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Around October, the nights in Scranton become cool, and by early December, can usually be described as frigid. This night, Christmas Eve, was no exception. The wind tore through the leafless trees, frosting breath and chilling bones. The snow fell severely from the gray sky, burying the landscape in bright white, although the darkness cast a demeaning shadow upon the white velvet blanket. Jimmy Bryant wrapped his tweed coat tighter around his lanky body, not noticeably upset that the zipper had been broken, more thankful that he had a jacket at all, as he opened the door to Volonino’s Tavern. To anyone outside, of course, the actual name of this bar would be unknown, as it was simply a door with a small, neon sign hanging above, a single word illuminated in bright red: BAR.
As he closed the door behind him, Jimmy shook the snow from his coat and hung it on a rack. Slowly, he made his way to the third stool from the right end, his usual spot at Volonino’s. He sat down, and his eyes shifted left, glancing down the bar. There were two men at the far end, one whom Jimmy knew, one he did not. Surprising, Jimmy thought to himself, I thought it’d just be Whitey and me tonight. The man behind the bar, Guarino “Whitey” Volonino, had been a friend of his since he had been a young boy. Tall, dark-skinned, with his jet-black hair slicked back into a ponytail and a blue polo T-shirt covering his bulky build, the Italiano was pouring a shot of vodka for the second man. Jimmy quietly scrutinized a little more closely, but was sure that he had never seen the man before. He appeared to be in his late twenties, a good-looking, blonde-haired gentleman with a navy blue blazer slung on the floor beside him, a white button-down shirt, and a pair of cargo khakis that seemed to be wet and torn at the bottom. Jimmy sighed, not nearly jealous, but wondering where his own youth had gone. Turning forward, he caught his own reflection in the metallic cooler. His once sharp blue eyes looked alert as ever, yet somehow tired, and he wouldn’t even venture to guess how many wrinkles crisscrossed his face. The years certainly have taken their toll, haven’t they, Jimmy? Then again...it’s only a.., Jimmy’s thoughts were cut short by Whitey, who had just made his way across the bar.
“Jim, you’re not gonna believe this. This could be it,” Whitey said, in an excited whisper. “His name is O’Brien. Mark O’Brien.”
“I know. You really think so?” Jimmy asked, amused. It wasn’t that Jimmy didn’t believe Whitey, far from so; but they had thought the same so many times, never with success. “Why?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy, just a feeling. He’s down.” Whitey glanced at the man sitting at the other end, who seemed to have just broken down into his shot glass. “Really down. You gonna help him?”
“Of course I am. Remember, though, that’s not why I’m doing this. It’s not for me...I never would have asked to do this in the first place if it was for me. I want to help. He deserves it from me.” Jimmy thought for a moment, and then began to stand up, catching himself once again in the mirror. This is for you.
Mark’s eyes watered as he downed his next shot, probably his eighth or ninth, and a fiery rash of pain ran down his throat. He couldn’t believe his luck. Fourteen months ago, he had met Holly, the girl of his dreams. Beautiful, smart, funny, and, best of all, she had fallen for him as hard as he had fallen for her. The last year had been so amazing...all the laughter, all the happiness, all the joy...all the more reason for him to drink himself dead. He glanced upward, and saw a miniature statue of Mary holding the baby Jesus. He felt even worse, and looked back down for a while. Then, wiping the tears from his eyes, Mark began to look up, and was surprised to see that the older man from across the bar had joined him.
“Mind if I join you?” The man asked him, in a kind tone that tore through Mark. Why does he have to be happy? Why is he being nice? Why is he even bothering me?
“S-sure.” Mark wanted to speak aloud his thoughts but didn’t. After all, he’d already screwed up once tonight by talking, better to not make the same mistake again. The man smiled, not a huge, happy smile, but kind, sympathetic.
“I’m guessing that there is something on your mind. After all, why would you be here, of all places, tonight?”
Mark felt indignant. Who was this man to pry? I don’t look unhappy, I look fine. “What makes you say that?”
The man turned his head towards the mirror directly across from their seats. “Look for yourself, son.”
