Little Danny Walsh Meets Santa Claus

He heard it. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. Little Danny Walsh’s patience and uncanny ability to wrestle fatigue induced by staying up well past midnight were paying off. He would see Santa.

The rustling grew louder as Danny deftly maneuvered down the stairs, stepping along the wall to prevent any telltale creaking. He could hear faint moaning accompanied by heavy nose breathing. He cautiously peeked around the corner.

Santa stood hunched over the dining room table where Danny had left cookies and milk for him before going to bed. Not even the ferocity with which the fat man attacked the cookies could overpower the surreal wonder of a six-year-old actually seeing Santa in the flesh. Danny gleamed. He nearly said something to get Santa’s attention, but decided to hang back and study.

After finishing the plate of Christmas tree-shaped cookies and downing the tall glass of milk, Santa stopped for a moment to think. He then waddled into the kitchen. Danny scrambled as quietly as he could to the edge of the door to peek around. Santa had his head in the refrigerator. There was some clinking, then he emerged with a plate of leftover turkey and a couple of Tupperware containers. He opened the microwave and sat the turkey inside. He stopped.

“What the Hell am I thinking?” He took the turkey back out of the microwave.

What followed stood to be both the most amazing and traumatizing moment of little Danny’s life. He watched, silently, as Santa Claus devoured the majority of the contents of the Walsh family refrigerator in four-and-a-half minutes. He wondered what was happening and, more importantly, when the presents would come into play.

Santa leaned against the counter and picked pieces of food out of his beard. He rubbed his belly and groaned, then looked around. He went into the bathroom, flipping the light on and closing the door slowly.

Danny couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t wait to tell all of his friends the real Santa Claus used his bathroom. After a short moment, he heard violent grunting and heaving. He tiptoed through the kitchen and stood just outside the bathroom door, braced to run at the very moment he heard any kind of movement. The guttural sounds of agony continued. Danny began to worry about Santa Claus. He prayed Santa didn’t have any serious problems. On the other hand, he couldn’t wait to tell all of his friends the real Santa Claus died in his bathroom.

The sounds continued for another minute before Danny resolved that he would go into the bathroom and check on Santa. He opened the door slightly and stuck his head in. Santa was on his knees with his head resting against his arm on the toilet.

“Santa?” Danny said timidly.

Santa Claus scrambled to attention, wiping at his beard furiously. “Oh! Ahem! Hello there … uh … Danny. How are you, son?”

Danny opened the door and stepped into the bathroom. “Santa, are you okay?”

“Oh, sure, Danny. Santa’s just fine. Come on, let’s go get your presents.”

The boy’s face glowed with excitement. “Awesome! But are you sure you’re okay? I mean, you ate all of that food, and now you’re throwing up. Are you sick?”

Santa sighed. “Oh boy, sounds like we need to have a little talk.” He put the lid down on the toilet and took a seat with a grunt. “Come sit on Santa’s lap, little Danny Walsh.”

Danny happily did so. The smell of vomit was a little off-putting, but it still beat the odor of rum and sweat that emanates from the Santas at the mall.

“Danny, lately Santa’s weight has come under a little scrutiny with some parents. They feel I romanticize the concept of being what they call ‘dangerously obese‘.”

“What’s scrutiny, Santa?”

“It means that some uppity yuppie soccer moms who have nothing better to do than decide how to dictate the behavior of others to make their own meager existence feel more meaningful are trying to tell Santa how to live.” He shook his fist and furrowed his brow, then cleared his throat and regained composure. “Smothered by the pressure, Santa’s fallen into the dark abyss that is bulimia.”

“What’s bulimia?”

“That’s when someone can’t help but eat massive quantities of food, only to be hit by a freight train of crushing guilt that leads them to throw it back up.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you what. Let’s make a little deal, Danny. You can’t let people know that you’ve met me or about my little … uh … problem. It has to be our little secret. And for keeping such a special secret, I’ll let you pick any two toys you want out of Santa’s sack. Do we have a deal?”

Danny jumped up and clapped his hands. “Sure!”

