AKA: Paul Gordon

You would've had another swig of Jack but you couldn't stand the idea of another swig of Lavoris mouthwash along with it.

It's 2:30-ish and you have until five and you've already gone to the bathroom six, seven times in the last two hours and Mr. Javorkian is making his presence known with that look that's starting to chap your hide-- but you don't mind.

You know why you don't mind?

Because you're Santa.

The thought makes you smile for too many reasons you don't need to explain to anyone. Not to yourself, not to anyone.

You watch as the momma next in line comes forward.

“Hi-Hi," you smile.

Momma has black, tight pants and her black tight pants work for once, and the red cashmere sweater and tasteful pearls-- the chi-chi kind, single strand, the kind you could get four, five, six easy for, tomorrow for, without leavin' your stinkin bed for.

“Hi-Hi...” you say to her red sweater.

Mamma comes forward, her eyes watching your eyes. It crosses your mind how much more interesting this would all be, how much more sinisterly delightful if she wasn't also seating a wide-eyed child on your lap. Momma bends low enough, long enough.

The sweater falls open just enough. A little peeky-weeky for Daddy. You mean Santa, don't you?

So now the kid's on your lap, six out of ten times wet. Eight our of ten times wide-eyed with fright. You smile through the itchy beard the best you can.

You feel yourself swaying as you look down at the kid, and as you look back up at momma's sweater. Now that you realize it, you wonder how long you been doing it? This swaying? You look for Mr. Javorkian. You find him. Easily, and you're sorry that you looked.

All you can do at times like this is laugh at yourself. Grin is better.

And you do. You grin.

You grin as you lean down, raising the bald kid's head and you grin even harder as Ralphy clicks a picture and waltzes around like it's the best pic of the day.

“Oh that's a good one!” Ralphy says, and this time you do laugh, but inside. In-loud. Behind the beard.

It would be so good to laugh out-loud. It wouldn't come out, “Ho,ho,ho!” It wouldn't come out anything like, "Ho, ho, ho". You know that.

“And what would little Tony like from Santa?” you hear yourself ask. The question never ceases to have an effect on you. It makes you morosely sad.

The kid begins to cry, bellows, reaches for its mom and mom reaches for it. At the same time the reaching-mom gives you a look and says a tinge loudly, “Her name is Tonya!!” like it matters.

“Bye-bye, Tonya!” you say for the benefit of the others in line.

It's 2:35-ish.

Santa needs a watch, because you sold yours, didn't you? Your dad's.

The next momma has a kid who looks like he can't wait to jump in your lap. The kid is forty pounds over weight and knows you're not really Santa Claus. The kid comes heavy-footed with a tootsie-pop in his mouth and you stand up before he can sit down.

Me--right back, you say, or you don't say, all you know is you thought it, as you walk away.

Fat kids.

Mr. Javorkian looks as if his eyeballs are going to pop out his round little head. He thinks your name is Paul Gordon because you told him your name was Paul Gordon, a name you made up, and in some ways you wish you really were Paul Gordon, though you have no idea who that man could be.

“Ho, Ho--” you say twice-as-loud as you mean to and you want to get the final “Ho” out, but you're laughing in your own voice now, and everyone knows it. And they look at you like it matters, like it really really matters!

And you tell them you will be right back but not that you have to take a piss-- you stop yourself from telling them that you have to take a piss, and you know you aren't coming back even though it's absolutely true you have to take a piss.

It's the day before Christmas Eve and you have no idea where you'll sleep tonight.

Like it matters.

You walk and walk down the mall, and you really do have to take a piss and there's the store that sells the fancy watches and it's got people leaning over gazing at jewelry and you go in there because you tell yourself you have to take a piss and maybe there's a bathroom. You stand in the middle of the doorway, and say,”Merry Christmas, mother-fuckers!” and go right up to the first counter and reach behind it and snag the watch you been eye-balling for two weeks.

The little bald guy with the glasses tries to grab your arm as you come back up with the watch still in its case, but you don't let him grab you.

And you walk. You walk fancy case in hand out through the door and now you're in the main walkway of the huge mall, and Christmas music is playing and people are everywhere and everyone's in a hurry but you.

You pass fully dressed Santas ringing bells. You pass fully dressed Santas selling shoes.

“Merry Christmas!” you say to the tired-eyed, smiling people coming up the up-escalator as you are going down the down. They are nodding their heads with fake happiness at fake Santa. “Ho, ho, ho!” you say. “Ho, ho, ho!”

Like it matters or not.

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