A Christmas Story

A Fiction

I was sick of looking at the inside of my apartment. August in Phoenix Arizona tends to make me want to hide out until the heat breaks; but there’s only so much I can take of the same off white walls, the same bad TV, and the reprieve of the air conditioner that’s probably near its last sputter. I looked in the fridge and remembered that I was out of beer – which meant I could stay home, annoyed and sober, or I could go out, endure the convection oven heat, and find some dark corner to crawl into until the sun went down.  I chose the latter; it was a question of survival. I had read every book, and magazine three or four times already, and anything that I might watch on TV would kill more brain cells than crystal meth. (At that point, I might’ve tried that if  there was any available, just for the entertainment value.)  

The bus passed by just as I made it to the stop. B*****d. I even ran after it, but most bus drivers don’t give a s**t. They drive. They stop. They stare at the road. Do not talk. Do not pay attention. I even tried screaming after it. “MOTHER F****R!” There was no one to hear me yell, anyway. It was mid-afternoon, right when the ground starts to really cook. Even the image obsessed joggers had the good sense to stay inside—though most of them were probably working their 8-5 grind in anticipation of another sunset run. They’re out in full force at sunset – the cardiovascular army in their uniform of barely legal run wear and step counters. For the moment, though, it was me, the concrete, and a cloudless 115 degree day. And the nearest bar was maybe a quarter of a mile up the road. I knew I could walk it on normal day. I stood there for a few minutes, reconsidering my options. I could start walking and broil myself. I could go back inside and settle in for another stirring episode of The Young and the Restless. I could wait for another bus. My lungs were already hurting from the hot air and pollution. If I had to wait for another bus, I’d end up getting so hot and uncomfortable that I’d go back inside just to soak up the sorry as comfort of the air conditioning. My only other option: start walking. And so I did.

By the time I arrived at the bar, I was a sweaty mess. It’s true that there’s not a lot of humidity here. When I talk to friends back east and I complain about the summers they tell me “But it’s dry heat.” “Yeah,” I tell them. “It’s a dry heat.” They never understand. When I walked into the bar, it wasn’t crowded. Still too early for the happy hour crowd. A couple of waitresses were standing near the back wall, next to the cash registers. They looked at me and smiled with an expression that said “Tip.” I looked over at the tables. They were all empty. I looked over at the bar. It looked shaded and comfortable. As I walked to the bar, I could feel the smiles of the waitresses fade.  

I sat on a stool on the far side of the bar, away from the light pouring in from the windows. The bartender – a cute brunette that I would have paid more attention to if I didn’t feel so damned miserable – walked over and asked what I wanted. “Beer.”

                “What kind?”

                I squinted to see the taps. I told the bartender to give me Bud Lite. She brought and the glass was frosted and cold. “Start me a tab,” I said, drinking down half the mug.

                “Name?”

                I gave her one, downed the rest of the mug and pushed it forward.

                “You want a glass of water or something, too?” she asked. “It’s pretty hot out there.”

                “Nah.” I shook my head. “Just another beer.”

                “Ok, hon.” She picked up the mug and walked over to the tap to refill it.  I followed her with my eyes, hoping that she’d get another frosted mug out of the freezer. She didn’t.

                And that was when I saw him.

                He was sitting at the other end on the opposite side of the bar. A big fat guy dressed in a Santa Claus suit.  

                I don’t know how I could’ve missed him when I walked in. He must’ve weighed 600 pounds; I wasn’t even sure how he was balancing himself on the stool. After my eyes adjusted to the light, I got a better look at him. He was decked out in the red coat and hat; didn’t have the fake beard, but his own stubble could’ve passes for a Santa beard. The suit hadn’t seen a cleaners in a long time—probably longer than the last time he’d seen the business end of a shower head. From the subtle way the bartender was acting, it was clear the guy reeked as bad as he looked. He was drinking some kind of dark liquor on ice and paying cash. He was also keeping a close eye on the TV behind the bar tuned into the horse races and on his race tickets.

                “Come on, number eight!” he spoke. “Come on, eight! Come on you sum b***h!”

I had a feeling that the eight, whatever its name was, wasn’t going to be on the nice list this year.  “F**K ME!” The race must have ended. Oh well.  He grumbled and bitched some more. In a few minutes he drained his glass before he stood up and hobbled back to the betting window.  His a*s was as wide as the trunks on some new model hybrid cars I’d seen on the road.

                “Thank god,” I heard the bartender mutter.

                “He giving you trouble?”

                She shook her head. “No.” She leaned in like she was telling me a secret. “But he stinks.”

                “Kick him out. I’ve seen people kicked out for less.”

                She sighed. “Well, it’s slow,” she answered. “Plus he pays in cash. And he’s not hurting anybody. He’s not bothering you is he?” She looked almost hopeful. If I said I was mortally offended then she’d have an excuse to bounce him. I deliberated for a second, but decided I didn’t want to be the reason that anybody got pushed out into that heat – especially jolly ol’ Saint Nick.

