Two Nights Before Christmas
Santa didn’t want to get his picture taken with me or listen
to my short list of demands. Even before it was my turn to climb
the stairs and go through the whole routine, I could tell. There
was something about the nervous way he glared at me. The teenage
girls in their felt elf costumes kept giving me dirty skunk-eye looks,
too--then glancing around in every direction as if praying for mall
security to come strolling to their rescue.
I knew that wasn’t happening any time soon. The elves were
pretty slow figuring it out.
I’d worn my holiday finest. I’d wet down my hair. I’d
stood waiting quietly like a good boy. Other parents were there with
their children, sure, but I didn’t think it was right to go
waving guns around in front of my twins.
I didn’t want them getting the wrong idea about the holidays
seeing Daddy shoot Santa.
Also, my ex had made it clear that it was Friday and my lawyer certainly
remembered, even if I didn't, that I got to see the girls on Sunday.
Don’t think I didn’t notice how Santa really started
taking his sweet time with each child after I got in line. I noticed
all right. But I didn’t see a reason to cause a hubbub.
I wasn’t there to terrify strangers with a bunch of useless
yelling. I just wanted answers--and a chance to shoot (and possibly
kill) Santa if he failed to deliver like he had every Christmas as
far back as I could recall.
Eventually, though, my patience did wear thin with all the standing
around waiting. I lost it a little. Without really thinking, I let
off a few quick rounds toward the ceiling and shouted, “If
somebody doesn’t shut off that Bing Crosby muzak right now,
I’m going to start shooting the elves!”
Seriously, thinking didn’t figure into what I did or said at
all. I had zero intention of shooting any elves. The muzak wasn’t
even that annoying until you’d heard the entire song cycle
two or three times. But, boy howdy, you should have seen everybody
start blubbering and praying to that plastic baby Jesus I had strapped
to my chest.
Before I was able to apologize, Santa hefted the fat kid in his lap
to the ground and motioned him toward safety. Then he reached inside
his big red coat. The gun he produced made the portable armory I
was carrying look like a bunch of toys. If there had been anything
like it for sale at the military surplus store where I equipped myself,
I would have bought at least two.
“Someone’s been very, very naughty,” Santa growled.
“I never meant to cause a hubbub,” I stammered.
Santa didn’t care. “If anybody’s going to kill
these pitiful excuses for hormones run amok, it’s damn well
gonna be me. I’ve had it up to my beard with all the goddamn
giggling about boys! It's enough to drive a man insane.”
“I planned on possibly killing you, Santa. But I’ve got nothing
against some stupid teenagers. Someday my girls will be stupid teenagers. They’re
twins. Identical. Just as cute as can be. People are always telling me their
mom and I should audition them to star in TV commercials. The money would help
tons, but I’m sure their mom’s lawyer would finagle it so I never
saw a penny.”
“I hope, for your sake, your girls grow up to be lesbians,” Santa
said. “The only thing worse than a boy-crazy teenager is a herd of ‘em
dressed up to work as mall elves. They think they’re just precious in
their mini-skirts. Take it from a dirty old man: they’re not worth the
fucking trouble.”
Then Santa casually turned and shot his entire crew of part-time
elf helpers, one by one, at point blank range.
If he’d used a real gun, instead of that real-looking paint
ball gun, they would have all been killed instantly. Instead, they
ended up nothing more than bruised – physically and emotionally – and
splattered with red or green paint.
If I’d noticed Santa's victims writhing around moaning on the
mall's cold tile floor after they were shot, rather than dying instantly,
I don't think I would have unloaded so much of my ammunition in him.
Then again, the paint ball the cranky son of a bitch fired at me
shattered the plastic baby Jesus I was wearing to green smithereens,
so some folks might say he got exactly what he deserved.
At least that’s the story I plan to tell my girls if their
mom ever brings them to visit and they want to know why Daddy ruined
Christmas forever.
The holiday season Brian Beatty remembers most fondly is the year he was loaded up into a charter bus and driven from Indiana to Florida with his fellow high school marching band geeks. That is the only Christmas he's ever escaped his family. It was on this same trip that he experienced his first hand-job, somewhere in Tennessee.