Tire Center Christmas (Part 5)
(Readers, this is the last installment of the tale)
Tinny Christmas music warbled from a speaker mounted over the entrance to the store. Inside, a clerk, an elderly woman wearing angel wings and a halo stood behind the counter barking out sales transactions and wishes of Merry Christmas to a line of the finest weird-looking holiday-attired miscreants assembled south of the North Pole. The clerk was assisted by a young man wearing a Grinch costume. Grinch served up corndogs, nachos, Upton Sinclair nuggets and ran the Lotto tickets and overhead cigarette bin.
It occurred to the Writer that not a single person in the store had driven a vehicle there because no vehicles were in the parking lot. How they got there and where they might be going on Christmas Eve in an ice storm dumbfounded him. Who were these people? He'd never seen them before but now they surrounded him.
Before venturing into the aisles, the Writer huddled together with the woman and girls and rattled off the game plan. He was making it up like a schoolboy drawing up a football play on a sandlot field. Invariably those plays called for the bomb, the long pass, the touchdown. They rarely worked. What always worked were short passes to move the ball down the field. Nothing flashy. Just consistent attention to detail. Simple execution.
The play the Writer drew up went something like this: you each get one of the carry baskets and have ten minutes to fill them with anything you want in the store (Mom gets final say, of course). Then you head back to the room and celebrate Christmas Eve.
The girls looked at each other, eyes like full blue moons, smiled, screamed, hugged. The woman brought over the baskets as the girls celebrated. She hadn't said a word during the play call.
“You can only have as much as you can carry,” she said to the girls, “because that's all you need.”
The Writer heard the words. They drilled into him. He picked up a basket, too. He couldn't wait to get to it!
Two tiny tots had their eyes not all aglow; they crackled and burned like a beach bonfire! They made such a racket that the rest of the customers turned to observe the melee. It didn't take long to intuit what was happening and their frowns of disapproval turned to smiles of delight. A few even clapped. (Note to reader: you may recall a similar scene in The Tom Petty Christmas Mission. I include another one in this tale because I've observed real-life variations of this scene so many times in recent years and they never fail to become an indelible memory.)
As the girls filled their baskets with toys and treats, the Writer caught sight of the woman ordering an assortment of processed foods. He noticed she was wearing an auburn-colored Santa hat that clashed outrageously with her red hair.
After placing the order, she meandered the aisles examining products. Every now and then she put something in her basket. There was zero pattern in her choices. She finally had that luxury for a brief spell.
The Writer began shopping, but not for himself. His basket contained: a couple of TracFone $39.99, 200-minute cards, $50 gas card, flashlight and batteries, duct tape, first aid kit, two boxes of twinkle lights, a tiny, table-top, ceramic Christmas tree, pocket knife, socks, toothpaste, toothbrushes, two bottles of water and a pack of energy bars. It was basically a survival kit for the non-nuclear disaster of the ever-increasing marginalization of American lives in the new American Diaspora. And the supplies wouldn't last long.
A few minutes later the Writer stood face-to-face with the woman. She had just emerged from the walk-in beer cooler. Their eyes met. He noticed she'd decorated her face with glitter. He noticed she emitted a wan twirling light. She looked into her basket and then back to the Writer's eyes. She knew he'd seen the two cans of Four Loko Frost malt liquor and a pack of Camel Crush Menthol.
“I can put the Loko and cigarettes back if you want,” she said.
“No, it's Christmas.”
The Writer held out his basket to her. “I got some things for you, for the road, when you leave.”
“Thanks,” she said. She smiled, a jagged smile. “You like the hat?” She angled her body toward him in a way that presented the hat.
“I like the hat.”
“I got it for myself.”
“I almost forgot,” said the Writer. He handed her a stack of $1 scratch-off tickets. “There are 15 here.”
“We'll open them tomorrow morning.”
“That sounds perfect. I hope you win.”
“It's never worked before, but who knows, it's Christmas Eve!”
She said it with such giddiness that he thought he might be bowled over.
They carried their loot across the ice to the motel. The woman opened the door, the girls darted in, dived on the beds, started singing some unintelligible song, and tore into the treats.
The woman set her bag down on a dresser, as did the Writer. He saw a paper pad and pen on a table. He wrote down his phone number.
“Hey, I'm going to get out of here,” he said to her. “I left my number on the table if you need anything. Call or text. I only live a few blocks away. The tires will be ready after Christmas.”
He had about a million other things he wanted to say or suggest, but he didn't. There would be time for that later—or not. Probably not. It wasn't necessary for giving the right way, although for many people, it's a precondition to give.
“Okay, she said. “I don't know what to say.”
She really didn't. Why profane the moment of not knowing with a cliché of knowing?
He didn't care. He didn't expect her to say anything poignant or act a certain grateful way. Those contrivances were for stories and books.
The Writer wondered if he'd hear from her. He wondered if he should do more. What else could he do? He wondered if the family would make it.
They shook hands. Her grip was still weak, but he felt a bit more squeeze.
“Goodbye Calista,” he said. “Have a great night with the girls.”
“Thanks again—“
She had forgotten his name.
It occurred to him he'd never learned the girls' names. It occurred to him he liked giving. It occurred to him he wanted to write. It occurred to him he didn't know how to write, but writing was something worth knowing how to do, and doing well.
Outside the motel room, the Writer surveyed the icy 101 wonderland/clusterfuck and plotted a course for home that traversed the most grassy areas and bark-dusted flower beds. He needed them for footing.
He took a first step and began to slide. He balanced himself by extending his arms. He laughed aloud. He kept going forward. He would make it, and after arriving home, he would begin his education as a new kind of better, authentic writer. His education as a new kind of better, authentic human being, was complete.