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New York in the winter. Cars big as bars; rivers of gold. That’s what Harry had told him they’d find when they first made their way up here. Told him it smelled of freedom, too. Well, all Marv had smelled was fish—and exhaust gases, and dog shit, and hotdogs and trash. Harry had been right, though; that was what freedom smelled like. Prison smelled different: body odour and laundry detergent and the Lysol they scrubbed the linoleum floors with every day. Stale air and blocked toilets and moldy mattresses. Every prison, Marv had noticed, smelled roughly the same, no matter where in the country you were. It was a smell that had become as familiar to him as a person’s. As familiar as Harry’s. In fact, the two overlapped, and having one without the other was still taking some getting used to.
Not long after they’d entered the Rikers Island jail, just after the toy store fiasco on Christmas Eve of last year, Harry had put in a request to be transferred to another facility, without telling Marv he’d done so or where he was going. They’d taken him away in the early morning about two months later, and Marv had nothing more than a vague, sleepy memory of seeing Harry pause in the doorway to look at him before being pulled outside, the door closing behind him. It had all seemed like a strange dream—Hey, Harry’s leaving without me, was his only drowsy thought as he drifted back off to sleep—but when he’d woken up a few hours later, he realised Harry was really gone. Without saying goodbye.
The only clue Marv could come up with, as he racked his brain over the next few days, was that Harry had been angry. Sure, Harry was always angry, but never quite like this. Never so angry that Marv thought he actually meant what he said, what he’d been saying for years—that he was sick of this shit, that he wanted to ditch Marv and strike out on his own, like he used to do before they met; that Marv was holding him back, that there was a big catch out there and he was gonna get it, and finally leave this lousy, low-life existence behind him. He was gonna get a house like the ones they used to rob. He was gonna get a fancy car, a real-life version of the toy racers they used to play with underneath other people’s Christmas trees. He was gonna laze around on a tropical island surrounded by Playboy bunnies until he croaked. He was gonna stop being associated with idiotic names like “the Wet Bandits” or “the Sticky Bandits”. In short, he was gonna make it.
“Merry Christmas, my ass. Hope to God it’s our last,” he’d grumbled the night they were brought in, still covered in paint, feathers and pigeon shit, and thrown into one of the holding cells until a private one became available. They jostled for a space on the benches; the cell was full of drunks who were swaying, singing and even dancing along to a Sinatra crooner coming from a radio outside the bars.
“You don’t mean that, Harry.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Marv. We—I—have hit rock bottom. We been outsmarted by a fuckin’ kid, twice, and everybody knows it was us. It’s embarrassing. It’s over.”
Normally, Harry would have been the one vowing revenge and wasting no time in starting to plan their escape, so Marv had planned on just leaning back, accepting their defeat and enjoying what was left of Christmas Eve. It wasn’t like Harry to be beaten down and depressed, and the listless way he slumped in his seat concerned Marv. He elbowed his friend.
“C’mon, Harry. We’ll think of something. It’s Christmas, don’t be a grouch.”
Harry didn’t respond. Marv sighed and scooted a little closer to him.
“You know what, I gotta feeling. This year, the new year, is for me and you. It’ll be better times. All our dreams will come true, you’ll see.”
“Dreams?” Harry scoffed. “That’s all they ever were, and ever will be. I gotta start being realistic for once.”
Marv couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he just said, helplessly, “Well, I’m here if you need me, Harry.”
Harry had grumbled something and turned away from him, resting his forehead against the wall.
As it turned out, he’d meant what he said. Of all the body parts that had been battered by that little psychopath’s boobytraps, nothing had been hurt more than his pride. It was the final straw—a reminder that he wasn’t as smart or as capable of raising himself up in the world as he’d always thought. Harry had never been satisfied with what he had, and for him, money meant escape—escape from a life he’d never really wanted in the first place. Marv had always been more carefree, happy to just enjoy the ride and accept that sometimes he had dough, and sometimes he didn’t. It was the life itself he loved: duping people and taking their money, running rings around clueless cops, and taking the occasional stint in prison as a chance to rest up and plan the next heist. He'd never hurt nobody, and the way he saw it, stealing wasn’t a necessarily bad thing. Everybody was stealing from everybody all the time, rich people taking money from the poor one way or another. Why shouldn’t he take some of it back? Especially since he had a knack for it; weren’t people always telling you to focus on your talents?
