A Fairy Tale of Hamilton

By Ryan Moran, Illustrations by Joel Moran

I’ve always loved the idea of creating stories of, about, or in a city. A city’s mythos, so to speak.

Clearly, every city has its stories, but I’ve always felt like the mythos of Canadian cities, and Hamilton particularly, whether because of our size, our relative historical youth, or because of our characteristic self-effacing Canadian-ness, are an excessively far cry from say London or New York. Yet, we very much have a body of myths surrounding us.

The holiday season is a particularly great time for stories, myths or otherwise. Personally, my favourite Christmas stories have always been those that blend the real with the dark. Domestic and personal scenes in cities and/or those with hints of the supernatural, if not fully featuring a ghost, or two, or three. Not gooey, but still happy, maybe even comedic, with hints of melancholy.From Dickens’ Christmas Carol, to O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi, to Bill Murray’s Scrooged to the Pogues “A Fairy Tale of New York.”

This short holiday serial is inspired by all those, if not directly references them, such as in the case of “A Fairy Tale of New York,” my favourite Christmas song that I’ve always felt tells a story as relatable to Hamilton as it is to New York.

Enjoy and Season’s Greetings!

---

Part 1 of 4

“It was Christmas Eve, babe. In the drunk tank.  An old man said to me, ‘won’t see another one.’”

The classic Fairytale of New York, by the Pogues and Kristy MacColl.

But this wasn’t New York, it was Hamilton. It was still Christmas Eve though, and it was still a drunk tank.

“Well like I’m telling you I probably won’t be seein’ another one of these.” Said the old man, Pat.

Benj, drowsy, groggy and pained, booze emanating from his pores, struggled to sit himself up. “What? We were talking? Another one of what?”

“Christmas.” Said Pat. A gentle grin on his pockmarked face, red and bloated, a short layer of white fuzz adorning its lower half. He was framed with a walrus-moustache connecting to dishevelled wisps decorating his scalp as if a drunken spider was trying to catch the flies that should have been buzzing above him. “This is probably my last, hell, maybe won’t even make it to it at the rate I’m goin’, god willin’.” 

A couple of women began screaming at each other on the other side of the third-full, cafeteria-esque room, walls stained with what looked like decades of various fluids, bodily or otherwise.

Benj, unsure of which struggle he’d rather take up; the one to follow the drunk’s conversation, the one to figure out how to get out of there, or the one to just to ignore it all and not feel like death, involuntarily responded. “And what rate’s that?”

—

Ally slowly opened her eyes, the jarring fluorescent lighting on drywall and taupe flooring was agonizing. Her mouth was dry, her head was throbbing, and glancing down she could see an IV in her arm. “Am I in a hospital?” she said to the faint sense that someone was nearby to hear it.

“Yup,” came back a raspy, broken female voice.

She cautiously rolled over on her gurney, to make eye contact with the voice. Sitting up on her own bed, against a wall and across the hall was Carol, a heavy set, weathered woman with greasy, and inconsistently grey toned hair. She could have been a healthy 70, or a very unhealthy 50, Ally couldn’t tell.

“You been here about five hours, sleeping the whole time, a guy brought you in, haven’t seen him since.”

That brought some snippets of the night before roaring back to Ally, but still blanking on anything leading up to her being here.

The hallway was quiet, it was just the two, the tinny pagings echoing across the PA, and faint beeps coming from nearby rooms. 

“You’re ok though,” said Carol, “overheard the nurse say you just had too much to drink. Made me jealous really, I still don’t feel like I’ve had enough!” She roared with laughter at her own joke.  Ally winced.

—

Benj had his face buried in his hands. For the most part, he regretted asking Pat about “the rate he was goin’ at,” the only part of him that at all embraced it was the part that needed something to distract him from his nausea. 

For what felt like the last three hours, actually 30 minutes, Pat had rambled on about the glory days of Hamilton Christmas Eves, of all the parties and bars, halls and music, big bands and bright lights. Decorations and bulbs on strings adorning Gore Park on King Street. Deep snow and holidays classics at places like the Palace or the Capitol, big old cinemas no longer standing. Of how his parents owned a hall on MacNab north where brass bands would blow people away when he was a kid, the dinners and mock-Sinatra crooners at the Blue Grotto when he was a teenager, the late-night punk shows at Corktown into his 20s and 30s. Of how he dabbled in performing himself, singing in rock bands in the 1970s and 80s, inheriting his parent’s hall, and getting into arranging shows himself.

“What about you?” Pat finally offered.

Dreading the moment when he might have to contribute to this conversation himself, Benj simply replied, “I’m in a band.” 

This was true, but he also spent his days getting fired from any number of menial jobs for being consistently unreliable. The latest being a few weeks ago as a busboy, at a place his friend owned on Hess. The resulting shortfall in money kicked-off a series of events that climaxed in his selling his furniture on Kijiji, which itself had a big hand in why he now found himself where he was. 

After dropping out of Mac some years ago, Benj periodically bartended or took jobs working at any record shop between Hamilton and Toronto, with the aim of supporting himself enough until the band took off. The problem was that the unreliability he came to be known for at these jobs also carried over to his artistic relationship with bandmates. Officially he was now on shaky ground trying to start band number four due to what he defined as creative differences but was actually a blend of flaking on practices and his own unjustified ego.  

Instantly likeable and able to hold a room, he had an unbridled energy for life that many would take for authentic interest. Although, it was also deeply rooted in personal self-indulgence, and his need to be entertained and pandered to. As such, he was both never short of new opportunities and new people or the need for new opportunities and new people. 

However, more recently he found himself often oscillating between periods of increasing substance abuse – which he decidedly remained all but oblivious to – and moments of sober clarity, which brought about a sense of depressive self-awareness. 

He had become particularly insecure, about himself, about the reality of his situation, about the little that he felt he made of himself and his talents, and about the diminishing likelihood that he would.     

He was six years too late to join the 27 club, something he would bemuse out loud but lament in private. The sense of desperation he now felt at trying to be anything better than what he has blurred the lines of selfish ambition and self-absorption, all through a funnel self-destruction. 

The only bright spot was that recently he had fallen ass-backwards into carpentry. Through parties and late nights, he had met an owner of a business that specialized in reclaimed carpentry, furniture and renovations. He had started assisting him regularly for money, and from there, small seeds of interest had been planted and were beginning to sprout. However, he felt stalled by the blended fear of failing who he wanted to believe he was, and the intimidation he felt by the amount of work required to be anything different made him feel like spiralling into nothing.       

Pat had not stopped talking since Benj said he was in a band. Excited to find a “fellow” musician he continued to go on about his “old-lady” the singer and how he’d see her soon, mistakes he had made in life, and faults he could never go back and fix. 

“As long as you ain’t dead, you can just choose to change your lot,” Pat extolled, “changing your life looks hard but choosin’ better can be easy. And that’s all change is, a bunch of better choices brought together. Easy.” 

Benj’s name was just called.

“Yeah you,” said the Officer, standing at the door at the far end of the room. 

He got up to leave when Pat called after him “Hey! Can I look you up on the outside?” 

“Uh… sure.” Said Benj, dozily replaying their conversation to make sure he hadn’t given Pat any information that would allow him to do that, as Pat started singing Good King Wenceslas. 

Benj was processed out. He was given his personal belongings back – his phone, wallet, the keys to his truck, his coat – and information on paying his fine. 

As he left the detention centre he turned up the coat collar in a weak effort to conceal his identity and contain his shame. 

This helped little, as parked outside nearby, Officer Ahmad clearly saw the young man he had brought to the intoxication detention centre earlier that morning and watched him walk off down the street.

—

Carol finally stopped singing.

In a hushed tone that clearly had the intention to still be heard and including everything from Billie Holiday to Stevie Nicks – the latter being particularly grating to Ally, as she lay on her side, unmoved since she woke.

