THE MIRACLE LOUNGE

The Miracle Lounge is a squat cinderblock building that looks like a frontier jailhouse. The dirt parking lot is pockmarked with pot holes, preparing arriving patrons for how they’ll feel when they leave. Queasy and uneasy. The Miller High Life sign in the lone window flickers like a distress call.

Inside at the bar sit the regulars: Herbie, Patsy, and Burnout Bernie. Tonight is Christmas Eve and they’re feeling good. Loops of saggy garland hang haphazardly around the bar. A cheesy plastic Santa with a blinking red nose clings to a pole, cross-eyed, hammered. The juke box plays “Santa baby” by Eartha Kitt. The yule log is on TV, “live from Gracie Mansion,” the home of New York’s Mayor. Of course, everyone knows it’s not really “live.” It burns down to nothing then magically flickers back to life with a new log. A fresh start. Like nothing happened.

“That log’s like you,” Herbie says to Burnout Bernie. “You burn and burn, then bam, pop right the fuck up again.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, asshole.” Bernie says, with a lazy liquored smile.

“May all your Christmases be tight,” Herbie lifts his mug in a peace offering.

“I’ll drink to that,” Patsy says. “And whatever else you got.”

“I got gout,” Herbie says.

“I got Lupus,” Patsy says.

“What the hell is that, anyway?”

“Good times, is what it is.”

“Then to good times.”

Burnout Bernie puts his head on the bar with a thud.

“Oopsies,” Patsy says.

“Give him twenty, he’ll pop up again.”

“Always does.”

“Like that log.”

The door swings open. In walks a man in a London Fog trench coat and an Irish scally cap. He looks around as his eyes adjust to the darkness, and steps forward.

Burnout Bernie raises his head. “Santa, that you?”

The man in the trench coat steps to the bar, waits.

“Have a seat, stranger,” Patsy says. “Take a load off.”

“Thanks.”

“You look like you could use a drink,” Herbie says.

“Course he does, why d’ya think he came in. Hey, Burt!”

Burt the bartender slides over. “What d’ya need?”

“Got a gun?”

Silence.

“Bud’s fine.”

Burt eyes him, then turns to a wall of mugs. One side says “Regulars,” the other “Irregulars.” He takes an irregular and fills it.

Patsy looks trench coat man up and down, nods to the briefcase by his bar stool.

“Just get off the train?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Commuting to work’s a bitch, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I tried it once.”

“Commuting?”

“No, working.” Patsy laughs, like she has to.

“Leave the man alone,” Herbie says.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

After a few silent sips Patsy says, “Got a name?”

“Jesus, you wanna date him or something?” Herbie says.

The man looks at his beer. “Bud.”

“Like the beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn. America’s favorite. Think a that, Herbie?”

Herbie shrugs like fuck if I care.

“So what brings you in here Christmas Eve? I mean, look around.”

Bud rubs his face, checks his briefcase with his hand, and says:

“Got laid off today.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Patsy says. “Hear that, Herbie?”

“I heard.”

“Poor fucking guy. Christmas Eve. Live around here? Haven’t seen you before.”

“Merrick.”

“This is Merrick. What part?”

“Tiny Town.”

“No shit, ya hear that, Herbie?”

“I’m not fucking deaf.”

“Tiny Town, he says. “Ain’t that the neighborhood with them tiny houses?

“Yeah.”

“You know, I heard some religious nut built ‘em for revivals, like a hundred years ago. As a retreat from the world or something.”

“Look at you, Miss Wikipedia,” Herbie says into his beer.

“Yeah, I never known anyone who lives there. Damn. Drinks on me. Hey, Burt!”

Burt fills their mugs, and retreats to his crumpled Newsday at the end of the bar.

“Live alone?”

“Got a wife.”

“Uh huh.”

“And a son.”

“A wife and a son. The holy family. Look at you.”

“Yeah.”

“This…this is my family,” Patsy says with a big swing of her arms. “The Miracle Freaking Lounge.”

Bud nods. “Uh, restrooms…?’

“Over near the jukebox,” Herbie says with a lazy point.

“B’right back.”

He pauses at the restroom doors marked “Devils” and “Angels.” After a few seconds, he enters “Devils.”

“Jeez,” Patsy says. “For a second I thought he was gonna--.”

“Those door names are dumb.”

“You’re dumb.”

“And you’re so mature with the “you’re dumb” comeback.

They sip in silence, eyes on the “Devils” door.

“Hey,” Patsy says with a conspiratorial whisper. “Wonder what’s in the briefcase.”

“His stuff, what d’ya think?”

“I know his stuff. But what stuff?”

“None of your business is what stuff.”

“Might be his laid off money or something.”

“So you’re gonna steal from a poor sap on Christmas Eve?”

“Maybe there’s something else in there. Something…interesting.”

“Just drink your beer and shut up.”

Patsy bites her lip, gets off her stool. She checks the “Devils” door again.

“Don’t be stupid,” Herbie says.

“Too late for that,” Burnout Bernie mumbles into his arms.

“Shhh!”

