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Not that he owned a phone, but his landlady, Mrs. Green, insisted she was happy to take messages for him. Maybe she'd just forgotten or something. So he watched the street from his kitchenette window from ten onwards, not moving even when he realized he needed to piss. It was past eleven when the postman finally came by. Henry made a quick dash to the can then raced down the thirty-two steps to the row of mailboxes. Nothing for him -- as usual -- but yes, there was one for Mrs. Green, just a bill by the looks of the envelope but that was all the excuse he needed. He knocked on her door, heard her scraping footsteps and the rattle of the lock. "Morning, Mrs. G. Some mail for you." "Why thank you, Henry, that's very thoughtful of you. My knee's been playing up again and I wasn't looking forward to those steps." She always talked that way, kind of grandmotherly. "Be happy to pick up your groceries or anything, Mrs. G, just say the word, okay?" "Thank you again," she said with her big wrinkly smile, and continued, "Still no calls for you, I'm afraid. Perhaps you should ring them to check -- you're very welcome to use my telephone." No, not a phone. He always got nervous when he couldn't see who he was talking to, especially these days now his ears weren't so good, and soon he'd get loud and start shouting, and that'd be the end of that job just like all the others. Plus, he'd embarrass himself in front of Mrs. Green. Maybe scare her. Maybe get evicted even. "Thanks anyway, Mrs. G, but I think ... I think I should go in and see them in person." Yeah, that's exactly what he should do, what he should have done weeks ago. *** Henry's one good shirt was missing a button, but his tie covered it okay, and today was a warm start to summer so he didn't feel stupid not wearing (or owning) a half-respectable jacket, and his second hand shoes had polished up fine. No one looked at him twice when he walked through Castletons' big brass and glass entrance doors. Menswear on the left, Kitchenware on the right, then Gourmet Foods and Castletons' fine selection of wines and spirits, look away, look away. Up the escalator and a sharp right through Home Appliances and on to the Accounts department and all those offices back there, including Miss Tomlins from "Human Resources", why they had to give it a fancy name like that he didn't know. But halfway through Home Appliances, his hands went cold and clammy, like always when he was nervous. He took a left towards Toys, telling himself he was just checking out what was the in thing this year, a bit of background research for the job. Yeah, right. He stopped dead, halfway down the Dolls and Stuffed Animals aisle. He could hear that tinkly music, Jingle Bells over and over and over -- it always drove him crazy on the first day each year then faded until he didn't notice it no more. There was Santa's Grotto on the far wall, its sparkly lights blinking and a queue of whiny kids outside. The bastards. They'd got themselves a new Santa and hadn't even bothered to tell him. Had Brian got himself a new partner? Nah, Brian wouldn't do that to him, not after all they'd been through together. Henry did mornings, Brian did afternoons, they split late nights, and they covered for each other. Always. He breathed deep, wiped his hands on his trousers, and walked closer, real casual, real slow, stopping to look at toys as though he was just another parent. "Sorry," he said automatically, as some clumsy oaf collided with him -- oh, it was Brian himself, smelling of beer and close to tears. "Henry, thank God you're here, look what they done, look what they done to us," he babbled, waving his arms. "Quiet down, Brian. You've been drinking." "Only one, okay two, just to settle my nerves. Look at him over there, lording it up in our Grotto. We gotta do something, Henry." Brian was always red hot on "doing something". Also too dumb to ever think of the consequences, and the last thing Henry needed was to get dragged into Brian's consequences again -- he'd kept his nose clean with the cops for ten years now. "Settle down, Brian. Let's stay calm and do a spot of reconnaissance, ok?" Reconnaissance was a fine-sounding word, flashy enough to dazzle Brian into meekly following him over to Radio Control Vehicles, where they pretended interest in the new All-Terrain Monsta Drag-Dragon Racer and peered over the shelves towards the Grotto. At first, some firm-assed elf-hatted teenager blocked their view as she calmed down a screaming toddler. Eventually the brat was dragged away by his mother and the elf slumped back on her plastic chair, revealing Santa on his papier-mâché Arctic Throne. Damn. He was good. Not just good, he was great. A real beard, just look at the way the next kid was yanking on it, and Santa didn't mind one bit, he just gave a freakin' Merry Chuckle that even Henry believed and now the kid was giggling too. Then the