“I was a wonderful singer,” said Carol, in a way that made Ally feel as though she was both informing her and reassuring her that it could ever possibly be true. “My man and I used to play halls, and he’d set me up with shows or bands to play with, he had all the connections. This time of year was especially the best for it.”

A twinge of anger and remorse flashed through Ally, she didn’t want to hear another word about Carol’s man. “Why are you here?” She quickly interrupted.

“Oh, I walked into a bus.”

The carelessness with which Ally had initially asked the question, looking to just change the subject, immediately dissolved into shocked concern for Carol.

“What? Are you ok!?”

“Oh yeah! I am now, was a bit messy earlier, but hey, look at me! How about you? Do you sing?”

“Again with the singing,” thought Ally, shifting slightly back to carelessness. 

Ally did sing, as a matter of fact, and well. Yet, it wasn’t her passion, nor her interest or pursuit. In general, she had a hard time answering what any of those were.

Ally studied sociology at Ryerson, not because she specifically wanted to get into public policy, or social work, or anything that would directly come from her degree. When asked why, she would simply shrug. University seemed like the next natural step in her life and that degree seemed credible-enough. Of course, she would express interest in the topic, and maybe even out loud discuss the possibility of careers related to it, but it was never serious. 

Serious came after, when she made one of the first real decisions showing commitment to herself, enrolling, excelling and completing culinary school at George Brown. However, following that she just unambitiously languished in a few Toronto kitchens before coming back to Hamilton to initially do the same, before settling into a service representative role at a Service Ontario centre. She hated it but reasoned that it had benefits and paid her bills and debt.  

She was smart, capable, and highly personable with a slight shy streak, but she was also inconsistent, particularly in service to herself and her own wellbeing. Much of this had to do with a contempt that she held for herself. An unreasonable insecurity rooted in the belief that though she was worthy of better things, she could neither accomplish them herself nor was she necessarily deserving. She would never admit it but her devotion to her relationships, though very much a selfless interest in the wellbeing of others, was also very much an evasion of her own self-care. A comfort in being with or surrounded by others, rather than just being in her own company. 

Somewhere along her way, she misplaced herself. She put herself second, not because of generosity, but because she didn’t believe she can deserve first, and surrounding herself with messes to take care of, people or otherwise, became a balm. This led to a faceless, deep seeded resentment that lacked an outlet until moments of anger with others or self-destruction with herself.

“No.” Replied Ally after a long pause. “But oh my god, you walked into a bus? Like were hit by it?”

“What? Oh yeah! It was a while ago though, I’m fine now and will be leaving soon. My man and I had a fight, and I wasn’t thinking when I walked away from him, and it just happened. Really though, I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. Don’t get me wrong, he’s an idiot. But it’s also so like me to be consumed more with being pissed about him than to focus on myself and my own way. To expect him to be better more than I just expect me to be better for myself.

I’m mad, I hate him, but I forgive him, I always do. But if I could go back I’d damn well make choices for me and based on me, not through him and dependent on him. See where those chips might land.”

Ally’s name was suddenly called, with a jolt she leaned up on her elbows and looked to where it was coming from.

“Ally?” calmly repeated the nurse coming down the hall. “Oh good, you’re up. You’re fine, it just looks like you drank a bit too much, we’ll just have the IV taken out of you and then you can go.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Replied the nurse.    

Part 2 of 4

Benj stumbled down Barton St., walking for what felt like hours.

It had been 8 am when he left the drunk tank, and was creeping into the early afternoon when he felt his phone vibrate.

His heart beat faster as he fumbled for it out of his pocket. It was a message from Ally, his girlfriend.

It read simply, “Whatever.” Hardly a calming reply after the sorry-not-sorry diatribe he had sent her that morning.

As soon as Benj had been released from the police station he made his way towards the John Street Diner to feed his hangover and try to feel remotely human again. He ordered his standard bacon and eggs, a litre of coffee, and began to ruminate non-stop over the events of the night before.

He and Ally had stopped to watch a friend’s band at This Ain’t Hollywood before they planned to make their way to a big Christmas party at a warehouse near Ottawa St. While watching the band play, Benj had been feeling gregarious and free with his money, buying countless drinks and a few bumps for himself, Ally, and the other opportunistic acquaintances that recognized the opportunity to take advantage of his unusual generosity.

“Merry Christmas!” He kept shouting, “Fucking welcome to fucking Fezziwigs!”

Hanging his head over his coffee the next day, Benj remembered how Ally questioned him about the money as they left the venue and headed towards the night’s main event.

He told her he had sold some things to afford studio time, he winced as he remembered her becoming angry. She began accusing him of being selfish and said he was probably just going to use the extra cash on booze and drugs.

“That’s fucking crazy, when have I ever done that?” he said, booze on his breath, drugs in his nose.

He couldn’t understand how she could think so little of him. This was a selfless move, afterall. It was to help him and his band; it was to help better his and Ally’s future.

Benj was taking ownership of his life. He was stepping up, being “the man” in the relationship. He wasn’t going to use her money for anything – something they both recognized had increasingly becoming a habit. This was something she should be proud of, it was a step forward.

“I thought you’d be happy about it!”

She became uneasily quiet as he shakily drove towards Ottawa street. He shouldn’t have been driving, but did his best to steady himself while adjusting to the silence. He hated this tone, the “nothing,” answers when he asked what was wrong.

He could feel his anxiety ramping up and he became defensive, boldly objecting to her claims of him being ‘selfish,’ a ‘user.’ She was partaking in everything he was doing anyway, wasn’t she? She hadn’t turned any of his offerings away. He spit excuses at her, doing his best to poke holes into what he feared might have been the truth as they walked in one-sided silence towards the warehouse, handing their tickets to at the door. They pushed their way through the crowd and headed straight to the bar.

He couldn’t remember what it was that finally did it, but eventually she finally blew up back at him. Even over the overwhelming bass and the roar of hundreds of conversations, he could hear the irrevocable insults they hurled at each other, “pathetic,” “loser,” “piece of shit,” “trash,” “bitch” and so on.

They lost each other in the crowd to a haze of faces, dancing, drinks, and drugs. He would see her throughout the night, dancing closely with guys he knew she used to date, and she would see him plying himself with substances and talking to girls he knew she hated.

When at last the lights came on, he was wandering out with a crowd that was headed to an after party. In what now occurred to him as an out-of-body type blur, like a scene from a movie he might have once seen, he saw her sitting on a chair near the door, looking half-conscious, but with a guy who’s face Benj vaguely knew but knew he didn’t like.

A rush of both fury and over-protective concern washed over him. With fire coursing through his veins, he bolted towards them and in piecemeal detail Benj:

Punched the guy.

Shouted at her – who was all but unresponsive.

Cabbed her to an emergency room – he forgot where his truck was.

Admitted her to the ER – watched her get taken away.

Made to leave – looked cockeyed at a cop outside.

And was arrested for public intoxication.

It all felt like another world now.

After leaving the diner, Benj decided that if nothing else, he needed to head towards Ottawa Street and find his truck. He made a mental note to stop into the Centre on Barton to finish – or more correctly start – his Christmas shopping. He stopped and thought of the limited family and friends that he could, if not should, buy presents for out of a vague sense of obligation. Unable to shake the feeling of the night before – guilt perhaps, he paid his bill, and set back out, into the cold.

As he wandered down Barton, a scatter of thoughts, shame, forgiveness strategies, unused rebuttals, and a faint essence of gasoline echoing through his sinuses, he felt as though he identified with the street. A sense of glory, now gone. Faint glimpses of redemption but also at the risk of losing something that felt like it belonged. For the street, the people that called it home. For him, a sense of who he thought he was, rooted like a home. Both now excessively rough around the edges, he and the street felt like they were on the outside, watching world that was either leaving them behind or replacing them outright.

