[Last year I read John Cheever's
"Christmas Is A Sad Season For The Poor." Someone had provided a link to the short story on the TC Boyle messageboard. Recently I purchased The Ecco Book Of Christmas Stories which includes Cheever's story. After reading it again I had the idea that the story wasn't over yet - at least not for me. So with apologies to the original author, I offer up my conclusion.]
What Happened To Poor Old Charlie?
Talk about an amorphous depression.
The day after Christmas Charlie awoke before six am, his customary time of awakening, with a slight headache and a fuzzy memory contracting into cold clarity with each beat of his heart. He didn’t chuckle at the notion that he no longer needed to get up, get dressed, and take that Elevated train uptown. No, he could sleep in all day if he wanted to, and usually he wanted to, but not today.
Now how sad is that?
Yesterday he got fired by the superintendent of the apartment building where he had worked as an elevator operator for six months. Damn. And on Christmas Day too, an unfortunate series of licentious events bound together with the benevolence generated by the irrepressible gaiety of the season. Little doubt about that. So no more going up and down, up and down. Now it was just down, down, down. Dear Lord – he had most assuredly gotten the shaft!
As he lay awake in the bed that comprised the primary centerpiece to his furnished room, rubbing his head and wondering about next month’s rent, somebody rapped hard on the door.
He didn’t have a wife, any children, no real friends to speak of – he was merely a working man living all alone in his furnished room – and that was just the way he liked it, mind you, so he was quite surprised and annoyed by the loud arrival of some fool at his doorstep at this hour. But his surprise and annoyance by themselves would not make them go away.
The mad clamor of fists on the door once again and then a woman’s voice: “Charlie Leary – I know you’re in there! You open this door immediately or I’ll open it myself!”
He knew right away that this was no idle threat, she had a key, for this was the landlady.
“Charlie Leary! You hear me? I said now!”
“Hold on,” he bellowed, and he pulled the chain above his head and the light from a single bulb clicked on. It was still dark outside his window and he wondered if the guy who ran the all-night lunchwagon would miss him today. He fingered the sleep from his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and moved slowly towards the door amid a flurry of angry knocking, balled flesh pounding upon worn wood, some mad knuckles tossed in for added urgency.
“Now just what the tarnation is going on here?” he asked as he removed the dead bolt and slowly opened the door, expecting to see the landlady standing there in her old pink nightgown and curlers in her graying hair and perhaps the smell of liquor upon her incendiary breath. But no, she was fully dressed, apparently stone sober and standing there with two other women, strangers as far as Charlie knew, and they were all three fully dressed, all three set in the sternest of poses, and one had her hands on her bony hips and sad eyes that simmered with the promise of rage.
At first he felt alarm, now why should this bony little woman be so angry with him, but then he felt a sharp jolt of embarrassment as he followed their gaze downward realizing that he was only in torn underwear with his lone prized possession, the erstwhile family jewels, hanging out like the irrepressible bough and thicket of some overgrown mistletoe.
But not even that was apparently enough to deter the wrath of the bony little woman with those sad eyes. She tore into him and surprisingly, at least to poor old Charlie, neither of the other two women saw fit to hold her back.
Now Charlie found himself in the predicament of his life, being slapped around by a tiny woman and getting his grown-out kinky hair pulled (“I knew that I shoulda got that haircut!”) and he found her fingernails to be uncut and jagged.
“Damn woman, what’s wrong with you?” he cried and he came awfully close to just grabbing her by the scrawny neck and tossing her into the wall because even a big fellow like Charlie could only take so much, enough is enough, but at the last moment she disengaged, probably sensing his breaking point, and backed her heaving self out into the hall with her hair wild in the face but never hiding those eyes.
“My boy almost choked himself to death on that toy truck,” she gasped, and she settled there now, catching her breath, never taking her eyes off the well- hung over man. The landlady, who had just been standing there overseeing the entire scene, spoke again.
“So what do you got to say for your self Charlie Leary?”
