December 2005, Lima, Peru

By Victor Gonzales

Another red light — fantastic. I take a quick glance at my watch, and it’s already 11:45 in the evening. I can’t believe I’m running late on Christmas Eve. Laura is going to kill me.

The engine of my car hums patiently, while the traffic light dangles above me with a sneering ruby eye. My little Debbie sits tranquilly next to me in the passenger seat, holding her faded old teddy bear to her chest. She’s had that thing for so long — practically since she was born. It’s no wonder that she treats it like a little brother.

“Are you excited about the Christmas party, Sweetheart?”

“Yes, Daddy. Are we going to be there soon?” she asks with a yawn.

“We’re almost there, Sweetie,” I tell her.

This is a long traffic light. Laura’s face must be seething with repressed glares right now. She hates it when I’m late, but this is really going to drive her up the wall. The entire family is waiting, and I’m carrying everybody’s presents in the trunk.

We’ve decided to open the gifts at midnight this year, so Laura thought it would be best if I picked them up in my van and brought them all at once to somewhat preserve the illusion for the kids. I brought Debbie along because I know she has never really believed in Santa Claus. She’s a sharp little girl.

I take another look at my watch. Christmas starts in 11 minutes, and the dangling carbuncle above me still hasn’t turned green.

I look to my left and see two hunched figures obscured through my foggy car window. I roll down the glass and notice a woman and a little boy shivering together on the street corner. I can see the icy vapor escape through their frowns as Christmas lights twinkle across the urban corridors and muffled carols chime mechanically from the inside of closed street shops.

It’s a sight that would make a tourist weep with mercy. But I’ve lived here all my life, and the sad truth is that you see this sort of thing all the time. You see the homeless every day and every night. You see them with their sunken eyes, struggling and begging, and you see them so often that you get used to it. That paralyzing grief you felt the first time slowly dissipates when you come to the realization that it’s impossible to help them all — and so you go on with your life.

But as I continue to stare at this woman and her little boy, something begins to happen to me. I look at their moonlit eyes jingling in midair, but they don’t look back. They simply remain fixated on the ground, as if the space around them no longer exists. The holiday-ridden world has given up on them, and so they’ve given up on the world. Their only exchange on Christmas Eve consists of keeping each other warm.

I think about this and I think about the lump of excess weighing down the back of my van — expensive toys, jewelry, watches, colognes, perfumes, books, clothes, chocolate, iPods, wine bottles, wallets, and shoes — and I am paralyzed. The light turns green, but I continue to stare at the homeless family.

Debbie’s voice awakens me. She asks me if there’s anything wrong, and I tell her to wait in the car for a second, as I pull over to the side of the road. I get out of the van, open the back door, and take out all the gifts. I carry them all — every last one of them — to the homeless woman, as her mouth drops open in confusion.

I take out my wallet and empty the bills at her feet. I stick both hands in my pockets and turn them inside out so that loose change sprinkles down, all over the pavement. The little boy jumps up on his two feet and shrieks joyously. The woman grabs my ankle, looks up at me, and begins to cry. I wish them both a merry Christmas and walk back to the van.

As I stick the key in the ignition and start the engine, Debbie, still holding her teddy bear to her chest, tells me to wait.

She opens her door and scurries out of the van. She runs over to the homeless woman, stops diffidently before her, and hands the teddy bear to her little boy. She then scurries back, opens the door, and hops in the van.

I stare at her for a minute, and I realize that I’ve never been so proud of my daughter.

Victor Gonzales has been writing all his life, though he has recently considered making it into a career. He currently lives in Miami, Florida, and has an affinity for smooth jazz. He is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, December 17th, 2007 | Email This Post

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