Andy Acton's Christmas Story

Reads: 371  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
In search of a Christmas story, a writer finds inspiration in the most unlikely place.

Submitted: January 01, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 01, 2009



Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:\"Table Normal\"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:\"\"; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:\"Calibri\",\"sans-serif\"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:\"Times New Roman\"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}

Andy Acton’s Christmas Story

A Short Story by Ryan M. Akers

I heard this story from Andy Acton. Since Andy doesn’t come off too well in it, at least not as well as he’d like to, he’s asked me not to use his real name. Other than that, the whole business about the lost wallet and the blind woman and the Christmas dinner is just as he told it to me.

Andy and I have known each other for close to eleven years now. He works behind the bar of an establishment on South Street in downtown Indianapolis, and since it’s the only bar that carries the brand of bourbon I like to drink, I go in there fairly often. For a long time, I didn’t give much thought to Andy Acton. He was the strange little man who wore a hooded black sweatshirt and sold me shots and appetizers, the impish, wisecracking character who always had something funny to say about the weather or the Colts or the politicians in Washington, and that was the extent of it.

But then one day several years ago he happened to be looking through a magazine in the bar, and he stumbled across a review of one of my poems. He knew it was me because a photograph accompanied the review, and after that things changed between us. I was no longer just another patron to Andy; I had become a distinguished person. Most people couldn’t care less about poetry and poets, but it turned out that Andy considered himself an artist. Now that he had cracked the secret of who I was, he embraced me as an ally, a confidant, brother-in-arms. To tell the truth, I found it rather embarrassing. Then, almost inevitably, a moment came when he asked if would be willing to look at his photographs. Given his enthusiasm and goodwill, there didn’t seem to be any way I could turn him down.

God knows what I was expecting. At the very least, it wasn’t what Andy showed me the next day. In a small, windowless room at the back of the bar, he opened a cardboard box and pulled out twelve identical black photo albums. This was his life’s work, he said, and it didn’t take him more than five minutes a day to do it. Every morning for the past twelve years, he had stood at the corner of Meridian Street and Washington Street at precisely seven o’clock in the morning and had taken a single color photograph of precisely the same view, facing north toward Monument Circle. The project now ran to more than four thousand photographs. Each album represented a different year, and all the pictures were laid out in sequence, from January 1 to December 31, with the dates carefully recorded under each one.

As I flipped through the albums and began to study Andy’s work, I didn’t know what to think. My first impression was that it was the oddest, most bewildering thing I had ever seen. All the pictures were the same. The whole project was a numbering onslaught of repetition, the same street and the same buildings over and over again, an unrelenting delirium of redundant images. I couldn’t think of anything to say to Andy, so I continued turning pages, nodding my head in feigned appreciation. Andy himself seemed unperturbed, watching me with a broad smile on his face, but after I’d been at it for several minutes, he suddenly interrupted me and said, “You’re going too fast. You’ll never get it if you don’t slow down.”

He was right, of course. If you don’t take the time to look, you’ll never manage to see anything. I picked up another album and forced myself to go more deliberately. I paid closer attention to details, took note of shifts in the weather, watched for the changing angles of light as the seasons advanced. Eventually, I was able to detect subtle differences in the traffic flow, to anticipate the rhythm of the different days (the commotion of workday mornings, the relative stillness of weekends, the contracts between Saturdays and Sundays, and the presence of fans dressed in blue for sporting events). And then little by little, I began to recognize the faces of the people in the background, the passers-by on their way to work, the same people in the same spot every morning, living an instant of their lives in the field of Andy’s camera.

Once I got to know them, I began to study their postures, the way they carried themselves from one morning to the next, trying to discover their moods from these surface indications, as if I could imagine stories for them, as if I could penetrate the invisible dramas locked inside their bodies. I picked up another album. I was no longer bored, no longer puzzled as I had been at first. Andy was photographing time, and he was doing it by planting himself in one tiny corner of the world and willing it to be his own, by standing guard in the space he had chosen for himself. As he watched me pour over his work, Andy continued to smile with pleasure. Then, almost as if he had been reading my thoughts, he began to recite something I’d heard or read before. I realized by the repetition it was Shakespeare. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath, “time creeps on its petty pace.” I understood then that he knew exactly what he was doing.

That was more than two thousand pictures ago. Since that day, Andy and I have discussed his work many times, and I was even shown the expensive camera with which he painted the daily canvas of imagery. But it was only last week that I learned how he acquired his camera and started taking pictures in the first place. That was the subject of the story he told me, and I’m still struggling to make sense of it.

Earlier that same week, a man from the Bloomington Herald-Times called me and asked if I would be willing to write a short story that would appear in the paper on Christmas morning. My first impulse was to say no, but the city editor was very charming and persistent, flattering me with accolades about my writing from last decade. By the end of the conversation, I told him I would give it a try. The moment I hung up the phone, however, I fell into a deep panic. What did I know about Christmas without being overtly religious due to my Christian faith? I asked myself. What did I know about writing short stories on commission?

