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Salvation Army

Greg Stidham

    She was walking so briskly, quick-stepped, like those soldiers in old black-and-white World War II movies. They called it goose-stepping. Parades of the bad guys. I remember watching them on my grandpa’s Magnavox. There would be fifteen or more, side by side, hundreds deep. Marching, kicking their legs up like college football cheerleaders today, looking to the side. They were scary.
    She made me think of them, storming across the parking lot. Her heels were high, raised her up three inches. And they were loud, like cannon shots. I thought she might salute me. Or, worse, kick me. So instead of a salute, I rang my bells.
    The bells were attached to a thin leather strap. The strap was so thin, I thought it might have been made for something else. I wasn’t even sure it was leather. I wasn’t sure about her at all, but I was determined not to flee, so I sat there and I rang the bells, as the clop-clop of her boots drew closer and closer. Her boot lifted her up to the step to where I sat, outside the door. She nearly knocked over my bucket, and just who would have been in trouble then?
    The night air grew even colder as she stormed past through the automatic doors and into the warmth of the liquor store. While I watched, scratching my five o’clock shadow, she disappeared into the bright light of the aisle packed with bottles. My khaki winter jacket was losing its battle with the cold wind. And I shivered in my corner on the steps of the store, with my tripod-strapped kettle not so full of coins.
    I jingled the bells again when two couples came up the step. I saw them. I know they looked, but they pretended they didn’t. They walked right by, me jingling the non-leather strap of bells more and more frantically, hoping for a coin toss into my kettle. They pretended they didn’t see, but I saw them. And they saw me.
    I’m not sure how I was chosen for this job. It’s a volunteer job, so I don’t get money; but still, there were lots of others applying. I waited with a small group. We were all waiting to get the paperwork we would have to fill out. I looked at all of them. There were businessmen. A young mother carrying a small kid on one arm. Some older folks who looked like they’d just wandered away from their forever home.
    And there was me. I never made it through high school. You see, I was what they called “special.” So I got to take special classes, with other kids who were special too. And I did real good. Fifth grade all the way up to eighth. I got the best grades you could get.
    When I started high school, everything was different. It was really hard. The classes were hard, and the subjects, but what was really hard were the teachers. If they said something we needed to learn, but they said it too fast, we couldn’t just ask them to say it again, more slowly, like we could in the school before.
    The new school was hard for other reasons too. When I left my old school, I also left my friends. Maybe I will see them again some day, but I don’t know. Before, I could always count on them, and now they weren’t there any more.
    In the new school it was different. People didn’t really make friends. Some had their own small groups, but they didn’t ever say anything to me. Sometimes, though, they made remarks, and laughed, pointing in my direction.
    My grades weren’t good any more either, and by the end of my second year at the new school, I decided to quit. Now I live in the basement room of my mom and dad’s, so I don’t need a whole lot of money. I got a job cleaning the floors at night at my old school, my special school. Not much money, but enough for the bus and for Three Musketeers.
    I didn’t think they would take me for this job, but the thought of wearing a Santa cap and ringing a bell to make money for poor people seemed like a great idea. They helped me fill out the papers, and a few days later, my mom called for me downstairs and said I had a phone call. It was the lady from the Salvation Army. She told me that I had been chosen to be one of their volunteers. I was so excited I almost tripped on the basement stairs.
    It’s been two weeks now since my first night. After I got the job, my mom drove me to the office where I picked up my white-trimmed red cap, my kettle and the stand. I tried the cap on every day before I started, just to be sure it fit just right.
    I was assigned to the liquor store about a mile from my house, three nights a week, until New Year’s Day. Every morning after work, I was to bring the money I’d gotten to the office. I guess they just trusted me that I wouldn’t take any for myself.
    On my nights to work, I was to start at six in the evening and stay until the store closed at ten. Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. That would be my schedule for the next four weeks. That first night was one of the coldest. You could see your breath floating away from your lips.