But Harry was chasing a dream: one where he’d never have to work or steal again. Marv had often wondered if he really wanted this dream to come true, and where it would leave them. Would Harry really enjoy this new, dull life without the motivation of an empty stomach or the gratification of pulling off a well-planned robbery? All alone, without a partner in crime? Marv didn’t have the answers to these questions; nor did he know if he’d ever get any. But it seemed Harry had thought it was high time to go out and find them.
Another clue had been the nightmares, which had started just after they entered the Illinois pen. Harry, never one to scare easily, would bolt up in bed several times a night, frantically swatting his own skull, putting out an imaginary fire. Marv dreamed of spiders walking over his face and body, stepping through a door only to fall down into a deep black hole, or slipping and sliding over frozen stairs in his bare feet, never coming any nearer to his objective. Nobody had listened to them two years ago when they’d asked how come the Wet Bandits looked like they’d had the crap beaten out of them; nobody believed that a ten-year-old could’ve done these things. It was the same story last year, when they were arrested in the park. That’s what had made it all so much more humiliating, and Harry all the angrier.
The ten months that had passed since Harry had left him had been the loneliest of his life. Long, humiliating days with no shortage of people to talk to, either in his cell or in the yard, yet Marv found he didn’t really know what to say, without Harry doing all the talking. When they asked what he was in here for, he’d told them, but left out the part where he got his ass handed to him by a ten-year-old. He wouldn’t be here long—15 months before parole, his sentence read—but he found himself dreading rather than looking forward to his release, since he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. His view of the future was about as clear as the fogged-up, barred window in his cell.
And now it was Christmas Eve again. After coming back from their dinner, Marv had tried to talk to his new cellmate—an ancient, quarrelsome, smelly fella who, it seemed, had been picked up for no other reason than he was homeless and he’d gotten himself into some trouble so he could stay somewhere warm during the holidays. Everyone who had to put up with him inevitably complained to the guards, as he talked and sang to himself incessantly, and so they shunted him from cell to cell every day to make sure nobody had to be around him for too long. Why they couldn’t simply transfer him, Marv had no idea. After wishing him a merry Christmas, he had been left standing with his hand outstretched as the old man lay down on his bunk, muttering that if the Lord was merciful he wouldn’t see another one. Feeling put out, Marv had retreated to his own bed, where he was lying still. The old man had been singing tunelessly to himself for the past few minutes, and now he heaved a sigh. “New York in winter,” he scoffed, apropos of nothing. “Wind blows right through you. No place for the old. Christmastime, bah!” And he leaned over and spit on the floor.
Harry would tell him to shut up, Marv thought, tiredly. He turned his face away. He thought about how he could still hear Harry’s voice as a running commentary on what he said and did—even on what he thought. He was always thinking about Harry, really. They’d been inseparable for the best part of ten years, and even nearly a year later he still woke up with that phantom feeling of missing something he’d come to rely on. He wondered if Harry was thinking about him too. What he was doing. Whether he was still in prison somewhere, or whether he’d escaped. Whether he was celebrating Christmas.
Marv loved Christmas, even though he was Jewish—maybe all the more so for that reason. His love for it had started when he met Harry and they started robbing houses over the holidays, where the lavish decorations, the beautifully wrapped presents, and the smell of pine trees, even if they belonged to other people, had bewitched him. He’d never had a real Christmas; the closest he had ever come to any kind of celebration in his own life was the gift exchange in the pen and the meagre dinner that typically followed it: reheated turkey with mashed potatoes, peas and cranberry sauce from a can. What he knew about Christmas, though, filled him with a longing he couldn’t quite place, one that was sweet and bitter at the same time and kept him coming back to the homes of those who did celebrate. He raided not only safes but fridges, and rifled through lovingly wrapped presents for the toys he’d never had. He began to collect snow globes he found under people’s trees, and put them in their van on the passenger side; he liked the way the fake snow whirled around as they were jostled while Harry drove. He had missed something, he felt, and this was his chance to make up for it.
