Perspectives

A Christmas story

It was the last few days at the downtown office before the Christmas holiday. People were arriving muttering g’mornings without looking up. Tom knew it was Pete the same way one knows a chair is a chair without really giving it much attention or thought. It was the same with Sarah, Mary, Paul, or Simon, all of them tiny planets in orbit moving through the office space without ever colliding. The order and efficiency man strives for, once established, becomes a prison upheld by the inmates themselves.

 

Adam Jenkins stepped out onto the second floor balcony and lit a cigarette. Caffeine and nicotine were barely enough anymore to get him going in the morning. “I wonder why they hadn’t concocted a drug tailored to office workers,” he wondered. The morning rush hour was over, the street down bellow was empty. He scoffed at the marvels of 21st century architecture that looked like shoeboxes stacked up a mile high. “Soon, heads will be grown in square shaped molds for greater uniformity and to save space," he thought. 

 

A homeless man on a bicycle turned the corner and was riding very slowly down the street. His bicycle resembled a camel that carries precious cargo through the Sahara Desert. Huge black plastic bags were fastened to the back and the front on both sides. The man's bald head was covered in scabs and rashes. He was a grotesque downtown Santa Claus in his stained, baggy, ragged clothes. As he rode down the street, he looked left and right methodically scanning the ground searching for anything useful to stuff in his bags.

 

Adam followed this spectacle with rapt attention. He envisioned a troubled childhood in a broken home, the plague of alcohol, drugs, abuse, and mental illness that inevitably lead to a life in the streets. And yet, as he watched this man ride his bicycle in the morning sun, his pity gave way to another feeling. He envied the man’s leisurely pace, and the fact that he was outdoors in the sun. The subtropical climate made December a pleasant part of the year in this part of the world. In that moment, Mr. Adam Jenkins, the respectable software developer would have traded his business suit, his tie, his Smartphone and his secure place in the world, which was really a six foot by six foot cubicle, for a few hours of riding a bicycle in the morning sun with no particular destination in mind.

 

The man, known as J.C. down on the streets, eked out a living by collecting and recycling empty bottles and cans. He was also the savior of discarded umbrellas, shoes, books, bits of rope, broken DVD players, and ragged dolls. They’d all have a home in his tent on the edge of town. It gave J.C. something to do and besides, the desire to find fulfillment in a menagerie of lifeless objects is not the exclusive prerogative of the rich. He caught sight of Adam smoking on the balcony, and thought how fortunate some people are to have a job to go to, clean clothes, status, and a regular, normal life. He would've done anything to get to where that man was now in life, if he only knew where and how to begin.

 

The two men locked eyes and for a moment they beheld each other with envy. J.C. slowly rolled to the end of the street where a 9-foot tall inflatable Santa waved its rubber arms mechanically, and blasted music through its built-in loudspeakers. As the opening notes of “Joy to the World” rang out, J.C. turned the corner and disappeared from view. Adam Jenkins put out his cigarette and returned to his cubicle.