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The
Pirate: A Christmas Eve Story (Fiction)
by Brian Joseph
It was Christmas Eve and James was home from college. He had just finished
helping his mother clear the the supper table and was talking about his
plans for the coming summer after he graduated. His fourteen year old
sister, entered the kitchen. " Are you guys ready? Dad wants to read
the story." Mom smiled, "Okay give us another minute or
two." James couldn't remember how old he was the first time that he
had heard his Dad read the story. The story had been written by his
great-grandfather and the reading of it was part of the family's annual
Christmas Eve.
This year just as they did every year James, his sister, and his parents
would gather in the living room. Dad sat with the small leather bound book
in one hand and the pocket watch in the other just as he did every
year. James sat there looking at his Dad as he opened the watch.
"Still works after all these years." Mom entered the living room
and placed a tray of cookies and hot cocoa on the coffee table. His sister
picked up a cookie and said, "Okay we're all ready Dad." Dad
opened the book and looked at the hand written words that had been put
there many years before and began to read.
The year was 1931 and work was hard to come by. I was twenty years old and
counted myself fortunate to have found work in the small factory where I
met the Pirate. That is what he called himself and he looked and acted the
part. He wore a black patch that covered his right eye. There were about
thirty of us who worked there and we were all subjected to the Pirate's
meanness six days a week. The Pirate had a name for everyone. The names
were all derogatory and based on what the Pirate saw as a defect. There
was one man who had been born with one leg shorter than the other. The
Pirate called him Limp. Another whom he called Four Eyes. One he simply
called Ugly. The Pirate never used anyone's real name. Part of working at
the factory was being nick named by the Pirate within the first week or
two of employment..
The name that he gave me was Worm. It had started out as Book Worm when he
saw me reading in the warehouse during my half hour lunch. It wasn't long
before he shortened it to Worm. I had discovered Kierkegaard quite by
accident while browsing in a used book store. After reading his Works of
Love I wanted to read everything that he had written. The Pirate taunted
me on a daily basis, often making derogatory remarks about what I was
reading. These remarks were usually based on a twisting of the words in
the title. Sickness Unto Death became Sickness in the Head. His comments
wore at me. One day he came up to me as I was moving some boxes and
said," You are one very sick in the head person you garbage Worm. Go
crawl in the dirt." He walked away laughing. It was his Pirate laugh.
It was usually heard after a comment that the Pirate found extra amusing.
We tolerated this stuff from the Pirate because we needed work. When the
Pirate was out of hearing range there was plenty that was said about him.
The few who did tell him off directly were fired on the spot. The Pirate
called it 'walking the plank'. On one occasion a worker named Fred who the
Pirate called Screwball was out for two days. When he returned the Pirate
asked him where he had been. When Fred told him that he had been out
because his brother had died the Pirate looked at him and bellowed,
"Your brother, not you so you should have been here!" Fred said
nothing. I was standing nearby and said, Come on Pirate lighten up."
The Pirate glared at me. "Shut your trap Worm or you walk the plank.
Don't mouth off to me. Didn't your mamma teach you to respect your elders.
Maybe you didn't have a mamma. Maybe someone just cut a worm in half and
you are one part." I was quiet. I needed work.
I continued my readings of Kierkegaard. I had been fed up with
institutionalized religion and its hypocrisy. Kierkegarrd resonated with
me. He wrote of the power of love and how being a Christian was more than
adopting the label or attending a church. Through his writings he became
my teacher. There was a dilemma about this because my feelings for the
Pirate were anything but love. In fact there were times when I hated the
Pirate. There were times when I wanted to pummel him. I controlled myself
but this hatred was growing inside me and it contradicted what I had been
learning from my teacher.
I had been working at the factory for about eight months. One day after
several gruesome encounters with the Pirate I sat in my small room
weeping. I had had enough. I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to do
something. I had searched for work elsewhere with no luck. If I left it
would likely mean living on the street. I had no one. Both of my parents
had died years before and I had been fending for myself for the last four
years. In my despair I sought solace in the New Testament. I opened it at
random and as my eyes fell upon the page I read the words that were to
guide me on my course of action. It was Matthew 5:44, "But I say unto
you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that
hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute
you."
The following day during lunch I sat in the warehouse reading
Kierkegaard's, Either / Or. The Pirate passed by and bellowed, "What
are you reading Worm?" When I showed him the title he laughed.
"Either or what? Either you respect the Pirate or you walk the
plank" He walked off laughing to himself. I wondered what could turn
a person into a man like the Pirate and returned to my reading. Once again
words jumped out at me, "perhaps he sighs at the thought that he is
loved by nobody and does not reflect that he is loved by God." That
night when I prayed I prayed for the Pirate. The idea of what I was to do
germinated in my sleep. I woke in the middle of the night and there it was
in my head.
