Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, they belong to Chris
Carter, TenThirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  I mean no
infringement, and I'm making no money.
 

Comfort & Joy
by ML

If I have to hear that damn song one more time, I'm going to
take a sledge hammer to the jukebox.

Henry just switched the selections to Christmas songs a few days
ago; I don't mind the usual Bing Crosby/Tony Bennett/Dean Martin
/Ray Coniff Singers selections, but this one just sets my teeth
on edge.  It goes way back, to the year I worked the gift wrap
counter at a department store; the speaker was right over my head,
and I got non-stop Christmas Muzak for six weeks straight.  I
couldn't help memorizing the song order, and after a week, I
could tell which song was coming when.

I'd always grit my teeth when "Blue Christmas" came along.
Something about that song just rubbed me the wrong way.  It
didn't help that there were several versions of it on the
continuous loop of Christmas cheer.  There was one by Willie
Nelson, another version that sounded vaguely Dixieland, and of
course, the daddy of them all, the definitive version by the
King Himself, Elvis.

I hated them all, but I hated Elvis' version the most.  Maybe
it was the wailing backup singers; maybe it was the way he
sounded like he was about to cough up a hairball.  Hwell,
H'I'm-ha-gonna have ha hblooo-hooo Hchristmas hwith-hout
hyouuuuuu..."

Just shoot me now.

I don't usually let things get to me this way.  But anything and
everything is setting me off this year.

I grit my teeth but as I turn back toward the bar I turn the
grimace into a smile.  It's my job, after all.

It's a quiet night, mid-week, not long before Christmas.  The
after-work drinkers have gone home; what's left are the people
who don't want to go home, or who are not from here, maybe have
no place to go but an empty hotel room.  We have a few regulars
here, but a fair number of first-timers, too.  It's a pretty
typical mix.

It's not my usual night to work, but Henry knows I have nothing
better to do, and Chrissie called in sick again.  But I couldn't
get here in time for the after work crowd; something that also
pisses me off, since I usually make pretty good tips, and I can
always use the money.

Maybe I won't need as much as I thought this year.  I may not be
spending as much on gifts as I thought.  Damn it to hell, anyway.
I grab the bar towel and scrub at the counter, anything to stop
thinking.

"Hey."  I greet Henry as he comes over to the end of the bar.
"Anything exciting going on?"  Henry usually clues me in to any
patrons that might need extra attention, or who might be trouble.
He doesn't stay, but he warns me.  Nice guy.  Doesn't matter; I
can take care of myself, I've been doing it for years.

"Guy on the end there...no, don't look...came in a while ago, he's
been nursing the same beer the whole time.  Doesn't want to talk,
just keeps plugging quarters into the box."

As I turn around, Elvis croons his last, "blooooo-hooo-hooo-hoo
Chr-hist-mas" and the song ends, thank God.  The guy Henry points
out isn't looking our way, he's staring down at the bar surface at
the moment.

The jukebox clicks and "Blue Christmas" starts up again.  Jesus,
it's going to be a long night.

Henry takes off for dinner and I make the rounds along the bar,
checking drinks, taking a few orders.  I sneak looks over to the
man sitting at the end of the bar.

He's got a couple of days' growth of beard and his hair needs a
trim, but he's clean.  He looks too thin.  His leather coat is
good quality, but it's a little the worse for wear.  His overall
look is rumpled, like he's been living out of a suitcase for a
while, but his hands are steady as he picks at the label of his
beer bottle.  He's got nice-looking hands.

I'm curious to see his face.  I'm a pretty good judge of character
but I do better when I can see someone's eyes.

My attention is claimed by another patron and I spend a little
time schmoozing with a couple of the regulars, chatting them up,
making sure that they'll feel special enough to tip well when
they leave.

When did I become such a cynic?  A voice inside of me says I've
always been one, though for a couple of years I thought I was
changing.  Just goes to show, it doesn't take much for me to
revert to type.  God damn it to hell, anyway.  I brush angry
tears from my eyes when I turn away from the bar.  I look in
the mirror; no one's paying any attention to me for the moment.
That's good.  I don't want anyone asking me what's wrong.  I
don't even want to think about it.

