43 comments/ 25861 views/ 17 favorites Merry F-ing Christmas By: smy3th (This, dear reader, is Jack, a man become bitter, cynical, broken by disappointment, hurts, and disillusionment, about to be disposed of by life. A man in need of repair. Can a toy workshop on a street of repair shops repair even broken hearts, broken dreams, broken people?) * Jack sat in his pickup truck in the factory parking lot staring vacantly out the windshield, not really seeing anything. He alternated between replaying the events in his mind and wondering numbly what to do next. The layoff wasn't really such a big surprise, but he hadn't expected it so suddenly or so soon. It was December 1st. He figured the job would last at least through the end of the year. The boss had called him into his office just before noon time and broken the news to him. It wasn't a mass layoff. They'd decided that Jack's position (and Jack) were no longer needed. In some ways, Jack figured he deserved it. He was a good designer. The engineering was what he was good at. What he wasn't good at was all the crap that went with it: the budgets, the paperwork, the politics, the salesmanship. He guessed that good engineering didn't make the profits; it was cutting corners to get things out the door, right or wrong, that made money. Jack had been asked to clean out his desk during lunch and turn in his badge and such in the afternoon. There was some paperwork to fill out in Human Resources. Then he'd gone by Payroll where they had his check waiting. It could have been worse. He got his check for November and they'd also paid him for December as severance. Jack figured they'd decided to lay him off before the holidays because not much got done during the holidays anyway so the severance didn't cost them much. The boss was apologetic. (Times are tough. Fuel bills are eating their profits. Sales are down. Nothing personal about the layoff. Jack could have a letter of reference if he wanted it.) He took the letter, though he had no idea what kind of job to look for next. Somehow Jack figured ten years with the company would have resulted in something more than a month's severance and a letter but exactly what that might be he wasn't too sure. He did go round and say goodbye to some of his coworkers. Ernie, who sat in the next cubicle said the story going around the office was that the boss had called the young female engineer into his office the previous day and told her they were going to have to let someone go. The rumor was that the boss told her: "I either have to lay you or Jack off." Yeah, funny. Real funny. "Well, Ernie, at least I got my Christmas goose," Jack replied sardonically, jerking as if poked in the rear. The contents of his desk were in one carton in the back of the truck, inside the camper shell. There wasn't much. He'd tossed almost everything. The Ten Year Service award, the Employee of the Month certificate from five years ago and such didn't really hold any attachment for him. He kept the picture he'd cut out of a calendar years before, of a medieval street of craftsmen in Europe with three lines by Longfellow under the photo: "In the elder days of art, Builders wrought with greatest care, Each minute and unseen part." He almost trashed it. For years, it had been a sort of inspiration to him in working on the behind-the-scenes utilitarian mechanical stuff that the consumer never sees. Seemed like nowadays, though, everything's disposable, people included. But then he stuck it in the box of stuff to keep. The boss offered a goodbye handshake. Jack was about to refuse but then he wasn't the type to make a scene and besides, you never want to burn any bridges. Then the boss said: "Jack, I know this seems cynical or hypocritical but I hope things work out better for you somewhere. Merry Christmas, Jack." Jack looked at him blankly, then laughed mirthlessly: "Yeah boss, Merry Fucking Christmas to you too." As he went out through the front door for the last time the perky young receptionist had the official company greeting down pat too. As he walked by her desk she looked up at him brightly, smiled cutely, and said: "Merry Christmas, sir." He wanted to give her a one finger salute but resisted. He couldn't quite stop himself though from saying what he'd said to the boss. He snorted, turned, gave her a quarter of a smile and said: "Yeah, sure, Merry Fucking Christmas." Sitting in the truck trying to figure out what to do next he replayed Ernie's joke. Yep, that was appropriate. He'd been reduced to jacking off anyway. His ex-wife, Heather, had left him in December of the previous year. December was not a good month for Jack. She'd had wild sex with him practically all night the night before she left. The sex was fabulous. She was always highly sexual, but that night had exceeded the normal. She'd bounced up and down on his hard prick like a wild animal, screaming while he pinched her nipples and she fingered her clit. She'd cum like crazy. She'd gotten on all fours faced away from him, put her face down on the bed with her ass sticking up in the air and her swollen wet pussy aimed at him and begged him to take her like a dog. He was happy to oblige. He filled her cunt with his cock, took hold of her tits and pumped her until they both came. In the morning, he awoke to her sucking him hard again. He couldn't imagine what had gotten into her. They hadn't fucked that much since their honeymoon. He'd returned the favor by licking her cunt and sucking on her clit. They ended up in a good old missionary position, holding each other tightly. She was crying while she was cumming. He didn't know why. After he rolled off of her she sat up slowly, sighed heavily, and then, sitting naked on the side of the bed as Jack admired her firm tits, her flat stomach, her cute round ass, she told him she was filing for divorce. She wouldn't look at him. She just sat there, working her wedding and engagement rings off her finger. She said he was by far the best sex she'd ever had or could imagine but sex wasn't enough any more. Just fucking wasn't a marriage. They had nothing else in common. He said: "Sex may not be all there is but it's one heck of a lot." But he knew what she meant. There was a wonderful physical connection between them but the mental and emotional connection didn't seem to be there. She had her friends, her interests, her career, her parties, and he couldn't get into her social activities. Going to cocktail parties and standing around bored, lonely, out of place, while she was busy socializing, wasn't enough for him anymore either, just to be able to get into her panties afterwards, nice as it was inside those panties. That was their last night together. She packed up and moved out that day. He never asked where she went. He suspected there was another guy. It didn't really matter. Either way, she was gone. He saw her at the attorney's office a couple of weeks later, before the holidays. She'd cried there too but she still divorced him. As he left that day, he said: "Oh, and thanks for the goodbye fuck. It was great; and Merry Fucking Christmas." All he had left of her was her engagement ring, which she had left on the nightstand next to their bed after that last night. They'd sold the house and split what little equity they'd earned. He'd moved into a hotel room and never bothered to find anything more permanent. There didn't seem much point. His lack of enthusiasm in general probably had something to do with him getting laid off too. He hadn't exactly been Mr. Congeniality at work since the divorce. The bureaucratic crap he'd been able to put up with before had gotten harder to take. Still, he was the best pure engineer they had. Trouble was, pure engineering wasn't cutting it anymore. Engineering was sort of like fucking: it felt great, but it couldn't sustain a relationship all by itself. Yep, Jack thought: seemed like Christmas was becoming a season for him to get fucked. Merry Fucking Christmas indeed. He drove out of the factory gate. The sign at the gate said: "140 Days Since the Last Lost Time Injury. Stay Safe and Have a Merry Christmas. The guard at the gate waved him out with the usual "Merry Christmas, sir." Jack didn't even try to smile at the guard as he replied, "Yeah, sure, Merry Fucking Christmas to you too." He cleaned out his hotel room of what little he had in the way of personal belongings. Two suitcases and a couple more cartons went into the back of his pickup. He had an old sleeping bag, a down jacket, and some warm clothes, so he didn't think he was likely to freeze to death just yet. He could have kept the room for the rest of the month, but with no new job to go to, and little likelihood of getting one before the holidays, he figured it was time to economize. Besides, he didn't think he could stand another engineering job. He'd been unhappy at the last one for some time. Doing that again sounded too depressing, but what else he could do for a living, he had no idea. Her engagement ring had been in the hotel safe. He got it back when he checked out. He'd never figured out what to do with it. Somehow selling the symbol of his wedding vows seemed too mercenary. On the other hand, he didn't want to keep it. On the sidewalk in front of the hotel was a Salvation Army bell ringer with a kettle. As he went by, he dropped the ring into the kettle. He looked at the bell ringer. "It's a real diamond" Jack said to him. "Maybe you can get something for it. And