Just North of Whoville

by Turiskylie, Joyce

  But why not? Why not?”

  I couldn’t take it any more. I hated to do it. But someone had to.

  “Because you’re gay!”

  “What?” he seemed completely taken aback as lights began to switch on in the building across the street and neighbors rushed to their windows.

  “You’re gay. I’m sorry.”

  Timmy stood there for a moment in shock. Then suddenly, he took off running down the street. He jingled all the way.

  17

  The next morning, at six a.m. on the dot, the roofers showed up. I’d barely slept the night before, but the loud banging and pounding upstairs didn’t bother me. Why did I need sleep, anyway? It’s not like I had a job. Don’t even need to do laundry if you don’t have a job. I just stayed in bed; watching bits of plaster hit the floor. My only other occupation consisted of mentally beating myself up. I felt horrible about what I’d said to Timmy. I could still see him running down the street in his pointy-toed shoes. I felt terrible. Actually sick. There was a tickle in my throat. I crawled out of bed and took my temperature. I had a fever. Great. I was coming down with a cold.

  Christmas had made me physically ill.

  A few hours later, I finally got out of bed, and filled the cat food dish. More than anything, I just wanted someone to talk to. I’d gotten used to submitting my problems to Dr. Prince. Maybe she didn’t always have all the answers, but at least she listened. It’s more than the Salvation Army Santa did.

  Midway thru the afternoon, I finally got in the shower. I was jobless and almost homeless---why should I even shower? But I did. Because I like to be clean. God knows how many hot showers I’d be able to take when I was homeless. Better enjoy them now.

  Two hours later, just as the sun was going down, I finally left my apartment. Not that there was anywhere to go. I didn’t have a job so I couldn’t spend any money. Couldn’t see any Christmas shows. Couldn’t afford anything festive at all. The play was up and running, so I wasn’t needed there. There was nothing I wanted to do, anyway. No pleasure in anything. I just walked. All over Manhattan. Christmas Island. But none of it was for me. I didn’t even deserve to have a Christmas. I spent the rest of the day applying for the meager positions listed online, nursing my Holiday cold, stressing myself out till the wee hours of the morning, and sleeping most of the day. I think this is what they call clinically depressed.

  The next morning, as a last resort, I dug out the business card Dr. Prince had given me.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Rankin’s office,” the receptionist answered.

  “Hi. I’m a patient of Dr. Prince. She gave me this number to call.”

  “What’s your insurance, dear?”

  She put me on hold. A few minutes later, she came back. “I’m sorry, but we don’t take that insurance. Do you have a secondary plan?”

  “No. But she told me I could call this number,” I said as I blew my nose.

  “We take most of the insurance policies she handles, but not that one. I’m sorry. I could give you number for the New York City Crisis Hotline.”

  “No. No, thank you. It’s not a crisis.”

  “Well, that’s good now, isn’t it?” she said, as if I were slightly retarded and had almost managed to color in the lines. “Merry Christmas!” she made sure to add before she hung up.

  I was now a problem for the city. A burden on the system. On second thought, maybe it was a good idea to get in the system now. After all, I’d probably be needing public assistance sooner or later. Did they still give out food stamps? Could I use them for cat food? Can you even bring pets into the shelters? Oh no. I’d wind up in the Bronx. Do they even get The New York Times there? This was awful. I’d have to move back home. Be one of those people who just couldn’t make it in New York. Sure, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere---but what if you can’t make it here? What then? Sinatra didn’t sing about that. I was at the lowest of the low. I needed to talk to someone. But who?

  I changed out of my pajamas and went to the coffee shop.

  The music wasn’t as cheery as usual. Elvis was crooning about having a “Blue Christmas” as I looked behind the counter for a little ray of Sunshine.

  “Oh---hi,” she said as she looked up. Oh my god. She was crying. Who would do this to Little Miss Sunshine? “I’m sorry,” she said as she wiped the tears out of her eyes. “How are you today?” she made an attempt at her usual chipper self.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My manager just told me I had to work Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I had plans to go to Connecticut to see my family. I have a ticket and everything. I was going to leave after work tonight. But he thinks it’s going to be busy and the new guy quit so I’ve got to work. On Christmas!” she said as she let out a muffled wail.

  I couldn’t believe the injustice. If anyone deserved a Merry Christmas, it was Little Miss Sunshine. I looked around the coffee shop, watching people happily sip their cappuccinos. Selfish New Yorkers. Didn’t they care? When did coffee shops suddenly stay open on Christmas? Did people need lattes that badly?

  “Who’s the manager here?” I asked.

  She pointed across the room at a slim, forty-something man behind the counter. “His name’s Dick.”