My attention is drawn back to the end of the bar, where Mystery
Man now has some company.  I can see the side of his face as he
turns to see who's speaking to him.

Good-looking guy like him, he could have his pick of anyone in
the bar, or anyplace else, for that matter.  I've noticed a couple
of women giving him the eye, but he didn't notice them in return.
The one who's next to him right now is trying to get him to talk
to her, leaning across him for the bar nuts and giving him an
eyeful, brushing her hand up against his, all the tricks.  She
isn't bad-looking, not at all, but he hardly glances her way.
He excuses himself to take a piss, and she takes that as her cue
to make as graceful an exit as she can.  By the time he comes
back, she's already found someone else who is a little more open
to her charms.

I'm not even sure he noticed she was there in the first place,
let alone that she's moved on.

He picks up a few quarters and heads for the jukebox.

Oh please, God, no.  Not "Blue Christmas" again.

He comes back from plugging quarters in the machine and picks up
his beer bottle again, but doesn't drink from it.  He holds it
and stares off into space.  I don't know what he's seeing, but
it's nothing in this bar.  He puts the bottle down without taking
a sip.

"I'll Be Home for Christmas" is playing now.  He closes his eyes.
I could swear he's in physical pain.  I know Henry told me not to
say anything to him, but I can't help myself.

"Hey, buddy, can I get you a fresh one?"

He opens his eyes and focuses on me for the first time since I've
gotten here.  I've seen a lot of sadness in this job, but the
expression in his eyes just about knocks me back.  It's despair,
plain and simple.  Or not so simple.  There's more than despair
there.

I wonder if I should be giving this guy the number for the crisis
line.  He looks like he's lost his last friend.  I'm not worried
that he's going to go off the deep end and do anything dangerous
here in the bar, but he looks like he could be a danger to himself.

"Everything okay?"  I ask quietly.

"Everything's fine," he says, but he grimaces as he says it, as
though that word has some special, unpleasant meaning for him.
He pushes the beer bottle toward me and I pick it up.  It's
lukewarm, and still half-full.  I get him another and set it in
front of him.

"Thanks," he says, and his voice has a rusty sound to it, like he
hasn't used it much lately.

I bring a bowl of popcorn over from the machine but before I can
set it down, he's shaking his head no, so I take it away again.

"By the way, I'm Jo," I tell him.

He looks like he'd just as soon not know my name or tell me his,
but then he says, "I'm M-Marty."

Sure you are, buddy.  "Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

He just shakes his head again.  Despite what Henry said, I think
this guy needs someone to talk to.  In between other customers, I
take up my place at his end of the bar, just in case he has
something to say.

The jukebox is now playing, "Have Yourself a Merry Little
Christmas," the Judy Garland version.  It makes me feel so bad,
I'm ready to ask for "Blue Christmas" again.  At least I can hate
that one.

Marty's looking up at me.  "You okay?"  He asks, a little
reluctantly.

"I'm great, thanks," I say heartily and I turn away from him.
When I turn back again, he's still looking at me, with something
like understanding in his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?"  he asks very softly.

I shake my head.  "It's nothing.  I broke up with my boyfriend,
happens all the time, I just need time."

I have a great line of patter about this.  I almost believe it
myself.

He has a look on his face that says, "bullshit," and then he
asks, "So what really happened?"  He's pretty sharp.  Or maybe
no one else has cared enough to try and get beyond what I tell
them.  Or maybe I don't let them.  So why am I letting this guy?
Why am I even considering answering his question?

I don't know why, but for some reason I feel the need to explain
a little further.  "He's in the Reserves, and he got called up
a week ago.  Doesn't know where he's going, or how long he'll be
gone."

I didn't really have a fight with him, but I might as well have.
I just withheld myself.  It's something I've always been good at,
drawing away when someone gets too close.  Michael did that; he
got too close for comfort.  I let him get under my skin, and for
a while everything was great, and then he had to go.

