The List

This story is being submitted to the Winter Holidays Story Contest 2023. I took some risks in writing it. This story has no sex, no Christmas trees, no cute puppy dogs, not even snow and my main character would be more at home in a "Mike Hammer" story than "Frosty the Snowman." If you prefer a sentimental story, you might like "A Valentine for Christmas" but if you are still interested, here it is.

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Some people say I'm a wild kid. I really don't care. I grew up without a mother's love or influence. She died giving birth to me. My dad raised me and he never gave me any slack. Whatever I did was never good enough. So yeah, I have a bad attitude. If you see me on the street don't talk to me. Just keep walking. I'm not interested in what you have to say. When I turned eighteen, I moved out. There was no reason to stay. Only one person ever saw anything good in me and now he's dead. Life sucks.

The funeral for my Uncle Lucas is today and he's the only person I would ever wear a suit and tie for. It's at St. James Episcopal Church, a place you'd never expect to see me, but I'm here to pay my respects. I could hear the whispers as I entered the church. You know the kind. "What's he doing here? He doesn't belong in a church." My uncle's family and my father sat up front. I found an empty spot in the back of the church to sit during the ceremony and when it was over, I left as quietly as I had come. I wasn't going to watch him being put in the ground. I might cry and I didn't want anyone to see me cry.

My place is in one of the rougher parts of town. It's about a half hour walk from the church. Don't have a car. Can't afford one and don't need one. I'm good with a knife and have a reputation from some of the bar fights I've been in. As for my basement apartment, it doesn't have a lot of furniture but I'm not trying to impress anyone. It has a separate entrance and the rent is cheap.

A week after the funeral, a certified letter arrived from James Dawkins, my uncle's lawyer. It was an invitation to the reading of the will at his office. When I arrived, I was directed to a room with a large conference table around which were seated my uncle's widow and two daughters, my father and Mr. Dawkins. Condolences were offered to the widow and children but as for my father, I didn't even acknowledge his presence and sat as far from him as possible.

The reading of the will was, to say the least, strange. Every person in the room was mentioned in it, except me. I needed to have a private talk with Mr. Dawkins after the others had left.

"Why did you waste my time? I didn't have to be here. You knew I wasn't in the will."

Mr. Dawkins took a deep breath and replied, "Lucas warned me you'd be difficult. Well, for once in your life just shut up and listen."

"What do we have to talk about? The will was pretty clear. I didn't get a damn thing."

"Lucas did leave you something, just something he didn't put in the will."

I looked at the lawyer, confused. "Why the hell did he do that?"

"He never told me why. He just told me to make it legal and binding."

"Okay you've got my attention but that lasts just five minutes, then I walk."

Mr. Dawkins continued, "He left you a letter. If you want to leave after you read it, our business is over."

With that, he handed me an envelope with the words "Give this to Sparks" written on it. That was a private joke between my uncle and me. He always called me "Sparks" because I had a fascination with fire when I was little. I opened the envelope and read:

Sparks,

While I was alive, I tried to be the person that your father couldn't be. In the end, I guess I ran out of time. Your father was tormented by the death of your mother and he didn't know how to be the parent you needed. I know you're still bitter over how you were treated and I realize that you don't owe me a thing but I have one last request. Mr. Dawkins has been given a list of things for you to do and he is authorized to reward you for each completed task with an additional reward if everything on the list is completed. You are free to refuse but if you agree to do this, there is one condition. You are not allowed to tell anyone why you are doing this, at least not until the end of the assignments. This is just between you and me.

If this was so important to him, I had to do it. I owed him that much. I turned to Mr. Dawkins and asked for the list.

"Before I hand it to you, I was told to give you some information. There's a deadline for completing the tasks. It's one month from today. Since today is December 1st, everything must be completed by New Year's Day. The tasks can be done in any order and the rewards have been determined by the difficulty of each assignment. All rewards will be given to you at the end of a month's time. Since some tasks may require time away from your job, your uncle has authorized me to pay you a thousand dollars in advance for any time on the job that you may miss. If these conditions are acceptable, I have a contract prepared for you to sign."