They’d barely celebrated Hanukkah at home when he was young, and he had only a singular memory of his mother’s hand guiding his own to light the shammash so that he could light the other eight candles in the menorah with it, oh so carefully, trying and failing not to drip any wax. There had been Hannukah songs, sung with his brother and sister, games of spinning the dreidel, his grandmother’s chocolate babka and a game of ice hockey on Lake Winnebago on a particularly cold Saturday morning. But not much else. Still, during years when he didn’t happen to be in the joint, he sometimes found himself wandering into temple during Hanukkah, though he never quite knew what he was looking for, and usually wound up leaving before the service was over, after he’d surreptitiously emptied the collection boxes into his pockets. Even if the words “Happy Hanukkah” still plucked a string somewhere inside him, the spirit of the holiday seemed a lot less easy to grasp than that of Christmas, which you could touch and play with and admire in the candlelight.
Some nights, though, the sight of other people’s Christmas preparations only reminded him that he'd never sat around a large table with family or a group of friends; never carved a turkey, or decorated a tree, or left milk and cookies for Santa Claus, or drunk mulled wine by one of those big stone fireplaces, or hung up a stocking with his name on it—and that he likely never would. Those nights, there was a part of him that longed for nothing more than a day in the life he had intruded on—the ability to step outside his own drifting existence, even just once. And while being in other people’s houses was almost as good as being part of it, sometimes it made him angry, so angry that he’d simply take his crowbar and smash whatever he couldn’t take with him. Those rich fat cats deserved to be ripped off if they wouldn’t even stay at home to enjoy their Christmas spoils! In fact, that was how the whole Wet Bandit shtick had started; if he couldn’t have their perfect Christmas, Marv reasoned, neither could they.
Harry, of course, had hated Christmas, like he hated most things. He’d always said he didn’t understand why people, including Marv, made such a big deal about it. Yet Marv knew this wasn’t just the criminal in him talking, rejecting anything that made ordinary people happy or spotting an opportunity to take advantage of them during a time when their belief in their fellow man was famously high. Because, he remembered, there had been a moment a few years ago while they were robbing a big house in suburban Chicago, when Harry had said, wistfully rather than angrily, “Can you believe these people leave their beautiful houses and presents on Christmas rather than stay here and enjoy their homes and their families?” Gosh, he’d thought then, seems like Harry knows better what Christmas is about than these people with all their fancy decorations.
Harry would never admit that there was anything behind his dislike of Christmas, of course, and Marv had never asked. He wished now that he had. Maybe if he’d made an effort to know more about Harry, he wouldn’t have left. Maybe if he were a little better at keeping things than at stealing them, Harry wouldn’t have blamed him for taking his dream away from him.
But what did he expect from a fellow criminal? Deep down, Marv knew it wasn’t his fault that Harry had left. Another memory crept in, of one of the last things Harry had told him the night before he left, pointing an accusatory finger: “I coulda been someone.” An echo, it seemed, from when Marv was young, after his first stint in juvie when it was all he heard from his parents, teachers, cops—everyone who claimed to understand him, to know what he was really like. “You could be someone, Marvin,” he could still hear his dad say, “if you work hard and don’t give up on your dreams.” Implying that he wasn’t anyone yet, and that if he continued on this path, he never would be; implying that dreams were never about enjoying life and making things easy for yourself. In his own mind, though, he was someone, and his dreams had already come true. He’d joined the ranks of the highwaymen, gangsters and bank robbers he used to read about when he was young; fancied himself a new John Dillinger, Jesse James or Billy the Kid, only he’d be the first Jewish outlaw to make headlines.
