TRAINJOTTING CLASSIC: The Season of Giving. And Taking

From December 10, 2008

I’m strolling along this morning, feeling good about myself.

We’re having a coat drive at work that ends today. I’ve got a contribution to make, and it’s sandwiched between my hip and my briefcase. Formerly my wife’s, this coat is a cotton-knit variety checkered in pink-and-black like a cookie from Veniero’s. It’s also cuffed and collared with faux pink fur that looks like the pelt of a Muppet.

See, the coat drive is my little shot at redemption. I missed the pre-Thanksgiving can drive at the office and I’m sure I could’ve gotten off my ass to offer up some baked beans from my cupboard.

Frankly, I’ve been distracted by “those less fortunate” much closer to home. Make that much closer to work: the agency laid off eleven of my colleagues right before Turkey Day. The casualties included Crazy Saul, the ridiculously talented, ferociously hard-working veteran writer with whom I wrote damn near every line of copy.

If you’ve opened a reputable newspaper or magazine in the past 20 years, odds are you’ve read Crazy Saul’s words. His madcap in-person comments are a little less well-known. Sample exchange: “How are you, Saul?” His reply: “Oh, just dying a little more.” Now, like me, Crazy Saul is out pounding the pavement. Unlike me, he is not going to work but looking for it.

The bitter chill gnaws on my cheeks and chin. It feels more Valentine’s Day than Christmas Day.

So the coat I’m donating will no doubt benefit some needy woman. Or transvestite.

I wish I could give more. I’m accustomed to small-apartment living, though. I store my autumn jackets at my in-laws’ house in Brooklyn, bring the winter coats home and repeat the process during the seasons throughout the year. All I have to give is this one item.

My baby boy’s growing so fast I could probably donate his clothes soon. Christ, it pains me to imagine an infant actually in need of a coat.

Suddenly I think of my son and his scare at my father’s house upstate over Thanksgiving weekend. The little guy fell out of his bouncy chair “ass over tea kettle,” as my friend Alan likes to say, but at least the boy was unharmed. Scared shitless, but unharmed.

I shake my head and squeeze my wife’s old coat for comfort—and it isn’t there.

It. Is. Gone.

“Dammit!” I grunt, stopping on Houston. A couple passersby crane their necks in my direction and keep moving, not breaking their stride. I’m halfway to work, halfway home. Did some crafty sidewalker filch it right out from under me? Or did I just drop it?

I guess it doesn’t matter now. It’s lost. At least I wanted to donate it. I tried.

Yoda’s irritating voice sounds off from some galaxy far, far away. “There is no try. There is only do.” As usual, he’s right. I forget about the whole thing and step up my pace to the office. This is the season to count our blessings and definitely breaking my Top 5 is the fact that I still have a job.

For now, anyway. Yes, I escaped the blade, which like tinsel always seems to fly freely this time of the year. There are carols to sing and budgets to slash. Dickens lives.

So here’s to a Merry Christmas and—I mean this—a Happy New Year. For me and you and yours and mine. And Crazy Saul. 

And everyone in his hardscrabble shoes.

–Tim Coleman covers the walk-to-work beat for Trainjotting.