    I was so excited I was nervous, and I set up my chair in the corner outside the door, my kettle in the tripod. I rang my bells for the first time. Most of the time I sat waiting for people to walk by. When they did, I would ring my bells. And when I had to pee, the store people let me use the washroom in the back. Of course, I had to bring my kettle with me. When people passed, leaving the store, I rang the bell, and I got some coins from a few of the people. It wasn’t as much as I thought, but I guess okay for my first night.
    The night I saw the goose-stepping lady was the Wednesday before Christmas. That was not one of the good nights. Everyone was in a hurry, or in a bad mood. I wished them all “Merry Christmas” when they passed, but for the most part, they looked the other way, and then hurried on without saying anything, bags in their arms. A few people pressed coins into the slot in the top of my kettle.
    One guy stuffed his chewing gum into the slot. I think he was trying to make me mad. But it didn’t work. I just dug the gum out with my fingernail after he went on to his car.
    The goose-stepping woman stayed in the store a long time, longer than most of the customers. When the electric sliding doors hummed open to let her pass, I immediately heard the clop-clop of her heels again. She had a large bag under each arm. I rang my bells and said “Merry Christmas,” while she sternly turned her head to the side and silently snarled at me.
    A few more customers passed by on the way in to the warmth of the store, and then back out into the darkness of the parking lot. A man and his wife passed by, and she dropped a coin into my kettle.
    Three college girls giggled past. When they came out, two of them dropped a handful of coins into the bucket. I thanked them and wished them “Merry Christmas.” Most of the customers just passed by. I was invisible, even though I rang the bells.
    Just before it was time for the store to close, an old woman rode up the walk in a 3-wheeled electric scooter. It was red, with a little pennant flag on a stick. She had a pack on the back of the seat with a clear plastic hose coming out of it, leading around her side and up into her nose. I wasn’t sure she would get over the step to the landing where I sat, but her scooter climbed right over it like an army tank. And the doors opened themselves, so they were not a problem. I rang my bells and said “Merry Christmas.” She just glared at me.
    The old lady on the scooter was in the store for only a few minutes. When she rolled through the opening doors she was already tipping a bag-wrapped bottle to her lips. As she passed me, I repeated my “Merry Christmas.” Glaring at me again, in a voice as hoarse as a rusty saw blade, she spat, “Go to hell.”
    When the time came, the workers in the store dimmed the lights and began to leave the store, one by one. That was my signal to start packing up too. After unlocking the chain that tethered my bike to the pole in the corner of the parking lot, I walked back to my corner just as the manager was locking the door. I wished him “Merry Christmas,” and he said same to you, even though I am pretty sure he didn’t celebrate Christmas. He spoke with an accent and I heard the other worker say he was from Iran.
    After getting my bike, I put my kettle into the basket on my handlebars. And I folded up the tripod stand and strapped it to the back of my seat, got on the bike, and began to pedal off into the dark.
    The first part of my ride home took me down a dark road past an apartment complex. You could never be sure who might be there, during the day or the night. I was usually not afraid. I had ridden my bike by there many times, even when I was a kid. It was a little different at night, though, and my pedaling was a bit more brisk, my Santa cap perched precariously on my head.
    “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The voice came from the dark just as I was turning a corner. Then I made out in front of me a young man, or teenager, bundled in an army jacket. And then I saw two more guys standing behind him.
    “Home,” I said. “I just got off work.”
    He snorted. “And where do you work? The North Pole?” I guess he noticed the Santa cap.
    “No. At the liquor store.”
    “Liquor store. You got any booze with you?”
    “No, sir.”
    He stepped closer, eyeing my bike. “What you got in the bucket there?”
    “I was collecting money for Salvation Army. For poor people.”
    He laughed. “Well, aren’t you lucky! You just found yourself some poor people. Why don’t you just hand that little bucket over to these poor people?”
    I felt myself start to shake as the three drew closer. “I can’t do that. It is not mine to give away.”
    It was just then that the sky went white with lightning. And that was the last thing I remember.

