Ecurb
12-11-2013, 02:52 PM
SANTA CLAUS VISITS A BOX
Castro's Nazis were not really a street gang, just a bunch of homeless kids who acted tough and gave themselves that name. There were only six members, and all of them lived in a box on the Near North Side of Chicago, near North and Ashland, underneath a tall building called the Tower. The box was a metal box that housed some kind of electrical transformer, and it provided the boys with shelter and the transformer helped keep them warm in the winter. The cement floor of the box was covered with newspapers, for warmth. There was room in the box for all six of the Nazis, if they slept very close together.
The gang was not fearsome, for they had no firearms, and their youngest member, Javier, was only ten or eleven years old. He didn't know himself exactly how old he was because no one had ever told him when his birthday was. He had never celebrated it. The leader of the gang was Rafael, a strapping lad of sixteen, and the remaining members, homeless all except for their box, varied in ages between Rafael and Javier.
Javier's big brother, Ramon, was also in the gang, along with Johnny, David and Arturo. Rafael was the acknowledged leader -- at 16 a savvy veteran of homelessness and street life.
Castro's Nazis were not a glamorous organization. They made their living as best they could, on the tough streets of Chicago. They begged, they shoplifted. They stole newspapers from machines and resold them. They sold dime bags, when they could get them. They hustled in every way but one.
Rafael hated "putas", prostitutes. Prostitution was absolutely prohibited in the gang, and Rafael said that if any of the members ever took up with a pimp he would answer to Rafael. Arturo said that Rafael had once had a pimp himself so screw him, but the rest of the gang didn't believe Arturo. They knew that Rafael would never have done anything like that. He hated putas and maricones too much.
Winter was the worst time of year for the boys. Even though the transformer in their box provided some warmth, the wind still howled between the tall buildings and swept down the streets with a biting chill. One year, not very long ago, December was particularly cruel and cold. Even inside the transformer box, a damp chill had settled, a chill which pervades the spirit as well as the body.
It was Christmas Eve, and the boys were making their way back to their box, one by one, after a long day of begging, selling papers, shoplifting and other forms of petty labor. Javier had made it home early and was lying, covered with the gang's few blankets, huddled next to the transformer for warmth. He looked pale and was coughing weakly as the others wandered in.
"How you feeling, Javy?" asked Ramon.
"I'll be OK," said Javier weakly. "It's just this cold, essay ("ese"), and the aches I get from the weather. My bones ache. Give me a rub, OK Ramon?"
Ramon slipped under the blankets next to his brother and began massaging his shoulder and back with practiced ease. "Does that feel better? How's your aches?"
"Yeah. That's great. Thanks Ramon. Ramon, tomorrow's Christmas, ain't it?"
"That's right, Javy."
"I was talking to a guy, Ramon, you know, just talking, and he says that on Christmas there's this old guy, Santy Claws they calls him, that gives things to boys like me. You know, toys and boom boxes and headsets. Stuff like that. But he was shinin' me, weren't he Ramon. There ain't no old guy like that, is there?"
"I guess there ain't, Javy. He was shinin' you."
"Ramon, suppose there was an old guy like that. What would you want to get on Christmas?"
"Well there ain't no old guy. Everyone knows there ain't. So it don't matter."
"I know there ain't, but if there was, I'd want a boom box, with a headset. This box wouldn't be so bad if we had some tunes. Do you think Santy Claws was always old, Ramon? I mean, he must have been young once, don't you think?"
"I ain't never seen no pictures of him when he was young. He was always an old guy. He was born old. I guess he's so old he forgets stuff. Like us." Ramon laughed.
"Do you think God forgets us, too?" Javier asked.
"I don't know nothin' about no God."
"What's this Christmas rap about anyway?" Javier asked.
"Don't you know nothin', fool. It's all about the church and Jesus was born on Christmas and then he grew up and they killed him. Nailed him to a tree."
"Nailed him? What do you mean nailed him?"
"You know, nailed him. Like, pounded nails through his hands and feet."
"Why'd they do that for? Was he selling, or what?"
"I don't remember. But he weren't sellin' nothin', I know that."
"So why'd they nail him? I don't think they should have nailed him to no tree if he didn't do nothin'. Hey, Ramon, don't rub over there! That's a mile from the spot. Rub over here more. What's the eses doing, Ramon.?"
The rest of the boys were sitting on the other side of the transformer. They were whispering. "I think Javy is pretty bad," said Arturo. "Maybe it's the letters."