merry fucking Christmas." He drove out of the hotel parking lot with no particular place to go. By that time, it was almost dark. He just drove, his thoughts not really on where he was going. He didn't bother getting on the Interstate – he had no destination so there was no use going 70 MPH to get there. He took side streets, not even particularly noticing where he was, just thinking. The thought of driving off the road into the river briefly crossed his mind, but it seemed like too much trouble. He wasn't that decisive. Killing himself would take too much thought and planning. Jack's stomach started growling and he realized he hadn't eaten since breakfast. Eating sounded like too much trouble as well, but the thought of food made him at least look at the buildings he was passing. He turned onto what he thought was a side street and passed a corner café. Martha's Family Café, the sign said. It wasn't much of a place, but that was OK. Then he laughed: Martha's Family Café – Merry Fucking Christmas. Karma? Fate?. He went around the block to get back to it and found a parking place down the street by a little park – angle parking like the old days. No parking meters. He shut off the ignition, and sat there looking around, wondering where he was. He had no idea what this place was or where he had driven. The park, empty in the cold and darkness of a December evening, looked like time had passed it by. The children's play area had all the old play equipment from before personal injury lawsuits changed the world. In the light from the old-style street lights, he could dimly see that there were see-saws, swings, a jungle gym, and a merry-go-round that you pushed and made go faster and faster to see who got too dizzy. He could see a gazebo bandstand in the middle of the park. There were leafless trees, benches were scattered around and a few picnic tables under a shelter. At the far side of the park, it looked like maybe there was a creek and some woods, though the long shadows made it difficult to distinguish. Jack got out of the truck. He thought about locking it up but figured there wasn't much worth stealing. He was a block down from the café. Across the street from the park was a row of old stores, two story brick buildings. Some had Christmas lights up. Directly across from where he had parked was a store with a faded painted sign that simply said: TOYS and TOY REPAIRS. The store lights were still on, and there was an OPEN sign on the door, though Jack noticed that, oddly for a toy store, there weren't any Christmas lights on that one. Next door to the toy store was a used book store, and next to that a store with a sign that said: "Dolls & Doll Hospital." There was a Maytag appliance store on the other side and then an old hardware store. Looking down the block, Jack could see a watch and clock repair shop and a "Vintage Clothing" store. Jack walked along his side of the street toward the café. He passed a shoe repair shop, a pawn shop, and a "Bijou Theatre." The "theatre" was a bit dilapidated. Based on the posters, it looked like they were more into Rocky Horror Picture Show revivals and replays of old movies than first run movies. There were a fair number of people on the sidewalk but not many cars on the street. It didn't seem to be on any main route to anywhere, just a side street of shops. At the café, he got a booth and ordered meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy from the motherly looking waitress. He assumed she was Martha but didn't ask. There were Christmas lights strung all over, both outside the café and inside. There was a little Christmas tree next to doorway. Jack supposed that it would be a cheery place, but he was in no mood for cheer. The café seemed to be doing a surprisingly good business for what looked like an off-the-beaten-track location. The food was good, and the prices were reasonable. "Guess that combination still works some places," he thought. "People just doing their job competently." He had a piece of "homemade apple pie" for dessert. He had several refills on the coffee, killing time, no idea where he would go or what he would do when he left there. The booth next to his emptied, and then the one beyond that. He sat there, staring off into space in that direction. After a while, he realized that there was someone staring back. In the third booth down, there was a woman staring in his direction with the same sort of blank, far-off, unfocused gaze. She appeared to be in her middle 30's. She had long brown hair and bright green eyes. She didn't seem to notice him for a minute. She was wearing a dress of off-white antique lace. It accented a slender neck and modest bosom. Then she made eye contact. He was embarrassed to be caught staring at her. He tried to look away, but something in her expression held his eyes. She seemed to be looking into his eyes with a question, a curiosity or something. She raised an eyebrow at him, apparently not put off by his stare. She looked both young and old. Her skin was clear and unwrinkled, but there was something weary about her. Jack picked up his coffee cup and tilted it at her as if in toast before downing the last of it. She returned the gesture, then looked down at a book on the table which she continued to read. He noticed there weren't many customers left, so he paid his bill, used the restroom, and decided to walk around for a while. It was cold out. His breath made clouds in the air. He strolled slowly down the street, looking in the shop windows. He came to a store with a sign that said: THE FANCY DRESS Ball gowns and formals for all occasions There was a custom tailor shop. The sign in the window said: "Alterations and repairs, our specialty. Cloth Re-weaving." There was a small beauty salon, and a butcher shop next to a small grocery and produce store – looked like a pre 7/11 convenience store. At the end of the block was an auto repair shop, and next to that a flower shop and then a little old mortuary. The sign in the flower shop window said: "Did you break someone's heart? Repair kits sold here." "Yeah, right," Jack thought. "Like flowers are going to fix anything." Jack walked slowly, stopping at many of the shop windows, looking at their displays. Many of them had antique merchandise in their display windows, related to their business. The shoe repair shop had a pair of high button ladies shoes and an old mechanized model of a shoemaker hammering on a shoe last. The auto repair shop had a nicely restored Indian motorcycle at the front of the office. A bicycle shop had an old Schwinn three-speed bike hanging in the window. Jack stopped in front of a shop that said "Camera and photo equipment." The window display had a big old Speed Graphic camera, the favorite of newspaper photographers for several decades, and View Graphic, the studio photographer's choice from back in the days of the 4 x 5 black and white film holder. A placard in the window said: "Photo equipment maintenance and repair." The Radio and TV repair shop had an old Philco tube–type, multi-band, walnut-console radio, turned sideways, the back off, so he could see the glowing vacuum tubes inside. It was turned on, and through the storefront window he could hear Christmas music coming from it. It seemed to be tuned to a short wave station. Jack had no idea where there was a station playing Christmas music on AM, but obviously there was one somewhere. He wondered where they got vacuum tubes these days. When Jack got to the toy store across from his truck, the light inside had been turned off, though there was still a light in the display window. In the window there was a conglomeration of old toys: wind-up toys, match box cars, a wooden train, and in back he could see an old Lionel electric train. He stood there for some time looking at the toys. They were the kinds of toys he'd played with as a boy at his grandparent's house. He wondered how a place like this could stay in business in the days of electronic games, of Wal-Mart and the chain stores. There was a little sign next to the door that said: "Michael F. Christy, proprietor." Jack snorted. "There's that MFC again. What were the odds?" The whole two blocks felt like something out of the Twilight Zone: a town frozen since the 1930's. Walking down the street was like walking through a museum. The only thing that proved that it belonged to the 21st century was the computer repair shop. In that window, there was an old Radio Shack TRS-80 computer, what the nerds used to call a "Trash-80." There was also an Atari computer and one of the early "luggable" portable computers, with the little 8 inch green-screen CRT lit up, and the blinking cursor after the "A>:" Well, maybe not the 21st century, but at least the late 20th. It occurred to Jack that this street had the biggest collection of repair shops he had ever seen. There was a shop on these two blocks that could repair about anything that could be broken. (Well, given the mortuary, apparently even this street had limits on what could be mended, despite the claims of the flower shop). It was cold and dark, and Jack still had no particular place to go. Instead of driving on aimlessly, he got into the back of his truck, rolled out his down sleeping bag, took off his jacket, closed the camper shell, shucked off his jeans and crawled into the sleeping bag. He lay there on his back awake for a long time, staring at nothing; wondering what to do in the morning, what to do with