Christmas at the Vinyl Cafe

by Stuart McLean

  The snowplow was coming down the other side of the street. Alf gave it a wave. Same sort of work really. Moving stuff around.

  He had his key in his right hand and his canvas bag in his left. He bent down to open the box.

  After forty years, Alf wasn’t surprised by much. But when Alf opened the door, he jumped backwards.

  When he tells this story, and he comes to this part, he always says, “It scared the bejesus out of me. To see a guy sitting in one of your mailboxes. You just don’t expect that. Even at Christmas.”

  When the door swung open, and he saw Alf leap back, Dave looked up at him sternly and said, “You’re late!”

  “I’m late?” said Alf.

  “We are conducting random checks throughout the city. You’re twenty minutes late.”

  He held out his hand and said, “Get me out of here. We might be able to overlook this.”

  There was a sudden flash.

  The camera on Alf’s cell phone.

  When Dave’s eyes had cleared and he could see again, Alf was shaking his head.

  “Mister,” said Alf, “you got to do better than that.”

  —

  THAT’S THE PICTURE on the front of Morley’s card this year. The one Alf took of Dave jammed in the mailbox.

  Morley met Alf at the police station where she had to come to pick up Dave.

  “I’ll give you fifty dollars for that,” she said.

  “You can have it for free,” said Alf. “My present.”

  The sergeant went back to get Dave. Morley went with him. So Morley saw her husband sitting all alone on the little bench, holding his head in his hands. She was surprised that the officer brought her back there like that. But it was Christmas after all, and she’d asked, and the sergeant had shrugged and said, “Why not. It looks to me as if you have enough problems.”

  They let Dave go, but they wouldn’t give Morley the cards.

  “They don’t belong to you,” the sergeant explained. “They belong to the Queen the moment you put them in the box. They are hers until they are delivered.”

  Alf, who was still there, more out of curiosity than anything else, said, “If there is a return address they’ll eventually make it back to you.”

  And they did, but not until February.

  Which is why no one received a card from Morley last year.

  All that is explained in this year’s Christmas letter. Much the way I have just told you.

  As for Dave and his indictable offence, Dave had to perform thirty hours of community service. He chose a hostel not far from his store. It turned out to be the place where Emil was sleeping those chilly nights.

  Emil greeted Dave with great warmth the first night he was there. He came right up to Dave behind the counter where he was cooking grilled cheese sandwiches. Emil patted him on the shoulder, looked right at him, and said, “Not surprised to see you at all, Dave. Not at all.”