SANTA'S LIQUID LUNCH (a.k.a. A Harrowing Break from a Holiday Job)

The girl found me out. I thought I had managed to hide away in this brown and beige bar round the corner from where I was supposed to be. The place was squat and stank more of lacquer than liquor but I liked it just fine. Not a goddamn Christmas decoration in sight. Still I suppose it being the only place in the mall not lit up and draped in green tinsel, I made it kind of easy to find me.

            She stopped beside my bar stool and folded her arms.

            "Santa," she said, "You've gotta go back now."

            Craning my neck, I could just see that there was a line developing from the grotto. "Has the creepy kid left?"

            "A while back."

            "I mean the building."

            The girl sighed. "Short of checking with security I wouldn't really know, now would I?"

            This was the mouthiest teenage elf I had ever worked with. She had bright red chipmunk cheeks and little black eyes that looked constantly bored. Still her ears were naturally pointy so I suppose she had rare qualifications.

            The bartender laid down a neat bourbon for me right on where my fake beard met the bar.

            "Whiskey for your whiskers," he joked. I forgot to laugh.

            The elf girl cleared her throat.

            "I'll admit what that little boy said was unsettling but there are also normal kids about to lose their shit over there."

            I threw back the bourbon.

            "Please don't be that guy."

            I leaned back on the bar. "Which guy would that be?"

            "Another half-in-the-bag Mall Santa."

            I tapped the counter and got the bartender’s attention. He was still chuckling to himself at his little joke. Getting in the spirit of the season I wouldn’t wonder. Glad someone still could.

            I glared at the elf girl. My eyes were probably bloodshot but I just didn’t give a rat’s ass. "Did you hear what that goddamn kid said to me?"

            "To be honest, I've heard worse."

            "No!" I smashed my palm against the bar. She jumped and the bartender stopped smiling. This just made me angrier. "This wasn't just some sugar rush brat bruising my lap! He knew just what he was saying!"

            The elf girl looked unconvinced but what did she know? Fresh out of braces and fresh out of sympathy for some fat old geezer in a red suit. I picked up my next glass and waved her away.

            "Go on. Tell them Santa won't be back today.” I stared at the half-empty glass as it shone in the weak light. “Too tired. Dead tired.”

            “Really?” The girl’s tiny eyes squinted.

            “Yeah.”

            She gave out a haughty little huff and puff. This seemed to perk up the bartender. "Kids say the darnedest things, huh?"

            Both I and the elf girl stared at the idiot. I could have thrown the glass straight at his fat head.

            "The darnedest." I finished my drink. "How about 'I know you ain't real, Santa, cos I killed him last night'? That's pretty darn cute, ain't it?"

            Except that wasn't it exactly. The boy had told me about his daddy's service revolver, how Santa's inside red wasn't as bright as his outside red. The devil is in the details, I suppose.

            "Sounded like a dream to me," the elf girl spoke up. "You know how kids can get. Too many Westerns and War movies. It probably seemed real for him."

            "It sure seemed real to me," I said. The service revolver especially. My daddy kept one around the house too. Until it went off.

            The elf girl sighed. “The kid’s gone now. Long gone.”

            She caught my eye. I could tell she wasn't about to let up anytime soon so I forced my ass off the bar stool.

            "Come on," I told her. "Santa will tell the kids and their parents that he’s done himself. Otherwise they might not believe it."

            I left behind a deserving tip to the bartender though I'm sure he would have thought a lump of coal would be better.

            The elf girl crinkled her nose as she opened the door for me. "Your breath. The parents will smell booze."

            "I'll probably smell the same on their's.” The girl turned away in disgust but I shrugged my shoulders. “After all, it's the most wonderful time of the year, ain't it?"

SNOWCRACKER (a.k.a. An Abominable Way to Break the Ice)

Tough time of year, Christmas. For the kill. The fastest roads to your destination are all clogged, there are no quiet corners in public places and sometimes there is even snow.

            As a kid I loved a clean bed of pure white snow, untouched and shining with possibility. As a man I dread it, knowing that I will leave tracks no matter how careful I try to be. Still you won’t last long in this line of work if you just hold on to your anxieties. So today I take back control.