Charlie was perplexed, dazed, and feeling the place on his neck where the woman had clawed him but good. He looked at his hand but saw no blood.
“I don’t have the foggiest notion what you are talking about. Either of you. I never even seen this lady before, and God knows, I never seen her son. And who is this other lady anyway?” and he nodded accusatorily toward the third woman, she silent yet set just as hard, and she glared right back at him with her nose all twisted around her face and her brow flattened and he instinctively leaned one step back inside the perceived safety of his furnished room.
“Never you mind who this other woman is Charlie Leary. Never you mind,” said the landlady and then the bony little woman reminded him that “my boy almost choked himself to death on that toy truck.”
Charlie felt a rising inside of him now, damn the headache, and he leaned back at them. “What toy truck? What boy?” he demanded to know and the landlady folded her arms and smiled. “Now you know what toy truck we’re talking about. We’re talking about the toy truck you brought over yesterday afternoon. In one of them pretty silver packages you dropped off,” and when she said pretty silver packages she said it with the air of a snobby uptown dilettante. True, those packages were wrapped expertly in shiny silver paper and boasted big red bows. He had felt proud just having them tucked under his arms if only for a short while.
Could this be true? Could the source of this consternation be his own benevolent and well-meaning self, only wanting to spread the best of cheer, to be a contributor to the Christmas cause? Ah hell, he knew he should have just pawned those presents and bought one of them big picture books filled with photos of Bermuda.
“So what you’re telling me is you didn’t even let your kids open the presents I brought you?” he said, and he was angry and he was hurt but the landlady paid none of that any mind.
“That’s right – my kids done had enough Christmas. We all decided to share our good fortune with the Deckkers. They been having a real tough time lately.”
And now they all looked at the bony little woman standing there up against the wall and he noticed that she didn’t seem all that angry anymore. Her eyes had recoiled and now worry seemed to drip from their sockets. He felt his own anger deflating.
“Her son’s resting at home now Charlie but last night all hell broke loose down at that hospital,” said the landlady, and he noted that she was toned-down a bit as well but still defiant and careful to speak in a serious tone. “And on Christmas Night. Well – there’s bills to be paid now Charlie, a doctor to be paid and all them medicines too. A fiasco if you ask me,” and Charlie wasn’t asking nobody, least of all her. But why was this all his fault? He hadn’t given the gifts directly to the Deckkers. It had been the landlady who had accomplished that deed. He looked at her and began to mention something about that fact but suddenly caught himself and looked down in reconsideration. The thicket was starting to reassert itself and he quickly tucked it back in and then looked back up with a nervous laugh. Something in the landlady’s eyes suggested that he best bury all that, because she was indeed the landlady, and he knew that rent might not be paid on such a timely basis in the upcoming months.
“Why, I got all them things from the folks over at Sutton Place. I didn’t even know what was in them. I was just passing ‘em along. You know, the gesture, the spirit of Christmas.” Now Charlie was smiling at them, feeling good about himself, explaining the situation. For once he was getting out of something and telling the truth.
“Charlie, there are bills to be paid.” The landlady paused right here, the silence creating a big blank space that had to be filled in by thought, and that thought was the fact that she surely wasn’t paying a dime and if he wanted to continue calling this furnished room home sweet home he’d better start digging deep inside his pockets.
“You know I aint got that kinda money,” he said, “and it’s not my fault anyway. You can blame them folks at Sutton Place – the Walsers and the DePauls and that crazy old Mrs. Gadshill.”
The landlady stepped toward him. “Then get your pants on boy. Let’s go talk to them folks over at Sutton Place.”
It was the day after Christmas, the light of the sun now filtering its way between tall buildings, and Charlie contemplating the double dilemma of unemployment and this sudden existence of an unforeseen liability. “Just a minute,” he sighed, realizing that he really had no choice.
