This appears in the Monday December 26, 2011 edition of the Business Mirror.
The Gift
by rick olivares
The old man pulled up the collar of
his grey overcoat to fit more snugly. The December chill stabbed at him and at
once made him feel all of his 59 years. The PATH train station junction at Journal
Square in Jersey City was deserted on Christmas Eve. Not a soul was stirring.
Not even a mouse. Everyone must be at home having some hot chocolate, ham, and
maybe some pie, thought the old man who worked as a night watchman. He loved
buko pie especially those brought to America from the Philippines. It was a
slice of home.
Home. That struck a nerve.
The radio was on and there was this
man on the radio lamenting being loveless at this time of the year while some
shrink imparted advice. The old man switched off the radio a little too late.
The problem with being alone and with not much to do is the mind forces you to
reminisce. Now he was confronted with memories that were best packed away with
old stuff in the attic.
He arrived in America some five years
ago as part of a petition by his former wife’s brother. His family had looked
at moving to America as an opportunity for a new beginning. But it was a tough
time as the country was in the midst of a recession and still trying to find
its footing after 9/11. His inability to land a good paying job eventually told
on his family. His two sons first worked at the nearby IHop before deciding
that joining the military was their best ticket into assimilating themselves in
their new country. One was stationed in Guantanamo, Cuba while the other was in
Fallujah, Iraq. Their only daughter kept mostly to herself and preferred to
stay in the room. His wife worked at a nearby college and it was her salary
that mostly kept their family afloat. Working as a used car salesman wasn’t
panning out. Even when old cars were priced at $500 no one was buying. Not in
this terrible economy.
But what kept them on the edge was
staying up at night following the war in Iraq. At that time, the fighting had
been heavy in Fallujah and they stayed glued to the news in some form of morbid
watch where they hoped for the best but expected the worst. After a
particularly nerve wracking week, they received news that their son was doing
well. But the fighting had spilled over Stateside as his relationship with his
wife got worse. She finally kicked him out of the house and told him to expect
to hear from her lawyer as she filed for divorce.
The old man grew up in Bicol and
played baseball until his college days. There wasn’t much news about major
league baseball in the pre-internet age especially if you lived in the
provinces in the Philippines. Once in a while there were box scores in the
dailies. Come October and the World Series, the coverage was better but that
was about it. He would cut out those news reports and he’d stick them into a
folder after having memorized every name to go with their batting average. When
he got married and had children he introduced baseball to his sons. Boy, how
they loved it as well and they soon made the school team.
When they arrived in America, one of
the first things the old man did was to take his sons to Yankee Stadium to watch
a game. That set them back by almost a hundred bucks much to his wife’s
chagrin. The sightseeing can come later when they had more money that was in
short supply now, she argued. He took the barbs but it was money well spent
with his boys whom he was close to.
But that was then. The old man
switched the dial of his radio to another station where they played classical
music. He fixed himself some coffee and when he took a sip he felt some life
return to his numbed limbs.
A taxi pulled up just outside the
station and the old man watched a passenger alight. The passenger moved briskly
towards the entrance. “We’re closed,” croaked the old man as he smacked his dry
lips. He took another sip at the java to find his voice. “Station’s closed
early for the holiday.* You’ll have
to take the cab if you need to get to the city.’
“Papa,” gingerly said the passenger.
“Danny?”
It was his son back from Iraq. The old
man opened the gate to let his son in. They shared a tender embrace and the
father felt his eyes sting from the tears. “I brought some food and hot
chocolate,” said the son who also fought back the tears. It was his first time
to see his father since he shipped overseas and the first since his parents’
marriage dissolved.
“Papa, look what I found in the
attic,” interjected the son sounding suddenly excited. It was a pair of old
well-worn baseball mitts. And a ball. “Want to play catch?”
On a cold Christmas Eve, father and
son played catch for a few minutes. They smiled and talked baseball. They
shared a simple feast and caught up well into the early hours of Christmas
morn. It was the best gift the old man had ever received.
* This is a true story about people who I know. Names
have been changed. Prior to 2006, the PATH Train would operate until 730pm on
Holidays as a result of 9/11. The trains now run once more 24/7. And the old
man now has another job and remains in close touch with his children while
living in Jersey City.
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