Message-ID: <6777eli$9712261340@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: S THOMAS BUSH Subject: Bombadil - Christmas Story Contest Entry Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: Christmas Dinner [ Christmas Contest ] Short Story #26 by Tom Bombadil (c) Dec 1997 Disclaimer: All the standard rules apply. If you are offended by explicit descriptions of sex or the human body, if it is illegal to possess such materials at your location, if you are under-age by law in your location, or if somebody else thinks you might have too much fun reading it, stop right now and remove this text from your computer. This is purely a work of fiction, with all characters and actions described by me coming straight out of my imagination. As a work of fiction, it does not condone or condemn any of the activities or actions described, nor does it relate to any type of real events in my life, or known to me in the lives of any of my friends or relatives. You've been warned. I give permission for anyone to archive or share this story. ******************************************************************** "Hey Jack, how ya doin' t'day?" "I'm hot, I'm sweaty, my feet hurt, and I need a shower something terrible," replied Trevor McDaniels. "In a word, awful." He smiled and winked at the old man as he scooped up some turkey stuffing and plopped it onto the old man's tray. 'Seagull' Dan, dressed in at least a dozen layers of old, patched clothing, smiled back. "Glad ta see yer havin' a good time. Grub looks pretty good this year, too. Better'n last year, even." With another quick grin, Dan moved on down the line, holding out his plate for a dollop of gravy. When another tray got shoved under his nose, Trevor reached into the tub for more stuffing. Trevor McDaniels, or Jack, as everyone there believed his name to be, was hot, sweaty, in need of a shower, and his feet did hurt. He had been working his station in the food line for two hours, and would likely be there for another hour at least, by the looks of the lineup stretching out the church hall doors. This was after spending eight hours labouring in a kitchen to help prepare enough food to feed an army. Literally. With the vicious cold snap that had come down from the north, they fully expected to serve a thousand turkey dinners that day. Volunteers from all over came in at Christmas time for this one big day. Businessmen opened up their pocketbooks. Restaurants donated their facilities and their employees' labour. Housewives, television and radio personalities, and local politicians all pitched in to help. It was the one time of year when mixing with the unwashed dregs of society was not only permissible, it was looked upon as a truly virtuous act of kindness. Thus, the great Christmas Day Feast was almost always a great success. Two young women, girls, really, were next. They kept their eyes down, staring at the food, obviously too nervous to look up at whomever was serving them, huddling together for security. Their nervous gestures, the gauntness of their features, and their deep-set purple-rimmed eyes told him everything he needed to know. Without looking, he could almost guarantee that there would be needle tracks running up their arms. A bulge under the younger one's coat almost made him weep. Both of the girls were strangers to him. They were probably passing through, heading south to warmer climes, trying to escape this particularly vicious winter. He doubted he would ever see them again. Directly after them came Granny Smith. Nobody knew the old lady's real name. Trevor doubted that she even knew. She answered to Granny Smith, and that was that. For the twenty-odd years he had been working this kitchen, she had been coming in; old, grey-haired, and senile. He gave her a scoop of stuffing, and she gave him a semi-toothless smile in return. They knew each other well. Three strangers shuffled along behind her, each more anxious than the last to get theirs before the food ran out. In twenty-odd years it never had, but they probably didn't know that. Even if they had, they probably would still have been edgy. Constant hunger tended to keep people slightly paranoid. He gave them their scoops of turkey stuffing, and they moved on. More followed, an almost endless stream of unwashed bodies and patched clothes mixing in with those who were more recent hard luck victims. On this day, everyone who came through the doors would be fed. In his other life, as he called it, Trevor was a successful businessman. He owned a half-dozen dry cleaning stores, a men's clothing shop, and a drapery company. He had two daughters, three grandkids and seven great-grandkids, a paid-for house, two cars, and a cottage in the country. He, personally, hadn't been out to his cottage for twenty-odd years, but his relatives used it regularly. At sixty-four years of age, many of his friends and relatives were now urging him to retire, but retirement wasn't something he was prepared to succumb to. In his opinion, he still had the energy and the will for doing what he had been doing all his life, so he was damned well going to keep right on going until the day they buried him. Besides, he usually continued, what the hell would I retire to? Several hours later, Trevor was sitting in his favourite armchair, in front of a roaring fire, with a hot rum toddy warming his hands. Memories carried him back to the first time he had ever helped out on a Christmas Day Dinner For The Homeless. It wasn't his idea, it was his wife's. For weeks, she had hinted, then asked, then cajoled, until he finally agreed. "It's not like we're going to miss out on anything special," she had argued. "Both girls are away at college. We'd