***************************

    Desirée was the last one to leave the office, and she knew she would have to hurry or she would be late for the Christmas dinner party. It was at his house, and she knew his wife would be there. And she, on the other hand, would have to act like she was just one of the other people in the office. Even worse, she would have to watch him chatting with his wife, having fun, being a real couple like she wanted to be with him. She was not in a good mood.
    She walked briskly to her car in the cold air and scolded herself for not wearing her warmer winter jacket. There was no snow yet, but it felt like it couldn’t be far away. She unlocked her Lexus with the remote. It was already dark and it wasn’t even six o’clock yet.
    She needed to stop by the liquor store and pick up a bottle of good wine to bring to the party. Then she would barely have time to get home, shower, fix her hair, and change into something that might at least grab his attention. Desirée was thinking about all of this when she pulled into the lot of the liquor store, got out, and walked hurriedly to the door.
    She barely noticed the kid as she passed. He shook some toy bells and mumbled something as she passed, but she didn’t quite catch it. And that ridiculous, faded Santa cap that looked like it was on its twentieth and last Christmas.
    Desirée found the wine she was looking for, her favorite—a local Baco Noir. She grabbed two bottles and marched up to the checkout aisle. There were two people in front of her, so she had her debit card and Air Miles card ready when her turn came. After she paid, she put the bag in her arm and hurried out the automatic door.
    This time she heard him. “Merry Christmas.” But he was begging for money. She glared at him and walked briskly past and to her car. She was not in a good mood.

***

    They finished their last exams of the semester that day, and it was time to party before everyone packed up and headed back to their families and homes for the holidays. Roberta, or Robbie as her friends called her, and her two housemates were going to a party at the Gary’s house. Gary was a good-looking guy in her Art History class. If the other guys coming to this party were half as cute as Gary, the girls were in for a good night.
    Robbie got to their house around supper time. She had to shower and get dressed before her housemates laid claim to the bathroom. She had some new skinny jeans and a silk blouse she planned to wear. Both the jeans and the blouse were just revealing enough.
    As she stripped off her sweatshirt and grungy jeans, she headed to the shower and called to her roommates. “Can someone order a pizza so we don’t totally starve before the party?”
    “Great idea!” came the reply from downstairs.
    Robbie was from Vancouver. Both her roommates were from Toronto. The next morning they were all three taking the bus to Toronto which left from campus and goes straight to the airport. Robbie would then catch her plane west, and the other two would be met by their families.
    Robbie scurried, towel-wrapped, from the bathroom to her bedroom. Her suitcase lay open on her bed, half-filled with clothes for her trip home. She moved it to the side and began to rummage through the underwear drawer of her dresser, finally choosing a matching pair of panties and bra. You just never knew who might get to see them tonight.
    While she was pulling on the skinny jeans and buttoning her shirt, the doorbell announced the arrival of the pizza. Lanni called out, “I got it.”
    Robbie fastened her jeans and skipped down the stairs, bursting into the kitchen. She fished her wallet from her purse and handed a ten to Lanni to cover her portion of the pizza. “I’m starved!” And she grabbed a piece. Lannie and Claire both took a paper plate and loaded them with two pieces each before scurrying up the stairs to ready themselves for the party, and Robbie grinned thinking about Gary.
    It was long past dark by the time the girls were ready to head out the door. All three were giggling with excitement as they skipped down the sidewalk. Before they got close to the liquor store, they broke out in song: “What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor...”
    As they stepped up to the door of the store, Robbie noticed the young man with a Santa cap. As they passed, he rang his bells and said, “Merry Christmas.” Once inside, they wandered the aisles, weighing their choices. Robbie picked up a six-pack of wine coolers, while Claire grabbed a bottle of Fireball cinnamon whiskey.
    Robbie was the only one of the three with a credible fake ID, so she took all three items and made the purchase. She paid the clerk and kept the coins in her hand as the three of them left. As she passed the man with the Santa cap, she dropped the change into his kettle. Claire fished some coins out of her coat pocket, and dropped them in as well.
    The man rang his bells. “Thank you. And Merry Christmas.”
    Then they were off down the road to Gary’s house, singing again. They were going to have some fun tonight!

