of the East Street Mission. His head was resting
face down in the crook of his elbow. There was an explosion of pain as he tried
to raise it. He lifted his hand and felt a rather large bump on his forehead.
He tried to focus his eyes, and with disbelief he saw that he was wearing
surgical scrubs.
“Hello, Mr. Spicer. My, my, that’s
quite a nasty bump on your head, isn’t it?” It was Jingle, standing directly
behind him.
“Why are you doing this to me?” pleaded
Ron. “What do you want from me?”
“I’ve told you. I’m here to help you,”
replied Jingle. “After all, I was the one who picked you up off the hospital
floor and brought you back here. You had a terrible fall, Mr. Spicer. I hope
you’re feeling better now.”
“I feel like shit, and I don’t want
your help. Please, just leave me alone.”
“Come, come now. Let’s get going, shall
we? Our time together will be over soon. Just one more visit, I promise.”
Ron tried to stand, wincing in pain as
he moved his bruised legs. “Please Sasha, Mr. Jingle, whatever your name is,
just let me be.”
“Soon, Mr. Spicer, soon. Besides, this
is for your own good, you know. Now let’s go, we don’t want to do this the hard
way now, do we?”
Ron stood up and took a step toward
Jingle. He lost his balance and fell forward. He reached out to break his fall
and grabbed the key ring on Jingle’s belt. The ring was as hot as a branding
iron. Ron’s hand began to burn, the smell of smouldering skin singing his
nostrils. He let go of the key ring and screamed; the palm of his hand was blackened
and throbbing.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that, Mr.
Spicer,” remarked Jingle. “The keys are not yours to touch. Not to worry
though, your hand will heal soon enough.” Mr. Jingle bent down and picked up
Ron with ease. “This way please.”
Cradling his burnt hand, Ron felt too
weak to resist and quietly allowed Jingle to steer him out of the dining hall
and towards the door marked “NO ADMITTANCE.”
Once inside, Ron found himself
shuffling through the strange corridor again. This time however it was
illuminated by a sickly green glow. The floor was tilted and the walls were of
uneven height, reminding him of those disorienting Fun House exhibits at summer
carnivals.
They stopped in front of an elaborate
leather-bound door. From the ring Mr. Jingle selected a key and thrust it into
the door lock. As he slowly turned the
key the lighting in the hall intensified and the hum of the fluorescents grew
louder. As if coming to life, the door bulged, the leather stretching to its
ripping point. Ron looked up at Mr. Jingle in amazement and was blinded by the bright
light. Suddenly the door flew open, from which emanated a fog of green vapour.
“Please enter, and have a good time,”
said Mr. Jingle.
Ron felt an invisible force pulling him
forward and into the room. He rubbed his eyes and blinked, trying to focus on
what lay ahead. Darkness at first, then a dawning warm light. The sound of voices
could be heard, growing in strength with the light. Edging closer, Ron could
hear laughter, the chatter of happy people: a party. He looked down at his
injured hand, the burn had healed and the pain was gone. He was now wearing a
tuxedo.
“Ron old buddy. How ya doing, pal?” A
stranger, also dressed in a tux, put an arm around Ron’s shoulder and pumped
his hand. “Come on in, man, let me buy you a drink.”
Ron was immediately hooked by the offer
and followed the stranger without protest.
He was led into a lavishly decorated
ballroom. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, fine artwork adorned the
oak-panelled walls. In the corner a musical quartet played spirited music. And
to the right was the piece de resistance,
an extravagant bar, which ran the entire length of the room.
“Come on, this way,” said the stranger.
They approached the bar and mingled through a cheerful crowd.
Everyone seemed to know Ron, and they
greeted him with open arms. They flattered him with praise, cajoled him with
admiration. An exceptionally well-endowed woman pressed herself against him.
She reached up and kissed Ron warmly on the cheek, leaving behind a generous
amount of deep red lipstick.
Ron, the apparent man of honour,
finally reached the bar and his jaw dropped. He had never seen such an
extraordinary assortment of alcohol. He nearly drooled as his eyes drank in the
countless bottles of fine liquor: whiskeys, vodkas, rums, cognacs, spirits of
every variety. To one side he spotted a large collection of rare single malt
scotch, most of which were labelled thirty-year-old. Behind the bar a large refrigerated
glass door displayed a bevy of chilled beer: pilsners, lagers, ales, and
stouts. An impressive wine list rounded out the inventory.