"How will you know if I've completed any of the things on the list? I know you're not going to just take my word for it."

"You can use pictures or audio recordings or eye witnesses to document the completion of each task. Bring everything to me and I'll be the final judge."

"And I get a thousand dollars right now with no strings attached?"

"Whether you do anything on the list or not, you still get the money."

"Just show me where to sign and give me the damn list."

The contract was eight pages long. I bet I could have written it in half that. Why say "the party of the first part" when you could just write a name? Some people get paid by the hour, maybe lawyers get paid by the word. And, tell me, who besides a lawyer says "whereas"? After the contract was signed and dated, Mr. Dawkins handed me the list.

1. Help someone anonymously.

2. Pretend to be homeless and spend a day at a shelter.

3. Give gifts to twenty children without spending any money.

4. Visit someone you don't know in a home for the aged and cheer them up.

5. Attend church services in a denomination other than your own.

6. Say a prayer over the grave of a person you have never met.

7. Go on a date with a girl.

8. Mend the relationship with your father.

9. Start a new holiday tradition.

10. Get into a paintball fight.

11. Find a job you love.

12. For eight hours wear the ugliest Christmas sweater you can find. The sweater must be visible to others for the entire time.

I had to read the list twice. I couldn't believe what my uncle had written. I looked up from the page and asked, "Is this some kind of joke?"

"You knew him much better than I did. All I can say is that your uncle wasn't laughing when he handed me the list."

I left the lawyer's office with a thousand dollars and the list. My uncle didn't have to worry about me missing time at work. I have no patience and a short fuse. That's a bad combination for steady employment. Well, I have a month, but it'll be impossible to complete it all. There is too much hatred between my father and me to repair the relationship. I'll just do what I can and collect the cash.

Number ten seemed a good place to start and an easy way to get out some of my anger. Flyers for a place called The Paintball Arena were plastered all over my neighborhood. All I needed to wear were sneakers and some comfortable clothes since total protection outfits could be rented for $10. At the arena I was introduced to the guys I'd be playing with. Some were beginners like me but most were hardcore players. Some even had military training. Each of us was shown the field we'd be playing on, told the rules and given a paintball gun with a hundred and fifty paintballs. This was my first paintball fight and I hoped that was enough. Can't be too prepared in any kind of fight, you know.

For the next two hours, paintballs were flying everywhere. You learn very quickly that a paintball fight is not just about shooting. Those paintballs can sting even with that special clothing so you better protect yourself. At the end of the session I was exhausted with a few aches in places where I was hit. I did manage to get in a few good shots but there was no doubt I'd been in a paintball fight. Now I just had to have one of the guys take a picture of me in my paint-splattered outfit. Underneath it, my street clothes were covered in sweat from the exertion and didn't smell too good. They'd be perfect for what I chose as my second task.

The next day I filled a big black plastic trash bag with some pillows. It really didn't matter what it was filled with, nobody was going to look inside. I put on the clothes that I wore to the paintball fight, a coat that had seen better days, and a wool hat. I rubbed some dirt on my face to complete the disguise and I hunched over a bit while walking to the shelter. I hoped no one from my neighborhood recognized me. It would be too hard to explain. Spotting a police car. I slowly approached it, keeping my head down.

"Can you direct me to the nearest shelter? It looks like it's going to be a cold night."

"Why don't you hop in the back and we'll take you there."

"God bless you, officers."

There were about twenty people huddled outside the shelter, unsure whether to go in or not. Many homeless people avoid them because they've had bad experiences. Some even say it's safer on the streets. The people seemed to hide their faces as I got out of the police car. Silently, I grabbed my black bag and walked to the entrance. As I reached for the door handle, one of the men started talking to me, "They picked you up, huh?"

I replied, "Yeah, I was sleeping in a doorway when they rousted me. Said I could go to a shelter or a warm jail cell, arrested for vagrancy."