            I wear size 14 boots. My feet are size 9 but, with two layers of thick cotton socks, they fit just fine. Not only are these boots huge, they have two-prong toes. That and the wide curved heel make my tracks look almost hoof-like. Think of a reindeer but the biggest bastard you ever saw. I swear the authorities will look at the tracks from my target’s house and think: Don’t wanna mess with that. Don’t wanna even pursue that. And they’d do right.

            Still I feel awful silly, stretching my legs out as I move. If I lose my balance even once, I’ll give the game away; an undeniable snow angel flailing to get back up. Even so I stomp like a heavy four-legged beast all the way downhill.

            It’s morning but you can’t tell from the sky, thick angry grey slowly lightening to a stiff white. This snow must have fallen only hours ago: it’s crisp and not even the real country critters have been on it yet. As I search for tiny paw prints to dwarf with my own, I take in a deep lungful of frosty air. Goes straight to my goddamn head. My jaw begins to feel like it’s freezing up and there’s a wetness to the tip of my nose.

            I should feel lousy but I’m actually kinda great. I have a clean kill behind me and I’ve handled an issue in a damn smart way. In fact, I feel better than great. You can get complacent in the death business, take your skill for granted, get lazy. But not anymore. Now I’m back to enjoying my work.

            I let out this roar, primal. Stupid of me, in fact: I might wake the neighbours from their rustic little cottages, alert them to my slow lumbering presence. Still it feels good, you know? Right.

            Glancing down, I see cracks running back behind my left boot heel. They progress beyond it, spreading some distance behind. I take one look at that damage and think ‘abominable’. Ain’t a word I use lightly. Ain’t a word I normally use at all.

            Still it’s right there in my mind. Abominable, like the Snowman. Perhaps that’s how the story started; a tall man in the cold, dragging heavy feet along, tearing up the snow.

            Even so this Abominable Snowman isn’t far from his car. He has chains to put on his tyres before he disappears into the next flurry. A snowflake touches my nose, tickling it. I slip and crack the snow again. I didn’t know my own strength. I should know by now.

            Still, let it creep them out, I say. Let them believe it was a monster, not a man. Yessir, if there ever was an Abominable Snowman, I’ll be him.

A SEASONAL LYRIC CRITIQUE (a.k.a. Wizzard's I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday is Snow Joke)

When the snowman brings the snow…

Let us unpack this. Sort of reverse engineer the snowball, as it were.

            A snowman is traditionally a humanoid depiction made from fresh snow. Therefore the snowman is snow. The only snow that the snowman can technically 'bring' is the snow of which he is composed.

            However, the snowman also tends to be immobile. So no act of bringing is in fact possible, at least not in the physical sense.

            He might, for the sake of argument, 'summon' the snow. By this I mean will the very substance of life, his life at least, into being. In this particular scenario, the snowman is more of a 'snow sage' or a 'winter wizard' if you will. Suffice to say I have yet to come across such a powerful snowman.

            That leaves us with a conceptual meaning. The snowman’s mere existence brings the thought of snow into the mind of the observer. This is by far the most straightforward explanation. That being said, it is still specious: unless the observer’s view is somehow limited to only the snowman and not the probably large bed of snow underneath. This would require a 'Plato’s Cave' level of logic.

            Nevertheless, I highly doubt that the lyricist strove for that particular degree of realism. Still one would expect more of Roy Wood. If a Christmas song is worth writing then it is worth writing with proper and thoroughgoing attention to detail.

            Incidentally, Merry Christmas Everyday, I suppose…

DAYLIGHT FIREWORKS (a.k.a. Remember, Remember The Sixth of November...)