Mark looked, and saw tears streaming down his face. He hadn’t even realized that he was crying. Eyeing the man, Mark noticed that, behind the wrinkles, there were kind, warm eyes staring back at him. Still, he felt uncomfortable. “I don’t know...it’s a long story.”
“Son,” the man began, “I figure that you don’t have much to do tonight, and I sure as heck don’t, so why don’t you just tell me what’s bothering you. I bet I can help.”
Mark didn’t know how this random stranger could help, but for some reason, he felt oddly compelled to talk to him. Without hesitation, he began his story.
That night, he had been invited to Holly’s parent’s house for Christmas Eve dinner. The whole day was fantastic, and by six-thirty, they were all gathered around the Christmas tree, exchanging presents. After pie and eggnog, the young couple said goodnight and went back to Holly’s apartment. There, they sat on a bench outside while they watched the snowfall, as the lights from all the surrounding houses glittered through the snow. After joining a group of carolers, the couple went inside to warm up and relax. That is, until Mark and Holly began fighting. Funny enough, Mark couldn’t even remember how it started, but he remembered her crying at the kitchen table as he stormed out of the apartment. That happened right after she asked him how he could be so horrible, and he replied that their relationship was the only thing that was horrible. He hadn’t meant it, of course, but at that moment, her anger was replaced by an almost tragic sadness. She told him to leave...leave, and never come back. He walked out without another word.
As Mark finished the story, he found himself crying even harder. The man, however, was still smiling. Mark wanted to scream at him, but again, he found himself compelled not to. The man seemed to think for a moment, and then spoke.
“Son, why don’t you take a walk with me?”
Was this guy kidding? Nine-thirty p.m. on Christmas Eve, and this guy wants to take a walk? There was no way Mark was leaving the bar with him. “Um...sure, I suppose.” What? “Let me just pay...” Before he could finish, the man waved him off.
“Please, let me. Whitey?” The man shouted to the bartender. “Catch.” With that, he removed a new-looking, black leather wallet from his back pocket and tossed it towards the bartender, who placed it in front of the man’s original seat. “I’ll be seeing ya.” The bartender smiled back as Mark and the man walked out of the bar.
A bitter breeze caught Mark as his newfound companion and he left the bar, and he realized that he had left his jacket behind.
“You won’t need it,” the man said to him.
“What?” Mark asked.
“Your jacket. You won’t need it.” The man grinned, and Mark looked back at him with a confused expression. “Trust me.” How did he know that?
They continued down the street, passing houses decked with lights, little plastic reindeer in the front, miniature Santa Clauses singing carols, and nativities. The man stopped abruptly in front of a three-foot-high Santa in front of what was probably the smallest and least-decorated of all the homes.
“Ah…” the man sighed. “Santa Claus. Truly one of the most magical people ever to live. So wonderful that he still visits so many people every year.”
Mark was utterly confused. “Santa? You know that he’s not…” he began, but the man cut him off.
“Not what? Not everywhere? I know, but that doesn’t matter. He’s like Jesus…only in the hearts of those who allow him.”
Suddenly, Mark regained his lulling control. Jesus? So this guy is some kind of preacher? Well, that was something Mark definitely didn’t need right now. He turned around, without a word, to leave.
“Something wrong, son?” the man called, after Mark had walked about ten steps.
“You’re going to talk to me about Jesus?” Mark asked crossly.
“No, I’m going to talk to you about what you need to know.”
“Really? And what, exactly, is that?”
The man looked up to the sky. “You know, you’re too angry. Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you. Just listen to what I have to say. Let’s face it, you don’t exactly have many places to go tonight, do you?” For the first time, the man’s smile disappeared. “I know you’re upset, but that’s no reason to take it out on me.”
Now, as if Mark didn’t feel bad enough about Holly, he felt bad for insulting this man. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to listen, I just don’t…well…”
“You don’t believe in Jesus.” The man finished the sentence for Mark.
“Y-yeah. I mean, not that I don’t want to, I just, I don’t know…I don’t.” Mark was feeling worse by the minute.
“You’ll be happy to know, then, that you don’t need to.” The man knelt down to the Santa statue. “Do you remember what it was like, waiting for him when you were a child?”
