“I can’t take it anymore! I quit!”
Zain Chancellor took a double-take into the shaded alley to see a middle-aged man ripping off an ill-fitting Santa suit. Yelling at an invisible victim through the department store's back doorway, the man slammed the suit into a battered dumpster. When the door slammed in his face in reply, he huffed and stormed past Zain, too lost in rage to care about bumping into the kid with the mohawk.
After the boy watched him go, he turned his attention to the white fur peeking out of the dumpster, and after a moment of thought and started into the darkness after it.
----------------
Though many curious eyes followed him as he passed, Zain focused his gaze on the sidewalk and his black combat boots. The red-velvet suit bounced lightly on his back, and every now and then a tuft of white fur floated into his line of sight.
After cutting through an alley and turning onto another street, he glanced up to spot his destination: the cardboard box near Sheldon’s Barber Shop.
Zain approached the large box, set on its side so that the open end faced the passing cars. Inside there were a few Snickers bars and a ragged blanket covering the box’s floor. The boy lifted the Santa suit off his shoulder. Folding it neatly, as he had watched people do through the window of the city laundromat, he laid it quietly in the back corner of the box so that the December snow wouldn’t dampen it.
He turned to go, but suddenly spotted a tin can sitting beside the box. For Food was scrawled on the visible side. Picking it up, Zain poured out the little bit of melted snow and used his T-shirt to dry it out. Then he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his thin wallet.
-----------------
Christmas Eve came. The mohawked kid stepped out of a little restaurant on Twenty-fourth Street after enjoying a three-dollar dinner plate and some hot coffee. He had celebrated alone, not having any family or close friends to call his own. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he started down the frozen sidewalk.
Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder. Zain spun to face an old, bearded man—wearing a familiar Santa suit. Tears glistened in the man’s eyes.
“I know it was you, boy,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve been nice and warm ever since I put it on. Just wanted to thank ya, and give ya this.”
He held out a worn leather Bible.
“A man of God once gave it to me. Changed my life. Says that even when the whole world’s against us, we ain’t ever alone.”
The boy glanced up to see the old man fondly smiling. A small smile escaped his lips as well, and he gently took the precious book.
“Thank you.”
The man looked deep into the boy’s eyes and kindly gripped his shoulder.
“Thank you, son.”
Without another word, the homeless man turned and walked toward the dim moonlight, softly whistling “O Holy Night.”
The mohawked kid glanced down at the Bible he held. Somehow, it felt good in his hands, though unfamiliar. He lifted his eyes again, expecting to see the old man strolling along the sidewalk, awash in the light of streetlamps—but he was nowhere to be seen. His whistle, however, still flooded the night.
Zain shook his head, finally turning and starting in the direction of his cold apartment, the golden letters imprinted on the Bible’s cover glistening in the streetlight.