This Is Christmas Metazen

down there, pronto, and make a fare.”

“Yes sir, boss man.” He reaches and mutes the volume before the owner/dispatcher can respond.

Idling through windswept streets. Trees stand naked, lonely, mourning their lost leaves, dreaming of springtimes past, no longer hopeful, the coming year too far even to imagine. Things are tough all over. Newspaper stands shout the news of recession, recession, don't nobody say depression or it might come true. In the distance, semis scream and moan as they pull the Appalachian inclines.

The Hummers and Suburbans of the ubiquitous khaki-clad tourists stand watch outside motel rooms, while the battered and bumper-stickered pickups of local good ole boys and girls line the residential streets nearby. Twas ever thus, even here in Zion. Even here. # “It's no use, Rod. Forget it. Me and Rickey are getting married. Nothing you say will change that.”

“I'm gonna go back to school, fnish my degree, get a better job and buy a house...”

“I said, 'Forget it.' Been there, done that, heard it all before...”

Rodney pauses with his dialing fnger in mid-air. Gently places the receiver back in the cradle.

She's right. There's no point in calling. Their fghts are scripted, well rehearsed. Each angry lover quotes his lines, and no one is the wiser in the end. Besides, he's been working over and saving for two weeks, and what's he got to show? Tomorrow is payday, and he has ffteen dollars in his wallet.

Fifteen dollars. Hooray for the new austerity.

Back in the cab, and another mile down the road. The fare at Center Street stands him up, so he returns downtown and parks at a cab stand on Main Street outside the coffee shops and craft stores.

How cool the dulcimers in the window looked when frst he moved here. How exotic, how unique.

How empty it all seems at this time of night, this time of year. How tired and lonely the old man on the park bench appears to be. Christ, it must be after midnight, and twenty degrees out there...

Rodney rolls the window down and whistles. Motions for the man to come over. The fellow approaches the driver's window, then starts to climb in back, before fnally settling in the front passenger seat. Rodney smiles, but the man only hugs the door and stares at the bench he just abandoned. He reeks of stale sweat and Listerine. The sweat must be ancient—it's been cold a long time—and the mouthwash odor seems less a gargle scent than yesterday's libation oozing from his pores. Rodney cranks the heater and points a vent in his direction.

“Cold out there. You need a ride somewhere, Old Timer? You live nearby?”