But the days passed and now the stores were closed. He could still make the declaration, but going in empty handed seemed chancy, like arguing a court case without evidence. Working alone at the station would save him from having to choose any Christmas at all.
He would videotape the fire.
* * *
The next morning, strands of lights burned pale in the nougaty Christmas dawn. Electric meters hummed in celebration of Jesus. A drowsy Gerald navigated the abandoned streets to the silent station building. The artificial tree in the lobby, sprayed with chemical pine scent, presided over a litter of gift-wrapped boxes. They were all empty, the thought being what really counted.
The fireplace was located in Studio C, two doors down from the larger Studio B where Dean Phelps and Meghan McCord read the news nightly behind a long beige desk. Dean and Meghan would be off tonight, free to stay home and drink toddies and tell their families the news in person.
Studio C was reserved for pre-recorded one-on-one interviews. The fireplace leant the room a homey aesthetic sullied slightly by the sinews of wire duct taped to the unpainted cement floor. Unlike most everything else in the studio façade, the fireplace was real, complete with a brown flagstone hearth. Someone had hung a plastic wreath over the mantle, which was lined with sprigs of counterfeit holly and a row of silver-and-gold bulb ornaments. A cord of symmetrically chopped firewood stood sentinel at the carpet’s edge.
The whole production took fifteen minutes to orchestrate. Gerald zoomed in Camera 1 until the fireplace filled the frame. He hefted three split logs onto the clean, ashless hearth and lit them. Then he followed the producer’s simple handwritten instructions in the control booth: At 9am, threw the switch to break away from syndicated content to the live feed of the fire, bring up the soundtrack of instrumental carols.
For the remainder of the day, until 4pm, all he had to do was tend the fire.
He wandered out to look at the stacks of presents sitting under the lobby tree. Whoever had wrapped all the empty boxes had outdone themselves. They were ribbon-draped, color-coordinated, stacked two high and three deep. It looked like a kid’s daydream of a Christmas bonanza, and in fact did remind Gerald of one of his own Christmases many years ago.
I love that story.