It was the sweltering heat that most pained him. More than the shitty job of party pleaser at rich kids’ parties, or the clapped out camry he’d bought from a bloke in a pub that he drove from gig to gig. More than the prickly synthetic of the Santa suit that spiked his limbs and set his groin on fire every time he put it on. It affected his brain, it seared his skin, it sometimes made his vision falter.
A wave of bitter heat scorched his face when he opened the boot to retrieve the red outfit. It was like a kidnapee escaping, raging red and ruthless.
He kicked off his boots, removed his shirt and pants and pulled on the scratchy red suit. He hated also that he had to change on the kerb, in the wet stench of the summer heat. He pulled on the jacket, and felt the heat rise in his chest. He dug out the beard and hat from the tattered bag next to the spare wheel and looped the white string of beard about his ears. It was stifling. He struggled to breathe. The dry gum on the dirt nature strip quivered.
He recalled, as he often did, his late aunt – a former professor of evolutionary biology – saying, ‘We adapted, but it doesn’t mean we enjoyed it. We just survived, many species didn’t.’
He was early. He lit a cigarette to kill the time, for respite from the heat. It felt cooler than the sun.
He searched the boot for the bag of kiddies’ toys that he’d been sent for the gig. There was a sudden burning on his lips. The fucking beard. He ripped it off, swearing and patting his face with the red Santa hat. He stomped the beard into the bitumen, and winced at the pain on his lips. He touched his mouth tentatively. It hurt. He checked his face in the side mirror. There was an angry swelling on the right side of his mouth. Christ that was sore.
He picked up the beard and put it back on. It bit into the burning. We winced again and a tear snagged in his eyes, but it would hide his wound. He could get through this gig, and the five o’clock, and he could go home and tend to it. And probably douse his soul with alcohol.
He looked in the mirror again. He looked dreadful. The beard was blackened and covered in grime from the gutter. His eyes were red with tears. He thought, None of my caveman ancestors burned themselves on a Santa beard. Look what we’ve become. Working shit jobs like this to cover uni fees and make ends meet.
Sweat drained from beneath the hat, and under his armpits. The house morphed before him into a swirling kiln of hot brick. He flung the bag of toys over his shoulder and strode determinedly up to the door.
A young woman answered. She was quirky, with dark make up and black outfit, Doc Martins. Her hair was bunched in two pig tails, and dark brown eyes. She wore a white apron: it emphasised the smoothness of her skin.
‘Come in,’ she said. I’ll give you shelter from the storm, he thought. ‘What happened to your beard?’
He shrugged. ‘Smoking accident. Comes with the territory.’ He wanted to appear nonchalant, to impress her. He thought, That’s how we adapted, by our bravery in front of the women.
He followed her into the hallway and its coolness abated the throbbing in his head. When they reached the back room she reached for his beard. ‘Here, let me sponge it for you.’ She unlooped tenderly from his ears and a wave of sadness washed through him, of longing, to lie down and relax and be cared for.
When she saw the redness on his lips, she said, ‘Oh your poor thing, that must really hurt.’
It did. It was like a knife in his face, and throbbed unremittingly. He sensed her fingers hover over the injury. He was not sure if she actually touched him, but she was attentive and gentle and he wanted to cry.
‘Let me get some ice,’ she said, and was gone.
He looked out the window. He saw the back of an older person – an aunt maybe, or a grandmother – standing in the blue blaze of the day. She was lecturing what he assumed was the group of children he had been hired to entertain, but he couldn’t see them. They were obscured by a hedge of green moraya.
The young woman had returned. She held up a tea towel balled into the size of a fist. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘There’s ice in the towel, but I put some ointment on it too, so it won’t stick to the burn.’
She pressed the towel on to his mouth and its coldness flooded into him. She was close to him, and he gazed at her brilliant eyes as they focussed on her ministrations. He could look at her without being caught looking at her. ‘The name’s Natalie, by the way’ she said. ‘The parents hired me today to help out with the party.’
‘Nick.’
She stepped back and fixed him with a radiant smile.
‘Nick, really?’
He nodded.
‘Appropriate, don’t you think, for a Santa?’
He smiled back. ‘S’pose. I’d never thought about it.’
She reached behind her. ‘I’m going to put this gauze on your lip, and we can hide it behind the beard. You can do your thing and then, when you’ve finished, I suggest you go to emergency to get it checked out.’
He thought, What a thing. She’s the dream nurturing female to my warrior spirit. My pathetic trumped up synthetic warrior get paid a pittance bullshit spirit. He wanted to cry again, on her delicate shoulder, but he didn’t. He said, ‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.’