his life. He drifted in and out of sleep for a while, uncomfortable on the hard truck bed. The moon came up. He thought he heard a woman singing in the park. At first, he attributed it to the wind in the bare trees, but then he caught more distinct snatches of it. Propping himself up on an elbow, he looked out the side window of the camper shell toward the park. In the dim light, movement on the bandstand caught his eye. Looking closely he saw that there was a woman there, dancing by herself, a waltz it looked like. He could barely make out the sound of singing or humming. He thought he recognized the dress and the long hair. It looked like the woman in the café. He watched her, dancing to her own music, as if there were an invisible partner. She danced with graceful movements. He watched her for a long time, until she stopped dancing. She sat down on the steps of the bandstand for a while, staring into the darkness of the wood, then rose and walked down the street, still moving with a dancer's grace. He watched her until she stopped at one of the shops and went inside, turning out the light as she went in. Merry F-ing Christmas As the mystery woman in lace disappeared, Jack lay back in his sleeping bag. Suddenly, he felt more alone than he had before. He had not cried when Heather left him. In some ways, he had at times felt more alone when they were married than when she left. But now, for reasons he couldn't put into words, it all came down on him. The seeming loneliness of the woman in lace hit him – eating alone, dancing alone, sitting alone in the moonlight, walking down the dark deserted street alone. His own loneliness hadn't hit him that hard before, but now he visualized his heart as if it were walking alone down a dark street. Not a soul knew where he was, not even himself. There was no one to miss him; no one to wonder; no one to care. Getting laid off hurt, but what hurt worse was that there was no one to tell; no one who knew; no one who cared. The tears began to run down from the corners of his eyes. Quiet sobs shook him. That old Beatles song, Eleanor Rigby, came to his mind: All the lonely people, Where do they all come from? All the lonely people Where do they all belong? Jack lay there letting the tears flow, soaking into the sleeping bag behind his head. He cried until the comfort of sleep finally took him, leaving the loneliness to his troubled dreams. The winter sun woke Jack in the morning with frost in the stubble on his face. That wasn't the only thing on his body that was hard and stiff - another disadvantage to sleeping alone. He dug his sweats out of his suitcase and pulled them on, climbed out of the truck, and went to use the restroom in the park. Then he went for a run, across the creek, into the woods, out the other side on a path past a corn field and a little pond, and down a road with bare trees arching over it. Running helped soothe his emotions. His feet pounded the anger, the hurt, the loneliness, the disillusionment, the hopelessness into the hard cold ground. He looped around and back to the park, where he cooled off on the steps of the band stand, watching the sun get a little higher. He got a change of clothes out of his truck and washed and changed in the park restroom again. Jack saw that the bakery was already open, the smell of baking bread wafting his way. He bought a french pastry, then sat in the park to eat it. The morning sun was shining and he watched the street slowly waking up. The shop keepers were cranking out their awnings, sweeping their sidewalks, re-arranging their window displays, putting up Christmas decorations. Jack wandered across the street to the toy store. It was still early, but the OPEN sign was on the door, so he decided to go in to look around. A bell tinkled over the door as he opened it. It wasn't a big place, but it was stuffed with toys on shelves that went high up the walls, model airplanes hanging from the ceiling, an electric train on a track that went all around the room on a shelf above the doorways, stuffed animals, magic tricks, snow globes, wooden toys, a rocking horse, balls, puzzles, games, a Jack-in-the-box. There didn't seem to be two of anything exactly alike. Jack didn't see a shop keeper in the store, so he browsed around, looking at all the old toys, wondering again how such a place could stay in business. After a few minutes, an old man hobbled on a cane out through a curtain from the back room. He had a white beard and was chewing on the stem of an unlit pipe. He sat down on a stool behind an antique cash register. For a few minutes he didn't say anything to Jack. (At this point, dear reader, let me hasten to reassure you that this is not one of those stories with a crazy old man who thinks he's Santa Claus, nor do elves make the toys at night. If you've read this far, please trust me to tell the story and stick to the facts.) Finally, the old man said to Jack: "May I help you, young man?" "I don't think so. I'm just looking around." "Just looking around, eh?" the old man said with a smile. "Not too many people drive out here the night before and sleep in their cars just to be the first customer into my shop in the morning so they can 'look around.' I don't usually have a waiting line at my door, or a big morning rush of customers. But that's fine, I don't mind. Here, let me show you a few things I think you might like." He hobbled out from behind the counter and went over to the display window. He picked up a little windup toy. It was a metal cowboy sitting astride a metal car. He wound it up, then set it on the counter. The car started going back and forth and doing wheelies – bucking the cowboy around. The cowboy had floppy neck, arms and legs and flapped around like a Raggedy Ann doll as the car whirred and buzzed, bucked and bounced. Jack couldn't help smiling, watching it. The old man pulled out a box from a low shelf. It was an Erector Set with the steel pieces, the machine screws, the gears and pulleys. It even had the plug-in electric motor to make things run. Jack remembered playing with one of those sets for hours at his grandparent's house. He thought that was what got him interested in engineering. "So," the old man said, "would you like a cup of coffee, while you 'just look'?" Jack hesitated, embarrassed to be taking up the man's time and attention when he had no intention of buying anything. The man said, "Oh, I won't try to sell you anything. I could use some company if you aren't real busy. 'Sides you could probably stand a little warming up after a cold night in that truck." There was a coffee pot behind the counter. He poured two mugs and handed one to Jack. Jack sipped it. Hot, black and strong. There was a stool in front of the counter, so Jack sat down to drink his coffee. "How long have you been in business here?" Jack asked. "This whole street looks a hundred years old." The old man laughed: "Well not so long as all that, but a long time. Yep, there aren't too many places like this left nowadays. Sad to see this sort of place disappearing, but that's progress I guess. What about you? How long you been living out of your truck?" Jack winced. "Only since yesterday, when I got laid off. Not sure what to do next. No place to go, so I'm in no hurry to get there. This isn't the best time of year to be looking for work. People aren't usually hiring just before the holidays." The old man didn't say anything at first, just sipped his coffee. Then after a few minutes he said: "Say, young man, as long as you aren't going anywhere, would you mind giving me a hand with the Christmas lights? I can't get up on the ladder myself these days. Doesn't seem right not to have them up." Jack was glad to have something to do, so he said sure. The old man waved him into the back room. It was a well equipped workshop. He showed Jack the box labeled "Christmas Lights." up on a high shelf. Jack got it down and carried it out the front door. The old man brought out a short ladder. There were permanent hooks above the windows for the light strings. Jack put them up, and the old man plugged them in. They weren't those modern little mini-lights, but big 110 volt bulbs, wired in parallel, not the series wired strings that keep going out every time a bulb loses contact. Probably not too energy efficient, but they sure worked, and a store needs bright lights anyway. When they were finished, they cleaned up and carried the box and ladder back inside. They both sat back down on their stools to finish their coffee. A few customers started coming in. Jack sat and sipped his coffee and watched. An elderly man brought in a shoe box with some broken windup toys he wanted repaired. Before the grandchildren came over, he said. Some mothers came in with young children. A few kids rode up on their bicycles and came in on their own, a few sticky dollars stuffed in their jeans pockets, or without money, just to watch the train or look at the toys. The old man seemed to have a talent for finding just the right toy for each child, and every one of them left excited about their toy. He also seemed to be able to find something that was right for what each customer could afford. A well dressed lady bought an expensive train set for her son. A rather poorly dressed young woman bought a tinker toy set that brightened the faces of her two young children. He showed some kids how to work a simple wooden yo-yo, and they left happily engaged in practicing tricks. Even the