He looked up to see the old Oakwood Place sign, the one-time home of Hamilton racing bets. He had made it to Ottawa street.

Finding his truck at the public lot behind a row of shops, he jumped in and headed immediately towards the discount box stores.

The inherent sense of productivity and generosity that accompanied the commercial act of traditional Christmas gift-giving somehow made him feel better.  It was as though going through the motions would return him to some state of normalcy. He saw the Walmart, the Dollarama, and then the big, bright, glorious, LCBO sign, and relief washed over him.

“Hair of the dog,” he muttered to himself. “Then I’ll feel better and get on with this day.”

—

Ally stared at the nurse’s lanyard as her IV was being removed. Her name was Sarah Ahmad.

She slowly climbed down from her bed and put on her coat. Nothing felt quite real. physically, she felt like she was covered in a layer of cotton balls, with some stuffed into her head, eyes, and brain. She floated down the hallway and offered a haphazard wave to Carol – who had resumed singing. Everything felt dull, numb, and like it was happening independent of any effort.

As she reached the ER’s exit, she froze. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to stay, but she also didn’t know where to go. She looked to her side, to the vinyl seats and beat up People magazines of the waiting area and sat down.

The details of the night before were quickly coming back to her in pieces, each unlocking another block of memory, like sections of a puzzle being connected.

Benj, her boyfriend, had sold their living room furniture. They didn’t have much furniture to begin with, but what they did have she was happy about, if not proud of. Buying it had made their home feel like a real, honest to goodness home, and made their rocky relationship of two years feel like an honest to goodness relationship. As though the semblance of something healthy, whether in their home or relationship, would somehow mask, or better yet, erase its absence. A thought that secretly crept at the back of her mind.

While she had been at work, he had posted their couches, their coffee table, and their TV stand to Kijiji without her knowing. He must have moved it out and made the sale during the day, something she wouldn’t have known since she had met him straight from work.

“All we need is a bed!” He said in defense, trying to make it sound as if it were a romantic decision.

“All you need is a fucking brain!” She shouted back, her anger uninhibited from the booze and lines he was freely sharing with those around them at This Ain’t Hollywood. All of which she felt that she shouldn’t have been doing at the time, but she had been swept up in the moment.

She continued staring at the ER’s tiled taupe floor, as her phone buzzed in her pocket. She had been in such a daze she forgot it was even there. The time was now 10:30 am, and there was a message from Benj, she opened it right away.

“Hey! Are you okay!? I brought you to the ER and then got arrested LOL! I hope you’re ok. I’m sorry for selling our living room furniture! It was stupid choice and I thought you would be proud of me for taking the initiative, you know, because it means I can afford the studio time and help our future!  Like you’re seriously not happy about it? No, you’re right, it was a fucking shit move by me and you don’t deserve that. You’re right. But honestly you don’t get why I did it?? Anyway, I hope you’re ok, I need to find my truck LOL, like where did I park it? I’m such a fucking goof. Can we talk? Hope you’re ok babe!”

“What the actual fuck.” She muttered to herself. “What a fucking garbage text.” The little adrenaline she still had begun to spike.

She felt a kinship with and almost comforted by her current surroundings. Like the waiting lounge she felt empty, hollow, liminal. As though she was always waiting for something better, always on the edge of glory, like it was supposed to happen to her but without her intervention. As if it would just come to her. And yet, like the room, in the meantime she would allow whatever to enter. To come in, take a seat, be taken care of and be discharged. At least the presence of someone in that room or in her life would distract her from its emptiness, if not disrepair.

Whatever mask the living room furniture provided in her home, in the back of her mind the secret question of if she knew what to do if something came in to take care of her lingered, let alone if she needed something at all.

“Ma’am, do you have somewhere to go?”

Ally looked up, it was Nurse Ahmad.

“I’m sorry but you can’t stay sitting here if you’ve been discharged.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’ll uh, go, just texting to um, meet a friend somewhere.”

Nurse Ahmad nodded and walked away.

“Can I join?” Carol interjected from out of nowhere.

“What the hell!?” Ally said with start, looking her up and down as though she just materialized a few seats away, still in her gown. “Uh, yeah sure why not?” She said sarcastically as she stood up and walked through the sliding doors without looking back.

Once outside, the light hurt her eyes; it was cool, but the sun felt warm. Things slowly came into view, she was at St. Joseph’s, but still had no clue where she would or wanted to go. All she knew was that she needed coffee and began heading up James to Red Crow.

After ordering a big black mug and a muffin, she sat down at an empty table and pulled out her phone to reply to Benj.

“Perfect spot!” Came a voice from above, it was Carol, fully dressed.

“Where the fu… Hi!” Stammered Ally. “Fuck.” She thought.

—

Benj walked out of the LCBO, paper bag of rye in hand, blinded by the sun, and with the Ramones’ “Merry Christmas (I don’t want to fight tonight)” playing from the store behind him, when he walked right into Pat.

“Buddy!” Pat exclaimed

“Fuck!” Benj muttered.”HEY!”

“What’re you doing!?”

“Uh… Christmas Shopping!” Benj said, trying to mask his absolute discomfort by matching Pat’s level of positive energy.

“The best kind!” Pat replied, indicating the bottle in Benj’s hand. “Let’s go Christmas shopping!” He gestured for the bottle.

Hesitantly, Benj glanced around and unscrewed the top. He handed it to Pat, and together they started walking towards Walmart. Pat a step behind, quite publicly raising the bottle to the sun, and shouting “Cheers!” before taking a long pull.

“Take it easy with that!” Benj pleaded. “And hide it a little, would you?”

“Why bother? Hey, if there’s one thing I learned long time ago, it’s …uh …well …I don’t know, I learned a lot of things, but one of them is definitely why bother.” He laughed and took another drink.

“You know, I never really got the whole gift giving thing,”. I mean, I never really wanted to anyways, it was a huge, damn hassle to get out and figure what people wanted, when I had people to buy for at least. And, I mean, it was my hard-earned money, why should I have had to? It’s all a big bloody scam, save it for yourself and make your own life better, or blow it all and have some fuckin’ fun!”

Benj made for the bottle, Pat made to hand over, but stopped, held up his index finger, and made another long pull.

“Oh fuck, Oakwood Place, look at that,” he said loudly. “I haven’t been there in ages, used to go there all the time for the ponies, get in on the lucky ones, last time I was there I almost made it huge, 18 to one, it was a Christmas Eve too! ’88, Christmas Eve 1988!

“Me and the old lady, we were doin’ a bunch of junk at that time, losing money on it but trying to get out. We weren’t able to book that many bars anymore an’ my hall closed long before, so we were pretty screwed. So’s that’s when I saw the chance to take care of a bunch of problems in one fell swoop, right? ‘Course, she’s all pissed that I got her money from some gig she did to make the bet. We get in a fight outside and I miss the bet! So’s I went back inside to get ripped, think I got myself in the drunk tank that night too. What a mess she caused, I was gonna solve our problems too!”

Cocking his head back, Pat took another swig while Benj made another attempt for the bottle, Pat swiveled to the side, keeping the bottle to his lips at a perfect 45-degree angle.

“That’s life though, eh? Kicks in the balls, an’ only sometimes do you get to kick it back. Choosin’ better though, for you and others, an’ those small choices. They’s like, bonus kicks if you make the right ones.”

He took one last pull as Benj lunged and finally grabbed the bottle back, it was empty, his pulse picked up.

“At it already? That didn’t take long.” A voice that echoed familiarity said a few feet away.

Benj looked up, he vaguely recognized Officer Ahmad – standing near the Walmart entrance – as the cop who took him to the drunk tank earlier that morning.

“No!” He protested, “It’s not mine! This guy was drinking it!” He pointed beside him to implicate Pat but to his absolute astonishment, Pat was gone.