The fifth of November was yesterday but I'm still out launching fireworks. I don't mind it: my brother forked out a fair bit of dosh towards it so he can work in peace. I'm used to being fobbed off. Personally I prefer it these days.
    My brother's work has taken a funny turn. He keeps odd hours now. Hence sending me to set off fireworks at one o'clock in the afternoon. Daylight fireworks. It's pretty overcast today but still, if you ask me, the pretty colours are being wasted on it. All I can really see is the fluorescent pink of the rocket just gone up, Velvet Flare. I think that's supposed to be a pun.
     Still I suppose it's just as much about the sound effects. The whizzes, the bangs, the crackles. There's something so crisp about it all or maybe that's just the Autumn chill.
     At least we had a bonfire last night, of sorts. My brother stuffed some folders and loose papers among the logs and twigs, even some metal once the fire was really blazing. I daren't ask about it, besides he wouldn't say anything, just grunt at me and slink off straight back to work.
     I think it must be a bad time of year now for him, November. A lot piling up before Christmas. As for New Year? It all just comes round again, he tells me. You should see the look on his face when he says that, grey bags under his eyes and that weeping scar on his chin. You should hear how hollow his sigh has become.
    I wish he'd just pack it all in but then his line of work isn't the kind you can get out of easily. Cleaning up he calls it but I know it's too messy for that.
    Why else would I be standing in the middle of a field at the edge of our estate as a favour to him? Why else would I be lighting touch paper and running? Because of the spectacle. The distraction. While all eyes are on the way I'm popping a dull sky full of holes, he can safely get away with doing similar with smaller, earthbound targets. There must be a few to get through tonight: I am to keep launching fireworks till it's actually late. Then he'll come tap me on the shoulder and we can finally go home.
     While the rest of town are out brightening winter, my brother and I will be back indoors. Well, while he lays down in a darkened room yet again, I'll be by the window looking out for the both of us.

SEASONALLY-AFFECTED (a.k.a. A Chilling Transition for Halloween and Autumn)

When he wakes up and it is dark outside, he knows it could happen. He feels it spread from his chilly toes, up his achy legs till it bursts in his chest which coughs and splutters accordingly. Sometimes it’s just a cold, a flu maybe, but he knows at this time of year that it could be so much more. The world-weariness of a full year now keeps him prostrate on the bed.

            Still he resists and moves, feeling the cold as he crosses his bedroom for the day’s clothes. He dresses quickly, avoiding touching skin against skin and the cold sensation that brings. He adds another layer of clothing and then another layer on top of that, just in case. When he is numb to the frost that has crept through his window overnight, he parts the curtains and raises the blinds. A grey lumpen sky fills his vision.

            After a perfunctory breakfast, he sets out. He sidesteps slugs and snails on his porch to get to sparkly frost patches on the long path to work. It is dark so he needs to be careful and watch out for anything that might come up.

            He keeps glancing skyward, not able to tell if the clouds have shifted position or even broken. The monotone of winter is particularly oppressive when it is still technically autumn. Nevertheless, the atmosphere isn’t quite cold enough yet for anything to fall. He does his best to enjoy the crispness of the air while keeping his hands covered and safely tucked away.

            On he goes, over vales and hills, along main roads with cars few and far between but speeding as if black ice weren’t a problem. When able, he takes side roads with few pedestrians crossing, shortcuts where he can still be alone. If he sees trees upcoming, he steers well-clear in case a sodden leaf should tumble down from the bush and take him by surprise. He knows he should wear a hat; it would certainly keep his ears warm but then he wouldn’t feel anything that might land on him. The very idea of pulling off a hat and feeling foreign moisture there is quite unsettling.

            He perseveres until his path finally ends and he stands in front of his work hut. He kicks his boots against the porch step just in case he has waded through any puddles without realising it, before pulling out his ring of keys. He tries the front door key but it will not turn, as if water has entered the lock and frozen overnight. With a little force, he manages it though the sudden action leaves him oddly light-headed. As he depresses the handle, he barely notices the tiniest touch to the back of his neck. It drips down and he knows that’s it. Snow has fallen on him at last.

            The door clatters open. Stepping inside, the warmth drains from his face. Embracing the cold, he becomes a part of it...

TODAY AT A CAFE (a.k.a. A Nonfiction Experience from Actually a Few Weeks Ago Now)

The café was all black granite top tables with padded white stools and booths that were difficult to slide into from the eyesore diamond tile floor. Still, it was clean. As I approached the main counter, the man behind it spied me as I passed by an interior design topiary.

