Your Complete Publisher Specializing in Unabridged Works

“Fuck off,” Jack replied. 

Jack fussed and cussed and fumed as he swiped in at the gate then made his way to the vending machines for his normal breakfast of an R.C. Cola and a moon pie. He spit on the frozen ground as he lit up a cigarette. Now he had to wait to clock in.

The white hats, foreman and above who wore white hard hats, got in a tizzy if Jack clocked in early. They made all kinds of a fuss if he didn’t wait until fifteen minutes prior to starting to clock in. Jack clocked in anyways. As far as he was concerned the white hats could bite him. He was here, on Christmas day no less, so they could all go fuck off. 

To say Jack was mean would be an understatement. No one wanted to be near him inside the tiny shipyard. No one wanted to work with him which is one of the reasons he was here on Christmas. A barge needed to be completed by the twenty-sixth. A barge full of pipes in need of welding. Someone decided Jack was the man for the job.

Jack continued to curse as he loaded up his tool bag. There was no one in the shop. He was the only one working besides an old black woman who had to stand fire watch for him. An old bitty Jack told to stay as far away from him as possible. In fact, Jack told her to stay in the shop and keep warm. Not out of any kindness. Nope, Jack simply wanted the woman as far from him as possible.

Most who knew Jack considered him to be the most unpleasant, mean son of a bitch they had ever met. Jack had never found anyone he really liked. Men, women, black, red, yellow, brown, Christian, Muslim, Jew. He hated them all. If you picked a group of anything or anyone, Jack would happily tell you all their faults. He would tell anyone who would listen why that particular group should be eliminated from the face of the earth.

Jack had so much anger in him he couldn't even stand his own family. His three children were a distant memory. Jack drove them off quickly and efficiently. When you feel his anger hourly, knowing there was nothing that you could do to ease it, well something gives in you. His anger was so pervasive his daughter swore it seeped out of the walls when Jack wasn’t around. 

His daughter, the youngest; once asked him why he couldn’t love her. Jack just stood there when she asked him. He had no answer for her. She left an hour later.

All Jack’s wives left him. Few who knew him ever understood how any woman would get near him, yet he was married three times. Three trips to the alter followed by three swift trips to the divorce court. Whatever appeal Jack possessed disappeared quickly once these women lived with him.  

His second wife tried to take Jack to church. She wanted him to find God and accept Jesus. Boy was that was a mistake. Jack didn’t need to find God or Jesus. He knew where they were alright. He openly blamed God for all that had happened to him. This made Jack even more bitter, as if that was even humanly possible. 

Strangely enough, Jack could be heard conversing with God on a daily basis. Jack talked to God loudly and vocally. It was an angry, mean, and spiteful conversation. Yet, Jack was talking to God anyways. Most people just steered clear of Jack once they heard his bits of crazy and mean one-way conversations with God and Jesus.

Jack took a long look around. Here he was, 62 years old and still a welder in the shipyards. The cold air blowing off the river seeped through the layers of clothing he wore and chilled him to his bones.

"Damn it God,” Jack cursed. "Did you have to make it so fucking cold!"

A shiver rocked him as he started up the makeshift ladder to the top of the barge. More wind buffeted him. Sent a deeper cold into his soul. Jack hated this. Hated being in this shipyard doing this work in this weather with all his hard heart. He hated his life – period. Hated God and his Son even more for doing this to him.

 "Fuck you God," Jack muttered under his breath as he climbed into the access hatch. “You too Jesus you fucking Jew.” 

Jack believed with all his heart he should be a superintendent by now. The one who was overseeing the barge’s completion was once Jack’s helper. A white boy. Jack long ago decided it was the color of his skin which held him back. He was a black man in a white man’s world. It didn’t matter that his own general foreman was black nor that the production manager was black. Nor did Jack even consider the majority of personnel in the shipyard was black. He was black therefore the white man held him back.

When Jack asked one of his foremen, a white boy, why he hadn’t been promoted, the white boy told Jack he was too good at his job to promote. Why take a great welder out of the field? Of course, the boy also told Jack no one wanted him near the customers which Jack took as the ultimate insult.

Another shiver shook Jack as he lit up another cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke on the job. A snicker filled the air. Jack’s snicker increased as it turned into a belly laugh.

“Morons,” Jack said to no one in particular. Then laughed some more as he put on his welding shield and got to work.  

Jack was a master at what he did. As much as he hated being in the shipyard, Jack took the only pleasure in his life from the knowledge he was one of the best. Took pride in the way the welding slag peeled off the weld each and every time. His beads were so consistent it looked like a machine welded them. Of course, no one would put an expensive machine inside a tank with fuel still all over its decks. Fuel Jack had to put out occasionally as he continued to weld. 

“Why risk a machine when you got an old nigger to do the job,” Jack snickered as he struck another arc. 

“Merry Christmas!” came a voice from somewhere behind Jack.

Jack jumped up. Slipped in some of the leftover fuel. Fell hard as he splashed in the same pool of fuel. 

“Who – the – fuck – are - you?” Jack screamed as he kicked the bucket he had been sitting on. Fussed and cussed as he somehow managed to get upright. Took a seat on the pipe he’d been welding and let the heat soak into his butt. Lit a cigarette as he looked into the smiling face of a young, light skinned black man.

Fucking nigger surfaced in Jack’s mind but stopped, Jack took a good long look at this young light skinned brother and decided he was far worse than the thugs the white hats hired from the crack houses next door.

