These street singers for charity were bogus, she reminded herself, thinking of the reeling Santa. The donations went into the collectors’ pockets, to be spent later at the pool hall or package store. Falling for that game merely encouraged more panhandlers.

“Soon it will beeee Christmas day,” sang the elf.

Duh, thought Elaine, eyeing the swags of plastic greenery and twinkling lights that had infested the city since the day after Halloween. The season seemed to descend earlier every year. Yet every year, Elaine couldn’t help feeling a little secret jolt of excitement. And hope. Maybe this year will be different, she always thought. But nothing ever changed, and she grew more cynical and brittle as time went on.

“Come on, lady, gimme a break. Bestow a trifle.” The elf rattled the collection jar at her. He had a sing-along songbook and a stick-on name tag that said, “Hi! My Name Is Larry.” He wore a bright red muffler and an unjustifiably cheerful grin.

The light changed and she joined the surge of pedestrians in the crosswalk, but the persistent caroler kept stalking her.

“Just a little something for Westside Children’s Charities.” He flashed an official-looking permit.

It was probably forged, Elaine thought.

“Do it for the kids, lady.” Jingle bells bobbed from his pointy cap.

She scowled at him. “Go away.”

He gave her a puppy-dog look.

Be strong, she told herself. If she gave in to this one, another would take his place, and the next thing she knew, half the city would be wanting something from her. Pointing her face into the icy wind, she strode on.

“Away in a Manger” swept through the marauding carolers. The elf bobbed along at her side. “Look,” he said, “it’s not my fault the guy dumped you for some bimbo. Don’t take it out on the kids.”

Finally she could hold her tongue no longer. “This is not endearing you to me.”

“Think of the kids, then. There’s magic in giving, don’t you know that?”

“I don’t believe in magic.” There. Saying so aloud made it as real as the pitted, frozen sidewalk beneath her fashionably clad feet.

“That won’t keep it from happening. But you have to make a donation. Come on. What’s five bucks to someone wearing thousand-dollar Manolo boots?”

An elf who knew footwear. This was getting stranger by the moment.

“Five bucks, and the magic starts happening,” he said. “Guaranteed.”

“What, I pay you, and you disappear?”

He winked, and sent her a gladsome look. “Trust me, you won’t be sorry. Help us out, and the world will start helping you.”

“What makes you think I need help?”

“You can’t keep edging your way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance,” he pointed out.

Great. Not only did he know shoes, he quoted Dickens. I live in a world of fools, thought Elaine.