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AND
GOOD WILL TOWARDS MEN
"Thank you. Merry Christmas. God bless." The old man continued his ringing, that all-too familiar duh-ding! duh-ding! of the Christmas bell filling the air with redemption and despair. He looked about, seeing discouragement and frustration ride the faces of too many people this holiday season. He dropped his head, thinking back on how much money he's received for the Salvation Army so far this night.
Nope. The old man rested back down, his feet aching from the strain of being on his tiptoes. "Thank you stranger, whoever you are. Merry Christmas." He plucked off the top of the pot, curious to see just how much the unknown benefactor had donated. People stopped as they heard the bell and lid duh-clang-buh-duh-ding! hit the sidewalk. Some asked the old man if he was all right, perhaps a heart attack was setting in. A small boy approached the pot and his eyes popped with delight as he surveyed the contents. There, on top of the copper and silver, a dozen Spanish Doubloons sat happily upon a nest of twenty $100.00 bills. "God bless." - - - The young man looked to the heavens as he hurried down the packed city sidewalk. "Almost sundown. Damn." He danced back and forth, desperately trying to not plow anyone over. He looked over an elderly woman and saw an opening in the crowd. Not a lot of room, not very long, but maybe, enough, if I gauge my distance, to make a--tear down the opening in an instant; twenty, thirty feet he flew. Ahead of him, on the street corner, he spied his target. So innocent, so ignorant to what was about to happen. Perfect. The young man took off his jacket, oblivious to the biting cold stabbing at his skin. He focused on his target, feeling his body tense and heat up as he "OH MY GOD! You're one of them, aren't you?" skidded to a halt, locking up every muscle in his body to keep from running over the obnoxious young woman that now stood in his way. She was a denizen of the city, that was for sure. She popped her gum loudly and shouted out her every thought. "You know I was with my kid over there and I saw you and I thought-" The young man gave her a desperate look: sorrow, frustration, fear. He looked over her shoulder and there his target stood, waiting for the unknown inevitable. "YEAH! RIGHT! You're one of those . . . uh . . ." The young woman's eyes lit like roman candles as her thoughts ran in a hundred selfish directions. He shifted his weight around, trying to find a way past the audible wall of woman. "Excuse me, but I've got to-" "WAIT! YOU ARE! You're one of those Maker-Things-People and WHAT NOT, HUH?!" She belted it out, like the child who had just found the Golden Egg on Easter. The man looked about as the crowd slowed, curious as to the wild woman's words. They started to look, curious to catch a glimpse of one of the fabled Builders. "Sorry, but I've got to-", anger and frustration crept into the corner of his eyes. It then switched to panic; looking around at the crowd that had begun to form about him. He's heard what things are done to Builders when they don't make what people ask of them. He begun to push through the ebbing and flowing crowd; more heads turning, more bodies moving in to get a better look at whatever was at the middle of it all. He heard whispers: lies, rumors, and truths never meant to be revealed. Again the young man sighted his target, still oblivious to the commotion of the crowd and the dire actions of the man at the center of it all. "HELP! MONEY! WEALTH! POOR! SEX! CARS! STOCKS! PLEASE! GIMME! NOW!" A thousand voices and more cried out into the winter night as they stretched and pulled the young man every which way. They tore at his mind and drowned him in their demands. He lifted his head to see the last moments of sunlight fade. The clouds increased. The air froze. It began to snow. He was out of time. "Here! Take what you will, just leave me alone!" His body grew warm and his eyes went glassy. His fingers began to twitch and the coins danced off the sidewalk. Dollar bills fell from his hands, flying this way and that with winter breezes and desperate hands. Madness ensued next, the throng of humanity diving to the ground. They clawed and kicked one another, trying to scoop up the precious free money, a little Christmas cheer. The young man raised his arms and launched coins and bills in every direction, trying to get the crowd to disperse and follow the wild currency. A narrow path opened before him and he darted with one thought in his head: get to the target . . . quickly. He caught a flash to his side: a man in mid-flight with arms outstretched, attempting to grab the Builder for himself. The young man put his hands up in front of him and a shield of