"How would Javier get letters?" asked David.
"How does anyone get the letters, idiot!"
"Shut up, fool," Rafael interrupted, "Ain't no letters. Just a cold. And don't be talking no letters trash 'round me."
"Hey, z'up, essays ?" They could hear Ramon calling.
"Ain't nothing up," Rafael said. "Just shooting craps."
And, indeed, as Ramon peered around the corner of the transformer, there was a pile of loose change on the floor as if a pot for some gambling game. Outside the frozen wind howled, and the electrical wires leading from the box hummed in the wind.
"Well, business," announced Rafael. "See you fools later." And with that he vanished out of the box and disappeared into the quickening gale.
It was already late when Rafael headed down toward State Street. The wind was howling through the buildings and the sleet, blown almost sideways, made ghostly patterns in front of the streetlights. Rafael headed East on North avenue and then turned south into the city, burying his chin into his dirty army jacket to keep his neck warm. Most of the stores were closed already, but some restaurants and bars were still open, and women in fur coats passed, walking with men with long overcoats and brightly colored scarves. They turned there eyes away as Rafael passed by, refusing even to look at him.
Rafael reached State Street, where the John Hancock building towered over the city. He was heading for City Drug, three blocks down and open 24 hours a day. It was several miles from North and Ashland to City Drug, and Rafael wasn't sure they'd be open past Midnight on Christmas Eve, but he was hoping. He walked fast, ears and chin in his jacket.
O luck! It was open. Rafael went in and went over to the electronics department. There it was! An Emerson Walkman. Radio, headset, $19.95.
"You! Boy! What chew lookin' for," a clerk called out. Rafael was encrusted with the grime of months of street living. His hair, under his green stocking cap was greasy and stringy. His jacket was filthy. He stank. "How much is this walkman?"
"$21.35"
Rafael counted out his money onto the counter. Four dollar bills and the rest in change. It added up to $20.28. "It's all I got. Give me a break, huh dude," he said.
"Can't do that," said the clerk. "Now are you gunna buy something or not. Get out. You're scaring away customers."
"I'm buyin' this walkman," said Rafael. He left the money on the counter, grabbed the walkman and ran.
"Stop that kid!" hollered the clerk, and took off running after Rafael. Rafael was out the door and took off south down State Street toward the city, running hard. The clerk came charging out the door after him, yelling, "Stop! Thief!" at the top of his lungs.
Rafael took a hard right at the first side street, the clerk still behind him. Just then, bad news! A black-and-white was coming out of the side street. Rafael glanced back and saw the clerk hail the cop car and, moments later the throaty whine of a siren was following him. He ducked into the first alley on his right, trying to lose the auto-bound pursuit. But the alley didn't go through to the next street. It was a dead end.
Rafael quickly surveyed possible escape routes. There were a couple of steel doors. But they were locked. A metal dumpster stood at the back of the cul-de-sac alley, and into this Rafael dove, head first. Fortunately, it was filled with trash, and Rafael burrowed his way to the bottom where he might avoid detection.
The siren came closer, then stopped. Rafael could hear the doors of the car opening and a policeman getting out.
"I think I saw him run in here." It was the voice of the clerk.
"Ain't no one in here now."
"Maybe he's in the dumpster." Rafael's heart skipped a beat.
"I'll take a look."
Rafael held his breath. The lid of the dumpster opened. Out of the corner of his eyes, Rafael could see the beam of a flashlight. "Nothing in here but trash," said the voice, and the lid of the dumpster banged shut again.
Rafael heard retreating footsteps and then the sound of a cop car driving away. Just to be sure, he stayed very still for another fifteen minutes. His head hurt. He had banged his eyebrow on the dumpster as he dove in and could feel it beginning to swell. After what seemed like a long time, he cracked open the lid of the dumpster and peered out. No one to be seen.
Rafael was shivering. His burst of activity had caused him to sweat, and lying quite still in the dumpster had brought an awful chill to his bones. He crept along the side of the alley and back out to the street, pulling his jacket up over his face and walking swiftly away, keeping an eye out for cop cars. The streets were empty, now. It must be after bar-time, 2:00 AM.
Rafael headed south again, away from his transformer box. He planned to swing south, then west, then back north to avoid cops. With no people on the streets, he was sure to be picked up if spotted by cops, and he had the walkman in his pocket, which would surely incriminate him. But if Rafael could stick to back streets, make his way over to Clybourn Ave., and take that back to North, he could make it home within an hour.