“My boy almost choked himself to death on that toy truck.” Yes yes, I know that, we all know that, and why is your child eating metal objects anyway? But Charlie knew that answer almost at once, and a twinge of shame slapped the sneer off his face - because the little boy’s stomach was telling him to put anything small into his mouth and chew.
Fifteen minutes later they were on that Elevated train, the sound of the tracks rattling below them, and there was no need for small talk as the bony little woman stared off in a trance while the other two just sat there, arms folded, glaring at poor old Charlie.
‘Twas the day after Christmas and all cheer was gone. News travels fast, bad news the fastest, and that very morning the news of Charlie’s dismissal spread like fresh mint jelly across the baked flanks of a diminutive Cornish hen. Of course it was Mrs. Hewing from 14 who stoked that first log, ringing the elevator and entering with her two dogs and the sight of someone other than Charlie, even if it was only Fred the week-end fill-in guy, gave her a start.
“Fred – what in the world are doing here at this hour? I mean, did I lose a day or something? It is Friday, right?”
“Oh yes mam, it’s Friday all right, sure enough, nothing wrong with your mind or nothing. I just got a call late last night from the super and he asked if I was ready to move to full time and I says ‘yes sir, I sure is ready,’ and I told him ‘this sure was a nice Christmas surprise’ and he said, ‘yes, right, well be there at 7 a.m. sharp and looking good.’ So here I am mam, right on time looking grand and all, if you don’t mind me saying so myself.” Fred smiled big right then and one of Mrs. Hewing’s funny-looking dogs yelped and then the other joined in and she hurried them off the elevator and out the door to the curb.
A few minutes later she came back in and, right before the elevator door opened to her floor, Mrs. Hewing decided to go ahead and pop the question regarding Charlie’s whereabouts? Fred opened his big yellow eyes and exclaimed, “well, old Charlie got his self fired yesterday.”
“Oh my!” cried the lady as she worked the dogs out of the elevator, and before she could think to say anything more Fred and his big smile disappeared behind the closing door.
He went down thinking about whether he should just throw out Charlie’s remaining things in the locker room or keep them around for a few days. There wasn’t much, an ash tray filled with spent butts and a silver lighter that didn’t work and a just-opened pack of cigarettes (now there ya go!) and a couple of smelly shirts and underwear. Those last two would have to go right quick but he reckoned the first three could stay. You never know when a lighter might start working again. He grinned at his changing good fortune as the darkness outside the windows softened to blue hinting at the coming sunshine that would soon illuminate this new world. In fact, he chuckled at this prospect. Sure enough he thought. Yes sir, sure enough.
“What in the dickens are you laughing at?” asked Mr. Walser as he and his wife dragged themselves inside the building, the stench of pickled tongue and liquored lips seeping from his mouth, and despite the stink Fred just smiled. “Oh nothing really, just happy today I suppose,” and Fred opened the elevator and they both stumbled inside, Mrs. Walser banging her purse against the wall and laughing while the locks of her golden hair cloaked her drunken gaze. Mr. Walser steadied himself against the rail and inquired, “so, where’s our dear friend, old Charlie Whashisname?” and this he asked with one charming raised eyebrow undermined by a slurred delivery, and Fred just said, “well, I’m not supposed to say much but Charlie got his self fired yesterday.”
“This is an outrage!” responded Walser with great aplomb almost knocking himself onto his own ass while his wife reached for him and pulled him to her just as the door slid back open. Then a funny gurgling noise came from somewhere deeper inside the outraged man and right there he wretched for a moment while his wife struggled to keep him afoot. “Preston – Preston, are you alright? Preston?” Fred poised for anything that might happen, squeezing back into the corner as far away from the scene as possible, and he hoped that whatever did happen would do so clearly outside his elevator and onto the pea green carpet of the 8th floor. Once the couple had finally worked themselves outside the elevator Fred quickly punched the button shutting the door but not before he heard one last sound, that of a man hitting his knees with a thud and surrendering to the evils of the overly-celebrated night while a woman shrieked at his side and now Fred was no longer smiling, he was wondering if he should have done more, thinking maybe he should go back, offer help, but then the DePaul’s rang on 9.
