It’s December already. Christmas is just around the corner. My wages are arrested on account a this council tax from last year that I ain’t paid. I owe my second ex- wife –Olga, the one from Romania that I met online - two month’s a back alimony. An’ now I got all these presents an’ shit that I gotta get. Fuck. I need some bread.
Actually I ain’t too bothered about presents fer my sister an’ her husband, Joe ‘cos I already got them stuff – my sister’s gettin’ a bag a cotton balls, an I got Joe a hot dog an’ a wheel a cheese. I got ‘em months ago at a petrol station in Springburn. They’re safely hidden in a shoebox under my bed. See, ya gotta think ahead. Be prepared.
But we’ve got this ‘Secret Santa’ thing at work. That’s a different story, an jeez if it ain’t throwin’ me fer a loop. See, we drew these names outta a bag ta see who we were supposed buy presents fer, an guess who I got? Nancy McKeon, from the sales department. Now fer those a youse that don’t know, Nancy is a total babe. I mean she’s seriously hot. She’s gotta be the hottest chick in the entire company – fuck, probably all a Glasgow fer that matter. I mean she’s perfect – she ain’t got no bald spots, or weird-lookin’ scars (none that I can see, anyway), no glass eye, none a that stuff. She don’t even got a vestigial pecker, like my last girlfriend did. She smells great, too, like one a those strawberry-flavoured breakfast cereals. Best of all, I think Nancy kinda digs me. Every time we pass in the hall she smiles an’ says ‘hi’ to me. She even once asked me if I had a good weekend. Seriously, I think I gotta good shot at baggin’ her. So, whatever present I get her fer this ‘Secret Santa’ thingy, it’s gotta by classy an’ expensive in order ta impress her. I mean, this could seal the deal fer me. Nancy could end up bein’ the next Mrs. Hassebrock.
Anyway, long story short, if I’m gonna have any chance of baggin’ this babe, I gotta figger out a way ta earn some extra cash. So’s I figger out the best way a doin’ that would be ta go ask my boss fer a raise. After he stops laughin’ he tells me I gotta put the whole thing in writin’ - I mean like a typed-up report with a whole buncha reasons statin’ why I think I deserve a raise, what I’ve done ta deserve it, what I’d spend the extra money on…shit like that. Then, he tells me, he’s gotta submit the report ta his boss, who will then pass it on ta his boss. Then they’ve all gotta meet to discuss whether or not they wanna interview me, an’ decide if they wanna give me a raise. Then maybe I’ll get a 1% raise that will go inta effect sometime in August of next year.
So I start lookin’ through the wanted ads. Unfortunately, with the economy bein’ in the crapper just now, there ain’t much ta look at. Most a the jobs that are there is stuff I ain’t qualified for – like engineers, city planners, an’ barristers. There’s one job that I think I might be qualified fer; it’s a marketing job, with no experience necessary; all ya need is a HND or an equivalent. But then I find out that a ASBO ain’t the equivalent of a HND. In fact it ain’t even a degree.
Then I find this one ad, a tiny one down at the bottom of the page: ‘Wanted, Santa for Busy Shopping Centre,’ an’ I figger that’s the pefect gig fer me. I don’t even have to do nuthin,’ just sit there an act happy while kids crawl onta my lap. I can do that. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, ‘cos this is practically my dream job. So I call the number that’s listed on the ad an’ they tell me to go to this shopping centre near the Glasgow city centre called St. Enoch’s. I been there once before, but don’t remember what for? I remember I wuz wearin’ underwear. It’s a pretty swanky joint, though; it’s got a food court an’ everything.
Anyway, when I get there I go to the manager’s office, an sit in the waitin’ room ‘til the secretary calls me in. The manager is this guy named Tony an’ he’s got a tie an a moustache. He smiles, gets up from his desk and goes over to shake my hand.
‘I’m here fer that Santa job,’ I tell him.
Tony looks at me fer a couple a seconds. ‘Sorry,…erm, the job’s already been filled.’
‘What? But the chick on the phone said that you were still looking. Why the hell would she tell me ta come in if ya already had the position filled?’
‘Well…we just…erm, ahum… hired someone a few minutes ago. In fact it was the fellow who came in just before you. You probably saw him in the waiting room as he was leaving.’
