Shattered

20: The Bellboy

  In Cleveland, the day started like any other. There was no joy in the air, nothing special, exciting, or festive. It was just another day; at least for Bradley Worthington. He got out of bed at a usual hour, and strolled about in his large apartment, trying to act like he was something special.

  In his robe and slippers, he walked back and forth behind the couch, in a slow pace. He knew quite well that it was Christmas, but the trouble was, there was nothing to do. He could not buy himself Christmas presents, or mail himself a Christmas card. He obviously had nowhere to go, for he knew no person would invite him into their home. The only thing he could think of to do was pace, and try to convince himself that Christmas was just another overrated holiday.

  "What's so special about Christmas?" he said aloud, not caring that he was talking to himself. "It's just another stupid excuse to spend money, and pretend that you care about people that you really couldn't give a -"

  He paused, having thought he heard a knock on his door, but he knew it was just his lonely mind playing tricks on him.

  "Bah humbug," he said, rolling his eyes as he internally felt himself going mad. "Where was I? Ah, yes. Presents. Why would I want to give anyone a present?"

  He stopped there, for he was contradicting himself. Indeed, he had purchased gifts for a few people, but it did not matter, for there was no way possible that they had sent him one as well. 

  Feeling horribly cheesy, he sat down on his couch, and wondered whether anyone even cared about him. It was Christmas, a national holiday, celebrated by so many people each year, and he was spending it alone? It did not make sense, no matter what excuses he came up with to make himself feel better. There was no hiding it; he had become nothing more than a loner.

  Frustrated beyond a doubt, he stormed into his bedroom, and began to get dressed and groomed. He came out of the room twenty minutes later, and grabbed his keys and cell phone from the kitchen counter.

  He had no idea where he was going; something that usually made him end up in the worst situations, but there was no stopping him once his hand was on the doorknob.

  He stepped out into the hallway, and waited the arrival of the elevator. It came within a moment, but as the large metal doors opened, it proved to be empty. Annoyed that he would actually have to operate the elevator himself, he stepped into it, and pushed the button that would lead him to the lobby. The elevator went down, and he scowled, realizing that even the elevator man had more of a life than he did. Slightly hoping that someone in the lobby would wish him a merry Christmas, he stepped out of the elevator, and casually strolled in front of the front desks.

  Strolling at an abnormally slow pace, he looked out through the glass front of the Consley building, and pretended to be focusing on something that he saw outside. He glanced over to the front desk, to see if anyone noticed him, but the two women behind it were animatedly focused on their computers.

  He put his attention back on the windows, but his ears were peeled, waiting for some sort of conversation to start. As he began to tap his foot, he felt a pat on his shoulder. He turned around, and saw a tan face, with enormous brown eyes staring up at him. Momentarily, he recognized it as the bellboy who he had carried his luggage, and had not asked for a tip.

  "Merry Christmas, Mr. Sir," the boy said, as a toothy smile formed on his pudgy face. Before Bradley could respond, the boy walked off in the opposite direction. Bradley was stunned for a second, but quickly caught up with reality, and hurried to catch up with the boy.

  "W-wait," he said in a hushed voice. The boy turned around, and smiled at him again. "Merry Christmas to you, too," he said in a polite, but not necessarily friendly manner. "What's your name?"

  "Bahlim," said the boy, still smiling. 

  "Bahlim, Bahlim," repeated Bradley, trying to get the right pronunciation. "Bahlim, why are you here working on Christmas day?"

  "Oh," said Bahlim, looking almost confused that Bradley had asked such a question, "I work often. I enjoy work."

  Bradley paused. "But why on Christmas? Shouldn't you be with your family?"

  Bahlim laughed, and tilted his head as he looked up at Bradley. "Shouldn't you be with your family, Mr. Sir?" he asked, suppressing his laughter as he spoke.

  Although he was different, Bradley was starting to like Bahlim. He laughed, however lightly, along with him. "Well the thing is, Bahlim, I don't really have a family."

  Bahlim frowned for a moment. "That's okay, Mr. Sir, I don't have family either."

  "What do you mean?" asked Bradley softly, a bit saddened by the casual tone in which Bahlim spoke.

  "Mrs. Thompson takes care of me," said Bahlim, nodding his head toward one of the women at the front desk. "She takes care of me, but is not my mother. I do not know my mother, or any other of my family. Mrs. Thompson is kind, though."

  Bradley looked down at his feet, as he processed what Bahlim was saying. He took it to mean Mrs. Thompson was his foster mother, or something of the sort.

  "Bahlim, do you- do you have anything going on for Christmas- at all?" Bradley inquired, astonished that the boy could seem so content, when it sounded like he had nothing more than a brutal job and a woman to take care of him.

  "No," said Bahlim, frowning slightly, before looking back up at Bradley with a bright face. "Just work!" he said excitedly.

  "Can I ask you a question, Bahlim?" said Bradley.

  "Of course, Mr. Sir!" said Bahlim.

  "Why did you not wait for me to give you a tip when you took my bags up to my apartment a couple of months ago? Do you remember? I was going to give you some money, but you had already gone."

  Bahlim tapped a small finger on his chin, and looked upward as he reflected upon the memory. "Oh, I see now!" he said. "Well, I do not ever take tip."

  "You don't take tips?" Bradley repeated, going practically ballistic on the inside as he struggled to comprehend the boy's tactics. "But how do you earn money? Do you receive an income for your work?"

  "No money," said Bahlim, shaking his head. "I just like work, Mr. Sir."

  "You just like work," said Bradley under his breath. "Bahlim, would you like to join me for lunch today in my apartment? If Mrs. Thompson is okay with it, of course. I'd like to get to know you a little better."

  Bahlim's large brown eyes grew wider. "I would like that, Mr. Sir!"

  "Why do you call me that?" asked Bradley, having noticed Bahlim's continued reference of 'Mr. Sir.'

  "Oh, Mrs. Thompson speaks of you in that way," said Bahlim, in a slightly lower voice. "She says, 'Mr. Sir,' but she says it in quite mean way. I do not think Mrs. Thompson likes you very well, but I do."

  "Well," said Bradley, amused at Bahlim's enthusiastic rambling, "thank you. You can call me Mr. Worthington if you would prefer that."

  "Okay, Mr. Worthington!" said Bahlim. "Let me go make my request to Mrs. Thompson. I'll be right back!"

  Bahlim dashed passed Bradley; his little bellboy cap hanging by a string from his neck as he ran with rapid speed toward the front desk. Bradley could see from his enthusiasm that he was having an affect on Bahlim, but Bradley wondered if Bahlim could see what affect he was starting to have on him, too.