Mark thought for a moment. “Of course. Wonderful…it was wonderful. I couldn’t even sleep on Christmas Eve.”
“Same here,” the old man said, then, reaching into his coat, pulled out a worn, faded Santa hat and put it on his head. The fuzzy ball at the end laid against his right cheek, blowing slightly in the wind.
For the first time that night, Mark smiled. “Why are you wearing that?” he questioned.
“For the spirit, my young friend. For the spirit of Christmas.”
Mark felt much more comfortable around the man, and, as they began to walk again, he asked him a question. “Have you ever been in love?”
“I love many people, actually. I’m guessing you mean a woman, though…yes, I was in love once. But I couldn’t hold onto it.” The man, for the second time that night, looked up to the stars. “It wasn’t meant to be.” For some reason, Mark knew that the conversation was over.
Continuing on, they reached a park, and the man crossed the street towards the gates. Reaching his hand around the chain link fence, he opened the gate and walked in. Mark followed him.
Mark wondered why they were in the park. The old man walked towards the back of the park, to a dark, secluded section almost entirely covered by pine trees. Once in between the tall, snow-covered evergreens, the man reached into his pocked and removed a small chain. On the end was two triangles, one right side up, one upside down, that intersected to form a six-sided star, the Star of David.
“Um…what’s that for?” Mark asked.
“Just a little gift,” the man simply replied. He bent down, and laid the chain on top of a rock.
“But I thought you were talking about Christ before…I assumed you were Catholic,” Mark said. He didn’t mean to pry, but he was thoroughly befuddled.
“I am. This was from a close friend of mine, who was Jewish. She made me promise to bring it with me tonight.” He then reached again into his pocket, and took out a book of matches, and a red candle.
Mark sighed. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to light that. This breeze is freezing, you’ll never get it to stay lit.” Funnily enough, as he said that, the wind picked up, and pine needles showered the earth as the freezing breeze rushed through the dark spot.
“I’m not worried,” the old man replied, and with that, placed the candle on top of the rock. Amazingly, it stayed put, even though the rock seemed to have very little flat surface. The man then lit a match, held it to the wick, and the candle illuminated the darkness. “This, my friend, is my Christmas candle.”
Mark watched on in awe. The flame, while dancing back and forth with the wind, didn’t go out, and, stranger still, the candle seemed to bathe him in powerful yet comfortable heat. The old man sat down on the ground, beckoned Mark to do the same, and when he did, the old man spoke.
“So…why don’t we talk a little bit?”
Back at Volonino’s, the bar was empty, and Whitey began wiping down the counter. As he did, he noticed that a photo lying on the bar began to yellow, as if it was aging before his very eyes. He turned around, and looked at a small model of one of his favorite statues. It was Mary, holding the newborn Jesus.
“I knew he was the one,” Whitey whispered. As a tear began to fall from his eye, he looked in the mirror. His hair was slowly turning white, and he began to feel his skin becoming wrinkled. Instantly, he dropped the cloth, knelt down at that very spot in front of the baby Jesus, and began to pray.
“So, what is it that you want?” the old man asked Mark. He seemed to be staring into the yellow flame of the Christmas candle, watching the light dance with the wind.
Mark wondered why the man asked this question, as he had not asked to go for a walk; the man did. “What do you mean?”
“Son, it’s very simple. You want something. All humans do. You are so upset over this fight with your girlfriend, but why? What is it that makes you so sad?”
Mark wanted to answer straightaway, but he realized that the man was not looking for a simple answer. He pondered the inquiry, and after a few moments, he spoke. “Holly is…she’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t even picture life before her. She means the world to me…I feel like I would give anything to be with her. But now I can’t.” Mark felt a hot stinging in the corner of his eyes, but tried to fight back the crying. “For the first time in my life, it’s not about me…I want to make her happy. I have never felt that way before…never…sometimes it amazes me to think that I want nothing more than to make her happy.”
“You know,” the old man began, “I remember when I was very young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and I was in a car accident. My father, mother, and I were on our way to get a star for the top of our Christmas tree. It was a Christmas Eve tradition.”