previous brat returned at full gallop and full volume and tried to leap back onto Santa's knee. His mother and the elf together couldn't drag him off, not until Santa whispered in his ear, and suddenly both kids were sharing Santa's lap and smiling like little angels. "Let's smack him one," said Brian. Henry sighed. "There's a dozen security cameras in case Santa tries to feel up any kids, you know that, plus extra security guards everywhere for the festive shoplifting season. Let's get out of here." "I need another beer," whined Brian, which was a bad idea except Henry really did need to sit down and think, and to keep an eye on Brian. So they went to a nearby bar and Henry ordered them an overpriced imported beer each, an old trick to force themselves to drink slowly to get their money's worth. This was a time for clear heads. "We're screwed, aren't we?" said Brian after a glum silence and half a glass. "That guy, he ... we can't compete with some goddamned super-Santa. We'll never work for Castletons again. Maybe ... maybe we should check out some shopping malls, or have a go at children's parties. Someone must still need second-rate Santas like us." "Children's parties? We haven't sunk that low, Brian, show some self-respect. But yeah, we're in walking distance of a dozen malls and department stores right now. Maybe some of them are still hiring." But they soon discovered Southtown Mall also had a great Santa just like the one at Castletons. So did Tarawa's Toy Town. And the Seaview Shopping Centre. "Santa's cloned himself," moaned Brian, as they rested their feet at Seaview's food court. "Look, there goes another one." Henry could see him too -- not in costume but there was no mistaking that curly white beard, rosy cheeks and cheery smile. And there was Brian, running over to the guy, fists clenched. "Hey, you," Brian was saying as Henry caught up. "Yeah, that's right, jolly boy, I want a word with you." Said with all Brian's usual charm, so that any sane passer-by would assume a mugging was in progress and call the cops. Henry wanted to turn and walk away. He wasn't involved, he was never here, it was all Brian's idea. Except Santa wasn't yelling for security -- he was beaming at them like a Christmas card. "My, what big boys," he twinkled. "And what would you two like for Christmas?" Brian seemed stunned into silence. "A job," hissed Henry. "A half-decent job, something that doesn't involve scrubbing public toilets or mopping up vomit and broken glass; a job that a man can be proud of doing well. To work as Santas for a month each year and give it our best -- was that too much to ask? You and all your identical twins or clones or whatever the hell you are, you've stolen that from us." Brian nodded and stared at the ground. The Santa's smile widened. "Excellent, just the type of fellows we're looking for." He shook their hands. Good manly grip, but a surprisingly sweaty palm. "Follow me," he ordered cheerfully, and they did, unable to think of a good reason not to. Maybe it was the hot streets or the crowds or the noise, but Henry soon felt queasy, and was grateful when they stopped a few blocks away in a restaurant he'd never seen before, the posh kind with tablecloths and metal cutlery. "These gentlemen," announced the Santa, his sweaty hands on Henry's and Brian's shoulders, "are most righteously outraged at being denied honorable employment in the noble Santa profession." Which wasn't quite how Henry would have put it, but the room's other inhabitants, twenty or thirty identical Santas in mufti, all cheered. They welcomed Henry and Brian, shaking hands and slapping their backs (with sweaty palms, every last one of them). Icy cold glasses of golden beer were handed around, along with plates of oven-fresh pastries and pies, ham and chicken and roast potatoes, all that traditional northern hemisphere Christmas fare that Henry loved but couldn't afford, not since fifteen years ago when he and Brian ran that little credit card scam that had gone so well at first. He realized he was ravenous, then that he was getting drunk, and then things got really confused. The next thing he knew, he was at home, lying in his own bed and wondering whether he'd dreamt the whole thing, 'coz it was nine in the morning and his head didn't hurt none, although his pleasantly swollen stomach still remembered that wonderful beer and food. His chin itched. A knock on the door. Probably Mormon missionaries or someone selling overpriced vacuum cleaners. But no, it was a Santa in a natty business suit, carrying several large boxes. Inside the first box was a Santa costume, not the usual pee-stained polyester one-size-fits-all he was used to, no, this was quality workmanship. "Try it on," said the Santa. "You start work at Castletons tomorrow." It fit like a custom-tailored suit, except around the middle -- even his swollen stomach didn't come close to filling the waistband. "Perfect," the Santa beamed. He unwrapped