In the glow of the lights on the Christmas tree, Danny meticulously sorted through Santa’s sack until he found the perfect two toys. He sat them aside and ran over to Santa, colliding and wrapping his arms around him. Santa’s cheeks puffed as he fought the urge to vomit again.

“Thank you so much, Santa!” Danny shouted with glee.

“No, thank you, little Danny Walsh. And don’t forget the deal about our little secret.” Santa grabbed his sack and backed toward the fireplace.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“It was nice to meet you, Danny.”

“You too, Santa.”

Santa grunted as he got on all fours and crawled into the fireplace. He coughed, then turned to look at Danny one last time. “Merry Christmas! Hoho ho ho ho ho.” With that, he floated up the chimney. As he ascended, Danny could hear one last muffled thing. “Little fucker.”

Fistful of Change

Sam remembered reading somewhere about tough dudes using rolls of quarters as makeshift fist packs in fights. That seemed like just the edge he would need in the situation. Only problem was he didn’t have a roll of quarters handy. He actually wondered who ever kept one around for that sort of thing.

He dug in his console for change, watching Brock across the parking lot. Talking to her. When his hand felt heavy enough, he got out of his car and casually strolled toward Brock.

“Hey,” Sam said.

“What do you want, pussy?” Brock smirked and crossed his arms.

Without further ado, Sam took a swing. Time slowed to a near halt as fist and face collided. Dimes and pennies dug into his fingers. A shower of change jingled to the ground.

It only took a moment for Brock to shake off the blow. Sam braced himself

A Gift From Space

Eddie’s propulsion pack thrust him from his bed through zero gravity. He collided with the orbiting satellite that was his entertainment center and grabbed hold. He didn’t dare let go, lest he find himself floating hopelessly through the void of space also known as his bedroom.

‘Captain Eddie has a tough job today,’ he said.

To say that he had an active imagination would be a gross understatement. By eight years old, Eddie Wilson had aspired toward and tried his hand at many professions.

Eddie tinkered with the wires in the back of his television.

‘Satellite repair nearly complete.’

When he was six, Eddie’s mother, Sheila, spanked him for the first, but far from last, time. She came inside from working in the garden to a smoke-filled kitchen. Eddie had been watching the Food Network a great deal, and decided that he might want to become a chef. Previous aspirations to become a firefighter proved handy when he started a small fire on the stove. He used the spray nozzle on the sink to put it out, but not before he caused five hundred dollars in smoke damage.

‘The satellite is fixed. Good job, Captain Eddie.’ He mimed taking off a space helmet, then flopped down on the bed. The television wouldn’t turn on, when he pressed power on the remote. Eddie decided to go downstairs.

Sheila sat in the dining room with Eddie’s Uncle Steve. Uncle Steve always made stupid jokes and had red eyes. Eddie hadn’t yet figured out the correlation between the two.

‘…and now I have to do another year of probation.’ Steve noticed Eddie standing there. He sat him in his lap.

‘Hi, Uncle Steve.’

‘Hey, big guy. How are you doing?’

‘Good.’

‘How do you keep an Amish woman happy?’

‘Um … I don’t know.’

‘Two Mennonite!’

‘Steve, I don’t know how appropriate that joke is for him,’ Sheila said.

Steve appeared bewildered by the concept. ‘He’s a big boy. What are ya? Thirty-six? Thirty-seven?’

Eddie chuckled. ‘I’m eight, Uncle Steve.’

‘Oh, that’s right. So what are you playing up there?’

‘Astronaut.’

‘Wow, that sounds fun. Hey, Eddie, you know how astronauts go to the bathroom in zero gravity?’

‘How?’

‘They’ve got these vacuums that suck the pee and dookie in so that it doesn’t just float around.’

‘Ok, Steve. That’s enough of that.’ Sheila’s nostrils flared.

Steve shrugged. ‘What? I’m teaching him.’

‘Mommy, can I have some cookies?’

She looked at the clock. ‘We’re going to be eating dinner here pretty quick. Why don’t you just go play for a little bit longer, then I’ll call you down when it’s ready.’

Eddie jumped down from Steve’s lap. ‘O.K. Are you going to stay for dinner, Uncle Steve?’

‘Ew! Free food? Yucky!’ He laughed. ‘Yeah, I’m sticking around for grub time, buddy.’