Mark interjected. “You mean, tonight?”
“Yes, tonight, a long time ago. The roads were icy, and my dad lost control of the car.” The man again reached for his pocket, and pulled out a photograph. There were three people, a beautiful, dark-haired woman, a tall, handsome man, and an adorable young boy, no older than ten, wearing a Santa Claus hat that was many sizes too big for him. Mark didn’t recognize any of them…but then he looked into the eyes of the boy. They were sharp, yet kind…he slowly glanced up at the man sitting across from him, and into his sharp, kind eyes, almost hidden under the white cotton rim of a Santa hat from many years ago.
“You and your parents?”
“Yep, that’s us. My parents and I, two days before the accident. My parents didn’t make it…they died that night.”
Mark wanted to hold back, to not cry anymore, but it was becoming harder and harder. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, not angrily, just reverently.
“My dad died on the spot, but my mom…she lived all the way to the hospital. I was pretty bad too...they put our beds in the same room. I sat next to her while she took her last breaths, and, before she closed her eyes, she asked me something.” The man now became solemn, and Mark could have sworn he saw him wipe away a tear. “She asked me to do whatever it took to make me happy. That was her last wish, that I was happy.
“I knew what would make me happy, the same thing that made her happy. I sat there, in the hospital bed, and asked God to give me the chance to make others happy. My mom gave her whole life to others, and that’s what I wanted to do. And I asked him to give me someone to look after me…you know, a guardian angel. The next day, I met Whitey. He was older than me by a few years, but we became best friends. Still are, to this day. He has always looked out for me. We’re in it together, you know, he and I…trying to do whatever we can to make God happy.”
“I thought you said you wanted to make others happy?” Mark asked.
“Son, you know what I see when I look at you?” Mark shook his head. “No? I’ll tell you…I see God. I see Him in the face of every person I know. I can see him right now, smiling at me.”
“I don’t understand,” Mark said.
“Oh? Son…what is God?” The man looked at Mark, almost as if he knew what Mark would say.
“I don’t know…he’s everything?” Mark uncertainly replied.
“That’s a little kid’s answer. Ok…try this. Holly, this girl of yours…what makes you do all the things you do for her?”
Mark answered without thought. “Love.”
“Exactly! That’s exactly it…you love her. You do what you do because of love. And I…I do what I do because of love. I love God, and I want to make Him happy. Look at my Christmas candle. See how it doesn’t go out, even though the wind should be blowing it out?” Mark nodded. “It’s love. Nothing can extinguish love.”
“But how does that help me?” Mark asked.
“Alright…turn around. Look at that tree.” Mark turned, and saw a huge, leafless oak tree, reaching into the sky. “Where did it come from?”
“A seed,” Mark said.
“Okay, and where did that come from?”
“A tree…wait, is this one of those, ‘which came first’ questions?” Mark asked.
“Yes and no. It’s not so much ‘which came first’, it’s ‘whichever came first’. So, son, whichever came first, where did it come from?”
Mark thought about it. “I don’t know…something had to put it there.”
“Right. And whether it was God, or science, or nature, or whatever, the fact is, something amazing happened that made that tree come out of nowhere.” The man was smiling broadly, almost excitedly, like a little kid at, well, Christmas.
“So you’re saying that we have to appreciate that, I don’t know, magic?”
“Well, it’s the same with you. You were born of parents, who were both born of parents, and back and back, so on and so forth. But it had to begin somewhere. And I don’t know about you, but I didn’t ask to be put here. No one did. We just kinda show up.”
“So…” Mark started, but didn’t know what to say.
“So,” the man filled in, “we have so much to question. But there’s always one constant. Happiness.”
Mark laughed audibly. “Are you kidding me? Happiness is fleeting!” He thought of Holly, and the fight. “Happiness is definitely not assured.”
The man looked back to the candle. “That’s not what I mean. No, happiness is fleeting in a way. But there is one way to ensure happiness.”
“And that would be?”
“We can make ourselves happy. You listen to music, if you like music. You watch your favorite movie. You, maybe, make your girlfriend happy,” the man said, and glanced away from the flame towards Mark. “The point is, you do whatever it takes to make you happy. You have to fight for it, no doubt about that, but you can do it.”