The snow had stopped, and Rafael, through the haze and city lights could see the moon, hanging above Lake Michigan to the east. Rafael had been walking for a while now, and he felt like he was almost out of danger. He was almost back to Clybourn and Division, sticking to back streets, and walking quickly.
"Hey! Who the f. are you!" a voice yelled out of an alleyway. Rafael jumped, then wheeled to face the voice. There, in the alley, were a dozen or so young men, gathered around a fire in an old oil drum. "I be talking to you!" yelled the same voice.
"Just passin'" called Rafael, and walked quickly on.
"Get him!"
Rafael started sprinting. Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see the dark shapes of his assailants coming after him. He darted down another alleyway; this time it went through. But still the shadowy figures were on his trail.
Rafael circled back to the East, running hard. He kept running until he was almost back to the lake. When he finally turned around, there was no sign of pursuit.
"Who were those dudes?" thought Rafael. But he paused only to catch his breath and figure out a new route back to the transformer box. His new plan: he would head North along the beach, past North Avenue, then cut back into the city and back toward the box. He was getting tired. He was cold. And he still had miles to go to get home.
The night was cold and clear as Rafael trudged along the frozen streets of Chicago's near north side. He felt safe, now. He was miles from the scene of the theft, and miles from where he had run into the gang. In fact, he was in a nice neighborhood now, just south of DePaul University, and it was only a mile or so back to the box. To the east, a faint glimmer of dawn appeared on the horizon. Rafael walked faster. He wanted to get back before Javier woke up.
As he came to Sheffield Avenue, Rafael had to turn left, back South, to get to the North Avenue Bridge over the Chicago River. A lone car was driving slowly north, but the exhausted Rafael ignored it and started walking quickly down the sidewalk. The car, a big, black cadillac, pulled up next to him and stopped. "Rafael! Sweetheart! I haven't seen you for a while." The voice was one Rafael knew only too well. Fernando. He was a pimp. Rafael had worked for him a year or so back. They had not severed their business relationship on good terms, and, whether justly or not, Fernando thought Rafael still owed him money.
"Come on into the nice, warm car Raffy," said Fernando.
"No way!" And Rafael sprinted across Sheffield and headed down a side street. The big Cadillac, skidding on snowy streets, followed him. Rafael ran hard, a stitch forming in his side. But he did not run far. He had entered another dead end. There were warehouses on each side of the street and no way to enter or to bypass them. At the end of the street, blocking Rafael's path, was the Chicago river, separated from the street by a six foot chain link fence. The cadillac was driving slowly down the street toward Rafael, and stopped. The window rolled down. "I ain't going to hurt you, Raffy. Come on into the car. It's warm. I got something for you. It'll be just like old times."
Rafael clambered over the fence. Fernando and two other men had gotten out of the car and were coming toward him. Rafael took one look at the men, then one look at the river. Black, frigid water glided silently by. Rafael turned, walked back toward the men for a couple of steps, and said, "Sorry, dudes, I got somewhere I gotta be." Then he wheeled, and with a running start, dove head first into the dark, icy water.
********************************
In the box, Castro's Nazis were sleeping restlessly. Suddenly, the figure of Rafael loomed in the entrance of the box. His right eye was swollen almost shut, blood was frozen and caked on his old, greasy army jacket, and he was soaking wet. "I'm back," he said. "Help me in, ese." And he stumbled, shivering as he crawled through the entranceway of the box. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his hard won prize. The headset was cracked, the walkman was soaking wet and probably didn't work, but perhaps, with tape...
"I know it ain't much, Ramon," said Rafael, "But at least it's something." The Nazis stared blankly at the presents. Rafael gave a tired smile.
"Wrap it up in the funny pages and put it next to Javy, Ramon," said Rafael. He nodded toward Javier, sleeping fitfully next to the transformer.. "Tell him, Ramon," Rafael grinned wryly, "When he wakes up, tell him.... Santa Claus brung it." Then he collapsed on the cement floor of the box.
And so it was that, bedraggled and frozen, drenched, bleeding, old before he was young, Santa Claus visited a transformer box on the near North Side of Chicago that Christmas Eve and fell asleep on the cement floor. Christmas morning came shortly after, tingeing the topmost spires of the city a faint pink. And the Tower looking down on the transformer box blushed bright red in the Christmas dawn.
