A Berwyn Christmas

a singing cat and strawberry quik.

The snow drifted down from the pitch black sky like powdered sugar on pancakes while Mike and I wandered around looking for something to do. It was ten at night and nobody was out.

As we trudged down the middle of the street through freshly fallen snow, I turned to Mike and asked, "You eat yet?"

"No. You?" he replied.

"No."

"Liar. I saw you eating Doritos at open gym."

"Those were Costello’s and I only had a few."

"Then you did eat," he countered with his unforgiving Eastern European logic.

"Technically, yes. But not really.”

We were at that bizarre age of fourteen, trapped between toys and the ticking time bomb of manhood.

“Wanna see if we can steal something from the gas station?” I pitched.

"The guy knows we don't have a car so why else would we be there? We go in, hang out for a few minutes, then leave without buying anything. He’s gotta know we're up to something."

"Maybe he doesn't care?" I offered up hopefully.

"Nobody likes it when you steal from them."

"Whatever we do, we gotta scrape up some money and eat."

We walked north on Scoville toward Cermak. While we talked, we looked into the houses and saw decorated trees drizzled in lights, tinsel and ornaments.

The festive sight shook an idea loose.

"What if we sang Christmas carols?" I wondered.

"Who's going to pay us to sing?" Mike pessimistically replied.

"We're kids, somebody's got to pay us. We'll knock on some doors, say we're Christmas Carolers, start singing before they can say “no”, then when we're done, they'll tip us and we'll have money for food."

Some say other, greater plans to generate money have been created, I submit there has not.

Mike squinted his eyes and looked out to the horizon which meant he was thinking. After a few moments, he turned and said, "Sure. Why not."

We strutted up to the first house and knocked on the door. An old Italian woman in a green house dress answered.