Snow Day

by Billy Coffey

  “I need someone to help me here!”

  But the shouting snapped us into one consciousness. For a brief period, time ceased to exist. Every conversation, every movement, every thought stalled.

  What to do? That was the question I supposed was on everyone’s mind because it was the question on mine. Shouts mean one of two things—trouble or anger. Both things people tend to avoid being around. So for a moment we all stood frozen, waiting for our fight-or-flight instincts to kick in.

  “Is anybody there?”

  Most flew. But they at least made their exit with a cool ease, an I-was-leaving-anyway-really-I-was departure that belied a sense of cowardice. Others took a more forthright approach and chose to feign temporary deafness. The I-choose-not-to-hear-it-so-it-really-isn’t-happening ploy.

  Some, however, did not ignore the shouts.

  One was a man wearing an EMT jacket. No doubt trained to excel in such situations, he proceeded toward the sound with a sense of confidence. Shouts were a part of his everyday life, a hazard he was equipped to handle and handle well.

  Another was a middle-aged woman, short in stature but tall in stride. She gripped her purse close to her side and strode off about four steps behind the EMT. “World’s Best Nana” was stenciled on her sweatshirt. A grandmother. Also used to screams and shouts. If the EMT was there to heal, she was there to comfort.

  A man in a cowboy hat filed in rank behind her. Big mustache. Bigger boots, which clomped forward with authority and purpose. Whatever was happening, I suddenly felt much better. Who better to have around in the middle of an emergency than a cowboy?

  Last but not least, tearing past me with a power that almost knocked me smack into a display of boxer shorts, was a young man in fatigues. His presence made sense. Soldiers don’t run from danger, they run to it.

  And then there was me, dragging behind the pack. My fight-or-flight instinct was stuck in neutral. What could I do? I couldn’t keep him alive like the EMT, couldn’t comfort him like the grandmother, couldn’t keep things cool like the cowboy, and couldn’t protect him like the soldier. But the angel on my shoulder was screaming at me to move it, so I did.

  “Is there anybody to help me?”

  Yes.

  The five of us converged upon the shouts, along with just about every Super Mart employee in the store. We all stopped and stared, trying our best to process what our eyes were seeing.

  Standing in the middle of the aisle, all by his lonesome, was the man behind the noise. Late sixties, dressed in khaki pants, white Oxford shirt, and a blue sweater. One hand held a cane.

  The other held a skillet.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” asked one of the employees, who must have run the entire length of the store to lend aid. His voice was cracking and his eyes were bulging, as if he was either about to catch his breath or have a heart attack. I thought for a minute that the EMT would have to work on him first.

  “How much is this?” the man asked, lifting the skillet up to the employee’s face. “It doesn’t have a price on it.”

  Again, silence all around. At first there was confusion on everyone’s face. Each person in the group seemed to come to the reality of the situation at their own speed. There was no emergency. No blood. No danger. Just an old man alone in the cookware aisle who couldn’t find the price of a skillet.

  The adrenaline that had rushed through all of us was beginning to wane. The cowboy was the first to move off, and he did so without a word. He no doubt expected such things to happen when large groups of people converge in one place.

  Once the grandmother was convinced that things were fine, she left as well. But not before making the comment that she was glad no one was bleeding. Helpful to the end.

  Going, too, was the EMT, though with a great deal of reluctance and what looked like a bit of disappointment. But the soldier stuck around. Just in case.

  The store employees stuck around too, though not for long. Some rolled their eyes and tucked away yet another nutball customer story for their lunch break. Some began to laugh. Others, like the poor guy who’d just run the Super Mart marathon to get there, were pretty angry.

  “Sir,” he said. Nothing followed. He could say no more, though I still couldn’t read in his still-bulging eyeballs if he was mad or just out of breath.

  “I’ll check the price,” said another employee, hoping to get the situation over with so she could go back to tending to the rest of the flock of shoppers.

