Christmas Tree Lot

My grandfather told me this story the other day.

“He always smelled like a big Christmas tree. I love Christmas trees.”

-Sue Reilly (my nana)

I went to Bonner High School in Drexel Hill, and there were train tracks right behind the football field. I walked home from school on those tracks everyday. These huge freight trains would pull right up and deliver dry goods to the surrounding suburbs. In December, when the air got cold, the trains delivered Christmas Trees from Canada to the Christmas tree lot next to the school.

One day after class, I went to the lot where they were selling the trees. I walked up to Mr. Mitchell, who was in charge, and asked him for a job. Mr. Mitchell was a Philly born and bread no bullshit kind of guy. He took one look at my school uniform and said they didn’t need any more help. He sent me on my way home.

That night I told my mom he turned me away. She said, “Ask again tomorrow after school. Things might change.”

The next day before walking home, I stopped by the lot and knocked on Mr. Mitchell’s trailer door. His body filled the small doorframe and he bent down to see me.

I said, “Hi Mr. Mitchell… Did you have any jobs I could-” But before I even finished my sentence, he said, “Hey kid, weren’t you here yesterday?”

I said, “Yes, that was me. I was here yesterday.”

“And didn’t I tell you yesterday we don’t need any help?”

I avoided his eyes. “I was just wondering if anything changed.”

He shook his head, “Hit the bricks, kid.”

So I walked home and found my mom standing by the stove. “I went back to the Christmas tree lot again today. They said nothing has changed. They still don’t need any help.”

She looked up from the pot she was stirring and said, “Go ask for a job there tomorrow.”

I tried to reason with her. I thought this guy was gonna kick my ass if I went back there again. But she insisted that I went back. I never disobeyed my mother, so the next day, I walked up to the lot for the third time that week. The old man saw me coming through the front windshield of his trailer. I saw his face get as red as his flannel. He got up from the driver’s seat, put out his cigarette, and burst open the door of the trailer.  His pointer finger flashed in my direction as he let out a huge shout into the rows of Christmas trees, “Johnny, you give that kid a job and work his ass off!”

It was hard work. I spent the rest of the day hauling trees and tying them to the roofs of cars. My school uniform sweater felt so thin as the wind blew down the tracks. I went to the lot before school when it was still dark to unload trees and after school to sell them and wrap up their branches with twine. Mr. Mitchell ended up liking me after I started working there. I later found out that the freight cars weren’t just delivering Christmas trees. They also carried illegal Canadian whiskey in wooden crates that were well hidden behind the foliage of the trees. Once I found that out, I understood why he didn’t want to hire me. I kept my mouth shut about the smuggling to my mom, of course.