Lights On Alex Chastler

Chance C.R Willey |

12/22/2007 - 12/23/07

Third Place, Children’s Stories
Chance Willey used his imagination (and some knowledge of history) to create a distinctive time, place and character for his short story. His attention to detail breathes life into this imaginary world, as does his unique take on the imagery of the winter solstice.

Alex Chastler awoke earlier than usual; it was 5 a.m., December 21st. Alex sat up in his navy blue pajamas and ran his long fingers through his wavy, sandy blond hair

"I am overdue for a haircut," he said in his light Southern accent. His eyes were narrowed and non-blinking, trying to make out a shape in the pitch black of his small bedroom.

"It's going to be a short day," he said in a witty sort of manner, "but they all get longer from here on in."

He began to feel his way out of bed, his feet searching vigorously for his leather slippers as his right arm reached for the maroon robe that hung on the bed post. Finding it, he threw it over his shoulders. He felt at the foot of the bed for his cat, Jerome, but he was not there.

"This strange astronomical stuff must be knocking him off his normal habits," Alex thought — and with that thought he pushed himself off his bed and began walking to his closet.

He turned on the single dim closet light, just bright enough to allow him to see the three suits that hung in his closet; a white suit for summer and spring, a blue suit for winter and autumn, and a black suit for black-tie special occasions. Blue seemed to be the best choice; it was winter, after all, and the cold northeast wind would blow right though the white suit he had really wanted to wear that day.

"I kind of like blue anyway," he said, taking down his blue suit, white shirt and red tie. He bent down to grab his black shoes and pull a pair of socks from their open drawer. Then, as he turned away from the closet, he remembered something: he reached back into his closet and grabbed his brown fedora from the top shelf. It was his lucky hat.

In the kitchen, Alex drank his daily two cups of rooibos tea, grabbed his brown leather briefcase and headed out the door onto the city streets that he knew so well.

Alex stood there, six-foot-two, tall and lean, his hair curled slightly in the back and peeking out of his fedora. He had a squared-off chin to match the rigid features of his pale face. His every breath shone like a cloud in the brisk morning air. The cold northeast wind blew his breath back at him, filling his nose with the exotic tang of the rooibos tea he had just drunk.

Smiling, he started walking down the sidewalk, his black shoes clicking on the icy curb. All around was evidence of Christmas, from the strings of light draped high across the streets to the bejeweled Christmas trees that peeked from behind the occasional window. Alex couldn't help but be thankful for his life and all the small pleasures it had given him.

Small pleasures were what people had these days. The Depression had robbed so many of so much. But people still looked forward to Christmas. And there was today. Today was special, because after today he could add one more minute of light to every day. It was the winter solstice, a celebration of light. He walked proudly, as if he had made this be. He knew it wasn't the biggest of holidays, but the thought of a new solar year and light celebration made him smile. It was like a fresh start; the promise of sun, the promise of warmth.

He came around the corner into one of the many small squares that peppered Hoboken. This one wasn't too spectacular ... just a post office, a deli, a barbershop and a shoeshine and newspaper stand. It was still early and the cast of dawn still shadowed the town, making everything take on a grayish hue. This was the color of 1930s Hoboken. The still-lit street lamps provided the only hopeful glow.

"Light," Alex thought, "Strange how many ways one could see the lights from those lamp posts: the tramp would see it as a way to guide him in the night, a poor opportunist like himself might see it as hope, whereas a rich man like J. Edgar Hoover might not see it at all."

He found himself in a trance, staring at the streetlight, and noticed a vagrant staring up at him inquisitively, his tin begging cup in a dirty puddle at his side. To break the tension in which he found himself, Alex tossed him a nickel he could little afford to part with. But he was still better off than the vagrant. "Good luck," he said with a forced smile. Not that long ago this man might have lived comfortably in one of the nearby apartment buildings, and now he was on the street. It could happen to anyone.

Alex proceeded to walk 13 more blocks of cold, shameful sidewalk till he reached the Palmers Theater, which he entered through the side door.

Alex was greeted with the sight of Luigi Stephano and Paolo Hannibal, the producer and writer, arguing in Italian. "If it is not our composer!" Paolo yelled enthusiastically at Alex, as Luigi walked in the opposite direction, hands high and expressive, cursing in Italian.

"I pray to God you've finished it, Alex!" Paolo shouted hopefully.

"Yes," Alex responded.

"Let me see it now ... come on ..." Paolo said as Alex pulled out his final written score to the new play, Piu Basso Conversazione di Fronto a la Luce, il Futurismo (Lower Conversations Before the Shining Light in Futurism).

Paolo looked it over intently and then smiled broadly, clapping Alex on the back. "Magnifico!" He kissed both sides of Alex's forehead, knocking off the brown fedora.

"Now we have a show!" Paolo exclaimed.

"That we do," Alex smiled.

u u u

Tremendous applause burst forth from the audience as the actors bowed. The show was a success; it had brought happiness and light into many lives that night. Paolo and Luigi ran on-stage to steal a few bows of their own.

"And now, a round of applause for our composer," Paulo exclaimed, holding out his hands to clap for Alex in the orchestra below.

A spotlight illuminated Alex. It was his moment. He was the center of attention: him and his music. Right in the shining circle of the spotlight, it felt as if there would always be only him. What better place to celebrate the light than in this — the brightest light of all.

Chance Willey, 12, is in the seventh grade at the Santa Fe School for the Arts and Sciences. He lives in Santa Fe.