R. A. Lopata

Stories depend on characters' choices, but it's that delicate pas de deux between their present and past that informs those choices, satisfies readers, and flummoxes writers. Yet Patrick emerged with very little coaxing, summoned simply by a newspaper piece I read on Santas' salaries, becoming a rare, welcome Christmas gift. - R. A. Lopata

You really get to hate the wet ones. At the last minute, just before their soggy little asses hit your lap, you see that look on their mothers' faces - that I've-waited-in-this- goddamned-line-for- forty-minutes-and-I'm- not-giving-up-my-place- for-anything-look - and you know a wet one's coming. It's in the elf's face, too, because she gets a whiff of it and rolls her eyes when she takes little Trevor or Alexis by the hand. Usually, they're just damp, which isn't so bad other than knowing that you've got a pee-soaked kid sitting on you. But every once in a while, a kid lets go in the chair. That's when this job feels mean, and there's nothing to do but waddle off to the changing room and put on the spare uniform. The elves, of course, find this hilarious.

Other than smelling like piss at the end of the day, nasty because it takes me back to places I don't want to be, this is not a bad gig. You get used to the criers, the frowners, the tantrum-throwers, the tight-lipped little shits who won't tell you what they want for Christmas, and you learn how to make them all smile because that's the only thing that really counts, getting that perfect smile for the eight by ten glossy. That's what their sport-ute driving mommas have been standing in line for, The Perfect Picture, and I mean perfect. Half of them demand - these ladies don't ask - they demand to stand at the monitor with the elf as she takes the picture, and if they don't like what they see, why "we'll" just shoot it again, they tell us, and again, until we get the perfect, I mean perfect, picture of little Justin's or Caitlin's visit with Santa.

But who's complaining? What most people don't know is what this gig pays. I couldn't tell you what those strip-mall Santas in front of cheesy cardboard North Poles pull down, but here at Plaza Frontenac, surrounded by runway model elves and a set that rivals Disney World, me and Jimmy each pull down 24 long for the 30 days from Thanksgiving until we call it a wrap on Christmas Eve. Sure, we're lapping yuppettes from 9:00 to 11:00 seven days a week, but that's 800 a day. For that kind of money, getting pissed on by rich kids isn't so bad. On top of the sweet paycheck, they put us up in rooms I could never afford across the street at The Chateau Frontenac with open meal tickets.

Jimmy, he keeps coming on to the elves, but I'm more realistic. "Look at why they hired us," I tell him, grabbing my belly. Even though they had to take us over to Salon de Scissors for bleach jobs, we're both pretty much just fat old long hairs. When our elves go off the clock, you can bet they're trolling for lawyers at The St. Louis Club, not slipping across the street for a tumble with a couple of bums like us. So I don't even try. When I get off, I head for The Chateau Frontenac's exercise room where I've started working out, then take some steam and top it off with a Jacuzzi, all part of the routine that's actually got me in better shape since I started this Santa thing. I walk a lot, too. It helps offset the sitting all day. Since me and Jimmy swap who starts each morning, every other day, I get up, put on my sweats and this new down parka I bought at Eddie Bauer - did I mention we get discounts at all the Plaza stores, too? - and hit the bricks.

From my room at The Chateau Frontenac I can walk right onto the grounds of The St. Louis Club, somewhere around the eighth hole, I think. At first, I just walked. Now I actually jog a little, sometimes raising my hands to fighter's stance, throwing a few short lefts and an uppercut, even dancing some, but I know I'm pretty much just putting on a show for the cleaning ladies walking down Country Club Lane from the bus stop. The only sparring I really ever did was with some other drunk in a barroom or, and I'm ashamed to say it, with Suzanne.

But today I'm feeling pretty good, and I'm in the middle of a real flurry of punches, concentrating so hard on keeping my shuffle in time with my hands that I don't hear the cop car coming up from behind, don't even notice until she's pulled up alongside.

"Hey, Raging Bull," she says. "You got business around here?"