“So what do I do about Holly?” Mark finally understood, but he didn’t see how this was going to help him.
“Have you ever had someone in your family that was really sick? Terminally sick?” the man questioned. Mark had. He had an aunt who had cancer. She passed away a few years ago.
“Yeah, my Aunt Rose. We all knew she wasn’t going to make it. It was really horrible.”
“For who?” the man asked.
“For…” Mark thought. “For us, really. She wasn’t…”
“She wasn’t scared. I know. Isn’t it funny how, when no one can find hope, the ones who should be the most desperate are often the bravest?” The man let it sink in, then continued. “Your aunt, she still had a chance. Not a chance to survive, but a chance to make a difference. You, son, you still have a chance. Whether or not it will work, I don’t know, but you have a chance. It’s Christmas Eve, the night of miracles. You can fix it. The night my parents died, I died. I am totally different from what I was then, and I realized that I had to make the most out of every opportunity. Every day.”
“Like carpe diem?” Mark said.
“No, no,” the man laughed, “not like carpe diem. That implies that we have to make the most of our days because we might not be here the next. I’m telling you to make the most of your days because you just should. You have the opportunity to. You didn’t ask to be born, but you are here. Why not do something with such a wondrous gift?”
Mark shot up. “I have to get back to Holly.” The man smiled, and stood.
“May I make one suggestion?” he asked. Mark nodded. “Get a Santa hat.”
“You think I should wear a Santa hat to go see her?”
“No. It’s just something nice to have.” The man smiled, removed his own hat, and placed it back in his jacket. “You need to get running.”
Mark began to turn, but then looked back. “You’ve helped me so much…I don’t even know your name.”
“Jimmy,” the old man replied. “Jimmy Bryant.”
“Well, Jimmy, thank you so much for everything. Is there anything I can do for you?” Mark asked.
“Actually, Mark, now that I think of it, there is something.”
“Anything,” Mark said.
“Do whatever it takes to make you happy.” With that, the old man wrapped his jacket tightly around his body, and began to walk through the park into the cold Christmas night, the light of the Christmas candle glowing on his back.
“Are they going to get back together?” Whitey asked.
“Who?” Jimmy replied. “Mark and Holly?”
Laughing, Whitey said, “Of course, Mark and Holly! Who else would I be talking about? Are they?”
“Of course.” Jimmy replied.
“Was it worth it?” Whitey asked. Jimmy smiled. “You know, when I asked God to let me do this, I didn’t expect it to work out quite like this.”
“And?”
“And,” Jimmy said, “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
With that, they approached the golden gates. Taking one last look back, Jimmy and Whitey remembered all that they had been through. “You know,” Whitey said, “things are going to be different now. No more bar, no more helping others.”
“Well, definitely no more bar,” Jimmy replied, “but helping others? It may be different now, but we aren’t going to stop. You know that. He wants us to, and we want to for Him.” Jimmy laughed. “This is just a break.”
“Well,” said Whitey, “I don’t know about me, but you’ve definitely earned it.” The gates opened, and Jimmy and Whitey walked through. They both smiled, and Whitey felt the happiness rush through his body. It was like an unending sea of love. “Jimmy…” he said.
“I know, Whitey, I know.” Jimmy looked around, and felt, finally, at peace. “We’re home.”
Mark had been halfway back to Holly’s apartment when he realized he forgot his blazer at the bar. He had turned around to go back to Volonino’s, but as he approached the street that the bar was on, he couldn’t help but feel something was different. It didn’t take him too long to figure out what.
As he approached the bar, he noticed that neon red sign didn’t appear to be on anymore. Not only that, but the sign didn’t look like it would even work. The tube making the “R” was cracked, and the light seemed to have been off a long time. Much longer than a few minutes…Mark grabbed the door handle and pulled, and what met his nostrils made his head spin. A gust of suffocating, warm air shot out of the doorway. He went in, and his jaw dropped.
