11/26/01
Title: Comfort & Joy
Author: ML
Email: msnsc21@aol.com
Distribution: Ephemeral, Gossamer, Enigmatic Dr., or if you've 
archived me before, yes; if you haven't, please just let me know 
and leave headers, email addy, etc. attached. Thanks!
Spoilers: NIHT, sorta
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Classification: Vignette
Keywords: Angst
Summary: A conversation in a bar

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, they belong to Chris 
Carter, TenThirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  I mean no 
infringement, and I'm making no money.


Comfort & Joy
by ML

If I have to hear that damn song one more time, I'm going to 
take a sledge hammer to the jukebox.

Henry just switched the selections to Christmas songs a few days 
ago; I don't mind the usual Bing Crosby/Tony Bennett/Dean Martin
/Ray Coniff Singers selections, but this one just sets my teeth 
on edge.  It goes way back, to the year I worked the gift wrap 
counter at a department store; the speaker was right over my head, 
and I got non-stop Christmas Muzak for six weeks straight.  I 
couldn't help memorizing the song order, and after a week, I 
could tell which song was coming when.

I'd always grit my teeth when "Blue Christmas" came along.  
Something about that song just rubbed me the wrong way.  It 
didn't help that there were several versions of it on the 
continuous loop of Christmas cheer.  There was one by Willie 
Nelson, another version that sounded vaguely Dixieland, and of 
course, the daddy of them all, the definitive version by the 
King Himself, Elvis.

I hated them all, but I hated Elvis' version the most.  Maybe 
it was the wailing backup singers; maybe it was the way he 
sounded like he was about to cough up a hairball.  "Hwell, 
H'I'm-ha-gonna have ha hblooo-hooo Hchristmas hwith-hout 
hyouuuuuu..."

Just shoot me now.  

I don't usually let things get to me this way.  But anything and 
everything is setting me off this year.

I grit my teeth but as I turn back toward the bar I turn the 
grimace into a smile.  It's my job, after all.

It's a quiet night, mid-week, not long before Christmas.  The 
after-work drinkers have gone home; what's left are the people 
who don't want to go home, or who are not from here, maybe have 
no place to go but an empty hotel room.  We have a few regulars 
here, but a fair number of first-timers, too.  It's a pretty 
typical mix.

It's not my usual night to work, but Henry knows I have nothing 
better to do, and Chrissie called in sick again.  But I couldn't 
get here in time for the after work crowd; something that also 
pisses me off, since I usually make pretty good tips, and I can 
always use the money.

Maybe I won't need as much as I thought this year.  I may not be 
spending as much on gifts as I thought.  Damn it to hell, anyway.  
I grab the bar towel and scrub at the counter, anything to stop 
thinking.

"Hey."  I greet Henry as he comes over to the end of the bar.  
"Anything exciting going on?"  Henry usually clues me in to any 
patrons that might need extra attention, or who might be trouble.  
He doesn't stay, but he warns me.  Nice guy.  Doesn't matter; I 
can take care of myself, I've been doing it for years.

"Guy on the end there...no, don't look...came in a while ago, he's 
been nursing the same beer the whole time.  Doesn't want to talk, 
just keeps plugging quarters into the box."

As I turn around, Elvis croons his last, "blooooo-hooo-hooo-hoo 
Chr-hist-mas" and the song ends, thank God.  The guy Henry points 
out isn't looking our way, he's staring down at the bar surface at 
the moment.

The jukebox clicks and "Blue Christmas" starts up again.  Jesus, 
it's going to be a long night.

Henry takes off for dinner and I make the rounds along the bar, 
checking drinks, taking a few orders.  I sneak looks over to the 
man sitting at the end of the bar.

He's got a couple of days' growth of beard and his hair needs a 
trim, but he's clean.  He looks too thin.  His leather coat is 
good quality, but it's a little the worse for wear.  His overall 
look is rumpled, like he's been living out of a suitcase for a 
while, but his hands are steady as he picks at the label of his 
beer bottle.  He's got nice-looking hands.  

I'm curious to see his face.  I'm a pretty good judge of character 
but I do better when I can see someone's eyes.

My attention is claimed by another patron and I spend a little 
time schmoozing with a couple of the regulars, chatting them up, 
making sure that they'll feel special enough to tip well when 
they leave.