ice formed instantly, driving the poor flying soul to the ground. The young man leapt over him without a care, only the target mattered now. The sun was gone. The Builder hurdled over the last of the writhing money pit and there was his target: wide-eyed, innocent, harmless. A small boy of five. Silence. It began, quietly, in the distance. . . there! The bells of St. Michael's, crying out the final hours of Christmas Eve. Their chimes traveled the ravines of concrete and steel, adding to the hushed white noise of snow falling on sidewalk. The Builder stood over the young woman as she cradled her broken and bloodied child. The Builder had no expression on his face, lost in the thoughts of a world crying out in pain. The young man turned as he felt a tug on his sleeve. Beside him stood the old man with the bell and pot of gold. "Was he to be a . . . a Builder as well?" The old man wiped snow from the young man's shoulders. "No." The Builder raised his head up, looking for answers in the sky of white. "He was a Dreamer." The old man dropped his head, removing his Santa hat, clutching it to his chest. The Builder exploded. "DO YOU HEAR ME?! THE BOY WAS A DREAMER!" Silence again. "See what we have accomplished!" He belted at the silent witnesses. "In my sleep, a Dreamer from world's away came to me with news of the boy's demise. I would have saved him if not for your greed. If we are to have any hope of surviving ourselves, we need all the Dreamers we can find. "Yes, I am a Builder, but I cannot dream, nor can any of you. Who here can?" He paused, lowering his eyes to the child-no-more. "Him . . . and he will dream for us no longer. "He died for what," the young man held his hands up, looking deep into the lines of his palms, "for this?" His hands twitched and more coins fell to earth. No one moved. "Damn you all for your selfishness, your greediness, your ignorance. Tonight you will lie fat in your bed while a Dreamer lies DEAD!" The Builder spun about, staring at the wall of blank faces that encircled him. There is nothing left in them, their eyes are blank, their hearts empty. Tears welled at the hopelessness surrounding each of the dreamless dozens. "You don't even know, do you? None of you have any clue as to your loss. None of you can dream, so what is it to you to lose yet another Dreamer?" The Builder lifted his half-buried jacket and wrapped it about his frozen body. "The saddest part yet is that none of you will remember this. You will all dismiss it as a fractured memory or rehash of an old holiday movie. "Maybe it's for the best, your ignorance. One life has been destroyed already today. It would be a shame if guilt were to set in and more were to follow in the boy's wake." The Builder turned his back on the crowd and disappeared in a wave of snowfall and onlookers. The silence that filled the scene lifted, noise once again crashing in and polluting the air. The shoppers and workers shook themselves from their daze, dismissing what had happened as a fractured memory or holiday movie, and continued to their journey's end. - - - The old man walked up to a small, wide-eyed, innocent boy, and handed the child his big red Santa hat. The boy turned the hat around; his brows dropped in a quizzical stare. "What's this for mister?" The old man smiled, patting the boy on the head. "It's to help you dream." A young, obnoxious woman stormed up to the old man and shot him a glare of impending doom. "Just what the hell are you doing with my son?" She planted her feet in front of the old man, demanding an answer. The old man smiled, trying to put her worries at ease. "I was just wishing him good dreams tonight and nights ahead." The mother yanked the hat from her child and stuffed it in the old man's chest. "Only crazy people dream. My son is not crazy. My son does not dream." She took hold of her son's arm and stormed off across the snow-covered street. The old man put the hat back on his head and pulled the bell from his pocket. "No ma'am, he is not crazy. No ma'am, he will not dream." "Not anymore." When the Dreamers are gone, the Builders will cease, and we, as a whole, shall be doomed. THE END
|
Pie Driver They
Call Me Treehugger |
$6.18.
All in change. This is going to be a hard Christmas. Mustn't give up hope
though. Hope's all we got left nowadays. What with the Dreamers and all-The
old man heard a quiet shoomp! followed by a chorus of clackety-clackety-clack-clack!
as change and bills (paper money? Excellent!) flooded the bright red bucket.
He raised his head to thank the bountiful donor--gone. Around the corner,
like a fox, into a crowd of last minute shoppers and late night workers.
The old man craned his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of whom it might
have been . . .