The place was empty…really empty. There was nothing at all, except the actual bar, and it, as well as the floor, was covered in dust. Deep dust, as if the place hadn’t been cleaned in fifty years. No liquor bottles behind the bar, no tables, no stools except two. As Mark walked farther in, he realized that the only two stools left were the one he had just been sitting at, and the one where Jimmy had been.
“What…” Mark thought aloud.
He walked to his stool, and there, lying behind it, was his blazer. He picked it up, surprised that it, too, wasn’t dusty, and put it on. He stared around some more. There were a few old pictures and a calendar on the wall. Mark walked up to the calendar and noticed that days had been checked off, and the last one checked was December 23rd. Which made sense, except for the fact that the year at the top was 1950. He looked at the bar, and something else caught his attention. Lying on the counter, in front of the stool where Jimmy had been, was a wallet. But it wasn’t the new, shiny leather one that Jimmy had tossed the bartender; this one was old and tattered. Mark walked over to it and opened it up. A single piece of yellowed paper fell out. He looked at the paper, on which three hand-written words were scrawled. Behind the bar.
Mark stared at the paper, and then, walked behind the bar. He looked around, but didn’t see anything. He stood there a few moments, and then, as his head drooped, he found what he had been directed to see. Lying on the floor was an old, tatty Santa Claus hat. He picked it up, and again, found something inside. This time, there were two papers, one, another piece of yellow paper with handwriting, the other, an old newspaper clipping. He examined the handwritten paper first. It’s just something nice to have.
Mark looked back at the Santa hat and smiled, although he was extremely confused. He looked at the newspaper article, dated December 25, 1950. He read the story.
FATAL CAR CRASH KILLS FAMILY The Bryant family was killed last night when their car lost control and hit a tree off of Interstate 80. Mr. James Bryant was dead by the time police and emergency services arrived at the scene, and Mrs. Connie Bryant died shortly thereafter at the hospital. Their son, James Bryant Jr., died a few hours later.
A nurse at the hospital reports that not all hope was to be lost in this holiday tragedy. “Jimmy, the young boy, I talked to him for awhile after his mom passed away. He was so strong. Even though he was Catholic, and I’m a Jew, he asked me to pray with him…he just kept asking God to let him make others happy, just like his mom and dad did for him.”
Now Mark was thoroughly perplexed, and, to be honest, scared. He turned the paper over to fold it, and noticed that, for a third time, found a handwritten note.
Mark, thank you so much. You helped me fulfill my last wish. I know you don’t believe and all, but maybe you can do me a favor and light that candle again, later tonight. Bring Holly, too. Trust me, she’ll come. Merry Christmas, my friend, and God bless you.
* * *
As asked, later that night, Mark and Holly made their way to the park to light Jimmy’s candle again. What had happened when he went back to Holly’s didn’t matter; the fact was, Jimmy was right. They didn’t lose each other. He, of course, didn’t tell her about Jimmy, but he did tell her that she had to do something with him, to which she didn’t argue. Mark followed the trail he had walked only a few hours ago, and, in a short time, was in the small, dark clearing. Sure enough, lying on the rock was the candle. He reached for it, then realized that he didn’t have any matches.
“Darn,” he said, “I don’t have anything to light it with.” He began frantically searching his pockets, but Holly bent down, picked something up, and handed it to him.
“Here, use these.” She handed him a small matchbook. He flipped it over, and read the writing on the front.
Volonino’s Bar
Est. 1935
Mark smiled and lit the match.
“Are you sure it’s going to light?” Holly asked him. “It’s really windy.”
“I’m not worried,” Mark replied. With that, he set the match next to the wick, and soon the whole clearing was bathed in light and warmth. Holly was amazed.
“How did you do that?” Holly asked, awestruck.
“A friend showed it to me.” Mark thought for a moment. “A really good friend.”
“But why doesn’t it go out?” Holly questioned.
“It doesn’t go out…” Mark began, but stopped. He took her hand in his, leaned closer, and kissed her. “…because love can never go out.”
Then they sat down, Mark putting his arm around her, Holly resting her head against his chest, and watched the flames dance. They talked for hours about so much, they laughed, they cried, and they fell in love all over again. And, the whole while, the Christmas candle never burned