Michael's Corner

Recently, my publisher reached out and alerted me to a blog contest they thought I should enter. The theme was anything Christmas-related, be it holiday traditions or an original story. I chose to write an original story. It’s short, somewhat poignant, but ends well. I hope you enjoy it.

The Roadside Oasis

by

Michael DeStefano

     The sign would have read “The Snowshoe” if not for a burned-out bulb behind the second “s.” Inside, a kindly forty-something woman greets a man who had traveled on foot at night. Her tag says Regina. Regina’s tone possesses all the tranquility a weary traveler could hope for. After shivering, he sags as one might when submitting to another worthy of trust.

     “A bit road-weary, are you?” Regina intones. The traveler suffers a lapse in deportment. The consequence is laughter, contrary to humor. “Begging your pardon, but did I say something humorous?” Regina maintains her graciousness, though an arched brow betrays what she thought of the traveler’s laughter.

     “My apologies,” the traveler cries. “I passed road-weary days ago and might be punch-drunk.”

     Regina boasts, “Then we’ve got a stew guaranteed to revive anyone.”

     “Sounds like a bowl of Heaven,” the traveler croons.

     Regina’s smile reveals a bizarre irony that unsettles the traveler. Before Regina makes for the kitchen, she asks—it is a passing curiosity, not a concern— “What’s your destination?” The traveler replies, “It’s indeterminate.”

     “Destinations can be tricky,” Regina warns.

     Scanning the room, something strikes the traveler: The paradoxical look that came over Regina when he idiomatically called her dinner recommendation a bowl of Heaven was apparent on everyone’s face. Next, a man, abandoning a hand of solitaire, rises from his seat and marches toward the kitchen. As he approaches, he wavers, sighs, and then disappears beyond the swinging doors.    

     “Who was that man?” the traveler asks Regina.

     “That was George. He’s been with us for years. He had a friend he played chess with, but the friend moved on. Lately, George has resigned himself to playing solitaire.”

     “Is George permitted in the kitchen?”

     “No one may enter the kitchen unless summoned by the cook,” Regina explains.

     “I didn’t hear George’s name called.”

     Assuagingly, Regina warns the traveler, “You weren’t listening.”  

     The farcicality of The Snowshoe as a waiting room where souls gather before being granted passage into Heaven unsettles the traveler, as does the existential catastrophe of his having failed to survive his journey.

     Familiarity lilts in chorus. Was death a shared experience? Some seem too reconciled for their demises to have been recent affairs; they view death as a humorous irony, an escape from a fraught world, while others regard the swinging doors leading to the kitchen with misgiving. The traveler dispels what he resolves are illusory thoughts and settles on The Snowshoe as a stopover for travelers in need of revival.  

     Regina reappears with a bowl of stew. The traveler asks, “Why am I the only one eating?” Regina explains, “You’re the only one whose body still requires sustenance.”

     Before the traveler’s twisted expression elicited an explanation, someone rose, tossed aside a newspaper for which they were grateful to no longer feign interest, and marched toward the kitchen.

     “Was he summoned by the cook?” the traveler asks.

      Regina nods.

     “Will the cook summon me?” the traveler warily peeps.

     “What is your name?” Regina asks.  

     “Melcior,” the traveler replies. “I’ve searched for whatever sanguinity a forbidding world affords. I’m following a star.”

     “Two came before you,” said Regina. “Caspar and Belthazaar were their names. They, too, claimed to have been following a star. You’ll meet up in Bethlehem. There, you’ll kneel before He who was foretold. Make haste, Melcior, for the day of rejoicing is upon us.”