A Conversation with Nic

It was a cold and wintry night when he walked into my bar. I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it was years and years ago. There weren’t many patrons that night—business was slow, what with the weather outside and all. Not many people wanted to venture down to the bar in the middle of a late December blizzard. As a result, it was just me and the few dedicated regulars who found ourselves there that night.

Still, we did our best to keep the mood happy and light. Festive even. It was Christmas Eve, after all. I’d strung lights up around the bar, and the old jukebox played faintly in the background. Some old singer crooned, ‘Santa Claus is coming to town…’ I was even wearing an ugly Christmas sweater I’d gotten as a gift last year.

I was in the middle of wiping down the countertop when the side door opened. At first, I thought the wind had pushed it open—it howled furiously like a banshee—but no, a man stepped inside a moment later. I had never seen him around town before, and it was a small town—the sort where you know everyone. Especially if you own a bar. I figured the man must have been simply passing through.

Strange, he was. The man brushed the snow off his long overcoat and paused for a moment, looking about the bar. Some of my regulars glanced over past their drinks, but nothing about him warranted a second glance. They went back to their drinks and conversations and soon forgot all about the man.

He was thin and tall—around six-foot-five or so, I’d say at a glance. It was impossible to tell how old he was for sure, but I guessed he was in his mid-sixties. Steel-toed work boots were on his feet, and his jeans were dark. He wore a faded winter hat that looked like it had once been red.

His hair was long and silver-gray, as was his beard. His cheeks and nose were both reddened slightly from the cold winter air. There were lines on his skin, and wrinkles by his eyes, suggesting that he laughed often. He wasn’t laughing now. And his eyes—I’ll never forget his eyes. They were tired and old. He looked exhausted; like the weight of the world hung heavy on his back. I could see that even in the dim light of the bar. With slow but sure steps, the stranger made his way across the bar, over to me.

I slung the towel over my shoulder and gave him an easy grin. “What’ll it be, friend?”

“Whiskey. Neat.”

The stranger sat on a barstool across from me and leaned with his elbows on the countertop wearily. Up close, the man looked even more disheveled; haggard. I’d seen that look of exhaustion in his eyes before—that look of wearied resignation found on the faces of people stumbling through life and barely able to take another step. They were just trying to survive.

I poured a few fingers of whiskey into a glass and placed it in front of him. “Long day?” I asked conversationally. I’ve heard that bartenders need to be “people” people—the sort of person who can strike up a conversation with just about anybody. It’s better for tips, I’m told.

That’s not what I’ve found. All you need to do is be able to listen. That’s true for most things in life. Just listen to someone else as they tell their story. Maybe you’ll see things differently than you did before. Besides, I’ve always preferred listening to talking. Every now and then, you just need to provide an opportunity for someone else to speak, and be ready to listen. That’s what I’ve found.

The man smiled grimly, but there was no light in his eyes. He took a sip from his glass pensively. “All the days are long this time of year, friend,” he murmured with distant eyes. “All of them are long and cold.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say in response. I knew I had to say something, though. I couldn’t just leave the man in the depths of his despair. “What’s your name, friend?” I tried again.

He smiled a ghost of a smile at me. “I’ve gone by many names over the years, young man. At this point, it really doesn’t matter anymore. Seems most people have forgotten who I once was. My friends used to call me ‘Nic.’ Not that I have many of them left these days.”

When the man fell silent and did not speak again, it was clear he wanted to be left alone with his drink and his thoughts. Some people come to bars to pour out their troubles to someone who will listen. Others prefer to keep their thoughts to themselves, as painful as those thoughts may be.

I moved away from him and checked on my other patrons. The cheery Christmas music continued to warble through the jukebox’s speakers. ‘He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness’ sake…’

When I made my way back over to the stranger, his gaze was downcast. He didn’t appear to notice me at all, but he spoke in a low, ponderous tone. “Those songs on the jukebox and the radio—they’ve got it all wrong. They’re all rubbish. It wasn’t always like that, you know.”

At first, I thought he was talking to himself, and I started to move away again, but I paused when he looked up and met my eyes. He smiled a sad sort of smile, and I couldn’t look away. The stranger sighed quietly and took a sip from his glass.

“I mean, what exactly are such songs promoting anyways? Be good because someone’s watching you? Be good because if you don’t, then you won’t get any presents? Or how about that other one—if you’re good, you get gifts, but if you’re bad, you get coal—how awful is that?”

The man clenched his hand into a fist with white knuckles and added flatly, “Complete hogwash. That’s what that all is.”

His eyes burned like coals; like embers in the fire for a moment. “Tell me, young man,” the stranger said quietly. “What is a gift if someone did something to deserve it—or not deserve it, for that matter?”

I wasn’t sure he wanted an answer from me; it seemed to be a rhetorical question. But he stared at me with a sort of pleading in his gaze, and I knew he needed a response. I hesitated and then answered him slowly. “It isn’t a gift anymore, now, is it?”

The man paused for a moment, still staring deeply at me. Then, he nodded, and his expression softened. But the terrible sadness in his eyes remained. “That’s right,” he said softly. “A gift… a gift is a gift. That means it’s undeserved. Because once you start expecting to get something in return for doing good, it’s no longer a gift. People used to know that—even if they didn’t understand it. But now…” he shook his head wearily again.

“Now, society seems to be so focused on what they’ve done—that’s why they think they should get things. They’re narrow-mindedly fixated on worth and merit.”

The man laughed a hollow, empty laugh. “If that was how gifts were truly given, well, no one would find anything in their stockings this year. Not one.”

The stranger sighed again and finished his drink. As he did so, he whispered in a low voice, and I was certain I misheard him. “After all these years, they’ve forgotten why I gave them gifts in the first place.”

He pulled a crumpled bill from his jeans pocket and left it on the countertop for me. I still stood there, frozen. I began to wonder if I hadn’t misheard him after all.

“Somewhere, the world lost sight of that. I should have corrected their mistake when it first was made, but I was young and naïve. I couldn’t see the harm. Now, they’ve got it all wrong, and I don’t know how to wake them up; make them see what they’re missing.” The man stood wearily and shook his head again. “Maybe there is a way,” he murmured. “Maybe there’s still a way to make them remember what they’ve forgotten.”

“What is that, Nic?”

I hadn’t even realized I had spoken until I saw him staring at me with those tired eyes. I almost didn’t catch his final words. They were uttered in a whisper. To me, or to himself, I still don’t know.

“What if the gifts stopped coming? Would that be enough?”

He turned and began walking toward the door. He opened the side door—the wind howled fiercely again, but he appeared not to notice it—and then he was gone. The stranger disappeared into the dark, wintry night. I watched him leave. I never saw him again.

I was sure that I was the only one in the bar who had noticed him. I saw the man’s pain and frustration; the weariness in his bones; the weight he carried that threatened to bring him to his knees. I saw it clearly that night.

I was the only one who heard him speak. I was the only one who had listened to his side of the story—the story we all thought we knew. His final words echoed in my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. They’ve haunted me ever since.

What if the gifts stopped coming? Would that be enough?

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