The Walker Road Senior Care Center

 

They used to just refer to them as "the old folks' home". Convalescent centers, senior care facilities, any of a handful of titles to describe the same thing. There are varying levels of care and focus, from assisted living to full, around the clock care. Warehousing for a generation, as it passes from the harness pulling the wagon to the slow wait to be rendered into glue or paint. Our subject in this case is the Walker Road Senior Care Center of Sabine Falls.

The Walker Road Center, as it is known familiarly to the locals, opened it's doors mostly unnoticed in 1979. With eighty beds it was considered a bit over scale for a Sabine Falls retirement home at the time. The developers were looking at the rising curve of the WWII generation, and the treasure trove of baby boomers to follow for years to come. They weren't wrong. It was designed to provide a modest standard of comfort to a people who were of modest means and mindset. For most of it's history the Walker Road Center did just that.

In the ensuing years, the founders of Walker Road Center discovered that many others had identified the trend, and even though these others were late to the dance, they had surpassed what Walker Road Center could offer in care or comfort. Still, there was enough steady demand for them to tool along in their business. Profitability was eroding, however, until they succumbed to the offer of a buyout in 2009. They were hardly unique. This is a tale repeated thousands of times over across the nation.

Within a decade of their purchase the Walker Road Center, as it was still known, found that nearly half of the residents in their care were Medicaid or Medicare patients. That was a trend that continued until today, when at any given time the census may be comprised of as much as two thirds on some form of public assistance. Of course, the residents are still afforded qualified care. They just don't get the best care that money can buy. They get the best care that government money can buy.

Only a fool would attempt to sugarcoat any of these places as a house of happiness. To be fair, that is not to say that they are all pits of abject misery. Most fall somewhere in between. The Walker Road Senior Care Center is no exception to this rule. 

                                                                                                               

 

Monique Willams had been part of the care staff at Walker Road Center since the first year after the buyout. She was a transfer from the parent organization, moving there from Louisville in 2010. She'd already had eight years with the company then and was now celebrating her twentieth year in their employ. 

At the time of her transfer, some of her peers questioned her judgement in moving to the obscure backwaters of Sabine Falls, but she had no regrets. Being a single, working mother of two was an arduous task under any circumstances. That burden had been considerably lessened by escaping the South Louisville neighborhood off Heywood Avenue. Her two daughters, both grown now, had suffered no ill effect from being the only dark specks in a sea of lilywhite. Monique was pretty certain that she'd be a grandmother by now if they had remained. Thirty-eight was way too young to be having grandbabies!

It was the first Saturday after the Thanksgiving weekend, December 3rd. After rising through the ranks to become a nursing supervisor, Monique did not work a lot of weekends anymore. This day was unusual. She was appearing in relief for a nurse who had fallen ill. The digital clock in her Ford Focus read 6:44 AM as she pulled into the employee parking at the rear of the Center. As she began to turn into a parking space, she caught a glimpse of a dark blur in her periphery. It registered, but she hadn't seen it clearly. Once parked she looked about to see what it might have been, but seeing nothing she decided it had only been a shadow.

Monique did not have any reason to think that someone or something was lurking about the back lot. She was not of a suspicious nature and experience dictated that there was nothing to be afraid of here. She braced herself for the cold, gathered up her bag and then exited the warm car for the dash to the entrance. After stepping around the back of her car and onto the lot she was stopped in her tracks. Not afraid. Startled. There, ten feet before her in the lane, was a large, coal black dog. Maybe it was a German Shepherd? Except that it looked rather... wolfish. The dog was not threatening in any way. It just sat there, ears standing straight up, tongue wagging. It looked almost like it was waiting for some command. It wore no collar that she could see, no ID tags of any kind.

"Well! Where did y'all wander in from, huh? You're a pretty boy! Are you a boy?" Monique spoke to the dog in a childish, singsong voice. She didn't make any move to touch it, but as she spoke she began to step around toward the door. She continued turning her head toward the dog to watch what it would do, but it didn't move other than turning it's head to watch her passing. When Monique reached the entrance, she called back to the dog again. "You be a good boy, now. Go on home!" In response the dog licked it's chops and lay down to rest it's head on it's front paws. Monique shook her head in amusement and headed inside.

The rear door entered into a service hall that ran near the length of the building. On the wall opposite the twin doors was the time clock and the adjacent bulletin board with all of the requisite US Department of Labor postings.  To the left of the time clock area was a row of employee lockers, faced on the opposite wall by a row of coat hooks and loose hangers.  At this time of year Monique was able to judge staffing conditions just by the coat hooks. On this particular Saturday morning there were plenty of hooks available. She sighed as she hung up her coat and stowed her bag in a locker. When she clocked in, she knew this would be a long one.

She continued down the hall to the left, to the double doors at the end that were the entry to the front lobby, nurse's station and administrative offices. Along that path she passed the laundry, where she was hailed by Rhonda or Rhoda, one of the housekeeping girls. She couldn't remember which name was right.

"Mornin', Miss Monique! What are you doin' here today?"

"Oh, another covid casualty, you know...", Monique sighed, "How you doin', girl?"

"Well, I'm here, ain't I?"

"Hey, you know if anybody lost a dog?"

"Huh?"

"There's this big black dog out there in the parking area. He was just standin' out there like he was waitin' for somebody. Very pretty dog! I tol' 'im go on home, boy, an' he just laid down right there. I was wondering, like maybe he belong to somebody here?" 

"I don't know, Miss Monique. I ain't seen it. You say it was out there just now?"

"Yeah, right as I come in here. Go take a look!"

Rhonda/Rhoda (it was Rhoda, actually) happily obliged her and went to have a look. She stood outside the back door, scanning all across the well-lit lot, but saw nothing. She even thought to give a whistle and call out "here boy". She gave it a minute or so and when there was no sign of the dog anywhere, she shuddered against the cold and raced back inside.

"Ain't no hound out there now, Miss Monique! He must have taken your advice and went on home."

"Well, I hope he did! Pretty dog like that must belong to somebody!"

Monique went on about her day from there, with little time to give any further thought to the strange dog. The worst of the pandemic had passed them over, but the lingering covid protocols were still very taxing upon their daily operations. That was, in fact, the reason for her being there that day. It seemed very peculiar to her that Fulke County, on the whole, had almost no covid in the previous two years, and yet the Center had continual positive testing for covid among their staff. Even now, nearly three years after the outbreak. There was a lot to be questioned about the past three years, but Monique was wise enough to just keep her head down and her opinions to herself.

By now many of the more draconian restrictions had been lifted. This, however, did little to raise the dismal spirit that resided inside the walls of the Walker Road Center. The severe isolation of 2020 and 2021 had done more to kill off their residents than any virus. For those remaining, who had been there through these years, there was little joy to be found in regaining half of their rights. Half of nothing was still nothing. Now, at the advent of the Holiday season, the emptiness and sorrow of the past few years was magnified. The Center had been without an activities director for nearly two years. Only the most sparse of seasonal decorations had been placed and there was not yet any Christmas Tree in the seniors' common area. The common area had only come back into use in April and there still seemed to be a good deal of confusion about what was or wasn't permitted.

It was nearly 9:00AM by the time Monique had an opportunity for a break. She took a bottled water and a coffee to the nurses' station and prayed she could have five whole minutes to sit down. She was joined there by one of their long-time aides, Marla Horn. From the station there was a view out to the common area. Monique was staring at it, only noting what she didn't see. Just that big, empty space where a Christmas Tree should be standing.

"You know what, Marla? Next time we got enough bodies on the floor in this place, I'm gonna come in here and get a Christmas Tree put up!"

Marla chirped up, "You might not have to, Miss Monique. We got a new volunteer on the sign-up sheet, supposed to be in here today to do decorations."

"For real?"

"It's what I heard Stacey say. They got the name up at the desk. Guess we'll see if they show up, huh?"

