A Christmas Eve Story
by Nikki Little
On a snowy Christmas Eve, in one of those cookie-cutter chain restaurants, a waitress had just finished waiting on a well-dressed man, his elegant wife, and two polite and well-mannered children. After the man had paid at the cash register and had led his family out the door, the waitress cleared the table off and reached for her tip. It was a single bill that was visible from a distance, and her first thought had been that it was one dollar. "Cheapskate!" she thought. However, the waitress was mistaken. On this snowy Christmas Eve, this waitress had just received a one-hundred dollar tip. The waitress' name was "Claire," and she was an honest woman. She chased the man to his car and stopped him just as he was about to pull away. "Sir, there must be some mistake. This is a one-hundred dollar bill." The man looked up at her with a bright smile, as if surprised.
"No, my dear. It is no mistake. I have all that I could possibly want. That one-hundred dollar bill means little to me. I only regret that others who enjoy as much as I are not similarly generous. Especially on Christmas Eve."
Claire was now mystified. What was a wealthy man doing in a chain restaurant on Christmas Eve? There were far finer places he could have chosen. Claire was about to open her mouth, but the man read her mind.
"I came to this restaurant this evening because you were the most deserving waitress in this town. You could say that I'm making my Christmas rounds."
The man smiled and his wife and children nodded with pleasant smiles on their faces. For Claire, it all seemed dreamlike. The man drove off and Claire wondered if it really happened. Claire looked in her hand and all doubts disappeared. For a moment, it seemed that tears would overwhelm her, and she dashed into the restaurant's ladies' room into a stall.
Fine grit on the floor of the restroom scratched under Claire's shoes. The dim light reflecting off the dingy yellowed wall reminded her of her appointed station in life. "Do I truly deserve no better than this?" thought Claire. She held the bill up in front of her and noticed that the portrait on the one-hundred-dollar bill was not of Benjamin Franklin. The bill certainly looked real. Fine threads snaked through the bill. Delicate details were perfect. No ink smudged.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice that the portrait was wrong!"
Claire blinked. The portrait on the piece of paper - it wasn't really money - was talking to her. "I've finally lost my mind," thought Claire. The portrait continued to speak.
"You've gone unrewarded for the life you've lived long enough. You've spent your entire life always doing what was expected of you - what you thought were your obligations. You've always been polite and respectful. You're honest to a fault. You're kind to animals. I know that you have three stray cats at home, one of whom has only three legs. You've been treated like a doormat all your life, and that breaks my heart. You're a good woman, Claire, and you deserve a chance at happiness. I'm going to give you a list of seven choices. You may choose only one. Choose wisely, my dear, for this is a once-in-a-lifetime event. You will never see me again after you have chosen."
Claire was a bit suspicious, and thought her mind was playing tricks on her. For a split second, she even wondered if the speaking portrait was a demon who would soon wave a contract in her face. The portrait, however, remained as mysterious as ever.
"Your first possible choice is the most obvious one - wealth. Material wealth would solve many of your problems, although it would create others."
Claire didn't hesitate. "I'd like to hear what the other choices are before I make up my mind." Claire was still skeptical of the whole thing.
The door to the restroom creaked opened and one woman entered. Claire and the portrait both shut up. The woman entered the stall right next to Claire and seemed to take forever to finish her business. Claire noticed that she did not bother to flush or wash her hands before leaving.
"Ah, yes," continued the portrait, "your other choices." Claire's next option was wisdom. This sounded a bit better to Claire, but, truth was, Claire was a most intelligent woman. Well-educated, too. She had a bachelor's degree in English which turned out to be completely useless in the job market. Hence she was still waiting tables at the age of 33. Just because she was a waitress did not mean that her head was empty.
"I don't mean to sound arrogant, but wisdom is something which I think I already possess. My bullshit detector is constantly going off. Right now I think that I'm hallucinating. I'm probably passed out on the floor of the restroom and my fellow employees are waiting for the ambulance. Wait until the hospital finds out that I don't have insurance."
"No, my dear. You're not passed out and you're not hallucinating. The third traditional choice is a long life."
"A long life?" laughed Claire. "Of this?" Claire scowled. "I'm not stupid. A long life of scrounging in poverty is not an option at all. Next choice."
"Now for the unconventional choices. The fourth choice is that you hear people's thoughts as if they were speaking. Never again would you wonder what someone is really thinking."
Claire looked at the portrait incredulously. "That would be torture! There would be no peace ever! No thanks! I especially don't want to hear my fellow employees' thoughts. The thoughts of the customers would probably be even worse. No thanks!"
"The fifth choice is to be able to tell when people are lying. You won't hear other people's thoughts, but you'll always know when they are lying."
Claire skoffed. "I already have that ability. People don't even attempt to hide the fact that they're lying anymore. They do it openly and brazenly. Next choice."
"The sixth choice is a family of your own. A husband and children. A home."
Claire bit her lip. This was the most tempting option so far. Yet Claire had doubts. "Marriage is never a sure thing. Even if the man is perfect, I might not be. I've spent my whole life waiting on customers. I don't think I want to add a husband and children to my list of obligations. I'm middle-aged, and I'm feeling a bit weary."
The portrait winced as he knew that 33 was not yet middle-aged. Life was beating the stuffings out of Claire, and he could see it in the premature lines on her face. Thin and haggard, it was obvious that Claire had not enough time or money to take care of herself properly. "The seventh choice is a blank. Is there something that you greatly desire? Be very careful with this choice, for receiving what you desire most can turn out to be a curse."
"You mean I can create my own choice? Yes, there is something I greatly desire. I want to live in a place without money. I want to be in a place where people freely share what they have and take what they need. I want to live in a place where the relentless refrain of 'I, me, mine' does not exist. I want to live in a place like that mythical kingdom in that book. I want to live in a real-life Shangri-La."
The portrait in the one-hundred-dollar bill scratched his head. "Yes, I know of such a place, but only one." The bill vanished from Claire's hand and an oddly-dressed young man appeared before her. Claire wasn't sure of what she was seeing, and reached out to touch him. Her hand passed through air.
"I know of such a place, but it is where I live. You are still fairly young. So young. Are you certain this is what you want?"
"Yes, I'm sure," said Claire. "No doubts."
The mirage-like figure before her became solid. "Take my hand, my dear. Walk with me."
Claire took the young man's hand.
In the restaurant, the manager and other employees were wondering what was taking Claire so long in the restroom. The female dining room supervisor, who ran the cash register and seated customers, went into the women's restroom to find Claire. She found Claire sprawled on the gritty floor in front of a dingy toilet. Claire was no longer breathing. Claire's face was an ashen gray. There was no blood anywhere. No sign of foul play or a suicide attempt. There was no pulse. The dining room supervisor noticed Claire's right hand tightly closed around something and pried her fingers open. There was nothing.
Outside, a slow, steady rain of large, fluffy flakes fell. A light dusting of snow covered everything. This year, it would be a White Christmas, and the ugliness of Claire's little piece of the world would be hidden.
The End