Turning on his side, towards the wall, Marv thought, not for the first time, about who else he could have been. It was dizzying, when he seriously considered it, to imagine all the points in his life where he could have taken a different road; like looking at a Christmas tree through one of those kaleidoscopes everybody seemed to have asked to be put in their stockings three years ago. That was the things about prison; it gave you lots of time to overthink your sins. Too much, if you asked him. Probably what made Harry want to get out, since he had a lot more thoughts and worries than Marv did.
He wondered how his life would have turned out if he’d remained on the straight and narrow. He never would’ve met Harry. He never would’ve met the McCallister kid, either. Would he have become an accountant, like his dad? A shopkeeper, like his uncle? Maybe he would’ve ended up here anyway, for tax fraud or whitewashing or cheating his customers. He’d never considered any other path in his life, even as a kid. No, Marv reasoned, as he stared at the thick prison wall. I don’t think I could’ve been anyone else at all.
I coulda been someone. Well, so could anyone! Something angry suddenly roused itself inside Marv’s chest. They might have had more success if Harry hadn’t taken Marv’s own dreams from him and put them with his own, as if for safekeeping; or if he hadn’t called him a stupid idiot day in day out, until Marv had started to believe it himself. He’d always dreamed of going out west, but Harry had always kept them east, claiming that’s where the real money was. True, Harry always knew best, and Marv was the Sundance Kid to his Butch Cassidy; Harry could plan robberies and run cons, conjure up disguises and lie smiling through his teeth, things Marv had no idea how to do. But still, for all his cleverness, Harry had never been able to raise them above the level of ordinary cat burglars. The times he’d claimed to have had a big catch in mind, they’d been foiled; by that kid, or by others. Yet the moment their names were all over the papers, he still wasn’t satisfied! They were somebody now, weren’t they? The notorious Wet, or rather Sticky Bandits! Marv couldn’t understand it.
They’d ended up fighting, that last Christmas Eve, as soon as they were out of the holding cell and in one of their own. Alone at last, Marv had tried to cheer Harry up by pushing him against the wall and touching his groin the way he knew he liked, but Harry had pushed him away and called him a scumbag, a maggot, and a cheap, lousy faggot. This last word was spit out with so much venom he knew Harry was being serious. He never thought Harry had had a problem with that side of him, especially since he was always complaining about prison life, and what was a fella to do, before happily taking advantage of his partner in crime’s willing pair of hands. And Marv had always liked to make him feel good; a quick grab in the showers, a handy after lights out, a cuddle when they were both so tired and cold they couldn’t seem to do anything but follow their animal instinct to huddle together for warmth. “Get offa me, you big fairy,” Harry would usually tell him, feigning disgust, then give in quickly after making sure no one would see them. Since Harry, for all his talk about Playboy bunnies, had never chased after any women that he knew, Marv had wondered, often, whether he wasn’t also… you know. While it was happening he never talked—a rare thing—and Marv never knew if it was because he was ashamed, or maybe just happy. But it had meant the most to him that Harry wanted him in that way, and that he was the one who could make him feel good. He’d often wished it could be that way between them all the time.
It had hurt to be called a faggot, much worse than any of the other usual insults, because now it seemed as if none of it had ever meant anything at all. As if he’d wanted to distance himself from everything that Marv was, that the two of them were together.
Maybe, Marv thought, what Harry blamed him for more than anything was that he’d made it hard for him to leave and find something better, because—because—
Slowly coming up from the depths of his thoughts, Marv realised there were people singing outside. Curious, he raised himself up from his bunk and walked over to the small barred window. A moon like a pared fingernail hung in the light-polluted night sky, and next to it, a single star winked at him. In the courtyard, a group of uniformed cops was gathered; one stood before the others, swinging his arms, conducting. As they sang, Marv could see their breath steaming in the freezing air. Of course—it was the NYPD choir, who were to sing for them at lunchtime on Christmas Day. They were practicing before going out into the street and joining the Christmas Eve celebrations at Rockefeller Center. It had started to snow, and the big searchlight trained on the choir spotlighted the swirling flakes like dust motes in a sunbeam. Marv smiled despite himself. Even if he had no Santa Claus, or tree, or twinkly lights, at least he had snow this Christmas Eve. The song, “Galway Bay”, echoed between the high prison walls. Marv swayed his head to the sound of their voices, which didn’t sound at all bad.