  “Thank you,” the shouter said.

  “Why did you do that?” another employee asked. “You didn’t have to scream like that.”

  “I needed help,” said Shouter, shrugging it away. “What was I gonna do, just wander around?”

  The young girl who had gone off to find the price returned. The skillet retailed for fifteen dollars and ninety-three cents.

  “Thank you, pretty lady,” said Shouter.

  The employees scattered then. All seemed a little more than agitated, to tell the truth. They didn’t need anything like that to happen. Not on that day. Not with the snow and the Christmas crowd.

  Me? I smiled. I applauded the shouter on the inside. I couldn’t condone his methods, but I couldn’t argue with the results. The man needed help, pure and simple. Wasn’t shy about asking for it, either. That fact alone gained him my admiration. After all, I’d known plenty of people who needed help but never asked for any.

  There was Dr. Benson, for instance. Great guy. One of those doctors who didn’t act like a doctor. Not stuffy or overbearing or aloof. Going to see him almost made you feel good about being sick. He lived with his family on a farm at the outskirts of town. I was just entering high school when Dr. Benson developed cancer. He caught it too late and it spread too quickly.

  His doctors gave him three months. Three months to get things settled, to prepare himself and his family. Three months to say good-bye. He did say good-bye, I suppose, but he never gave his wife and children the opportunity to do the same. He never told them about his cancer, never told them he was dying. Not until the last few days, after it was too late. In the end, he was alone. And so was his family.

  And there was Jack Taylor, who lived three streets over from me. Another great guy. He, too, had a wife and family. And he, too, was successful. So successful, in fact, that he had retired by the age of fifty. Jack and his wife took to the roads for a few years after that. They were always going somewhere to see something. Then the grandchildren came, and Jack decided it was more fun to stay at home. “Family first,” he always said. He always said a lot of things, usually ending with a laugh. He had the exact life that I wanted when I turned fifty. I wanted the constant smile and the presence of family and friends. The man had it all, as far as everyone in town was concerned.

  Which made his suicide all the more puzzling.

  Angela Ward needed help, too. She was sixteen and at a party one night when she decided to take just one hit of methadone. One and done, she promised herself. She kept that promise, too. But then at the next party she had another. And another. Her addiction took hold a few weeks later. She was in trouble, and she knew it. But rather than anger her parents or disappoint her friends, she decided to handle things on her own. No big deal.

  But it was a big deal. She overdosed a year later.

  There was no doubt in my mind that the shoppers and employees who had answered the shouter’s calls for help thought he was a lunatic—or a jerk. All that commotion over a skillet? What a waste of time. How embarrassing. But I didn’t see his actions as foolish. I saw them as gutsy. It takes some people a lot of effort to ask for a little help. And to even think of standing in the middle of a crowded Super Mart and scream for it? No way. That’s crazy.

  Maybe. But maybe it’s less crazy than not shouting for help when a disease cuts your life too short. Or when depression grips you to the point where you think you cannot possibly go on. Or when addiction claims you and you keep saying yes when all of your being is shouting no. Silence may s
ometimes be golden. But it can sometimes be deadly, too.

  I couldn’t speak for Dr. Benson or Jack Taylor or Angela Ward. I couldn’t know the reasons why they never sought the help they needed. I could, however, speak for myself. There were many times when I needed help but kept quiet. Oh, I was good with the little things: “Could you pick this up at the store for me?” “Lift up on that end, will you?” “Could you stop by and give me a hand with the truck?”

  But then there were the big things: “I’m feeling pretty down, and I don’t know why.” “I’m worried about something and I can’t stop thinking about it.” “I’m scared and I can’t shake it.” Those things I kept inside. I never really took the time to figure out why. But as I strolled off back into the crowd of busy shoppers, I took a few minutes to do just that. The answer I came up with surprised me.