  How appropriate.

  “Excuse me, Dick?” I asked as I walked up to the counter.

  “Yeah?” he looked up from his inventory sheets.

  “You don’t know me, but my name is Dorrie Krakowski and I’m a regular here,” I introduced myself as I sneezed into a tissue.

  “Listen, I’ve been coming in here for months now. And one of the reasons I keep coming back is because of this lovely young lady here,” I motioned to Little Miss Sunshine, who was presently mixed with rain. Eyes all around the coffee shop were suddenly trained on me. I had an audience, which normally would have been frightening. But not this time. Because I could instantly see that they were on my side. “Every single day for the past seven weeks, this young lady has been wishing us a Merry Christmas. She’s been promoting the Christmas pastries. And she’s probably sold more Christmas blend than any other person behind that counter. Which, by the way, is not Christmas-y in any way, just so you know. What makes it the Christmas blend? No one knows. You,” I said to Laptop Boy who I recognized as a regular. “What’s in that Christmas blend?”

  He looked in his half-drunk cup. “I have no idea. It just tastes like regular coffee.”

  “And yet, you drink it,” I followed up. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he said as if it were the first time he’d ever even thought of such a question. “She was just so happy about it.”

  “Exactly. You know,” I said philosophically as I lifted his coffee cup up in the air. “Some of us are glass half-full people. Others are glass half-empty. And some of us really want to know what’s in that glass. But maybe, what really counts is how you sell that half a cup. Wouldn’t you agree, Dick?” Little Miss Sunshine had been wagging her tail for seven long, Christmas-music filled weeks. I was determined to spring her out of the pound.

  “Look,” Dick said as he put down his paperwork, “I’d love to give her the time off. But we’re short-staffed already and it might get busy.”

  “Okay,” I said as I looked to my people. “Show of hands. Who in here will protest this coffee shop and vow not to come back for one week if this young lady is forced to work on Christmas?”

  I raised my hand, and then I looked out into the crowd. Suddenly, the hands began going up. One, two, three, seven, twelve, twenty. The place was full of hands up in the air.

  “Dick,” I said pointedly, “this lady deserves the time off. Stop being a Scrooge. Let her go home for Christmas.”

  “Okay, go home,” he said as he looked at Little Miss Sunshine. “Merry Christmas,” he said grumpily and walked into his back office.

  The whole place burst into applause. Little Miss Sunshine was laughing and crying all at the same time. She ran over and gave me a hug.

&nbs
p; “Thank you! Thank you so much! All of you!” she said as she looked around the place and beamed like she’d just won an award. She was so overcome, that within seconds, half the joint was crying. Sunshine began walking around the place, giving people individual hugs. Then everyone started hugging everyone. What had I done? A Hug Fest? I had to get out of there. As I snuck out the door, I saw Sunshine take off her apron and happily toss it in the air. Between the two of us, she definitely deserved the Merry Christmas more than I did. After all, what had I done besides complain?

  As I made my way home, I suddenly saw a familiar sight coming out of the liquor store.

  Shoeless Joe.

  Wearing a pair of Christian Louboutin High-Top Sneakers!?!?

  “HEY!” I yelled as loud as I’ve ever yelled in my entire life. “You have shoes!!!! YOU HAVE SHOES!!!!!”

  He took off running down 42nd St. in his designer sneakers.

  “Oh don’t you even THINK about putting your bare feet on my train again…you LIAR! LIAR!” I yelled as he barreled across the busy intersection to get away from my stern arm of justice.

  “PANTS ON FIRE!” I tossed in just before he got safely out of my sight.

  People on the street looked at me like I was the crazy one. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t about to stand idly by anymore and let The Takers take over the world.

  I’ve been told this is what’s called a New York City Moment. The equivalent of Dustin Hoffman slapping the hood of a taxi and yelling, “I’m walkin’ here! I’m walkin’ here!”

  I’m aware that “Liar, liar, pants on fire” probably wasn’t very New York of me---but the same spirit was there. Don’t get in my way. Don’t mess with me. I’ve had enough.

  I got home and turned on my computer, intent on finding a job. I was gung-ho. The roofers were still going full-blast, but I’d learned to tune to them out. While online, I noticed my mother had posted some photos on her social networking page. Old photos, to be exact. Every photo of my visits to Santa at Kendall’s Department Store---ages one thru ten.

  My mood suddenly shifted.

  From Vigilante Girl to Santa’s Girl.

  Strangely, or not so strangely, every Santa looked completely different. Different suit, different beard, different face, different age and body weight. How could I have been so gullible?