Benj’s head was spinning, literally, desperately looking in every direction to find Pat but with no luck. All he could see was a trail of spilled rye, leading from the LCBO to directly beside him.

“Must have bolted,” he thought. “Selfish bastard.”

—

“What kind of muffin did you get, Muffin?” Carol asked.

Ally, shuddering at being called muffin, replied “Morning Glory.”

“Oh, those are packed with good things, carrots, wheat germ and all of that stuff, used to love those, you must be a health-nut, those are really good for you!”

“I’m not, and I’m pretty sure they’re not either.” Ally was frustrated, of all the things she did know in that moment, it was that she really didn’t want to be around anyone, let alone a Homeless-Cher. To drive her away, she asked “You were hit by a bus, shouldn’t you be going home or something?”

“Oh, I’m fine, not a scratch see? I can just watch you eat that muffin – I’m keeping the pounds off anyway – it’s such a beautiful day I don’t mind sitting here with you, I feel like I was in that hospital forever.

“Say, it’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it? I love this time of year, Christmas songs are some of my favourite to sing, my old-man and I used to book ourselves into all sorts of shows around this time, he had all the connections. I’d be singing White Christmas between punk bands at Corktown, or crooning Blue Christmas, and Kenny and Dolly for the steel workers at the Galley Pump.”

“Used to like the feeling of him taking care of me, taking me out for fancy steak dinners at Shakespeare’s, and me taking care of him at home, like it was an old-fashioned fairytale, and we’d have ourselves a merry little Christmas.”

She took a chunk of Ally’s muffin and tossed it back, Ally stared at her chipped nails and flushed, swollen fingers, and shuddered yet again.

“’Course, then things got pretty tight for a lot of people, especially the Stelco boys, so tips weren’t as good. And my old man and I were getting into some pretty nasty stuff with some pretty nasty people and bouncing from place to place, and not always together. The old man was always into gambling, so between that and the other stuff we were doing he got the bright idea to take all we had and place a ‘bet to end all bets’ like he called it.  ‘Course, I believed him, and believed that that the money alone could make all the difference in the world.”

She took another chunk.

“I had a change of heart on it though, seeing how much he had lost already, and knowin’ it was our last few pennies. So, I stand up to him, probably one of the only times I did, get in a huff and storm off. I should’ve stood up to him more before then, hell, shouldn’t even have been about standing up to him really, should’ve stood up for me, made sense of what I was doing with myself.

“Anyway, that’s enough about me, I think I’m gonna step out for a second into some fresh air.”

She abruptly got up, leaving crumbs everywhere and quickly moved to the door. She turned back to smile at Ally, sliding her finger beside her hooked nose and winking, like Santa in Night Before Christmas. This made Ally shudder for the third time, as she looked less like a jolly old elf sliding up a chimney, than an old woman picking her nose as she left a coffee shop.

And with that, she was gone, slipping unnoticed past Nurse Ahmad, who had just stepped in.

Part 3 of 4

“I swear to god it’s not mine! I mean it was. I mean it was going to be! I mean, like, for later, but some homeless guy just took it out of my hands and drank it all and took off,” Benj cried. “Didn’t you see him? He was like right fucking here!”

“Hey!” interjected Officer Ahmad. “He was what?”

“Right here! I mean he was right here.”

“That’s right, watch the language around me.”

“Fuck, sorry, I mean OK,” Benj said catching himself. “Anyway, I didn’t have a drop! Try me! Smell my breath!”

He lunged toward officer Ahmad, offering a deep, throaty exhale. The officer, who was currently in plain-clothes, shot his hand up to block him and recoiled.

“No. I don’t need or want to do that. Thanks.” Ahmed replied. “Besides, I don’t care, I have things to do, and clearly you don’t. And whether you drank any of it or not, it looks like most of it is on the ground.” He pointed to the spilt trail, leading back to the LCBO.

“HE spilt it! I didn’t have any, I was just coming here to finish my Christmas shopping!” Benj continued to plead.

“Whatever.” Officer Ahmad finished the conversation and walked through the sliding doors.

Benj, felt defeated by the dismissiveness to his attempts to make things right. He took a few deep breaths and headed through the sliding doors.

Inside the store, he was greeted by a smiling employee and headed straight for a shopping cart. He reached his hand for a waiting cart and felt another do the same. It was Officer Ahmad, again.

They exchanged an awkward glance before Ahmad released his hand. He turned his palm and looking somewhat annoyed, offered it to him.

Benj gave a sheepish grin and took the cart. He began making his way through the store, hoping it would be the last time the men would bump into one another.

Benj began to think of who was left to shop for. It was an easy enough list – his parents and step-parents, his step-siblings, a young niece and nephew, and, of course, Ally. He decided that by-and-large, he would half-ass it, opting for a smattering of impersonal home décor, house-wares, and some cheap toys for the kids. He drew a blank when it came to Ally.

He made his way towards the home-ware aisles, dropped a couple quick items into his cart, and narrowly avoided ramming into Officer Ahmad who was rounding a corner.

“Fu…” Benj began. “Didn’t see you there.”

Officer Ahmad rolled his eyes and kept on moving.

In the home-decor aisle, he stood mesmerized by the shelves of clocks and disgusted by the corporate art. He chose a couple of decorative picture frames at random and began moving to the next aisle when he looked up and locked eyes with Ahmad. They stared at each other for a moment before Ahmad finally shook his head. Benj hung his head and carried on.

In the toy section, Benj grabbed a mix of items that struck him as things he would have liked when he was a kid. He felt paranoid and kept an eye out for the officer.

He reared up to the check-out aisles, spotting one with no line, he moved into it to find the Ahmad, standing in front of the cashier.

Once again, they looked at each other, the officer let out an exasperated sigh before he finished his transaction and made his towards the exit.

Benj left the store, bags in hand to see the officer waiting with a full cart.

“I’m not drunk,” Benj said, defensively as though he had something to prove to the officer.

Ahmad looked at him, and after a beat, replied: “I know.”

Benj felt vindicated.

“You’re way too soberly, painfully, awkward to be drunk,” the officer continued. “You were last night though, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you had to spend the night there.”

“I know.” Benj paused. “Are you uh… waiting?”

“Yes, a van-cab,” Ahmed said before gesturing to cart. “I’m making community gift and grocery deliveries for families and seniors. I have to take this back to the community services centre for sorting first, though.”

Benj felt both impressed and intimidated by this. It struck him as impressively selfless, especially considering that he had just come off a shift, Ahmad must have been exhausted.

Realistically, he was unsure of where it came from, whether it was from the officer’s apology that he didn’t feel he deserved or the guilt and shame that had been gnawing at him from the past 24 hours – or the last few months quite frankly, he suddenly felt inspired.

“I have a truck,” Benj said. “D’you want a ride?”

Officer Ahmad studied him for a long moment, then nodded and said, “Please.”

They walked to Benj’s truck and loaded it with their bags where Officer Ahmad introduced himself as Omar. And as they pulled out of the lot, Benj caught a glimpse of Pat, waving from the entrance of the LCBO, giving a thumbs up.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

—

Sarah Ahmad took in the café as she walked through its door. Immediately she saw Ally sitting alone. Effortlessly intuitive and nurturing, without even a thought she asked: “Hi, how are you feeling?”

Ally was mortified.

Already feeling deeply embarrassed about how her night and morning went, she couldn’t bear the idea that now she was now found alone, in scarcely better condition, just metres away from where she woke.

“Hi! Great!” She mustered. Truthfully, just a few sips of coffee had done wonders. The warmth and caffeine, entering both her system and soul, at least brought a sense of regularity back to the day.

“Good.”

Sarah, despite having concern for this girl who only a short time ago was her patient, noted that she didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable nor tread on her privacy in any way. She let the conversation end there and moved to order a coffee and a muffin for herself.