be spending the day alone together anyway. Why not spend it helping those less fortunate than ourselves?" That had been an eye-opening experience for him. Despite the newspaper reports, he had never actually believed how many people were in need. The numbers simply overwhelmed him. After the first few, they became nothing but blank faces; bodies to be served; trays upon which food was to be placed. The reality scared him, enough so he swore to himself he would never volunteer again. Over the course of the following months, his wife began to spend some of her time at a local soup kitchen, usually one day a week. While Trevor didn't begrudge her the time, since he was working six days a week at his various businesses, he did feel uncomfortable with it, and frequently hinted that he would rather she spend her time doing something more worthwhile. "You saw all the people there on Christmas day. Where do you think they go the other 364 days a year? What do you think they eat? Do you think they came into town, just for that one day, because you happened to be there? No, husband, those people are still out there, hidden from your sight, but real, none the less. I can't turn my back on them." It became something she did that he no longer really thought about. Every Tuesday, she did her thing, and every Tuesday, he cooked dinner instead of her. He listened politely to all her gossip about the day, but didn't pay any real attention to the meaning behind the words. All that changed about a year later. One word, delivered by a man in a white lab coat, who had a pitying look in his eyes for both of them. Naturally, they tried everything. They exhausted every faint hope. They took turns going through periods of denial. Hysterical crying fits interspersed themselves with times of forced gaiety and maniacal bursts of energy. Sometimes they made love with a fierceness never before shown, losing themselves in the moment, denying reality entry into their own private world. Other times, they simply lay in bed, holding each other, touching, trying to keep their tears at bay, knowing they only had a limited time left together. Through it all, they also tried to maintain some semblance of a normal life. Trevor kept up with his businesses, but hired and trained a manager to look after the bulk of the work. His wife slowed down in her activities as well, although she steadfastly refused to give up her Tuesdays. Even when she was too weak to do any actual work, she would go down there to spend the day with her friends, as she called the regulars. It was something special for her, something she treasured. It all ended one bitterly cold winter morning. Trevor almost ended his own life that same day. If his children hadn't been there, he might have. Even so, he shut down for close to two years. A newspaper article sparked his slow re-emergence into the land of the living. It was a small article, near the back page, taking up only a few paragraphs of space. A soup kitchen was appealing for donations to help keep them from having to close down. Her soup kitchen. The one she had been working at for years. The one she had called her other home, where her other friends were at. Trevor cried, reliving the pain he had tried to bury. An anonymous donation helped keep the charitable organization who operated the service afloat. The following month, another donation arrived. And, the month following, another. One day, Trevor dressed up in his grubbiest clothes and went down to the place to see what it was like. The food was plain, but filling, and nobody questioned his right to a free meal. There weren't the crowds that he had remembered from that one Christmas meal he had helped with, but there were still over a hundred people sitting around, eating. Some were talking, some were silent. It was a Tuesday, of course. The following Tuesday, he returned. A few faces he recognized. Most, he didn't. What startled him was the fact that one of the people dishing out the food recognized him. Not as Trevor, but as a man who had been there the previous week. When asked, he made up a fictitious name. Jack was the first one to spring to mind. That was also the first day he met 'Seagull' Dan. Dan talked to, or rather at, Trevor, for hours, about his life in the army as a general, in politics as a mayor, in college as a teacher, and just about every other profession imaginable. "I done it all," Dan said, "so I don't need to do nothin' no more." Trevor didn't argue. Two weeks later, Trevor was asked to help in the kitchen, peeling vegetables. That's how his other life got started. Nobody in the kitchen knew who he really was. They simply accepted him as another person in need. There were no questions, no inquiries. No government officials were there to pry into his past. The only question he was asked each week was "Are you hungry today?" Trevor put down his glass, then got up out of his chair. It was after midnight. Another Christmas had come and gone. He made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. In the morning, he would drive to the cemetery to visit his wife. There would be fresh flowers of course, left there the day before. Their children always left flowers on the anniversary of her death. He would add some of his own. In the afternoon, he would drive to his older daughter's house for a boxing day dinner, hand out presents to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and submerge himself in the warmth of his family's love. Thus it had been for twenty three years. Thus it would be until he and his wife were once again together. ******************************************************************** -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |