The Other Guy

A Christmas Story about Movies, Love and Lifesavers

It's hard to imagine that at this time last year, I had no idea if I would ever finish writing even a single story. And here I am, less than a year later, with my own entry for the 2024 Winter Holidays Contest. I never intended to write a holidays story, but I read a number of the other submissions this year, and I thought that many of them were just excellent. And then I had a kernel of an idea that grew into this story, so here we are.

My wife teases me that if most of my stories were movies, they would barely be rated PG. She's not wrong. And if I am totally honest, I suspect that if this story were made into a movie, it would rate a solid G. There isn't even much swearing, so if you are looking for the naughtier side of the holidays, this is not the story for you.

But if you are still reading, you might want to make yourself a cup of hot cocoa, settle in under a warm blanket by the fire, and let me tell you a story about the forgotten victims of holiday romances. For every girl-next-door who finds her happily-ever-after, there is the other guy, the one who gets left behind ...

The soldier gazed up longingly, his hands thrown wide in supplication to the heavens. By his side, the broken barrel of a cannon offered a stark contrast to his passion, a testament to both human ingenuity and the horrors of war. The flickering candlelight in the church teased out the vibrant colors of the stained glass, which were otherwise concealed by the night.

As a child, there was something about the Soldier Window that captured my imagination, so I insisted that my family sit in the pew closest to it whenever we came to church. My parents weren't weekly parishioners, except when I was singing in the choir, but we came often enough that I had that window memorized down to the smallest details, to the point that I would sometimes even see it in my dreams.

The window was installed in 1920, in honor of the men from the church who had fallen in battle in the First World War. When I was young, I thought that the young man in the window appeared gallant, even heroic. But as I got older, he seemed to grow wearier and more lost to despair.

At the base of the window was a large brass plaque with a series of names, listed alphabetically, and engraved in a flowing script. Most of the names were of men far younger than me who had died alone, often in terror and pain, in the trenches of France or later, plummeting from the skies. I shared little in common with those men, except for one whose name could be found about two thirds of the way down—First Lieutenant Lawrence "Larry" O'Brien. He was my great great grandfather, and he died alone in the Battle of Saint-Mihiel, leaving behind a wife and two young sons.

If I died today, there would be no window to mark my passing, and I would leave no one behind.

I made an involuntary snort as I shook my head at myself in disgust. Yes, it sucked to be alone on yet another holiday. But even at the height of my self-indulgent pity, I couldn't compare my life to his. Larry O'Brien was a hero who held a machinegun emplacement for over eight hours against an overwhelming German counterattack, almost singlehandedly ensuring the American victory. Lawrence O'Brien was a project manager for a faceless international conglomerate, who had bad luck in dating, particularly around Christmas.

The two were hardly comparable.

My train of thought was interrupted by the priest's voice as it began to rise in both volume and excitement. It had been several years since I had been in church, but anyone who has spent any time in one knows that an enthusiastic priest means one of only two things: someone is going to hell, or the service is coming to an end. Given that it was Christmas Eve, I was pretty sure that it was the latter.

My guess was vindicated when the organist pulled out all the stops and started playing the first notes of Joy to the World. Soon, the choir started singing and the priest led the final procession towards the back of the church. I had to admit, the priest seemed genuinely joyful as he walked down the aisle. St. Alban's was an inner-city church with more than its fair share of families and individuals who had fallen on hard times. He seemed to make it his personal mission to spread as much warmth and Christmas cheer as he could to those who needed it the most.

I knew that the next day, the church would be hosting a Christmas meal for those without a home, family or who just didn't want to be alone over the holidays. I made sure to leave a healthy donation to support the meal in the offertory plate. I was spending much less this Christmas than I normally would, so I made sure that those savings would bring as much joy to others as possible.

As I turned to watch the procession pass, I couldn't help but notice the young woman standing at the end of the row. She was wearing a dark blue Peabody coat with a colorful scarf that was open at her neck. A burgundy beret sat beside her on the pew, partially covered by an open Hymnal, which would protect her strawberry blonde hair from the elements once she left the warmth of the church and went back out into the late December chill. She glanced over as I looked her way and she gave me a shy smile, before turning back to watch the choir. I blushed at being caught checking her out, in church no less, so I looked away and continued to sing the recessional hymn.

