I guess I could add a bit more description. It’s a real-life town-square in downtown Portland. People often gather there, and pass by there to go to shops, jobs, etc.
Short Story / Santa Brawl
There is poetry in a man facing his death stoically. In the set of his jaw, the line of his back held rigid and his head high, in these things are read stanzas of eloquence and valor. I have never been accused of poetic ambition.
I’ve just been weeping. My throat has opened enough, and the spasmodic sobs have slowed enough that I can yell, “He slipped, God damnit!” My voice is deep. It rumbles its way past bars of steel and into the spartan concrete walls of death row. Death. Fucking. Row.
An immutable law of the universe: in a closed system, entropy goes up. I.E.: everything comes to an end.
I don’t know if there are any guards that can hear me. If they could hear, would they believe me? If they believed, could they do anything to help?
They like to give a man space on death row. The guards don’t like to distract a man from his contemplation of hopelessness, from his protest against the inevitable, and they certainly don’t want to put up with my antics.
I’m sure I display my first-rate intellect when I holler, “Let me the fuck out of here!”
Having one’s options focused to the solitary choice of death tends to narrow the imagination. My imagination, narrowed as it is, does the only thing it knows to do: it summons the past. For the thousandth time, the millionth time, my mind finds itself recreating the chill of that day. Maybe it’s the first time though; the thoughts of that day, the first day of the rest of my life, as the saying goes, have been such a constant background noise, a cacophonous symphony of regret, ebbing and swelling in my brain that’s never quite stopped since I’ve found myself in a hopeless situation.
I try to quell these thoughts with remembrances of loves past, of triumphs and failures (for this was not the first great falling-down of my life, though it cannot help but be my final), but my narrowed imagination refuses to stray far, to widen again, as though realizing the futility of any thought at all in the face of it’s own extinction, it simply chooses the thoughts that come easiest.
It had rained the night before, and the morning streets and sidewalks of downtown Portland glittered with ice. I walked over the slick concrete with the over-careful movements of the practiced drunk. In my red, white-trimmed coat I had hidden a half-empty (as I’ve always been a pessimist) fifth of Wild Turkey. The other half of that bottle of less-than-divinely-inspired beverage was sloshing in my rotten gut, having been consumed immediately after waking, in the hopes it would abolish the skull-crushing after-effects of the night before.
I hurried as fast as the ice would allow, one of my hands gratefully buried in a pocket of faux fur, my kettle and its stand tucked underneath its arm. The other hand had been called forth from its fuzzily warm den to assure my floppy red had maintained its precarious perch upon my bald, black head. I wore no false beard, as sixty years of hard life had supplied me with a densely curled white beard for children to tug upon painfully.
I had devoted much of my life to deliver alcohol to my brain without having to drink it. A PhD in biological chemistry had given me in-depth knowledge of the normal mouth-stomach-intestine-blood road that alcohol, and other less-vital nutrients, normally drove to the brain. I spent my first two years out of graduate school working for a pharmaceutical company; I used their time and money researching a method to bypass that road, attempting to build an alcohol aircraft that could be easily flown by the common man directly to the tropical island of inebriated bliss.
Naturally I had been the cheapest and most efficient test subject. I had injected myself, given myself alcohol enema, consumed alcohols distilled from sugars more exotic than the common grain sugars. After a trip to the emergency room, caused by breathing atomized 200 proof, the company decided to more closely scrutinize my research. Although I tried to impress upon the board the medicinal and financial virtues of a way to get drunk without having to drink liquor, and consume the alcohol-less calories that accompanied such activities, they claimed that I was simply getting smashed on the company pay-roll. I was fired.
Getting fired from a high-profile research company doesn’t look good on one’s resume. I held a series of sequentially lower-paying and less prestigious jobs, while I continued my researches with my own financial reserves, which dwindled with each subsequent termination of employment. I was arrested a few times, armed robbery, larceny, shop-lifting. Prison does not look good on one’s resume.