Four weeks later on Christmas Eve the factory shut down an hour early. The
factory owner who I had never seen before showed up and passed a turkey
out to every worker. After he had left most of the workers sat around two
tables drinking punch that was heavily spiked with rum. The Pirate was far
off from everyone else counting stacked boxes. I decided that it was a
good opportunity to do what I had planned.
I walked towards where he was and he stopped and turned to look at me.
"What is it, don't worms like punch?" I reached into my jacket
pocket and pulled out the small box. It was wrapped in plain brown paper.
I handed it to him. "Merry Christmas Pirate". He took it in his
hand stood there silent for a moment as if puzzled. "What's
this?" He said it loudly. Loud enough so that the men sitting
drinking punch quieted their conversations and looked towards us. I spoke
softly. "Its a gift." The Pirate got louder. "A gift, what
is this some kind of joke. It won't be funny when you walk the
plank!" I turned to walk away and he shouted at me. "Halt
Worm." I turned back to look at him. He tore off the paper and looked
at the box. "Some kind of joke worm?" I said nothing. He opened the box slowly and took out the pocket watch. It had cost me more
than a weeks pay and I wondered if he would fling it or toss it on the
floor and step on it but he didn't. Instead he raised his voice.
"What is this a broken watch?" I continued to speak softly.
"No, open it." The Pirate pressed at the pin on top of the watch
and it sprung open. His eye drifted towards the inscription that I had the
jeweler inscribe, "The Pirate 12/24/31 God Loves You". I turned
and started to walk away. The Pirate began to let loose a stream of
profanities that ended with, "What are you crazy?" I was about
eight feet away and turned to face him. "No, I'm a Christian."
We both stood silent for a moment. Then I noticed it. It started as a tiny
tear dripping from his left eye. It quickly grew into a stream. I stepped
towards him and reached out my hand to shake his but he was dazed and just
stood there. I stepped closer and he murmured, "I'm sorry." I
reached out and hugged him. At first he just stood there limp as his tears
flowed onto my shoulder. Then he lifted his arms and wrapped them around
me and cried like a baby. I held him as he whispered through his tears.
"I'm really sorry." I held him tighter and whispered. "Its
okay. God loves you." When I stepped back he stood there silent, then
turned and walked away.
On the next work day the Pirate was somewhat quiet. He remained that way
throughout the week. Mid way through the following week he stared to yell
at Fred. "Hey Screwball..." Fred cut him short. "Hey Pirate
what time is it?" The Pirate reached in his pocket, pulled out the
watch, told Fred the time, and walked away. Fred's method was used from
time to time by others who would ask the Pirate what time it was just as
he was launching into a tirade. As the weeks passed the Pirate became
gentler. Once when a worker returned after being out for a day the Pirate
asked where he had been. When he said he had been throwing up and had been
really sick the Pirate said, "Okay, I hope you feel better."
It was a Sunday in early March of 1932, I was walking through the park
when I noticed the Pirate sitting on a bench. He was breaking off pieces
from a loaf of bread and feeding them to the pigeons. He had not noticed
me. He sat there talking to the pigeons. "Its okay there's plenty
more, share." When he did notice me a look of embarrassment came over
his face as if he had been caught picking his nose. I sat down next to
him. "Its okay Pirate. Saint Francis talked to birds too." He
continued to feed the birds as he spoke. "I'm far from a saint. I
don't even go to church." He handed me a chunk of bread. "
Pirate you are in church. God's house does not have walls. Going to a
church does not make a person a Christian anymore than sitting in a tree
makes a person a bird. Kierkegaard said that man in all his cunning knew
that the only way to try to destroy Christianity was to declare, we are
all Christians." I started to bite into the bread when he stopped me with, "Not
for you for the birds." I joked with him. "You know they might
eat me. Birds eat worms." He giggled. "You know Worm you think a
lot."
I returned to the park the same time the following Sunday. There he was
sitting on the same bench feeding the pigeons. It was on this day that he
told me how he had became the Pirate. His mother had died when he was 10.
His father who had a taste for liquor and a mean streak had taken to
drinking heavier after his mother had died. The Pirate had a sister who
was 4 years older than him. When she was 15 she received a severe beating
from their father. She left home and took to selling her body on the
street. The Pirate loved animals.When he was 14 years old he found a stray
puppy on the street and fed it half of his sandwich. It was a few days
before Christmas. The puppy followed him home and he pleaded with his
father to let him keep the puppy. His father reluctantly agreed. On
Christmas Eve his father drank himself into a stupor. When the puppy wet
on the floor his father got up and kicked at it repeatedly. The Pirate tried to get between his father and the
puppy. His father picked up a whiskey bottle and smashed it across the
Pirate's face. That was how he lost his right eye. When he left the
hospital he was put in a children's home. He ran away after two days. The
factory owner found him sleeping in the back doorway of the factory and
took the Pirate under his wing. That had been 26 years before and the
Pirate had worked there since then.