When did I become such a cynic?  A voice inside of me says I've 
always been one, though for a couple of years I thought I was 
changing.  Just goes to show, it doesn't take much for me to 
revert to type.  God damn it to hell, anyway.  I brush angry 
tears from my eyes when I turn away from the bar.  I look in 
the mirror; no one's paying any attention to me for the moment.  
That's good.  I don't want anyone asking me what's wrong.  I 
don't even want to think about it.

My attention is drawn back to the end of the bar, where Mystery 
Man now has some company.  I can see the side of his face as he 
turns to see who's speaking to him.  

Good-looking guy like him, he could have his pick of anyone in 
the bar, or anyplace else, for that matter.  I've noticed a couple 
of women giving him the eye, but he didn't notice them in return.  
The one who's next to him right now is trying to get him to talk 
to her, leaning across him for the bar nuts and giving him an 
eyeful, brushing her hand up against his, all the tricks.  She 
isn't bad-looking, not at all, but he hardly glances her way.  
He excuses himself to take a piss, and she takes that as her cue 
to make as graceful an exit as she can.  By the time he comes 
back, she's already found someone else who is a little more open 
to her charms.

I'm not even sure he noticed she was there in the first place, 
let alone that she's moved on.

He picks up a few quarters and heads for the jukebox.

Oh please, God, no.  Not "Blue Christmas" again.  

He comes back from plugging quarters in the machine and picks up 
his beer bottle again, but doesn't drink from it.  He holds it 
and stares off into space.  I don't know what he's seeing, but 
it's nothing in this bar.  He puts the bottle down without taking 
a sip.

"I'll Be Home for Christmas" is playing now.  He closes his eyes. 
I could swear he's in physical pain.  I know Henry told me not to 
say anything to him, but I can't help myself.

"Hey, buddy, can I get you a fresh one?"

He opens his eyes and focuses on me for the first time since I've 
gotten here.  I've seen a lot of sadness in this job, but the 
expression in his eyes just about knocks me back.  It's despair, 
plain and simple.  Or not so simple.  There's more than despair 
there.

I wonder if I should be giving this guy the number for the crisis 
line.  He looks like he's lost his last friend.  I'm not worried 
that he's going to go off the deep end and do anything dangerous 
here in the bar, but he looks like he could be a danger to himself.

"Everything okay?"  I ask quietly.  

"Everything's fine," he says, but he grimaces as he says it, as 
though that word has some special, unpleasant meaning for him.  
He pushes the beer bottle toward me and I pick it up.  It's 
lukewarm, and still half-full.  I get him another and set it in 
front of him.

"Thanks," he says, and his voice has a rusty sound to it, like he
hasn't used it much lately.

I bring a bowl of popcorn over from the machine but before I can 
set it down, he's shaking his head no, so I take it away again.

"By the way, I'm Jo," I tell him.

He looks like he'd just as soon not know my name or tell me his, 
but then he says, "I'm M-Marty."

Sure you are, buddy.  "Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

He just shakes his head again.  Despite what Henry said, I think 
this guy needs someone to talk to.  In between other customers, I 
take up my place at his end of the bar, just in case he has 
something to say.

The jukebox is now playing, "Have Yourself a Merry Little 
Christmas," the Judy Garland version.  It makes me feel so bad, 
I'm ready to ask for "Blue Christmas" again.  At least I can hate 
that one.

Marty's looking up at me.  "You okay?"  He asks, a little 
reluctantly.

"I'm great, thanks," I say heartily and I turn away from him.  
When I turn back again, he's still looking at me, with something 
like understanding in his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?"  he asks very softly.

I shake my head.  "It's nothing.  I broke up with my boyfriend, 
happens all the time, I just need time."

I have a great line of patter about this.  I almost believe it 
myself.

He has a look on his face that says, "bullshit," and then he 
asks, "So what really happened?"  He's pretty sharp.  Or maybe 
no one else has cared enough to try and get beyond what I tell 
them.  Or maybe I don't let them.  So why am I letting this guy?  
Why am I even considering answering his question?

I don't know why, but for some reason I feel the need to explain 
a little further.  "He's in the Reserves, and he got called up 
a week ago.  Doesn't know where he's going, or how long he'll be 
gone."