She reaches down for the briefcase, flicks the gold tabs.

“Locked?” Herbie asks.

Patsy nods.

The “Devils” door squeaks open. Patsy pops up before Bud returns.

“You don’t buy beer, ya rent it,” Patsy jokes. “Am I right?’

“I guess.”

“So…” she says after a few awkward moments. “Santa Claus comes tonight.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Uh oh, Herbie, we got an unbeliever here.”

Bud says, “Maybe I should go.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, come on…”

“The man’s gotta get home to his family, Patsy.”

“Not going home,” Bud says.

“See, he’s not going home, Herbie.” She pats the bar. “Come on, one more on me. Christmas Eve.”

“I gotta go to the hospital.”

“You feeling sick?”

“My son.”

“They got the flu going ‘round. I had it, Herbie had it…I think Burnout Bernie’s got it tonight.”

“He’s got the Irish flu,” Herbie says with a chuckle. “Every damn day.”

Bud says, “It’s not the flu. He’s at St. Catherine’s, third floor.”

“Sounds…nice?” Patsy says with a shrug. “I mean, all the latest treatments and stuff, right?”

Bud goes inside himself, lowers his head.

“You okay, Buddy boy? Come on, have a seat,” she says, getting off her stool to guide Bud back onto his. She rubs his back and gestures to Burt to refill the “Irregular” mug.

“I’m sure he’ll be okay, whatever it is, Buddy boy.” She pauses, then can’t help herself:

“What is it by the way?”

“Oh Jesus Christ, Patsy! You never know when to shut up.”
They go quiet and sit in silence. Herbie and Patsy look into their beers, then sideways at Bud, waiting.

“I put him in there,” he says. “Had him committed.”

Patsy waits, her head bobs up and down, pumping for information.

Bud bends down, grabs his briefcase, places it on the bar with care.

“It’s all in here.”

Patsy’s eyes widen, her mouth opens. Herbie puts a hand on her arm. Wait.

“He was a good kid, you know? Always made me laugh. Kinda silly and stuff. Loved watching I dream of Jeannie reruns. He’d put a towel on his head after Saturday night baths, come twirling out into the living room doing that dance, singing that song. It was a perfect impersonation. He could’ve been the next Milton Berle or something, ya know? When he dressed up as a woman…always killed me.”

Bud takes a small sip, wipes his lips with his hand.

“Such talent. Of course that kind of talent gets punched in the nose in 8th grade. Called every name in the book, poor kid. He’d wear my wife’s clip-on earrings to gym class and, well, that went as well as you’d expect. Didn’t have an athletic bone in his body. Oh, he could dance and twirl and kick with the best of them, but none of that translated to sports. Fine with me, I knew what he was. But there were some kids in school who…well, you know how kids are.”

“They’re little shits,” Patsy says.

“Can be. And some grow up to be big shits. The kind that don’t know when to stop. One minute they’re teasing and laughing, the next—”

He hangs his head, taps the briefcase.

“What’s your son’s name?” Patsy asks.

“Timmy. Although he goes by Tim now, all grown up you know? But to me, he’ll always be little Timmy from Tiny Town.”

“Great name, Timmy,” Herbie says. “You don’t hear it much anymore. Everyone knew a Timmy growing up.”

“Did you?” Patsy asks.

Bud looks at Herbie, waiting for the answer.

“I think so? My neighborhood was filled with Bobbys, Scotties, Jimmys, Dannys, Stevies…”

“Any Timmys?”

Herbie squirms on his stool. “Nah, don’t think so.”

“Sure?’

“Yeah.”

“Think. Hard.”

“I said no.”

“Your mouth said no, but your eyes said…something else.”

“What is this? I said no, all right? I don’t know no Timmys now…or never.”

Bud unlatches the gold clasps on his briefcase. Herbie jolts upright in his seat.

“Herbie, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Can ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Where’d you go to high school?”

“Calhoun.”

“When you graduate?”

“1981.”

“Twenty years ago.”

“Yup.”

“So’d my son.”

Herbie blinks. “Yeah, so?”

“I know what you did to him.”

“What? I didn’t do noth—”

“He told me. Every damn day. He went from being a carefree kid to…a shell of himself. We took him to therapists, psychiatrists who put him on every anti-anxiety medication known to man. Some made his hands shake, some made him catatonic. Nothing worked. He barely graduated, not because he was dumb or something, he was smart as a whip. But he couldn’t make it through the day without being terrorized by the likes of you.”

“Hey, you got me all wrong…I didn’t know your son—”

“Yeah, you got that right. You didn’t know him—who he really was. But that didn’t stop you. You found out he liked I Dream of Jeannie and made him do the Jeannie dance every day before home room class.”

Bud opens the briefcase, pulls out a glittery costume. “Now you’re gonna do it.”

“Hey, what the fuck is this?”

“Might be tight, but it should fit all right.”

“I ain’t putting that on.”

Bud throws the costume in Herbie’s face. Then pulls a gun from the briefcase.

“You’ll put it on.”

“Holy shit,” Patsy says, backing away from the bar.

Burt the bartender makes a move for something under the bar.