Fred was smiling again because that was his natural state. Happy or perhaps too uninformed to understand that he had no reason be, that smile was a fixture on his broad face whether he was struggling atop the stool or sleeping fitfully through a slew of nightmares. When folks needed a big black Santa Claus the image of Fred was usually what came to their minds. Presently the elevator door slid open.
“So it’s true,” gasped Mrs. DePaul. She stood there a moment, her stout arms folded below her impressive bosom, and she made a clucking sound and entered. “Well, you know, I suppose it’s not your fault Fred yet still – I feel for that poor man.”
“Yes mam, I know you do, but there is plenty of skyscrapers out there looking for a good elevator man. I’ll bet ya old Charlie lands on his feets just fine – yes sir.”
Mrs. DePaul clucked again and Fred got hungry for a good fried chicken dinner. With mashed potatoes and peas all covered with gravy. “My husband says that soon enough we won’t even have elevator operators, the apartment owners are cutting costs, you know, and once we start pressing those buttons ourselves we’ll never even remember the day when we didn’t.”
The door popped open. “Oh no Mrs. DePaul! Now no disrespect to your husband or anything, but you’ll always need folks like us doing these things for ya. Like pumping gas. A woman such as yourself could get hurt doin’ things like this. Now don’t you worry about punching no buttons.”
Mrs. DePaul waddled out of the elevator and said over her shoulder, “I should certainly hope you are right.” Then she was out the door and for a brief moment of time Fred ditched the smile and felt a pang of trouble rising within him but just then the front door blew open and in marched three women and one sad familiar face.
“Oh my Lord – look what the cat done drug in!” exclaimed Fred in surprise, not knowing if he should feel friendly toward the man whose job he just took, not knowing if he should feel anger or embarrassment instead, not trusting his instinct to just head on out the door and act real busy, so in the end he just stuck with the surprise and smiled.
“No damn cat dragged anything in here boy,” said the older woman with the angry wild eyes, “so wipe that silly grin off your face or I’ll wipe it off for you.”
Charlie stood back behind the trio with hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, nodding ever so slightly, and raised his eyebrows with a knowing cock-eyed grin.
“So – what can we do for you today mam?” said a somewhat rattled Fred, and he couldn’t hold the woman’s gaze for another moment and desperately looked to Charlie for some kind of guidance but Charlie wasn’t in an accommodating mood.
“What you can do for me is find the fool that would give a toddler a toy truck that has small parts to it – parts that come off if you bite hard enough. Parts that would choke a child nearly to its death and run up a huge hospital bill – that’s what you could do for me.”
Then another one spoke, the small woman with the limbs of a colt and shiny pointed teeth. “My boy almost choked himself on that toy truck.”
Fred could hardly grasp the meaning of the situation unfolding before him and certainly could not grasp his place in it whatever it’s meaning might turn out to be. “Yes mam, I see, but what can I do for you?” This he said as he pointed first at himself and then at her and although his smile was an innocent child-like thing it could become so antagonizing given the right conditions.
At this point the bony little woman lunged right into him and Fred did his best to fend her off while Charlie just chuckled in a satisfied manner until Charlie guessed that that was just about enough. Then he moved quickly behind her and gently yet forcibly pulled her flailing arms back. Fred scrambled away from the group and yelled over his shoulder, “Damn it man, if you want your job back that bad, you can have it!” Then he escaped through the lobby door almost knocking a surprised Mrs. DePaul onto her ample tush in the process.
He was not smiling when he did.
Given the random comings and goings of the Sutton Place residents in no time at all a curious gash of humanity had congealed. By now most had learned of poor Charlie’s dismissal yet there he stood, just outside the elevator, apparently unfazed by yesterday’s pathetic events (“well good for old Charlie!”) and naturally Mrs. Hewing and the DePauls and the Fullers and all the rest were filled with questions regarding the reappearance of this good man.
