III
The walk back is long and hot but I make it. I find the door that says manager. Duty is written with black marker on a card in front. I knock and go in. His name’s McMasters.
“Where the hell you been,” he says. “It’s 9:30 already. I run a tight ship an’ this ain’t a good start.”
“I missed my stop,” I say.
“The hell ya did,” he says. “ya can’t miss it. Biggest bloody stop for miles. What, ya thought there was another mall down the road?” I shrug and he goes on. “You’re a bit small for a Santa aren’t ya. Shit… I asked for someone fat. Wha’do I get? Another scrawny fucker.” He looks at the bag. “That your suit?
“Yeah,” I say.
“Here…pad yourself out with these.” He throws me some small pillows and bulky material. They’re clammy and smell of stale sweat. “We had a skinny runt yesterday too for fucks sake.”
I ask if there’s a place to shower and change.
“Nah,” he says, “it’s out of order, but you can change in here. I’ll get some water so ya can wipe yourself down on your breaks,” he says. “ But understand, I’ve gotta be in here at all times.”
I look round, wonder what I’d steal, and ask about the pay.
“One-twenty paid at knock-off,” he says. “So long’s you got a tax number. Otherwise, withholdin’, and it’s down to ninety.”
“Any chance of half up-front?” I ask.
“Look mister,” he says, trying to be hard-arsed, “there’s no bars in this mall, an’ the one down the road don’t open till after midday. I catch ya drinkin’, I’ll make sure you don’t see your money for weeks.” He’s found my weak-point. “There’s bottomless-cup at the Coffee House and a fountain in the atrium,” he goes on, “jus’ tell em who you are.”
I know about the fountain. I’d stopped on my way through. Drank a gallon and need a piss. It’s twenty degrees cooler in the mall, I’m feeling better but still need a drink. McMasters shows me round; Toilets, Coffee House, fountain. Next he wheels out some kinda barrel. It’s covered with a sheet.
“This is the lucky-dip,” he says. “The kids with the blue tickets get one go. If the ticket’s yellow, it’s hohoho – merry fucken Xmas an’ all that crap an’ ya push the button for the picture. Got it…? An’ don’t let the little bastards double-dip. Last years Santa was too soft. Don’t be soft. That barrel’s gotta last all day.”
I tell him I understand, then back-track to the toilet and Coffee House. I order two long-blacks, plenty of sugar, say put it on McMasters tab. The young thing behind the counter hands them over.
“You’re way to skinny to be a Santa Claus,” she says. “How come they never get fat guys to be Santa Claus anymore. Like when I was a kid.”
I tell her I don’t know, maybe it’s because all the fat people are too happy to be working Xmas in some shitty mall. They’ve got husbands, wives, families, kids I tell her. Probably hohohoing in their deck-chairs at home.
“Listen,” I say, “your boss hasn’t got a bottle stashed out back anywhere? Could ya splash a bit in each. Stop it bein’ bitter. It bein’ Xmas an’ all eh?”
She looks at me kinda funny. “You’re miserable, aren’t ya,” she says.
“Yeah. I’m miserable,” I say.
She sizes me up. I don’t flinch. She goes out back. Comes back and takes the coffees. I hear a screw-top and healthy splashes. She gives back the coffees.
“I like miserable people,” she says. “Happy people are so boring, don’t you think?”
I tell her yeah, and to keep the bottle handy.
IV
Back in the office, I change in front of McMasters. There’s no mirror so he helps with the padding and straightens the beard. When he asks about the wet patch I don’t answer. I’m glad there’s no mirror. It’s hard to walk and I stroll about to get a waddle going.
“Fuck me,” says McMasters, shaking his head. Instilling confidence doesn’t seem his strong point. I’m waddlin’ round and that padding waddles with me, my sympathy for fat people going up a notch from zero.
“I’ll be right once I’m sitting,” I try to convince us, but McMasters looks like he needs a wee lie-down.