Ally smiled and looked down into the bottom of her cup. She overheard Sarah order a muffin for herself and became horrifyingly aware of the scatter of crumbs in front of her. The table was covered in pieces of her muffin, as though a flock of pigeons had swarmed in and picked it to pieces. Ally had only managed a couple of bites, before Carol had swooped in to cause devastation, and realized that she was much hungrier than she initially thought.

Yet, with Sarah standing at the counter she was paralyzed by her current sense of personal mortification. Ally felt like she had to wait for the nurse to leave before she could order anything more. It was as though she were in a game; Sarah was currently making a move, and Ally had to wait her turn, lest she continue to embarrass herself further.

Intuitively aware of someone watching her, Sarah casually glanced back at Ally and watched her quickly look away, as if she had been caught. Sarah subtly kept an eye on her as Ally picked up her phone and began scrolling with her thumb with interest. The window near Ally showed Sarah, through a very faint reflection, that the screen wasn’t even on.

Ally watched as Sarah received her order and sit down at a table near the counter. She quickly got up and steadied herself as she tried to casually stroll to the counter, so she could order a toasted bagel with cream cheese.

When her order was ready, Ally sat back down at her table, barely waiting for it to cool down before she tucked into it. While eating, she couldn’t stop thinking about everything that lead to her current circumstance.

The big picture of the night before now in full-enough focus. She had blamed Benj for everything but still had a nagging feeling at the back of her mind that there was some form of responsibility she owed. Ally thought that perhaps she shouldn’t have gotten so mad at him. He obviously seemed to think he was doing something right. Something right for them. Maybe – just maybe, she had been wrong.

She suddenly felt ashamed and quickly shifted her thoughts back to what had originally been the evening’s plans. Benj had wanted them to go out for dinner with some friends of his that she didn’t particularly like. Ally didn’t know what would happen now and became self-consciously aware of herself in the café again, so she lifted her phone.

Sarah watched Ally devour her bagel and pretend to fiddle with her phone, scrolling through a screen that again didn’t appear to even be on. Sensing that this girl seemed to be going through something, she moved over to the table beside her and asked, “Are you OK?”

Taken aback, Ally paused for the moment, staring at the woman who was for all intents and purposes a stranger. Suddenly she heard herself begin to tell nurse Ahmad everything that had transpired the night before.

Sarah listened intently and waited to reply until when Ally was finished talking. “Well,” she began. “I heard a lot about your boyfriend in there, but I asked how you were?”

“I don’t know what you mean?” Ally said blinking.

“Right.” Sarah nodded, choosing her words carefully.  “What I mean is where are you in all of this, feeling independently, for yourself? Everything is about what your boyfriend does to you and what you do to him. What do you do for you?”

Ally struggled to answer, but nothing coherent came out.

Sarah looked at her watch. “Shoot, what are you doing today?”

“I don’t know,” Ally shrugged. “Nothing?”

“I’ve got to go serve food at a shelter, but would you maybe like to come?”

“Like you mean go serve people food?”

“Yes, well, more likely help tidying, servers need to be vetted,” Sarah clarified. “But yes, volunteering one way or another.”

Unable to think of a reason why she ought not to go, Ally nodded.

—

In 1993, Sarah and Omar Ahmad, brought their young family from Jordan to Hamilton.

Trained in their respective professions in Jordan, they found that the skills transfer in Canada was a more daunting process than they had initially expected.

They lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the downtown core for the first two-years, making ends meet through working multiple part-time jobs and the help of various community and newcomer programs.

Whenever Sarah was down, Omar would joke “French fry grease is the most attractive scent on a woman.”

“And I’ve always thought food delivery men were the most dashing,” she would reply.

The gratitude they felt and the gaps and challenges they faced when they first settled in Hamilton gave them an overwhelming desire to give back to the community. For them, it wasn’t simply about reciprocation, but rather for the sustainability of a community. It was to better the experience, life, and the livelihood of those in it no matter who they were, and no matter the time of year.

Now in their early 50s, a life of charity and forbearance had become second nature – at least for them. Their children, although good, responsible young people pursuing med school, did seem to lack the same sense of selflessness and sacrifice.

The children would often joke that their parents occurred to them as passionless service robots, while the Sarah and Omar would half-jokingly remind them that if it wasn’t for their service, they wouldn’t live the lives they do.

They did wonder though, on the rare occasion, if their children’s jokes didn’t have some merit. That perhaps there was a passion, a certain thirst, if not desperation, for a life that was absent from their day-to-day.

However, on the occasion when their jobs brought people like Benj and Ally into their lives – people who for whatever reason seemed to be all consumed by their immediate passions, absorptions and desires, they felt a little regret about their own choices.

—

“So why Benj?” Teased Omar.

“What do you mean?” Asked Benj.

“Well, I’ve heard Benjamin, Ben, even Benji. But not Benj. I have a feeling that wasn’t a choice by your parents or friends, but more about you wanting to be Bono?”

Omar was mostly right, “Benj” was a mostly inorganic nickname that he had assigned himself. He forged it through introductions, relationships and friendships over the years, because it sounded cooler than other formations of his name “Benjamin.”

They had been driving for 15 minutes, westbound through Barton traffic, and Benj already felt like he had been skewered by Omar. He had been asked about the events of the previous night, why he was at the emergency room, and what had transpired prior to Omar taking him to the drunk tank. Despite some praise of his actions in Omar’s assessment, such as the ER being an actual good choice, by and large, it was concluded that Benj was indeed a selfish idiot.

Overall, this conclusion made Benj feel low and somewhat resentful. Originally, he was sure he was doing something good by driving Omar to the community services centre, something that he could tell Ally about later as proof that he was in fact, a kind and generous person. Now he just felt like it didn’t matter.

This is because it didn’t matter. To Omar, the responsibility he was undertaking wasn’t about himself, and it certainly wasn’t about Benj. It wasn’t to be talked about later, it was to be done for the benefit of others so that they may, in turn, contribute to the betterment of others, a domino effect of gratitude appreciation and reciprocity.

After hearing Benj’s story, Omar had even offered Benj some old living room furniture that he and his wife were getting rid of. He let him know that it was in good condition, although slightly outdated and may need some new upholstering. Benj seemed excited and told him that he had recently been learning how to refurbish old furniture.

To Omar this was a gift without expectation of return, although the coincidental convenience of Benj having a truck did prompt him to ask Benj if he’d be interested in helping him make his afternoon community deliveries.

To Benj, this was a deal, and now had a lot of weight to it; he was driving Omar around in exchange for living room furniture.

“At least Ally will be impressed that I have new furniture and did charity work,” he thought. But the assertion that he was indeed selfish made him feel like it had all been thrown in his face. He suddenly wanted to get away from Omar and have a drink.

They arrived at the community services centre near James North. He and Omar emptied everything out of the truck and took it inside.

“I think there is one more bag,” Benj said. With that, he stepped out, with no intention of coming back in.

—

“I really don’t know what to say.” Ally said in response to Sarah’s urgings to tell her about herself. Realistically, it was less an urging than it was Sarah trying to make conversation with Ally about anything other than about Benj.

Sarah, who tended to be blunt, but with best interests in mind, had already caused Ally to withdraw a little from the conversation, after declaring that her relationship with Benj sounded “codependent.”

“My husband and I have always liked to live by the idea of ‘I take care of myself for you, and you take care of yourself for me,’” Sarah explained. “Rather than desperately feeling like you have to take care of each other, either as a mask for problems, or a cover under which they grow.”

Ally protested at first by denying it and blaming Benj, but then realized she didn’t totally know what a codependent relationship actually was. All she knew is that it probably wasn’t a good thing, and it was most definitely something she didn’t want to have.

As they got to the shelter, Ally let up a little and vaguely began describing her past. She talked about her interest in cooking and what she was doing now for work.

Trying to help ground the conversation a little, Sarah asked simply what her plans were for the holiday or even just the day.

