4. Gerald's Appearance, and Arnold's Doofy Sweaters
Gerald Johanssen rubbed his mittened hands together briskly and turned up the collar of his coat as he walked down Vine Street as quickly as his long legs could carry him. Though not a flake of snow had graced the sidewalks of the city yet, it was bitterly cold, the mercury having hovered somewhere around zero for the past month.
Still, Gerald was fairly happy. He'd gotten home from University of Miami the day before, and though his body protested angrily at the sudden cold, it was good to be back in Brooklyn. He'd been able to sleep as late as he wanted today, instead of having to get up at the frighteningly early hour of eleven that was his normal schedule. After a late lunch his mother had begrudgingly prepared for him, he'd shuffled around the house in his boxers for about an hour, teasing Timberly about her boyfriend and trying to pretend that he wasn't bored already.
Finally, though, his mother had lost her patience and thrown him out of the house, on the pretense that she needed milk. So, he'd pulled on some clothing and headed down towards the deli, looking fondly around the old neighborhood as he'd passed the landmarks of his childhood.
There were one or two things, however, that he did not like to see anymore, and he was passing one of them now, here on Vine Street. The old russet boarding house stood somber and quiet, its bricks edged with the frost that refused to turn to snow. It was the home of his childhood best friend, the boy he'd lived through countless adventures with—the boy who'd ditched him years ago.
Oh, sure, it wasn't entirely Arnold's fault. After all, Gerald could have kept up his end of the emails and the phone calls just as easily as Arnold. Still, he'd felt hurt—abandoned—when his friendship with Arnold had basically staggered off into the sunset on its last legs. He couldn't help feeling like the Arnold he'd grown up with would have done more to keep the friendship alive.
Oh, well. He turned off Vine Street and headed for his own. He'd made his own friends in high school and college, and he was sure that Arnold had done the same. No use crying over spilled milk, right? Who said that old friends were the only friends? It was like that song said. One is silver and the other gold… or something like that.
Anyway, he'd hung on to some of his old friends. He was meeting up with Stinky, Harold, and the others that very night to play a few rounds of pool, which Gerald modestly assumed he would tromp them in. After all, he wasn't known as the MVP on Miami's baseball team for nothing. True, the skills required for pool weren't exactly the same as those required for baseball, but they had to come in handy somehow, right? And he'd always been the most athletic of them all. Well, he'd heard Harold was on a full football scholarship at Rutgers, which was nothing to sneeze at, because Harold couldn't even get near Rutgers without football, but still…
He'd been thinking about quitting the team, though. It wasn't like he had any great passion for the game, after all. Sure, he liked doing physical things, he liked being active—and maybe if he worked a little harder he could go pro, but he wasn't sure he wanted to. It was only baseball, after all. It didn't exactly strike a chord in him anywhere—wasn't like he loved the game more than life itself.
Well, he didn't need to decide right now. He'd play a few games with the guys, have a beer or two—Harold was of age, so they didn't even have to bother with fake ID's, which was good, because his was ridiculously bad—maybe pick up a girl…
Speaking of girls…
As Gerald reached the top of his stoop and put his key in the lock, something made him turn around. A curtain flickered in the window of the Hyerdahl house, a window he'd once studied for hours; something dark moved away from the glass. He paused, ignoring the cold as he stared up at the window. For a minute, he thought he'd seen his old girlfriend…
He and Phoebe had always shared a weird kind of chemistry. As early as elementary school they were giving each other shy glances and occasionally—gasp!—holding hands. He'd finally worked up the nerve to ask her out in seventh grade, and they'd dated for about a year and a half, until for a complicated mess of reasons he couldn't really remember right now, they'd broken up. They'd stayed friends, though, and she'd helped to fill the void as correspondence with Arnold got smaller and smaller. He'd told Phoebe things he'd never imagined telling anyone, let alone a girl, and there were times when he thought he'd never love anyone as much as he loved Phoebe—as a friend, of course.
But they went to different high schools, and though they lived across the street from each other, they stopped hanging out quite as much. Gerald was busy with the debate team, the baseball team, the basketball team, football…you get the picture. Phoebe was off with the Science Club and the Math Team and the Future Leaders of America and pretentious Mensa-wannabe things like that, and they'd just gradually drifted apart. By graduation, they were barely speaking, except for a "hi" and "bye" in the street when they passed.
And then, the summer before college, there was that night…that awful night…Gerald really didn't want to think about it right now. Suffice to say they'd…done things they shouldn't, and said things they shouldn't, and hadn't spoken since. That had been a year and a half ago.
He wondered idly if she still wore her hair the way he liked it, and then tried to forget just how much he'd liked it the way he'd liked it.
And he went inside his house.
Arnold stood on Gerald's stoop, fidgeting uncomfortably as he tried to gather up the nerve to knock. He thought he might have felt a little bit better if he hadn't been wearing such an awful sweater.