Stacey was Stacey Hutchinson, the Center's director. "Yeah, I guess we'll see. That's some good news. These folks need somethin', you know? There's a big weight of sadness here. I feel it every time I come in this place!"

Marla said nothing but nodded in agreement with a knowing look. Monique actually got her whole five minutes, finished most of her coffee and downed half a bottle of water. She told herself that it was just a little under six hours to go now, knowing that it was more likely to be nine.

A little over two hours later, about forty-five minutes before lunch service, Monique was back in one of the resident wings to visit with two of the Center's longest residents. Celia Bennett and June Barker had both been with Walker Road Center since the summer of 2018. Though neither of the ladies were in stellar physical condition when they had arrived, Monique had observed a frightening deterioration in each of them through the pandemic. They had reached a stage that she could only describe as fragile. Every time she saw them, more and more, they resembled delicate, glass replicas of their former selves.

Both of these residents were so physically frail that they could not walk. Of the two, Celia was still often lucid. June seldom spoke, except for sudden, occasional outbursts of gibberish. Celia was having a fairly good day, relating some account of her baby's first Christmas back in 1963. Monique followed her hoarse whisper as best she could. In the middle of this halting narrative, Marla Horn appeared.

"Miss Monique, I don't need to take you away. Just wanted to let you know our new volunteer showed up. When you get up that way stop and say hello. He's kinda cute!"

"A he?"

"Yup. Gotta run, see ya later!"

Monique spent another ten minutes with Celia as she reviewed both her and June's charts. She made notations as she followed Celia's wispy tale. A cute, male volunteer. That will cause a stir, she thought with a slight smirk. At a suitable pause she excused herself, reminding Celia that it would be lunch soon. Celia was still in 1963.

Monique worked her way back to the nurses' station rather deliberately, in part because lunch service would begin in about fifteen minutes. In truth, because she did want to get a look at this volunteer. There was some legitimacy in this. As the Nursing Supervisor she was the de facto MOD (Manager on Duty) for the facility at the time. It was proper protocol that introductions be made. When she arrived there, she was dumbstruck by what she saw.

Across the common area, over to that gaping blank space of two hours before, there now stood a small, sturdy platform, four feet square and about ten inches high. Resting in the center was a stunning eight-foot tree, planted in a skirted tree stand. Blue Spruce replica, with needle tips occasionally "frosted" by snow. It was only after absorbing this sight that Monique realized there were two other nurses and two nurse's aides also congregated at the station. They seemed likewise dumbstruck, though their gaze was not fixed upon the tree.

 

Monique angled around, unnoticed, to follow a line of sight over their shoulders. This directed her eyes to the bank of windows to the left of the main and ambulance entrances. These windows looked out upon the visitor parking at the front of the building. There was one thing dominating the center of that row. It was the largest, shiniest, silver pickup truck she had ever seen. If the sun had been shining that day it would have been blinding to behold. As she continued looking out that window, she saw what these ladies were watching. It wasn't the truck.

There emerged from the rear of that truck a tall, dark figure of a very well-dressed man. In black, from head to toe with a smart, wool overcoat. No hat or cap, just a wavy mane of jet-black hair. He had some strands of lights looped around one shoulder and a couple of boxes nestled beneath his other arm. And he was headed up the walk towards the entrance. Before she was even aware of saying it, Monique heard herself utter, "That is our volunteer!?" She startled the girls from their apparent reverie, some even caught blushing. 

"Alright, ladies. Y'all got someplace to be?" It was enough to chase them off. She looked at the truck again. She couldn't tell what state it was from, but the plate was a vanity: KRISTOF. Then he was in the doorframe, nearly filling it. Six foot four if he was an inch, broad shouldered and.... so dark. "My Lord! He's near dark as me!", she couldn't help thinking. Seeing her there he flashed a brilliant smile, his eyes twinkling.

"Merry Christmas! You must be Miss Monique? I'm Kris. Come to set up your Christmas display."

The man was perfectly chiseled, like some Greek demi-god rising from the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. His hair was a glistening black, like a sable cap upon his head, with just a breath of silver-grey at his temples. His twinkling eyes like a kaleidoscope, at once amber or gold, flashing to aquamarine, then jade. They were... hypnotic.

"Yes, I am Monique Williams, Nursing Supervisor. Pleasure to meet you, Kris. It looks like you have this well underway..."

"Thank you. Miss Monique?" He placed the lights and boxes down at the platform and approached. When he was at an arm's length he continued, "I wonder if you would be so kind as to bring June Barker, Celia Bennett, Patrick Carmichael and Warren Woodhouse up here? I'll arrange some tables for them so they might enjoy their lunch in the common room today." He spoke it in such a matter-of-fact tone, so fluidly.

Monique blinked and stood silent for a few seconds, then replied, "Kris, would you please set up some tables for four? I would like to bring June, Celia, Patrick and Warren up here to join you for lunch today."

"It would indeed be my pleasure, Miss Monique."

Monique did not even recall Kris asking her to do it. In her mind she believed that this had been her own idea. There was a Christmas Tree now! Kris had come to help them. Now she must do her own part. She had said she would, right here at this nurses' station only hours before. She had a flash of memory, her grandmother reminding her, "Ain't no time like the present, child!"

The selection of those four residents was right. Her two ladies and their male counterparts, Patrick and Warren, were the only remaining residents from before the pandemic. Patrick had joined them in 2017 at the age of 73. Diabetic. Now 78, Patrick was their youngest charge. Warren Woodhouse, ironically, had been with them the least amount of time of any of the pre-pandemic survivors, while still being their eldest resident at his current age of 88. Warren had come to them in May of 2019. He was completely blind.

By 12:15 all four of the seniors were seated, as comfortably as possible, arranged in a semi-circle before the Christmas Tree platform. Their hot lunches had been delivered there for them, today it was cornbread with ham and beans. There were two aides present to assist with their lunches, though none of them exhibited any enthusiasm for eating.  Monique suddenly felt dizzy, for a moment paralyzed yet ready to pass out. She blacked out for an instant, then blinking her eyes she returned to consciousness. She knew where she was, recognized who was present and... had absolutely no memory of how they had all arrived here. Still disoriented, Monique steadied herself at the back of Celia's chair. And there was the mysterious Kris, holding court up on the platform like it was his stage.

"I am so happy that you are all here. I was greatly honored by your invitation..."

Monique thought, but could not speak, "Wait...what? Invitation?"

".... I thought that perhaps we should begin with these lovely lights I found. I think you'll all really like them. Especially you, Celia."

It didn't appear that any of the four were listening to Kris at all. They were barely paying any attention to the meal set before them. Undaunted, Kris proceeded with his task, moving with grace and purpose as he unwound the strands about the tree. In a matter of minutes, the lights were in place and lit up.

"These are rather special lights. They'll take a few minutes to warm up, but definitely worth the wait, as you will see." Kris moved over to the left side of the stage, smiling broadly and looking very pleased with himself. The smile faded as he stood there so straight, his hands clasped behind his back. He waited there for the warmup to occur, but he could not keep a little grin from creeping to the corners of his mouth.

All of the lights were shining; they had been since they were plugged in. What were they waiting for? And then, after several minutes some of the bulbs began to flicker. Then there were still more. From the side Kris now pointed excitedly, "See! There they go! They're starting now!" True enough, it was and soon the entire tree was ablaze. With bubble lamps. Such vivid colors, red and pink and orange; green and blue and sparkling bubbles. You could even hear their gentle gurgling within the tubes. There was a distinct glow that formed around each one of the lamps. It grew and grew into a single glowing orb, encompassing the tree first, and then the whole platform. It cast a warm, orange glow throughout the room.