“What’s your pleasure, Mr. Spicer?”
said a familiar voice. From a shadow behind the bar emerged Mr. Jingle, his
wide golden grin beaming down on Ron. Jingle, wearing a bartender’s apron,
opened his arms and motioned at the multitude of bottles at his disposal. Ron
licked his lips and was about to speak when he suddenly felt a tapping on his
back.
He turned and saw a beautiful young
woman. She looked up at him with enticing eyes and smiled. She was vaguely
familiar to Ron but he couldn’t place her.
“Come on, Ronny, let’s dance.” She
grabbed his hand and tried to pull him away. Her alluring frame leaned towards
the dance floor. Certain this was all one crazy dream, Ron was only too happy
to oblige.
As they stepped onto the dance floor
the band, as if on cue, began to play slow, romantic music.
The young lady eased herself into Ron’s
arms. She raised her lips to his ear and whispered something obscene. He was intoxicated
by the sweet smell of her hair, the touch of her skin, and her sinful words. In
a passionate embrace they danced and twirled to the music.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?” he asked
her.
“Don’t you remember? It’s Cindy.”
Cindy? I don’t know anyone named Cindy, thought Ron. Unless.... Thinking back he recalled his first girlfriend. Her name
was Cindy. They were just kids back then but he’d never forgotten - she had
given him his very first drink, taken from her father’s liquor cabinet on a
night when her parents were out. How he regretted that very first drink.
He glanced away and noticed a large
mirror hanging from the far wall. A strange reflection in the mirror caught his
eye and he danced their way towards it. A closer look into the mirror shattered
the last remains of Ron’s sanity. He looked at the reflection and was horrified
to see a decomposing corpse draped in his arms.
He quickly looked down at Cindy.
She was as beautiful as before. But looking back in the mirror, quite the
opposite appeared. A horribly decayed creature, clutching him with skeletal
fingers, was staring at Ron with one dangling eyeball. Rotting flesh stretched
across her glistening jawbone while a spider flitted in and out of her vacant
eye socket.
Stricken with terror, Ron couldn’t pull
his gaze away from the mirror. He saw the reflection of the once cheerful crowd
in the background. Their elegant evening gowns and fine tuxedos were reduced to
bloody rags which hung limply from oozing flesh and protruding bones. They
danced and they swayed, a gruesome collection of cavorting cadavers.
Ron broke free from the Cindy-creature
and began to back away. He turned and ran for the bar. Jingle is at the bar, he thought, he’ll get me out of this place. Shielding his eyes from the crowd,
Ron managed to reach Mr. Jingle, who waiting behind the bar.
“You look like you can use a drink, Mr.
Spicer.” Jingle poured a full glass of single malt scotch, neat.
With trembling hands Ron grasped the
glass and quickly gulped it down. The
taste was pure evil. He grabbed the bottle from Mr. Jingle’s hand and looked at
the label. The fancy label which proclaimed thirty years of aging was gone. It
was replaced by a tattered warning sign. A large skull and crossbones sign, the
universal symbol for poison, was the only marking on it now.
“Care for another?” asked Mr. Jingle.
Ron looked up and noticed all the
bottles displayed behind the bar had the identical warning label. His mouth
began to burn, soon followed by a nauseating pain deep in his gut. The nausea
grew quickly and he began to heave uncontrollably. Vomit erupting from his
mouth with violent force. He doubled over as acrid discharge burned his throat,
pungent bile dripping from his nose. He collapsed to the floor clutching his
stomach and writhed in pain.
The ghoulish crowd slowly gathered
around Ron and looked down at him. From across the room the band started
playing and the crowd began to sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
Mercifully, Ron blacked out.
Five
Ron slowly regained consciousness. He
was draped over a filthy toilet in the East Street Mission men’s room. Ron had
an awful taste in his mouth and his head was pounding. He rubbed his temples to
ease his headache. A terrifying nightmare lingered in his mind. Upon lowering
his hands he noticed a smear of lipstick on his fingers. He wiped his cheek and
found more lipstick. He thought of the lady in the ballroom who kissed him and
he shook his head in denial. This can’t
be true, thought Ron. Just another
crazy nightmare, that’s all.
“Hello, Mr. Spicer. Feeling better? I
hope you’ve learned something today.”
Ron spun around and saw Mr. Jingle
grinning down at him sparkling his gold tooth. “You bastard, Jingle. Let me out
of this god-damn nightmare. Why do you keep torturing me?”
“To show you the error of your ways, of
course.”
“Error?” asked Ron, almost laughing. “What
you’ve shown me is heart-wrenching grief and sorrow. You’ve put me through a
shitload of horrors. You’ve even tried to poison me. Haven’t I suffered enough?