I spent the next several days in despair, warring with the ghosts of Dickens, O. Henry and other masters of the Yuletide spirit. The very phrase “Christmas story” had unpleasant associations for me, evoking dreadful outpourings of hypocritical mush and treacle. Even at their best, Christmas stories were no more than wish-fulfillment dreams, fairy tales for adults, and I’d be damned if I’d ever allowed myself to write something like that. And yet, how could anyone propose to write an unsentimental Christmas story? It was a contradiction in terms, and impossibility, an out-and-out, it-is-what-it-is conundrum. One might just as well try to imagine a racehorse without legs, or a sparrow without wings.

I got nowhere. On Thursday I went for a long walk, hoping the air would clear my head. Just past dusk, after wallowing around downtown streets in hopes of instant inspiration, I stopped in at the bar to wet my whistle and there was Andy, standing behind the brass taps and oak top as always. He asked me how I was as the sting of bourbon touched my lips. Without really meaning to, I found myself unburdening my troubles to him. “A Christmas story?” he said after I finished my drink. “Is that all? If you buy me dinner my friend, I’ll tell you the best Christmas story you ever heard. And I guarantee that every word of it is true.”

We walked down the block to Shapiro’s, a cramped and boisterous delicatessen with good pastrami sandwiches and photographs of turn-of-the-century Indianapolis city dwellers on the walls. We found a table at the back after passing through the smorgasbord and sat down. Within seconds of picking up my hearty sandwich to apply mustard, Andy launched into this story.

“It was the summer of ninety-two,” he said. “A kid came into the bar one morning and started stealing things from the promotional counter… a sweatshirt I think. He must have been about nineteen or twenty, visibly too young to be in the bar, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more pathetic shoplifter in my life. He’s standing near the front door by the rack of newspapers along the side wall and stuffing a snatched clothing item, a sweatshirt if I recall, into his oversized raincoat. It was around crowded around the bar just then, so I didn’t see him at first. But once I noticed what he was up to, I started to shout. He took off like a jackrabbit, and by the time I managed to get out from behind the bar, he was already tearing down Meridian Street. I chased after him for about half a block, and then I gave up, realizing there were people at the bar and I was the only person working that particular lunch shift. He’d dropped something along the way, and since I didn’t feel like running anymore, I bent down to see what it was.

“It turned out to be his wallet. There wasn’t any money inside, but his driver’s license was there along with a debit card and three or four snapshots. Remember, these were the days before digital cameras my friend. I suppose I could have called the cops and had him arrested. I had his name and address from the license, but I felt kind of sorry for him. He was just a measly little punk, and once I looked at those pictures in his wallet, I couldn’t bring myself to feel angry at him. Robert Goodwin. That was his name. In one of the pictures, I remember, he was standing with his arm around his mother or grandmother. In another one, he was sitting there at age nine or ten dressed in a baseball uniform with a big smile on his face. I just didn’t have the heart. He was probably on dope now, I figured. A poor kid from the east side without much going for him, and who cared about a sweatshirt or shirt or whatever anyway?

“So I held onto the wallet. Every once in a while I’d get a little urge to send it back to him, but I kept delaying and never did anything about it. Then Christmas rolls around and I’m stuck with nothing to do. The boss usually invites me over to his house to spend the day, but that year he and his family were down in Florida visiting relatives. So I’m sitting in my apartment that morning feeling a little sorry for myself, and then I see Robert Goodwin’s wallet lying on a shelf in the kitchen. I figure what the hell, why not do something nice for once, and I put on my coat and go out to return the wallet in person.

“The address was over off Prospect, somewhere in the poor area of the near east side where the houses and buildings are crammed together. It was freezing out that day, and I remember getting lost a few times trying to find the right building. Everything looks the same in that place, and you keep going over the same ground thinking you’re somewhere else. Anyway, I finally get to the apartment I’m looking for and ring the bell. Nothing happens. I assume no one’s there, but I try again just to make sure. I wait a little longer, and just when I’m about to give up, I hear someone shuffling to the door. An old woman’s voice asks who’s there, and I say I’m looking for Robert Goodwin. ‘Is that you, Robert?’ the old woman says, and then she undoes about fifteen locks and opens the door.

“She has to be at least eighty, maybe ninety years old, and the first thing I notice about her is that she’s blind. ‘I knew you’d come, Robert,’ she says. ‘I knew you wouldn’t forget your Granny Ethel on Christmas.’ And then she opens her arms as if she’s about to hug me.

“I didn’t have much time to think, you understand. I had to say something real fast, and before I knew what was happening, I could hear the words coming out of my mouth. ‘That’s right, Granny Ethel,’ I said. ‘I came back to see you on Christmas.’ Don’t ask me why I did it. I still ask myself and don’t have any idea. Maybe I didn’t want to disappoint her or something, I don’t know. It just came out that way, and then this old woman was suddenly hugging me there in the front of the door, and I was hugging her back.