One thing I've learned is never give cops attitude. They've always got the power. I drop my arms and stop. "Morning, officer." I try to give her a "Who, Me?" smile. "Just out for a little jog." She's got on a pair of dark aviators. I can't see her eyes, making it tough to read her.

"Live around here?" she asks.

Always stay casual with cops, like you're having a conversation with a good buddy. "Stayin' over at The Chateau Frontenac," I tell her. She's young. She's got that smooth skin and soft shine in her hair, which is pulled back in a ponytail, and I'm actually thinking she's kind of cute. "Don't you recognize Saint Nick?" I ask, trying to bellow out my heartiest, "Ho-ho-ho."

It throws her. Her body jerks back from the window. She's edgy now. "You got some ID?"

I'm rummaging around for my wallet - the damn parka has about a thousand zippered pockets and pouches - and she puts the car in park. "I'm Santa," I try to explain. "I mean I play him. I play Santa, across the street at the Plaza. I'm the guy who plays Santa Claus, see?" I turn sideways and jam both hands in my coat pockets, pushing out my belly with another "Ho-ho-ho." Her right hand drops to her side, and this is making me very nervous. "ID," I say. "ID. Don't leave home without it. Give me just a minute here, officer." My hand, which has started to sweat, slips around my wallet. "I've got my wallet here," I say, trying to sound calm, "And I'm going to take it out of my pocket now, okay?"

Her lips have stretched tight. "Take out your driver's license," she says. After one quick look, she says, "Okay, Patrick. I want you to walk up in front of my car."

I do as I'm told and stand watching through the windshield. I can see she's requesting wants and warrants on me. I know what'll come back. Even though there's nothing active, it's hard not to feel guilty, even if I am Santa. I busy myself studying her Ford Explorer, tricked out nicely in metallic blue with silver lettering "Police of the Village of Frontenac." I wonder if some suspicious housewife called in about me, if she's peering out from behind her velvet curtains watching the progress of my rousting, or if the cop just happened along. She motions me back to the car.

Handing me my driver's license, she asks, "You ever been arrested, Patrick?" I am feeling distinctly un-Santa-like. She no longer looks cute.

"Yes, Ma'am," I say. "A DUI in '94, two in '95, a drunk and disorderly in '95, and a misdemeanor assault in '96." Don't ever lie to a cop about something they already know or can find out. Like I said, remember who's got the power.

Starting with the right earpiece, she peels off her sunglasses and lays them on the dashboard. She's got really sharp gray eyes. "How about since then?"

"Nothing," I tell her. "I've been clean since '96." I think I see something soften in the eyes, like she's been there, or she knows somebody who has. "And honest, I really am playin' Santa over at the Plaza."

"Friend of Bill W?" she asks. Both hands are back on the steering wheel.

"No, ma'am," I tell her. "More like an acquaintance." I had tried going to meetings for a while, but they had the opposite effect on me. It's miserable enough finally having to look at yourself for the fuckup that you truly are, but having to sit there and listen to everybody else's fuckups, too, that just didn't work for me. The whole world started to sound so bad, I figured I might as well head back for the nearest saloon. "Just tryin' to work things out on my own."

When she smiles, I notice she's got freckles that run from her cheekbones across the bridge of her nose, and I'm back to thinking she's kind of cute. Her right hand drops the Explorer back into drive. "Okay, Patrick," she says. "The country club grounds are private, and the residents like to keep it that way. You might want to keep your jogging over on the other side of Clayton Road."

So some bitch probably did phone it in, and she's probably watching us right now. "Sorry," I say. "I didn't know."

"No problem," she says. "Just keep it on the other side of Clayton."

"You bet," I tell her. "And, hey, bring your kids to the Plaza. I'll give you a free picture of Santa." I'm hoping she'll tell me she doesn't have any kids in which case I'll tell her she can come sit on my knee because I'm really starting to like those freckles and gray eyes.

She just smiles and puts the aviators back on. "Have a nice day," she says, and the Explorer pulls away.