‘But, I didn’t see nobody,’ I protest. ‘I wuz….’
‘Look, again, I’m sorry,’ Tony interrupts. ‘but the position has now been filled. Better luck in the future.’
Tony puts his hand on my shoulder and starts ta guide me outta the office. I’m about ta say something, but then he hands me this slip of paper.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘We don’t want you to go home empty-handed, so here’s a five dollar gift voucher for your next visit to St. Enoch’s shopping centre. No hard feelings, huh?’
‘Waitaminute, five dollars…but we’re in the UK. This ain’t gonna get me squat.’
‘I said no… hard… feelings,’ Tony says. He opens the door and practically shoves me outta his office. ‘Candice will see you out.’
Tony slams the door behind me. I see Candice lookin’ at me, kinda bored. Then without gettin’ up from her desk she points to the outer door an tells me, ‘go out that door, doon the hall an’ to yer left. The exit’s right there.’
Outside it’s cold an’ a bit drizzly. I’m bummed about not getting’ the job, but there’s a whole buncha other stores around here, an I figger there’s gotta be someplace around here that needs a Santa. So I walk around fer a little while, going from store ta store ta see if they’re hiring a Santa. No luck – I try Buchanan Street Galleries, John Lewis, Next, Matalan, Borders, Marks an’ Spencer, Curries – non a them are hirin’. I even try Ann Summers, Hot Topic, an both Celtic an’ Rangers stores – nuthin’.
After awhile, I find myself on the other side a town. I’m about ready to give up an’ call it a day when I see this Primark across the street. I figger what the fuck, why not? So I go in an’ ask ta see the manager. As I stand there, waitin’, I see this chick holdin’ her kid’s hand as she ushers him outta the store. The kid is bawlin’ real loud – practically screamin.’ The other shoppers just ignore them; they don’t even look up. A minute or so later I see another parent leadin’ their screamin’ kid out the door. Then I see a third kid, screamin’ at the top of his lungs as his folks take him outside. I think it’s kinda weird, but nobody else pays any attention to this.
Then the manager appears – this broad, she looks a bit dumpy and stressed out. She puts out her hand an says her name is Jean. I tell her my name while takin’ her hand an’ givin’ it a shake, firm but not too firm, cos she’s a chick an’ all. I get right to the point an’ tell her I’m lookin’ fer a job as a Santa.
‘Santa Claus, huh? Let me see.’ She adjusts her glasses and stares at this clipboard she’s carrying fer a coupla seconds. ‘Sorry, Mr. Hassebrock, that position has been filled.’
I thank her and start to turn away when she adds: ‘but we do have a vacancy for a Santa’s elf, if you’d like to try that.’
‘Really? An elf, huh?’
‘Aye, we had to let one of the elves go after one of our customers saw him smoking ketamine in the men’s room.’
I think about it fer a couple a seconds before acceptin’ her offer. Sure it ain’t no Santa, and it pays about a pound less than the Santa gig, but I really need the money. Besides it might be cool to be an elf.
‘Magic, can ye start today?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘Oh, ta, yer a star.’
Jean leads me to this locker at the back of the store an shows me the elf costume I gotta wear – a green top an’ tights with red trim. It looks a bit small. I take the costume an’ go back to one of the changin’ rooms to try it on. Cripes is it ever tight! The shirt only covers the top half of my torso, so my gut’s hanging out. The tights are just as bad. They’re ridin’ up the crack a my ass an’ squeezin’ my nuts…hard. An the fake satin material that this costume’s made from is kinda hot an’ itchy. I come out an’ show it to Jean who smiles and claps her hands together when she sees me.
‘Ohhhh, don’t ye look precious?!?’ she gasps.
‘Well ta be honest, they’re a bit snug.’
‘Oh nonsense, don’t be ridiculous. You look fine. Now go out there and kick some arse.’
We head out to the main floor an’ Jean points to this long que of little kids. At the very front of the line is this platform, raised about two feet off the ground. A very tired and angry-lookin’ Santa is sittin’ in a large chair in the centre of the platform, an’ off to one side is another elf, fiddling with the text messages on his mobile. None of the kids in the que look very happy about seein’ this Santa. Quite a few of them are cryin’.
