The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He
hadn't been anywhere in years since his wife had passed away.
He had no decorations, no tree, no lights. It was just another
day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, just couldn't find a
reason to celebrate. There were no children in his life. His
wife had gone.
He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling
for the last hour and wondering what it was all about, when the
door opened and a homeless man stepped through. Instead of
throwing the man out, George, Old George, as he was known by
his customers, told the man to come and sit by the space
heater and warm up.
"Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger.
"I see you're busy. I'll just go."
"Not without something hot in your belly," George turned and
opened a wide mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger.
"It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty. Stew. Made it myself.
When you're done there's coffee, and it's fresh."
Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell.
"Excuse me, be right back," George said.
There in the driveway was an old '53 Chevy. Steam was rolling
out of the front. The driver was panicked.
"Mister, can you help me!" asked the driver with a deep Spanish
accent. "My wife is with child, and my car is broken."
George opened the hood. It was bad. The block looked cracked
from the cold; the car was dead. "You ain't going in this
thing," George said as he turned away.
"But, mister. Please help . . . " The door of the office closed
behind George as he went in. George went to the office wall
and got the keys to his old truck and went back outside. He
walked around the building and opened the garage, started the
truck, and drove it around to where the couple was waiting.
"Here, you can borrow my truck," he said. "She ain't the best
thing you ever looked at, but she runs real good."
George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it
sped off into the night. George turned and walked back inside
the office.
"Glad I loaned 'em the truck. Their tires were shot, too. That
ol' truck has brand new tires . . . " George thought he was
talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The thermos
was on the desk, empty, with a used coffee cup beside it.
"Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought.
George went back outside to see if the old Chevy would start.
It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled it into the garage
where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker with it
for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers. He
discovered that the block hadn't cracked; it was just the bottom
hose on the radiator.
"Well, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one
on. "Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either."
He took the snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln. They were
like new, and he wasn't going to drive the car.
As he was working, he heard a shot being fired. He ran outside,
and beside a police car an officer lay on the cold ground.
Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Help me."
George helped the officer inside as he remembered the training
he had received in the Army as a medic. He knew the wound
needed attention.
"Pressure to stop the bleeding," he thought. The laundry company
had been there that morning and had left clean shop towels. He
used those and duct tape to bind the wound.
"Hey, they say duct tape can fix anything," he said, trying to
make the policeman feel at ease. "Something for pain," George
thought. All he had was the pills he used for his back. "These
ought to work." He put some water in a cup and gave the
policeman the pills.
"You hang in there. I'm going to get you an ambulance," George
said, but the phone was dead. "Maybe I can get one of your
buddies on that there talk box out in your police car."
He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the
dashboard destroying the two way radio. He went back in to find
the policeman sitting up.
"Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me there. The
guy that shot me is still in the area."
George sat down beside him. "I would never leave an injured man
in the Army, and I ain't gonna leave you." George pulled back
the bandage to check for bleeding. "Looks worse than what it is.
Bullet passed right through ya. Good thing it missed the
important stuff though. I think with time your gonna be right
as rain."
George got up and poured a cup of coffee. "How do you take it?"
he asked.
"None for me," said the officer.
"Oh, yer gonna drink this. Best in the city." Then George smiled:
"Too bad I ain't got no donuts."
The officer laughed and winced at the same time. The front door
of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun.
"Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His
hand was shaking, and George could tell that he had never done
anything like this before.
"That's the guy that shot me!" exclaimed the officer.
"Son, why are you doing this?" asked George. "You need to put
the cannon away. Somebody else might get hurt."
The young man was confused. "Shut up, old man, or I'll shoot you,
too. Now gimme the cash!" The cop was reaching for his gun.
"Put that thing away," George said to the cop. "We got one too
many in here now."
He turned his attention to the young man. "Son, it's Christmas
Eve. If you need the money, well then, here. It ain't much, but
it's all I got. Now put that pea shooter away."
George pulled $150 out of his pocket and handed it to the young
man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The
young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees, and
began to cry.
"I'm not very good at this am I? All I wanted was to buy
something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job.
My rent is due. My car got repossessed last week . . . "
George handed the gun to the cop. "Son, we all get in a bit of
squeeze now and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we
make it through the best we can."
He got the young man to his feet and sat him down on a chair
across from the cop. "Sometimes we do stupid things." George
handed the young man a cup of coffee. "Being stupid is one of
the things that makes us human. Comin' in here with a gun ain't
the answer. Now sit there and get warm, and we'll sort this
thing out."
The young man had stopped crying. He looked over to the cop.
"Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm sorry, officer."
"Shut up and drink your coffee." the cop said.
George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car
and an ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the
door, guns drawn.
"Chuck! You okay?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer.
"Not bad for a guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?"
"GPS locator in the car. Best thing since sliced bread. Who
did this?" the other cop asked as he approached the young man.
Chuck answered him, "I don't know. The guy ran off into the
dark. Just dropped his gun and ran."
George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other.
"That guy works here," the wounded cop continued.
"Yep," George said. "Just hired him this morning. Boy lost his
job."
The paramedics came in and loaded Chuck onto the stretcher.
The young man leaned over the wounded cop and whispered,
"Why?"
Chuck just said, "Merry Christmas, boy. And you too, George,
and thanks for everything."
"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That
ought to solve some of your problems." George went into the
back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box.
"Here you go. Something for the little woman. I don't think
Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day."
The young man looked inside to see the biggest diamond ring he
ever saw. "I can't take this," said the young man. "It means
something to you."
"And now it means something to you," replied George. "I got
my memories. That's all I need."
George reached into the box again. A toy airplane, a racing
car, and a little metal truck appeared next. They were toys
that the oil company had left for him to sell. "Here's
something for that little man of yours."
The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150
that the old man had handed him earlier. "And what are you
supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that, too.
Count it as part of your first week's pay." George said.
"Now git home to your family."
The young man turned with tears streaming down his face.
"I'll be here in the morning for work, if that job offer is
still good."
"Nope. I'm closed Christmas Day," George said. "See ya the
day after."
George turned around to find that the stranger had returned.
"Where'd you come from? I thought you left?"
"I have been here. I have always been here," said the stranger.
"You say you don't celebrate Christmas. Why?"
"Well, after my wife passed away I just couldn't see what all
the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a
good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just
wasn't the same by myself, and besides I was getting a little
chubby."
The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do
celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and
warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child
will bear a son, and he will become a great doctor. The policeman
you helped will go on to save nineteen people from being killed by
terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will become a
rich man and share his wealth with many people. That is the
spirit of the season, and you keep it as well as any man."
George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how
do you know all this?" asked the old man.
"Trust me, George. I have the inside track on this sort of
thing. And when your days are done, you will be with Martha
again." The stranger moved toward the door.
"If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to
go home where there is a big celebration planned."
George watched as the man's old leather jacket and his torn
pants turned into a white robe. A golden light began to fill
the room.
"You see, George, it's My birthday. Merry Christmas."