I decide to walk slow, just stroll out of the Club grounds, hoping I'll see a little movement behind some curtains, maybe see some woman in her housecoat peeking out. I could piss on her pachysandra and hotfoot it back to The Chateau Frontenac before she even picked up the phone, but nothing happens. I just head back to my room for a shower.

When I get to work, there's already one hell of a line twisting back through Toyland, the Disney-like backdrop that leads to the North Pole. Mothers are trying to interest their kids in the robotic elves who cobble toys all day in little cottages interrupted by mechanical reindeer who never tire of poking their heads through windows while, fake snow falls continuously from overhead machines. But mostly the kids look bored. Passing by Jimmy on my way to suit up, I can see he's not looking too good either.

The suit is heavier than you might think. Even though both me and Jimmy already carry some extra baggage around our middles, the Santa coats are packed with big pouches that feel like Jell-O and weigh about twenty pounds each. Add on the fur trim, leather suspenders, that big thick leather belt with the brass buckle, and those monster boots we clomp around in, and we're lugging a good 50 pounds. Even so, Jimmy shouldn't look as wasted as he does when he kicks open the dressing room door at 10:45.

"Spell me early, will ya', man?" he asks, reaching into his red Santa bag for a pack of Salems.

I don't like letting him off too easy, knowing, like I do, why he looks so bad. So I say seriously, "But Jimmy, I need some time to get in character."

"Yeah," he says flopping into a chair and blowing a long stream of smoke from his nostrils. "`Ho-fucking-ho. Now beat it ya' little rugrat.' You're a regular Marlon Brando." I can see he's got the shakes. "Come on, just gimme a fucking break, will ya'?" he asks.

"Sure. Why not?" I say, jumping up and throwing out my arms. "Santa Number Two is ready to rock and roll." I cinch the shiny leather belt around the fur-trimmed coat.

"Thanks, man," he says.

"Yeah," I tell him. "Just go easy, Jimmy." I leave it at that, even though I want to add, `This is a great gig. Don't blow it,' but I know it's the last thing he needs to hear right now. So I just heft up my sack and head out the door.

Charlie, the blonde elf with the amazing cleavage, is bent over talking to a sullen-looking pouter at the front of the line as I come up the path. "See," she's saying. "Here comes Santa right now. He just had to go feed the reindeer. . ." Her gorgeous butt is pointing right at me, and I understand totally why Jimmy keeps trying. "Good morning, Santa," Charlie purrs in this deep voice. All the elves love to flirt with us. I admit I don't mind that at all. Anywhere else, I'd be invisible to a woman like that. She'd look away, maybe even cross over to the other side of the street if we met.

I let go with a real deep "Ho-ho-ho. Good morning, Elf Charlie. Good morning, children." Charlie's lifting the first kid up onto my lap before I've even gotten settled. It's really important to get your legs set right before these tykes hit or they can do some damage. "And who have we got here?" I ask, peering out at the army of designer clad kids. The line stretches back into Saks Fifth Avenue now.

"This is Matthew," Charlie says. "And he's been an extra good boy this year."

"Is that right, Matthew?" I ask, not even looking at him because I'm still taking in the line. More schools must have let out. From here, it looks endless. Back by the cottage where the mechanical elves make dolls all day, I see the tall, slender figure of a woman wearing a full-length leather coat and a pink wool beret. Some deep-down reflex jolts me. Though she's nearly silhouetted by the bright display lights, that look is distinctly Suzanne. But there are probably a thousand tall women in long leather coats around here.

Hoping I haven't blanked for too long looking at the faraway woman, I go extra hearty. "So you've been very good, eh, Matthew? Does that mean there's something extra special you want for Christmas this year?" Hanging onto the woman's hands are two kids, seven, maybe eight years old, Amy and Cal's age, roughly the same size, like twins. They could be twins.

Matthew's not talking. I need to focus. Ronnie, the other elf, is peering out over the monitor that previews the photos and shaking her head, which means he's not smiling. "Come on, Matthew. You can tell Santa." I hate the tight-lipped ones.