"Not much of a choice."

"No, not much. Crowded inside?"

"It's pretty full. Cold weather coming. If you go inside, protect yourself, you understand?"

"Yeah, shelters are the same in every town."

With that warning, I entered the building and scanned the room. It was large, with cots lined up in rows. As I got closer to what looked like an admitting desk, the man behind it asked, "Got a name?"

"Sam Martin is as good as any. What difference does it make? I'll be gone tomorrow morning."

"Sam, did you eat today?"

"Just an apple."

"Grab a plate of food at the table over there and take any cot that doesn't have a body on it."

I did just that and as I sat on the cot, I noticed that almost all of the people had their shoes on, even the ones lying down. Guess the stories are true about shoes being stolen while people slept. Whatever these people had with them was probably all they had in the world. Not much to show for a life.

I had to be very careful taking pictures in here. Some of the people might get hostile. I made sure that the flash was off on my phone and coughed loud enough to cover the sound of the clicks as pictures were taken. Didn't sleep much that night and I don't think I was the only one. God knows, I won't forget this place anytime soon.

I had left home without any credit cards but I did carry twenty-five dollars in case the police really did enforce vagrancy laws. Now, I thought of another use for some of the money. My phone was set for video and when I passed a woman with a young child, I had the camera running as I dropped fifteen dollars on her cot. I never turned around but I thought I heard her say "Bless you" as I walked out the door.

On the way home, I checked my phone for the pictures and video that I had taken at the shelter. Everything was clear enough to satisfy both the visit to the shelter and the anonymous gift since the woman never knew who I was. Three tasks done but those were easy ones.

Everything on the list seemed to force me to interact with people that I never normally would. If I was right, then my uncle wanted me to pick a church for my task that I'd never think of visiting. With that in mind, on Sunday I attended services at the First Baptist Church and I was the only white person in an all-black congregation. It was uncomfortable knowing that half of the congregation spent as much time looking at me as they spent looking at the pastor. I just sat quietly, never even bothering to open a hymn book, until everyone started reciting the Twenty-third Psalm.

The woman next to me noticed I wasn't saying anything and asked, "What's the matter, don't you know the words?" Now, the psalm that starts "The Lord is my shepherd" is probably the most well-known psalm in the world. That was just her polite way of getting me to participate. After that little hint, I joined in the services and almost forgot to document my visit. It was forbidden to take pictures in the church during the services so my phone was used to record the pastor's sermon. A few times I added an "amen" so the lawyer could hear I was actually there.

When the services were over I walked across the street to a pocket park and sat on one of the benches to reflect on what just happened. It was an amazing experience. After my initial hesitation, I actually felt more comfortable there than at my uncle's church.

My hand reached into my pants pocket to take out the list. Lately it had become a habit to carry it. I continually searched for opportunities to complete the tasks. It was then I remembered that about a mile from the church, there was an old cemetery that seemed abandoned. I had noticed it one day when riding on the bus. Two rusty wrought iron gates marked the entrance.

As I entered the cemetery I felt a sadness at what I saw. The gates opened to an overgrown grassy area with about sixty headstones that were weathered and slightly tilted where the ground had settled. Nothing about the graves indicated that they had been visited. None had cut flowers or small rocks near them. These were the resting places of forgotten people.

It was unlikely that I'd be disturbed as I said my prayer. The list said that I had to say a prayer for someone that I never met. Do I just pick a random person to say a prayer for? Do I say a prayer for someone who led a full life and was dearly loved, or someone who died so young they never had a life at all? As I walked between the headstones, all I saw were the names and dates of people who used to exist. Beloved mother, beloved father, beloved grandmother, how would I choose? And what good would some half-hearted words spoken over the grave of some dead person do? Questions and doubts filled my head until I saw Sarah's headstone. Sarah was twenty-nine years old when she died in 1986. It was the inscription on the stone that drew me to her, "She died giving life." I never visited my mother's grave. My father never took me to see it. I guess this is where I make peace with my past. I placed my phone on the headstone and turned on the recorder. I was going to talk to a person who was unknown to me but who I could imagine all too well. In a low voice, almost a whisper, I started.