As the time I spent in the outside world between stints in prison became shorter, the quality of my research decayed. My last “experiment” involved soaking my Santa hat in Bacardi 151, in the deranged hope that the alcohol would osmose directly into my brain. All I received from that experience was a pair of sharply stinging eyes, nasty looks from parents who accidentally let their kids get to close to the “stinky Santa,” and the realization that through decades of constant inebriation and a lack of any real scientific methodology I had ceased to be any kind of scientist.
And so at Sixty years old, my occupation was Drunk Santa Claus. Although it was not the most lucrative profession, and neither the dark color of my skin, nor my Doctorate of Philosophy were of any great assistance in convincing already financially-stressed holiday shoppers to part with money that was being quickly converted into brightly-colored Chinese-made plastic gadgets, wrapping paper, and socks, I knew some tricks that helped. Of utmost importance was Location. I had a good spot downtown: Pioneer Courthouse Square, underneath a cluster of signs which showed direction and distance to such far-off, mythical destinations as Timbuctoo, and New York. It was adjacent to a light-rail stop, and attracted a great crowd of scarf, jacket, and jeans-wearing Portlanders with enough money to spare some for the less fortunate (myself), but not so affluent as to have their hearts hardened to the plight of those in need.
Knowing that my favorite spot could be taken by anyone who got there first, I hurried, carefully, drunkenly, not because I loved my job, but because that location consistently earned me enough to pay for my dingy loft, and continue my “researches.” Unfortunately, although I had done the math and concluded that Wild Turkey was a virtual Autobahn to intoxication, it was not the super-sonic flight I had sought for so long, and the time spent consuming it that morning, along with the treacherous conditions for pedestrian traffic had delayed me.
I turned a final corner, and saw with relief that the spot underneath the many-arrowed sign was clear. I was still two blocks away when I saw another red-suited, floppy-hatted man round a corner from the direction opposite my own. he was three blocks away, but appeared to be moving faster than my tired old knees would allow. I attempted to speed up as I did some quick mental calculations. If Santa A were approaching point X at Y velocity from two blocks, and Santa B were approaching X at 2Y velocity from three blocks, he was certain to beat me.
My heart filled with the glee of triumph as I watched the other Santa slip on a patch of ice. I stopped at my spot, and set my kettle on its stand. The streets were just beginning to come to life, not yet with shoppers, but with store clerks, tellers and office workers scrambling to their jobs.
I had just began to ring my bell, when the other Santa walked up to me, puffing and red-faced. Upon closer inspection of his features, I saw that he was a skinny young man. Underneath his crooked nylon beard, he had the splotchy complexion and scabrous sores of a methamphetamine addict, and his gasping breath was flinging spittle from between wide-gapped, browning teeth. Just peeking above his collar were the twin lightning bolts of the SS tattooed on one side of his neck, and the number 88 primitively inked on the other side. Although I know it is an often futile hope, I’ve always liked to believe in the ability of a man to redeem himself, and I try not to judge those who have permanently marked themselves with hatred.
An immutable law of the universe: one will always be disappointed.
He said, panting, “You gotta leave, old man.”
I’ve never found sarcasm to be an effective tool of persuasion, but at times I cannot help myself. ”I know,” I replied.
He was obviously surprised by my response. He waited several moments in silence. As I continued to ring my bell, and made no preparations to leave, he said, “Well, get outta here!”
I said, with a small smile wrinkling my face, “I’ll leave when…”
He interrupted, “Are you fucking with me?”
It seemed obvious to me that, yes, I was fucking with him. I opened my mouth again to tell him that I would leave when I was cold, tired, or sober, but he seemed to have little flair for the dramatic, as he continued to interrupt me he started to yell repeatedly, “Are you fucking with me?”
He looked around at the gathering crowd. He postured for a second with his arms wide and upper body tilted back. Then he pushed me.
I didn’t quite fall. When I regained my equilibrium, I waited a moment then pushed him back, feeling like a thirteen year old at the school yard.
His main conversational skill seemed to be repetition of the obvious. He began a mantra of, “He fucking pushed me!” and he continued to pace and posture. He was talking more to himself than to the crowd.