The woman's still got her back to me. Even if she did turn, back lighted the way she is, I probably wouldn't be able to make out her face.

"Is it a toy?" I ask. "Or maybe a pet? A puppy?" I can see he's starting to twitch around the eyes. I may have a crier on my hands. "Ho-ho-ho," I say gently. "There's nothing to be afraid of, Matthew. Would you like Elf Charlie to hold your hand while we take the picture?" I'm flashing my eyebrows, the Santa S.O.S. signal. Charlie catches it and nods.

The two kids are so far away I can't really make them out, and I'm not sure I'd recognize Amy and Cal, anyway. It's been four years, and part of the agreement was that I wasn't allowed to come anywhere near them.

Kneeling, Charlie takes the kid's hand in both of hers and coos, "Oooo, Matthew, aren't we having a good time with Santa?" Ronnie's full-fledged scowl is telling us, as if we don't already know, that the clock is running, the line's not moving, and the little bastard still isn't smiling. And me, I'm thinking dressed up like a 300-pound fruitcake is no way to see your kids for the first time since they were babies.

Even though Charlie's got a hold of Matthew's hand, he's starting to squirm in my lap. "A Play Station," she says. "I'll bet Matthew wants a new Play Station."

Suzanne couldn't know I was doing this. If she did, there's no way she'd bring the kids around. I can't blame her.

For the first time, Matthew speaks. "No." He's frowning deeply. Since I don't see anyone who looks like she'd be his mother hovering, I'm thinking I should just give Ronnie the high sign. Take this kid's picture, happy or not.

It doesn't make sense that Suzanne would be here in the first place. For starters, she's not the Plaza Frontenac type. She's South Saint Louis born and raised. The closest we ever lived to the `burbs was the Central West End. After we split up I heard she moved back to her parents' block near Benton Park. That's almost an hour's drive, and today's a work day.

I give Matthew my best shot, leaning down close to his ear. "Maybe there's something special and. . ." I pause for effect. "...secret that Matthew can tell only Santa about." The kid turns to me, eyes wide, pupils dilated, rapid blink rate. I know we're in trouble.

I look up just long enough to see the woman bend over and give each kid a kiss.

Leaning around to make eye contact, I whisper, "It's okay, Matthew. There's nothing to be afraid of." His whole body is trembling. I'm starting to wish the mother were here.

There couldn't be that many sets of fraternal twins this age with tall mothers. These two faraway little figures really could be my babies, and I realize that, even though they'll be sitting on my lap, the only way I'm likely to know my own kids is when they tell me their names. And it hurts.

Charlie gives me a rap on the shin. "Hey, Matthew, how about a nice smile for Elf Ronnie?" I ask. But he's still tight-lipped. I go for broke. Hoping I'll at least get a grimace that might pass for a smile, I tickle him ferociously under both armpits. . .

Sometimes I think being a bona fide fuckup is just a matter of forgetting to think, even for a split second, because that's all it takes. Matthew's torrent of piss comes so fast, I don't even get him off my lap. As Ronnie flashes the camera, Charlie is jumping back in alarm; the dark stain of pee has already flooded across Matthew's crotch and begun soaking through my pants; and caught in its swift, rising scent, I'm already gone, my consciousness cannon-shot to that somewhere else place. . .

. . .my eyes too raw to open, brain crushed under the weight of morning, stomach wrung into a tight knot that wants to spew inside out, legs numb, and enveloped in that tangy piss-soaked smell. A faint fly-buzz of a noise intrudes. Whispering. Small, unsteady sounds fluttering past me until a single word trickles through. "Daddy?"

Amy's and Cal's tiny faces drift into focus from out of the sickly fog. My babies, curious explorers who have slipped out the door of the apartment and into the hallway to discover their wretched, semi-conscious father, right where he went down for the count the night before, locked out by Suzanne, her deep well of patience finally exhausted. Their father the fuckup.

"Daddy?"

Daddy the fuckup, the morning after another last night of drinking, a night begun sincerely, just like all the others, and ending trampled beneath a stampede of "one-last drinks," just like all the others.