ones who came without money got a gumdrop or a candy cane. After a while, when the store was empty, the old man said to Jack, "Say, my eyes aren't what they used to be, and my hands are getting a little shaky. Think you could help me out a bit in the workshop?" Jack shrugged. "Sure, why not." The man carried the shoe box with the windup toys to be fixed into the shop in the back room. Jack followed. The old man set the box down on the workbench. With amazement, Jack saw the old calendar that was posted over the workbench: That familiar European street scene and those words: "In the elder days of art, builders wrought with greatest care, each minute and unseen part." Jack could hardly believe his eyes. Jack looked around the workshop. It was very well equipped, with tools of every description, and cabinets and drawers filled with parts of every imaginable kind. Jack wasn't sure whether the toy store he liked best was the one out in front or the work shop in back. Tools – the toys for grown up boys, as if boys ever grew up. Taking one of the windup cars out of the shoe box, the old man showed Jack where the tiny screws were that held it together. "Mind the spring now when you get the bottom off, so you don't end up with parts flung all over the shop." The spring was broken. The shop had a spring winder and rolls of assorted coil spring stock. Jack wound a new spring for the car, carefully put it in place, and put the car back together. The old man had gone out front to help another customer, so Jack looked at the next little windup car. The corners of the square shaft for the winding key were rounded off. Jack found some square steel stock the right size, cut it to length, flattened the end with a hammer, ground it on the bench grinder to fit, drilled and tapped a small hole for the attaching screw, and reassembled the car. The third car was missing a wheel. Looking around, Jack found a little cabinet with little drawers full of various small metal wheels. He sorted through until he found one about the same as the other three wheels. He mounted it to the axle, and found a retaining washer in another little cabinet. He found some paint in various colors and, with a tiny brush painted the new wheel to match the other three. By the time he finished that the morning was almost gone. The old man came back and looked at what Jack had accomplished. He patted Jack on the shoulder. He said: "Young man, I think you have a talent for this. I can't pay much but if you want a job here for a while I can offer you a room to stay in upstairs. I used to live up there, but I can't get up and down the stairs so easy now so I've moved to a room at the back on the first floor. The upstairs room is yours if you want it and all the coffee and peanut butter sandwiches you can eat." As a career move, this didn't seem to Jack like a step up the corporate ladder, but until the holidays were over, it would be at least warmer than the back of his truck, and the morning had flown by working on the toys, so Jack agreed. The man said: "I'm Michael. What's your name?" "Jack." "Jack, hmm, and a pretty frosty Jack you were this morning. Well, why don't you take a break and put your things upstairs, and I'll fix us some lunch. You can pull your truck around the back off the alley if you'd like. There's room at my loading dock to park it." Jack drove his truck around behind the shop and backed into a little loading dock area. From the loading dock, there was an outside metal stairway that went upstairs. Jack toted his two suitcases up the stairs. Inside there was a corridor. At the back of the building was what looked like a storage room. At the front was a small room with a made-up brass bed, an armoire, a night stand, and a roll top desk, with a small bathroom at the end. The windows at the front looked out on the park across the street where a few well-bundled up children were playing under their mothers' watchful eyes. There was an old AM radio, and a ticking pendulum clock, but no TV, no telephone, no Internet. Apparently, the only phone was the antique wall phone behind the counter at the cash register in the store below. Jack unpacked his suitcases into the armoire. He set his laptop computer on the roll-top desk, thinking it looked totally out of place. Jack went back downstairs to the workshop. There was a brown paper lunch bag on the workbench with a note: "Jack, I'm taking a little nap. The park is lovely this time of day if you want to eat out. (signed) Michael" Jack, noticed that the sign on the door had been changed to "Closed for Lunch" with clock hands that said it would open again at 1:00 o'clock. He took his lunch and a mug of coffee across the street to the park, found an empty bench and sat down to eat. Sure enough, in the bag there was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, (jelly oozing out generously) and an apple, with an oatmeal cookie for dessert. Looking around, he realized the Lady in Lace was sitting on one of the nearby benches eating her apple and reading a book. She didn't seem to notice him. He studied her. She was slim but, as best he could tell given her long Victorian dress, shapely. Her face was attractive but not movie-star beautiful. Her clothing was elegant. She could have looked a bit overdressed for a park bench but the dress had a charm to it that made it fit perfectly. He imagined her again dancing in the moonlight, humming the waltz, moving ever so gracefully. She finished her apple and closed her book. She broke the apple core into several pieces. A pigeon landed on the arm of the bench and took a piece from her hand. She tossed another piece toward a chattering squirrel a few feet away that was sitting up on its hind legs and begging. Finally, she noticed Jack. Again, she had caught him staring at her. She didn't seem to mind. She looked back at him appraisingly, meeting his gaze again. Then she gracefully arose and walked off across the park to the children's play equipment. She sat down on the merry-go-round and began pushing it slowly around with her foot. Jack got up and walked over to the merry-go-round. "Would you like a push?" he asked her. She smiled and nodded. He began pushing it round, making it go faster, then a bit faster. She tucked her feet up and held onto the bars, watching the world whirling around. She smiled and Jack's heart lurched. He pushed the merry-go-round faster and faster, watching her to see if it was too fast. She laid her head back, closed her eyes, and lost herself in the whirling dizziness. She seemed to like it going faster so he kept flipping the bars faster and faster. She giggled. Jack kept flipping the passing bars to keep whirling her round and round. She rotated around and hung her head out toward the outside. Her long hair streamed out, caught by the wind and swept to the side. The skirt of her dress rode up her thighs, proving to Jack that she did indeed have shapely legs. She didn't seem to mind, even when she looked at him and saw where he was looking. He felt like a bit of a pervert when he saw that when she was on the opposite side, feet toward him, he could see her lace panties under the billowing skirt. Actually, he felt more like he was back in grammar school trying to look up the girls' dresses on the monkey bars. Finally, he stopped pushing and let the merry-go-round coast slowly down. She lay there for a long moment, apparently letting the dizziness pass as she coasted to a stop. Then she looked at him, gave him a soft smile and a wink, smoothed down her skirt, and said: "Thank you for the ride." She walked off across the park to the sidewalk and down the street toward her shop. Jack followed her with his eyes, watching the graceful and sexy sway of her slender butt all the way down the street, finding himself lusting for her and aroused, wishing he could unlace that dress and touch her skin. "Pervert," he thought to himself. "Ogling women in the park." He took his lunch bag and coffee mug and went back to the workshop. Jack spent the rest of the day helping out in the workshop of the toy store. When he wasn't busy he sat on one of the stools out in the store and talked to Michael, who told him about the business and showed him how to operate the cash register. The store got many kinds of customers, Michael explained. There were well-off yuppie parents who drove a long way to get there because they wanted expensive antique toys. There were financially struggling parents from the rough neighborhood around the nearby industrial area who bought simple, inexpensive toys. There were hobbyists who were always looking for something unique or unusual. There were many older customers, like the grandfather who came in earlier with the windup toys, who brought things for repair. For them, the cost of the repair wasn't important – it was the emotional attachment they had to the toys they had loved as children and wanted to pass on to their grandchildren. Sometimes, they could buy a similar new one made of plastic in China at Wal-mart for less than the cost of the repair but they said it wouldn't be the same. He usually managed to fix whatever they brought. If the toys were newer and had electronics in them, he sometimes sent them down to the radio and TV shop or to the computer shop. Dolls, he sent to the doll hospital a few doors down. Parts were difficult to get, so he often had to hand-make replacement parts, but the older toys were usually pretty simple. He often