But the mood soon changed once the nature of the visitation had been revealed by the old angry woman with the burning eyes and no one was allowed to leave until the identity of the perpetrator had been once and for all unquestionably determined.
“You might as well go ahead and get ‘em all down here,” she said. “Every damn one of ‘em. Aint nobody going nowhere until we get this whole thing sorted out.”
Mr. DePaul stepped righteously toward the woman and announced that “this is all so very quaint but I do have a client meeting to attend in a half hour and if you would be so very kind as to step out of my way…”
“I don’t care if you’re shining the pope’s boots you aint going nowhere,” and she placed both of her hands on her hips and fixed a defiant glare. Mr. DePaul stepped back in thoughtful repose calculating the residual effects of just lowering his shoulder and knocking the bitch on her ass. Might not be the prudent thing to do, at least not yet, so he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his pipe.
Although most of the folks wavered upon the fringes and simply listened there was an energetic core of six or seven individuals that exchanged assertments and accusations and then one desperate voice rose above all the others.
“It was Weston that did it!”
Mr. Weston cleared his throat. “I certainly didn’t give anyone a toy car,” he pleaded. “I haven’t even been in a toy store in years. Truth is I hate toys. And I don’t like the kids that play with them either!”
But just then the lobby front door blew open yet again and in shuddered the superintendent, blowing on his hands and shaking the new fallen snow from his coat, and he was pleasantly surprised to see the throng gathered right in front of the elevator door. For it was only the day after Christmas and his heart was still gay and here was an assemblage of his people, the folks he took care of, old clients, friends even, and as he removed his hat and approached the talkative group he felt the warmth firing through his entire body and couldn’t help but offer a smile. And although his presence was for the most part being ignored and many voices were speaking at the same time he did catch that last exchange.
“No – it wasn’t Mr. Weston who contributed that toy car. ‘Twas I!” offered the super in a loud clear voice, and now all talking ceased and seventeen sweaty faces looked over at him. DePaul removed the pipe from his lips and blew out hard. Thirty minutes later, once the bony little woman had finally been plied from his right leg and the owner of the building had been contacted, summoned, and had performed the deed, the superintendent glumly left Sutton Place for the very last time.
Mrs. Gadshill paced back and forth in front of her windows and the door that led to the outdoor patio that towered atop Sutton Place. She was troubled by this new development, the employment termination of that Charlie character, and all because she had had two green pills instead of the customary one. But, after all, it had been Christmas, why shouldn’t she be allowed to treat herself to just a smidgen more, who could possibly care if she helped herself to all the icing atop the cake, the cherry atop the sundae? Certainly not her family, they were all scattered about, attending to their own affairs and pursuing their own Christmas dreams. And as for Charlie, he had appeared so strange yesterday afternoon, too damn happy for a simple working man, and his careless handling of her elevator ride had been more than enough reason to see to his demise. Anyone of right mind would surely concur.
Suddenly and without much contemplation she found herself outside on the patio, leaning over the five foot wall and peering down into the city street where snowflakes twisted downward. Horns honking and voices yelling and Christmas most assuredly was over yet its frigid air remained. No longer a chummy chill, just cold. Bleak. She pondered the loss of her own grace, the way the icy wind might feel running through her thinning hair as she tumbled all the way down, and her forced concern for Charlie. She stepped back and then moved a chair to the ledge. Only one green pill today and now here she stood. Imagine that. But she won’t take that extra step today because her unhappiness is bought and paid for and lived out in such a state of envied grandeur.
It’s all hers.
For sure, Christmas is a sad season for the poor. But for the recently unemployed and newly introduced to the twin perils of lost purpose and an uncertain future Christmas is the absolute shits. The super took one last look at the building and saw a figure standing at the top and leaning over the edge. “Gadshill,” he thought. “If she has any sense at all she’ll jump.” Then he turned the corner and headed toward that all-night lunchwagon he had often seen but never once patronized.
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