FICTION — SHORT STORY

Photo Prompt 2 — Last Shift

Christmas in Saskatchewan

If anyone had asked Peter what he wanted as he dragged a rag across the dark splotches and croissant crumbs on the wooden tables in the dimly lit cafe, his response would have been simple: Christmas, a fun Christmas.

Maybe not like the ones he had all his life in Lagos, Nigeria.

Christmas in Lagos always began the night before, on Christmas Eve.

One could smell it in the air.

The air usually reeked of sulphur from the firecrackers that painted the skies in a resplendent blaze.

Lagos is a rambunctious city, but Lagos on Christmas Eve is a contest of the most annoying decibels, a tribulation for the ears and sanity.

The loud bangs of firecrackers jostling with the blare of Fuji and street pop music, the yell of excited children, and their mothers’ laughter as they gossip over steaming giant pots or carcasses of bloated and burning skewered cows.

The roar of their father's voices as they trade men gossip and drown themselves in alcohol.

When Christmas Day finally arrives, the day is usually a day of copiousness. More noise, more food in chipped enamel bowls piled on silver trays.

Relatives and neighbors who slap crisp notes into the palms of children dressed in oversized denim or embroidered kaftans usually paired with gaudy sunshades. And street parties that often end in brawls.

Peter wanted the sort of Christmas he often watched in movies. The one where families huddle together in matching cardigans emblazoned with Christmas trees and reindeer; their eyes glued to the TV screen. The lights from the giant Christmas tree reflected on their faces, the wrappers of Christmas gifts strewn beside platters of food.

A Christmas of a simple shared conversation in the confines of a home rather than raucous music from street parties.

If there was something Canada taught him in the six months since he had arrived, it was the necessity to separate needs from wants, the need to understand that some desires must be deferred.

He would have gone home to his matchbox with the musty smell common with poorly ventilated rooms, the studio apartment that cost as much as his annual rent in Yaba.

He should have left like most of the staff on the last shift had, people who only worked because they needed working experience or ‘a few bucks,’ unlike him, whose life depended on every dollar.

He wasn’t even meant to be at work, but the café had become a refuge from the cold and darkness of his room.

He also couldn’t stand another confrontation with Mr. Brown, his ever-grumpy landlord whom he owed another month of rent.

The pay from the extra shift would barely cover half the rent for the past month and his monthly support to his family, but he had no choice.

Unlike Nigeria where he could owe his creditors for months with minimal consequences, In Saskatchewan bills demanded to be paid, and for bills to be paid, work needed to be done.

In six months he had realized that Canada was a lesser evil; a white pasture of snow.

But a better choice than his country where jobs didn’t exist for those willing to work, a country where he prayed for all the things the government provided for in Canada.

He squinted at the figure heading towards the door. He thought about rushing to flip the door sign to CLOSED. He wasn’t ready to head home, but his arms and feet hurt from standing and serving all day. When he glanced at the heavy snow and the bunched shoulders of the man, “It’s Christmas, I can spare him one cup and a chat,” he thought. He folded the rag, straightened his shoulders, looked toward the door, and smiled.

Mercurial is the word those who know Jeffrey describe him as.

This quality of his was what made him a billionaire very early in his life.

It was also what made him a lonely man at this point in his life.

His impulsivity had made him a fortune during the stock market crash, affording him a world of luxury in four of six decades on earth, but it had also made him a serial divorcee, an ex-husband to five ex-wives and a jerk to his ten children, many of whom he knew were waiting for his final breath like vultures circling over a wounded animal.

He dragged in a painful breath into his cancer-ridden lungs and pulled his jacket closer.

As his feet slushed through the wet snow, he tried to drown out the doctor’s voice. But no matter how much he tried, the words continually echoed in his head with the finality of a judge’s gavel, “You have less than one month to live,” the doctor had said to him a week ago.

“The best case is the first of January. Worst case is Boxing Day,” the doctor had replied in that serious and solemn way doctors address patients . “Get your house in order,” the doctor had added as though Jeffrey’s house was a scattered suitcase that he could hastily arrange.

Jeffrey had called his attorney to meet him with a copy of his testament immediately after he arrived home.

And tonight, as he trudged through the heavy snow, he was on a mission that would make his attorney cringe and the rest of his family cry when they finally got wind of his plans. But it wouldn’t be his problem then.

From when he slipped out of his home, a gated fortress; an 18th-century Victorian home with heated pools, a helipad, and a mini zoo, one of his many homes across the world, his eyes had been scanning for one thing, a smile.

It was the one thing he rarely gave, but for some strange reason, he needed the most in the last days of his life.

And for that, he was ready to part with more than a smile.

His odyssey through the park and the city had fetched him nothing.

People were too busy with themselves in a way that reminded him of parts of his life. Those times when he was too busy working on his living while ignoring the rest of his life.

Parents smiled and chatted with their kids as they hurried toward their destinations.

Lonely strangers with attention pinned to their phones.

Couples whispered to each other; heads pressed together underneath the snow-laden trees.

Not one of them noticed him, and if they did, none bothered smiling at him.

Christmas was about sharing, but there was a selfishness to the sharing he noticed. Like himself, he noticed others wrapped in their world, lonely people alone, faces in the shuffling crowd.

He was already out of breath when he saw the café, the wooden and glass box with the neon sign that read: “Take life, one cup at a time.” He stared at it, a brow cocked at the witty quote and as he looked away from the sign, he saw the figure with the rag in one hand walking towards the door with the first and brightest smile he had seen that evening.

Jeffrey smiled back as a strange warmth filled his chest.

As he neared the door, he reached towards the bulge in his breast pocket where his last testament was.