  It was pride. I had always considered myself more humble than proud, and yet there it was. Asking for help meant I needed something that I could not provide for myself. Assistance was required. And there were times when I just couldn’t bring myself to let go of my macho manliness and admit that. All this time I was secretly reveling in my own sense of self-sufficiency. I thought I could do anything and get anything and be anything, all on my own. That was a great idea in theory. Not so great in application, though. All the junk a person keeps inside never really goes away. It just sits there, piles up, and starts to smell.

  My walking meditation about all of this took me into the book section. My list had been taken care of, and now it was time to do a little shopping for me. I began with the fiction titles and worked my way down. Near the end of an aisle was a section titled “Self-Help.” A burgeoning market, I noticed. There were lots of self-help books, all offering advice on everything from how to keep healthy to how to look young to how to be happy.

  All different variations of one common theme—you can change your life and make yourself better, and you can do it all on your own. You don’t need God. You don’t need anyone. All you need is this book and a little determination.

  I walked on, stopping to glance at the new calendars for the upcoming year. My eyes wandered from puppies to NASCAR to lighthouses, then settled upon one of the Shenandoah Valley. I picked it up, curious to see if any of the pictures were familiar. The photographs were beautiful, but October’s was especially so.

  It was an aerial shot taken in autumn. The Blue Ridge Mountains stretched out on one side. The Allegheny Mountains lined the other. The mountains were covered with a carpet of red and orange trees. The valley stretched into the distance between them, a maze of farmland and quiet country roads. It was a wonderful shot, one that made the purchase of the entire calendar well worth the money. I closed it up and tossed it into the shopping cart.

  Then I realized something else.

  I pulled the calendar back out and flipped to October again. There was my reason for not always keeping everything to myself. There was my confirmation that we all need a little help sometimes. That we can’t all do it alone.

  Yes, we were wonderful creations. Made just a little lower than the angels, the Bible said. Capable of many great and wondrous things. But whenever my pride took over and I began to feel as though I never needed anything from anyone, I would remember this: even God needs the help of two mountains to make a valley.

  9

  One for the Good Guys

  There was a secret to getting out of Super Mart without having to withstand the purgatory of the checkout line, and that was to find a cashier who wasn’t stationed in the front of the store. I took a chance and wheeled my shopping cart into the cubbyhole dedicated to all things Christmas, and lo and behold, there was an open register.

  I placed my items on the small surface by the scanner as the cashier—Carrie, according to her name tag—slid them one by one over the laser with the efficient rhythm of long experience. Each item inspired a loud beep of electronic recognition.

  “Busy today?” I asked.

  She looked at me—puzzled or annoyed, I couldn’t tell—but with a slight smile. What do you think, genius? This is a store at Christmas! the look said.

  “Oh yeah,” Carrie answered, popping the gum in her mouth. “We’re pretty much busy all day this time of year. And with the snow, it just gets worse. But that’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  I nodded and smiled and decided to keep quiet. Carrie put up a good front. Her long brown hair swished from side to side as she scanned the groceries, and each time she moved her left arm the Santa pins on her smock tinkled. And no matter how much she wished she were anywhere on the face of the earth besides sitting behind a cash register that day, the smile never left her face.

  Carrie announced the total with a sigh, then quickly recovered with a retail smile. I slid my debit card through the machine and waited for the register to spit out a receipt. Then I scribbled my name and gathered my bags.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said as I turned to leave.

  “Happy holidays.”

  My smile turned to a wince as I neared the doors. They stuttered open to reveal the promise of sweet freedom ahead, but there I stood, bounty in hand.

  If there had been people waiting in line behind me, maybe I would have kept going. I would have simmered a bit, then I would have gone home to my family and eventually put it out of my mind.

  But the checkout line was empty, and I had let too many things slide lately. There wasn’t much I could do about my life and nothing I could do about my job, but I figured I could get myself a “Merry Christmas.” I deserved it.

  “Carrie,” I said, turning around. “That’s your name, right?”

  “Yeah,” she answered, a little cautiously.