"Daddy?"

Four years and I still convulse at the memory of Cal's single word.

"Santa?" But this voice is closer, more insistent. "Santa?" Charlie's voice rises on the second syllable as she gently shakes my shoulder. I blink up at her, dumb, uncertain which world I'm in.

"Don't you think it's time to go feed the reindeer?" Her eyes point to my piss-stained crotch. I'm so far gone I don't even know whether it came from Matthew or me, so far gone I can barely push myself up from the chair and shuffle back toward the dressing room, so far gone it is all I can do to turn after a few steps and nod like a simpleton to my picture perfect elves and the endless line of mothers and children. "Yes," I croak dumbly, "The reindeer." A pealing chime version of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" resonates from Toyland's Surround-Sound speakers, vibrating in my guts as I blindly stagger off.

By the time I reel through the dressing room door, vertigo's pushing so hard around my edges I can barely stand. The floor lurches hard left and then crazy tilts back right. Even though Jimmy's stretched out on the sofa cutting z's, I'm thinking the only way through this is to get him to cover for me until I can pull it back together. Reaching for where I think his shoulder will be, I grab on and start shaking.

"Jimmy. Wake up. Come on, man. Hey Jimmy." This doesn't even break the rhythm of his snoring. "Jimmy," I say louder, grabbing both shoulders and jerking him hard, which accidentally lifts the flap of his Santa coat's hip pocket just enough. There, nosing out from the red flannel like an old friend playing peek-a-boo creeps the stubby little neck topped by the oh-so familiar red cap whose torn tax label is curled just enough so it's smiling up at me, Mr. Gilbey's gin, and as soon as I see the bottle, my eyes see nothing else. It's a moment where I understand totally why the AA people always have someone to call, because every part of me is straining out for that bottle. It's reflex, a knee jerk after a doctor's tap, automatic, uncontrollable. My brain is already savoring the feel of my fingers cradling the cool glass, tenderly unscrewing the cap; but my numbed body lags a few steps behind, one moment of opportunity, a split second to do the only thing I can think of. I take that right hand that's longing for the bottle and wrap it around my big brass Santa belt buckle. I wrap it tight and start to squeeze. Tighter, until I can feel the metal digging into my skin. Tighter. My eyes start tearing. So tight the motherfucking belt buckle is about to cut my fingers off. Tighter, until there is nothing, nothing but pain. And I don't stop, not until I see Jimmy again, still out cold on the couch, not until I can see the bottle right where it was, sticking out of his pocket. And then I can let go. Then I can take a breath. Then I can reach out with my thumb and forefinger and gently push Mr. Gilbey back into the recesses of Jimmy's Santa coat. I'm not going to fuck up again, not today anyway.

Reaching for a towel to wrap around my bleeding fingers, I know what I need to do. I need to pull it together. I need to get out of these piss-soaked pants, climb into my dry pair, and go back out there and start lapping kids again, because there's no way Jimmy can do it and because it's what I'm here to do. For just one second, I want to celebrate the fact that I'm pulling it together, one second before I realize the only way I know to celebrate is to have a drink, and this leaves me with that old familiar bottom-of-the-barrel feeling, wondering if even Santa sometimes feels this way. Even Santa's got to have his bad days, right? But what's the old guy supposed to do? The toys must go through. He's got to pull it together - on Donner, on Blitzen, head up there, Rudolph...feeling like a crock all the way? Even Santa's got to have those days, doesn't he? A Christmas when blizzards blanket Boston, when the smog in LA's so thick it'll make the reindeer puke, and old Saint Louis is fogged in so bad his sled might crash smack dab into the Gateway Arch? A Christmas when he doesn't know what's waiting for him at the end of that dive down the chimney, a couple of kids with cookies or Colt .45s? A Christmas when he's feeling like hell and he knows the whole damn thing's just out there waiting to bite him on the ass? But what choice does he have? He's Santa.

So, I peel off the clammy red flannel pants, slip into the dry pair, and, taking one last look at Jimmy, I head for the door.