“Don’t,” Bud says. Burt puts his hands up like “I don’t want no trouble.”

Herbie smiles nervously and tries a new tack. “Hey, aren’t you’re a little late? Halloween was, like, two months ago.”

“You’re putting it on.”

Herbie’s smile disappears.

“But not here.” Bud walks backward toward the door, opens it. “C’mon. We’re going for a ride. Everybody.”

The third floor at St. Catherine’s hospital is for mental health patients. The lobby has a dusty artificial Christmas tree, the same one used every year. Bud recognizes it from the first time he took Timmy here in ninth grade. The same shiny presents sit under the tree, empty and unopened year after year.

“Help you?” the nurse says at the front desk.

“Yes, me and my friends are here to see my son. Timmy, er, Tim Gallagher.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Especially on Christmas Eve,” she says. After they sign in, Bud nudges Herbie along with the gun hidden in his trench coat pocket. Patsy, Burt and Burnout Bernie walk ahead when Bud shoots them a look. “C’mon.”

A muffled anguished moan comes from somewhere down the hall as they walk. Behind a double-paned glass window a patient paces back and forth like a caged lion. They continue walking and arrive at an open sitting area with a few round tables and chairs.

“Over here,” Bud says.
He sits down in one chair, pulls out another and waits. The others stand, unsure what to do next.

A disheveled man in his late thirty’s shuffles in, wearing rumpled hospital pajamas. His hands tremble, his hard-blue mannequin eyes open wide.

“Dad?”

“Hello son.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s home, getting ready for Santa. I brought some people I’d like you to meet. One you know already.”

Tim scans their faces. No reaction.

“This is Patsy, that’s Burt. That’s…”

“Burnout Bernie, “ Patsy offers.

“Just…Bernie,” Burnout Bernie says.

“And this,” Bud says. “This is Herbie. Went to high school with you, I believe. Graduated same year and everything.”

Tim trembles and shakes his head.

“It’s okay, son.”

Tim backs away toward the door, shaking his head faster.

“Don’t be scared. He’s not gonna hurt you. Are you Herbie?”

Herbie swallows hard. “Course not. Why would I?”

“In fact,” Bud says. “He wants to give you a present. A real present, Tim. Not like the fake ones under the lobby tree. Don’t you, Herbie?”

Herbie looks down at his left hand holding the crumpled Jeannie costume and weakly offers it to Tim.

“Oh no,” Bud says. “That’s not the gift.”

Herbie looks nervous and confused. Bud puts his hand on the gun in his pocket and points at him. He nods at the restroom across the hall. Herbie gets the message and walks over. He opens the door, looking back at Bud who gives him a stern “get in there” look. Herbie enters the restroom and shuts the door.

Bud gives everyone a forced smile.

The restroom door opens. Thirty-eight years of flab overflow the tight glittery pink Jeannie costume. Hairy legs are visible through the sheer pantaloons. The crop top bra is no match for his mammoth-sized man boobs. A patient walks by, stops, looks, then walks in the other direction fast. The things you see on the third floor!

Herbie slinks back to the group, head down.

“Okay, now do it,” Bud says, gesturing with the gun in his pocket.

Herbie looks up. “What?”

“Give Tim his present.”

“Listen, hasn’t this gone far enough?”

“Do it.”

“I mean, whatever I did to you I’m sorry Timmy. Really…”

“Do it!” Bud says, standing up.

“Okay, okay.”

Herbie does a half-assed Jeannie dance, unsure if he’s doing it right.

“Tim, I think he needs a little help. The song…still know it?”

Tim sings the Jeannie song in a weak, monotone voice. “Da, da. Da da. Da da. Da Da! Da da, da dad da da da…”

Herbie starts moving in sync with Tim’s medicated, lifeless rendition. Tears stream down Herbie’s cheeks as Patsy, Burt and Burnout Bernie stare at him.

“Call him Master now,” Bud says.

“What?”

“Say, ‘Oh, Master!’ Like Jeannie used to say to Major Nelson.”

“Oh, Master?”

“Louder.”

“Oh, Master!”

Tim finishes the song, Herbie stops dancing.

“Like your gift, son?”

Tim musters a small smile and nods.

“Merry Christmas, son. Now…one more thing,” he says, looking at Herbie. “You know when Jeannie would put her arms together, nod and just…disappear?”

“Yeah,” Herbie says.

“Do it.”

“I…like this?”

“No. Come on, you have to scrunch up your nose, too. Like Barbra Eden—”

“Barb—”

“Barbra Eden…Jeannie.”

Herbie slowly puts his arms together, closes his tear-soaked red eyes, and adorably scrunches his nose just as he hears a gun shot.

And everything does disappear.

George Goetz is fiction writer, and award-winning advertising copywriter. Two of his TV commercials are in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art in NYC. But he’s especially proud of a radio commercial he once wrote and recorded with novelist John Updike for his famous New Yorker essay, “Hub Fans Bids Kid Adieu.” George’s other stories have been accepted for publication in Subnivean and Smoky Blue Literary and Arts magazine.