  “Well honey,” my Mom explained on the phone that afternoon. “You wanted to believe, I guess. Though by the time you were ten, we started to worry a little. Started thinking maybe we should have you tested or something. Then your Dad said, ‘Stop worrying. She’s just a dumb Pollack.’ And we laughed and laughed.”

  I missed my family. Even their Dumb Pollack jokes.

  “Remember how I always used to ask for a horse?” I laughed a bit.

  “Oh your Dad and I felt so bad about that.”

  “Why? It’s not like we had room for a horse in the backyard. Probably would have killed himself running into the swing set.”

  “Oh I know,” she mused. “But when you were about to turn ten, I said, ‘Johnny, our only daughter wants a horse so bad and she’s such a good little girl. Why don’t we look into boarding one?’ So we left you at Grandma’s that weekend and went out to some stables and boarding facilities and we looked at a whole bunch of horses. The horse people were so nice and helpful. And then we saw this one horse. Oh honey!---he looked just like the one on that old TV show you used to watch on Saturday mornings.”

  “Fury?”

  “Yeah! That was the name. Well this horse had a different name I don’t remember, but looked exactly like him! And such a sweet horse. The owner’s daughter was about your age and she rode him around for us, so he was good with kids. We looked into everything and even got a vet to check him out to make sure he was healthy and well-taken care of. We were going out that next weekend to put the money down… But that week your father lost his job. The week before Christmas. His factory was being sued for having an unsafe workplace. People kept losing fingers and arms. It was terrible. He was a foreman so he didn’t use the machines, but they asked him to lie under oath in court. He just said that he wouldn’t do that. And I respected him for that. They didn’t fire him right away, they just waited a few weeks till the end of the year and then claimed they didn’t need him anymore. That was a rough Christmas. But having you as a sweet little girl sure did cheer us up.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not coming home for Christmas, Mom,” I blubbered and sniffled into the phone. “I feel so bad…”

  “Oh honey, it’s okay. I know you’ve been busy. We sure do like to see you, though.”

  Suddenly there was a pounding on my door.

  “Dorrie! Open up! It’s Alex!”

  I quickly told Mom I’d call her back later and opened the door. Alex pushed his way past me with an armful of his belongings and began dropping them all over the apartment.

  “Celia’s on her way over,” he explained. “We’ll only be here a few minutes. It’ll be a quick hello and goodbye and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Alex…no. I’m sick. I have a cold. And I’m tired of being caught in the middle…”

  “You have a cold? Great,” he said as he pulled the blankets back from my bed. “Here,” he tossed my box of tissues across the room. “Get in bed and we’ll be out of here in two minutes.”

  “What’s going on?” I muttered as he pushed me into the bed.

  “We’re doing dinner, discussing the wedding plans, and I’ll even bring you back some chicken soup. Okay?”

  “Stop it! No!” I finally stood my shaky ground. “I’m not going to lie for you anymore!”

  “Don’t screw this up for me, Dorrie. I’m marrying Celia and I swear to you on my mother’s head that I’m breaking it off with Tanya. I just need to do it carefully because….well, she can be a raving bitch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  We turned around and saw Tanya in the doorway.

  “You’re getting married?” she screamed. “You fucking asshole!” she said as she picked up Alex’s bottle of cheap cologne and smashed it to the ground.

  The room reeked of patchouli and sandalwood as she ran out of the place screaming and ranting in Russian.

  Alex just stood there with a dumb look on his face. “See,” he said, shaking in his khaki pants. “I broke it off.”

  But as she slammed the door to her apartment downstairs, I saw him wince. Then we heard the window downstairs being thrust open.

  “Shit,” he said as ran to the window and saw Tanya chucking his possessions out onto the street.

  “Tanya! Stop!”

  And then, a taxi pulled up.

  “Fuck! It’s Celia!” Alex screamed and began turning around in circles like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off.

  Tanya continued screaming as ties, Italian shirts and leather loafers fell to the ground. Celia looked impeccable in an Audrey Hepburn-type ensemble as she stepped out of the taxi and then looked up.

  “Alex, you fucking piece of shit!” Tanya yelled and tossed his briefcase out the window.

  “Fucking cunt!” Alex yelled and ran out of the place and down the stairs as Tanya continued screaming.

  As his briefcase hit the ground, Celia looked up. She saw me in the window. I whispered, “I’m sorry.” But I knew she was too far away to even read my lips. She knocked on the taxi window as the driver started to pull away. The taxi stopped, she calmly opened the door and eased herself into the back of the cab. The perfectly calm Celia was back. So cool and nonchalant. I don’t know how she always kept it together. Maybe Celia’s life wasn’t so perfect, after all. As the taxi door shut, Alex came running out the building.