***

    Old Miss Ratchett finished her supper in the dining area, pushing her plate to the center of the table where she sat with three other old women. Rachel had had a stroke. Her left arm was weak and her mouth drooped. She had to use a walker, too, but her mind was clear. She was one of the women who played canasta every afternoon in the parlor room.
    Mrs. Taylor had been an opera singer when she was young. She still liked to sing around the home, but you couldn’t understand the words. She had early dementia, and although she could still take pretty good care of herself, she couldn’t carry on a coherent conversation if she had to.
    Of all the people in the home, Norma Smythe had the most visitors. She had two sons and a daughter, and they all lived in town. All three of them had several children, and someone would come visit every afternoon and they would always bring some of the kids to visit as well. Norma was the most sociable of the residents. Nobody in the home had ever once seen a single person visit Miss Ratchett.
    “You going out again tonight, Hazel?” Norma asked.
    Miss Ratchett put her scooter in reverse and backed away from the table. “None of your goddamned business,” she snarled, and lurched her scooter forward and down the hallway to her room. When she got there, she retrieved her jacket from the chair and, after removing the oxygen tubing from her nose, she twisted herself into it. Then she brought the tubing back around to the front and placed the prongs in her nose.
    “Goddamned busybodies,” she mumbled under her breath. She pulled her stocking cap down over her ears and pivoted the scooter in a perfect 180 degree turn, heading back out down the hallway to the front door. When she got there, one of the aides, a young Jamaican woman, opened the door and held it for her.
    “Have a nice evening, Miss Ratchett.”
    “It’ll be another shit evening, just like every other one in this hellhole.” And off she whirred down the sidewalk.
    Her scooter scooted faster than most people walked, and she was at the liquor store in no time. The step up to the door didn’t slow her down. She knew exactly how to boost her scooter over it. “Oh, shit. Another one of those asshole beggars.” She scooted on by, barely taking note of the Santa cap and kettle.
    Jack Daniels. Jack Daniels. She knew just where it was. She whirred right over to the wall where it sat on the shelf waiting for her.
    “Hey. Hey, you. You work here? Come grab this bottle for me.”
    The clerk came over, took the bottle off the shelf, and handed it to her. “’Bout time.”
    “Merry Christmas.”
    “Up yours.”
    And Miss Ratchet pivoted and headed toward the checkout line. She doled out her bills, took her change, said nothing when the clerk wished her a good night, and headed off into the dark outside the automatic door.
    The young man was still there jingling his bells. “Merry Christmas.” Goddamn. This stupid kid is still saying Merry Christmas. Goddamn.