‘Cool!’ Eddie ran upstairs to launch himself back into space. In the span of fifteen minutes, he discovered new life forms on Jupiter and played Xbox on the moon. His mother called him down for dinner.

”… so he says to me ‘Drive it like you stole it,’ and I says to him, ‘I am driving it like I stole it.’ I mean what does he want to do? Get pulled over for a rolling stop in a stolen car? How stupid can you be?’ Steve said.

‘You stole a car, Uncle Steve?’ Eddie sat down.

‘No, honey, Steve’s just talking about a movie he saw,’ Sheila said.

‘Uh, yeah. A movie.’ Steve looked down at his plate. ‘How’s–uh–school going, Eddie?’

‘Good.’

‘You got a girlfriend?’ Steve winked.

‘Yeah.’

The response shocked Steve. ‘Really? You don’t think they’re gross or nothing?’

‘No.’

‘Sheesh. Kids these days. Oh, speaking of girlfriends, Sheila, I been scoring dope for-I mean hanging out with this guy that lives up in Pasadena. Craziest thing. He does infomercials, right? You know, like the Magic Bullet and Miracle Blades and shit?

‘Guy’s name is Darius Loveweather. I shit you not. Big black fella that does ads for soul compilation CDs. Right now, he’s doing this one called ‘Most Love-makin’-ist Soul Songs in the World.’ It’s good stuff.

‘Anyway, so we went to this party, and he introduced me to this group of chicks that also do infomercials. Get this: guys in the union-’

‘Wait a minute. There’s an infomercial union?’ Sheila shook her head in disbelief.

‘Yeah. So anyway, the other guys in the infomercial union call these chicks the Shelf. Isn’t that crazy? They call them that, because it’s a bunch of chicks that all got really nice racks. Eh? Like a shelf? A bunch of racks?’

‘I think I get the point, Steve. I think Eddie gets the point.’

‘So anyway, I met this chick, named Daphne. She’s the girl in the Swing the Weight Off deals where they basically just sell a swing that hangs in a doorway, but claim it helps you lose weight. She has got incredible abs. Me and Daphne have been goin’ out for about two weeks now.’

‘What about Aunt Leslie?’ Eddie turned his big, innocent eyes up from his mashed potatoes.

‘Oh, me and Leslie broke up a couple of weeks ago.’

‘That’s too bad. I liked her better than Aunt Casey and Aunt Sarah.’

‘All bitches.’

Sheila slammed the table. ‘Steve!’

‘Sorry about that.’

‘Anyway, it’s good that you’re seeing someone. She sounds like she’s a real swell girl. What with the great abs and all.’ Sheila rolled her eyes.

Steve raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, she’s smoking.

‘Here’s a funny story: I was riding my bike the other day, and I saw this funny looking ‘tard. I mean, he was all wearing a helmet and shit. Hobbling down the street. I got so distracted looking at him that I fucking hit the curb and wiped out.’ His hand struck the salt shaker when he swung it for emphasis. The shaker shattered on the floor beside him.

‘Come on, Steve! God help me. I swear if you weren’t my brother!’ Sheila got up.

‘Relax. I’ll get it. Where’s the vacuum? Upstairs?’ He bounded up the stairs, and quickly returned to clean his mess.

The vacuum hummed as though it were working fine, but would pick up none of the mess.

‘What the fuck’s with this thing?’ Steve shook the vacuum hose.

He held the end of the hose up and looked into it. After a couple of shakes, a moist brown mess plopped onto his nose.

‘Oh, fuck me running! That’s fucking shit! There’s shit on my face! Shit fell out of the vacuum, and it’s on my face! Sheila!’

Sheila hustled in from the kitchen with a towel. He snatched it from her and pulled the mess from his face.

‘What gives? I mean, that’s fucking sh-’ Steve vomited on the carpet.

‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ Sheila averted her eyes.

Eddie minded his food. He knew he was in it pretty thick. It only took a moment for Sheila to put together Steve’s conversation with Eddie about astronauts from earlier and the problem at that moment.

‘Eddie, what did you do? Did you poop in the vacuum?’

Eddie’s bottom lip jutted out. His eyes welled with tears. ‘I was playing astronaut.’