saved parts from toys that were damaged beyond repair. Some extremely precise and tiny mechanisms got sent down to the clock repair shop. The business was never going to make him rich but he got by well enough. The most important thing was he had fun bringing the joys of toys to many people. They kept the shop open 'til 8:00 that evening. Customers came and went, usually no more than one or two at a time. When they closed up shop, Michael sent Jack down to the bakery for a loaf of freshly baked bread. When Jack got back, Michael had a pot of soup on the table in the workshop and a brick of sharp cheddar cheese. Over supper, Michael told stories of some of the strangest toys that had been brought to him for repair. After dinner Jack went up to his room. He opened up his laptop computer. He thought about working on his résumé but lacked the enthusiasm for it. Instead he started typing his thoughts, his feelings, his hurts, his imaginings about where his life might go, thinking with his fingers about what to do with his life. Around eleven he gave up writing and went to bed. He was thinking about the Lady in Lace. He was visualizing her bare thighs on the merry-go-round. He lay there picturing her smiling at him, winking at him. He pictured her butt swaying sensually as she walked away. He was hard as a rock. He stroked himself. He hadn't had sex with a woman in over a year. His hand was his only lover. It wasn't that bad a lover all in all and far more faithful than some but lacking a certain feminine touch that he craved. He felt his erection, touching the underside at that sensitive point at the groove in the ridge. He was throbbing. It didn't take much, and he was bucking and squirting, the hot cum surging out into his hand. He got up and used the bathroom again and washed up. As he was walking back to bed, he looked across the street at the park. There she was again, dancing on the bandstand to her own quiet music, her lacey gown billowing, her imaginary partner leading her on a slow waltz. He sat in the desk chair and watched. He had no sense of time, just following her dancing, until finally, it seemed as if her band had stopped playing. She curtseyed to her imaginary partner and slowly walked away out of Jack's sight. He saw a shadow on the blinds of the room above the gown shop and then her light clicked off. Jack got back in bed. His erection had returned. Thinking of her again, imagining her taking off that gown and getting into bed, he bunched the bed clothes into a bundle, imagined them as her, wondering if she was doing something similar in her bed down the street, and humped the sheets until he finally got to sleep. Merry F-ing Christmas The winter sun low in his windows woke Jack the next morning. He went out for his morning run. When he got back he showered and went off to the bakery for a couple of pastries. Then he wandered on down the street. He stopped at "The Fancy Dress" shop and stood there admiring the dresses in the shop window. There were various sorts: prom formals, evening dresses, a wedding gown. On a mannequin was a Victorian lace dress, either the same one he had seen on the woman in the park or one very like it. He couldn't help imagining it on the Lady in Lace instead of on the mannequin. He stood looking into the shop window for a while. Then he saw the mysterious Lady in Lace, coming out from the back room to get ready for business. She looked out the window at him. Again their eyes met. He smiled and waved and was startled to see a slight smile on her face in return. He held up the bag of pastries and in gesture through the storefront window offered her one. She put down the broom and disappeared into the back room. Jack thought she had gone and was about to go on down the street when she came back out with two mugs of coffee. She pushed open the front door with her hip and came out. She said: "Want some coffee with that?" He nodded. She went over to sidewalk bench and sat down, holding a mug out to him. He took it, and opened the bag for her to take a pastry. He sipped the coffee, black, hot and strong. "I saw you dancing in the park last night." She blushed. "Sometimes, I like to pretend." "Your dancing was lovely. I envied your dancing partner." "He's not that great a dancer," she laughed. "But he's very faithful." Jack thought to himself, "Yeah, like my 'handy' faithful lover." He loved the sound of her laugh. "I'm Jack," he said. "Mary" she replied. (At this point, dear reader, I must ask you again not to jump too quickly to conclusions. No, her name is not Mary Christmas, and no, her middle name most certainly is NOT Fucking. That would be too silly, even for a romance like this one. If you have read this far, please trust me to tell the story for you straight.) "So, Jack, what brings you to this time warp of a town?" she asked. He told her briefly that he had been divorced a year ago and laid off on Monday: He'd gotten his Christmas goose and a Merry fucking Christmas from the factory. He didn't really have any particular place to go so he'd ended up working at the toy store down the street. "What about you? Is this your shop?" he asked her, gesturing toward the gown shop. "Yes, it's mine. And now you're going to ask me that old question about 'What's a girl like you doing . . . .?' Well, here's the brief sad story. I got a degree in clothing design and went to New York to gain fame and fortune. I had the talent but not the cut-throat attitude it takes to make it in the fashion industry. I got married, and then the cheating fucker left me on Christmas Eve. I had another relationship that turned abusive. He got drunk a lot. One Christmas Eve, he got so drunk he beat me up and I ended up spending Christmas in the hospital with a broken nose and wired jaw." She snorted. "Yep, Merry fucking Christmas. As you can guess, Christmas is not my favorite day. So, I came back here, opened my own shop, design my own dresses, sell enough to make a living. As to men, well, I've decided you guys are dangerous. Fun to play with, but too easy to get hurt with. So I dance by myself. It has its drawbacks, but it's a lot safer." Jack thought about that. "You make me feel like an ogre. Well, I never had my nose or jaw broken by a woman, but they have been really tough on my heart. Yeah, there's a lot to be said for the safety of my own company. The holidays seem to be hard on marriages. My parents had a big fight before Christmas when I was nine. My dad left and never came back. Never saw him again." Mary asked, "What about your mother? "Oh, she died a few years ago. Cancer. Got the diagnosis in December one year and died the following December." They ate the pastries and drank their coffees, sitting in silence, each thinking about the dangers of relationships and the hurts that come from losing them. "So," he asked, "do you always dance in the park at night?" She laughed. "Sometimes, I can't sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night. Instead of lying there, I put on a gown and go for a walk. Sometimes I dance. Sometimes, I just walk." She took the two mugs and stood up. "Well," she said, "maybe I'll see you around again. Thanks for the pastry." "Hey, thanks for the coffee," Jack replied. "I'll be around, at least until Christmas." She smiled at him and went inside her shop. Jack walked down to the toy shop. Every day for the rest of the week, Jack and Mary ate their lunches in the park together and then played together on the swings, the see-saw or the merry-go-round. The weather was cold but they hadn't yet gotten any snow and the mid-day winter sun, dim though it was, kept it tolerably warm. Every night, Jack would type on his laptop in his room and then watch Mary dancing alone in the park in the moonlight. On Saturday, Michael asked Jack if he was busy that evening. Jack laughed: "Wait while I check my busy social calendar. Umm, nope, nothing on for tonight." Michael asked if Jack would mind driving him to the hospital in his truck so he could deliver toys to the children in the hospital, as it was getting hard for him to drive at night. Jack said sure, he'd be glad to. They closed up a little early that night. Michael showed Jack two big cloth bags of gifts in the workshop and asked him to put them in the truck while Michael changed clothes. A bit later, Jack laughed to see Michael come out of his room dressed in a Santa suit. He had the white beard and chubby tummy for it. Type casting. When they got to the hospital, Jack helped Michael out of the pickup and tried to hand him his cane but Michael said no, Santa Claus was ageless and it wouldn't do for the children to see him using a cane. They each took a bag of toys. Jack noticed that Michael was walking with hardly any noticeable limp. When they got to the children's ward, Michael seemed completely transformed. He went from bed to bed laughing and talking with each child. He called each child by name and for each one he had a wrapped gift with the child's name on it. Soon, Michael had all the children smiling too. Each gift seemed just right for that child. The little boys were soon "vroooming" their toy cars. For an older child, a young teen girl, there was a book of magic, sorcery and heroic princesses. One little girl got a brown-haired Barbie doll with a dress of Victorian lace. Jack immediately recognized it as a replica of Mary's gown. Michael looked at Jack and winked. Jack thought to himself: "That's one Barbie I'd like to undress." Then