a full-length mirror. "Take a look." Henry thought a mirror was an odd thing for even a Santa to carry around, then remembered he was supposed to be looking at himself in it. Somehow his reflection didn't make sense, until he tugged at his chin and confirmed he really did have a white beard half as long as that of the Santa who caught him as he fainted. *** "Sorry," said the Santa. "Should have warned you. I remember it came as quite a shock to me too." "What the hell's happening? Did you drug me?" "No, no, no, it's some sort of virus, rewrites our DNA or something. Don't ask me how -- I left school at fifteen. Like I said before, you start work at Castletons tomorrow, eight thirty. Don't be late, you know how they are. By then you'll look like the rest of us -- Castletons will never even notice the difference. Why the long face? This is what you said you wanted for Christmas. Trust me, you'll be a better Santa now than you ever were." "No, I meant ... why the hell are you going around turning people into Santas? Six billion Santas is going to make Christmas a little weird, don't you think?" The Santa roared with laughter. "It's not like the flu, idiot. We're only contagious when we want and need to be -- our hands sweat, you'll know when it happens." "Oh. Um. Um. How did you know to bring a full-length mirror?" The Santa thought this was hilarious too. "Slobs like us never own a mirror other than the one over the bathroom sink. I was like you once. We were all just like you." He left, still chuckling. "Don't I get a choice about this?" Henry yelled out the door, but there was no reply. He took off the costume and folded it with care, 'coz it was the only part of this thing that he trusted. His stomach growled. What smelt so good? He investigated the other boxes left behind by the Santa, and found a whole roast turkey with all the trimmings, and a large Christmas pudding, both piping hot. He ate both in twenty minutes and still felt hungry. Another box held two iced Christmas fruitcakes and a kilo of chocolate-coated almonds, which he finished in under ten minutes, washed down with a liter of milk from his fridge. To his immense disappointment, the final box only contained a perfectly fitting Santa hat. Another knock on the door. Another Santa -- no, it was Brian, now a half-Santa just like himself but looking a damned sight more pleased about it. "Ho, ho, ho," announced Brian, then giggled for a minute at his own wit, an annoying habit from way back. At least now he was developing a Festive Chuckle that made the sound almost pleasant. "Hey, I heard you'll be taking over at Castletons? Congratulations, mate. I'll be at Tarawa's Toy Town. Man, I love that place, especially their model trains. Hey, you got any food? A Santa left me some but I ate it already and I could ... I could eat a horse for lunch, I really could." This set off more giggling. Henry looked in his fridge. Enough for a dull lunch for one under normal circumstances; not even a snack with his appetite today. He sighed. "Brian, I got thirty-seven bucks in the whole world until my next dole payment. If we stay this hungry, we'll starve to death by then. And maybe that'd be for the best. They infected us, Brian, screwed our insides with some mad scientist genetic engineering virus." "Ho, ho, ho," was Brian's only response, complete with belly wobble. "Hey, let's go back to that Santa restaurant -- they had great free food. And beer. Ho, ho, ho." Which sounded far too easy, but maybe someone there could give some straight answers. Sitting here feeling hungry wasn't going to solve anything. He half-heartedly joined in the "Ho, ho, ho"ing as they left. Yes, his own voice had changed, just like Brian's. "Oh my, those beards look simply wonderful," said Mrs. Green from her doorway. "I'm so glad that things worked out for the best. I just knew they would." "Thanks, Mrs. G," said Henry, sounding but not feeling merry, 'coz something felt wrong, something far worse than whether they'd have to pay for lunch. This time he saw the restaurant's name on the way in -- The North Pole -- cheesy, but appropriate enough to make him grin. The other Santas welcomed them, and yes the food and drink really were free. Between platefuls, he tried asking the others what was going on, who was behind the virus and how and why, but no one seemed to know or care. He spent the day eating and drinking up large, and woke up the next morning at seven with an impressive jelly belly, a full-length white beard, blurry memories and no hangover. His costume now fit perfectly. "You're good," he told his reflection. "No, not just good, you're great. Thanks to this crazy virus, which you got no choice about, and it's probably going to kill you or something. But today at least, you're a great Santa." And he was. Most kids had liked him ok in previous years -- you didn't last long in the job otherwise -- but this year they all seemed to love him. Somehow now he