‘The lady outside – Mrs Henderson – is just finishing up. The parents told me she insisted that the kids be taught the real Christmas story before Santa arrived, so they have no illusions.’
‘What, the manger, wise men and shepherds routine?’ said Nick.
Natalie smiled. ‘My mum once said if they were wise women they’d have brought a casserole, not frankincense and myrrh. Oops, she’s just finished. You’re good to go. Good luck.’
She ushered him out. The heat rained instantly upon him. It drenched his hat, his suit and beard in immediate sweat. The lip burn sting caught his breath. The world was a hot yellow fire and he was walking into its maw. The hedge swayed. The neighbouring rooves were aflame with yellow steaming heat. The old woman was a grinning gargoyle who sang ‘Hello, Santa,’ as blood flowed from her foetid jowls.
He turned to his charges and was about to smile when he saw, not a bunch of happy kids in swimsuits, but adults, with cocktails and sunhats. They stared at him, malevolently, and their cry of ‘Hey, Santa,’ was a battle cry. He had been thrown to the lions, who roared and cackled in fiery red and yellow outfits. They were the devil, sent to taunt him, drag him on to the fire and quench their thirst for blood in the blood red heat.
He swung about, grasping for point of reality. The mob drew closer. He could feel their body heat, they could smell his fear.
He shook his hands in front of him. His aunt’s words rang in his ear.
‘Look,’ he shouted. ‘It’s not real. There wasn’t a census til 6AD, when Jesus was ten. Matthew has Mary go to Egypt to invoke the exodus. No one had to go anywhere. There was no murder of countless children. How do you become divine anyway – Mark gives it to him, Matthew and Luke inherit it by birth and John says he always was.’
The mob surged, their tongues were flames, their hands flames, their heads burning bushes. Spittle from the gargoyle showered him like hot lava. Nick reached into his sack fumbling for gifts to mollify them. Fishing rods, perfumes, a washing machine, car keys, shoes, jackets and pants, dresses, an iPhone, boxed cosmetics, a road bike, another iPhone, bottles of champagne, wine and spirits, chocolates, beach towels.
The mob scrambled over the mound of oddities from his bag, hissing and growling like hyenas on a hot kill, and a black veil of relief was draped upon him, and he could see no more.
* * * * *
He felt plastic on his cheeks and registered the hum of airflow close to his head. A man’s face appeared above him.
‘Ah, good, you’re back,’ he said. The man lifted the oxygen mask from Nick’s face. ‘Name’s Gabe,’ said the man. ‘You gave the kiddies quite a fright back there, not to mention the parents.’
Nick craned his neck to view his surroundings. Crenelated blue curtains, machines and beige walls.
‘Easy young fella,’ said the man called Gabe. ‘You’re in triage, it’s all good. You had a bit of sunstroke, that’s all. You blacked out but the young woman who was on staff there caught your fall and rang us to come and get you. You’re in safe hands now. We’ll keep you under obs for a while so you can rest up, rehydrate. We’ll have you out of here in good nick. All good, mate. And, we dressed the burn on your lip too, while you were out.’
He looked at the electrodes on his chest, and the pink heat marks. An ice towel straddled his forehead. There was a drip in his left arm, and a gibbous bag of fluid above it leaked hydration into his desiccated veins.
A hand touched his knee. He knew that caress. He looked up.
‘I thought I’d come by to see how you were,’ said Natalie.
He dropped his head on to the pillow.
‘You’re very kind,’ he said, and realised he’d said that before.
‘Oh, I just wanted you to know how funny it was,’ she said. ‘You were screaming about how to be divine and murdering all the children, and Mrs Henderson started shouting at you, and you started throwing the presents at the children and the parents ran out and then you feinted. It was hilarious. The realest Santa I’ve ever seen.’
Nick looked at her, and thought, Angels are real though. He said,
‘That’s really embarrassing.’
‘Oh it was,’ said Natalie, ‘but not just for you. That’s why it was so funny.’
She reached over to a bed table and picked up a small plastic carton.
‘Jelly,’ she said. ‘May I?’ Nick shrugged.
She tore off the lid and dug out a plastic spoonful of the wobbly red goo. It looked cold.
‘I’m a bit weird,’ she said. ‘I like hospital food.’ She put the empty container back on the table.
‘Anyway, I’ve got another gig to go to. A corporate dinner in town. So …’
She put a piece of paper underneath the empty jelly cup.
‘There’s meant to be a Santa there too, but he won’t be as fun as you. That’s my number, if you want to call me and let me know how you are.’
She turned to leave. Nick said,
‘Hey, thanks for being so kind.
She smiled and left. He watched the rhythmic sway of the blue curtains long after her departure.
* * * * *
Photo by Devon Mackay c/- Unsplash