I’ve already lost everything. I’m just a fucking alcoholic, I don’t need you to
show me that.”
“Perhaps you’d like to reconsider
your past.”
“What do you want me to say, that I’ll
quit drinking? Even if I did, what’s done is done. There’s no going back.” Ron gave
Mr. Jingle a questioning glance. “Is there?”
“Perhaps there is, Mr. Spicer, perhaps
there is. I can be of some assistance in this matter, but it’s really up to
you. This time, you possess the key.”
Mr. Jingle stared deeply into Ron’s
eyes and with a booming voice he said, “This
is your last call, Mr. Spicer. What will it be?” The words echoed in Ron’s
head, and in an instant Jingle had vanished.
Ron was alone again as darkness crept
in and surrounded him. He felt as if he was at the bottom of a deep abyss,
hopelessly lost. Too weak and too frightened to move, Ron sat cross-legged on
the floor. He tried to make sense of Jingle’s cryptic message: This is your last call...what will it be? And so, for the first time in a long time, he
prayed. He prayed and he wept, until overcome by complete exhaustion.
Dream-like, Ron was floating,
weightlessly drifting through an endless corridor, through oddly shaped doors.
Iridescent keys floated all around him as a blinding light beckoned him
forward. He could hear Mr. Jingle’s eerie laugh echoing in his head. For Ron,
the passage of time and space had lost its meaning. Finally, he felt himself
crashing back to earth.
*******************************************
Ron smelled cinnamon. He felt warm and
cozy, well rested. He opened his eyes and found himself in a bed – a familiar
bed, in a familiar bedroom. To Ron’s surprise he was back in his family home,
the one he had lost so many years ago.
“Wake up, Ron. Are you going to sleep
all day? It’s Christmas.” His wife Pamela entered the room.
Pam, my beautiful Pam is back.
“Come on, Tommy’s waiting for us
downstairs,” she said. “He can’t wait to open his presents.”
“Tommy’s here? Downstairs?” asked Ron,
his voice cracking with emotion.
“Of course silly, where would you
expect our son to be on Christmas morning?”
“How old is he?” he blurted out,
realizing how stupid this question must sound to Pam.
“You’re acting strange this morning,”
she said with a laugh. “He’s seven, remember?”
Seven years old. Six
years have gone by since he’d left Pamela and Tommy. But still, it’s not too late to start over, to be happy again. Ron
jumped out of bed and gave his once-lost wife an affectionate kiss, embracing
her tightly.
“Not now, you’ll get your Christmas
present later,” said Pam with a smile. “Now, come on downstairs. I’ve got cinnamon
rolls in the oven.”
“Merry Christmas, Dad.” Tommy came
running over as Ron entered the living room and leapt into his father’s arms.
Ron hugged him closely, not wanting to let go.
“Put me down, Dad, I’ve got something for
you.” Ron let him down and the boy ran to a nearby table. Tommy returned with
something in his hand and showed it to his dad. It was a Santa’s elf doll he
had made himself.
“Isn’t it cute, Ron?” asked Pam.
“Tommy’s made over a dozen of those dolls.”
“They’re not dolls, Mom, they’re action
figures,” protested Tommy.
“Sorry dear. Yes, action figures. Anyway,
Tommy’s even sold a bunch of them to the kids at school. Quite the entrepreneur,
isn’t he?”
Entrepreneur? If you only knew, thought Ron. He picked up the doll for a closer look.
“Wow,” exclaimed Ron. “Did you really
make this all by yourself?” It was a typical doll but with a tiny dab of gold
paint in its smile, like a tooth. It was dressed in a Santa suit with small
bells attached to its hat and shoes.
“I call him Mr. Jingle,” said Tommy.
“Do you like him Dad? It’s your Christmas gift.”
Tears welled up in Ron’s eyes. He
hugged his son again, looked up at Pam, then back to Tommy.
“I just love it Tommy, I really do. Mr.
Jingle is the most wonderful gift I could ever ask for.”
John Miscione is from Burlington, Ontario, and
enjoys being a story teller. He finds writing to be not just a hobby, but a
beneficial outlet for creative expression. He has participated in a number of
Brian Henry’s classes to which he attributes a renewed passion for writing.
John has written several short stories and has had previous works featured in CommuterLit.com.
See Brian Henry’s
schedule here, including writing workshops and creative writing courses
in Algonquin Park, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon,
Georgetown, Guelph, Hamilton, Ingersoll, Kingston, Kitchener, London, Midland,
Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB,
Sudbury, Thessalon, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Kitchener-Waterloo,
Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.
