Silent Night

Some people love Christmas; some people hate it…and then there’s me. I’m not particularly fond of it, and yet here I am, ringing a bell dressed as Santa Claus. It’s not my fault I haven’t found a better job. The crisis is affecting everyone. And if you’re among those who still believe in the American Dream, well, keep dreaming and do it for me, too, because I suffer from insomnia and I don’t know what a dream is anymore.

I ring and ring and ring this fucking bell as I watch the world pass by. I smile at everyone, though maybe I’m not such a nice person because I’d like to stick out my tongue every time a kid insists on pulling my fake beard. I also realize there’s nothing Santaabout me when I leer every time I see a handsome man. It doesn’t quite fit the Christmas spirit, but it’s the only way I can find a bit of sense in this torture.

To add insult to injury, I’m freezing my ass off here from standing on the sidewalk for hours. I’m lucky I have the padding. Not good for my self-esteem, because my waist looks like a life preserver, but it keeps me warm. This winter, New York seems colder than usual. The snow is everywhere and my nose is red, and not because of make-up.

I keep ringing, walking up and down this stretch of sidewalk that’s all lit up and full of shops. There are dark alleys branching out to the sides, but I try not to look down them. They scare me. Sometimes it seems as if this bright street is floating in a dark maze full of sadness and threats.

I’ve been ringing this bell for days now. Ten days of work to entice people to walk into a children’s bookstore. Giving away free books, in my opinion, would be more effective.

Speaking of books, have you ever seen a hobo with a book? Okay, a homeless man. I know I’m not being politically correct, but come on, let’s call things by their names. Of course, I’m aware we’re talking about a person and not a thing, so stop wrinkling your nose. It was just a figure of speech, for fuck’s sake.

Anyway, I’ve noticed him a couple of nights now: a small figure crouched on the ground. I still haven’t managed to look at his face, because he’s always curled up on himself beside the door of the old movie theater that’s been closed for years. He wears a hooded sweatshirt that makes it impossible to see his face, and he never raises his head. He wears dirty white sneakers and gloves full of holes from which his fingers sprout, red from the cold. Unexpectedly, between those fingers, there is always a book. I don’t know if it’s always the same book or not, but it’s strange to see a homeless guy begging andreading.

I’ve tried several times to peek at his face, but I’ve never succeeded. I’ve never managed to catch him while he leaves his spot, either. It’s almost as if he waits for me to be as far away as possible before he disappears.

He leaves in silence, the same way he quietly sits on the ground during the day.

I bet you’re wondering why I don’t go and talk to him, since I seem to care that much. But you’re delusional if you think I care. I don’t, to tell the truth. It’s curiosity, not interest. Like an itch that goes away before you have the satisfaction of scratching it. It isn’t that you miss the absence, but you know…a good scratch always gives some sort of pleasure.

The guy looks very young, certainly younger than me.

I’m thirty, so he must be twenty-two or twenty-three. At least, that’s what I think. If I could look at his face, maybe I’d figure it out. I’m not saying I sacrifice my beauty sleep by pondering about him, but still…I can’t help thinking it would be a pity for someone that young to waste his days in such a pointless way—if he isthatyoung.

At times I do humiliating jobs and I’ve never had a steady one, but at least I’m not freezing my ass off by sitting on the ground for nothing.

Every so often, people throw him a few coins, so I think he has enough money to buy some food

Okay, I get it. I’m going to leave him a dime, so you can stop rolling your eyes.

Do you know what strikes me the most? That in all the hustle and bustle of people walking around like crazy ants with their load of gifts and packages, in this cacophony of sounds and songs and fake laughing Santas, he stays there, a steady and silent presence, like a black hole that swallows noise and chaos and regurgitates them in the form of quietude.