“I didn’t exactly say that I was her grandson. Not in so many words, at least, but that was the implication. I wasn’t trying to trick her, though. It was like a game we’d both decided to play – without having to discuss the rules. I mean, that woman knew I wasn’t her grandson Robert. She was old and dotty, but she wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t tell the difference between a stranger and her own flesh and blood. But it made her happy to pretend, and since I had nothing better to do anyway, I was happy to go along with her.

“So we went into the apartment and spent the day together. The place was a real dump, I might add, but what else can you expect from a blind woman that old who does her own housekeeping? Every time she asked me a question about how I was, I would lie to her. I told her I’d found a good job working at a bar, I told her I was about to get married, I told her a hundred pretty stories, and she made like she believed every one of them. ‘That’s fine, Robert,’ she would say, nodding her head and smiling. ‘I always knew things would work out for you.’

“After a while, I started getting pretty hungry. There didn’t seem to be much food in the house, so I went out to a store in the neighborhood and brought back a mess of stuff. A precooked chicken, vegetable soup, a bucket of potato salad, a chocolate cake, all kinds of things. Ethel had a couple bottles of wine stashed in her bedroom, and so between us we managed to put together a fairly decent Christmas dinner. We both got a little tipsy from the wine, I remember, and after the meal was over we went out to sit in the living room, where the chairs were more comfortable. I had to take a piss, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom down the hall. That’s where things took another turn. It was ditsy enough doing my little jig as Ethel’s grandson, but what I did next was positively crazy, and I’ve never forgiven myself for it.

“I go into the bathroom and stacked up against the wall next to the shower, I see a pile of six or seven cameras. Brand-new thirty-five millimeter cameras, still in their boxes, top-quality merchandise. I figure this is the work of the real Robert, a storage place for one of his recent hauls. I’ve never taken a picture in my life, and I’ve certainly never stolen anything, but the moment I see those cameras sitting in the bathroom, I decide I want one of them for myself. Just like that. And without even stopping to think about it, I tuck one of the boxes under my arm and go back to the living room.

“I couldn’t have been gone for more than a few minutes, but in that time Granny Ethel had fallen asleep in her chair. Too much Chianti, I suppose. I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes, and she slept on through the whole racket, snoring like a baby. There’s didn’t seem to be any point in disturbing her, so I decided to leave. I couldn’t even write a note to say good-bye, seeing that she was blind and all, and so I just left. I put her grandson’s wallet on the table, picked up the camera again and walked out of the apartment. And that’s the end of the story.”

“Did you ever go back to see her?” I asked, now finished with my sandwich and peach cobbler. Andy had barely touched his food.

“Once,” he said. “About three or four months later. I felt so bad about stealing the camera; I hadn’t even used it yet. I finally made up my mind to return it, but Ethel wasn’t there anymore. I don’t know what happened to her, but someone else had moved into the apartment, and couldn’t tell me where she was.”

“She probably died.”

Andy paused, staring at his tray. “Yeah, probably.”

“Which means that she spent her last Christmas with you.”

“I guess so. I never thought of it that way.”

“It was a good deed, Andy. It was a nice thing you did for her.”

“I lied to her, and then I stole from her. I don’t see how you can call that a good deed.”

“You made her happy. And the camera was stolen anyway. It’s not as if the person you took it from really owned it.”

“Anything for art, eh, Ryan?”

“I wouldn’t say that. But at least you’ve put the camera to good use.”

“And now you’ve got your Christmas story, don’t you?” asked Andy, wiping his fingers off with a napkin.

“Yes,” I said with a smirk. “I suppose I do.”

I paused for a moment, studying Andy as a wicked grin spread across his face. I couldn’t be sure, but the look in his eyes at that moment was so mysterious, so fraught with the glow of some inner delight, that it suddenly occurred to me that he had made the whole thing up. I was about to ask him if he’d been putting me on, but then I realized he would never tell. I had been tricked into believing him, and that was the only thing that mattered. As long as there’s one person to believe it, there’s no story that can’t be true.

“You’re an ace, Andy,” I said. “Thanks for being so helpful.”

“Anytime,” he answered, still looking at me with that maniacal light in his eyes. “After all, if you can’t share your secrets with your friends, what kind of friend are you?”

“I guess I owe you one.”

“No you don’t. Just put it down the way I told it to you, and you don’t owe me a thing.”

“Except the dinner.”

“That’s right,” Andy said with a slight nod. “Except the dinner.”

I returned Andy’s smile with a smile of my own, and then set some dollar bills on the table as a tip for the busboy.

008 Ryan Matthew Akers. All Rights Reserved.

© Copyright 2019 Ryan M Akers. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:




More Literary Fiction Short Stories