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Thursday, December 24, 2015

I Want The Old Testament


I WISH IT WOULD rain. No. Sleet. Sleet would finish the scene nicely. Rain is God’s mop. It washes away the dirt and corruption. I’ve got no use for snow, either; the fat flakes are too jolly. Snow makes a fire hydrant into a wedding cake. I want sleet.
    I’d rather pull my collar up and hunch my shoulders as if blows from an unseen and merciless boxer were raining down on me. I don't want a Christmas card. I want the Old Testament.
    Old or new - I knew it. Father and mother would open the Bible to a random page and place an unseeing finger anywhere and use it for their answer to whatever question was at hand. They'd torture the found scripture to fit the problem a lot, but it was uncanny how often that old musty book would burp out something at least fit for a double-take. But any Ouija board does that, doesn't it?
    It was just cold and bracing. No sleet. I didn't need to be clear-minded right now. Paul's tip of the hat to the season, a sort of syphilitic looking tree, hung over your head as you entered the bar like it was Damocle's birthday, not the Redeemer's. It was kinda funny to see it out there, because inside it was always the same day and always the same time. Open is a time.
    People yield without thinking in these situations. It had been years since I had found anyone sitting on that stool, my place. It was just understood, like the needle in the compass always pointing the same way for everyone. Paul never even greeted me anymore, just put it wordlessly down in front of me as I hit the seat. Some men understand other men.
    It was already kind of late. My foreman said for all he cared, I could bang on those machines until Satan showed up in the Ice Capades, but I didn't feel like working on Christmas Eve until the clock struck midnight. That's a bad time to be alone and sober.
    "I'm closing early tonight," Paul said, and he didn't go back to his paper or his taps. He just stood there eying me. I took the drink.
    "You've made a mess of this, Paul," I stammered out, coughing a bit, "What the hell is this?"
    "It's ginger ale. You're coming with me tonight."
    I could see it all rolled out in front of me. Pity. Kindness. Friendship.
    "No." I rose to leave.
    "You'll come, or you'll never darken the doorstep here again."
    Now a man finds himself in these spots from time to time. There are altogether too many kind souls in the world. They think they understand you. They want to help you. But what Paul will never understand is that he was helping me by taking my money and filling the glass and minding his own. It was the only help there was. A man standing in the broken shards of his life doesn't have any use for people picking up each piece and wondering aloud if this bit wasn't so bad. They never understand that the whole thing was worth something once but the pieces are nothing and you can never reassemble them again into anything.
    I went. Worse than I imagined, really. Wife. Kids. Home. Happy. I sat in the corner chair, rock-hard sober, and then masticated like a farm animal at the table.
    Paul was smarter, perhaps, than I gave him credit for. He said nothing to me, or about me. His children nattered and his wife placed the food in front of me and they talked of everything and nothing as if I wasn't there – no, as if I had always been there. As if the man with every bit of his life written right on his face had always sat in that seat.
    I wasn't prepared for it when he took out the Bible. Is he a madman like my own father was? It's too much. The children sat by the tree, and he opened the Bible and placed his finger in there. I wanted to run screaming into the street. I wanted to murder them all and wait for the police. I wanted to lay down on the carpet and die.
    "Ye are the salt of the earth; but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick, and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."
    He put the children to bed, to dream of the morning. His wife kissed him, said only "good night" to me, and went upstairs. We sat for a long moment by the fire, the soft gentle sucking sound of the logs being consumed audible now that the children were gone. The fire was reflected in the ornaments on the tree. The mantel clock banged through the seconds.
    "Do you want something?" he asked.
    "Ginger ale."


(From my collection of flash fiction, The Devil's In The Cows Merry Christmas to all that visit here, and all that don't]

15 comments:

drdave said...

Merry Christmas to you as well, and to your wonderful family. And a happy and prosperous New Year.

Rob De Witt said...

You've posted this before, I think. It left an indelible impression.

It's rare indeed to find a man who's apparently lived his life in the bosom of his family, who can still see and portray the sense of wreckage that can accrue to those who haven't. Chilling, and fine, and truly hopeful.

Thanks for a warm place, and the Merriest of Christmases to you and all yours.

Leslie said...

Merry Christmas to all at Sippican Cottage. Thank you for sharing your talents and children with us. Best wishes for 2014.

Casey Klahn said...

I can smell the cigarette smoke in there. Nothing smells exactly like rancid something, and smelly something else tinged with mildew.

See what you make me do? And I can't put 2 verses together without criminally murdering them. Wish I could write like you!

Thanks for the redemption in this FF piece, Sippican. It has a Frank Capra on meth sort of feel, but in a good way.

Merry Christmas, brother. Love to you, your family, and the co-readers at these wonderful blogs.

Chaotic Hammer said...

Merry Christmas!

Matt said...

This is one of my favorites, Sipp. I want to point everyone to Caleb's Coins. I'm well-read, and that one ranks in my top-ten. Merry Christmas, and stay warm.

Joan of Argghh! said...

You keep Christmas well, Sipp.

Blessings to you and yours!

JoeDaddy said...

Humbling.

Sam L. said...

Merry Christmas, Mr. Sippi, and to Mrs. Sippi and the two Sippi cups.

Jewel said...

This is truly one of your best stories. I never get tired of reading it. Blessings on you and yours, and a Happy new year to you, too!

Sam L. said...

Keep playin' this song, Mr. Sippi; it's one we need to hear. And what I said last year.

Thud said...

Merry Christmas Sipp to you, your missus and the lads.

Casey Klahn said...

It's a simple tale of redemption, but it makes me laugh and sends dew to the eyes.

It influences those of us blessed enough to have read it.

Take care this Christmas. Blessings to you and yours, SC.

chasmatic said...

Thirty years ago people like Paul brought me in from the darkness.
No regrets, gratitude mostly.

Thank you for helping me remember when.

Merry Christmas to you and your family.

Anonymous said...

I read it, and recommend the purchase thereof. The book I mean. A fine investment returning yearly dividends. Eh, good for a gift also, to someone you care for. Or not - doesn't matter to me. All the better.

Good writin' anyways.

Blessings of Christmas.

itor