Once the last notes of the hymn faded, the priest wished us all a Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year. I stood and pulled on my coat then walked down the pew towards the center aisle. As I got nearer, I noticed that the woman was still standing in the pew, watching as the choir milled around at the back of the church. I paused, waiting for her to move out into the center aisle so I could get by and leave.

"You have a lovely voice."

It took me a minute to realize that the woman was speaking to me.

"Thank you, I don't get much of a chance to sing anymore, but I still enjoy it when I do."

"I would never have known from listening to you. You sound like a professional opera singer or something."

As I turned to acknowledge the compliment, I got my first good look at her. Maybe she wasn't classically beautiful, but she had an open and friendly face with a radiant smile that was framed by her curly strawberry blonde hair. She was maybe a half-foot shorter than me, even wearing boots with a low heel, but I was used to that kind of difference in height, given that I was almost six foot three. I couldn't really tell much else about her, as she was hidden away beneath her thick coat and scarf.

"Not an opera singer, but I used to be a soloist in the boys choir at this very church, back when I was younger."

That elicited a soft laugh from the woman and a wider smile. I could feel my heart skip a beat at the sound. I wasn't the overly romantic type, but that laugh held the promise of cool nights snuggled up under a warm blanket by the fire, and warm summer evenings holding hands under the stars.

"I bet you looked cute in those ... whatever those robe things they are wearing are called," she said waiving her hand at the younger choristers who were gathered at the back of the church.

I replied in a mock formal voice, "I will have you know that those robe things are called cassocks, and the white frilly garment worn overtop is known as the surplice. They are part of what makes being a choir boy so cool, don't you know.

"If they still have the same tradition from back when I was in the choir, the organist will give each of the choristers a book containing eight rolls of Lifesavers before they leave, as a thank you for singing and as a Christmas treat. I loved those books. Some of the flavors were standard, mixed fruit and the like, but a couple were special; you could only get them at Christmas. My parents weren't big on sugary snacks, but even they couldn't say no to Lifesavers on Christmas Eve.

She chuckled at my commentary, but didn't seem to be in any hurry to move or to let me out of the pew.

"Are you waiting for someone? Perhaps, I could slip by you if you are."

Looking embarrassed, she moved into the central aisle of the church.

"Sorry about that, I am just waiting for my friend Sean who was singing in the choir. I am Anne-Marie by the way," she replied offering me her hand. I couldn't help but feel strangely disappointed when I heard that she was waiting for a friend—and that friend was a man. Oh well, no Christmas meet cute for me, I guess. Nonetheless, I shook her proffered hand and introduced myself to her in return.

"I'm Lawrence, very nice to meet you."

Anne-Marie gave me an appraising look.

"So, are you a Larry, or Lawrie, as the British would say? Or are you the very last of the Lawrences that are left in the wild?"

Again, it was my turn to blush a little before I replied.

"The latter, I guess. My parents always wanted to call me Larry, like my great great grandfather, and God knows my friends at school tried to give me nicknames, but none of them ever stuck. Heck, I remember back in my senior year, Penny Brady bet me ten dollars that she could give me a nickname and make it last. A week later, I was ten dollars richer, and I never even learned what name she tried to give me. I guess I just seem like a Lawrence to folks."

Anne-Marie made a show of stepping back and giving me an appraising look.

"Now that you mention it, you do look more like a Lawrence than a Larry."

With a laugh, I replied, "Thanks, I think."

As we were chatting, a handsome blonde man came towards us from the back of the church, holding the hand of a much skinnier but still very stylish and attractive dark-haired man. They had big friendly smiles and seemed almost giddy with excitement.

"Anne-Marie, you made it, Sweetie! And who's your hot friend" said the blonde man as he let go of his partner's hand to hug her by the shoulders and give her a kiss on each cheek. Laughing, she gently pushed him away before leaning over to exchange cheek kisses with the second man as well.

