The Underpass - A Short Christmas Story
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The Underpass
A Short Christmas Story
Visit stephenchiarelli.com to find out more about the author and his novels and photographs.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Stephen Chiarelli
Cover design by Stephen Chiarelli Copyright 2012
The Connected
Muckydum
The Underpass
The deep heavy slush caused his shopping cart to skid to a stop in the middle of the crosswalk. The red hand ahead ceased flashing and the stoplight turned to yellow. The car on the street beside him blew its horn in anticipation of the advanced turn signal but it only registered in his thoughts like a distant train whistle. He interrupted his attempts to remove the cart from the slush and turned toward the underpass. He looked up over the top of the car with the man behind the wheel, yelling, red faced and pointing assertively into the sky. After determining that there would be no train coming under the bridge he lowered his eyes to see the driver who was fully animated in his gestures with a look of contempt on his face, a look that had been directed at him many times before. He followed the pointed finger of the driver to see what was fascinating him, but could only see the green glow of an arrow pointing in the direction he was headed, beyond that nothing. Shrugging to himself he dislodged the cart from the deep slush pile on the road and carried on toward the curb pushing determinedly to get to the other side. The cart was a heavy burden during the winter months but everything that was of value to him was in it and he would never be without it.
Finally reaching the curb, he hauled the cart up and over the two foot bank of semi-hardened snow and ice that had been created throughout the snowy day. One of the rear wheels became snagged on a large chunk of ice causing the whole cart to tumble down the other side, spilling its precious cargo onto the busy sidewalk beyond. He scrambled down on his hands and knees to chase after the wayward articles while others passed by, looking down upon him in disgust.
The detestation people felt for him could be due to the black and grey greasy hair that hung down to his shoulders from beneath a frayed black knitted hat. Or maybe they were revolted by him because his face was covered by a craggy beard and his hands and finger nails looked to be blackened by dirt or grease. Possibly they were appalled by his green winter jacket, with stuffing peering out from several prominent tears, which hung open because of a broken zipper. It revealed a red-grey, overstretched sweater beneath it. And then there was his black pants, that showed very few signs of their original blue colour, hanging off him loosely just above dissimilar rain boots. Maybe the loathing they so willing exhibited toward him was due to their fear of how one of their own kind could become nothing more than a pest, an animal, living in the gutters of the streets so near to their warm homes.
He righted the cart and stuffed spare clothes that the second hand stores had rejected into it, followed by several small items neatly wrapped in plastic grocery bags. A clump of loose plastic bags hastened from the heap and began to blow across the snowy sidewalk like tumbleweed. He ran after them, dodging between several pedestrian's legs to track them down before finally catching up with them and running them back to shove them down the side of the cart. From the snow bank he picked up the final item, a bag full of small toys found in fast food kid meals that the thrift store down the street had discarded. Placing it on top he then gathered up a tattered sleeping bag, threw it over all the cart's contents and stuffed it down on each side to secure the load. He pushed the cart past everyone and down the sidewalk toward the underpass next to the intersection.
It was mid afternoon at the beginning of rush hour. As he pushed the heavy cart under the bridge the sun high on the Western horizon was starting to fight its way through breaks in the clouds, snowflakes shimmering in its rays now and then as they lightly drifted down. It was a considerable contrast to the series of white outs that had inundated the city throughout the day. Mountainous grey clouds that had passed through were giving way to the clear skies of a Northern cold front pushing in.
He had to hurry to his usual spot under the six lane highway before the lights came on to illuminate the darkening tunnel. The cart trampled over the crisp flattened snow on the sidewalk under the bridge. There was less snow to deal with under the bridge and he was able to manoeuvre more efficiently to his destination. He stopped halfway through the underpass, in front of the cement embankment that led up from the sidewalk. At the top of the embankment was a small cement wall where the echoing sounds of cars and trucks could be heard passing over the partitions of the expanse on the highway overhead.
Careful not to disturb any of the carts other contents, he removed the worn sleeping bag and spread it out over the lower part of the embankment in front of him just at the base of the sidewalk. He placed the bag of toys on one side of it and tucked the empty loose plastic bags under a corner, then sat down on the other side, his feet wrapped through the cart that he had positioned in front of him. Pedestrians passed by him on the sidewalk giving him a wide berth. The traffic was busy with cars stopping under the bridge to wait for the traffic lights to change. He paid no heed to either as he settled in for the night.
Across the road another cement embankment stretched up from the sidewalk to a cement wall decorated from end to end with colourful geometric graffiti. He studied the lines and geometry of the art, making mental notes of any changes in the drawings from the night before. The lack of light along the wall had allowed the greens, reds, oranges, yellows, blacks and blues to stay vivid and sharp. He noticed a new shape on the far right that was different. A soft white had been added in a rectangular shape, illuminating the dark corner. It would be interesting to see how that would be incorporated into the scene once the lights came on, he thought. There was still over an hour before the sun would go down and the flood lights that illuminated the road on either side would be needed.
He diverted his attention to the bag of toys beside him, pulling it over to his lap to examine its contents. Pushing aside a small broken doll, he pulled out a toy car to look it over more closely. It had a few small scratches on the paint, but was probably one of the better specimens he had found today. Lifting the corner of the sleeping bag, he pulled one plastic bag out of the clump trapped underneath. Carefully, he flattened it out next to him, placed the car on top, and then folded each corner over it to wrap up the small toy. Once it was secure within, he placed it with the other presents in the cart. Meticulously he continued to examine and wrap the remaining toys in the bag.
After an indeterminate amount of time he set the bag aside and looked up at the wall above the opposite embankment. The lights would be coming on soon as the underpass had become darker. He felt the butterflies in his stomach at the thought of what he might experience on this night, Christmas Eve. He followed the dark outline of the vibrant designs. Each one flowed into the next with perfect precision. Green blended into blue which blended into the red and so on to the right, stopping abruptly at the white bar at the end. Each shape that had been drawn was distinct from the next but belonged to the same family, the same designer. He looked up at the flood lights to try and wish them on so that the scene could begin to play out. Cars continued to flow through the underpass but he barely noticed them any longer. The pedestrian traffic had dwindled to just a few last-minute shoppers.
The rattle of the wheels from another shopping cart caught his attention. He watched its approach from the intersection, pushed by a small chubby black woman
with a curly haired young white man walking alongside her. He recognized the woman. She worked at the shelter a few blocks away. They arrived in front of him and stopped.
“Hiya Mr. Rogers, how ya doing tonight?” the woman asked.
“Fine, thank you,” he answered, trying but failing to return the smile back at her.
“It’s gonna be cold tonight, so we’re handing out these brand new sleeping bags to everyone.” She pulled a vinyl bag from her cart, pulled open the draw string and pulled out the sleeping bag. “Here ya go.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the