Kris stepped down from the platform, still grinning. As he began to move toward Celia the glow from the orb surrounded and followed him. By the awestruck faces of the aides Monique could tell that she was not the only one seeing this. Kris halted right in front of Celia, within an arm's length. He reached for her just until the glow surrounding him brushed against her sleeve, then in a softer voice said, "I think Celia can tell us all something about these lights. Celia? Would you, please?"

The glow quivered upon her sleeve and then smoothly spread to envelope all of her. Monique could hardly believe it was happening, but right there before her eyes she watched the miraculous transformation of Celia Bennett. The white hair slowly bled into a soft, chestnut brown. Limbs that had been mere bone with skin stretched across were suddenly full and supple. The color of her face returned and her eyes, for the first time in three years, regained a spark of life. They were witnessing a Celia Bennett restored to the age of 23. Then Celia began to speak, not in a hoarse whisper, but the gentle lilt of a young woman.

"See Miss Monique? This is what I was telling you about before. In 1963 it was our first Christmas with our first child, Laura. The year before I had been pregnant at Christmas time and we were having some hard times. We didn't have a tree in our home that year, so the next year, with a new baby, my husband Carl tried to make everything very special. He went and picked up these bubble lights at Sears. I hadn't ever had bubble lights on my tree before. I just remember that Christmas night, all the other lights turned out in the house and sitting there in my rocker, with Laura in my lap, staring at those lights. This is my happiest Christmas memory!"

Kris returned to the platform as Celia spoke, opening one of the boxes he had brought in. "Isn't that lovely? Thank you for sharing your Christmas memory with us, Celia!" He removed two handfuls of tree ornaments and held them up for the room to see. They were rather small, not shiny or colorful at all. It really wasn't possible to see any of them in any detail. "Now here are some tree ornaments I have found. They look rather old. Do any of you recognize these?" 

The orange glow slowly separated from Celia and formed to hover in the air between her and June Barker. Celia slowly melted back into her current day form, though her eyes seemed to retain some of that glow. The little glowing cloud drifted over and settled upon June, starting the same transformative effect as they had just seen with Celia. The rigid, moribund form that had been the June Barker they all knew, was slowly transformed into the 33-year-old version of a woman none of them had ever met. Her white hair reverted to it's original black, the lines fading from her face and, again there was that gleam returned to the eyes. No longer staring lifeless, her brown eyes were animated for the first time in years. She even sat up, unassisted, and began to speak.

"Those are mine! I know those ornaments! My son made those for the family when he was ten. The year before we lost him."

"Oh my! Thank you, June. I wonder, would you be so kind as to tell us more about these while I hang them up on our tree?"

"My, yes! They were from an ornament kit, from the Leeward's craft store. They were in pre-cut shapes from balsa wood. There were sheets of colored Victorian prints. The prints were cut out and decoupaged onto the balsa shapes. They even had a little gold string to tie a hanger onto the top of each one. There were twenty-four of them, all scenes from a Victorian Christmas. He was so proud to put them on our tree. He'd worked on them for weeks, trying to make sure each one was perfect! That was my happiest Christmas ever, that last one with him! We kept hanging those on our tree for years after. Wherever did you find them?"

Kris pretended not to notice June's question, just went on hanging the ornaments. "My goodness, look! She's right! They still have the little gold strings. Here's one. A horse-drawn sleigh in the snow, a Victorian gaslight with Christmas bunting wrapped around the post, carolers in Victorian dress. You have a sharp memory, June! Thank you for sharing with us! These are quite delightful!" He was practically giddy.

The same process repeated itself, with the glow fading from June and gathering as a wispy trail in the air, reforming again to a small orb suspended above Patrick Carmichael. Kris returned once more to his small pile of boxes, rummaging about for his next treasure.

"Oh, will you look at these? An old favorite from yesteryear! We have a set of tin soldiers and nutcrackers, and a ballerina... look at the extraordinary painting on these!" Kris pulled out several pieces from the box to display before his captive audience. They were indeed some exquisitely crafted pieces, painted with great detail and brilliant colors. They appeared to be quite old, though they were in pristine condition like they had just been opened from their original box. "Do any of you recognize these figures? I think we can fit these onto our tree as well!" 

As it had with the others, the mysterious orange glow descended gently upon Patrick. The rough and cantankerous Vietnam vet of 78 years, the double amputee with no legs from the knees down, slowly melted away within the orb. Patrick was transformed to a mere boy of 11, as he had been in 1955. Legs and all. He then spoke to the room in the breaking voice of the pre-adolescent.

"That was my best Christmas ever! When I was a boy all I ever wanted to be was a soldier. There was the set of soldiers, I would play with using the nutcrackers as the enemy. There was a cannon too! Do you have the cannon there?"

"A cannon, you say? Let me look again..." Kris returned to the boxes and searched a little further. After a moment, "Why yes! Here it is!"

"Yes! That's it! I haven't seen these in years!" The light of wonder shone from the boy's eyes. It was that innocence before a boy becomes a man and realizes that soldiers and cannons are serious business, not just playthings. This was a lesson he would learn ten years later when he went to Vietnam, but for just this moment Patrick got to relive that wonder.

This vision lived on for a few more minutes, until the magical orb slowly departed Patrick as it had the others. It seemed to have gathered a bit more mass with each visitation. Patrick resumed his current form and the orb then hovered about the last chair, where Warren was seated. Kris returned to his hoard of Christmas trinkets gathered beneath the tree. The strands gurgled away, casting their multi-colored light upon the ornaments and toy figurines arranged throughout. Kris returned to the front of his little stage with one final piece from his collection.

"This is the final piece I've brought to share with you all today", he announced. He held it up for all to see. It was large enough to be seen clearly by all. Except for Warren. It was an angel, one clearly intended as a tree topper. It was different from your typical angel figure. There was no flaxen hair or cherubic cheeks normally assigned to angels. She wore all white, had wings of white, but any similarities ended there. This angel figure had black hair and skin like fine china, but a face that was clearly Asian. It looked almost like a Geisha girl. "I think we shall place this at the top of our tree! What do you think, Warren?"

At this, the glowing orb settled upon Warren Woodhouse, a man who had been completely blind for nearly five years. It slowly folded around him until he was glowing with it from head to toe. Before their eyes he was transformed to the young man he'd been in 1952, at the age of 18 and attired in his dress uniform. The young man they saw in that chair slowly removed the dark glasses from his face and stared up at the angel being set atop the tree. He could, for the moment anyway, see once again. He rose from his seat to stand and point up at the angel.

"That is her face! I never thought I would see her face again. I never learned her name." Warren gushed this out, staring up at that angel. He turned and addressed the room then. "When I was 18, I went to fight in Korea. I was full of piss and vinegar! I was gonna whoop some gook's ass! Heh..., funny how that worked out. On November 5, 1952, I got my ass all shot up. They were gonna leave me for dead, or so they tell me. I don't remember nothin'! I was in a coma for forty-nine days. Think of that! Forty-nine days! And on that fiftieth day? That fiftieth day was Christmas Day, friends. I woke up for the first time in fifty days!"

Warren stopped there for a moment, either searching words or collecting his thoughts. He remained standing erect in that crisp uniform. He wasn't done.

"I didn't know where I was, other than I was in a bed. I was suddenly awake and I started looking around. I could see I was in some kind of hospital. Somewhere. Turns out it was Tokyo, but I didn't know that just then. I started checking myself. I still had bandages on my head, on my left shoulder and arm. Had IV tubes stuck in me. Things were not looking good. And then she came. This nurse just shows up at my bedside. This is the first person I had seen since getting pulled off the line. Her face was perfect, her skin like porcelain. I hadn't tried talking yet and all I could think to say was ' What day is this? '. In perfect English, with a voice as sweet as an angel, she answered that it was Christmas Day. She was Japanese, I think. Maybe South Korean. I don't know, I never found out. I have always remembered her as my Christmas angel. I've seen her face for years in my dreams." 