            “Hi there,” he began. “Today we have a special deal on curry and rice. You can buy the Jalfrezi, Tikka or Korma for just £6.”

            I nodded along as he showed me the contents of each steel container on the heated display. I looked back up and said, “Can I order a hot chocolate please?”

            He gave out a whiny little laugh but turned towards the steamer behind him. “Is that with whipped cream?”

            “Yes, please.”
            “That’ll be £2.80.”

            As I passed him a fiver, a skinny waiter with a fat yellow tie stopped beside me.

            “Bored,” he announced. The man behind the counter grinned in response. The waiter caught my eye. “And how are you today, sir?”

            “I am fine, thank you. How are you?”

            “I am well. As well as I can be working with this kidder over here.” He gestured at the man behind the counter as he handed me my change. They both giggled. “And what will you be doing after your drink, sir?”

            “Go home.”

            The waiter nodded. “Do you play computer games?”

            I hesitated. “Sometimes. Not as much these days.”

            “You look the intelligent sort. Would you say you’re intelligent?”

            I frowned but laughed it off. “That’s not really for me to say.”

            This was not the most comprehensive of answers. I waited for the interrogation to continue but then the waiter turned, apparently called over.

            “Sorry about that,” the man behind the counter said.

            “That’s all right,” I lied.

      I sat on the opposite side of the topiary, using it as a green leafy window to the only other customer in the building. She tucked into a panini, knife and fork tearing through the thick bread. Her eyes were damp and she had to stop a moment to wipe away the tears. The waiter appeared with fresh napkins for the table which he handed to her personally. Her wedding ring glistened in the light as she touched one of the stiff brown sheets to the corners of her eyes.

"Poor dear," the waiter muttered before moving off in the direction of distant clattering crockery.

I felt bad for looking at the woman so I stopped. Nevertheless, she watched me carefully until she finished her panini.

The man behind the counter came to bring the hot chocolate over to me himself. There was a small biscuit on the saucer. "No extra cost," he said with a smile before returning to his post.

I then took out my phone and lost myself in my emails. Halfway through my hot chocolate, I heard the waiter reappear at the counter.

“Bilal's got a chicken bone in his throat," he told the man.

"Is he choking?"

"Go see for yourself."

The man came out from behind his counter once again, this time in a definite rush. Barely a minute later a short woman with a beehive hairdo arrived to take his place.

"How are you today, sir?" she asked me. I gave her a thumbs up as I crunched my biscuit. 

Raising my phone again, I finished composing my last reply then emptied my cup. I left behind a small crumbly corner of the biscuit. In the meantime, the man had come back and he, the woman and the waiter were all busying themselves behind the counter, all getting in each other's way.

"Thank you," I said. None of them turned to me. A little flimsy wave and I was away, out of the door.

I'm afraid I didn't have the wherewithal to compose a thorough review at the time. Something tells me this here will suffice.

I STOOD ON A HOLE AND OTHER ODD-DATED POEMS (a.k.a. Happy National Poetry Day!)

I STOOD ON A HOLE (2019)

I stood on a hole
because I'm told
on the hole
everything is fine.
It all works out.
Positive.

Except on this hole
the bottom fell out
and now
it's got me down...


GUNFIRE? FIREWORK? (2017)

Gunfire?
Firework?
Work out
outdoors.
Doors close:
close call.
Call cops,
cop out.
Outlast
last night.
Night scares:
scares you.
You hand
handgun.
Gunfire?
Firework?


BLOSSOM GOSSAMER (2015)

Got some blossom gossamer,
bought some blossom gossamer
for those blossom-gossamer-loving
fools.

'Cos there is nothing awesome as
a big old blossom gossamer
atop that foursome's boss Amir's
stools.


WE MAKE ALTERATIONS (2013)

the pillow slips
the duvet covers
the curtain rails
the carpet rolls
the bedside lights
the window blinds

a deal on sheets
and memory foams.


UNWRAPPING TIME (2011)

TIME is an envelope...TIME is not the card.
TIME is a curtain...TIME is not the art.
TIME is a coat...TIME is not the skin.
TIME is all without...TIME is not within.