For the strangers came and tried to teach their way,
They scorned us just for being what we are;
But they might as well go chasing after moonbeams,
Or light a penny candle from a star.
Marv loved music. He loved singing, too, and when they started up the song again, he quietly sang along. Harry had always hated when he did that, and Marv loved Harry, so he’d always shut up when told to do so. He’d always abided by Harry’s rules, Harry’s wishes. But now he no longer had to follow his lead, or play his part in his fantasies, or believe what Harry said about him; he could start thinking for himself again. There could still be a better time, Marv realized, when all his dreams would come true. He could still go out west, do what he wanted, become someone. The question was, who?
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. In his mind, he was like one of those prospectors in the early, lawless days of the Gold Rush, finders keepers and money practically being given away—yes, his ideas of California were based mostly on the reruns of Looney Tunes: Gold Rush Daze he used to watch on Saturday mornings. He’d be the leading man, no longer the extra. He’d buy a cool hat, and sunglasses, and a shirt with flowers on it, just like those guys on Miami Vice. He was a little scared of the alligators he knew they had down there, but he’d be close to Disneyland, which was a plus.
Oh, shut up, Marv, said a familiar voice in his head. What, you think you’re smart, huh? Think you could be someone too, Mister Hoity-toity Smartypants? You’re nothing but a no-good, low-down crook. Don’t you go gettin’ any ideas. You’re nowhere without me.
Images of Hawaiian shirts and gold nuggets melted away before the view of the floodlit snowy courtyard outside. It was all very well to dream of better times and striking out for himself, but how could there be a better time without Harry by his side? How could he make it all alone, when he was so used to being a duo? And what dreams did he really have left except for the ones he’d built around his partner in crime and friendship?
Marv rested his forehead against the bars, and pouted. It was true; he was nowhere without Harry. He was the only person in the world who had ever looked out for him.
The old man, raspy and out of tune, joined in with the singing.
And if there is going to be a life hereafter
And somehow I am sure there's going to be;
I will ask my God to let me make my heaven
In that dear land across the Irish Sea.
Harry would tell him to shut up, Marv thought again, and then, immediately: I miss him.
It was strange. He felt homesick, but not for a place. He felt homesick for Harry. He’d take the angry muttering, the insults, the faggots and the idiots, if only he could just have him back, and the little moments of ordinary joy they’d shared. Sitting under a Christmas tree unwrapping other people’s presents. Eating take-out on stake-out. Falling asleep together on the mattress in the back of the van. He wished he could turn over the coarse dirt and sand in the hourglass of his life just to see that single golden grain sparkle in it again.
“Lights out!” came the call down the hall, and half a minute later, the bright bulb in their cell snapped off. Marv went back to his bunk and pulled his blanket up to his chin. Luckily, it wasn’t completely dark; the light outside reflected on the snow and cast a pale grey beam through the window. He hated when it was completely dark; it reminded him of his nightmares. He lay there listening to the voices, now singing “O Holy Night”, until he drifted off.
He dreamed he had been released, and was walking out of the prison. He passed through door after door, and when he reached the last one, just as he was about to head into the daylight and inhale the smell of freedom, he stepped into nothingness. He fell, as he always did, into darkness, falling for what seemed like forever. But here, again, a pinprick of light; he was falling towards it, and landed on something warm and soft. When it stirred and began to mumble and grumble, he realised it was Harry, his gold tooth glinting in his dirty face.
“Get off me, you big lump.” Harry slapped him in the face, but Marv couldn’t seem to make himself move. “Harry,” he whispered.
“Marv!” Another slap. “Hey, Marv! Wake up, will ya!” Another.
