Snowflake Wishes

"This town gets trashier and trashier" Lou folded his arms across his chest, and gazed out the transaction windows. It was the first snowfall of the year.  

I had been staring out the same portal, mesmerized by the newly falling snow. The light flakes swirled and danced occasionally sticking to the window then rapidly disintigrating into tiny drops of moisture. 

It took a moment for me to focus my eyes past the thin rivulets of water but I managed to give him my attention. I followed Lou's line of site and spotted a homeless man picking through the dumpster on the west side of the parking lot.

He stroked his knotted beard, considering the treasures within the bin. 

One of the landscaping stones had laid over conveniently. He climbed smartly onto it, gripped the rim with both hands and rested his chin atop like a small toddler peering over a child gate. 

He lifted a leg over the precipice and threw himself over the side. 

My eyebrows raised appraisingly.

Lou sighed, "I guess I'm gonna have to call the cops." 

"What's he after, you think?" I stalled. 

Seconds later a bag flew up and over the barrier and bounced then skidded to a halt, flinging newspapers, which displaced snow, creating tracks on the covered ground. The man landed expertly with a rolling thud next to his paper and transferred the paper to his grocery cart. 

Lou scoffed. "What's he gonna do with that? It's trash."

"Insulate." I said. "He might shove it in his shirt or pants or pack his box with it." I swallowed, my throat tight, a sensation which eased when Sandra - leaving for the holiday a little early handed the man the remainder of her lunch. He moved as if to thank her - give her something in return. Her hands shot up defensively, waving negatively. She smiled and turned away.

"What must it be like," Lou turned toward me, leaned against the teller desk, and allowed his arms to relax away from his upper body. "What must it be like to have no worries in the world? Find all kinds of junk in dumpsters, lunches and dinners handed to you. People give you cash in the street."

"Maybe we've been doing life wrong" I said.

Cynthia Stanley joined the conversation, "Come on." Her head bobbed to one side, and she pressed her mouth into a slanted judgemental line before she finished, "You guys can't be jealous of a poor homeless beggar. He will never make it to the shelter in time to get a bed today. He will be freezing." She frowned and her eyes grew large with empathy. 

"All I'm saying, is: I've got hours of work to do, my wife and kids want me to be home, and I still have about four presents to wrap and a dozen parties to be at before the end of the month." Lou further soured, "I've got to finish payroll for all of you guys too."

I looked at Lou but didn't voice my thoughts. I figured it was plush to be the branch manager, making a respectable salary, enjoying paid vacations in excess of four weeks every year, and everybody answering to you and holding their tongue at the same time. 

I charged most of my family's gifts. 

My wife was at home cooking dozens of cookies of different shapes, sizes and flavors. Baking rolls. Making up dry soup mixes and other food crafts so we'd have something to give our parents, cousins, nieces and nephews. 

We wrapped shipping boxes in colorful paper, tie bows around the edges, and apply hand made tags with the family names before delivering the Christmas Joy Packages - that's what Tammy called them. She loved making them, but...

But wouldn't it be something to order extravagant gifts for everyone? 

Wouldn't it be something to hire catering for all our parties? 

Wouldn't it be something to do all of that without even looking at a checking balance? 

This was my internal monologue as I nodded and blew, and laughed at all the right moments while Lou went on and on about lazy non-workers and the enabling democrats. 

I comforted myself with the knowledge that I'd be out of here soon, and off work for the next 5 days.

On my way home I decided to go through down town though the road narrow, and now blanketed with snow. 

I wanted to see the glow. 

Every year the city decorated all the old buildings with millions of feet of twinkling Christmas lights. Each street light sported a glowing star. 

The lights seemed to stretch and bend everywhere, painting the damp black streets green, yellow, red and blue. 

Everywhere it stuck, the snow hid cracks, trash, mud, painting a magical wonderland. Our trashy city was pristine.

Somewhere out in the city was the homeless man. I wondered where he was, and how he would warm himself.

I turned down 8th street, heading north toward Copper Valley Drive, and never noticed James Duncan. 

James Duncan was the homeless man. 

He'd found a place tucked off 8th street, a slim alleyway with two metal barrels, right for burning, and already full of combustible junk. He set those on fire and enjoyed the warmth from both directions. With his clothes, shoes and hat stuffed full of newspaper, and these two roaring fires, he felt rosy. 

The leftover meal provided by the lady in the bank parkin lot was good too. Some kind of pasta and white sauce, with little pieces of meat mixed in. The chicken had been fried before it had been added to the dish. Lot of work, but it was uber. 

Uber meant really great. James Duncan had heard some teenagers in front of Shailey's Sandwich Shack saying that the sandwiches were uber great. The teenagers had not shared their leftovers. Was that three nights ago? Yes. He counted backwards. He knew because it had been one night of rain - he'd slept hiding in the post office, which was open all the time, and most importantly dry! And warm.

Unfortunately, the next morning he failed to awaken before the clerks arrived, resulting in night two being spent in the jail house. Slept in a bed there. Bad food. They brought stale McDonalds fries and a soggy burger. The drink was enjoyable. The coca cola was the sweetest he ever tasted. 

And then tonight. Night three. The night of the beautiful snow. 

This was gonna be a good night. 

Not like last year, when he'd lived two weeks in the county hospital after the cold took his big toe. Nope. 

This snow was perfect. This snow came down straight. No wind. No wind up high either. James Duncan could tell because each little snow flake had its own special shape.  

That only happened if each snow flake fell down undisturbed. If the wind was whipping up high or down low, the snow would stick together making bigger and bigger balls. These was individuals. Each pattern was unique. James Duncan could see each delicate white pattern on the dark arm of his coat for the briefest second before they melted, one by one, dampening his coat.

A Denali crept down 8th street. Driving north. It was one of the fancy trucks from the bank. 

James took a few steps in the direction of the rig, but stopped short - halted by the chill which existed only a few feet outside the protective glow of the burning cans.

Wouldn't it be something to be that guy, working in the bank, clean and happy and eating Sandy's lunches?