"Sean, this is my new friend, Lawrence. We have been friends for at least five minutes now, so the wedding will have to wait until the morning, at least, and might even be delayed into the new year."

With an easy smile, Sean took a minute to look me up and down before pausing with a more serious look on his face.

"You are a Lawrence, now aren't you."

With that he turned back to Anne-Marie.

"We're so glad that you could make it. I know that we aren't the biggest or fanciest church, but what we lack in numbers we more than make up for with ...," he paused and looked dramatically around the rapidly emptying church, "well, with Tom and me, I guess."

Turning back to me, Sean continued.

"Lawrence, you have a lovely voice, have you ever considered joining the choir? I am sure we could find a spot for you."

I laughed before I responded.

"Been there, done that, got the Lifesavers. Thanks Sean, but I sang in this choir almost twenty years ago now, and I think I have done my time. You, and the rest of the choir, sounded amazing though. All those hymns really brought me back."

We continued to talk for a few minutes before Tom took Sean's hand and gave him a gentle tug.

"Well, I think that's my cue that it's time to go, so I will leave you two to the next five minutes of your friendship. And remember to use protection, the last thing that we need is another Christmas miracle."

Sean laughed while Tom and Anne-Marie blushed a furious crimson red, before Tom led Sean away.

"Sorry about that. Sean can be a little much at times."

"He seems like a really nice guy, but poor Tom must have the patience of a saint."

"They are such couples goals for me. Don't let Tom's mannerisms fool you, though, they are the kindest and most loyal friends I have made in this city."

"Well, it was nice to meet them ... and nice to meet you, but I guess I should be going."

I hesitated a bit as I got ready to leave, and Anne-Marie seemed to pick up on it.

"Do you have big plans for Christmas Day?"

"Not so you would notice. My parents are on a three-week Nordic cruise. My dad says that he is hoping they see Santa, in person, on Christmas Day, or at least his reindeer. My sister is spending the holidays with her husband's family down south. She invited me to join them, but I declined. Too much work to do at this time of the year and, if I am honest, being around the happy couple, and my nieces and nephew, would only make me feel like more of a loser for being single again for the holidays. What about you?"

"My family is all out on the West Coast, and I didn't have the money to fly home to join them this year. My mom would have happily paid for my ticket, I'm sure, but it would just have been too depressing to admit how unlucrative my quest to become an artist has been thus far."

"You're an artist? What kind of art do you do?"

"Of course I'm an artist," Anne-Marie replied with a laugh. "You can't be the 'sassy best friend' unless you have a flaky but fun job like being an artist."

"You're the sassy best friend? I didn't know that that wasn't a real thing outside of holiday movies and romcoms."

"Anne-Marie Carstairs, sassy best friend at your service. No word of a lie, I have helped a half-dozen good friends navigate their way through the trials and tribulations of finding true love. A couple of years ago, I even helped my friend Susan land the hunky owner of a Christmas tree farm near a small town in Vermont.

"Last time I saw them, she was happy as a clam, and they were working hard on having a second child. I stayed with them for three nights last summer and MY GOD were they ever dedicated to their work. We're talking multiple times a night and once in the morning kind of dedicated."

Before Anne-Marie could continue, the priest came up to us and politely suggested that it was time for us to go out and share our Christmas spirit with the rest of the world. Or, to quote the famous philosophers Semisonic, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." Anne-Marie seemed disappointed that our conversation was being cut short, so I made a proposal.

"I know this might seem a bit weird, given that we just met and its Christmas Eve and all, but there is a 24-hour diner that is just up the street and is probably open. Do you want to join me for a cup of coffee and a late-night snack?"

"Surely they are closed this late on Christmas Eve?" Anne-Marie asked in surprise.

"Well, Mr. Gupta is less concerned about Christmas than some of the rest of us," I said with a laugh. "And there are always people in this neighborhood who can really use a place to warm up and a cheap cup of coffee on a night like tonight. So, I imagine he is still open. But don't worry, he makes sure that his staff who celebrate Christmas have tonight and tomorrow off. I wouldn't be surprised if it is just him and his son, Ravi, working this evening."