He bolted upright, confused and sleepy, and there, sitting on the bunk across from him, was Harry.
He smiled, a real smile, one he normally only wore when he was looking at jewelry. His gold tooth sparkled in the morning light.
“Harry?” Marv stammered, convinced he was still dreaming. He’d dreamed about Harry so often, and sometimes it seemed so real, that he dreaded having to wake up and swallow the bitter pill of reality again.
“Yeah, it’s me, what are you, blind?” Marv stared at him with wide eyes. He rubbed them, once, twice, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Harry was still there.
Marv had never really understood what people meant when they talked about a “Christmas miracle”, but he had a feeling this might qualify as one.
“Is it really you?” He climbed out of bed and went over to the other bunk, sitting down next to Harry carefully, as if the slightest touch would make him disappear. Harry’s eyes followed him, frowning.
“’Course it’s me. Whatsa matter with you, you see a ghost or somethin’?”
It was him alright. Marv threw his arms around his partner, inhaling his smell—cigarette smoke, damp wool, old sweat, and something uniquely Harry. Home, Marv thought, but only to himself. He broke into a smile. “Harry, you’re back!”
“Alright, alright, ya big pansy.” Harry patted his arm, but from the sound of his voice, Marv could tell he was smiling too. He pulled back a little to look at his friend.
“What are you doing here?”
“Ah, ya know. I figured Christmas you gotta be at home with the ones you love. Sure it’s the big house, but it’s as close to home as I’ll get.”
Marv beamed at him, so happy he didn’t know what to say. After a moment, though, questions came drifting to the surface, which he had to ask. His smile leaving his face, he asked, “Why’d you leave? Where’d you go? And why didn’t you say anything?”
“Alright, alright, enough with the third degree, Marv,” Harry snapped. He looked away, at his dirty palms resting in his lap, and was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I just needed a change, is all.”
“Oh.” A change of what, Marv wanted to ask, and did you find it, but it seemed wiser to say nothing. The fact that he was back here said all he needed to know. Instead, he squeezed Harry a little tighter with his arm, and said, “Well, I missed ya.”
Harry looked up at him, his dark eyes roaming over Marv’s face, and nodded, as if to himself. He didn’t say it back.
“Are you here to stay?”
“Seems that way. Only 5 months left till parole, anyhow.”
“If we get it.”
“Why wouldn’t we? We’re model citizens.” They grinned at each other.
Now or never, Marv thought, and said: “Ya know, I think we should head out west next.”
“West?” Harry wrinkled his brow, as if this was the first time he was told such a place existed.
“You know. Make a fresh start. No snow, no pigeons—”
“They got pigeons over there too, Marv.”
“Oh.” They were silent for a moment, and Marv began to fear Harry had already made up his mind to say no.
“A fresh start,” Harry repeated. His eyebrows lifted. “They call it the Gold Coast over there, don’t they?”
“And for a reason,” Marv replied. “Rivers are full of it. It comes down from the hills with the rain.” Thank you, Looney Tunes.
“Rivers of gold.” Harry pondered it, then brightened. “You know, that might be the best idea you’ve ever had.”
Marv smiled and leaned tentatively towards Harry, waiting for him to recoil; when he didn’t, he put his head on his shoulder and wrapped himself around him, the way they used to do in the back of their van. Staring into space, he saw palm trees and beaches where before there had been a white-washed brick wall, suave gangsters in enormous white Ferraris, and cartoon dogs with gold pans and pickaxes. It gave him another idea.
“Know what we else we could try, Harry? Dognapping. Bet those Hollywood fat cats offer big rewards when their pedigree mutts go missing. We could call ourselves the Petty Bandits.”
He could feel Harry roll his eyes, but there was still a smile in his voice when he said, “Yeah, yeah, we’ll see about that.”
Marv reached out and put his hand on Harry’s hands, which were still in his lap. After a few seconds, Harry covered it with one of his own.
“Merry Christmas, Harry.”
“Merry Christmas, Marv.”
Outside, in the distance, church bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.