they handed out candy canes. Michael even brought presents for the nurses. An antique broach, a necklace and locket for another, a new pair of comfortable shoes, a pair of movie tickets: Each one seemed to appreciate her particular gift. (Once again, dear reader, I must caution you against hoping for a magical explanation of Michael's gift giving ability. This story is a romance, not a fairy tale). But for all the joy Michael brought to the ward, Jack couldn't help seeing how sick some of the children were. He thought, "Yeah, here's a nice little toy for you, and a dose of cancer to go with it. Merry Fucking Christmas." In the truck going home, Michael remained energized from playing Santa Claus. Jack asked, "So, Santa, how is it you were able to know all the kids' names and what gift to get them?" Michael chuckled. "Oh, the candy stripers send me a list ahead of time with a little picture of each child, their names and ages, and suggestions about gifts. I memorize the list so I can call them by name. Of course I also use my own ingenuity sometimes to think of the right gift. The other shops on the street help me out with some of the gifts too, like the books and the dolls and that doll dress from your lady friend." They got back to the shop, and Jack helped Michael up the back stairs. Michael sat down with a sigh in a chair in the workshop. Jack heated up some coffee for them. Michael told Jack that there was a little bottle of brandy on the shelf up there that would be just right for the coffee. They sat sipping their coffee and brandies. Finally, Jack said: "Ok, Santa, what gift would you select for me?" Michael took another sip of coffee and gave it a long thought. "Jack, the gifts you need are ones you can't find in a toy shop. In a toy shop, I sell a few moments of fun, a little joy, a brief bit of pleasure. But what you need, I can't give you. What you need are what the Good Book calls the three greatest gifts of all: Faith, Hope and Love. You've lost faith in everything. You have no hope for the future. You've lost love. I can't give those back to you. Those are gifts that you have to find for yourself. But maybe I can help your search a little bit. Let me work on that." Sunday was a day off for the Toy Shop and many of the other shops on the street, though not all. Jack slept late. After his morning run Jack brought two pastries back to the store and took them back to the workshop to share with Michael with their morning coffee. After they ate, Michael handed him a sealed envelope: "Open this at lunch time over in the park with your lady-in-lace friend. No peeking ahead of time." Jack took the envelope, laughed, stuck it in his pocket and thanked Michael. They spent the rest of the morning in the workshop together, Michael teaching Jack some of the skills and tricks of toy making and repair. At lunch time, Michael went to his room for his nap, and Jack took his sandwich and apple across the street to the park. Mary was sitting on the bench already, watching some children playing. They ate together, mostly in silence. Jack commented on how unusual it was to find a park with the old-style play equipment. She said, yeah, she thought of it as Jurassic Park, because it was practically prehistoric. Jack laughed. Then Jack remembered the envelope. He pulled it out and told Mary that it was a gift for them from Michael. He opened it. Inside were two tickets to the Sunday matinee at the Bijou Theatre. "I guess I'm supposed to take you to the movies today. Care to come with me?" he asked. "You've got to be kidding me. Do you know what's playing? It's that stupid 'Miracle on 34th Street', the old one, with Maureen O'Hara, John Payne, and Natalie Wood as the little girl. You think the old man is trying to make us believe in Santa Claus? Yeah, right, Merry Fucking Christmas." "Yeah I can't believe he'd do something so obvious." Jack said "And I guess that means no?" "Oh, what the hell," Mary said. "I'm not busy. Why not? I'll go." Jack shrugged. It was a drippy sentimental nonsense movie, but he wouldn't mind sitting next to Mary in the dark for a couple of hours anyway. "Ok, it's a date." For the first half of the movie they ate popcorn together out of a big bucket and then held buttery hands for the last half. The movie was every bit the sentimental tear-jerker of a nonsensical fairy tale that they knew it was. Still, they both wept silent tears. It wasn't so much the movie itself, but their own lost faith and love that they grieved for. They came out of the theater in the late afternoon. Jack asked Mary if she would have dinner with him at the café. She said sure, she usually ate there anyway. At the café, she introduced him to Martha. They had hamburgers, french fries, and milk shakes with the stainless steel mixing container on the side, and then lingered over their coffees. Then they walked back down to the park and sat together in the evening darkness on the swings, not swinging, just drifting. Finally, Mary turned to Jack. "So, I guess if we're going to be lonely, we may as well be lonely together. Are we going to go masturbate alone in our rooms tonight or did you want to come to my bed with me?" Jack was stunned, taken by surprise. He blushed. He stammered. And then he thought: "I think she means it." He stood up, took her by the hand and said, "Your bed sounds great to me. Let's go." She led him by a back path from the park, along the alley behind the theater, and up the block to her dress shop. They went in through the unlocked the door and she led him up the stairs to her room. Her room was a vision of feminine fantasy. There was a four poster bed with gauze drapes. The bed had an antique lace duster and a lovely patchwork quit. She lit some candles on the dresser and on the mantle over the fire place.. They came together in a kiss. They clung to each other, holding each other tightly. They explored tongues, sending shivers through them. Jack was hard, his erection insistent between them. He began to do what he had been fantasizing about all week – undoing the laces up the back of her gown. She looked into his eyes, watching him as the dress fell from her shoulders, revealing her in her bra and panties, which were surprisingly modern pale blue though still of delicate lace. Clad only in those bits of lace, she took her turn. She unbuttoned his shirt, feeling his chest as she went, feeling her way down to his tummy and then unbuckling his belt and continuing down the buttons on his jeans. She pushed him onto the bed then knelt in front of him and pulled off his shoes, his socks and then his pants, seeing his desire bulging out at the front of his shorts. Greedily, she pulled his shorts off too, bringing his raging erection out where she could kiss it, feel it, touch it. He groaned. Then she stood and slipped off her bra and panties. He gasped at how beautiful she looked. She was slim, her breasts small and firm. The hair at her pussy was light and delicate. He stood then to take her in his arms, and she took him in a dance position, her nipples grazing his chest, but his erection poking hard at her belly. She began a slow waltz with him, humming that same tune he heard in the park. After two turns around the little room, she stopped. She looked up at him timidly, searching his face. Softly, she said, "You won't hurt me, will you, Jack?" He knew she didn't mean by fucking her. He shook his head. "I was going to ask you the same thing." They fell together across the bed. He wanted to touch her everywhere. He stroked her flanks, sending goose bumps over her body. He suckled one nipple and stroked the other. Now it was her turn to groan. He kissed her, starting at her mouth, then to her ear, and working his way down around her neck, to her throat, then scattering kisses, working his way ever so slowly down her body, stopping at her breasts, gently nipping at her hard, swollen nipples. His kisses continued down her tummy. She opened her legs to him invitingly. He felt between them. She was open and wet. He pulled back the covers, lifting her light body to tug them out from under her. "Fuck me," she said. "Now!" He knelt between her legs, then settled on top of her as she guided his throbbing cock into her cunt. And they fucked. It really wasn't "making love." It was two near strangers sharing their emotional pain, thrusting at each other, grinding against each other, desperate for release. Jack seemed intent on plumbing the depths of Mary's belly, and she in turn seemed more than willing to welcome the hot intrusion. And the release came, hard, for both of them, their moans of ecstasy blending with each other, their juices mixing, their spasms melding, until spent. Jack collapsed on top of her. They lay like that, regaining their breath, until Jack's softening cock slipped out of her. He rolled his weight off her and they kissed again. Mary pulled the covers over them, cuddled under his arm, put her head on his chest, and they slept. This night, neither of them woke up at all until morning. Jack woke when Mary got up in the morning. In the early light, she looked even more beautiful than the night before. She shivered in the cold and he saw her nipples harden. She took her clothes with her to the bathroom and came back dressed again. Realizing his welcome in her bed was at an end, Jack got up too and got dressed. She watched him dress, wrapping her arms around herself, hugging herself in the chill. She said: "I hope you