The Impossible Quest Of Hailing A Taxi On Christmas Eve Read online

  THE IMPOSSIBLE QUEST OF HAILING A TAXI ON CHRISTMAS EVE

  By George Saoulidis

  An adaptation of the classic novella

  "A Christmas Carol,"

  By Charles Dickens

  Published by Mythography Studios

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2015 George Saoulidis

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Stave One

  "Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that," he read out loud from the first page and then shut the book closed. He exhaled, a puff of frozen breath forming in front of his mouth and said, "And this is supposed to be a fairytale? How morbid."

  He held the book in his hands, a real, physical print of "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens. It was only a mass-produced cheap copy but it was vintage enough in this time and age. His late partner had left it on his desk, with a handwritten dedication for him. Scrooge never figured out why.

  His name wasn't really Scrooge of course. He was John.

  People just called him like that, and the nickname stuck. It was just that every Christmas Eve since his business partner's death on the exact same day, he was reminded of the man. Scrooge didn't have any pictures or anything, just the worn old book in his drawer. He never got to read the thing, it was too dour. He just held it in his hands, feeling the paper, thinking. There's something about the texture of books that appeals to people. The shiny, glossy surfaces of the reading devices nowadays just don't evoke anything similar.

  Across the freezing office was his assistant, Clara. She was a single mother of one, in her late thirties and needed a new dye of blonde hair. She could have been attractive, if she had managed to get some sleep, enough money to pay her bills and a miracle to lift the worry off her shoulders. She was an accountant, the only employee to Scrooge, and she ended up juggling every single job, manning the phones, doing the accounts, fixing technical issues with the techs, keeping the office livable with a couple of plants.

  She was currently rolled up in a blanket like a gyro wrap, shaking and sniffing her nose. The frigid office was dark, illuminated only by the lights outside, some colourful ones from the Christmas decorations, others simply street signs and lamp-posts, and also by the computer monitors on their desks. She was wearing knit colourful gloves and was tapping away on her phone, constantly stopping to check out something on her monitor by pressing a button, sighing, and then turning back to her phone. It was doing gling sounds all the time, filled with incoming and outgoing Christmas wishes to old friends and faraway family. The glove tips wouldn't normally work on the touchscreen, but she had those popular touchscreen gloves with capacitive elements sewn in the fingers. It was a small comfort in the cold office.

  "Mr. Tsifoutis, it's still not working," she nagged to no one in particular.

  "The server works half the time, so it's good enough. How many hours do you need to input a few accounts woman?" Scrooge grunted, his eyes not lifting towards her.

  "But I'm waiting for over an hour to finish this up and go home. The IT isn't responding, they must have left the office for Christmas Eve." She sniffed her nose. In the beginning, she was trying to do it quietly, discreet like a lady should, but after years and years of enduring a winter office she had just given up and pretty much blew her nose like a loud trumpet.

  "Bah! Customer service they call it! It's the same thing every Christmas, you just can't get any work done anywhere," Scrooge spat out, his face turning sour.

  "People just want to go home to their families Mr. Tsifoutis," she explained softly.

  He got the hint. "Days off with pay... In my day, you could work 14 hours a day 7 days a week and not get paid till four months later," he said shaking his finger.

  She waited calmly for him to finish his rant, pulling up the blanket in a futile quest to make herself warm.

  "Christmas! Bah! Nothing but a marketing ploy, I tell you. Selling Christmas ornaments and Christmas gifts two full months before the holiday itself. And the waste of it all! The city lights, paid with my taxes. Stupid snow frosting on buildings, requiring money to put on and then money to clean off! A waste. They slap a Christmas packaging on products and mark-up the price by 30%!"

  "Thirty percent," she nodded patiently.

  He still had more coming but he suddenly felt tired, so he sagged back into his chair. The back was worn and some screws were poking out of the lower back, making it really uncomfortable. He didn't spare any cash to get new office chairs of course. They were fine and sturdy, they still had at least 10 years of good use. "Anyway, go home. I'll finish up here and upload it in a while. You're gonna drain my account anyway, you can have the day off tomorrow."

  She stood up and smiled, putting her stuff in her bag, arranging her desk, pulling down the blinds.

  Scrooge grunted at her, "But I want you here the next day half an hour earlier!"

  "Yes mister," she said, and watered the plants, cleaned up her cup of tea, picked up his cup and put a new cup of water in the boiler. She left it boiling, cleaned up the tiny little kitchen, went to turn off the Christmas lights she had brought to decorate the office, remembered Mr. Scrooge had already demanded her to stop wasting power and turned it off, went back to her desk and sent the accounts of the day to her boss, went to his desk, threw away the trash, dusted off his hanging coat, leaned to his computer, pulled up the accounts so he could update them as soon as the server was running again, went back to the kitchen, poured hot tea, brought it to his desk savouring its warmth for a second too long, stood in front of his desk ready to leave and then said goodnight.

  "Good night Clara," Scrooge said with the tone a boss has when he allows his employee to leave.