“C’mon. Let’s get this fuken show on the road,” he says. He leads me out through the mall, and shows me to the seat. Those two coffees had taken some drinking but I’d persevered and now the whiskey’s kicked in, I’m starting to feel okay. Maybe I’ll survive afterall.
Then I’m on the seat. Santa’s seat. It’s big and makes me small. Fear, whiskey, and caffeine fight for my attentions, and fear’s ahead by a nose. I’m placed central, surrounded by gaudy lights and business signs, three types of music waft about and four sign-posted tunnels begin the labyrinth of consumption. I’m starting to heat-up again. It’s the bloody suit. The extra padding stifles circulation and as I squirm into the seat I take a look around. The young thing at the Coffee House delivers more coffee.
“Two long-blacks,” she says. “Lots of sugar.”
“You do understand misery,” I say to her.
She places them steaming beneath the chair, turns and walks back to her job. I watch the wiggle of her buns. She’ll make lots of men miserable with buns like those. They’ll get too much then not enough, then get none at all. Now that’s misery. I drink the first coffee before it’s cooled and burn my mouth. A small price to pay.
The mall’s getting busy. I’ve been on the seat about an hour I guess. There’s no clocks anywhere and I wonder about that. I’ve had half a dozen kids up on my knee, all about four or five. They complain I didn’t bring them what they wanted and have blue tickets. They go to the barrel and I keep watch for double-dippers. Hell – if some kid wheeled that whole barrel away I would’ve let it go.
I’ve finished the fourth coffee and I’m all light-headed. The flash-bulb hurts my eyes and there’s a strange ringing in my ears. Between the next two kids I catch the eye of the girl at the Coffee House. A few minutes later she slides two more steaming cups under Santa’s chair.
“Listen,” I say. “This coffee’s makin’ me weird. Hows about next time, more from the bottle, less the machine?” I don’t plead but know what too much coffee does to a mans insides.
I’m watching her disappearing buns when I catch sight of Amberlee. Her and the kid are in the food court but not eating. No doubt saving themselves for Xmas dinner. I’m thinking about that when I hear McMasters voice.
“Listen,” I hear. I swing my head, go dizzy, my vision’s gone and he’s out of focus, “I’ve been watchin’ you,” he’s saying amidst the blur, “an’ I don’t like it,” his two shapes settling into one, “That last kid was cryin’ when it got back to it’s mother. What the fuck ya say to it?” He’s got an ugly face to go with his demeanor and I’m glad. I can’t remember what I’d said to the kid.
“You told me don’t let ‘em double-dip,” I say.
“For christs sake,” he says. “You’re fucken Santa Claus, not fucken Don Brash.” He looks at his watch but doesn’t tell me the time. “I’ll be back in half an hour. You can have a break. I’ll find some one to watch the barrel.” He strolls off looking every bit a duty manager.
Out of now where, four kids are lined-up, each with a mother, none with a father, but I don’t have time to think about that.
“Mummy said I gotta thank you for the stuff you give me,” the kid on my knees started, “but I don’t like much.”
“Hohoho,” I say. “Sorry ‘bout that little girl but I was very busy this morning. What was it you wanted? I get mixed-up there’s so many of ya’s to visit.”
“I wanna Barby an’ a shaker-maker an’ a house for Dolly and Rupert an’…”
“Whoa now…gee…” I say, “that’s a lotta stuff for a little girl to be wanting. Crickey. Now…did ya send a letter? You know…me an’ Mrs Claus we… and the elves an’ stuff…you know…we’re kinda busy…an’ if you didn’t send a letter then…well… you know. Talk to your mum about it. She’ll explain.”
The kid doesn’t say anything, just looks at me funny, and I spose I am, so I move right along, pointing, “See the camera, big smile…” and take a picture. She’s got a blue ticket so I send her to the barrel. Sweat runs down the inside of the suit and settles in the crack of my arse.
John Nuttall
