The End of the Game

The End of the Game

 

It became a game with Nate and the kids. You saw an old cigarette lying somewhere, you stepped on it. You twisted your toe back and forth and crushed it into powder, made sure that none of those dirty bums on the street corners and wandering in the alleys could find it and make use of it. You were doing it for their own good, really. For the good of the world. Not only would they not have the extra garbage, the smoke and the tar, in their lungs, but no innocent passerby would get an unexpected face full of cigarette smoke. It was a win-win situation.

Of course, the bums and beggars wouldn’t see it that way. Nate had sometimes seen them pick up the tiniest stubs of cigarettes, with no more than half an inch of tobacco left on the end, and put a match to them. It made him sick to think about it. Who even knew whose mouth that cigarette had been in? Probably some filthy scumbag, putting his or her lips all over it, covering it with who knew what kind of bacteria or what disease. And then some hobo was willing to put it in his mouth, just for five or six puffs of cancer-causing smoke. Pitiful. Nothing but pitiful.

There was an almost unused cigarette in the ashtray outside the post office when they stopped to check their box, and little Tim, only six years old, got to it before Nate and knocked it down on the concrete with a flick of his finger, crushing it with his heel, pulverizing it. Nate had seen that there was still smoke curling out of it, and that made him laugh. For all they knew, its owner had just set it down to go into the post office.

They went on inside, Nate, eight year old Rob, and Tim, going to the post office box to see what Christmas cards might have come today. Most of them that were coming were probably already taped on the inside of their front door. After all, it was Christmas Eve, and anyone with a lick of sense would have gotten them out long ago so they could be enjoyed. He turned the key and popped open the box, reaching in to pull out three pieces of mail, two ads and—well, sure enough, one last card.

“Dad!” Tim grabbed his father’s sleeve and jerked it a couple of times, pulling his attention away from the card. Tim was nodding his head toward the door, in the same direction that Rob was also looking. This time the smoker was not a hobo, but some tall, silver-haired man in a business suit who had just gone past them and out the door, and he stopped at the big ashtray and made an angry face. When he looked back into the post office, Nate and the boys peeled their eyes away, pretending they hadn’t seen him. But he knew it was them. They had seen that in his eyes.

And that made it that much funnier. After the slick businessman left, they all went back outside, laughing.

As the shopping day dragged on, Nate started wearing down. They were trying to get all of their last minute purchases done, the same way Nate did every year. Jeneal was back home, cooking pies and wrapping presents. Christmas Day was drawing way too close and way too fast.

Nate started getting a headache. He always did when it came to shopping. Just the very act of driving around this busy town this time of year, having people pull in front of him, or worse yet, turn in front of him without warning. Or, the cardinal sin, going ten miles under the speed limit when he was in a big hurry to get to another store before it had a chance to close. What he needed was some caffeine. A Coca Cola, to be precise. Nothing could knock out one of these headaches like a Coke.

But at lunch, he and the boys had grabbed a sixty-cent burger at Frank’s Drive-In, and he had thought he would cut out some calories by having a water instead of a soda. Now he was paying for it. He should have known better. A harried day of shopping? A sure ticket to a stress headache. And for Nate, nothing could cure a headache like that better than a cool, sparkling bottle of Coca Cola. Well, they still had a couple more stores to get to, and they were running low on time. He would just stop at Nelson’s Food Town on the way home. He was going to get his Coke, one way or another.

On the way across the next parking lot, Rob spotted a bum, intently scouring the asphalt on the far side of the lot. Rob pointed. “Dad, look! Some bum looking for cigarettes.” There was a well-trained boy!

“Pathetic,” said Nate, by way of acknowledgement. “I hope you boys see how addictive cigarettes can be. There is no reason to ever put that first one in your mouth. Filthy habit.”

“We won’t, Dad!” averred Tim. “It stinks!”

Nate and Rob agreed wholeheartedly. And as they were heading across the lot, having had to park clear over in front of Toys R Us because the spots in front of the jewelry store were all taken, Tim spied a cigarette. He was the winner once more, because it was once again one of the really long ones, which someone couldn’t have taken more than one or two puffs from before snuffing it out and dropping it. It was lying a foot out from a light pole, probably the same pole where it had been put out. Perhaps the wind had just now caught it and dragged it away from the base of the pole, for it was in pristine condition.