‘Eddie, you can’t poop in the vacuum.’

‘Hell no you can’t!’ Steve scrubbed, vigorously at his face with a new towel.

Sheila hit him on the shoulder. ‘Serves you right, asshole. You know better than to tell Eddie about something like pooping in a damned vacuum cleaner.’

‘Whatever. I’m taking a fucking shower.’ He stomped out of the room.

Eddie sniffled. ‘Am I in trouble, mommy?’

Sheila knelt beside Eddie. ‘Sweetie, what you did was very, very wrong. It was also incredibly gross. You shouldn’t have done that, and I’m angry at you. But it was also funny as hell, and I think that Uncle Steve learned his lesson. Now I don’t want you to do that anymore. I want you to think before you listen to your uncle. OK?’

Eddie nodded. ‘OK, mommy.’

Reflection

Hindsight’s twenty-twenty.That is what they say, anyway.Richard found himself frequently recalling that adage as he stared at the decrepit mass of flesh in the bed next to him.

Every boy in high school wanted Carla Wilson. Richard had his chance with her. Instead, he decided to remain faithful to his girlfriend, Linda. Faithful for forty-five years. Carla Wilson used the time to become a successful local attorney. Linda used it to stretch and expand. She accomplished little professionally or socially.

On the other hand, she did give him three strong, successful sons. And she always kept a clean house. Richard was never anything but impressed by her enduring tolerance. No amount of havoc or household mayhem pushed her beyond ’slightly miffed.’

Richard concentrated hard to rescind his regrets. He hated that he ever put superficial thoughts in the way of love for his wife.

Then she farted.

Unfair Advantage

Wayne beat his gloves together in anticipation. His opponent sat on the stool across the ring from him, legs dangling just above the ground.

It looked like an easy win for Wayne, but at what cost? His dignity? His self respect? For a million dollars?

The host grabbed the microphone. “Alright! Let’s play ‘Are You Stronger than a Fifth Grader’!”U

Never Knew

Walter stared blankly into his beer as he sat on the deck out back. He could faintly hear his daughter and her children closing their car doors and pulling out of the driveway. It was the first time he had been alone since he buried his wife two days prior. He desperately wanted some time away from the grief and condolences. Time to think.

“What’s the plan? What the hell are you going to do with yourself now, you old son of a bitch?” he asked himself.

In forty-five years of marriage, Walter had always been in charge, but Claire had always been the motivation. Before her, he aspired to and accomplished nothing. He always pretended to be strong and driven, but she was his strength and direction.

She never knew how much she really meant to him. And he never knew regret until he realized that.

Culinary Marshal Law

Clifton tossed his coat into the booth and plopped down. The small Asian woman that seated them sat waters in front of him and his girlfriend Kim.

“You habbabuffay today?” she said.

“What?” Clifton was bewildered.

“Yes,” Kim said. “We’ll have two buffets and two Dr. Peppers, please.”

“Meesa Peeb?”

“What?” Clifton said.

“Mr. Pibb is fine,” Kim said.

The waitress hustled away to get their drinks.

Kim began to stand. “Watch my purse while I go get some food?”

“What? Why can’t we just go at the same time?”

She sat back down. “I can’t just leave my purse here, Clifton.”

“Why not? I’m leaving my coat here.” He held it up to and sat it back into the booth to demonstrate.

“But my money and stuff is in my purse.”

Clifton shifted and reached into his back pocket. “I’ll leave my wallet in my coat. Would that do it for you?”

“Please don’t be impossible tonight,” she sighed.

“You know how much I hate these places. I just don’t understand how someone can voluntarily put themselves in a situation where they have to compete in the least for their food. I mean, you’re up there; there’s no direction. There’s just people coming at you from every which way to get that last piece of old, tepid food. This isn‘t Oklahoma, Kim,” he said.

“Well, I like this place. You’re just going to have to suck it up every once in a while. I go to places you like.”

“I always kind of thought my reciprocation for that was going to Long John Silvers with you.”

Kim stood up without replying. “Watch my purse, baby. Please. I’ll be right back.”