I didn't really have a fight with him, but I might as well have.  
I just withheld myself.  It's something I've always been good at, 
drawing away when someone gets too close.  Michael did that; he 
got too close for comfort.  I let him get under my skin, and for 
a while everything was great, and then he had to go.

"I know what that's like," Marty says.  

For a minute, I'm not sure if he's answering what I said, or what 
I thought.  

"I had to leave someone behind," he continues.  "Someone I care 
for very much.  And I can't call, I can't write, I can't be in 
touch with her at all."

This is a little scary.  I wonder if maybe she has a restraining 
order against him.  He doesn't look like the violent type, but 
sometimes that's what fools you.

"Doesn't she want to see you?"  It's a risk asking this, but what 
the hell, I've got nothing to lose.

"No, it's not that, but it's too dangerous for her.  For us.  She 
can't know where I am."

Now I feel like I've been dropped into the middle of a spy novel.  
It makes me forget my own woes for a bit.

"What did you do?" I breathe.

He looks a little taken aback.  "I can't tell you," and he clams 
up again.

"O-kay," I say, and back away from him a little.  This is getting 
too weird.

He seems to sense my unease, and he gets up.  "Look, I'm sorry if 
I upset you.  I'm gonna go, and you can just forget all about me, 
okay?"  He throws a twenty on the bar and turns to leave.

"Hey, no, don't go," I say, though I can't imagine why.  There's 
nothing I can do for this guy; I don't even really want to listen 
to his story, whether he wants to tell it to me or not.  But 
there's something about his eyes, and his face, that makes me 
believe that he's an okay guy, caught in the middle of something.  
I don't want to send him out into the lonely darkness.

He hesitates, then turns back around.  "Tell you what," he says.  
"I'll make you a deal.  I'll stay if you tell me what's bugging 
you."

I'd have to be nuts to agree, but for some reason, I really want 
to tell this guy.  I want to tell someone, and who better than a 
stranger that I'm likely never to see again?

After a long moment, I nod just a little.  He sits back down, and 
I say, "One condition."

He waits.

"No more `Blue Christmas,' okay?  I've had about all I can stand."

He grins suddenly, and his face is transformed.  I can feel my 
breath catch in my throat, and I can't help but grin back at him.

"Deal," he says.  I get him another beer and check on the other 
patrons.  It's thinning out a lot, typical for this time of night.
The only people left now are the ones with nowhere to go.

I come back over to stand in front of Marty.  I feel very shy all 
of a sudden.

"Tell me about your boyfriend," Marty requests.  And, little by 
little, I tell him.

I tell him how we met, three years ago.  How we only gradually got 
to liking each other.  How, slowly, I realized how much I needed 
him, and he seemed to need me, too.  We'd started living together 
only about six months ago.

I don't tell him a lot about my life before I met Michael.  I do 
tell him that I'd been alone most of my life, and he seems to 
understand without me saying very much.  I don't use any sappy 
phrases like "soul mate" to describe how Michael and I feel about 
each other, or how we somehow seem to complete each other.  
I can't articulate how Michael's leaving has left a big hole 
somewhere inside, but again, Marty seems to understand even 
when I can't explain it very well.

Marty is amazingly easy to talk to.  He doesn't interrupt, and 
he concentrates not just on your words, but on you.  You can't 
help but open up.  At least, I couldn't help it.

Finally, haltingly, I tell him about the last day Michael and I 
were together, how cold and distant I was.  How I wouldn't listen 
to him when he wanted to tell me something important.  And, how I 
found the engagement ring after he'd left.

I've swung between anger and tears ever since that awful day.  
Most of it turned inward, toward me.  I know who's to blame.

Marty hardly says a word throughout.  He nods encouragingly, and 
once or twice I think I see a glint of tears in the corners of 
his eyes.  But mostly he just looks at me with his compassionate 
expression, and I'm spilling my guts.  

I'm smart enough to realize what I did with Michael was an attempt 
at self-protection, but not smart enough to realize that if you 
care about someone, you can't really protect yourself from 
feeling.  That is, I didn't realize it until Marty.

I've been trying to put it aside, not think about the enormity of 
the mistake I've made.  But the look in this guy's eyes brings it 
all home to me again.  He knows what I've been going through.