Warren stood there a moment longer. That youthful face grew a little sheepish, perhaps fearful he had shared a little much. The glowing orb slowly began to fade from him and he returned to his seat. The crisp uniform faded away into drab, grey flannels and the hair once again receded from his head. Once he had returned to his current form, he placed the dark glasses back upon his face, blind as he had been moments before. The orb floated up and reformed above him for one final time before, in the blink of an eye, it simply vanished with a little pop of light, like a camera flash.

Monique had been staring right into that flash. For a moment she saw spots floating before her eyes, then the strange dizzy spell as earlier. As before, she blinked her eyes free of it and looked around her feeling she had just arrived. She remembered everything she had just seen, and yet now she was seeing the four residents being cleaned up and readied to return to their rooms. Kris was gone. His boxes had been tidied up. She looked at the tree, still there with lights, ornaments and an angel on top. There was no one else around at all.

She wanted to ask the aides what they had seen. She wanted to ask anyone what was going on, but she didn't. Maybe she was afraid of the answer. She searched the eyes of her aides. They weren't looking at her like she was crazy. That was good.

She went over toward the entrance, looking out into the front of the lot. The giant, silver truck with the vanity plate was gone. Then she thought of something else. She went over to the receptionist's desk outside the admissions office. There was a sign in sheet there. She got to the desk and right there it was. The last entry was from 11:00AM that day. A Mr. Kristof Maspiritos, volunteer. So she wasn't crazy. He had been there.

Monique was certain of all the things she had seen that day. She knew what she had seen but somehow, she knew that she was one of only a few who had seen the same thing. And that she dared not speak of it. Her day continued along through the afternoon hours, with it's mundane routine. She found her charting very difficult, unable to focus as her mind kept drifting back to that magical lunch with Kris and her four special residents. By 5:00 it had grown dark again and the evening shift had settled in. It was time to go home.

She worked her way back to that door she had entered ten hours ago, saying her goodbyes along the way. At 5:15 she had put on her coat, gathered her bag and clocked out for the day. The back door scraped loudly upon the frozen concrete and let in a fearful gust as she prepared to leave. She had to stop to catch the door from the wind and push it shut. She felt the door latch and she turned to head for her car. There was that big black dog again, just as she had left it that morning. Ears pricked up, tongue wagging, he was looking rather pleased with himself.

"You been here all day, boy? Whyncha go on home?"

The dog inched closer to her, not threatening at all, bowing it's head in submission. She had no reason to fear. Monique leaned down closer to the dog and gave him a gentle pet behind the ears.

"Ain't you got a home, pretty boy? What you doin' here, huh?"

The dog raised it's head and licked her face. Caught her quite by surprise, but still she laughed. Then the dog simply turned away and padded off into the darkness. Monique chuckled to herself, "Ain't that a thing? Monique seen it all today! Heh-heh-heh.."

                                                                                                              

We have all heard a reference made to the "happy place". It's that room in one's mind palace that is the retreat, the Alamo, that last line of defense against the unthinkable. Or worse. It's that psychological escape hatch from whatever madness assails you.

There is also such a thing as one's own, personal Christmas happy place. Everybody has one. Well, most of us. It's that one special memory of Christmas, the one year when it really mattered. The one you can never forget.

Kristof Maspiritos delivered and decorated a tree for the Walker Road Senior Care Center, but he brought more than that. We think of that Christmas happy place as being the province of children. This tale shows us that, even if only for a moment, this happy place may be kindled at any age. 

A Night at the Parliament

 

It was Christmas Eve, 1982. I had only been in Toronto for a few months. That day it snowed. All day. It was the kind of snow that came in really big flakes; a wet, heavy snow that sometimes joined multiple flakes in a circle that would spiral down from the heavens, like children dancing about a May pole. Most people appeared to have already reached their holiday destinations. There were few cars moving and those that were parked were rapidly transformed into puffy, white mounds lining the streets. The boughs of the trees sagged heavily under this descending white blanket. Along Queen Street they seemed to bow in respect to the passing of a rusty red TTC streetcar. I would meet my newly found friends at the stop on the next corner.

This was the first of what would later be many holidays that I would spend away from home. With age I have become more easily reconciled to the idea, but as it was at that time a new experience for me I did not relish spending Christmas alone. I had not yet experienced enough in life to appreciate that for some this prospect was more of a choice than a misfortune. This was certainly true for the two souls with whom I would spend the next twenty-four hours. We were indeed an unlikely trio, yet within that teeming metropolis on the shores of Lake Ontario there were surely others more peculiar. All of us were driven together by a social convention that had no room for any of those on the margins. Whether by circumstance or by choice, this was the space we inhabited.

This had been Charlie’s idea, inspired by what I couldn’t imagine. Charlie was Anglicized. His real name was Karoly Horvath. I had met Charlie only a few short weeks before at a neighborhood bakery on Roncesvalles Avenue, where he worked on the overnight shift. In those years the neighborhood surrounding Roncesvalles and other streets in proximity of High Park were populated largely by a Hungarian and Polish community. Charlie’s story was a woeful tale, yet even now I can recall him as one with a very cheery disposition.

The bakery where Charlie worked was just over a block from my basement apartment right on Roncesvalles. I had passed the place a number of times and had always admired the impressive display of fresh baked breads and pastries in the storefront window. One late November morning I had been up all night and passed at an earlier hour than normal. It was around 5:30 and Charlie was concluding his nightly duties until the daughter of the bakery’s owner arrived to take her place at the sale counter. It was rainy, a bitter, chilling rain driven by angry winds blowing up from the big lake. I happened to make eye contact with him as I came upon the store window. He was sitting at a small table nearest the display, smoking a cigarette. He smiled and motioned for me to come into the store. Though I had not much further to go, I was soaked to the bone. It seemed the ideal opportunity to indulge my curiosity over the bakery’s offering, so I accepted his invitation. The glorious aroma that greeted my nostrils when pushing the shop door open assured that I would not leave the place empty handed. I could not contain my wonder.

“Oh my god! It smells so good in here!” I stood just inside of the door, dripping rain all over the floor.

Charlie sat his cigarette aside in the ashtray and hopped up from his seat, motioning for me to sit. “Here! You sit! I will bring us something.”

Before I could respond he had already bounded behind the counter. I didn’t say another word and gratefully took the chair opposite of his. For the first time I became aware that I was still half drunk. I fished inside of my coat pocket and pulled out a pack of DuMaurier’s and a matchbook. The matchbook at least had managed to remain dry inside of my coat, but otherwise every inch of me was still dripping. Any attempt at even handling the matches was futile, so I leaned over the table and took a light from the ember of Charlie’s still burning cigarette in the ashtray. I noted that he smoked Export A.

After several minutes of bustle somewhere behind that counter Charlie returned to the table, carrying a serving platter with a bread knife, butter and a fresh baked loaf. There was also a small tea service with two cups and a small, stainless kettle. He appeared immensely proud of himself as he placed these upon the table and withdrew a couple of commercial grade kitchen towels from a back pocket. Upon seeing these I began to offer apologies.

“I’m sorry about getting the water all over your floor. I can...”

“Tut-tut! If it is rain outside we must want wet floor, yes? Ha-ha!” Almost playfully he tossed the towels to me. “Here! You try to dry hands and face and I will slice some bread. Do you like tea?”

This was Charlie as I ever would know him. At one moment effusive, with a staccato of excited exclamations, to be followed by a bemused silence awaiting your response. Though we were yet to even introduce each other I found a good deal to learn of the man. His English was quite good, yet tainted by a heavy and unmistakable Hungarian lilt. I judged him to be somewhere around forty, yet still bursting with youthful energy. There was the slightest paunch about the midsection that did more to belie his age than anything else about his appearance. Perhaps that was all the bread and pastries, but his ruddy cheeks bore a resemblance to a cherub, suggesting that he may have been chubby as a child. Charlie’s most striking physical characteristic was by far his eyes. They were a brilliant hue, a blue only a shade lighter than a robin egg and wildly expressive.