"Well, I hope Mr. Gupta has a big pot of coffee on the go, because I am going to need it if I stay up too much later. But it's a date."

"You really are kind of sassy, aren't you," I said, as Anne-Marie pulled on her burgundy beret.

"I have to be. It's written into my contract," she replied with a smirk as we pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the church and set out on our late-night quest for coffee.

******

A few minutes later, Anne-Marie and I were sitting in a corner booth at the All-American Diner, home to a delicious all-day breakfast and an amazing, but surprisingly spicy, chicken vindaloo. My guess was correct, and we had been served by Ravi, who was home from college for the winter break. Ravi was a good kid and one heck of a basketball player. He was on a full scholarship at a Division I school in Ohio, and his dad couldn't be prouder. He talked about his son all the time when he was away at school. When he was home, however, he was still just plain old Ravi.

"Ravi, stop annoying the customers and come and pick up the next order. Yes, we all know that you are a big basketball star now, and we are very impressed. But we would be even more impressed if you would pick up this all-day breakfast and bring it to the man sitting at table 9!"

Most of the patrons in the diner laughed good naturedly at Ravi and his father, and I took the opportunity to return to our previous conversation.

"You know, you never answered my question about what kind of art you make."

Anne-Marie looked out the window at the snow that was now lightly falling as she thought about how to answer.

"I make most of my money from Christmas cards. I know. I know. It's such a cliché that the sassy friend has a quirky job relating to the holidays, but a girl has to make her money somehow."

"I didn't really ask you how you make money, though. Although I am sure your cards are exquisite. I guess I am more interested in the art that you love. What are you passionate about? What makes your heart pump and your spirit sore? What is it that gets you so lost in your work that you look up and find that it is already tomorrow?"

Anne-Marie closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath.

"When I look at the world, I don't just see a collection of pictures, I see stories. A mountain standing in the wilderness has stories to tell about the fire at its roots, the trees on its skin, the waters that trickle and then roar down its sides, the clouds that envelope it and the winds that sing to it longingly each night. The art that I get lost in, weaves these stories and images together.

Opening her eyes, Anne-Marie looked a little embarrassed and tried to downplay what she had said.

"Sorry, I can't even answer your question properly. No wonder I can't sell my art."

"No, I can picture what you're saying. It sounds amazing. Maybe you could show me your work some day?"

"I think I would like that," Anne-Marie replied with a smile.

"Now what's your story? What's a handsome guy like you doing all by himself on a blustery Christmas Eve?"

"It's kind of a funny story. If you're the 'sassy best friend', I guess I am the 'other guy.'"

"The other guy?"

"You know, Newton's Third Law of Motion, 'For every guy who wins the girl, there is an equal and opposite guy who loses her.' Okay, maybe that isn't exactly the way that old Isaac put it, but you know what I mean. For every handsome hero who gets the girl, there is me who loses her.

"I have been engaged three times. Each time, my fiancée has broken things off right around the holidays when they find their one true love. My last fiancée, Christine, went back to her hometown a week early for Christmas last year, while I had to stay in the city to finish up a project for work.

"Just before I was supposed to leave to join her on Christmas Eve, I got a phone call. She told me that she had reconnected with her high school boyfriend, who was now a single father with a 4-year-old daughter and a golden retriever named Rudolph. She apologized for breaking my heart, but she couldn't let our engagement stand in the way of true love."

"Damn. That's cold."

"Yeah, well. I looked the guy up on social media, and he has like a million followers just from taking his shirt off and chopping wood. I mean, I am as heterosexual as the next guy, but he is one fine looking specimen of a man. She said I spent too much time working and not enough time focusing on us and having fun. In retrospect, maybe I should have spent more time splitting firewood with my bare hands."

"What were you working on that was more important than going home with her for Christmas?"

"I am a project manager for a large multinational conglomerate. I know, deadly boring. Certainly not the kind of job that can compete with social media lumberjacks. And I know the projects that I work on don't necessarily mean that much to the world. But they mean a lot to my team. I make pretty good money, but there are people on my team with families who are really struggling. For them, getting their Christmas bonus means having presents under the tree and a nice meal for Christmas dinner.