"Bottom line," Marty asks when I finally run out of steam.  
"Do you love him?  Is he worth it?"

Without even thinking about it, I say, "Hell, yes."  That's an 
admission in and of itself.

"And you know he left because he had to, not because he's running 
away from you, right?"  Marty's voice is soothing.  He speaks 
softly; no one in the bar can hear him but me.

I nod.  "I know."  I knew it when he left.  It didn't stop me 
from being a bitch about it.

"I can tell you from personal experience," Marty says, and there's 
just the tiniest crack in his voice as he speaks, "that it was 
just as hard for him to leave as it was for you to see him go."

Another thing I should have realized, if I hadn't been thinking 
only about myself when he left.

"You're not asking for advice, I know," Marty says.  "But do you 
have a way to get in touch with him?  Can you get a letter to him?"

I nod.  I do have an APO address.

"Write to him," Marty urges.  "You really need to tell him how 
you feel, if you still love him."

He's got that haunted look back in his eyes.  I wonder if he was 
able to tell her before he left.  I remember he said he couldn't 
contact her.  I hope like hell he told her what he needed to 
tell her.  I hope like hell that she let him, not like me.  Or 
she might be going through the same thing I am, right now.  

I nod again.  "I will, I promise."  I'm feeling a little 
light-headed after all this true confession stuff.  I'm very 
proud that I haven't cried in front of him, not once.

Marty smiles at me a little.  "How do you feel?"

"It's a miracle, Doctor," I declare in a smart-ass tone.  But I 
can't do that to him.  "Seriously, thanks for listening, Marty."

"Happy to be of service," he says.  He seems to mean it.

I look around the bar.  One couple back in the corner, and they 
don't need anything from me.  Henry will be coming to help close 
up pretty soon.  "How about you?"  I ask.  "Fair's fair."

His face shutters again.  "I'm okay."

I reach out to touch his arm and he very gently moves back, 
keeping a certain distance between us.  I can take a hint:  I 
stop leaning forward on the bar and busy my hands stacking 
glasses and wiping down a counter that's already clean.

I want to do something for this man.  I don't know what I can 
do, though.  He's back to sitting staring off into space.

The outside door opens.  It's Henry, coming back to do the last 
hour with me.

I turn back to Marty.  "I get off at midnight," I say impulsively.  
I'm not sure what I'm offering.  Maybe a sympathetic ear.  Maybe 
some comfort.  Whatever that means.

He looks at me, considering.  I think he needs a friend as much 
as I did earlier, but nothing more than that.  I can tell he's 
trying to find a way to say no.

I let him off the hook.  "Forget it.  It was a bad idea."

"No, it wasn't," he says.  "But I can't.  Thanks for the offer, 
though."

I try one more time.  "Do you have some place to go?"  Jeez, even 
that sounds like a come on.  I don't mean it that way, really.

"Yeah, I do.  But I can't go there."  He gets up again.  "Thanks, 
Jo.  It's been a pleasure talking to you."

He offers me his hand, and for the first time, I touch him.  His 
hand is large and warm and comforting.

I can see the yearning in his eyes, but it's not for me.  I'm no 
slouch in the looks department, but I'm not the one he wants or 
needs.

God, I miss Michael so much.  I have to tell him.

"I hope she's worth it," I say as he turns away.

He smiles, more to himself than to me.  "Oh, they're worth it," 
he says.

They?  I start to ask him, then think better of it.

I watch Marty walk out the door, certain that I'll never see him 
again.

I know I'll think about him, though.  And I'll wish him well.  
Every time I hear "Blue Christmas."

Henry comes behind the bar.  "Hey Jo, you wanna knock off early?  
This place is dead, no point in us both being here."

I smile at Henry for the first time in weeks, and I can see he's 
surprised.  "Yeah.  I've got something I gotta do."

I've got a letter to write.

end.  

author's notes: Dedicated to everyone who has a loved one far 
away.  If you haven't told them how you feel lately, there's no 
time like the present.

p.s. I have absolutely nothing against "Blue Christmas," really.

feedback is a great comfort: msnsc21@aol.com

find my other stories here:
http://www.kimpart.com/mlfic.html