He had brought a rustic loaf that was common in his homeland, a favorite and one which he professed to be his specialty. He told me the name of it in his native tongue, though I can not recall it now. I would classify it as being something akin to French bread, but more savory. He had a right to be proud of it. The loaf was still warm when he cut into it, a small cloud of steam escaped into the dim light there behind the storefront display. He presented me with a couple slices, spread with an herbed butter that melted into the tender center of the bread. We shared bread and tea as we briefly became acquainted. Proper introductions were exchanged and I came to learn that Charlie had come to Toronto by way of a defection at the Canadian Embassy in Vienna, just six years before. I wasn’t to learn the entirety of that story until Christmas Eve.

“You know in Hungary I worked for the State Bank”, Charlie mused, “When I was getting all of my immigration papers I think there was n left out of banker, so now I am here! A baker! Ha!”

This was a favorite joke for Charlie. I would later learn that he would share it with nearly everyone he met. Charlie was fluent in his native Hungarian, as well as German and Polish, and in six years he had achieved at least a solid competency in English. It was during his absorption in English that he had made this ironic discovery about his profession and had remained forever after amused.

On that day of our first meeting I asked what I owed for the bread and tea, but he just waved it off. Since he refused any payment I instead purchased a small sack of dark breakfast rolls to take home. In the weeks that followed I would visit the bakery once or twice a week, always at that early hour when Charlie was closing out his nightly shift. There was not always a purchase involved, but always we would sit there behind the shop window in the predawn hour to share tea and cigarettes. We often conversed in German. Despite having attained a measure of fluency in the language I seldom had opportunity to practice. Charlie was always happy to oblige and I was always happy to help him in his continuing effort to sharpen his English.

Charlie was most fascinated with America. I have no doubts of his most sincere manner, but it soon became evident to me that what primarily interested him about me was the fact that I was an American. At one point I asked him why, when he had defected, he had not chosen the United States. This question elicited a small chuckle before he explained that at the time he had to act very quickly in order to get away with it. The fact that he chose the Canadian Embassy was only because it was the physically closest place for him to seek asylum at the moment he had been able to break free from his group. The US Embassy had been a greater distance and he had feared that he would be discovered in that time. I had thought that surely in the time since he would have at least been able to visit the states, but when asked Charlie sighed and with a rueful look replied no.

It was about ten days before Christmas when I paid a visit to the bakery and was surprised to find that Charlie had a helper. I entered the shop that morning to be greeted by a young man with a startled expression. For a moment he remained frozen next to the baker’s cart he’d been navigating from behind the counter. He was swarthy skinned and gaunt, his eyes dark and darting, as though he were searching for the shortest escape route. With wary eyes still fixed upon me he turned his head to one side in order to project his voice back into the kitchen area, calling “Karol!”. The young man’s sense of panic was patently obvious as he sheepishly tried to cover by offering half a grin with a nervous laugh. In almost no time Charlie emerged from the kitchen. For the first time I saw him in a state other then his typically beatific affect. He was thoroughly dusted in flour and locks of his thick, unruly hair were matted with sweat against his forehead, peeking from beneath his baker’s cap. He very rapidly rattled off something in what I assumed to be his native Hungarian. The young man replied meekly and returned to his task. Charlie dusted his hands and came forward to speak with me.

“I am sorry my friend! We are quite busy with Christmas orders and I am afraid we are very much behind schedule.” He smiled apologetically and motioned behind the counter, “That is Jacek. He is just come from Poland. The Tolsz family are sponsoring him, so now he is baker’s apprentice. I am not certain who is helping to who! Ha-ha! But he is a good boy! If you are free maybe you come back at 7:00?”

I was blessedly at leisure that morning and was able to agree to a 7:00 return for tea and croissants. I walked on down to Queen Street and caught the streetcar to ride up and down the Queen Street line twice before returning to the original stop and heading back to the bakery. About the only smart thing I did after arriving in Toronto was the purchase of a TTC Metropass for the modest fee of $35 per month. Such an expansive public transportation system was completely novel to me, but I discovered that in addition to the transportation the pass was also a nearly boundless form of cheap entertainment. Whenever I had time to kill, and little money with which to do so, I would simply ride on either the Queen Street trolley line or one of the subway lines. In those years one could ride from one end of the east-west Bloor line to the other in 35 minutes. On most days a round trip of a little over an hour was like a trip to the theater where scores of vignettes played all at once upon a live, moving set.

Returning to the Tolsz family bakery at shortly after 7:00 I found Charlie seated in one of his customary stools behind the storefront. The baker’s cap had come off and the thick, disheveled mop of hair had been drawn back from his forehead to dry. He looked exhausted, yet I could not stop myself from laughing at this comical image. As his hair had dried it formed two long, thick clumps on either side of his head. They had fallen away waving, appearing as though he had grown a pair of wings. Charlie was blissfully unaware and puffed away at one of his Export A’s. He was speaking with Jacek who was next to him, standing, not seated. As I approached Jacek turned to look at me, his dark eyes showing his recognition from our earlier meeting, and there was again that nervous smile. Seeing him more closely now I was even further astonished at how rail thin he was; so much so that this even appeared in his face, the bones of which strained from beneath the skin to project the skull within. His eyes were of a deep and gentle brown, like a cow’s eyes, yet against that gaunt face, dark skin and coal black hair they only shone as empty, black orbs. I had an immediate impression of one who was hunted. Charlie ended whatever he had been telling Jacek and seamlessly converted to English to welcome me.

“Ah, Thomas! You have returned! This one...”, he gestured towards Jacek as the young man began to seat himself at our little table, “… wanted to leave! I just told him to sit with us. Come, come! Sit down!”

I took my place, with my back to the storefront. “Hi Charlie! You guys were really busy last night!” The exhaustion had faded from his face. He was alight now.

Charlie shrugged. “Bah! I have done more by myself! Thomas! I must make proper introduction.” He reached out to place a hand upon both of us and then proceeded to address us each in our turn. First, in Polish, he introduced me to Jacek as Thomas, his young American friend. Then, to me “Thomas, this is Jacek. He is just arrived from Poland a week ago. The Tolsz family are sponsoring him here so he will be working with me.”

This was little more information than I already had. Charlie halted there for a moment as I reached across the table to shake hands. I nodded and said “Hello, Jacek. Pleased to meet you.” Jacek accepted the handshake and with an awkward smile he feebly replied “Thomas, I am Jacek.” It was obvious that Jacek was uncomfortable and I could understand this. It was awkward for me as well, on the other side of a conversation knowing that he could understand little without Charlie’s interpretation. I was inclined to ask more, but it seemed so rude to sit and talk about him while he sat no more than three feet away. This did not stop Charlie, as he went on to elaborate.

“The Tolsz family are part of a group of east Europe immigrants here in Toronto. It is many and successful community. They sponsor many, like me, so I am happy to help. He can speak only Polish and some Hungarian, very little English. He wanted to leave and go hide in his room. Before you return I was telling him he can not do this. When I am first arriving in Toronto I was the same, but I learn to make friends. I learn to speak English. This I did not do hiding in my room. Yes?”

I nodded in agreement. There was no faulting his logic. I suspected that Charlie was a bit more of an extrovert by nature, and thus found this rather easier than it would come to Jacek. There was something in the young man’s manner that suggested his social awkwardness stemmed from more than just a language barrier. A question occurred to me, but I held some hesitation. Was it proper to address Jacek and just expect Charlie to provide the interpretation, or should I just ask Charlie directly?

“So… does he live with the Tolsz family?”