This little girl is about to get on Santa’s lap when Jean interrupts.
‘Now everyone,’ she says. ‘a new elf has just arrived from the North Pole to give Santa a hand. His name is Brad. Everyone, say hi to Brad.’
‘Hi Brad,’ the kids all shout.
Santa looks me over an glares at me. Then he turns to Jean.
‘Wot tha hell, Jean! This bloke’s too fat to be an elf. Look at him! He looks like a turd – something my dog shit out this morning.’
The elf, a young kid of about 15 or 16, turns to look at me, shrugs his shoulders an goes back to texting his mate.
‘Now, now, Santa,’ Jean says. I can see that she’s scared a this guy. ‘Ahem, let’s not be mean. No need to be nasty in front of the children.’
Then she turns to the que. ‘Santa’s just playing, children; her..erm, likes to tease his elves a bit. It’s all a bit of fun. Isn’t it , Santa.’
‘Whatever,’ Santa rolls his eyes.
I get up on the platform. As I get closer to him, I can smell Santa, an’ he doesn’t smell too good – kinda like a cross between a chippie an’ the corner stall of the toilet at the Silver Fish. The little girl gets on his lap. She seems a bit scared an’ I can tell that she’s about ta cry. Santa asks her what she wants fer Christmas. The girl thinks about it fer a second and says she wants a doll.
‘And have you been a good little girl?’ Santa asks.
‘Ummm, yeah…I think so,’ the girl replies.
‘Are you sure about that? You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? You wouldn’t lie to Santa.’ Santa leans in closer, as the girl shrinks back. ‘Cos Santa knows when you’re lying. Santa sees everything. He sees you when you’re awake and when you’re asleep. And Santa knows where you live.’
The girl starts screamin’ fer her mommy, an struggles to get offa Santa’s lap. Her mom takes her hand an’ leads her outta the store.
‘Christ, buddy, don’t ya think you were a bit harsh there?’ I ask Santa. Santa scowls at me and becons me closer. I lean in.
‘Listen, here ya fuck, let me explain something to ya,’ he says lowering his voice. ‘I’m Santa Claus and you’re the lowly elf. That makes me yer boss. Now yer new here, so I’m gonna let ya off this time. But if ya ever question my authority in front of the kids again, I’ll follow you home, chop up you an’ yer family with an axe an burn yer house doon; ya got that?’
‘Yeah, erm, sorry.’
We see about twelve more kids over the next two hours. Every fourth kid leaves Santa’s Grotto crying. I don’t know what the hell is up with this guy; he’s a asshole, a real asshole. The other elf hasn’t said one word the entire time. Santa calls him over a couple a times an’ I can see the fear in the kid’s eyes. But mostly he just stands there texting on his mobile, tryin’ his best to stay outta the way.
Me, I’m not so lucky. Over the course of the afternoon, Santa calls me every name under the sun - “C’mon fucko, git yer fat arse movin,” “Are youse a queer? ‘Cos ya look like a queer in that gay elf’s costume.” “Christ, yer such a fuckin’ loser. Why yer mum didn’t abort ye, I’ll never know.” He even kicks me a coupla times – right in the ass. At one point, I’m holdin’ this little kid, tryin’ ta hoist him onta Santa’s lap when Santa punches me in the nuts. I damn near drop the kid an’ Santa laughs. ‘Ho, Ho, Ho!’
I try ta ignore it as best I can an just think about Nancy. I try ta imagine her sweet face, how impressed she’ll be when she opens up my Secret Santa gift ta her. That’s just what I gotta do; just think about who I’m doing this fer, an’ I can git through the rest a the day.
After another hour goes by, we finally git a brake an’ I go outside ta git some fresh air. It’s only a 10 minute brake, so there’s not enough time fer me ta change inta my street clothes or even ta get my locker outta my jacket. Outside it’s absolutely freezin’ an I’m standin’ there huddlin’ in the corner, tryin’ ta keep warm in my skimpy little elf’s outfit. Across from me I see the other elf, still textin’ away. I go over an say hi to him, but he don’t say nothing,’ just keeps on textin’. It’s too cold out here an I’m about ta go back inside when I look over the kid’s shoulder an see what he’s textin’. HELP ME, it says on the phone screen.