Clifton put his feet up Kim’s seat and slouched back. He spitefully stared at her purse to see if it posed any threat of sprouting legs and walking away. The waitress returned with the sodas.

“Thank you very much,” he said.

“Oh syure,” the waitress said, then walked away.

Across the restaurant, an obese man with a long grey beard sat alone with a heaping plate of food. Three empty plates lay stacked on the other side of the table. Everyone in town knew the man, he rode a three-wheeled cruiser bicycle around town. Clifton had heard his name was Stan, but he and his friends always called him Mr. Blurg. The closest thing to a celebrity that small town had.

A piece of spare rib hung loosely from Mr. Blurg’s beard, threatening at any moment to fall. The sight disgusted Clifton. The nausea wave increased three-fold when Kim returned with her plate.

“You’re serious? Buffet sushi?” he crinkled his nose.

“I like sushi,” Kim replied.

“Yeah, me, too, but … at a buffet? Raw meat that’s been sitting out at room temperature is like eating a petri dish of Ebola.”

“It was on ice,” Kim said.

“Oh!” he threw his arms up. “That’ll scare away the bacterium!”

Her stare grew icy. “Just go get some food.”

He reluctantly stood to go to the buffet. “That’s probably for the best. I don’t even want to breathe the same air that hazardous material occupies. I might get the avian flu.”

“It’s fish, you asshole. Go get some food.”

Clifton took the top plate from the spring-loaded dispenser, set it aside and grabbed the second one. People moved in every direction, jumping erratically from item of choice to other. He took a moment to plan his point of entry into the madness. The intention was to pick a spot and a direction and just stay the course until he had gotten what he wanted from each spot. He intended to load his plate as much as possible, to avoid having to return to the chaos.

The salad bar seemed least bustling, so he opted to begin there. He prodded the lettuce with the tongs and decided to pass when he noticed it nearly floating. The woman he got in line behind moved suddenly in his direction, making him jump. She scowled at him.

“Sorry about that whole having mass and taking up space thing. It’s one of the drawbacks of existing,” he said as she continued on her way. “This salad bar ain’t happening.”

Next stop in the tour of culinary marshal law seemed safe enough. Nobody was there. He looked along the bar: sweet and sour chicken, lemon chicken, sesame chicken and fried chicken. Sesame chicken appealed the most of those options. As he moved to get some, a boy of maybe five appeared right next to him. Eyes magnified by his huge glasses, he looked up at Clifton.

“What you got there?” Clifton asked, looking at his plate. “Pizza, nachos and mac and cheese, huh? Looks like somebody’s getting an authentic taste of the orient. Wow, what’s that? It looks like a little piece of hot dog wrapped in bacon with a toothpick through it. Wow.”

The boy stood on his toes and reached for the sweet and sour sauce ladle. His fingers barely missed it. Clifton pushed the handle closer so he could grab it, curious what he planned to do with it, considering the contents of his plate. He spilled the majority on the bar before dumping the remainder on a blank spot on his plate. After putting the ladle into the sesame chicken, he scampered away. Down to lemon chicken or fried chicken on that side, Clifton scanned the other side to find nothing of interest. His eyes widened when he noticed Mr. Blurg moving at him with surprising speed. Clifton bee-lined to the next table.

He returned, frazzled, to Kim at the table. She looked his plate over.

“Pasta salad, a roll and some fruit?” She shook her head.
“Least likely candidates for contamination,” he explained.

“You’re unreal.”

“Let me tell you something; I worked in the food industry for almost ten years, and I know how things go. The health department rolls in here and notices that they’re not rotating stock and keeping the food on the bar heated or cooled properly. The people that run this fine dining establishment just shake their heads and say ‘Oh yah. Syure, serve nooo bad food.’ Those health department guys don’t even want to fuck with it. They know they could move on to a restaurant where they can understand the people and ream their asses instead. Meanwhile, people flock here, blissfully ignorant of the potential poison they’re ingesting,” he took a drink of water to cool down from his diatribe.

Kim breathed deeply through his nose and shook her head. “Just eat your fucking pasta salad and fruit so we can get out of here.”

They ate silently for several minutes.

“So I’m thinking … sex tonight?” he said.

She closed her eyes and fought a laugh. “We’ll see.”