A Christmas Angel

Benny stood alone at the bus stop listening to the crooning voice of Bing Crosby singing White Christmas from static speakers of the department store across the street. His old, ragged knapsack hung by a single strap, causing it to hang haphazardly across his deformed back. Diligently holding out his weather-beaten baseball hat with a dirt streaked hand that shook with age, he waited for the familiar clinking of coins from kind passersby.

"I saw it! You didn't, you old fool!" he muttered. "It was just a shooting star!"

A gentleman with an expensive suit and briefcase sat down on the bus bench beside him. Soon, he began to hum in tune with Bing, but Benny knew the stranger was trying block out the incoherent conversation he was having with himself. Moving a few inches away from the derelict, the man watched the flickering flakes of winter’s first snow.

Anger flashed over Benny's age-beaten face. Focusing ruddy eyes, he stared long and hard until the stranger on the bench stiffened, clearly ill at ease.

"Ya think you’re better than ‘ol Benny?" he asked with a contemptuous sneer contorting his leathery face.

The stranger stopped humming, realizing the derelict was speaking to him. Glancing sideways, he tried to hide a look of disgust that flashed fleetingly across his face.

Benny saw it, even with his watery eyesight, he saw that familiar loathing.

"No ... I just ... I thought you might have better luck collecting coins without me being so near," he politely replied.

Benny’s bloodshot eyes widened as he stared thoughtfully at the man who had the audacity to speak to him. This was indeed a rare occurrence. Most people moved further away when he verbally approached them. "He's just like the others," he muttered to himself, although his eyes held the stranger’s attention. "No, he's not. He talked to us ... like real people, he did." Benny shook his head back and forth, trying to expel the invisible demons haunting him, but that was a battle he could never win.

The smartly dressed stranger watched him with avid interest. There were so many homeless littering the streets nowadays, Benny rarely got a second look. "You gonna finish that?" he demanded, looking at the Coke can in the stranger's hand.

"Sorry, there's nothing left," he said, turning to toss the can in the garbage.

"No!" His piercing shout stopped the stranger in mid-air.

"There's nothing left--"

"He's not going to give it to us." Benny growled through pursed lips. "Ask him nicely and maybe he will." Turning his head toward the elegantly dressed stranger, he asked through clenched, rotten teeth, "Can I ... please ... can I have the can? I keeps 'em out of landfills and recycling is next to godliness, eh?" He spoke slow, the words difficult to form.

The stranger's eyes narrowed.

"Hey, you hear me?" Benny retorted with a rude jut of his stubbled chin.

Moving closer, the stranger held out the can.

Benny snatched it like a caged cobra. Promptly depositing the can inside his road-worn knapsack, he glared suspiciously at the stranger, as if suspecting he would want it back. Once the zipper was secured in place, only then did he tip his head in thanks. "Much obliged, stranger."

The man nodded, though his eyes did not leave the old man's face.

"He should take a picture," Benny mumbled, looking away toward the traffic ambling up and down the city street. "Now, don’t go being impolite. He just gave us a can."

"Here ..." The stranger drew out an expensive looking wallet from the pocket of his suit. A wad of money the likes Benny had never seen before. To have just half that amount, he wouldn't have to live in that damp, dirty cave that smelled like the rotting garbage of Barton Creek. Between the incessant traffic from the Mopac Expressway interchange and, of course, the voices that clamored in his head, Benny barely slept these days. To have the warmth of a clean blanket; the feel of crisp, clean sheets; walls and a roof to keep him dry and warm; and most important, a hot meal. Was it too much to hope for?

"Nothing but dreams buddy, nothing but dreams," Benny mumbled to himself.

None of this passed by the stranger, however. In fact, this seemed to intrigue him more. After all, it was the season for generosity and something about this old man tugged at his heart. Taking out the entire wad of bills, he pressed it into the old man's gnarled, arthritic hand.

"We'll be arrested," Benny whispered, staring at the money in awe but nonetheless clamping his hand eagerly over it.

His words seemed to have struck a nerve in the stranger. "I give this to you freely, as a gift. Merry Christmas. Buy yourself some food, a room, a gift perhaps; do whatever you want," he said, offering Benny a sad, small smile.

The old man just stood there, his mouth hanging open.

The city bus then came thundering around the corner. "Hide that somewhere safe!" the stranger urged. Benny still hadn't moved.

Stepping onto the bus, the man realized that Bing had finished his solo and now an acoustic version of Silver Bells buzzed out of the static speakers. Grabbing the first available seat by the window he saw, with relief, that Benny had stuffed the money out of sight. A huge grin lay plastered across the old man's pasty face.

As the bus drove away, Benny shouted something out, something the stranger could not make out over the roar of the bus' exhaust and the static from the department store’s speakers. It sounded a little like "David" something or other, but he couldn't be sure. Shaking his head he buried the hope, as he always did.

"David Benjamin thanks you ... yesiree!" Benny jovially shouted out as the bus rounded the corner and disappeared from view. "No matter how much, ya give it all to the shelter," Benny murmured to himself. "No! Keep it all, you ‘ol fool," he argued with the incessant voice in his head. Stuffing the baseball cap over thinning wisps of silver, streaked hair, Benny limped toward Father Luke's shelter three blocks away. His incoherent tirade continued, causing people to give wide berths as they passed by him. Benny failed to notice a thing. As he walked to Father Luke’s, Benny hummed Silver Bells, forgetting the words to the song years ago.

Finely manicured fingernails trailed over the monogrammed gold letters on his briefcase. It had been a Christmas present last year from his wife. The initials BWB stared back, short for Bradley William Benjamin. Every Christmas Brad wished for one thing, but in all the ensuing years it never did come true. Not once had he found his long, lost brother.

Sighing deeply, Brad looked out the dingy window of the bus, his thoughts returning to the strange derelict. He hadn’t noticed he was humming Silver Bells. Brad stopped and looked up at the smog filled sky, and did something he had not done for a long time. He said a prayer, asking God to look out for that strange old man; the stranger who oddly touched his heart.