The vagrant spotted the cigarette just about the same time as Nate and the boys, and across the lot he started. His whole face seemed to light up, as if he had spied a nugget of gold.

“Dad, he’s coming to get it!” said Rob, an urgency to his voice. “He’s going to see you.”

Nate looked at the man, then at his boys. They had been in training too long. He couldn’t just let this one slide. The boys were counting on him, and he had to teach them not to be afraid. After all, they were in the right. And besides, this guy was nothing but a bum, probably one hundred forty pounds if he had been wearing cement shoes. What was he going to do, beat Nate up?

Feeling his heart pounding with the adrenaline of the moment as the bum got twelve feet away, Nate reached out with his foot, put his toe on the cigarette, and ground it as hard and deliberately as he could into the asphalt.

In spite of himself, he looked up, and his eyes caught one of the saddest, most disappointed looks he had ever seen on the face of another human being. The old man was at least in his fifties but looked much older. He wore a green knit cap with white snowflakes on it and a filthy gray coat. His face was sallow and his whiskered cheeks hollow. He stared at the demolished cigarette, then raised lost looking gray-blue eyes to stare into Nate’s face. His whole body seemed to sink down, to shrink. His face looked like it actually sagged. Reaching up, he scrubbed at his wrinkled mouth, then, with one more long, hurt look into Nate’s eyes, he turned and shuffled away.

The boys started giggling. “Wow, you got him!” Nate heard Rob say, a sentiment that was quickly taken up by little Tim.

But Nate couldn’t erase the old man’s face from his mind. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so triumphant. Inside his guts, a strange lump had formed, and he felt somehow sick and sad. It was a feeling he couldn’t explain. As they walked the rest of the way to the jewelry store, he turned once more to see the old man amble away to disappear between two cars. He had won, he told himself. He had kept that filthy man from pounding another nail in his coffin. And who knew how many other shoppers he had spared from having to stomach the old man’s cigarette smoke? He should have been laughing with the boys. But there was something in the old man’s dejected face that he just couldn’t shake. It was almost as if the man had one hope left, and Nate had cruelly crushed it.

The boys picked out a fabulously beautiful set of opal earrings for their mother. She was going to love them. With most of the cash he had left, Nate paid for the earrings, then had the clerk wrap them up in pretty, dark blue wrapping. It glimmered in the store’s bright white lights as if it were covered in varnish.

They went outside and hurried across the lot, climbing into their Buick, an almost brand-new seventy-six, bought just last year, and completely free of the stench of cigarette smoke. The boys were smiling and laughing, excited about the coming of Christmas. They had forgotten all about the old man and the cigarette. But Nate hadn’t.

After one last scan of the parking lot, empty now of all but parked cars, he drove to the pullout. As he turned his head left to check for traffic, he saw the old man sitting on the parking in the snowy grass. Just sitting there with his hind end in the frozen grass, his knees bent, his arms hugging them to his body. He stared out into the road. He had that forlorn look of a man who has lost all hope in life. Was it because of the cigarette? One cigarette? Did that one little bit of tobacco hold that kind of power over that old man? How could anyone be so addicted to something? It really was sad. It was a disgusting habit, not good for him in the least. It was too bad Nate couldn’t find a way to show the man how foolish it was to smoke. His life would be so much better.

Nate looked at the boys. They hadn’t even noticed the old man sitting there. With a sigh, he tried to push all thoughts of the old man aside, and catching an opening in the stream of traffic, he gunned the Buick and pulled out.

His head was pounding horribly now. He had to get that caffeine. A Coca Cola. Even a Pepsi would do at this point. Anything to get rid of this headache.

Still unable to shake the picture of the old, broken-looking man, he stopped at the grocery store. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out everything he had and counted it. One dollar and thirty-four cents. More than enough for a fifteen cent bottle of pop for all three of them.

He walked straight to the pop cooler and pulled out an icy cold Coca Cola. It was the most beautiful little bottle he had ever laid his eyes on. It was all he could do to keep from popping it open right there and taking a big, long swallow.

And then he stopped. His hand seemed frozen to that bottle. All of a sudden, all he could see was the face of the vagrant, sitting there in the snow, hugging his knees to his body, staring with those vacant eyes at the cars as they passed him. The world seemed to have forgotten that man.

