Christmas on Crack (9 page)

“Looks
like you don’t have much left,” I said, “but I could get you more.”

He
looked up then, his eyes deep-set, lost in shadow. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of
course. But you’ll have to leave this alley.”

“Where
would I go?”

“To
my place,” was my reply.

He
studied me, seemed to think. “Did you say whiskey?
Free
whiskey?”

“Totally
free.” I paused a beat. “Will you come?” “Sure, buddy. I’m game.” He stood then,
knees shaking. Quickly, he grasped the wall to avoid a swift return to the
pavement.

I
offered him my hand. “Need help?”

“No,
I’ll make it.”

I
marveled. The man had a trace of dignity left in him after all.

*
  
*
*

It took
ten minutes to traverse the two blocks from the alley in which I’d found my new
friend. He was slow, and the way he hobbled behind me made me wonder if one of
his legs was gimpy.

I
couldn’t let him stagger all the way back to my apartment. At his rate, it
would take us an hour to reach. I was ready to get back and show this man both
my place and my hospitality, so I steadied him, invited him to lean on my
shoulder. He didn’t resist me. In fact, he seemed grateful for this small act
of kindness.

“What’s
your name?” I asked.

He
just mumbled.

*
  
*
*

An hour
later, I was watching TV; the man was laid out on my bed. He’d fallen asleep
almost immediately upon lying down. He snored loudly. I would have checked on
him, intermittently, if not for the snoring. The noise let me know he was okay,
that he hadn’t swallowed his tongue or choked on his own vomit.

The
snores stopped at some point. A minute or so later, I heard the creak of
bedsprings.

I
turned off the TV in the middle of a show. I walked to the bedroom and saw
Santa sitting on the bed, legs dangling, his eyes tilted down, looking at the
bedspread much like he’d looked at the pavement earlier.

“Feeling
better?” I asked.

“I’d
feel better if I had another drink,” he said, and met my gaze then. In the light,
I could better see his eyes—gray and rheumy. One had an obvious cataract. “You
promised me a drink, didn’t you?”

“I
did.” I walked to a wooden chest at the foot of the bed and opened it. Fifteen
bottles of booze were inside, all for this man and others like him yet to make
my acquaintance. I selected one of the whiskey bottles—expensive stuff, seal
unbroken—and lifted it so the man might see.

For
the first time, I noticed some life in him. His long, thin arms reached out to
me as his hands clutched the air. “Can I have it now?”

I
handed him the bottle, smiled. “Of course.”

He
ripped off the plastic wrapper and cracked the seal. Before drinking, he
smelled the whiskey, like a taster. But he didn’t merely taste it; he downed a
fifth of the bottle before drawing a breath.

I
pulled up a chair across from him, took a seat. Crossing my legs, I asked,
“So, what’s your story?”

“What?”

“Everyone
has a story. I want to know yours.”

He
belched, wiped his lips. “Why do you care?”

That
was a good question. I wasn’t sure why I cared. Maybe I didn’t and just wanted
a little conversation to elevate my mood. “Humor me,” I said after a few
moments. “I gave you that whole bottle, after all.” Then I gestured to the
walls. “And this place for the night... ”

“If
that’s what you want,” he said. “But you might not believe it.”

Anticipatory
tingles started in my fingertips. “Try me.”

“Okay.”
He paused for another drink, then, “I’m Father Christmas.”

“Father
Christmas?” I uncrossed my legs, leaned in closer. “Like Santa Claus, you
mean?”

“Yeah,
like Santa Claus, but I preferred Father Christmas.” He paused. “Back
then,
at least. You can call me whatever
you want now.”

It
seemed he was one of the crazy homeless men. Interesting, sure—but I’d hosted
a number of them recently, and not enough of the quiet, shy or sweet types.
Still, he didn’t strike me as the kind of fellow I’d have to toss out
prematurely, so I played along: “I thought Santa—excuse me, Father
Christmas—lived at the North Pole.”

“Yeah,
that’s right.
Lived
..”

“So,
what happened? Mrs. Claus kick you out?”

“No,
nothing like that. I’d been growing sick of things for years, and it just came
to a head. I mean, doing all that shit for people who’ll stop believing in
you—it’s fucking depressing!”

“What
did Mrs. Claus think when you left?”

He
threw up his hands, sloshing the whiskey. “Nothing! She’d been senile for the
last two hundred years! Spent all of her time alone in a rocking chair in the
attic. She’d put the chair over a loose floorboard, just above my bedroom. I wore
earplugs, but I always heard it. Always and forever.”

“Couldn’t
you have gotten a divorce?”

His
eyes widened. He seemed aghast. “Santa?
Divorced?.
Hell no!” Eyes narrowed. “But Mrs.
Claus can dry up and turn to dust for all I care.”

“So
you’ve never returned, not even for a visit?”

His
tone was matter-of-fact. “When I left, I left for good.”

I
paused, thought for a bit. “If that’s the case, why are people still receiving
your gifts?”

“It’s
contracted out. Some firm in
Asia
is doing it
now.”

“What
happened to the elves?”

“Most
were transferred to circuses.”

“And
the reindeer?”

“They
were.. .dispatched.” He gulped some whiskey. “Hope I’m not boring you.”