“I think we were supposed to have dinner with friends.” Ally said.

“Did you want to do that?”

“No, not really?”

“Do you want to see him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what would you rather do?”

“I think I want to cook.”

“For you or for him?”

“I guess for me.”

“Tell me about that.”

Sarah listened to Ally talk her about her experiences cooking, her training, favourite cuisines, flavours, and what she would want to try making that night.

For the first time in their conversation, Sarah could see passion coming through from Ally. And not just passion, but a knowledge and confidence that didn’t seem to be there before, a self-assuredness that was peeking out through layers of doubt and shame.

Excited by this, Sarah offered to buy Ally the groceries she needed to cook, once they were done volunteering, as a way to say thank you.

The gesture sat awkwardly with Ally. As soon as they entered the shelter, and looked at the faces already gathering, she was hit by a heavy mix of intimidation from Sarah’s expectations and disappointment in herself. She wanted to bail.

“I’m just going to have a smoke first.” She said

Sarah gave a disapproving glance but nodded.

Ally stepped out, with the intention of not coming back in.

—

“Hey, Buddy!” Benj heard someone call to him outside.

He looked over to see Pat, amidst a group of homeless looking men, loudly and jovially bickering at a bench a few storefronts down.

“Jesus Christ!” Benj shouted, as he moved toward his truck, parked on the road between them. “Stop following me!”

Pat said something to the other men that caused them to roar with laughter before walking over to him.

Benj fumbled for his keys, looking to get away from both Omar and now Pat as quickly as possible.

“Hey, relax, buddy, we’re just having a good time on Christmas Eve, like the old days!”

Benj dropped his keys, giving Pat just enough time to cover the distance to him.

“Say I saw ya takin’ things in, are you helping that man? That’s great!

—

“Muffin!” Carol’s voice echoed.

“Oh for fucks sake!” Ally exhaled in a cloud of smoke. Seeing Carol, who had just been publicly singing on this King west street corner.

“How are you? Are you helping this Christmas Eve? That’s very nice of you!”

Ally didn’t want to be seen, let alone by Carol, and made to walk past her towards the crosswalk.

Carol kept backing up in front of her as if blocking her way and chattering on about how she shouldn’t leave.

—

“No, I’m getting out of here,” Benj said before snapping, “get away from me.”

“You sure? I could give you a hand!”

Pat gave Benj an unnerving smile as he held his hand in front of his face. He wiggled his gloved fingers as though he were about to do a magic trick and one by one loosened each of the fingers to remove the glove.

The glove came off to reveal… nothing. Where there had once been wiggling fingers, there was no hand. He then rolled up his sleeve to also show that half his forearm was missing, and at its end was a blackened stump.

—

“Get away from me.” Ally said as Carol kept backing up in front of her.

“Hey! Watch out!” Ally screamed as Carol stepped back into the first lane of traffic.

A car speeding straight towards her didn’t even slow down as it appeared to plough into her. No, not into her, but through her. She still stood, unphased, hands up and urging Ally not leave.

—

Terrified and revolted, Benj backed away slowly.

“Hey, it’s okay!” Said Pat and moved his stump as if to put a comforting hand on Benj’s shoulder. All Benj felt was cold as a deep chill ran through him.

—

The cigarette fell from Ally’s mouth and she froze in place, horrified.

“Oh muffin, don’t worry.” Said Carol soothingly.

—

“I’m just a ghost.” Said Pat and Carol.

---

 

Part 4 of  4 (the first half)

Benj and Ally went back inside to the community centre and shelter. They were both white as sheets, silent, incredulous at what they had just seen, and ready to set themselves to their respective tasks.

“No other bag?” Asked Omar.

“That was a long smoke.” Observed Sarah.

“No other bag.” Said Benj.

“Yeah, sorry.” Said Ally.

“You weren’t planning on coming back in, were you?” Both Sarah and Omar asked Ally and Benj respectively.

“No.” They both honestly replied.

“Then I think you made the right choice.” Said Omar.

“Well, I’m glad you did.” Said Sarah.

—

Pat and Carol were Hamilton born and bred.

Pat was raised in the core and thrived among the lower city’s identities and on-goings. From bus trips down Barton out to Lakeland pool in the summer, to sliding down Chedoke’s Nancy Greene in the winter. From the beige businessmen in grey suits on King and the grocers on James, to the tough, brooding shadows in alleys in between; he was downtown through and through.

It was in the dances, concerts, curtains and cinemas that he found his calling as a kid, or at least, what he thought his calling should have been. He loved the idea of performing and being in the thick of it- one way or another. It didn’t matter whether it was working at his parent’s hall or the nights when his friends would sneak into the Tivoli, the Capitol, the Palace, the Century, and so many more of the long-gone giants and act alongside the Westerns or shoot fake guns alongside Bogart.

Carol, on the other hand was a Delta East-Ender in a Dofasco family. Not one to frequent downtown without her parents, or a rare day-trip with friends, she was raised in the safe scion of the new, mid-century suburbs of the East.

Sprawling residential streets of pretty bungalows or two-stories all-set for the burgeoning boom of Hamilton’s steel families, rising through their ranks of labourer one generation to middle-management the next. She would secretly enjoy the envy of the Stelco kids in the neighbourhood, as she would arrive home from the big Dofasco Christmas parties, extravagant toys in her arms. However, what she really loved was singing at those parties in the company’s children’s choir, something she began to do all over the city as a child, from Legion shows to stages at the Beach Boulevard amusement park. Later sharing those fond memories with Pat, they would often dreamily wonder if perhaps they had seen each other as kids at that carnival under the Skyway Bridge.

It was, in fact, Carol’s singing on one cold Christmas Eve that caused them to catch each other’s eye. Branching out from his parent’s hall, Pat picked up a bartending job at the Blue Grotto above the Capri. A night of Rat Pack crooners and lounge lizards singing Christmas classics, steel company suits leaving large tips, and there she was in the midst of it all, taking on Bing Crosby’s “Count Your Blessings,” from White Christmas.

It was by the time she put Judy Garland to shame with her own rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” that Pat had both stars in his eyes and a jackhammer in his chest.

“Broadway’s waiting for you, ya know?”

“You’re handsome.”

“You’re pretty, the Queen of this Steel City.”

“Merry Christmas,” they said to each other, through the smokey blue haze of the plaster-caverned room.

He ditched his shift and they strolled through Gore Park, arm in arm as the Hamilton Police Services Choir belted out carols for the public at the John Street side. Before the end of the night he was trying to impress her with cocktails and cuts of prime rib in the Old Sirloin Cellar beside Robinsons. Afterwards they meandered back through the park and kissed for the first time by the fountain.

Their love, though long and strong, also proved messy and turbulent. Across the next 20 years they’d break up, make up and see other people often for long stretches of time, but always find their way back to each other. For better or for worse.

What started as a whirlwind romance, of him wooing her with seemingly extravagant experiences and managing her seemingly burgeoning career, devolved into booze, clubs and drugs. Moments of high passions and low depressions became the norm, extreme expressions of love were balanced with vehement fights and accusations of using each other, her for her talents, him for his resources. That is, until they found themselves low on both.

After 20 years, though their hearts may have still beat only for one another, they knew that they had wasted both themselves and what they had. They couldn’t go back, and they could barely go on.

And then there was that Christmas Eve in 1988 when Pat, in a desperate attempt to make them some money, had bet the last of Carol’s earnings from a gig. They fought about it outside Oakwood Place, Carol furiously stormed off into the cold night, while Pat stormed back in to drink.

He never knew that as she absent-mindedly marched through the city, too upset to mind her surroundings, she was struck by a bus while crossing Main St., and soon-after was pronounced dead at St. Joseph’s.

In the same way, she never knew that he drank himself into a stupor and wandered off, stumbling through the cold East End streets and passing out on a Kenilworth bench where his heartbeat slowed and his extremities froze. By the time the police found him, knowing his face and taking him to the drunk tank, he was hypothermic past the point of revival and died there.