  “My wife and I shop here a lot. Groceries, movies, stuff like that. In fact, we’re probably some of your best customers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I would guess that, as one of your best customers, you would like to make me happy.”

  “I’m married,” Carrie said, flashing her wedding ring in my face. “Sorry.”

  “No, Carrie. It’s nothing like that, nothing at all. I just wanted to ask if you’d be kind enough to exchange my ‘Merry Christmas’ for one of your own.”

  “Oh,” she said. “No. Sorry. We’re not allowed to do that. It’s sort of a rule here. We don’t want to offend anyone.”

  “I won’t be offended, Carrie,” I said. “Promise.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “But have a great day and thanks for shopping at Super Mart.”

  Thanks for shopping at Super Mart.

  “M-e-r-r-y C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s,” I said to myself through clenched teeth.

  I pushed my shopping cart through the electric doors and back into snow. The slush became clogged in my wheels, forcing me to literally drag it to my truck. I was no longer in the same lighthearted mood I had been enjoying earlier. I was mad now. Beaten again. Not by fate or circumstance, but by the happy holidays.

  I walked to the other side of my vehicle, opened the door, and then shut it.

  No. This fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Because in the end I wasn’t fighting for me, oh no sir.

  I was fighting for sweet baby Jesus.

  Back into the Super Mart I stomped, straight up to the old man who was tending the shopping carts.

  “I would like to speak to the manager, please,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I would like to speak to the manager, please.” I tried not to shout.

  “Wha’s this about?”

  “Christmas.”

  “Huh?”

  “Christmas.”

  “Oh, Happy holidays to you, too,” he answered.

  Grrr.

  “I need the manager.”

  “Okay, okay, keep your shirt on,” he said. Then he walked away mumbling.

  He returned a few minutes later with the manager in tow. The mental picture I had formed in my mind of a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a bad mustache, and a sorry attitude proved to be
wrong. This lady had grandma written all over her. This was going to be harder than I thought.

  “Yes, sir, can I help you?” she asked.

  I smiled and said, “I sure hope so. I came in here a bit ago and said ‘Merry Christmas’ to the cashier. Nice girl and all. But she wouldn’t say it back to me. All she would say was ‘Happy holidays.’”

  She looked at me as if I were a kook. I tried smiling. It didn’t work.

  “Sir,” she began, “it’s a store policy—”

  “—yes, ma’am,” I said. “I got the whole rule thing from the clerk. I just don’t understand why that rule got written.”

  “We just don’t want to leave anyone out, sir. We don’t want to offend folks of other religions.”

  “What could people find so offensive about Christmas?” I asked. “The peace on earth, or the goodwill toward men?”

  She said nothing.

  And then I noticed something. I noticed what was hanging from the chain around her neck. It was tucked into her shirt, but it peeked out from the top when she crossed her arms.

  “You’re wearing a Jesus fish!” I blurted, pointing to her necklace.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “You’re wearing a Jesus fish necklace.”

  “It’s called an icthus,” she answered. “And yes, I am.”

  “That means you’re a Christian,” I answered.

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then… what… I.…” I trailed off, my brain in overload. “You’re a Christian. You celebrate Christmas.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then why can’t you say ‘Merry Christmas’?”

  “Like I said, sir, we don’t like to offend anyone.”

  “Why is Christmas so offensive?” I said again, and this time I practically yelled it.

  “To be honest, sir, I really don’t know. I don’t get it, either. But that’s just the way it is.”

  “Look, ma’am,” I said, “I know that not everyone celebrates Christmas. That’s fine by me. But why let this time of year go to waste? Take a look around. People are struggling. Hurting. But they don’t need a deal on ham or half off on a new television, what they need is a little vacation from wherever they are to wherever they think they should be. This time of year is for everyone. It’s a time for joy and togetherness and giving. Love and magic and hope. You can’t sum that up in ‘Happy holidays.’ But you sure can in ‘Merry Christmas.’”