Member-only story
Prose
A Short Story for the Feast of St Nicholas
When the wind starts to bluster from the north, hollering its way down the avenues and snatching all the leaves off the trees, I know it’s time to park my cab and start my annual march. I put on my hat, button up my coat, stick a couple bells on my wheelie bag all lined with a burlap sack, and get walking. I’ve been doing this for enough years now for people to expect me. Never mind that they can usually hear me coming, they know the drill already.
“Heyyyyy! Nickels for Nicholas!” they all shout. “How ya doin’ man? How’s the year treated you so far?”
And I pause in their doorways, sometimes rolling right up inside, or I hang out on the sidewalk where they’ve stopped me. Some of the shops have a window, like at some of the bodegas, they sell right to people on the street, and I’ll just stop there. It’s always the same, with smiles and laughs, high fives and back slaps. In a twinkle, they’ve got their little bags ready and toss them into my cart, going for three points and nothing but net. Like I said, they’ve been expecting me; usually they collect nickels all year long.
Their customers all know the drill, too, since I handed out little buckets for my favorite kind of change. It still surprises me how many people throw in. The buckets fill up again and again as the…