Without any conscious thought, a vision of another little man streamed into his mind, another little man seemingly forgotten by much of the world, lying in a pile of hay in a manger some two thousand years ago. Forgotten, at least, by the wealthy of the world. But not by the poor. Those were his people. The only ones who really cared. The ones who were willing to share with him all that they had, even if they hardly had anything at all.

“Dad? Can we?”

The voice of little Tim suddenly registered on Nate, and he looked down at him. “Sorry. What’s that, little man?”

“Can we get a pop too?”

Feeling a surge of emotion, Nate dropped to a knee, and he hugged Tim and Rob to him. He held onto them tightly, and being the boys they were, they naturally hugged him back. Finally, he let go of them and looked into their bewildered eyes. “Let’s wait, boys. I think we need to do something else with our money this time.”

There was a ridiculing thought pounding at Nate right now, pounding in his aching head. What about Nate Harrison? What about his addiction? His addiction to the Coca Cola. He had needed it, he thought, like he needed life itself. And yet he had been so quick to judge the addiction of other people to their cigarettes—possibly the only thing they might have all day that would keep them warm. The only thing that might calm their shaking nerves, or give them any hope in life. That Coke would surely cure Nate’s headache. But who in the world was he to say that he needed it more than that old man had needed his cigarette?

He carried his pop to the checkout stand, where he glanced over the display of cigarettes behind the clerk. Saratogas caught his attention, and he asked her for a pack.

The boys just stared at their father as if he had gone crazy. Nate had too big of a lump in his throat to explain anything right then, and they didn’t dare ask.

He paid fifteen cents for the Coca Cola and thirty-six for the pack of Saratogas, and then they went and got back in the car. By now, the boys could not contain their curiosity. But even so, they couldn’t mention the fact that their father had actually purchased cigarettes—the “great evil.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Rob with a huge hint of caution in his tone.

“You’ll see, boys. It’s a surprise.”

They drove until they saw the big golden arches of McDonald’s restaurant, where Nate pulled in, even though the boys knew their mom was preparing a nice supper for them. McDonald’s was running a huge advertising campaign that year, pushing the “Mac Attack,” and it seemed like everyone was buying Big Macs. And why not? What a great deal they were, at only forty-eight cents for the old, famous “two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun?”

They went inside and fought the crowd, finally paying the forty-eight cents for a Big Mac and twenty for fries, then picking up their food and heading back out into the frigid evening, which was now growing dark. Christmas lights starting to glow into life everywhere, their big, bold colors deepening the blue shadows around them in the snow.

Nate drove straight back to the jewelry store parking lot, his heart pounding the whole way. Traffic was worse than ever, but for some reason, in spite of his feeling of urgency, he didn’t feel the anger rising inside him like before.

When he pulled into the parking lot, he was disappointed not to see the old man sitting there on the grass anymore. With bright store lights all around them, and Christmas ones glittering now against a myriad of snowflakes, big as duck feathers, that tumbled lightly out of the blue-gray evening sky, Nate sat there scouring the lot. Slowly, he drove between the lines of cars until finally he spotted the old man. Only now he was with another one, this one a Negro, probably close to his age. His dark brown face had a light gray scouring pad on its lower half, and a dirty yellow ski hat covered his head.

Breath coming to him at a cost, Nate parked behind two vehicles, hoping they wouldn’t need to leave right away. With his heart still pounding, he looked at the boys as he pulled out a bottle opener and popped the lid off the Coca Cola. He then put it in the McDonald’s bag and pulled the pack of cigarettes out of the grocery bag, laying it aside. He was going to tell the boys to stay in the car, but at the last second he said, “Maybe you kids should come too.” The boys just stared at him, wonder in their eyes. When they looked over into the shadows at the two old vagrants, there was a look of fear in their eyes. Hoboes like these had only ever been a source of mystery and humor. To them, these men were almost not even like real people. With a sick feeling filling his heart, Nate knew he had made it that way.

They all got out together, and Nate strode across the sidewalk and onto the grass to the old man and his companion, hearing the boys run to keep up. The old men turned as one when they heard their shoes crunching in the snow behind them. Both of them stared at him, the look in their eyes cautious. They probably figured he was going to tell them they couldn’t be there.