don't get the wrong idea. We had a great fuck, but that's all it was. A Merry Christmas fuck. I don't do relationships. Relationships are like fireworks. They look all sparkly and fun, but then they blow up in your face. After the holidays, you'll be off to make your fame and fortune. We had a good time this week. That's all it was. You don't hurt me, and I don't hurt you. Just fucking friends. No 'Relationship.' OK?" He looked at her a long, long time. He half-way agreed. He'd been hurt more than enough already. No use risking it again. Trouble was, it was hurting already. He bit back the words that were trying to get out of his mouth - Merry Fucking Christmas to you too. Instead, he just nodded and bent down to pull on his socks and shoes. When he stood up, she had gone quietly downstairs to her shop. He went out the back, across the back path to the park, over to the bakery for pastries and took the pastries back to the toy shop where Michael had the coffee pot on. Michael saw him come in. He cocked an eyebrow at Jack. "How was the movie yesterday? I thought it was a matinee, not a midnight special." Jack said: "That was a terrible movie you sent us to, but I guess it worked out OK. It got me into bed with her at least, but this morning she sent me packing. Not ready for a 'relationship,' she says." Michael looked thoughtful. Then he grinned at Jack: "So, it was Merry Fucking Christmas to you, huh? Well, things could be a lot worse. The thing about a woman is, it's a very short distance from her womb to her heart. You've gotten pretty close already. One more thrust, and you'll get there." Jack was shocked. He had no idea Michael could be so earthy. Santa Claus talking about fucking wasn't quite what he expected. Jack continued to see Mary at lunch each day and some mornings after his run he would take pastries to her shop to share with her for breakfast. On Monday night, he went to his room after the toy shop closed up. He typed for a while at his computer, and then sat staring out the window, hoping she would come dance in the park. But she didn't come that night. He didn't say anything to her about it on Tuesday at lunch, nor did he see her dancing on Tuesday night. On Wednesday at lunch, she commented that Michael hadn't played fair, sending them to that movie, but she'd had a good time. Then she'd blushed. On Thursday afternoon, Michael said to Jack: "I think you need to buy your lady friend a gift and I think I have just the thing." He went searching through the display cases and shelves until he found it. He brought it over to Jack. It was a music box. On top of the music box there was a carved, enameled pair of dancers: A woman in a Victorian dress and a man in top hat and tails. Carefully, Jack wound the spring. Gently he moved the lever to let it play. It was a waltz: the same waltz that Mary liked to hum while she danced. The pair of dancers went around on a circular track on the lid and at the same time twirled around each other. Jack looked at Michael in amazement. "Are you sure you aren't Santa Claus? This is incredible. Where did you get this?" "Oh, just something I've been saving for the right person. That will be $100. Jack laughed. "You know you could demand any price and I'd have to pay it. Ok, you sure know how to make a sale. I'll bet this is worth a lot more than $100." He got out his wallet, got out $100, and rang up his own sale on the cash register. Later that afternoon, Jack went down the street to the tailor's shop. He ordered a full dress tuxedo with white tie and tails, complete with top hat. The tailor took his measurements and tried some things on him for size. He brought out a very slightly used tux (how often does anyone use a tux?) like Jack wanted. It wasn't quite the right size, but the tailor said he could alter it to fit and have it ready in a week. At the shoe repair shop Jack ordered a pair of patent leather shoes to go with the tux. Merry F-ing Christmas Every night, Jack stayed up late, waiting and watching for Mary to come to the park to dance but she didn't come back. The following Thursday, he picked up his tux and his shoes. On Friday at lunch he took the carefully wrapped music box with him when he went to the park to eat lunch with Mary. She eyed it curiously, but he let it sit there until they had finished eating. Then he said: "I bought you a present. I don't do Christmas gifts, so there's no reason to wait." She looked at him. He tried to figure out what the look in her eyes was. It looked like fear. "Don't worry, it won't explode," he said. She untied the bow and carefully unwrapped the box. She lifted the lid and looked inside. For a long time she sat looking at the dancing couple. Gingerly, she reached in and moved the little lever. The music box began playing her waltz and the enameled couple began circling and twirling. She sat, looking into the box. She didn't say anything. Then he saw tears falling onto the wrapping paper. Sobs shook her. She sat hunched over, watching, listening, crying, until finally the spring ran down. Jack, fearing he had made a big mistake, fearing he had hurt her in some way, started to go to her, to touch her, to hold her, but she warned him off with a hand. She carefully put the lid back on the box. She stood up with it and glared at him: "Damn you, Jack! I said: 'Just friends,' that's all. What part of 'no relationship' don't you understand? Merry Fucking Christmas, Jack." She took the package and walked off to her shop. For some reason, the sexy sway of her ass wasn't there this time. After that, she quit coming to the park for lunch. He didn't see her again for the next week. The day before Christmas Eve, Michael closed up shop at 5 o'clock. He told Jack they were done for the season. He said it wasn't right to work on Christmas Eve. He told Jack he would be gone until after Christmas. He brought out a packed suitcase, and a little while later a taxi stopped in front of the shop to pick him up. (Now, dear reader, if you wish to imagine that Michael took a cab to the North Pole, and spent the next day and night whooshing across the sky in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer, delivering presents to all the children of the world, who am I to disabuse you of that notion. The much less romantic reality is that he flew United Airlines to LAX to visit his daughter in California. But which you wish to believe is entirely up to you.) On Christmas Eve, the little street that time forgot got its first snow fall of the season. It started just before midnight. The silence of the snow damping out the normal sounds woke Jack. He sat up and looked out at the park, the gentle snow barely sticking to the ground. As he watched, the snow slowed to a stop. The clouds cleared enough for the moon to shine softly through. Then he saw her. She came from the back path into the park and to the bandstand. The moonlight reflecting off the snow gave the scene an unearthly light. (Yes dear reader, it would have been a lot sexier to write that last sentence as: "The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow, gave a luster of midday to objects below", but Clement Moore beat me to it.) He saw her set the music box on the bench at the side of the gazebo. Jack got out of bed and quickly dressed in his tuxedo, tails, top hat and dancing shoes. When he got downstairs and over to the park, she had wound the music box and started it playing the waltz, but she wasn't dancing. She was standing, waiting for him. He walked to the bandstand. Bowing he asked: "May I have this dance?" She held out her hand for him and he took her in his arms. She was shivering. She melted against his chest seeking warmth. They waltzed 'til the music ran down, then wound it up again and danced another time. Finally, standing clinging to him, she looked up at him with tears freezing on her face. She hugged him close. And then she said: "Merry Fucking Christmas, Jack," and picking up the music box, led him by the hand to her bedroom. They lit a fire in the fireplace. She put her hand against his hardness and said: "Frozen stiff. I hope this doesn't thaw out any time soon." This time, it was truly love making. He started out gently, sensing that Mary was making herself her gift to him, not just her body, but her trust, trusting with difficulty, still fearful of being hurt. He was also fearful, doubtful, cautious, hesitant, trying to relearn trust, faith, hope. Then, as she responded to his gentleness, their gentle kissing, touching holding, clinging turned to passionate eagerness, throwing clothing aside, stripping to bare skin against bare skin, stroking, feeling, minds filled with each other, hearts emptied of distrust, fear, heartache, bitterness. Mary broke the embrace and pulled the quilt and top sheet back, opening her bed to him in invitation. Gently, he picked her up in his arms like a child, one arm beneath her bottom, the other around her back, the hand curling up to touch the side of her breast. She put her arms around his neck and clung tightly. He lifted her in his arms until her mouth met his in a lingering kiss. Carefully, he carried her to the bed and laid her gently down. He stood over her for a long moment, looking at her from head to toe, thinking how beautiful, how wonderful, how sweet, how sexy she was. He gently brushed her hair back from her face, searching her face. She held out her arms to him: "Please come to me, Jack. Love me. Make love to me. I want you