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“Merry Christmas, God bless,” mutters the raisin-faced Salvation Army worker. From behind a scarf, a teenage girl imagines Santa Claus or Jesus someone propping the old man there, leaning against the pole, and telling him to repeat these words, over and over. The old man doesn’t raise his head as the girl’s gloved hand drops a pocketful of change into his bucket. “Merry Christmas, God bless you,” he mutters. “You, too,” says the girl.
The girl also sometimes says “Merry Christmas” to particularly harried customers, though she knows it’s supposed to be Happy Holidays. She takes her post in ladies’ sleepwear, occupying her mind by wondering about the recipients of the gifts customers are buying.
A round man, well past middle age, greets her cheerily. He’s looking for a nightgown, he says. He pulls a slip of paper out of his pants pocket and holds it at arm’s length, squinting. Shaking his head, he pulls out his spectacles from his breast pocket, puts them on, then reads, “Long-sleeved, size extra large.” It’s for his mother, he tells the girl. That’s about all she needs these days, pajamas.
She’s a hundred and two.
He chuckles nostalgically. Every year since nineteen forty-five, he’s gotten her a box of chocolate covered cherries. Every year since nineteen forty-five. She’s a hundred and two now. The man turns his face a way. Every year since nineteen forty-five, he says, his voice cracking a bit. Since nineteen forty-five. But this year, she can’t —
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come right now, I’ll be back later —” he says, crumpling his slip of paper and hurrying away. The girl watches him as he leaves, brushing his eyes.
Briefly neglecting her register later in the shift, the girl rummages through the nightgowns (taking note of all the long-sleeved, extra large ones appropriate for a hundred-and-two-year-old woman), in case the man should come back. She wants to tell him, “Merry Christmas, God bless you, and God bless your mother.”
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Here's the original:
Merry Christmas, God bless you,
Mutters the raisin-faced Salvation Army worker.
She leans against a pole like a plank of wood propped against a tree.
She doesn’t raise her head
As a gloved hand out of a bundle of warm clothes
Drops a pocketful of change in the bucket.
Merry Christmas, God bless you, she mutters,
Her cheerful bell tinkling.
You, too, a voice says from under a scarf.
The girl under the scarf
(Who occasionally says Merry Christmas to particularly harried customers,
Though she knows it’s supposed to be happy holidays)
Takes her post in ladies’ sleepwear.
A round man – well past middle age –
Greets her cheerily.
He’s looking for a nightgown, he says,
Long-sleeved, size extra large,
He reads off a slip of paper.
It’s for his mother.
She’s confined to a nursing home now, he tells the girl.
That’s about all she needs these days – pajamas.
She’s a hundred and two.
Every year since nineteen forty five,
He’s gotten her a box of chocolate covered cherries.
Every year since nineteen forty five.
She’s a hundred and two now.
The man turns his face away.
Every year since nineteen forty five,
He says,
His voice cracking a bit.
Since nineteen forty five.
But this year she can’t –
Can’t eat them –
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come right now, I’ll be back later,
He says, crumpling his slip of paper and hurrying away,
Brushing his eyes as he leaves.
Briefly neglecting her register later in the shift,
The girl rummages through the nightgowns,
(Noting the loveliest,
Softest,
Silkiest,
Long-sleeved, extra-large gowns)
In case the man should come back.
She wants to tell him,
God bless you,
And God bless your mother.
Specifically, I'm wondering about the paragraph that begins "He chuckles nostalgically." That was my favorite stanza back when it was verse, but I'm not quite sure how to handle it in prose. Suggestions on any part are welcome, though.
3 comments:
I like this a lot. One major suggestion: there isn't a real strong POV character-that is, the scene is being filtered through someone's mind (we get thoughts of the girl and the old man) but it doesn't stay consistently with one character. This keeps the reader at a distance; he isn't sure which character he is supposed to listen to, and the story ends before he can find an anchor.
My suggestion: Your dialogue alternates between quoted and non-quoted. Pick a POV character and quote everyone else's dialogue, while leaving the POV character's unquoted. Unquoted dialogue feels more internal, so that will key us into which character is our anchor, whose perspective colors the rest of the narrative.
The problem with the paragraph in question is that it feels like it's from the old man's POV, while most of the rest of the story is from the girl's POV. Mainly due to identifying the chuckle definitely as nostalgic and your decision not to put quotes around his words.
I was intending for the whole thing to be from the girl's perspective, but I definitely see how that paragraph seems like it's from the old man's perspective -- thanks for pointing that out.
I've made a few stylistic changes -- including removing all the quotation marks -- and attempted to clarify that paragraph some more. So here's the revised version, which now also has a title.
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"Santa Claus or Jesus or Someone"
Merry Christmas, God bless, mutters the raisin-faced Salvation Army worker. From behind a scarf, a teenage girl imagines that Santa Claus or Jesus or someone propped him there against a pole and told him to repeat those words over and over: Merry Christmas, God bless. He doesn’t raise his head as her gloved hand drops a pocketful of change into his bucket. Merry Christmas, God bless, he mutters. You, too, she says.
The girl also sometimes says Merry Christmas to particularly harried customers, though she knows it’s supposed to be Happy Holidays. She takes her post in ladies’ sleepwear, wondering about the recipients of the gifts customers are buying.
After a few dull hours, round man, well past middle age, greets her cheerily. He’s looking for a nightgown, he says. He pulls a slip of paper out of his pants pocket and holds it at arm’s length, squinting. Shaking his head, he pulls out his spectacles from his breast pocket, puts them on, then reads, Long-sleeved, size extra large. It’s for his mother, he tells the girl. That’s about all she needs these days, pajamas.
She’s a hundred and two.
He chuckles. Every year since nineteen forty-five, I’ve gotten her a box of chocolate covered cherries, he says. Every year since nineteen forty-five. She’s a hundred and two now. Every year since nineteen forty-five. His voice cracks a bit. Since nineteen forty-five. But this year, she can’t —
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come right now, I’ll be back later. He crumples his slip of paper and hurries away. The girl watches him as he leaves, brushing his eyes.
Briefly neglecting her register later in the shift, the girl rummages through the nightgowns (noting all the long-sleeved, extra large ones), in case the man should come back. She wants to tell him, Merry Christmas, God bless you, and God bless your mother.
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