“No, not living in their home. Another family, a Polish family Bukowski, they have the Parliament Hotel on Sherbourne Street. Do you know it?”

“No… I don’t. I have an idea where Sherbourne Street is, but I don’t think I’ve ever been.”

Charlie’s face took on yet a new light. With just the slightest bit of imagination one could have easily pictured the actual light bulb switching on in the thin air above his head. As this idea came to full fruition in his head a mischievous twinkle gleamed in his eyes.

"Thomas! You do not have plans to go home for Christmas... aah... Jacek is alone for first Christmas, so... I think we share Christmas at Parliament Hotel! Aah? What you think?"

Charlie was one of those people with a rare gift. He was able to ask you to do something in a way that, without you're figuring it out, he was actually telling you what you were going to do. And somehow you just couldn't say no, even after you had figured out his trick. He could have had a formidable career in sales, if that had been his want. As it was I had no other plans for the day and even though I had only known him for a short time, I found Charlie to be good company. Outside of school I knew him better than any other soul in the entire city.

"Sure. Why not?", I replied. "What do you want me to bring?"

"Nem! Tsush tsush! You bring only yourself... we will have froehlicher Weinachten, yes?"

And with that the matter was settled. Froehlicher Weinachten was the imperative.

The light of the day was fading. The photocells already triggered, the streetlights came to life. There was a row of these lamps on my left in Moss Park as I approached the corner of Queen and Sherbourne. Each of them glowed like orbs of white fireflies in the looming twilight. I had passed about halfway by the park when I saw them up at the corner. There was Charlie, childlike looking to the sky as he tried to catch snowflakes on his tongue. I don't think that Charlie even saw me approaching until Jacek pointed while tugging at the arm of his coat. As I closed to within fifty feet of them Charlie called out his greeting.

"Thomas! You have come! Merry Christmas my friend!"

"Merry Christmas Charlie, Jacek. Have you been waiting a long time?"

"No, no... we have only walked here a short time. Come along! It's this way...", he motioned north, up Sherbourne Street.

Jacek mustered a rare smile and in his halting English offered his own greeting of "Merry Christmas, Thomas!". As the snowfall was beginning to abate we trudged up the slushy sidewalk along Sherbourne  Street. It wasn't terribly far, though I can not now recall exactly where the Parliament Hotel was. It has long since been torn down, replaced by a more modern and uglier building I am certain. I want to say that it was somewhere around Sherbourne and Dundas. It took a little less than ten minutes to cover the distance.

My first impressions of the Parliament Hotel from it's exterior are somewhat vague now. If I were left to but one word to describe it that word would be bleak. The building was not enormous, perhaps six or eight floors high. It was primarily brick construction, which for some reason had all been painted grey. The paint had to have been applied some years before as it was by then faded and weather beaten. Architecturally it had a feel of having been built between 1900 to 1920. It may have been older, I'm just not certain. There was a set of three concrete steps up from the sidewalk to the entrance, quite wide at the street level and then tapering into a platform perhaps fifteen feet wide at the pair of entry doors. The doors were wood, a very heavy and dark wood. One could see that these had been expensive and of some high quality at the time of their installation. They were appointed with brass fittings and six panes of glass in the top halves. The doors, like the rest of the building, showed their age. The varnish was chipped and peeling; the brass pitted and tarnished and the glass panes dull and clouded. A large canvas awning was suspended above the entrance with the Parliament name stenciled across in an old English script. There was a lip of about eighteen inches of canvas that hung over the end of the awning frame. In fading but still legible lettering this lip bore the words LOUNGE and DANCING.

Charlie was very excited, eager to get us inside and make introductions with his many friends in the community. We were hustled up the steps and Charlie pulled one of the doors open with a loud groan from the hinges. Once inside we found ourselves in a dimly lit vestibule space. The floor was covered there with heavy mats that were by then waterlogged from the day's snowy traffic. The interior doors of the vestibule had been removed, though the doorframes remained. Beyond into the lobby was an extraordinary contrast.

Where the exterior and entrance to the Parliament Hotel cried out with age and neglect, the inside was likewise aged, but with a preserved elegance. The furnishings were plush and of a decidedly European flavor, in a broad motif suggesting a 1920's vintage. The floors were a spectacular and highly polished hardwood with many Turkish rugs and runners in intricate patterns. The front desk was situated in the middle of the lobby space, an imposing semi-circle of a rich, dark wood with ornate carvings throughout. The wall behind the desk rose to the second story height of the lobby ceiling, with archways at either side leading into hallways. A large wall clock, about four feet in diameter, was on the wall above the desk and above this was hung an enormous tapestry of the great Polish eagle in white upon a field of red. No matter where one was to look from that entry that red banner would ultimately become the center of attention.

There were wreaths and garland of fresh cut balsam everywhere and candles were aflame in glass sconces all about the walls. A fairly large and finely crafted nativity set was in place atop the desk at the right end, facing toward the hall to that side of the desk. The hallway to the left of the desk appeared to be dimly lit, but the one to the right spilled light out into the lobby. From somewhere beyond that archway the sounds of music and merriment filtered out to the front. With that also came the sweet and savory aromas of a holiday feast. Had there been incense and bells it could have made for a high mass. My own experience of the holiday celebration up to that time had been limited to immediate family, a more modest and subdued occasion by comparison. As I drank all this in I actually grew a little uncomfortable. In our youth and inexperience new situations are unsettling, stirring anxieties over how one should act, what to say or not say.

I was left there to wrestle with my apprehensions  as I removed my hat and gloves. Charlie wandered casually to the desk to speak with a young man there. He was a very slight figure, bespectacled with John Denver lenses and very blonde hair, almost white. I had to assume that Charlie did not actually know him, otherwise there would have been some great show of introductions. I was to learn that he was a concierge, of sorts. The two of them conversed briefly in what I assumed to be Polish. I looked to Jacek, who for a moment flashed his shy grin and then his eyes darted nervously away. I saw the concierge nod then gesture towards the hall to the right. Charlie gave his thanks and then with eyes alight he called to us, waving to the archway, "Come, come! This way!"

I could not escape my apprehensions. I would go forward and they would shadow me in the butterflies of my stomach. I can not now imagine being so uncertain of myself, but I can remember that is how I felt as we followed down that hallway to the lights, the song, the feast. We traveled nearly the length of the building before coming to the entrance of the hotel lounge. It was actually a service entrance with the swinging double doors that had been pinned back for the event. There was a direct entrance to the lounge from the street on the back side of the Parliament, but those doors were locked. This was a private party.

As I can recall that moment now, after all of these years, it unfolds dreamlike in my head. The movements seem in slow motion, like watching wreaths of smoke float and drift in the halo of a lamp. Charlie had missed his true calling in life. In a just universe he would have been handsomely compensated in a career as a game show host. With our coats hooked upon the wall Charlie then ushered me from one table to another in a whirlwind. I was introduced to what I was fairly certain was the entire Bukowski family. Not all at once, but I think there was only one table in the place that was sans Bukowski. There were also the numerous cousins and in-laws of the Bukowskis; the Kaczmareks; the Chomaszaks; and various unintelligible streams of consonants. They were all very warm in their greetings and most them spoke English quite well, with an albeit heavy, Slavic lilt. It seemed that everybody knew Charlie and that he was beloved by all. It was either that, or this had been bring a Yankee night at the Parliament.

There was so much food! Everywhere. Ham, prime rib, more kinds of sausage than mortal intestinal tracts can bear. Potatoes, dumplings, cookies and pastries that were completely new to me. And beets. Lots of beets. I came from a place where beets are an ill tasting, pickled root vegetable that one is only forced to politely endure at an Easter dinner. In really dire straits maybe because it is the only can of anything left in the pantry. Up until that evening I had thought that this was all one could do with a beet. I was sorely mistaken. At every table I was heaped with more, obliged at every stop to partake.