The white hats were always hiring and firing crack whores and niggers from the hood. Only this boy smiling near Jack was neither a thug, or a hood rat, or even a nigger. This boy was something Jack truly despised. He was an Oreo cookie. Black on the outside but white on the inside. 

“I’m Nick,” the Oreo answered. “I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. It is now 12:01 a.m.” 

“Get out of my tank – boy,” Jack grumbled. His tone threatening. Jack had been put on the hill for several days for fighting. More than once. He was not above beating this Oreo for the joy of it.

“What do you want?” Jack asked when this Oreo didn’t move. All the boy did was smile. A shit eating grin if Jack had ever seen one. Jack hated him even more. The boy was good looking, light skinned and had a smile which would make a woman drop her panties. Jack really hated this Oreo now.

“I was sent to help you Jack,” Nick answered. Then began to laugh. A little at first, then building until it was a full out belly laugh. Jack couldn’t help but join him. His laughter was just infectious. Nick’s laugh was full of merriment and joy. Happiness made into sound. As Jack heard Nick’s laugh build, Jack suddenly shivered. Fear inched into Jack’s heart.

“What did you say that you wanted?” Jack asked again. His words trembled as he spoke. 

Jack was truly afraid now as he looked at this young man. Nick was full of life. It oozed out of his eyes; his whole being. Jack looked around afraid he would find his corpse laid over the pipe. It would just be his luck to die on Christmas day inside a tank covered in fuel. He looked back at Nick. Sighed. Knew it was his time to die. Nick had to be an angel of death come to collect. 

“Jack,” Nick said as a calm took over. The young man smiled again. Filled Jack up with hope instead of fear. “You are one of the most miserable creatures on God’s green earth. You’ve sown discontent around like a poison. And yet? You are not a bad man.”

Nick sighed. Jack noticed the boys skin tone was lighter now. And he had stubble on his face where smooth skin existed moments before. 

“Against my better judgment,” Nick spoke again. This time Jack’s mouth fell open. Nick began to shrink in height. “I have been asked to give you a Christmas present on this most special of days.” 

“However,” Nick said. Nick was no longer a light skinned Oreo. His skin tone was so white he was almost pink. His eyes danced in his head. His smile was no longer a shit eating grin but a jolly smile which made Jack smile back. As Nick’s face filled with a white beard and his hair turned as white as snow, Jack’s mouth fell open. “I need to understand why you are so mean.”  

Saint Nicholas joined Jack on the pipe. Pulled out a slender pipe from his red jacket and lit it. Blew smoke rings as Jack smiled. For some reason it was no longer cold to Jack. Nor did he feel any hate towards this man. A being Jack cursed his entire childhood for not bringing him what he wanted most. Safety. 

Jack began to talk. He felt a need to talk. To tell Santa everything. The rapes suffered at the hands of his stepfather. His mother’s many abuses. Jack went on and on. He emptied himself. Things he himself had forgotten. It was gut wrenching as he sobbed for what seemed like hours. As he explained to the jolly fat man next to him his only option was to do unto others first. Keep them out. Fight first, hit hard, and never let anyone in.

A realization hit home with Jack. He may not have abused his children or his wives, not sexually anyways, but he had abused them. Physically, psychologically, emotionally. He had become his worst nightmare. A nightmare his own children had to live with. Until they left. They all left. Jack was alone.

A mind-numbing depression filled Jack’s heart. His chest felt empty. His heart hurt. Just as he was about to give up, he turned to look into the jolly old elf’s eyes. 

An amazing joy filled him up. He was HAPPY. Truly Happy; all the way to his bones. It was filling every joint, bone, and pore. It was even starting to come out of his eyes. A laughter left his mouth. One of the greatest laughs Jack had ever felt.

“Jesus loves you Jack,” Santa Claus said. “Loves you so much he sent you this present. Love. His own love. Love he wants you to share.”

Saint Nicholas, the real Santa Clause, picked up his bag full of presents. Smiled into Jack’s eyes and laughed as he disappeared in front of Jack’s eyes. 

Jack looked at his watch. It was 12:01 a.m. Christmas. Jack did something he had never done before. He stopped working. He packed up his tools out of habit then crawled out of the tank.

He waited on pins and needles as his cell phone rang and rang. Jack had reason to believe his youngest daughter would answer. It was twelve in the morning. His number would show on her caller ID. She hated him. 

The only reason he stood with the cell phone to his ear was a new one. Hope.

“Baby girl,” Jack said into the phone when his youngest answered. “I can tell you why I love you now if you want to know still.” 

Crying greeted Jack’s ears as he told his daughter all the reasons, he loved her. All the reasons he was sorry he had shoved her aside. All the reasons he wished she would forgive him enough to let him try to be a father once more. 

“How about being a grandfather?” his youngest answered.

 

More crying as Jack heard angry words in the background. His youngest’s husband. A man who had no use for Jack at any time. He heard her start to cry on the other end. 

“Am I invited to dinner?” Jack asked. He hoped in his heart of hearts his youngest could forgive him enough to allow him to sit down with her family for Christmas dinner.

 

“Oh, Daddy,” a sob came out of his phone. “I have waited a long time for you to come home.”

Written by R. Ross Whalen for The Pyrateheart Press.

©2020 - Robert Ross Whalen

www.pyrateheartpress.com