—

Benj silently and swiftly set to work, taking the print-out Omar had given him of the last minute, Christmas Eve deliveries they were to make to seniors and families across the city, and box the items for each. All the while, he was fixated on the last few minutes outside. Omar, noting the change in Benj’s demeanor, asked if everything was ok.

“Yeah,” said Benj. “Just, you know, feeling determined.”

Similarly, as Ally set to work tidying up tables and bussing dishes for the meal-prep service, she also seemed miles away, productive but distant.

This change had prompted Sarah to ask, “Are you sure you want to be here?”

“Yes,” Ally replied with the first detectable ounce of determination.

The truth of Pat and Carol was still taking its time to sink-in for Benj and Ally, but it was doing so like a landslide. They each felt like they had just occupied a vivid dream, sensational and surreal, they now moved in their respective realities as if waiting to wake up. There was no waking, though, there was only the impact of moments prior, and moments ahead, both impressing deeply on their lives.

Pat had laughed off Benj’s revulsion and terror, like a child showing his half-chewed food to another child. The crew of other spectral men hanging out nearby by roared in merriment, like Pat came equipped with a studio audience.

“We’re all ghosts, kid,” he told Benj. “There’s so many ghosts in this city, you have no idea. All around you at all times, it just don’t matter in your day to day, unless it needs to.”

Carol was so focused on trying to keep Ally from crossing the street that she gave no thought to the on-coming traffic she was invisible to, as it was passing directly through her. Shrugging it off as if it were a gentle breeze, she responded to Ally’s soundless scream – she was too terrified for sound to even escape – and recoil with a casual “What? Oh those. Don’t worry about those, they can’t even see me, muffin.”

Pat and Carol had told Benj and Ally their respective stories and explained the impact that 30 years of an ethereal existence can have on one’s retrospective understanding of another person; on what to truly value in life, in yourself, and in others. They extolled the importance of patience and understanding, of making better choices, and pitfalls of self-absorption. They shared their own regrets and remorse, and their wish for their own spiritual redemption. On the need for both Benj and Ally to go back inside.

As they explained this, the ghostly other-world of a haunted Hamilton was fully revealed to Ally and Benj. Though it would be a fleeting moment in their lives, it would have an anchor-like impact on choices they would make going forward. Suddenly, all around them they could see sadness and pain, lost souls that were long-tortured and long-suffering. They finally saw those who had fallen through society’s cracks, and the fissures in their own lives and relationships, wandering forever through Hamilton’s streets. Many moved as if they were still alive, drifting along the sidewalks asking for help, whether money, food, attention, love, while others wailed their way through the air, fully given to their prospective eternity of torment.

It was a cold city in which they after-lived, always unfamiliar and uncaring, and as Pat and Carol explained, they may all always live there.Always wondering where and what happened to each other. Always tormented by the differences they could have made.

“We’re victims of how even just a moment of misunderstanding, whether our own or others, can poison all others for the rest of your life and beyond. If you let it.”

—

Benj and Omar sorted the deliveries into labeled boxes and set off in Benj’s truck, heading out across the city like every day Kris Kringles in a steel sleigh with geared reindeer.

“Why do you do this?” Benj asked.

“Why would you not?” Omar rebutted.

Benj fumbled for his words. “But like, even Christmas, I mean, maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like you don’t celebrate Christmas, why bother doing this?”

“Well, at least you didn’t tip-toe around that,” he sarcastically replied, laughing. “Because need is need, no matter who, and no matter the time of year. And as far as Christmas is concerned? No, I don’t celebrate it, but I love many who do, and I’m certainly not going to argue over time-off with my family and good food.”

Benj couldn’t argue with that, nor did he want to.

—

As people began to file into the shelter, Ally, who had helped prepare the seating and plating asked Sarah if she could help with any of the meal prep or serving.

“We’re good at the moment,” Sarah replied. “Normally you need to be vetted or approved for that, right now we’ll really just need you to help with upkeep and cleaning.”

Where Ally would normally feel dejected, if not the sting of rejection, understood and asked “when would I do that if I wanted to help next year?”

“Anytime. Everyone here typically does it all year round.”

“You do this all year?”

“Of course, the need for volunteers doesn’t just happen around the holidays, even if that is when many people feel inspired to do so,” Sarah explained. “Help is needed all year round, and often much more than the holidays. It’s popular to do it around Christmas, but the real need, whether for volunteers, food banks, donations, community service in general, is almost every other day of the year.”

—

If Benj and Ally’s Christmas Eve had so far been a dour, depressing, and eventually, a shockingly horrifying experience, the remainder of the day proved the opposite.

After settling into the reality of his supernatural experience, and the concession of his selfishness, Benj began to find solace in the service that Omar and he were providing to those in need.

Sensing some of Benj’s darker natures, Omar continually cautioned him not to find happiness in the vain idea of self-congratulations.

“Remember, don’t think you’re a hero for doing this, we’re doing a service. What we’re doing is good, and may even illuminate certain parts of ourselves, but we’re not saviours or in any way above the people we’re servicing,” Omar told him. “We all have our challenges and need support.”

It was this idea of illumination that Benj caught on to. After his experience with Pat, and some of his own introspection that day on his own impulses and behaviours, he could see that though the circumstances of those he and Omar were visiting were different, he was not necessarily different or separate from them.

Yet despite this, the impact he was making was tangible to him. He could feel that illumination of understanding, and shared elation, as the senior he and Omar were delivering to lit up at the idea of visitors and having companions, even for a moment. At the mother who was beyond excited to be able to provide a special day of toys and food for her children, and not just for their enjoyment, but her peace of mind as well.  And the child who upon seeing them arrive with their deliveries, asked “Are you Santa? Or are you his elves? Do you know him?”

After that last experience specifically, in the car Omar was quick to once more reinforce, “Remember, we are not Santa.”

Above all it was Omar’s selflessness about this service, his dedication to it and to having no sense of vain self-congratulations that Benj was not only interested in but admired.

That’s why he was flattered, and couldn’t say yes fast enough, when Omar asked him if he would like to participate as the Hamilton Police Service Choir sang at Gore Park that evening.

“It’s the first time it’s been done in years, maybe decades even,” Omar said as Benj dropped him off at his house and got his help loading in the old living room furniture he had promised. “You said you’re a musician, and can sing, and I think we’ll need all the voices we can get. It’s a part of the Gore Park holiday festivities, and we want it to be a success.”

Benj was in, but he knew he should finally check in with Ally again.

—

Ally who had also slowly begun to fully grasp her own paranormal afternoon, was being similarly challenged for the better by her current circumstance.

Sarah, who still refused to let Ally in the kitchen, continually reminded her that the people here have dedicated themselves to being here all year round, and were approved for these tasks.

“Ally,” she explained, “no matter who’s cooking or who we’re cooking for it’s not simply on a whim, or the goodness of our hearts, it’s because we believe in what we’re doing and know it has to be done right.”

This, of course, hit Ally. Although not in the chastising type way she felt she might have regularly taken it, feeling rejected, or worthless, or ashamed. Rather, she recognized the instructive nature of Sarah’s words, and the deliberation and determination that comes from anything of value that you set yourself to, whether the value is yours, someone else’s, or both. In particular, the value of devotion to and investing in oneself, for the benefit of others.

“Keep tidying, and running dishes, and interacting with everyone,” Sarah said. “Believe me, it is just as important as the job we’re doing.”

Ally did recognize this and felt emboldened. She liked talking with the patrons coming in and grew to enjoy having her preconceived notions about their circumstances challenged. She was beginning to learn from the self-determination, preferences and choice that many of the patrons expressed, and was at first surprised by the one woman who refused to eat anything the gravy touched.