I continued to meet the Pirate in the park every Sunday for the next six
months. We talked. We became friends. In September 1932 I left for the
west coast. There was promise of work in Oregon as part of president
Roosevelt's Work Projects Administration. During our last Sunday in the
park the Pirate handed me a what looked to be a book wrapped in plain
brown paper. I looked at the package and was about to open it when he
said, "Save it for the train ride." I thanked him. As we shook
hands he put his other hand on my shoulder. "You know Worm I don't
really know who I am anymore." There were tears in his eye. I put my
hand on his shoulder and said, "I think you'll figure it out."
While on the train the next day I removed the wrapping from the gift that
he had given me. It was a leather bound copy of Kierkegaard's, The Concept
of Dread. There was a handwritten inscription inside the front cover. It
read : Thank You, from the Pirate? About six months later I received a
post card from him. It said, "I'm not much of a writer. Hope all is
well." I wrote him once but we lost touch with each other.
I returned to the east coast during the holiday season of 1942. By that
time I was married with one child. My wife's mother lived back east and
she had wanted to see her grandchild. The day before Christmas I decided
to pay a surprise visit to the old factory to see the Pirate. When I
arrived I was greeted by Fred when I asked where the Pirate was he said,
"Jim passed away three months ago. He spent most of his free time
with his kids until he took ill a few months before he died." I asked
if Fred had gotten married and Fred said, "No, but he called them his
kids. They were the kids at the children's home. Jim's children's home.
Jim had some money you know. He lived pretty frugal and worked many years.
He had a home built just for those kids. Imagine that, the Pirate a
philanthropist. You should stop by and see it, nice place, not far from
here."
I did go to the home. It was a large house standing where I remembered an
empty lot had been. The sign outside read : Jim Muldoon's Home for
Children. I stood there for a few minutes marveling. It was the nicest
building in the area. I must have been noticed. A man opened the front
door and walked down the steps towards me. "Can I help you?" I
told him that I had been a friend of Jim's and he invited me in and showed
me to the living room. I noticed a large portrait of the Pirate hanging on
the wall. The man introduced himself as the manager of the home and began
to talk about Jim and all he had done for the kids that he called his
children. As we spoke a boy who looked to be about 14 years old entered
the room. He had a a long scar that stretched across the left side of his
face. The manager introduced me as a friend of Jim's. The boy stepped
forward and shook my hand." Mr.Jim, he saved my life. A good man, best person I ever met." The manager told me that Jim was
survived by a sister who helped out at the home at times. "She lives
two blocks down, number 42, first floor."
I went to see the Pirate's sister. She asked who I was before opening the
door. When I said, "Jim's friend." She asked which one. I stated
my name and she opened the door. "Come in, come in. Jim told me about
you." We sat at the kitchen table drinking tea as she talked proudly
of her brother. Mid way through a sentence she stopped and said,
"Wait." She got up and walked into another room returning a
minute later with the pocket watch in her hand. "Jim would have
wanted you to have this. He used to say that he had been frozen in time
until you gave him this watch." She placed it in my hand and I opened
it and looked at the inscription. She told me how Jim had helped her turn
her own life around. "He wanted nothing in return. Towards the end
when he got sick he even made his own burial arrangements, picked out his
own headstone. A finer brother no one could ask for."
She told me what cemetery Jim had been buried in and gave directions to
his grave site. I planned to visit it sometime before I went back out west
but as I stepped out into the brisk air I felt a compulsion to visit it
right then. Perhaps because it was Christmas Eve and the anniversary of
that day eleven years before when I had given him the watch that I now
held in my pocket. I took a bus to where the cemetery was. As I walked the
three blocks from the bus stop to the cemetery it began to snow. There was
about a half hour left before dark when I arrived at the cemetery. The
wind had picked up and snow was sticking to the headstones. I wondered if
I would find his name. I did manage to find it and knelt beside it to pray
as the snow continued to fall. The lower part of his headstone was covered
with snow. I brushed the snow off with my glove. The epitaph was a quote
from Kierkegaard: "I am as it were, an agent in the service of the
Highest." Tears streamed down my cheeks and mixed with snow as I felt
about the grace bestowing power of Love.
Dad closed the book. There were a few moments of silence as there were
every year after Dad read the Christmas Eve story. Dad looked at James,
"Next year you can read the story." He placed the small book in
the palm of his hand, put the watch on top, and held it out to James.
"Its yours now. Pass it on."
__________________
Brian Joseph is the author of the mystical novel, The Gift of
Gabe. More of his short stories can be found at http://www.giftofgabe.com/
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