"I know what that's like," Marty says.

For a minute, I'm not sure if he's answering what I said, or what
I thought.

"I had to leave someone behind," he continues.  "Someone I care
for very much.  And I can't call, I can't write, I can't be in
touch with her at all."

This is a little scary.  I wonder if maybe she has a restraining
order against him.  He doesn't look like the violent type, but
sometimes that's what fools you.

"Doesn't she want to see you?"  It's a risk asking this, but what
the hell, I've got nothing to lose.

"No, it's not that, but it's too dangerous for her.  For us.  She
can't know where I am."

Now I feel like I've been dropped into the middle of a spy novel.
It makes me forget my own woes for a bit.

"What did you do?" I breathe.

He looks a little taken aback.  "I can't tell you," and he clams
up again.

"O-kay," I say, and back away from him a little.  This is getting
too weird.

He seems to sense my unease, and he gets up.  "Look, I'm sorry if
I upset you.  I'm gonna go, and you can just forget all about me,
okay?"  He throws a twenty on the bar and turns to leave.

"Hey, no, don't go," I say, though I can't imagine why.  There's
nothing I can do for this guy; I don't even really want to listen
to his story, whether he wants to tell it to me or not.  But
there's something about his eyes, and his face, that makes me
believe that he's an okay guy, caught in the middle of something.
I don't want to send him out into the lonely darkness.

He hesitates, then turns back around.  "Tell you what," he says.
"I'll make you a deal.  I'll stay if you tell me what's bugging
you."

I'd have to be nuts to agree, but for some reason, I really want
to tell this guy.  I want to tell someone, and who better than a
stranger that I'm likely never to see again?

After a long moment, I nod just a little.  He sits back down, and
I say, "One condition."

He waits.

"No more `Blue Christmas,' okay?  I've had about all I can stand."

He grins suddenly, and his face is transformed.  I can feel my
breath catch in my throat, and I can't help but grin back at him.

"Deal," he says.  I get him another beer and check on the other
patrons.  It's thinning out a lot, typical for this time of night.
The only people left now are the ones with nowhere to go.

I come back over to stand in front of Marty.  I feel very shy all
of a sudden.

"Tell me about your boyfriend," Marty requests.  And, little by
little, I tell him.

I tell him how we met, three years ago.  How we only gradually got
to liking each other.  How, slowly, I realized how much I needed
him, and he seemed to need me, too.  We'd started living together
only about six months ago.

I don't tell him a lot about my life before I met Michael.  I do
tell him that I'd been alone most of my life, and he seems to
understand without me saying very much.  I don't use any sappy
phrases like "soul mate" to describe how Michael and I feel about
each other, or how we somehow seem to complete each other.  I can't
articulate how Michael's leaving has left a big hole
somewhere inside, but again, Marty seems to understand even
when I can't explain it very well.

Marty is amazingly easy to talk to.  He doesn't interrupt, and
he concentrates not just on your words, but on you.  You can't
help but open up.  At least, I couldn't help it.

Finally, haltingly, I tell him about the last day Michael and I
were together, how cold and distant I was.  How I wouldn't listen
to him when he wanted to tell me something important.  And, how I
found the engagement ring after he'd left.

I've swung between anger and tears ever since that awful day.
Most of it turned inward, toward me.  I know who's to blame.

Marty hardly says a word throughout.  He nods encouragingly, and
once or twice I think I see a glint of tears in the corners of
his eyes.  But mostly he just looks at me with his compassionate
expression, and I'm spilling my guts.

I'm smart enough to realize what I did with Michael was an attempt
at self-protection, but not smart enough to realize that if you
care about someone, you can't really protect yourself from
feeling.  That is, I didn't realize it until Marty.

I've been trying to put it aside, not think about the enormity of
the mistake I've made.  But the look in this guy's eyes brings it
all home to me again.  He knows what I've been going through.

"Bottom line," Marty asks when I finally run out of steam.
"Do you love him?  Is he worth it?"