Castro's Nazis were not really a street gang, just a bunch of homeless kids who acted tough and gave themselves that name. There were only six members, and all of them lived in a box on the Near North Side of Chicago, near North and Ashland, underneath a tall building called the Tower. The box was a metal box that housed some kind of electrical transformer, and it provided the boys with shelter and the transformer helped keep them warm in the winter. The cement floor of the box was covered with newspapers, for warmth. There was room in the box for all six of the Nazis, if they slept very close together.
The gang was not fearsome, for they had no firearms, and their youngest member, Javier, was only ten or eleven years old. He didn't know himself exactly how old he was because no one had ever told him when his birthday was. He had never celebrated it. The leader of the gang was Rafael, a strapping lad of sixteen, and the remaining members, homeless all except for their box, varied in ages between Rafael and Javier.
Javier's big brother, Ramon, was also in the gang, along with Johnny, David and Arturo. Rafael was the acknowledged leader -- at 16 a savvy veteran of homelessness and street life.
Castro's Nazis were not a glamorous organization. They made their living as best they could, on the tough streets of Chicago. They begged, they shoplifted. They stole newspapers from machines and resold them. They sold dime bags, when they could get them. They hustled in every way but one.
Rafael hated "putas", prostitutes. Prostitution was absolutely prohibited in the gang, and Rafael said that if any of the members ever took up with a pimp he would answer to Rafael. Arturo said that Rafael had once had a pimp himself so screw him, but the rest of the gang didn't believe Arturo. They knew that Rafael would never have done anything like that. He hated putas and maricones too much.
Winter was the worst time of year for the boys. Even though the transformer in their box provided some warmth, the wind still howled between the tall buildings and swept down the streets with a biting chill. One year, not very long ago, December was particularly cruel and cold. Even inside the transformer box, a damp chill had settled, a chill which pervades the spirit as well as the body.
It was Christmas Eve, and the boys were making their way back to their box, one by one, after a long day of begging, selling papers, shoplifting and other forms of petty labor. Javier had made it home early and was lying, covered with the gang's few blankets, huddled next to the transformer for warmth. He looked pale and was coughing weakly as the others wandered in.
"How you feeling, Javy?" asked Ramon.
"I'll be OK," said Javier weakly. "It's just this cold, essay ("ese"), and the aches I get from the weather. My bones ache. Give me a rub, OK Ramon?"
Ramon slipped under the blankets next to his brother and began massaging his shoulder and back with practiced ease. "Does that feel better? How's your aches?"
"Yeah. That's great. Thanks Ramon. Ramon, tomorrow's Christmas, ain't it?"
"That's right, Javy."
"I was talking to a guy, Ramon, you know, just talking, and he says that on Christmas there's this old guy, Santy Claws they calls him, that gives things to boys like me. You know, toys and boom boxes and headsets. Stuff like that. But he was shinin' me, weren't he Ramon. There ain't no old guy like that, is there?"
"I guess there ain't, Javy. He was shinin' you."
"Ramon, suppose there was an old guy like that. What would you want to get on Christmas?"
"Well there ain't no old guy. Everyone knows there ain't. So it don't matter."
"I know there ain't, but if there was, I'd want a boom box, with a headset. This box wouldn't be so bad if we had some tunes. Do you think Santy Claws was always old, Ramon? I mean, he must have been young once, don't you think?"
"I ain't never seen no pictures of him when he was young. He was always an old guy. He was born old. I guess he's so old he forgets stuff. Like us." Ramon laughed.
"Do you think God forgets us, too?" Javier asked.
"I don't know nothin' about no God."
"What's this Christmas rap about anyway?" Javier asked.
"Don't you know nothin', fool. It's all about the church and Jesus was born on Christmas and then he grew up and they killed him. Nailed him to a tree."
"Nailed him? What do you mean nailed him?"
"You know, nailed him. Like, pounded nails through his hands and feet."
"Why'd they do that for? Was he selling, or what?"
"I don't remember. But he weren't sellin' nothin', I know that."
"So why'd they nail him? I don't think they should have nailed him to no tree if he didn't do nothin'. Hey, Ramon, don't rub over there! That's a mile from the spot. Rub over here more. What's the eses doing, Ramon.?"
The rest of the boys were sitting on the other side of the transformer. They were whispering. "I think Javy is pretty bad," said Arturo. "Maybe it's the letters."