One has not truly experienced the Christmas carol until one has known the joy of a Christmas carol led by a polka band, sung by a room full of drunken Poles. And a couple of Hungarians. Jacek had tagged along loosely, for the most part retaining his normal sullen expression. There were a few instances  when he broke off to exchange pleasantries with some of his fellow Poles, but not even understanding the language it was quite easy to sense that they were pleasantries and nothing more. Jacek was like me. A solitary sole immersed into a city of millions, still without a clue what the fuck he was going to do with his life. It was nothing that a few nips from a bottle of Stolis couldn't cure. Thus fortified I saw Jacek's face transform into some actual expression as he joined in song.

There was a lot of drink at that party. Vodka mostly, but also wines and other liquers. The Bukowskis had generously procured  some prized dessert wines, Tokaji, from Charlie's native Hungary. Charlie did not hesitate to imbibe, nor was he shy in sharing it. I was plied with several glasses between each fervent glutton. After Charlie launched upon his fourth glass a flush came to his cheeks and with each glass he pressed upon me he offered his assurance that the wine was very good for digestion. By the end of my second glass I was convinced that my digestion would surely need it.

This Bacchanalia continued apace for some hours, an orgy of food, drink and song. I was by this time no stranger to alcohol, or other mind altering substances, but coming from a teetotaling, Midwestern family this had been a Christmas celebration as I had never before known. Some time after 10:00 the party began to simmer down as many had planned to attend Christmas Mass at St. Stanislas the next morning. There were many farewells to offer until around 10:45 or so when they began to shut it down for the night. Charlie grabbed a couple more bottles of his wine and a bottle of Pertsovka, the dreaded Stolis pepper vodka. He then announced that the party was to move to suite 308, a space he had reserved across the hall from Jacek's tiny studio. I was still drunk enough that things had not yet begun to spin. We eschewed the elevator, which was way toward the Sherbourne Street entrance, and took the rear staircase up to the third floor.

The lamps in the stairwell were dim, the carpet well worn and fraying in spots. When we reached the third floor the hall lighting was little better and ancient floorboards groaned beneath the rugs at every step. It was not for neglect. The Parliament was just a very old building. Upon arrival at the suite Jacek darted into his studio across the hall to stow his coat. He must also have been looking for something else because he was a few minutes before joining us across the hall.

The suite was more than adequately furnished, yet still had a certain spartan character to it. With only a little imagination it was possible to envision it as originally conceived and deconstruct any additions made since. There was an anteroom at the entry, furnished with a sofa, a long coffee table and a pair of matching angel backed chairs. The chairs may have been pink at one time, but were by then faded to a dull grey/white with hints of pink. These were quite plainly high quality goods; they were, as the rest of the Parliament, simply worn by age. There were a pair of five foot tall floor lamps flanking the rear of the sofa that were lit from the wall switch at the door. They provided a warm light to the room beneath their tasseled shades. Wall to wall carpet had been added here, a deep pile in a rich ochre shade. It appeared that all of the original woodwork had survived with coordinated baseboards, chair rail and crown moulding. There was a textured fabric wall covering, not original. It seemed this may have been added at the time the carpet was installed, a vertical striped pattern in shades complimentary to the floor. In the center of the coffee table there sat a large, glass ashtray with a pair of  Parliament Hotel matchbooks.

There was a short hall that traversed to the bed chamber at the rear of the suite. The wood doorframe was still present, though the door had been removed. The space between the two rooms had been modified, probably little more than ten years prior. To the left there was an open closet; to the right a mirror with a pair of sconce lights to either side and, a wash basin complete with a soap dish, ice bucket and a set of glasses. Another door of later manufacture had been hung in the doorway to the bedroom. That door was closed. I was puzzled at the lack of a bathroom, but was informed that each floor had a pair of WCs and a shared bath.  I'd had little experience with hotels up to that point in my life, so I had never seen or heard of such a thing. Just imagine my later surprise when I was to learn that many hotels had operated in such a fashion for a rather long time.

Charlie insisted that he take my coat to hang in the closet and please go ahead and find a comfortable seat. As I was handing off my coat I went to retrieve a spare deck of cigarettes. I had forgotten that I had also stowed my walkman in the same interior pocket and it fell out to the floor. Jacek had returned to join us at just that moment. There had been no harm done and so I was simply going to pick it up and put it back in my coat. I caught, for just an instant, the most pure expression of quizzical, childlike wonder on Jacek's face. As was his manner he averted his eyes as soon as he knew I had seen his reaction. Instead of putting it away I switched it on, checked the tuning, then handed it to Jacek. He looked at it, looked at me and then finally, hesitantly, took the walkman with two hands. I swear he looked at it as though he had picked up a three-headed toad. As he puzzled the device I extended the headphones to his ears and then showed him the tuner and volume controls. I had tuned to an alternative station, CFNY. The the's Uncertain Smile was playing. There was nothing uncertain about the smile that broke across Jacek's face. He stood there grinning as I had never seen him, his eyes drifting away as he searched the music. Then I heard Charlie chuckle a bit.

"Oh!Ha-ha.... now he is lost, Thomas!"

"What do you mean?"

"That boy! If he was allowed? He would be spending all the day in his room listening to radio!"

I'd had a clue earlier, when I'd heard him join in with Christmas carols. So music was his thing. I motioned Jacek to enjoy listening and take a seat. Charlie brought glasses and the bottle of Pertsovka to the coffee table, then he and Jacek settled on the sofa. He seemed determined that this night we should smoke until our lungs burst, or drink until our livers burst, whichever should come first. I took my place in the chair opposite Charlie.

Charlie clapped his hands once then rubbed them together. "Ha! Now we are settled. You know it will be Christmas soon." He was beaming and wobbly, even seated. I think he had drank nearly three bottles of the Tokaji. Even from across the table the sickly, sour smell of it was on his breath. He lit up a cigarette, as did I and then he distributed the glasses. He took up the vodka, held it aloft and asked, "Well men! What shall we drink to?"

I held out my glass and replied, "To Christmas!"

Charlie echoed enthusiastically, "To Christmas!", and shakily poured from the bottle. He didn't drop much. He poured into Jacek's glass last, but Jacek remained slumped back into the sofa, lost in the music. I could see that Charlie was making ready to give him a nudge.

"Leave him be, Charlie. He's enjoying it. He'll probably fall asleep right there."

Charlie wavered there a moment, still holding the Pertsovka in his right hand. He looked to Jacek and then back to me. His grin widened even further then he laughed giddily. Almost to the point of tears. "You know...you are right, Thomas! He-hee...yes, he will sleep there." Then he took his glass and cried "Drink! To Christmas!"

So we drank to Christmas. And other things. There were more toasts than either of us needed. More cigarettes than either of us needed, and yet there in that moment astride the demon Stolichnaya we were having a bloody good time. I think Jacek officially punched out before midnight. The hour passed without notice. We drank and smoked and talked. Sometimes German, sometimes English. Around 1:00 AM, Christmas morning, Charlie started speaking in English. He went on for a while. I didn't interrupt him once.

"In Budapest I had very good job with State Bank. In Soviet style society the bank is an easy job. The work is not hard. I obeyed the rules; I get nice home for family. I can save enough money, maybe someday can even get a car. But this society does not allow a person to live. You are told what may and may not do. Nothing you can just do... a permission must be obtained for anything. You are not even permitted your own thoughts. You are to wait to be told what thoughts you must have.

Well...in 1976 I am having my twelfth year with the bank. I am good, loyal party member so I am given promotion. With this promotion I am granted exit visa to attend conference in Vienna, for week after May Day celebration. A group of us would go. They never let you travel alone and always political officers to escort. They always let you know they are watching."

He paused here with a big sigh. He muttered something in Hungarian, poured a little more vodka and lit another cigarette. After taking a drink and a few nervous puffs he continued.