“It has mushrooms, and hate mushrooms, I don’t want it or anything it’s on,” the woman told Ally.

Ally took the plate back and explained what happened to Sarah, who replied, “that’s fine, give me the plate, I’ll prepare a new one for her.”

“Really? I mean, she was being kind of a bitch, shouldn’t she just want food?”

“No. Everyone has different circumstances and challenges, but that doesn’t stop them from being people who have preferences just as you or I would, nor does it mean they shouldn’t be entitled to the same treatment and choice. It’s OK.”

To Ally this was fascinating and she felt a burgeoning sense of respect for that woman, let alone the reverence she felt growing for Sarah.

When at last they were done, Sarah drove them both to Dundurn Plaza, before taking Ally home. Ally weakly protested, still feeling uncomfortable about it but Sarah, in her blunt way, asserted herself.

“No, I said I would, and you did a great job today. Did you decide what you want to get? What you want to make? Traditional Christmas feast?’

“I did think about it actually,” Ally answered. “I think Jambalaya, totally not traditional, but it’s got everything in it, and Benj hates seafood and spice so I never get it, but I love it, so I’m going to make it. For me.”

“I like that.” Approved Sarah, “Let’s go in.”

Ally thought about Benj, and feeling calmer, wondered what he was doing.

—

Her answer came about 30 minutes after Sarah dropped Ally off at her Strathcona area apartment.

Benj had texted, “Hey.”

“Hey.” She messaged back.

“Look. I’m sorry for everything. I know what I did. It was stupid and shitty. You don’t deserve that.”

“Yeah, it was,” She replied. “And you’re right, I don’t deserve that. I’m sorry for things I said to you.”

“I’m sorry too.” There was a pause as three dots appeared crafting his next message. “Can you meet me in Gore Park?”

What the fuck, she thought. “Why?”

“It is a surprise, but like, an actual good one. I am doing something here and can’t come home yet.”

“Dammit Benj. I’m making us dinner, I don’t want to go back out. What are you doing?”

“Honestly it is a surprise. But an actual nice one for once. Please meet me?”

She sat for a moment. She didn’t want to go out, she was using a slow cooker for the Jambalaya, so theoretically could, but she didn’t want to feel like Benj was winning again.

“Please.”

She stared at the message deciding she would go, but also deciding that if it was just the same act from him, she would make whatever choice necessary for her best interests.

“Where?” She typed and then hit send.

—-

Ally’s Uber dropped her off at the east side of Gore Park, at John, and immediately she saw the congregation of singers, some in police uniform, some not, and there in among them was Benj. She was bewildered. Was Benj singing with police officers!?

He saw her, and in making eye-contact, winked.

The members of the Hamilton Police Services Choir, Benj with them, were belting out “Good King Wenceslas,” and Ally joined the large crowd that had gathered to watch, amongst the lights, the Christmas tree, the ferris wheel, and the fountain.

Looking at the crowd around her she caught Sarah’s eye, who was also in there, only metres away. Eyes wide, they shared an astonished stare.

—

At the fountain, two figures that no one could see wandered around it on opposite sides. Looking dreamily up at its polished point, reflecting the warmth of the park and the colourful lights that adorned it, Pat and Carol unknowingly drifted towards each other, until at last they were face to face.

Whatever can be called emotion for the supernaturally inclined, they we filled with it. For 30 years they had wandered a city brimming with innumerable faces, the 600,000 that lived there, and the centuries worth of phantoms who could not escape it, wondering what happened to each other and why they couldn’t leave. Never knowing where the other was, they had given up in despair trying to find out decades before, a face, whether ghostly or real, was nothing more to them than a needle in an infinite haystack.

They gazed at each other, unable to move. No one could see them. No one knew they were there. No one knew their story. And no one, least of all them, knew for sure what would happen next. The choir sang on, the crowd smiled, hearts were full, and many could swear the air had just gotten slightly warmer, and the lights a little brighter.

Reciting “A Fairytale of New York,” the Pogues song they loved the year before they died, and ironically feeling as though she had seen a ghost and needing to test if what she was seeing was true, Carol spoke.

“You’re a bum, you’re a punk.”

“You’re an old slut on junk.” Replied Pat, beaming.

“Merry Christmas, you arse.”

“I pray God it’s our last.”

Overcome, they spiritually embraced.

Nearby, a single string of lights shone so bright they popped.

—

The concert was done. Ally had introduced Benj to Sarah, who with an overprotective blend of caution and suspicion shook his hand. And Benj introduced Ally to Omar, who, sharing his wife’s mind, told Ally, “a pleasure to meet you, your boyfriend could be smarter.”

“I know,” Ally laughed. “But so could I.”

Still incredulous at the coincidence of their all having met that day, and bewildered by what forces from beyond could have been behind it, the Ahmads said good night to Benj and Ally and left.

Both Benj and Ally felt like they had been given so much by the Ahmads, they felt like they had offered nothing in return. Sarah and Omar, on the other hand, went home with a slight spark of youth rekindled in them, a certain measure of Benj and Ally’s irrational passion, energy, and desire for excitement that would take them into the night.

“Hi,” Ally guardedly said to Benj.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied. “I don’t want to fight tonight.”

Ally laughed. “Ramones, nice. Well, I have dinner at home for us, if you want to go. At least we still have a kitchen table to eat it at, unless you want the bed?”

“Oh!” Benj grabbed her arm and hurried them over to his truck that was parked in the Gore Park promenade. Throwing back a plastic tarp and saying “VOILA!” he unveiled an entire living room set, strapped down, but ready to be moved in to their place.

Confused, speechless, overjoyed, water in her eyes, all Ally could say was that she “didn’t know what to say.”

“Omar gave it to me, as a gift. Look, Ally, I want to take care of us better.”

“I don’t. I want you to take care of you for me, and I’ll take care of me for you.”

“Ok, well then, we weren’t great today. Let’s be better for each other tomorrow.” Said Benj.

“We’re only ever good in the moment,” replied Ally.

“Then can we just start with the good right now then, and make it last into tomorrow?”

“I hope so.”

“I hope so, too.”

“Merry Christmas. I love you.” They said to each other. They kissed, hugged, and stood still in that spot embracing, warming each other as the evening air grew colder again.

The wind began to pick up and brought with it small bursts of snowflakes, bitter mini blizzards, obscuring the city that was buzzing around them.

Benj looked up briefly, his face buried in Ally’s coat collar, and could just barely make out two figures sitting together on the bench by the fountain. Obscured by the flurries forming around them, Ally, who was facing the same way also saw the two figures. She could swear it was Carol, embracing a man, just as certain as Benj was that it was Pat, embracing a woman.

Yet, they were different, even obscured through the snow, they both seemed younger, healthier, happier, the best versions of who they could be, or who they could have been.

Neither Benj nor Ally said anything to the other. After all, why would either believe that they had spent Christmas Eve chatting with a ghost. Instead they just stared on, happy in each other’s arms, and hopeful for tomorrow.

Pat and Carol, sitting on a bench on the other side of the fountain watched on, Carol tucked into Pat’s chest under the crook of his arm. They smiled warmly, both to themselves and about each other, more than satisfied, content as they held onto one another.

“I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can’t make it all alone
I’ve built my dreams around you.”

They continued softly singing the Pogues to one another.

“Broadway’s still waiting for you, ya know?” Said Pat.

“You’re handsome.”

“You’re pretty, the Queen of this Steel City.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Pat echoed.

The temperature dropped and their ethereal forms froze, becoming spectral ice sculptures in place of lovers who once were.

The wind swirled around them, intensifying, whistling and whipping pellets off their frigid forms. Bit by bit, speck by speck, and crystal by crystal they wore down, dissolving into single snowflakes, whisked up toward the night sky, spiraling up into some better unknown where they now belonged, happy, warm, together, and in love.

“Let’s go home,” said Ally.

 

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