Instead, he held up the McDonald’s bag in one hand, and in the other hand the pack of Saratoga cigarettes. “I got you this,” he said. He suddenly felt very unsure of himself, very out of place here.

The old man just stared back at him, unmoving. The colored man looked at his friend, finally nudging him. “Hey, brother. He got somethin’ there for you. Go get it, man. Go on.”

The old man turned his head and looked at his friend, seeming for a moment to be beyond comprehension. The Negro nudged him again. “Go on, brother.”

At last, the old man slowly shuffled forward to Nate, staring at the unopened package of cigarettes. “What are you doing this for?”

“It’s Christmas,” said Nate, thinking how much more meaning those words suddenly held for him.

“Are you kidding me?”

Nate smiled. “No! No, I’m not kidding. Here. Merry Christmas. I got you this food too. I thought you looked hungry.”

Without warning, the old man’s eyes filled up with tears. His chin began shaking as he stared at the McDonald’s bag. His hand, like his chin, started to tremble as he reached out and took the cigarettes. “You don’t have to buy me any food,” he said, licking his lips. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know I don’t have to. I wanted to. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about? Sorry I only have enough food for one of you,” he said, glancing at the man’s Negro friend. “I thought you were alone.”

“Aw, shucks,” said the Negro. “I be fine! I already ate.”

Nate looked at him doubtfully. If anything, the man looked scrawnier than the white one, even inside a long, heavy black coat.

“Well, anyway,” said Nate. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you. Thank you, sir,” said the old man. His wrinkle-creased cheeks were now glistening.

“No, my friend. Thank you.”

“Me? What for?”

“For waking me up.”

Even though they could not pretend to understand what he meant, the two old men kept nodding and thanking Nate and the boys until they got back in the car. Nate noticed now that his headache was completely gone. He hadn’t felt so good about himself in a long time. He drove across the parking lot, but instead of leaving, on a whim he stopped. He peered back through the thickening snowflakes and the evening’s gloom, and in the shadows beside the jewelry store he saw the old man hand the Coke to his friend, and the Negro took a long swallow before handing it back. Then the first one tore the Big Mac in half, handing one of the halves to his friend.

Now it was Nate’s turn to have tears fill his eyes. The boys were staring over the dash at the two old men, standing there in the cold shadows and sharing their meal.

Tim looked up at his dad for a long time before speaking. “Daddy, why did we do that?”

Nate’s voice almost broke when he looked down at his boys, thinking of all he had taught them in the past. There was a knot in his throat past which he almost could not speak. “I thought of the baby Jesus, Tim,” he said. His breaking voice wouldn’t let him say anything more. And through the tears in his eyes he could hardly focus on the boys anymore.

“I thought cigarettes were bad, though,” said Rob.

“Well, son, they aren’t good for our bodies. But... Jesus came here to teach us not to judge people. I’ve been doing a very bad thing with you boys. I’ve been teaching you to be cruel to others. When we get home, you boys and I and your mom are going to have a nice talk, okay?”

The boys, still confounded, both nodded. They had no more words, and no way to understand this sudden change in their father. To them, they were only beginning to understand that the “game” was over.

Nate gazed at the two old men, sharing their meager meal there in the cold blue shadows. He thought of the old clothes he had bagged up a week ago and had yet to take to the second hand store. He thought of the thermometer he had glanced at earlier, which even before the snow started falling had read thirty degrees. He thought of the warm food Jeneal must be getting ready to put on the table, and of the homey smell that would greet them as they walked into the house.

The two old men smelled like stale cigarette smoke and wine—two smells that had never been in Nate and Jeneal’s house since they bought it. Two smells that wouldn’t go too well with hash browns, corn and biscuits and gravy. But then, how well did the smell of hot animals, sheep, cows and donkeys, go with the birth of the most important, the most perfect man who had ever come to earth?

Nate drove back across the parking lot slowly. He hoped Jeneal had cooked enough for two more mouths, but it didn’t really matter. If that old man could tear a Big Mac in half and share it and his drink with a friend, and if Jesus Christ could share his perfect blood with his brothers and sisters, not one of whom really deserved it, then the least Nate Harrison could do was to share some old clothes, a warm house and a meal with two fellow human beings. Children of God.

He knew what this night meant: the end of the game. It was the beginning, for Nate Harrison, of a whole new kind of game. He only prayed he was not too late.