"At end of second day our group is to join a banquet at a hotel near the convention, all taken together on a bus. When convention is over I am to the exit where the buses pull up. I am first to arrive and I see political officer waiting. He opens door, waves me through and watches me get on the bus. The bus is running, but there is no driver. So, I find a seat and start reading a magazine, to wait. A few minutes later I hear something at front of bus....I think it must be others arriving, that we are leaving soon. But I am wrong. It is the bus driver, but I am wrong bus! He began to drive away and I look back...and behind is bus that looks exactly the same! That bus pulled forward, the same political officer comes back out from the door and starts waving the rest of my group onto the bus! In this moment I understood the opportunity. I was free! 

But... I knew that I did not have a long time. If I was lucky then maybe they don't find out until they arrive at the hotel. If they find out before the bus leaves? I maybe don't have much time at all. I was excited but very frightened at the same time. I did not wake up that day and say I will defect from Hungary today! I had no plan... I never dreamed I would have this chance!

At this time the bus driver is still not knowing I am on the bus. And I am thinking, thinking... I know I must act, but not to panic, yes? I do not know Vienna so I am watching out window, looking for a good place to get off of the bus. I see the driver is circling the convention hall, coming back to a main street... more busy. He pulled up at a traffic signal, waiting to turn left.... back toward the hall. I decide there that I must get out, so I rush to front of bus. The driver was very frightened! He thought maybe he was being hijacked. I tell him I am very sorry for getting on wrong bus, but I must get out now!"

Charlie paused here, again for another cigarette. His deck was empty so I tossed my own out on the table and motioned for him to help himself, which he did. A fresh ember glowing, then he resumed.

"The driver realizes he is in no danger...we are still stopped by traffic signal. So he asked me where did I think the bus was going. Now I am having more panic... I am not sure how I should answer this question. I only have picture in my head of political officers chasing me down, taking me back... before I know what I am doing I hear the words from my mouth. I want to get to US Embassy! The signal changed and the driver begins to turn left. Now I am going mad, so afraid...

The driver goes on in traffic, he speaks to me very calmly. I think he begins to understand what is happening. He tells me, calm down my friend. I am not take you to US Embassy, but let you off down this street and tell you the way. I hear this and I am thinking, thinking... clock is ticking... what to do? I am same time watching out windows, looking for the kommissars. We drive past street of convention hall and I see other bus is now gone. So for one time I am thinking maybe I have more time. I nodded, told the driver Yes! Yes, that is good.

We drive then, maybe another six blocks. I am watching out windows, every way. Still see nothing. The driver then pulls to curb, I hear air brakes hiss. I look to see where we are. I can not read street sign, but then I am looking up this street on the right and I see Canadian flag! Maybe two blocks away. I ask the driver how long on foot to US Embassy. He tells me maybe 15, 20 minutes. So I decide then. I tell him I get out here. The driver tried to tell me the way to go, but I tell him no. No time, I will get out here! He shrugged, opened door and says Schoene Glueck, Freund!

I do not think I even remember to say thank you, but then I run! I do not look back, I do not stop until I am under that flag! I remember thinking I do not have time. I think back now... maybe I did have more time. But let me tell you, my friend. When you have a thing coming after you, a thing that can take your entire life away from you in blink of an eye? Then it does not matter where you want to go. Then it only matters where you are!

I came to the guard, out of breath, sweating. It was warm that day. I tell him, I am Hungarian citizen and I wish to defect. He was very young fellow, maybe your age. His eyes grow wide. He tells me he will call someone. I am waiting at the gate...waiting, watching for officers. I am having nightmare of coming so far and then captured. Then finally a man in suit and tie, an embassy staff, arrives at the gate. I do not remember now what he asks me. He asks me some questions, I answer. He goes to telephone and speaks with someone else. I am waiting then maybe only two more minutes and he is back to open gate and let me in. So! That, my dear Thomas, is how Karoly Horvath becomes Charlie, the Canadian baker! Ha! What do you think?"

By this hour I was completely plowed. To this day I can not imagine what kept me from vomiting everywhere. But I had held on through Charlie's incredible tale. In my severely drunken state I could only muster, "Charlie, you are one lucky sumbitch!"

He looked puzzled for a moment. "What is sum-bitch?"

I laughed. "I'm sorry...you know.... lucky son of a bitch..."

"Ah, yes. Son of a bitch. Ha ha! Yes! Very lucky...", but his facial expression was not that of a lucky man. It was instead an expression of..., regret? Remorse? His tale was not done.

"So I have done this. I am now a free man. And I am a selfish man. I leave behind a wife and young daughter in Budapest. She is thirteen now and does not know her father."

I'd had no idea. This was the closest to melancholy I had ever seen of Charlie. Of those who shared day to day interaction with Charlie none would ever guess at the heavy burden he carried. I wondered if he had shared this with anyone else, or was this a convenient confessional? Was it the drink? That had to be a factor. Alcohol is a potent truth serum, whether we care to admit that to ourselves or not. There was a part of me that felt honored in some sense, that he would share such a thing with me. At the same time I was left somewhat uneasy, in the moment feeling that something should be said and yet, I had nothing. What could one say? Who among us may judge?

Charlie had professed a desire that neither Jacek nor I should spend the holiday alone. I believe that desire was sincere, but I also believe that this was camouflage, for it was Charlie who most feared being alone for Christmas. I watched as a cigarette burned down between his fingers. He had stopped speaking and eyelids had grown heavy. It was only a matter of time before he would, like Jacek, slump back into the sofa. I got up and gently removed the smoldering cigarette from his fingers and crushed it thoroughly in the near overflowing ashtray. His eyes remained shut and he mumbled something, but did not resist as I leaned him back into the cushions. It was quarter til two, Christmas morning. 

I gathered my coat and hat, fishing a pen out of one of those pockets. I took up one of the Parliament Hotel matchbooks that had been carelessly tossed aside on the table, turning the cover inside out so the plain white was exposed. I wrote Weinachts Geschenck on the cover and then perched it on top of the walkman resting on Jacek's chest. I didn't feel comfortable claiming the bedroom so I decided then that I would leave. I knew that the streetcars were not running, but that was okay. I had walked a similar distance through the city before. When I emerged out onto Sherbourne Street I was surprised to learn that it was nearly fifty degrees outside. And it was raining. By the end of that Christmas Day all of the snow had been washed away.

In the months that followed I would still see Charlie and Jacek frequently at the bakery. We would have our regular tea and cigarettes in the early morning hours, once a week usually. Charlie never again made any mention of that night or it's revelations. I sometimes wondered if he even remembered. The following March I left for British Columbia. I never saw or heard from either Charlie or Jacek again.

I would for years after hold warm and fond memories of that night, my first Christmas away from home. About a decade after I had become rather enamored of the "shoegaze" genre of music. In 1993 one of the leading acts in this category was a UK band by the name Slowdive. Their release that year of the album Souvlaki featured a song titled When the Sun Hits. From the very first time I heard the song it appealed to me musically, but a recurring lyric of the song struck me even more: it matters where you are. Those can be quite profound words in their own right, but they very nearly echoed Charlie's exact words the night of his confessional. ... it does not matter where you want to go... it only matters where you are.

I have pondered this phrase many times over. For thirty years now. It can mean so many things. "Where" may as easily refer to a time, than only a place. We sometimes talk about "where" we are mentally or emotionally. On a day in May back in 1976 it mattered that Charlie was in Vienna. That same day it mattered that an Austrian bus driver was in front of a convention hall. On a Christmas Eve in Toronto in 1982 it mattered that Jacek had made it there, to freedom in the west. And for reasons that I guess I may never know it also mattered that I was there that night. Maybe to give the gift of music to another? Or to be a confessor for an ailing soul?  

What was true then is still true now. And it will still be true tomorrow. It matters where you are.