                “Nah,” I answered. “Not bothering me.”

                “Ok.” She was disappointed, but contained it pretty well. I looked up and Santa was back with new tickets. He raised his hand – a pudgy hand with thick crooked fingers that looked like each finger had been individually shattered with a hammer and then set incorrectly – to signify he wanted another drink. She walked over, got his glass, put fresh ice in it and poured Wild Turkey over the ice. A man of quality, I thought.  The bartender gave me a fresh beer and then stepped out from behind the bar. “I’m gonna go smoke,” she said.

                “Ok.” I looked over at Santa Claus. He was arranging his tickets. It looked like he was playing bingo. Against my better judgment, I walked over and sat one stool away from him. That proved to be too close – I caught his stench. It curled the hairs in my nose and blocked my throat. But I was committed.  

                “Any winners?”

                He looked over at me and squinted. “Huh? Wha?”

                “I said, ‘Any winners?’ I’m thinking about laying down a bet and I figure you’ve got the inside scoop.”

                “Wha?” He growled. “Wha are you talkin’ ‘bout? F**k off.”

                I’m just asking,” I answered. “I mean, come on, dude. If anybody knows who’ll win the race, it’s gotta be the guy in a Santa suit.”

                “Santa suit?” He spat at me. “Wha are you sayin’?”

                “Your suit,” I answered. “The santa suit.”

                “F**K OFF.”

                “Hey, listen,” I told him. “If you want to be a grouchy f****r that’s fine. I’m just making conversation. You’re the one who’s out in 115 goddamn degree weather in a furry santa suit. What’s the matter? Is that all they had in the free box at the shelter?”

                He looked like he was about to say something, but his race started and he turned away from me. “COME ON NINE! COME YOU LITTLE B***H; SEVEN YOU GET THE F**K OUTTA THE WAY. COME ON NINE!” 

                It was a short race and Santa lost again. “What’s the matter?” I asked “Rudolf not come through for you?”

                Santa stood up and turned on me. “WHAT THE F**K ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” By this time, the bartender was back from her smoke break. The two waitresses whose section I passed over just stood back and watch. For a second I thought maybe  somebody from the kitchen came out to help, but he only stood there, watching. Christ, I thought. Am I going to have to handle this guy by myself?

                “Take it easy,” I said. “Take it easy.”

                “F**K OFF!”

                “I was just making simple conversation. I mean, you have to expect that, right? Walking around in a Santa suit in f*****g Arizona? What’d you think was gonna happen….”

                I didn’t get a chance to finish because Santa balled his crooked fingers into a fist and slammed it into my face. I hit the bar, a few stools, and the floor. “F**K OFF!” He screamed before he stormed out. As he was leaving, I noticed he was wearing bright purple Bermuda shorts with a palm tree print and the thick black snow boots. When he pushed open the doors – he couldn’t fit through just one – blinding sunlight and heat poured into the place. It took me a minute or so to get my bearing and get on my feet. Santa hadn’t knocked me out, but he did knock me dizzy. I sat back down on the bar stool. The bartender was picking up the cash Santa had left and clearing his glass. My jaw hurt.

                “That was interesting,” I said.

                “Sure was,” the bartender answered.

                I motioned towards the door. “You want me to leave too?”

                “No,” she shook her head. “If one of the owners was here, I’d have to make you leave, though.”

                “Thanks.”

                “Was that guy a regular or something?”

                “No.”

                “Did you see the shorts? The guy had the whole outfit except for the shorts.”

                The bartender gave me a funny look. “What’re you talking about?”

                F**k me. “Nothing,” I answered. My head still hurt so did my side. “ Just keep the beer coming until I say stop. I’m not going back out in that heat until I have to.”

 

Author's Note

Any comments and feedback welcome.

Reviews

[Brian Custer]

correct me if I am wrong, but I gather that he didn't even have a santa suit on, it was more like a quarter mile heat induced delusion. Great story, I enjoyed the relentless approach at small talk, just to tickle the wrong side of the pigs stomach...and get jarred in the face...quite hilarious!

[Sydelle Houston]

This was more like a Christmas nightmare! As a NYer, I know not to talk to someone so oblivious to the weather and his own attire. I was hoping the main character would have found a wad of money on the floor that ol' funky Santa had dropped when he sucker punched him. A twisted ending would have been fun....

[Rain]

See, you should have stayed in the "Queen City"...not that you don't see bizarre characters in a bar. I don't know if the guy had a shopping cart parked outside, but he did have money to drink and gamble, so who knows. I guess the lesson learned is if a guy is wearing a Santa jacket in 115 degree heat, and he's drunk...don't talk to him as if he's normal. You're only asking to get knocked on your a*s. lol. Interesting story, fact, or fiction, but I did expect a more powerful ending. Rain..