Back inside there’s even more kids. The queue to see Santa stretches down children’s clothes to menswear and into household goods. Why so many kids would want to see such a crap Santa is beyond me. I sigh and make my way to the platform. Santa’s already there, greetin’ kids from his chair.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he whispers to me. ‘You’re a minute late.’
‘Sorry, lost track of time.’
‘If it happens again, your arse is mine. Got that, ya wanker?’
‘Yeah, sure…whatever.’
Just then a little boy hops onto Santa’s lap. Cute little kid, probably about four or five years old. Immediately he starts tellin’ Santa what he want fer Christmas. ‘I wanna “Doctor Who Tardis” playset, I wanna new football, I wanna Nintendo Wii, I wanna “Super Mario Bros. Olympics” for my Wii, I wanna robot puppy…an, an a, an…’
‘My that’s quite a list you have, son,’ Santa interrupts.
‘But I’m afraid you can’t have any of that stuff, ‘cause you see that elf over there?’ Santa points to me. ‘See, he has to make all those toys, and I just don’t think he can do it. He just isn’t in good enough shape to do it. Look at him, he’s a disgusting fat body.’
The kids eyes start to well up with tears. Any minute now he’s gonna start bawlin’.
‘And even if by some miracle he was able to make all those toys,’ Santa continues. ‘You still wouldn’t get a single one. You know why? Because you’re a greedy little bastard and you don’t deserve anything; not even a fucking yo-yo string.’
With that the kid starts screamin’ his head off. Tears are streamin’ down his cheek, an’ I think he may have pissed his pants. The kids mom immediately yanks him offa Santa’s lap and goes ta see the manager. Me, I’ve had enough. It’s one thing ta make fun a me; but deliberately makin’ a kid cry? That’s outta order. So I decide ta tell him so.
‘Look guy, that was outta line what ya just done?’
Santa glares at me- an evil glare that frankly scares the livin’ shit outta me.
‘Are you questioning my authority, little elf? What did I say about questioning Santa’s authority?’
‘Yeah, I’m questioning yer authority. Yer not Santa , yer just this mean asshole. An’ if ya gotta problem with it, then I think we should take this outside.’
‘Oh yes, let’s. Let’s take this outside,’ Santa smirks.
Then Santa gets up from his chair and I realize that this is the first time I’ve seen Santa standin’ fully upright. The son of a bitch is huge. About 6’5” and weighs about 300lbs. The top a my head comes up to slightly above his midriff. I look up but all I can see is this solid wall of red and white felt. Oh great, why did I have ta challenge this guy ta a fight? Why the fuck didn’t I just leave? I’m thinkin’.
Santa looks down at me an’ snarls. ‘Ho, Ho, Ho. Santa’s really gonna enjoy this. Santa’s gonna teach you a lesson, ya little shit.’
***********
I don’t remember much of what happened next. All I know is that I wake up about a week later in the hospital. My face is beaten ta a pulp. I got five broken ribs an’ some serious bruisin’ an internal bleedin.’ My sister hand’s me a letter from Primark. I’m thinkin’ it’s my paycheque, but it ain’t. Apparently I owe them money fer causing property damage to their store since I insitigated the fight. They’re takin’ me ta court an’ everything. Santa’s in jail but he’s expected ta be released in a coupla a days, so I’m kinda worried about that. Needless ta say I didn’t get that expensive present fer Nancy. In fact I didn’t get nuthin’ fer Nancy. What happened was that when they found out at work that I wuz in the hospital, they gave Nancy’s name ta Jason Stewart, that prick in Marketing that gave me those laxatives an’ tol’ me it wuz a chocolate cake; the same asshole that posted my profile on gaybears.com, an’ then sent it all aroun’ the office as a email attachment. Man, I hate that guy! Anyways, he gave her a pair of fancy gold earrings, from what I’ve been told. She dug them so much that they’re goin’ out now, an’ they’re a real serious item. Think they’re supposed ta be gettin’ married next spring. So it don’t look like I’ll get ta bag Nancy Mckeon, ah fuck. Oh well, Merry Christmas, anyway. .