inside me." He was more than ready for that opportunity, his hard, throbbing erection reaching toward her, seeking its special place within her. His eyes were drawn to that spot as she raised her knees and opened her thighs, her secret place within opening to him also, its swelling wet readiness apparent to him. Jack leaned down and kissed her again, then kissed down her body to her breasts. She grasped his swollen cock, pulling it toward her, wanting it; wanting him; feeling the wetness at the end of his cock signaling his desire. He smelled her perfume, the scent she wore and the scents that were her own, the smell of her arousal. He touched her legs, her calves, her thighs, stroking his way toward her center, sending shivers of pleasure through her. Gently, still holding his cock tightly, she drew him onto the bed over her. He straddled her, teasing her, not wanting to rush. He grasped her breasts, filling his hands with them, feeling her hard nipples against his palms, feeling their softness and fullness with his finger tips, drawing his hands slowly, slowly out, his fingertips stroking their way toward her sensitive buds, then gently squeezing them, making her arch her body toward him as the feeling traveled from her nipples to her clit. She arched her head back, exposing her throat, unable to hold his gaze as the intensity of the feelings he caused forced her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut, reveling in the sensations, the hard insistent throb at her clit. And then, he said it. the words that had been growing within him for weeks. Words that were too trite, too ordinary, too simple to convey what he really felt. Words that came not from his mouth, but from his gut: "I love you, Mary. I want you. I need you. Not just tonight, but always. Not just friends. Not just fucking. I want all of you. I want to be a part of your heart." She opened her eyes again. She looked again into his eyes. She searched as if she could see deep inside them, through them, to his mind and heart. "And I love you too, Jack. I tried to keep you out of my heart, but I couldn't. It is already yours. Take me. Now. Please." Jack moved his thighs between hers and positioned his cock at her entrance, tantalizing her with the delicate sensation of it touching her, then slowly, gently, he entered her, his length stretching her, filling her. As Jack entered her, Mary tensed and groaned, almost as though in pain. Jack felt the tight, hot wetness of her canal as the muscles inside her clamped down on him. For a moment he thought he might have hurt her, and one part of his mind panicked, but another part rejoiced. He was taking this woman, owning her, and he loved her for this gift of herself, this seeming sacrifice of her body for his pleasure. Then he heard the gentle laugh of her exultation as she surrounded encompassed, possessed him as well, each owning the other. She met his thrusts, not with the giggles of a girl, but with the vigor and grunts of a full-blooded woman. Her body became slippery below him as they both began to sweat with sexual exertion. He could clearly smell her, the scent of aroused and used woman, and he reveled in that scent and in the wet sounds they made as he drove repeatedly deep into her thrusting belly. Mary's responses told Jack that he was rubbing her where she needed it on every thrust. He could feel the orgasm forming in her tensing and quivering belly and thighs; her arching toward him. He licked her throat, nipped her ear lobe with his teeth, kissed her under the ear, and whispered in her ear: "Come for me Mary, I want to feel you come." And she did, losing all control, her body's response taking over, spasms and contractions wracking her body and thrilling his. She clutched herself to him, lost in the pleasure. He continued to thrust into her, his own climax not far away as she gasped, panting from her exertion, still moving underneath him. She whispered back to him: "I want your seed inside me, Jack. I want to suck it all out of you. I want to feel your pleasure in my body. Cum inside me Jack." His thrusting turned to frenzied uncontrolled passion. He too gave in to the desire of his body, thrashing on top of her so that he feared he would hurt her, but her renewed moans and shivers of pleasure told him otherwise. He went almost rigid, his legs stiff, his toes curled and then the dam within him burst. With a hot surging in his cock, he began pumping his juice into her womb, feeling the fluid burning its way out of him in glorious pulses of ecstasy, his thrusts synchronizing with the jets of fluid he was forcing deep inside her. He felt her final response as she too thrust against him, grinding herself against him, reaching a new climax of grunting, moaning pleasure. He collapsed on top of her, and then, clutching her tightly, rolled over onto his back, turning her, stilled impaled on him, to the top, loving the weight of her slight body on his larger one. She lay her head down on his shoulder, nestled in the crook of his neck and with the tip of her tongue tasted the sweat on his throat. They lay like that for a long time, basking in the warmth they had created between them; in the feel of warm, wet, slippery skin against warm, wet, slippery skin. Alas, Mary's hope for Jack's member to remain frozen was not granted, though she was able to re-freeze it a bit later. They didn't really sleep that night. Between couplings at intervals and whispers interspersed with hungry kisses, they kept each other awake and aroused most of the time until dawn. In the morning, they showered together and, fully lathered, did it standing up, her back against the shower wall, legs wrapped tightly around his hips, impaled on his again re-frozen member. Clean and dried, they went back to bed where they slept the morning away, tangled naked in each other's arms. After the holidays, Jack stayed on to work at the toy shop but spent the nights down the street with Mary. She accepted his proposal of marriage and they were married on June 25th, as far away from Christmas as possible, in the bandstand in the park, she in a wedding gown of Victorian lace and he in his top hat and tails. Michael's health was not good. He was able to do less and less and depended more and more on Jack. The following year was the last trip Michael was able to make to the children's ward in his Santa suit to deliver gifts to the boys and girls. It seemed to take every last bit of his energy to get through that and hang on 'til Christmas Eve. That year, he said he was going to New York to visit his son for Christmas. Jack doubted that he was up to traveling but Michael insisted on going. The day after Christmas, Jack got a call from Michael's son. The son said that Michael had died in his sleep that night. His heart had finally given out. The son said his Dad had struggled to make it through Christmas this year to enjoy it with the children. It was a time he really lived for. Jack said how sorry he was, then gently hung the phone up and wept. He thought: "Merry Fucking Christmas, Michael." Knowing how Michael had loved the toy shop, Jack wondered what would become of it now that Michael was gone. Later, the son called back about funeral arrangements. He asked if Jack could watch the store until after the funeral. Michael's body was being flown back and arrived down the street at the little mortuary. Michael's son and his wife and children and Michael's daughter and her husband and their children all flew in each from their own coasts. After the funeral, the son and daughter asked Jack to meet them at the toy shop. The son, a lawyer, told Jack that his father's will left the toy store to Jack. He said that his dad loved the shop and wanted it to stay in business. He and his sister had their own lives on opposite coasts, he with his law firm, and she in the advertising business. Jack said he didn't know if he could make a living at running the shop. He'd be lucky to be able to pay the rent. No problem about the rent, said the son as actually, all the buildings both sides of the street belonged to Michael. He rented the other stores out and kept the rents low so they could all stay in business. Michael's will said that the stores would belong to Jack as long as he kept them in operation as small shops. The son gave Jack a sealed envelope that had been in the will, addressed to Jack. Inside was a note with just four words: "Merry Fucking Christmas, Jack. (signed) Michael." They remodeled the floor above the toy store, clearing out the storage room at the back and turning it into one large apartment. Reluctantly, Mary changed her last name for the last time. Oh, yeah. That. I forgot to mention that. Jack's last name: "Christmas," what else? (And so, dear reader, yes, there is real magic in the world. Oh, it's not the magic of elves making toys or flying reindeer or chubby men sliding down chimneys. It is not magic that cures disease or poverty or unemployment. It is not the magic of swords that slay the dragons of war, famine or pestilence. The real magic is the magic of the heart: that wellspring of hope, love and faith. The true magic is the magic of the human spirit that knows that while not everything can be repaired, there are a very great many things, and many people, that, one at a time, can be mended, patched and salvaged if there is but one of us who truly cares to try. Well, yes, and then too, there's the magic of a great Merry Christmas fucking.) The End