faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.
'Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. 'Mankind was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The deals of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!'
― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Happy Birthday to me. I hoist my coffee cup and toast my cold and gray day.
The tree line behind the house is obscured and steeped in mist— a moody morning and prelude to the first winter storm.
I stand at the window watching the woods climb the hill, and then fade out of sight into the haze. I know these woods all too well—am acquainted with their dark and lonely depths. So, in my mind I follow them, and they take me as always to the escarpment.
Rattlesnake Point—jump off the edge, the voice had said.
I wanted to follow, but lacked the courage. I grabbed hold of a nearby weathered stone and held on for dear life.
I come back to the present, shake my head, and try to clear the memory. The tremors gradually subside.
One final sip of coffee, and then the long commute to a scurry that no longer means anything to me—well, less than this haunted house, my ghostly dreams, or the vaporous pursuit of wealth.
Outside, the temperature is starting to plunge—an arctic front is coming—
Downtown, in the concrete canyons, a trendy office lies waiting…
And inside, this wunderkind has now turned forty and is lonely.
Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…Trudy is shaking the tree ornaments and smiling.
I smile back. “You like Christmas, don’t you?”
She looks at me with dancing eyes. “What’s not to like? On the weekend, Mike and I took Hope to buy a tree, and they had horse-drawn rides—it was magical.”
Her face is alight with all the joy of her six-year old. I envy her.
I stare morosely at the brightly lit tree in the reception area. Trudy has provisioned a sideboard with festive cookies, candies and urns of steaming coffee and hot chocolate. Everything glittering, like the snow outside, everybody apparently jolly and in the spirit of the season—but nothing working for me.
She reads my mood. “Do you want to go to Shenanigans for lunch?”
“Naw, I’ll stop by the squash club instead—but thanks for the offer.”
One thing I don’t need—a pity invite—a lunch spent staring in the windows of other people’s lives.
Where did it all go wrong?
The club is abuzz with the activity of lunchtime athletes. I sign the sheet and they put me with an attractive redhead named Cyn. Maybe it is my day after all.
“You own Wallace Marketing, don’t you?” she smiles.
“I do.”
“I walk past the bronze plaque outside your building every day,” she giggles, “ and I always picture ‘Garrett Wallace’ as a silver haired man in a dark business suit.”
“Did I burst your bubble?” I tease.
“You did,” she pouts, and then breaks into a sunny smile.
Yes, this might be my day after all.
But just as we finish the set and I’m about to ask her out, a male voice shouts out from across the gym—Hey Cyn! Get a move on! We’re all heading to Kelsey’s for a quick drink.
She smiles apologetically at me, “Oops, got to run—but thanks for the game—I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”
She’s off to join her co-workers and by the time I come out of the showers, the gym is dead as a mausoleum—abandoned as Scrooge’s grave, I muse.
I chuckle cynically to myself. The thing about old Ebenezer that bugs me is everyone gets it wrong—sure he was stingy, but his real problem was he was lonely—and maybe the story bugs me too, because he’s a lot like me.