  "Maybe we should do the upgrade Mr. Tsifoutis," she said hesitantly. "Our service depends on it, it's been years. I've shown you the cost, it's not that high and..."

  Scrooge raised his hand interrupting her, "I know. I'll think about it."

  She was referring to their service, which was their object of trade really. Scrooge was running an accounting internet service for small businesses. Despite that their platform hadn't been updated in, pretty much ever, they were still competitive due to their low prices. The cost was kept down of course, by skimping on things like proper furniture, internet hosting, required employees and, office heating.

  "Merry Christmas sir," she said cordially and turned to the door.

  "Bah. A marketing ploy I tell you. Don't you listen to anything I say woman?"

  "Of course I do, but Merry Christmas anyways," she said and she meant it.

  As she was opening the door, Scrooge's cousin showed up. He was fat and huge and was always huffing from exertion, making his cheeks red. He made a great Santa Claus, so he showed up in costume. "Hello Miss Clara! Merry Christmas to you," he said and presented a small gift to her. "For your son." Then he reached into his red Santa bag and fished out a party horn as well.

  "Merry Christmas Mr. Tsifoutis," she smiled back. "I'm sure he'll love it."

  "Ho ho ho!" the cousin bellowed out and then leaned in to whisper, "Is Scrooge still here?"

  "Yes," she replied, "Go right in, he's just waiting f
or the system to unfreeze."

  "Unfreeze? Why, in this cold it might take some time," he said with jolly, half-stepping in the office.

  She sneezed and then blew her nose loudly like a trumpet, that echoed into the corridors. Cousin Santa blew his own party horn in a similar note.

  They both laughed and wished each other happy holidays.

  Scrooge hid his face in his palms. He didn't really want to face his cousin, he was dodging his invite for days.

  The cousin Santa came in and bellowed, "Ho ho ho dear cousin!" and blew his party horn, in a loud prrr. He then went to the decorated Christmas lights and turned them on, illuminating the place in various flickering colours.

  Scrooge stood up and ran to the lights, turning them off. "Are you trying to bankrupt me man?"

  "Come on, a few LEDs wont make a real difference. Be merry! Be jolly!" he said, blowing his party horn and turning the Christmas lights on again.

  Scrooge turned them off. "Bah! It's just a marketing ploy."

  Santa turned them on. "Will you come to our Christmas dinner tomorrow?"

  Scrooge turned them off. "No. I have work to do at home. Clara won't be coming to work tomorrow, I have to keep up the pace."

  Santa turned them on. "You can't possibly work on Christmas Day! Come to us for dinner. There'll be turkey! And sweets! And chocolate. We'll have a merry old time..."

  Scrooge turned them off. "A waste, overpriced dinners when you can't afford them. Don't be coming to me for loans in a few weeks."

  He was referring of course, to actual loans. He'd never lent out money just like that, not even to family, whatever little of both he had left. They were actual personal loans, signed in triplicate, incurring interest at "market average" rates.

  Santa sighed and gave up. "Fine. I know you've seen my invitation days ago. I know the message I left to Clara was passed to you. This is just some excuse, I don't know why you don't want to spend the holiday with family. Anyway, the offer stands. Our door is always open for you," he said, blew out the party horn one last time, though it was something sad this time, and left.

  Scrooge shut the door and sat back down to his uncomfortable office chair. He pressed a button on his computer and waited for the server to respond. It took more than two minutes for it to spit out an "error: unreachable" message.

  It was fine. He could wait. The hosting service he used was the cheapest one there is, and that meant it was poorly maintained and came with customer support that didn't really care.

  He picked up the tea, that was scalding hot when Clara brought it but now was barely warmer than the freezing room, and sipped, while staring outside into the dark Christmas Athens. It was still afternoon but it was already pitch going for black.

  Someone knocked on the door and he stood up, protesting loudly all the way. "What now? I told you I won't come to the damn dinner," he mumbled and opened the door.

  He looked down and saw three little children, fluffed out with big coloured coats and knit caps and gloves. The girl was Romani, the boy was Greek and the second boy was Nigerian.

  They cheered in unison, "Na ta poume?" which was the protocol of Christmas Carol initiation. They didn't really have the patience to wait for a proper reply so they began jingling away their little triangles and singing.

  It was so merry and sweet.

  Scrooge yelled at them and shushed them. "Stop this racket! Stop at once. Who told you to start with this cacophony?"

  They extended their little gloved hands and waited for their treat. Their paycard was in hand, a simple tap from another would confirm a small-amount transaction instantly.

  "I'm not giving you anything, you little extortionists! Coming here uninvited, mangling out a couple of verses and then demanding payment. No. And you, aren't you a Muslim?" he said and pointed at the little Roma girl.

  "We like Christmas, it's a time for family and happiness," she replied with her sweet little voice. "That's what mommy says," she added.

  Scrooge squinted. "Do you know how insane that is? Celebrating the birth of Christ from another religion? Tell your mother that I won't be fooled by those pigtails and those big round eyes. A fine scam, if you ask me. Getting money every year without a receipt," he nodded.

