A CHRISTMAS STORY It was Christmas Eve. It was raining in San Francisco. At Third and Market streets, the second edition of the San Francisco Examiner had just arrived, carried by copy boys from the presses across Stevenson Street, then up the back elevator to the second-floor newsroom. Day shift reporters and editors were putting on their raincoats, exchanging Christmas greetings with colleagues while they waited for the annual event that had come over the years to mark the end of the year at the newspaper, the flamboyant Christmas Eve departure of the executive city editor, Mr. Eppinger. Out of his office strode the Great Man, offering Christmas greetings to the staff. “Merry Christmas, Will.” “Have a wonderful holiday, Ed.” “Say hello to the family, Gale.” And to each a personal greeting. As he returned to his office, he turned to his underlings and said, as he did every night, “If you need me, Ill be in Belvedere.” The executive city editor eased himself into his overcoat, wrapped a scarf around his neck and, in deference to the rain, added a rain parka. Then he turned and carefully grasped a large cardboard box, filled to the top with the year’s bounty, the liquid “thank you” notes from favor-seekers, flacks and political hacks across the great City That Knows How. The Christmas Booze. Bottles of the finest liquor, delivered, presumably, with the notion that reporters, editors, photographers and artists might share a snort or two and remember their benefactors. Would the Great Man be the Examiner Santa Claus, breaking tradition by offering libation to the patient masses? Or would the same scene be repeated, much like the annual memo of unknown provenance that announced that management’s regular Christmas Bonus policy would be continued. Alas, he turned to the hallway which led to the rear elevator. Benny, the elevator operator/office bookie, was waiting to transport The Man down to the Stevenson Street door, a few feet from his car. Back in the newsroom, the day shift editors and reporters began to drift to the elevators, while the night shift slowly returned to its tasks. Though it was raining, it was a warm night, and the windows behind the city desk were open to Stevenson Street below. Suddenly, there was a loud noise, a crash, the sound of breaking glass. To the open windows dashed two reporters and a copy editor. Below them stood Mr. Eppinger, in shock. What was left of the Christmas Booze was a pile of broken glass and brown liquid flowing into the sewer. Aside was a cardboard box, its bottom soaked through with rainwater. Words coming from the street below were unfit for this or any other newspaper. Above, a reporter turned from the window to the inquiring faces of his colleagues. “Yes, Virginia,” he said, “there is a Santa Claus.”
Posted on: Wed, 17 Dec 2014 05:14:31 +0000
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