"How would Javier get letters?" asked David.
"How does anyone get the letters, idiot!"
"Shut up, fool," Rafael interrupted, "Ain't no letters. Just a cold. And don't be talking no letters trash 'round me."
"Hey, z'up, essays ?" They could hear Ramon calling.
"Ain't nothing up," Rafael said. "Just shooting craps."
And, indeed, as Ramon peered around the corner of the transformer, there was a pile of loose change on the floor as if a pot for some gambling game. Outside the frozen wind howled, and the electrical wires leading from the box hummed in the wind.
"Well, business," announced Rafael. "See you fools later." And with that he vanished out of the box and disappeared into the quickening gale.
It was already late when Rafael headed down toward State Street. The wind was howling through the buildings and the sleet, blown almost sideways, made ghostly patterns in front of the streetlights. Rafael headed East on North avenue and then turned south into the city, burying his chin into his dirty army jacket to keep his neck warm. Most of the stores were closed already, but some restaurants and bars were still open, and women in fur coats passed, walking with men with long overcoats and brightly colored scarves. They turned there eyes away as Rafael passed by, refusing even to look at him.
Rafael reached State Street, where the John Hancock building towered over the city. He was heading for City Drug, three blocks down and open 24 hours a day. It was several miles from North and Ashland to City Drug, and Rafael wasn't sure they'd be open past Midnight on Christmas Eve, but he was hoping. He walked fast, ears and chin in his jacket.
O luck! It was open. Rafael went in and went over to the electronics department. There it was! An Emerson Walkman. Radio, headset, $19.95.
"You! Boy! What chew lookin' for," a clerk called out. Rafael was encrusted with the grime of months of street living. His hair, under his green stocking cap was greasy and stringy. His jacket was filthy. He stank. "How much is this walkman?"
"$21.35"
Rafael counted out his money onto the counter. Four dollar bills and the rest in change. It added up to $20.28. "It's all I got. Give me a break, huh dude," he said.
"Can't do that," said the clerk. "Now are you gunna buy something or not. Get out. You're scaring away customers."
"I'm buyin' this walkman," said Rafael. He left the money on the counter, grabbed the walkman and ran.
"Stop that kid!" hollered the clerk, and took off running after Rafael. Rafael was out the door and took off south down State Street toward the city, running hard. The clerk came charging out the door after him, yelling, "Stop! Thief!" at the top of his lungs.
Rafael took a hard right at the first side street, the clerk still behind him. Just then, bad news! A black-and-white was coming out of the side street. Rafael glanced back and saw the clerk hail the cop car and, moments later the throaty whine of a siren was following him. He ducked into the first alley on his right, trying to lose the auto-bound pursuit. But the alley didn't go through to the next street. It was a dead end.
Rafael quickly surveyed possible escape routes. There were a couple of steel doors. But they were locked. A metal dumpster stood at the back of the cul-de-sac alley, and into this Rafael dove, head first. Fortunately, it was filled with trash, and Rafael burrowed his way to the bottom where he might avoid detection.
The siren came closer, then stopped. Rafael could hear the doors of the car opening and a policeman getting out.
"I think I saw him run in here." It was the voice of the clerk.
"Ain't no one in here now."
"Maybe he's in the dumpster." Rafael's heart skipped a beat.
"I'll take a look."
Rafael held his breath. The lid of the dumpster opened. Out of the corner of his eyes, Rafael could see the beam of a flashlight. "Nothing in here but trash," said the voice, and the lid of the dumpster banged shut again.
Rafael heard retreating footsteps and then the sound of a cop car driving away. Just to be sure, he stayed very still for another fifteen minutes. His head hurt. He had banged his eyebrow on the dumpster as he dove in and could feel it beginning to swell. After what seemed like a long time, he cracked open the lid of the dumpster and peered out. No one to be seen.
Rafael was shivering. His burst of activity had caused him to sweat, and lying quite still in the dumpster had brought an awful chill to his bones. He crept along the side of the alley and back out to the street, pulling his jacket up over his face and walking swiftly away, keeping an eye out for cop cars. The streets were empty, now. It must be after bar-time, 2:00 AM.
Rafael headed south again, away from his transformer box. He planned to swing south, then west, then back north to avoid cops. With no people on the streets, he was sure to be picked up if spotted by cops, and he had the walkman in his pocket, which would surely incriminate him. But if Rafael could stick to back streets, make his way over to Clybourn Ave., and take that back to North, he could make it home within an hour.