  The children looked at one another, but since they were stuffed like turkeys they had to turn their whole bodies to exchange glances. They kept their hands up, paycards in hand, but a little lower now.

  "And you," Scrooge said, pointing at the Nigerian boy. "What are you?"

  The little black boy shrugged. "I'm Greek mister."

  "So you are Orthodox Christian?"

  "Yes sir. My name is Nico, from the Saint Nicholas," the boy replied, the words repeated by heart. He gifted the bitter man a shiny-white smile that could melt your heart and fill you up with hope.

  "Blasted immigrants," Scrooge said and slammed the door to their face.

  Scrooge sat on his desk and hit the button once again. His accounting service attempted to connect for two whole minutes and then spat out an error.

  He exhaled, his breath visible in the air. He picked up the phone, but all he got was a recorded message. His assistant had already tried that of course. He thought he wouldn't mind waiting for the server to reconnect, but the absence of a specific timeframe made him weary. If he had known of a general amount of time it might take, he would be willing to wait. But alas, this seemed it would keep him up till the morning.

  Scrooge grunted and searched his emails for the long overdue report of the service upgrade that was necessary. He didn't print it of course, toner was so damn expensive, as if it were made of gold particles. Also, what about the environment? Yes, digital files are nice and cheap. He put on his glasses and read the report his late business partner had left him.

  It explained in detail the steps necessary to upgrade the accounting service, to improve speed, customer experience and unlock some new features. It was all ready and done, but it wasn't yet needed for a company this small, as it was when his partner was alive. As poor Marco fell increasingly ill, the business growth was halted and was left on the shoulders of Scrooge. He could manage just fine thank you, but regarding the computer and technical aspects it was all on his partner. Scrooge had shopped around for another computer engineer, and they had all asked for an arm and a leg in cash. Marco in his last days, stir-crazy from lying in bed all day, had prepared the system update for when the company would pick up pace again.

  The problem was, that the upgrade demanded even more powerful servers, some shiny new gear with fancy names and numbers, all costing more and more and more. Scrooge had been postponing the upgrade for a long time. He checked the report's date. Seven years? Has it really been so long? Marco had planned for a year after his death, but Scrooge hadn't changed anything for six more years, to the dismay of their customers and Miss Clara.

  Scrooge rubbed his chin and his hand hovered over the mouse. He never did things in haste, but now, for some reason, something was itching him. He clicked the long-forgotten button in their system and initiated the update program his partner had set-up as his last contribution.

  The computer began to process things, as it always does and Scrooge relaxed, sure that the process was a lengthy one.

  Where the program ran, a face appeared in a video. Scrooge had to straighten his glasses to see better and for a second he held his breath. He hadn't seen that face in so long, but it was clearly... Marco's face.

  Marco's face was staring at him patiently. Then he moved slightly, and Scrooge realised that the video had already began and Marco was simply staring at his own monitor. He was pale and sickly, illuminated harshly by the room-lamp and the monitor. His eyes were sunken, his lips a thin line. These had been his final days.

  Marco cleared his throat. "Oh, it's on? Hello Scrooge. You do know of course, that it's by that nickname that people are referring to you. I suspect you know, but don't really care since it empowers your reputation as being tough in business. Anyway, they are referrin
g of course to Disney's Scrooge McDuck, from those old cartoons. The character though, comes from an older archetypal character, that of Ebenezer Scrooge, in the book I have left for you in my office. It is a remarkable tale, centuries old that has seeped into our minds. You and I are pragmatists, I know that I can't really scare you into changing your ways. That Scrooge, a stingy bitter old man, was visited by three spirits, that showed him the Christmas past, present and yet to come. There are no spirits to do the same to you, but I hope that this message of me one year after my death will bear the gravitas necessary to sink in your thoughts. Please, my invaluable partner, please, read it and think about your own life. As I lay here in my bed, between feeling ill from medicine that was meant to make me well and vomiting from the medicine that combat the first one's side-effects, I have had a long time to think my life over. Money is not all there is in this life. The truly precious stuff can't be bought. And if you have them, treasure them while you can because time is fleeting. By now, I assume your business acumen has brought our company - your company I guess - to its previous positive profitability. I know you like to keep a tight leash on expenses and that sometimes drives a wedge between you and people, so please don't do that. Do not make the same mistakes I did. Do not die alone. It's still early, there is still time to change your fate. Merry Christmas, dear friend."

  The video ended and Scrooge lay silent, staring at the paused digital ghost. Marco had been more than his business partner. He was his friend, he trusted him with finances, with decisions that would affect both their lives. What little competition there was between them was nothing but a game, a nod from one to another to push forward, to do good business deals, to bring in more customers, to make more money. For both of them.

  He hadn't expected to hear his voice again after so many years, tired and weary from the illness. This was a message that was supposed to be delivered six years ago, forgotten in a computer. Scrooge couldn't help but wonder, could his late partner be right? Was the path he was on the wrong one? Was it too late?