Flash Fiction - Beer Battered Santa

I was up late—Johnny Carson late. Mom and her new friends were in the kitchen, where they’d spent the evening making jolly, singing carols, laughing and carrying on well past all the TV Christmas specials and evening news. Every once in a while she’d pop her head around the corner, the phone cord stretched straight as she reminded Angel and me that Santa would be over in a few minutes.

It was a week before Christmas, and news of Santa’s special trip meant sleep was out of the question for me. Angel and I were on the floor. Angel her her head propped up in her hand. I was listening to the tick and hiss of the kerosene heater.

Angel kept warning me how I was going to burn myself again and I kept asking Angel why she didn't believe in Santa Clause.

She didn’t answer, just kept on pretending she understood whatever Johnny Carson was yapping about. But I saw the way she kept eyeing the door, just like I'd been doing since Dad took off a few months ago for his sales job. Mom said his new job was on the moon for all she knew, but when I asked Angel about Dad in outer space, she’d said I was the only one buying anything.

I was watching how my spit sizzled on the heater when heavy steps hit the porch. I looked to Angel. A knock on the door. I leaped up just as Mom came shooting out of the kitchen. “That’s him, Willie! He’s here!”

Angel drew up slowly, suspiciously, while Mom’s friends crowded the room so that I couldn’t see through tangle of bodies coming to greet Santa at the door.

It was him alright. He was merry and jolly as he made his way into the haze of smoke and revelry. He ho’ed and hacked several times. Mom made a fuss over it, but Angel shook her head and spun off for the stairs.

I was a bit more forgiving toward Santa's appearance. Sure, he was weathered and haggard looking (sleigh travel will do that to you), but there was no need to be rude. I glanced back at the steps. I couldn’t believe Angel would dash off like that after Santa had gone to all the trouble to make a special visit.

“Ho, ho—” Santa barreled into another coughing fit that knocked around his chest like the pipes in the walls. Someone made a joke about what he’d been smoking and he asked about the mistletoe.

We got Santa settled on the couch. Mom hustled off to fetch him some egg nogg. When she returned, he took a swallow and grimaced, his beard like a filthy mop in need of wringing. But at least he’d stopped hacking.

Mom shoved me forward. “Well, go on, Willie. Go tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”

I was only about halfway onto the couch when the ripe smell hit me good in the face. Santa’s suit must have been hanging in the manger, or maybe he’d flown over the sewage treatment center. Either way, it seemed like Angel had outsmarted me once again.

“Come on, come on, get up here,” Santa said, smacking his knee. His cheeks were jolly and I was hoisted onto his lap. My eyes screamed from the lava hot flecks of spit that escaped his soggy beard. I blinked and wiped while everyone had a merry old-time as Santa took a greedy slug of his nogg—something that smelled like it belonged in the heater on the floor.

“Now Willie, there are two types of boys in this world,” Santa slurred, pausing to take another swig “Those who are naughty, and those who are nice. Now which have you been this year?”

I assured him I’d been nice. Whatever sped things along. His fleshy jowls and wobbly eyes consumed my vision but the sudden flash in the room told me Mom was somewhere behind me. With a squeal, she wound the roll on the camera. Another blast of the flash. Another picture I’d find in an attic years later.

Finally, Santa popped the big question. And that should’ve been the easy part. Since summer, I’d wanted a new Supercat Big Wheel with the quick-stop racing brake. But now, on Santa’s grimy lap, mottled with splotches and stains, I thought again about what would be the best gift this year. Not just for me, but for Angel too.

“I want a space suit. And a rocket ship.”

Santa stopped swigging, his droopy eyes fell to me, then he looked to Mom for help. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” I said, just as all those people got quiet. Only Johnny and his jokes filled the room. “I want to go to the moon.”