One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Francesca counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Fran did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating. Especially in Cold and 'Flu Season. There’s many a mighty sniffle around then, no matter what pill or nostrum you will try.
Now let’s back up a step and look about. What do we see? A nice-ish flat (that’s like an “apartment”, only more English) in London (hence “flat” and not “apartment”) shared by the two protagonists of our story. Well, if I remember right from English class one of the people we will shortly look at a wee little bit more closely is the protagonist. That would probably be Francesca because we met her first. She’s what we like to call “the good guy” because it’s easier to think of “the good guy” and “the bad guy” instead of “the protagonist” and “the antagonist” even though, technically “good” and “bad” are not implied from the simple words. You can infer the “goodness” or “badness” if you wish, but that’s up to you. The words are just sitting there, not passing any moral judgment at all. Words can be virtuous that way.
There are still moving boxes everywhere because our hero Francesca and the guy she’s living with, who we’ll call “Alex” for no good reason, just like we used “Francesca” for the girl even though it’s a name picked completely at random because it’s not like I know anyone who just moved to an apart… flat in London. No one at all! So don’t be looking at me like that! I’m not saying anything about anyone. This is just a story to teach you people the True Meaning of Christmas! Really! Now just make with the reading already.
Anyway, Frannie (who no one ever calls "Puddin’ ") and Alex just moved in to the place and it’s still a mess and you know how bills stack up when you move- a little something here no one mentioned, a little something there if you want your heat turned on, and a filing fee for something you didn’t even think was all that rough so why’s it need any filing, huh? And will you look at that? It’s nearly Christmas! And there’s no money for any good presents. Well, there’s the dollar and eighty-seven cents, but you can’t get bupkis for that. What will happen now? Just wait, we’ll get there.
Now, there were two possessions of our young flat-dwellers in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Alex’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Fran’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Fran would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Alex would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. (Alex can be a showy bastard sometimes just taunting the janitor like that. I don’t know why Pudd… Fran (a name picked totally at random) puts up with him.)
So now Fran’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: “Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della… Puddin’… FRAN! Frannie ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”
“Will you buy my hair?” asked Fran.
“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”
Down rippled the brown cascade.
“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
“Give it to me quick,” said Fran. “And I mean the twenty smackers. Not some weird little “chikka chikka bow wow” tangent these things all too often wind up doing, Mr. Narrator!”
“What?” asked Madame.
“Oh, nothing,” said Fran. “Just give me the money.”
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Alex’s present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Alex and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation–as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Alex’s. It was like him. Quietness and value–the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Alex might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Fran reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends–a mammoth task. Even though mammoths have naturally curly hair. That’s why they are sometimes called “wooly mammoths”. But this is what we in the biz like to call “a metaphor”.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. (Alex liked to play his “little games”. He’ll like this look.) She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
“If Alex doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do–oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?”
At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Alex was never late. Fran doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty so I don’t have to kill him and stuff him in the incinerator because that would be a pain in my ass.”
The door opened and Alex stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two–and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
“Merry Christmas!” cried Fran.
“Merry Christmas!” answered Alex.
“I have something for you!” said Fran.
“And I have something for you too!” said Alex.
“OK, me first!” said Fran. She gave Alex his present.
“Oooo! Aaaah!” he said, being all admire-y. “I’ll have to put my watch on it right now!” And he did. Then, after he admired the watch and chain combo for a bit he gave his present to Fran.
“Ooooo! An envelope! What could be in it?” Asked Fran tearing the paper apart.
“Oh,” she said. "A coupon. For "One Night of Sweet, Sweet Lovin’ “. Hand written on the back of a scrap of… some sort of list. With “Get Christmas present for Fran- maybe with card” right there on the bottom. How nice.”
“With a meal cooked by me! Did you see that part?” asked Alex.
“Oh yes,” said Fran. “It’s in the jaggedy edged balloon thingy right in the corner.” (She didn’t know that “jaggedy edged balloon thingies” are properly called “starbursts”. Had she known, she would have undoubtedly used the proper term. Don’t judge her too harshly.)
“With wine,” supplied Alex.
“That’ll be good,” said Fran. “Wine. Lots and lots of wine.”
“And I’ll even read you some poetry. You like that, don’t you? Poetry?” asked Alex.
“Oh yes,” answered Fran. “That will be fine with the poetry. Just fine.”
“It doesn’t say it, but you’ll even be in for some extra cuddling for afters,” because Alex was just swept away with Christmas Spirit.
And things went on fairly well for the two. Until three and a half weeks later…
“Hey Frannie-muffin?” asked Alex over his breakfast.
“Yes dear?” answered Fran from across the table.
“Have you done something new with your hair? It’s nice.” said Alex.
That morning he couldn’t find his watch before he left for work. That evening he did find his watch. It looked like it was beaten long and hard with a lady’s shoe. But the watchchain was still shiny. Not even a scratch on it from flying broken watch parts.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Merry Christmas!
-O. DeDay