Without even thinking about it, I say, "Hell, yes."  That's an
admission in and of itself.

"And you know he left because he had to, not because he's running
away from you, right?"  Marty's voice is soothing.  He speaks
softly; no one in the bar can hear him but me.

I nod.  "I know."  I knew it when he left.  It didn't stop me
from being a bitch about it.

"I can tell you from personal experience," Marty says, and there's
just the tiniest crack in his voice as he speaks, "that it was
just as hard for him to leave as it was for you to see him go."

Another thing I should have realized, if I hadn't been thinking
only about myself when he left.

"You're not asking for advice, I know," Marty says.  "But do you
have a way to get in touch with him?  Can you get a letter to him?"

I nod.  I do have an APO address.

"Write to him," Marty urges.  "You really need to tell him how
you feel, if you still love him."

He's got that haunted look back in his eyes.  I wonder if he was
able to tell her before he left.  I remember he said he couldn't
contact her.  I hope like hell he told her what he needed to
tell her.  I hope like hell that she let him, not like me.  Or
she might be going through the same thing I am, right now.

I nod again.  "I will, I promise."  I'm feeling a little
light-headed after all this true confession stuff.  I'm very
proud that I haven't cried in front of him, not once.

Marty smiles at me a little.  "How do you feel?"

"It's a miracle, Doctor," I declare in a smart-ass tone.  But I
can't do that to him.  "Seriously, thanks for listening, Marty."

"Happy to be of service," he says.  He seems to mean it.

I look around the bar.  One couple back in the corner, and they
don't need anything from me.  Henry will be coming to help close
up pretty soon.  "How about you?"  I ask.  "Fair's fair."

His face shutters again.  "I'm okay."

I reach out to touch his arm and he very gently moves back,
keeping a certain distance between us.  I can take a hint:  I
stop leaning forward on the bar and busy my hands stacking
glasses and wiping down a counter that's already clean.

I want to do something for this man.  I don't know what I can
do, though.  He's back to sitting staring off into space.

The outside door opens.  It's Henry, coming back to do the last
hour with me.

I turn back to Marty.  "I get off at midnight," I say impulsively.
I'm not sure what I'm offering.  Maybe a sympathetic ear.  Maybe
some comfort.  Whatever that means.

He looks at me, considering.  I think he needs a friend as much
as I did earlier, but nothing more than that.  I can tell he's
trying to find a way to say no.

I let him off the hook.  "Forget it.  It was a bad idea."

"No, it wasn't," he says.  "But I can't.  Thanks for the offer,
though."

I try one more time.  "Do you have some place to go?"  Jeez, even
that sounds like a come on.  I don't mean it that way, really.

"Yeah, I do.  But I can't go there."  He gets up again.  "Thanks,
Jo.  It's been a pleasure talking to you."

He offers me his hand, and for the first time, I touch him.  His
hand is large and warm and comforting.

I can see the yearning in his eyes, but it's not for me.  I'm no
slouch in the looks department, but I'm not the one he wants or
needs.

God, I miss Michael so much.  I have to tell him.

"I hope she's worth it," I say as he turns away.

He smiles, more to himself than to me.  "Oh, they're worth it,"
he says.

They?  I start to ask him, then think better of it.

I watch Marty walk out the door, certain that I'll never see him
again.

I know I'll think about him, though.  And I'll wish him well.
Every time I hear "Blue Christmas."

Henry comes behind the bar.  "Hey Jo, you wanna knock off early?
This place is dead, no point in us both being here."

I smile at Henry for the first time in weeks, and I can see he's
surprised.  "Yeah.  I've got something I gotta do."

I've got a letter to write.

end.

author's notes: Dedicated to everyone who has a loved one far
away.  If you haven't told them how you feel lately, there's no
time like the present.

p.s. I have absolutely nothing against "Blue Christmas," really.

feedback is a great comfort: msnsc21@aol.com

find my other stories here:
http://www.kimpart.com/mlfic.html
 
 
 
 
 
 

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