The trip up north had been basically uneventful. To Arnold's very great surprise, the travel kit had contained pretty much everything he needed. Toothbrush, washcloth, comb, towel, several complete meals, enough coffee to keep him wired for a year, wrapping paper, candy canes, and, for some obscure reason, a collapsible lawn chair and a croquet set. It also had clean underwear, socks, and sweaters, plus gloves and a scarf, which came in pretty handy as the bus moved farther north. And all of the paraphernalia fit easily into the tiny kit, defying pretty much every law of physics Arnold knew. The only problem was (besides the fact that Arnold didn't even want to think about how they knew his size), all of the clothing was (unsurprisingly) Christmasy. Meaning that he was now wearing a sweater with all eight reindeer loving knit onto the red and green stripes. And boxers with Christmas trees (although no one could see those). And a scarf and hat with snowflakes on them. And a pom-pom on the hat.
The author would like to express at this moment that Arnold looked like a complete and total doof.
"Thank you."
No sweat, Football Face.
What would Gerald say to him when he answered the door? Would he be glad to see him? Would he be angry that they hadn't really spoken in so long? And how in the name of Christmas was he going to explain why he was here?
Maybe it would be better to get him to Slaussen's first, and then break the whole Santa thing to him. It might go down easier with Herman there as proof.
Yes, that was the plan. He nerved himself, and rang the doorbell.
"Gerald, could you get that?"
"Aw, Ma, why can't Timberly get it?"
"Because Timberly is helping me, which you have not done since you got home! Now answer the door!"
"Awwww…"
There was the sound of approaching footsteps, then the bolts shifted and the door opened. Gerald stood there, pretty much the way Arnold remembered him, except far taller and with much less hair. A rough goatee adorned his chin, making him look far older than Arnold. When he saw who was standing on the stoop, his jaw dropped.
"Arnold?"
Arnold shrugged a little and nodded sheepishly. "Yep, it's me."
Gerald's eyes were still as big as dinner plates. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Okay, this wasn't exactly a warm welcome. Still, Gerald wasn't being outright hostile. "Well, it's kind of a long story. Um…something sort of…er…came up. Could we…er…could we talk?"
Gerald nodded. "Uh…sure. Yeah, we can talk. Why don't you come in?"
Arnold felt even more embarrassed. "Um…actually, could we go to Slaussen's? I'm…we're…sort of supposed to meet someone there. It's not that I don't want to see your family again or anything, but…" He glanced at his watch. "We're supposed to meet him at four, and it's three forty-nine already…"
"We?" Gerald asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, well…it's a long story…" Arnold repeated, not knowing what else to say.
Gerald sighed, apparently figuring he might as well go along with it. "Okay, I'll get my coat. Hold on." He vanished into the house.
Arnold felt slightly relieved. At least Gerald was coming. Still, the hard part was coming up. And he knew why Gerald hadn't really invited him in while he got his coat. It was a small, but subtle reminder—they were no longer friends.
They'd have to patch that up if they were to find Santa together. Ten years ago, Arnold could have done it in his sleep. Now he wasn't sure if he knew how. He'd lost some of the magic touch he'd had with people as a child, and he didn't know if he could regain it.
Gerald came to the door, shrugging into his coat. "'Kay, my mom wants me back in a couple of hours. We're having my cousins over for dinner, and they eat a ton."
"Did I meet these cousins?" Arnold asked as they started down the stoop.
"Yeah, remember that one Thanksgiving you spent with us?" Gerald asked.
"Oh, yeah…" As they headed down the street Arnold glanced up at Phoebe's house. "Have you seen Phoebe recently?" he asked, nodding towards her window.
"No." Gerald's answer was so curt and closed-mouthed that Arnold was sure he had said the wrong thing. Fidgeting uncomfortably, he walked silently until Gerald turned to him, eyebrow raised.
"Arnold, I have to ask…what is up with that sweater?"
Arnold smiled sheepishly as some of his anxieties evaporated. "It's part of my story. Trust me, I didn't pick it out. I'll explain it all at Slaussen's. How's Miami?"
Well, they weren't friends…but they weren't not-friends, either. For now, that was enough.
From the files of Saint Nicholas: Gerald Johanssen, age 5
Dear Santa,
Jamie-O is helping me write this and telling me how to spell, but he says that you give younger kids more presents than big ones so he's making me write it. We have been really really really good this year like angels and what we want most of all is a Nintendo. Like the new kind with the game where you get to fight all the ninjas. And I want a skateboard also and Jamie-O wants a car even though I told him he can't drive a car 'cause he's only ten and that's not so old. And since we're going to have a baby brother or sister soon we would like a sister because we already have two boys in the family and that's plenty. But a good sister, not a brat. Thank you,
From,
Gerald (and Jamie-O)