“Oh
no! Not at all!” Indeed, I was intrigued by his ram- blings, and rather taken
by the man himself. He was by far the most articulate homeless person I’d
encountered, and I felt a little guilty for having lumped him in with others
more prosaically crazy. “So, you quit being Santa to live on the streets.
That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“No,”
he said. “You’re leaving out the middle.”

“I
am? Fill me in, then.”

After
yet another drink: “I was sick of the cold, so I moved to LA. Got a job as a
waiter, thinking I might get lucky with an acting career. I mean, plenty of
actors have played me—but all I got were doors slammed in my face.” He sighed,
looked wistful. “Eventually, I landed a gig directing a string of porn films
under the name Roger Wood. Ever see them?”

“I
don’t watch porn,” I said. “Too indirect.”

“Me,
neither. It was just a way to make a living.”

I
leaned forward. “But you’re not directing porn now. What happened?”

“Staged
sex jaded me; I tried working an office job. But I’m old and not made for the
9-to-5 grind. Couldn’t take that little bastard of a boss, either. Mr.
McCullough was his name. Fucker.

“I
even tried working in fast food, but nothing brought me joy. I had to break
away from it all—The North Pole, LA, life in general. 12 years ago, I dropped
the Santa- shtick; 6 years ago, I became a bum.” He looked down at his hands.
“I am what I am. Take it or leave it.”

I
smiled. “I took it, didn’t I?”

“Guess
you did...”

As
he drank more whiskey, I replayed our little conversation in my head. Though
the man told an interesting tale, in no way did I believe it at the time.
Still, the experience had been fun, and maybe a touch rewarding. I hadn’t heard
so colorful a story from a homeless man since one claimed last year to not only
be President but also a time- traveling alien. Rising from the chair, I made my
way to the bed and sat beside my friend. I gestured to the bottle in his hand.
“You don’t mind if I have a sip, do you?”

 
“It’s yours, isn’t it?”

I
took it, downed a gulp and imagined my spit intermingling with Santa’s. After
handing the bottle back to him, I made a show of stretching my arms and
yawning. Then I lay down on the left side of the bed, head on the pillow.

“You
can do the same,” I told him.

He
seemed hesitant. He looked down at the bottle. “I’m not finished yet.”

“Save
some for later,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Then I patted the
opposite pillow. “Just lie down. Relax.”

He
looked from the whiskey to the pillow and back again. Finally, he put the
bottle on the nightstand and stretched out awkwardly beside me. His tired old
body seemed to resist the reclined position. Knees wouldn’t bend fully; his
back arced slightly. Neck, too.

I
touched his hand, the nape of his neck. He felt so cold. I decided I’d be a
Good Samaritan and donate a little of my body warmth to him.

We
spooned silently for so long I began to feel drowsy. I looked over at the
clock. It wasn’t even 3 AM yet.

“I’m
tired of lying around,” I said, my voice a whisper. “Aren’t you?”

“No,
it’s soft here,” he replied, his voice cracking with

phlegm.
“I’m not used to soft.”

“Okay,”
I said. “We can keep doing this. Guess I owe you, after that entertaining story
you told.”

“It
wasn’t a story.”

I
sat up a bit. “But I can’t believe you. See, I know exactly where my presents
came from. Mom and Dad and the aunts and uncles—they bought them in stores,
wrapped them up and put little bows on top. Same story every year.”

He
turned around and faced me. “I never claimed all the presents were mine,” he
said. “Usually, a kid got one of my gifts every three or four years. But if I
gave one, it was always the kid’s favorite.”

“Three
or four years?” I said. “Your
Bad List
must have been huge.”

“It
wasn’t that they’d been bad. It’s just that other kids had been better, and I
didn’t have time to go to every house.” He paused, looked so deeply into my eyes
I almost flinched. “You were a little better than most. You got four before you
turned ten, but you didn’t get another until you were 24.” He half-smiled.
“That was my last delivery.”

“Wait.
You delivered to adults?”

“It
wouldn’t be fair if I’d just given them to kids, would it? Adults deserved a
little magic too.”

He
still stared at me. I wanted to turn away, but there was something behind his
eyes, something that shimmered, and it tried to convince me that what he was saying
was true. Conflicting thoughts began to churn inside my head. For a moment, I
felt like blubbering.

I
composed myself. “So, if you’re really Santa, what was my favorite gift when I
was five?” I paused, smirked. “Or was that too long ago for you to remember?”

“One
thing I’ve got is my memory.” He tapped his head. “Every present that everyone
has ever received from me is locked up here. I can’t forget them, even if I
tried. That year, you wanted, more than anything, a yellow toy truck.” His eyes
twinkled, but it was a melancholy twinkle. “And you got it.”

I
reared back involuntarily, knocking my head against the wall. My palms pricked.
I felt my heart in places I shouldn’t. “You’re right.”

“Of
course. I’m Father Christmas. Or Santa, if that’s what you’d rather call me.”

After
a breath, I made myself think rationally. Toy trucks weren’t an uncommon
childhood want. It could have been a lucky guess, the color an even luckier
one.

“I
even remember it had a decal of a clown-head on the left door,” he continued.