Santa Got Run Over by a Buick LeSabre

I came to on the pavement in front of a faded blue, hideous boat of a Buick. It stared down on me in all my mall Santa glory with those grimy headlights, and the engine let a low chuckle roar over me. I let a long and exaggerated groan loose as the Buick door slammed somewhere behind me and rubber shoe soles slapped the pavement. The man came out with eyes like snow globes, panic swelling them three or four times their normal size. If I didn't show a sign of life quickly he looked likely to burst into tears and tear his mangy black hair out of his head.

I sat up as best as I could and things cleared up a bit. The sounds of faint Christmas bells mingled with the cries of a little boy, a hysterical witness in the near murder of his beloved Santa. I let out a pained breath and decided that my ribs were at least bruised. I looked myself over, sitting there in the middle of the street. The shiny buckles on my polished black boots were well concealed by chunks of dirty city snow.  I noticed that my bright red pants were gaining a small, dark red highlight, running down the middle of my thigh. It was wet and growing slow and steady. I pictured how it would soon dry and I would get to peel the cheap red material out of the healing road rash.

Up on my feet now, the driver finally managed some sort of communication through his gag of panic.

"Are you drunk?"

I needed a second to think on that one. One eye closed and I searched through my memory from under that dark lid, trying to piece together what exactly just happened. Through my open eye I saw my fake beard that had been loosely attached and hanging low around my neck before I got hit. It was a good 15 yards or so over the sidewalk, hung on a wiry, leafless tree. A horrible and ominous ornament on a terrifying Christmas tree.

"Not yet," I say as the situation dawns on me. "I may come off as a little dazed, though. Some asshole just hit me in his car. You see where he went?" Already, he's not amused. "He was driving the ugliest Buick I ever saw. And when you're talkin' about the LeSabre, that's really somethi-"

"Fuck you," he cuts in. "What the hell were you doing in the street anyway? You realize you're not even laying in an intersection right now."

I had no choice but to absorb that remark because he was damn right. I was jay walking. Not only was I jay walking, but I was jay walking to save a minute or so on my short trip across the street, to the only bar in the city that was open on Christmas Eve.

The one good thing about this particular December 24th was it was my last day of work for the year, and not a moment too soon. On this shining example of a day in my career, one kid pissed on me and another bit my hand, actually drawing blood. After a few years you stop hearing the constant sound of screaming children and parents, the squeak of sneakers on the freshly waxed mall floor. For some reason I could hear every damn thing that night. I think if there was anyone with the right to get sloppy drunk on Jesus' birthday, it was reserved for me.

I gave my artificial belly a slight press, feeling that my slightly flabby frame underneath was less damaged than I had originally assessed. I gave Santa a silent thanks for being the fat ass that he was. This predominant feature of his meant I was forced to wear what might be the most ridiculous accessory ever conceived, an artificial fat stomach. It was that same damn thing, which I so often cursed, that probably just saved me from some sort of internal injury when I rolled up and cracked the windshield to that blue beast. I pushed my hips forward with the hands on the small of my back, stressing wobbly legs to their limit. My spine sounded with a sick crack that seemed to silence the city's bustle and echo clear across the county.

A few people were starting to gather around and stare, my unshaven face as exposed to them as my very evident injuries. I made brief eye contact with one horrified little lady. Her hand reached up to hide her mouth, falling open in astonishment at the whole spectacle. I quickly looked down, searching for my hat.

The only thing I wished for was that damned beard not to be so far away. People tend to assume I have no shame, that I am impervious to the ridiculous and pathetic nature of my own situation. I can see it, though, just as I could see that the blood was drawing to my cheeks faster and stronger with each new set of prying eyes. That crying kid's mother finally walked him away, and I thought she might have the right idea. I started to limp as quickly as I could manage across the street in the same exact spot, seeming to have learned no lesson at all. The puzzled driver stood next to his chugging car and gave a condescending laugh as he called out to me.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Merry Christmas," I muttered, if he could hear me at all. I made an ugly scurry across the road and nearly fell flat on my face when my toes clipped the raised curb. I could hardly believe I wasn't drunk yet as I caught my balance on the big green door to the bar. I could hear that guy, still outside his car, give a sad laugh as the hinges turned, easy and inviting.

All five of the patrons looked up at me as I jollied my way on in, then quickly returned to their drinks. Suddenly the bizarre situation seemed to dawn on them as their heads all snapped back toward me in unison, taking a second gander in disbelief. One man shook his head and let out a chuckle like he was miles above me. Everyone went back to their drinks, for good this time.

The bartender leaned his hip against the counter and put on a cock-eyed smile. He sat their patiently as I limped my way to the first seat at the front of the bar. He laughed and poured me a rum with eggnog, "On the house," he said. I downed it in one ruthless chug and the thick eggnog fought every step of the way.

"Whiskey on the rocks," I mumbled through a thick frothy mustache. The golden brown liquid splashed into my cup and I emptied it. I asked for another. This carried on for a while, the frozen little squares bathing in the wide shallow glass. Eight or nine of these later, it finally started to feel like Christmas for me.

Things got a bit blurry at this point. But there is one thing I do remember very clearly. The last person made his way into the bar for the evening. I was far too drunk to feign any interest as I heard the door creak open. I could feel the cold off his jacket as he passed close behind me and I nearly jumped out of my skin as his hand slapped me on the back. I turned quick and wild, on the defense. Much to my surprise it was that Buick driving bastard. He gave me the lonely, drinking on Christmas smile and ordered up a White Russian for me, pulling up the stool to my right. He smiled right in my face and slapped a chocolate chip cookie on the counter in front of me. I couldn't fight off the laughs anymore. It seemed we were both getting a kick out of it all.

"Merry Christmas to you too," he said. There was a quiet moment there where both our thoughts hung in the air. The night's events were suspended in the neon light of the bar. Here, they looked just a little different than last time around.

"Let's paint that nose of yours red," I returned. I pushed the whiskey I had just ordered over to him with the back of my hand. "I need a Rudolph." He picked up the glass with a smile and clinked it against mine. We spent our Christmas Eve hidden from the world in this little basement bar, feeling reassured that our troubles would give us a little break, at least until morning.