Roger's Chrismas Morning by John Phillips
All the clients were home with family except for Roger, who had spoiled just one too many holiday events for kin to risk his presence. Down from his bedroom at 7:00 a.m. he came, shuffling in his slippers into the kitchen with his pajama top buttoned crookedly.
"Merry Christmas, Roger!" I greeted him, looking up from the newspaper and wishing I'd had time to finish the crossword puzzle. "Care for a hot chocolate?"
"Sure," Roger responded, slumping into his usual spot on the kitchen loveseat and looking down at the white linoleum floor. "Did Santa Claus come?" he mumbled to my back as I mixed his hot chocolate in a green mug.
"Why, I believe I did hear the door open quickly last night," I answered. I had, as instructed in a log note, placed a wrapped present under the tree. A label read, "To Roger from Santa."
Roger slowly walked into the living room and soon came back. He mumbled, "There's nothing under there."
"You just didn't see it," I answered, and I walked Roger back out to the living room and pointed to the small package reposing next to the only other object under the decade-old artificial tree, an empty holiday candy canister.
Back in the kitchen, Roger read the label from Santa, and I hoped he didn't recognize the handwriting that had penned a thousand log entries. "Is this really from Santa?" Roger asked, and I assured him it was as he tore off the paper, revealing the video, "Angels in the Outfield."
"How does Santa know I have a VCR?" Roger asked.
"He knows everything, Roger," I answered. "Merry Christmas."
"Do I have anything in a stocking?" Roger asked, and before I could think of the kindest lie, Roger had scuffled out to the living room mantle, where four decorative-purpose red felt stocking hung, each stuffed for appearance of fullness with tissue paper. One candy can peeked over the top of each one.
Before I could say anything, Roger had selected a stocking and extracted the cane and the tissue paper. "What's the paper for?" he asked.
"Oh, Roger, that's just an ornamental stocking. Santa only leaves stocking gifts for the children. Let's go back in the kitchen and have that hot chocolate. Maybe there's some Christmas music on the radio."
After a few sips of coca, Roger mumbled something about more presents upstairs. Up he shambled and soon returned to the fluorescent brilliance of the kitchen and placed a large plastic bag from Filene's on the table.
An anticipatory smile moved his face as he began taking out store gift boxes, sealed with scotch tape, each one labeled "To Roger from Mom and Father." He opened, one after the other, the several containers, exposing: after shave, deodorant, and socks; two shirts of the same red and blue plaid as ten others in his closet; a pair of jeans to match the five others in his bureau drawer and two more red and blue plaid shirts; three t-shirts; three pairs of socks; and two more pairs of jeans.
At last he was finished and examed the bounty piled on the table in front of him. He took a last sip of his hot chocolate, turned to me and said, Cool presents."
"Looks wonderful, Roger," I said, unable to think of much else.
"I'll take my meds now," Roger said, "I'm going back to bed." He waited patiently at the counter as I counted out the requisite anti-psychotics, calmatives, side-effect stabilizers, and vitamins into a plastic cup. Roger took these with a glass of orange juice.
"Need some help carrying up the loot?" I asked.
"No thanks, I can get it," Roger mumbled, and he made his deliberate way off to the upstairs door.
I held the door open for him. "Merry Christmas," I said, as Roger plodded up the steps. As the door closed, I could hear Roger's slippers sliding across the carpet as he moved down the hall past his housemates' empty room.
Back in the kitchen, I quickly bagged up the wrapping paper and boxes. Maybe I could get that crossword done before my relief came in.