The snow had stopped, and Rafael, through the haze and city lights could see the moon, hanging above Lake Michigan to the east. Rafael had been walking for a while now, and he felt like he was almost out of danger. He was almost back to Clybourn and Division, sticking to back streets, and walking quickly.
"Hey! Who the f. are you!" a voice yelled out of an alleyway. Rafael jumped, then wheeled to face the voice. There, in the alley, were a dozen or so young men, gathered around a fire in an old oil drum. "I be talking to you!" yelled the same voice.
"Just passin'" called Rafael, and walked quickly on.
"Get him!"
Rafael started sprinting. Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see the dark shapes of his assailants coming after him. He darted down another alleyway; this time it went through. But still the shadowy figures were on his trail.
Rafael circled back to the East, running hard. He kept running until he was almost back to the lake. When he finally turned around, there was no sign of pursuit.
"Who were those dudes?" thought Rafael. But he paused only to catch his breath and figure out a new route back to the transformer box. His new plan: he would head North along the beach, past North Avenue, then cut back into the city and back toward the box. He was getting tired. He was cold. And he still had miles to go to get home.
The night was cold and clear as Rafael trudged along the frozen streets of Chicago's near north side. He felt safe, now. He was miles from the scene of the theft, and miles from where he had run into the gang. In fact, he was in a nice neighborhood now, just south of DePaul University, and it was only a mile or so back to the box. To the east, a faint glimmer of dawn appeared on the horizon. Rafael walked faster. He wanted to get back before Javier woke up.
As he came to Sheffield Avenue, Rafael had to turn left, back South, to get to the North Avenue Bridge over the Chicago River. A lone car was driving slowly north, but the exhausted Rafael ignored it and started walking quickly down the sidewalk. The car, a big, black cadillac, pulled up next to him and stopped. "Rafael! Sweetheart! I haven't seen you for a while." The voice was one Rafael knew only too well. Fernando. He was a pimp. Rafael had worked for him a year or so back. They had not severed their business relationship on good terms, and, whether justly or not, Fernando thought Rafael still owed him money.
"Come on into the nice, warm car Raffy," said Fernando.
"No way!" And Rafael sprinted across Sheffield and headed down a side street. The big Cadillac, skidding on snowy streets, followed him. Rafael ran hard, a stitch forming in his side. But he did not run far. He had entered another dead end. There were warehouses on each side of the street and no way to enter or to bypass them. At the end of the street, blocking Rafael's path, was the Chicago river, separated from the street by a six foot chain link fence. The cadillac was driving slowly down the street toward Rafael, and stopped. The window rolled down. "I ain't going to hurt you, Raffy. Come on into the car. It's warm. I got something for you. It'll be just like old times."
Rafael clambered over the fence. Fernando and two other men had gotten out of the car and were coming toward him. Rafael took one look at the men, then one look at the river. Black, frigid water glided silently by. Rafael turned, walked back toward the men for a couple of steps, and said, "Sorry, dudes, I got somewhere I gotta be." Then he wheeled, and with a running start, dove head first into the dark, icy water.
********************************
In the box, Castro's Nazis were sleeping restlessly. Suddenly, the figure of Rafael loomed in the entrance of the box. His right eye was swollen almost shut, blood was frozen and caked on his old, greasy army jacket, and he was soaking wet. "I'm back," he said. "Help me in, ese." And he stumbled, shivering as he crawled through the entranceway of the box. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his hard won prize. The headset was cracked, the walkman was soaking wet and probably didn't work, but perhaps, with tape...
"I know it ain't much, Ramon," said Rafael, "But at least it's something." The Nazis stared blankly at the presents. Rafael gave a tired smile.
"Wrap it up in the funny pages and put it next to Javy, Ramon," said Rafael. He nodded toward Javier, sleeping fitfully next to the transformer.. "Tell him, Ramon," Rafael grinned wryly, "When he wakes up, tell him.... Santa Claus brung it." Then he collapsed on the cement floor of the box.
And so it was that, bedraggled and frozen, drenched, bleeding, old before he was young, Santa Claus visited a transformer box on the near North Side of Chicago that Christmas Eve and fell asleep on the cement floor. Christmas morning came shortly after, tingeing the topmost spires of the city a faint pink. And the Tower looking down on the transformer box blushed bright red in the Christmas dawn.