knew just how to coax the shy ones onto his lap, and the perfect thing to say to the wide-eyed optimists who wanted a pony or a baby brother or a real helicopter. For a change, he heard their every whispered or mumbled reply as well -- that virus must have fixed up his ears somehow. No one peed on him all day, and the only tears came from kids who wanted a longer hug. Their parents all loved him too. Even the other Castletons staff adored him, telling him how much better he was than those losers Henry and Brian from last year. Henry could only agree. His biggest fear -- his sweaty hands turning the kids into a horde of tiny Santas -- came to nothing. Despite the heavy costume and the warm day, his hands stayed cool and dry. *** The next day and the next went the same. Soon Henry barely noticed the weeks go past, he wasn't even sure how many days a week he was working or whether he was being paid. Didn't seem to matter. Life was a blur of happy kids, grinning parents, impromptu caroling sessions, and stuffing himself at The North Pole. Brian somehow looked ten years younger, despite his long white beard, and whenever Henry looked in a mirror, he saw that he too was standing straighter, prouder. Before he knew it, it was late Christmas Eve. The last frantic shoppers were gone, and the branch manager of Castletons herself was handing him a plastic cup of genuine French champagne and congratulating him on the best and most profitable Christmas ever. Melanie the firm-assed elf kissed him right on the lips, and everyone clapped. Soon they were all singing Silent Night. Henry couldn't bear to ruin the mood by asking the question clawing his heart -- who needs a Santa after Christmas? Maybe he had one too many glasses of that champagne, 'coz to his surprise he next found himself back at The North Pole, queuing up with a long line of Santas. Over the next few hours he somehow walked straight through the walls of several thousand homes, pulling brightly wrapped gifts from a mysteriously never-empty sack. At least, that's all he could remember when he woke up on Christmas Day with a hangover, his first in months. No, not a hangover, this hurt his head in new places, and his chin itched and his joints ached. And he was tired, so tired. Well, he told himself as everything faded to black, at least he'd had one great month -- the best in his whole stinking life, let's be honest. And it had been worth it. Seasonal work always ended sometime; he'd known that. Butterflies didn't last long. *** He awoke to the unexpected sight of Mrs. Green standing in his lounge, ironing his Santa costume and humming Jingle Bells. He tried to sit up and managed only a moan. She looked over and smiled. "Wakey wakey, sleepy head. They said you'd be up this morning, so I made sure to wash your costume yesterday. It'll be all ready for you just as soon as I finish these sleeves." They? "What day is it?" he mumbled, thoroughly confused. "December the first, of course," she said, as if that explained everything. Scrubbing himself in the shower, he realized that it did explain everything, sort of. At the very least, why he was skeleton thin and so hungry. He tried to quiz Mrs. Green for more details, like who the hell they were, but it was soon clear that she knew little more herself, and saw nothing odd about a tenant who hibernated for eleven months -- so long as his rent was paid on time, which it had been -- and he got the impression she wished more of her tenants would do the same. He gave up, thanked her for the ironing and headed for The North Pole. Presumably all the other Santas would be there too. On the bus, a hard-eyed greasy-haired young man stared at his beard. Henry didn't feel too jolly, but forced a smile in return. "I could do that," muttered the young man, with an unconvincing sneer. "I'm great with kids, ask anyone. I'd be a perfect Santa. No bastard will give me a job, though. Can't blame them neither, not with my history." Henry felt his hands tingle and sweat, and this time he smiled for real. "Come and have lunch with me at a place I know -- it's free," he said, and shook the puzzled young man's hand.
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| Last updated on 1/3/2008 8:47:26 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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December the first, and so far Henry had heard nothing from Castletons, not a word. He'd stayed sober for them all November, just one beer each evening. Stayed off the smokes too, to keep his breath smelling nice -- peppermints didn't hide the stink, not really. All for nothing? Five years solid he'd worked Christmas for them, and now he wasn't even worth no phone call?
Peter Friend has sold stories and plays, mostly in the science fiction and fantasy genres, to numerous magazines and anthologies for adults and children. In real life, he's a computer analyst, but hopes to one day become a full-time living art treasure.