***

    Julio was bored as shit. His video games were not interesting any more. His mother had already left for one of her appointments. And he was alone in his filthy room, with his dirty clothes thrown all around, a few partly empty bags of chips. He found his nearly empty vodka bottle and poured what was left into a fruit juice glass.
    He downed the vodka in a swallow, and pulled his cell phone from his backpack. Johnny would be home by now. Johnny was always up for fun, as long as there was some weed involved.
    “Hey, Johnny. What’s up?”
    “Oh, nothin’. I just got home.”
    “So what are you doing tonight? Anything fun?”
    “No. Nothing goin’ on. Mom’s gone. Place is empty as fuck. What about you?”
    Julio thought a moment. “I was thinking about going out and looking for some babes. What do you say?”
    Julio didn’t know his father. All his life he was trailing after his mother. She worked all kinds of jobs. Waited tables in Alberta. Cleaned motel rooms outside of Saskatoon. Most of her jobs kept her away, sometimes for twelve hours or more. He went to school. A little. But he was never in one place long enough to fit in. Kingston was the longest they’d stayed in one place for as long as he remembered. But it really wasn’t any different.
    Since they moved to Kingston, his mother had started working longer hours, and at weirder times of day. Or night. In the day, she would tell him she was leaving for a job and would be back in a few hours. In the night, she would just leave.
    “I’ve got some good weed. What say we go smoke and head out looking for babes? Or whatever action looks cool.”
    Johnny said, “Yeah. Sounds good. Meet at your place? Okay if I bring little Charlie along? He’s feeling a bit lonely tonight.” Charlie was Johnny’s 13-year old kid brother.
    “Sure. Bring him along. It’s not like it’s x-rated or anything.”
    They met up at the fence outside the housing project. Julio had the weed. A couple of joints. They set up in the corner of a parking lot. It was cold, but they all wore their jackets. Julio lit up first, inhaled, and passed the joint to Johnny as he exhaled smoke into the night.
    “Hey, Charlie. You’ve smoked before, right? Just inhale and hold it in your lungs for a minute or so.” Johnnie passed the joint to Charlie. The boy inhaled deeply, and immediately burst into a fit of coughing.
    “Charlie, don’t inhale so fast. Take a little, with a little air. You’ll get used to it.” Johnnie tried to be a good big brother.
    They passed the joint around the circle three more times before there was nothing left. Charlie did okay after the first try. And then Julio lit up the second. It too was passed around the warming circle three times before its glow dimmed. The boys were all quite buzzed by this time. And talkative.
    Julio said, “I hate my father.” And then, “I don’t even know who he is. I never even saw the bastard.”
    Johnny grunted. “Yeah. I knew my dad. He was an asshole. He beat my mom, and he beat me. And he would have beat Charley if he’d stuck around long enough.”
    They started walking, passing through the fence gate toward the sidewalk beyond.
    “Hey. Look at that dork on the bicycle. What is he, one of Santa’s elves?” All three broke out in laughter.
    Julio continued. “Hey, you two want to have some fun with this retard?”
    “Yea. Watch this.” Johnny stepped to the curb where the bike wobbled a few yards away.
    “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

***************************

    The voice was familiar. A deep voice with a slight rasp. I tried to open my eyes, and through the slit in one eye I could see a bright light. And then I saw my father’s face looming over me, and heard his voice calling my name. My head hurt. And my ribs felt like a horse was sitting on me. I started to cry. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it.
    “Where am I? What happened?”
    My father’s face grimaced. “You got attacked on your way home from collecting. When you didn’t get home, I went looking for you. I found you on the side of the road down by the housing projects. You were out cold. They wanted to keep you in the hospital overnight.”
    “Where’s my coin kettle?”
    “You didn’t have anything with you.”
    “What about my bike?”
    My father shook his head. I started to cry again. “They took the money? And they took my bike?”
    “Yes, son. I’m afraid they did.”
    I could barely see my father through my partly opened eye, and my other eye was swollen shut. My father looked like he wanted to cry with me.
    “It’s okay, son. It’s gonna be okay.”
    “But, what about the money for the poor people?”
    “It’s okay, son, there’s plenty of money been raised for them. Why you yourself raised a couple of hundred dollars!”
    It was true. I had averaged twenty dollars a night. But what I lost was twenty more dollars I could have given to the poor people. I started to cry again, and I could feel the snot run down my upper lip.
    “Son, it’s okay. You did more than your share. You shouldn’t worry about that. You should be taking care of your bruised face, black eye and broken ribs.” As an afterthought, “Are you upset about your bike?”
     I didn’t know how I would get to my job at the school now. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I started to cry again.
    “I’ll figure something out, Dad. The bike was mine, and I’ll figure something out. But the money wasn’t, and I was supposed to be taking care of it.” The Salvation Army people will be mad at me.
    “Dad, will you do something for me?”
    “Sure, son. You name it. Anything.”
    I took a deep breath. “Dad, I have some money I’ve saved from my school job. It’s in the top drawer of the desk in my room. Could you get twenty dollars and take it to the Salvation Army office over on Princess Street?”
    “Sure, son. I’m glad to do it. I’m just glad you are okay.
    “I’m going to head home and check in with your mom, and then I’ll take the money over and let them know you won’t be collecting for a while. Your mom and I will be back to see you after supper.”
    “Thanks, Dad.”
    My father got up and turned to leave.
    “Dad?”
    He paused and turned back toward me.
    “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

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