He noticed he was still holding his kettle-stand, and he swung it at me, missing clumsily as his foot slipped on the icy sidewalk. He grabbed onto my coat to catch himself. Without thinking I grabbed my kettle off its stand and began to flail at my assailant with it.
He recoiled for a moment until he realized that my kettle, like his, was made out of plastic, and not the cast-iron it was designed to look like. He recovered and punched me in the cheek.
I was shocked by the amount of force his scrawny arm and bony fist delivered to my face. I realized that I was on the ground without even remembering the fall. I tried to get up, but he began to kick me as soon as I was on my hands and knees, forcing me back to the icy concrete.
He began to chant, “Nobody wants nigger Santa!” kicking me every time he mentioned Old Saint Nick. He circled me kicking whatever part of my body was not defended by my old, tired arms. My back, my head, my legs, my stomach, nearly every part of me felt the black hammer of his boot.
I heard a small shout that was cut off abruptly by a dull thud that was not a boot smashing some part of my anatomy. I shakily stood up. I admit that I felt some satisfaction as I saw him lying on the sidewalk, having slipped while trying to kick me again.
My small smile disappeared when I saw his head tilted back into the gutter, blood leaking from the back of his skull. His eyes were wide open, and his chest failed to rise and fall with the rhythm natural to life. I shouted for someone to call nine-one-one. I began to administer CPR, but no amount of chest compressions or rescue breaths will restart a man’s heart when his cerebellum, that part of the brain that gives the orders to the autonomous organs, has been crushed by the shattered skull that was designed to protect it.
That knowledge didn’t stop me from trying, so I was there when the ambulance, and the police, arrived.
I hadn’t been worried, as it seemed to me a clear case of self-defense. As the trial progressed however, the assistant district attorney produced a young, white woman claiming to be a witness. She testified that she’d seen me quarrel with the young man several times, and that I’d lain in wait to assault him. The assistant DA had aspirations to be a full district attorney some day, sooner rather than later.
The defense attorney produced an old black man with several prior convictions, some violent, who claimed to have acted in self defense. This lawyer had aspirations similar to my own: a fifth of whiskey at the end of the day.
The jury deliberated for half of an hour. The lead juror, a middle-aged woman, proclaimed me guilty of one count of first degree murder. The judge proclaimed that I was an irredeemable professional criminal. The sentence was death.
An immutable law of the universe: Energy can be neither created nor destroyed, only changed in form.
Despite being an atheist for most of my life, I like to think that the electrochemical energy in my brain that creates my mind will go somewhere when I die, that it will be conserved in some way. My mind knows that it will become waste heat, that it will keep my brain a fraction of a degree warmer for a fraction of a minute longer as I rot. But maybe, it hopes, maybe some bit of that heat will go somewhere, that it will be a part of the universe for a while longer, and have some knowledge of it.
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wisedec4u reviewed Version 1 -
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I enjoyed this story immensely. It was a sad tale about a man’s pathetic spiral into alcoholism and crime, yet the way your character used scientific experimentation as a justification for “simply getting smashed on the company pay-roll” was hilarious. And the fight at the end had me laughing out loud..that is until the young white guy busted his head on the concrete and the main character was convicted of first degree murder. Your character’s voice and attitude seemed consistent with he educational background and I could easily evision his deterioration from apromising scientist into a alcoholic and later a victim of circumstance. Hey, maybe the title could be “Tales of a Drunk Santa Claus”. Great story! Good luck!
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EJSchwartz reviewed Version 1 -
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I would not say this would amuse or warm anyone’s heart. It however is a profound story and I liked it very much. As for the title, I would call it “Silent Night” For that is what happens when someone is executed.
00_Doughboy reviewed Version 1 -
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”...called forth from its fuzzily warm den to assure my floppy red had maintained its precarious perch…” – I would change fuzzily to fuzzy and fix the typo on “red had” because I think you meant “red hat.”
This isn’t some cliche “Bad Santa” story, and to be honest I’m pleasantly surprised at what you did with the narrator. He was a black Santa who smelled like whiskey, but he was well-educated, which is what makes the contrast between his image and his voice so interesting. He’s not a complete bombed-out hobo, and is in fact very intelligent but hopelessly addicted to alcohol.