"Sarah, we've never met but I'm here today to add my prayer to the others given by those who knew you. In your short life you suffered two tragedies. The first was that you never met the child that you brought into this world. You never held it or saw its first steps or heard its first words. You missed the child's first day at school and watching it grow up. The second tragedy was that your child never got to meet you. My prayer is for your child to be the person you wanted it to be and I pray that it is a joyous time when you finally meet. I was separated from my mother as you were from your child. If my mother has been watching me from heaven, she knows that I'm not who she would have wanted me to be, but that changes today." I then reached over and stopped the recording. I was too choked up to continue.

It was a few days before I could look at the list again. That last task was very painful. I needed to choose something next that was much less emotional. Wearing a very ugly Christmas sweater seemed the right choice, but finding a store that sold them was difficult and I didn't like anything on Amazon. Maybe a secondhand clothing store had what I needed. An internet search showed that there were five in my city, each one listed with an address and phone number.

It didn't take long to discover that only one of them had any ugly Christmas sweaters and it had only three. This late in the season, they might sell out quickly so I rushed there. Unfortunately, when I saw the sweaters, it was obvious that two of them wouldn't fit me and the problem with the third one was that, in my mind, it wasn't ugly enough. I didn't want to fail my task just because my uncle's lawyer felt the same way. The day had turned out to be a total waste. All I wanted to do now was to get drunk.

That night I went to my favorite restaurant. It's nothing fancy or any of the big chains, just a place where locals like to hang out. It's one of the few places I can go to without somebody saying something that leads to a fight. Everyone knows me and leaves me alone. It was already crowded when I arrived so I waited at the bar until a table was available. I motioned to Julie, who is one of the bartenders and one of the few people I call a friend. When she came over, I just said four words, "Double scotch, no ice."

Julie looked surprised and started to pour the drink, "Okay, but you're going to tell me what's wrong. You don't drink like that."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

With a worried look, Julie continued, "After you get a table, I'll meet you there on my next break and you can tell me about it."

It was forty-five minutes later that I saw Julie again. She just pulled out a chair, sat down at my table and stared at me. "Spill it. What's going on?"

"I'll tell you but don't laugh. This is serious."

"It's serious but you say I shouldn't laugh? Oh, this is gonna be good."

"I can't find a Christmas sweater ugly enough."

Julie put her head in her hands and shook her head. "Here I am thinking the worst, that maybe you've just been told you have six months to live and you really just ordered a neat double scotch because you couldn't buy an ugly Christmas sweater?"

"Julie, this is serious."

"You can't say serious and ugly Christmas sweater in the same sentence!"

"I can."

"Okay, I want to hear the whole story."

"I can't. Maybe I'll tell you in a few weeks but not now, it's personal."

"You know you can tell your bartender anything."

"You're just going to have to trust me on this."

"Well, if you really need an ugly Christmas sweater and you can't buy one then you'll have to make one."

"Julie, I can't sew."

"You don't need to know how to sew. It's an UGLY Christmas sweater. Listen, my break is just about over. We'll have to continue this conversation after I finish work. Eat your dinner, go home and be back here at 11:30."

At 11:30 the restaurant was closed but I knocked on the door. Julie opened it and I followed her to one of the tables. The rest of the staff was quietly cleaning up the place, getting ready for the next business day.

"Like I said earlier, if you can't buy an ugly Christmas sweater, we can make one."

"We?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No."

"Do you have a plain red or green sweater?"

"No."

"Then tomorrow we go shopping. My shift starts at 4 p.m., so I'll pick you up at 10 a.m. I know you don't drive."

"Wait a minute, how do you know I don't drive and where I live?"

"I have my sources."

"Have you been checking me out?"

"Maybe."

"We'll definitely come back to that answer later but for now I need to stay focused on the sweater. How should I dress for this shopping trip?"