Although, I do find it strange how he refers to himself as a “pessimist” (the glass is half empty) near the beginning, has no real religious ties, but transitions to a more whimsical and optimistic tone in the last paragraph. I do like how that works, though; he finds a way to rationalize the complex and tragic inequities of his life in order to discover a pseudo-science that makes sense to him, helping him come to terms with his fate.
The way you write is sharp and fluid. Your descriptions are vivid for all five senses, and reads very naturally. You have a great knack for quippy prose that injects a harsh sarcasm in every punchline, and I enjoyed it. A few grammar errors here and there, but none bad enough a simple proof read wouldn’t catch. Great job!
traveller_john reviewed Version 1 -
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Page 1 caught my attention and made me curious to read on. But as the story progressed I found it more and more difficult to read. The language doesn’t flow. There is an unneccesary use of “intellectual” words, that only slows down the pace of the story and make it sound artificial.
I think that if you chose a simpler language, it would make the story much easier to read and allow the reader to focus on the story rather than on your choice of words.
retardedpigeon reviewed Version 1 -
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Such a sad story but it reaks of painful honesty, like reflections of a man on death row i guess (haha). i loved the little details you added that seem to inform and progress. at first i was unconvinced that someone on death row would be using sentences like “one would assume” but as you unveil that the protaganist is sixty years old, its lets a lot things click into place. One thing that wasnt clear though, the spot that he talked about, was this a grotto type of spot where kids come and tell santa what they would like for christmas (hence the white beard that kids like to pull) or was it just a good spot between shops where he would sit and beg?
hellbunny reviewed Version 1 -
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I almost skipped this because of the title, but I’m glad I didn’t. The despondancy of your first paragraph is very poetic and drew me in immediately.
“(as I’ve always been a pessimist)”- sometimes asides add to the story, sometimes it detracts. In the way you have written this story, it detracts.
You told us about your protagonist’s degeneration from his affluent career to a life of crime and getting a job as a Santa (which is more degrating?), but I would like to see a little more with his decline with alcoholism, itself. It’s there, but I think it needs to be pulled out just a bit more.
This is a well written existential piece of art, but it needs a better title. Maybe, “The Immutable Law of Me” or “Final Moments”.
teaddub reviewed Version 1 -
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You have a good grasp of the conventions of written English; there may have been a few typos, there probably were, but nothing I was able to discover.
Part of that may have been because I was engrossed in your story and was not looking for typos. I like a story that has me so involved as to remove me from the reading process while locking me into the reading process. Know what I mean? This is one of those stories.
Your descrpitive style is sweet. You started with a vision of a man dying with dignity. This is the kind of picture that gets a persons attention. You didn’t tell me about the place by the light rail, you put me in it. Your whole narrative is like this. Nicely done.
I believe the right venue will publish this. And while it is amusing and entertaining, it is anything BUT heartwarming, so, sorry, but that rating had to take a hit. As a short story, I was impressed. I never give a ten, and seldom an eight here. Most of the decent stories I read will rate around six or seven to me. I gave yours a nine for overall short stroy. Thank you, and good luck.
kadiya reviewed Version 1 -
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It was amusing in its irony. Very readable and I hope you find a publisher or perhaps you can submit it to a magazine. Cant for the life of me suggest a title though.
axelk reviewed Version 1 -
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I must say that I haven’t read anything this good here for quite a while. Your style is quite unique and very enjoyable. Nice introduction and the brawl with Santa in the end was very well constructed. I really hope you will get a chance to publish it.
djellibeybi reviewed Version 1 -
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A really good story! The self-deprecating humor, the witty, intelligent prose, all ties in with the sardonic end. A scientist researching the best and fastest way to get drunk, it’s hilarious.
I couldn’t find anything wrong with it. You crafted each paragraph to flow with your story. Their terseness and short length really helps with the irony you are trying to showcase.
My favorite part is still the intro. Had me in stitches already.
Oh and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with your title.
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