The Christmas Job

The news was everywhere and the entire world was freaked. Excitement rang out of every home. Children ran yelling into the streets and parents gave each other worried looks. Some people were thrilled by the news, while other people sobbed uncontrollably into their pocketbooks.

The Jews, of course, merely looked at each other and shrugged.

"What exactly is the problem?" I asked that morning after the newspapers broke the story.

My neighbor, a sallow man named Earl Gray, looked up at me in astonishment.

"You mean you didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

He leaned in, briefly glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening.

"Santa Clause is retiring. Mrs. Clause caught him cheating on her with one of the reindeer and filed for divorce. The alimony cleaned him out and now he can't afford to employ any more elves, which means...."

"....No more Christmas?" I choked out.

"No more Christmas," Earl said.

Meanwhile, up in heaven Jesus slapped his hand to his forehead and wondered aloud to himself about the state of religious education in today's society.

Down on Earth, I discussed the matter further with Earl, but eventually the conversation petered off into a diatribe about rising insurance costs. I listened half-heartedly, mind racing. With Santa Clause gone, that left a huge opening in the field of semi-mythical demi-gods who deliver presents.

Now, I'm not one of those people who lets opportunity walk by, so begging leave from Earl's rants over welfare babies and corporate America, I hitched a ride to the North Pole from a particularly friendly whaling ship and made my way to Christmas Town.

I didn't really know where to go - I'd forgotten to print out MapQuest directions - but I figured he had to live in the biggest, shiniest mansion in the whole setup. Marching up to the candy cane doors, I knocked loudly three times and waited, freezing my ass off all the while (I'd also forgotten to bring a coat, or, for that matter, any shoes that were not flip-flops).

Finally, the front door opened with a yank and a hairy brown face peered out at me. It had blood-shot eyes, a delicate snout, and its nose looked like a severely infected pimple....that glowed.

"What the fuck do you want?" slurred Rudolph, swaying as he stood there. He held a bottle of Jim Beam in his hoof and, judging by the way he smelled, he'd been drinking for the past twelve hours.

"I'm here to see Santa Clause," I said, holding my breath against the stink of sweat and whiskey.

"That bastard!" cried Rudolph.

"You mean Santa?"

"Of course I mean Santa, that fat bastard! You know...." he slurred at me. "You know what he did?"

I didn't really want to hear it, but I knew he wasn't going to let me in unless he told me. "What?"

"I gave him twelve years of my life, my life! And he says to me...." Rudolph leaned in, blasting my nostrils with his foul breath. "He says he's gonna leave his wife any day now. Any day now, he says, so I say fine and we do our thing. Twelve frickin' years."

"Um, that sucks," I said noncommittally.

"So I stay with him, believing him because why would Santa Clause lie, you know?"

I shrugged, keeping silent. At least with the door open, he was letting out enough heat to keep me from freezing to death.

"But then his wife catches us in the act and she gets a divorce and then Santa Clause, that, that..."

"That red-suited bastard?" I supplied helpfully.

"Yeah! That!" cried Rudolph, "He says he's leaving me because he needs some time alone."

Nose blazing angrily, he chugged down the last remaining drops of the liquor and glared at nothing.

"So, um, can I come inside?" I asked him.

"Sure, sure, whatever. Who the fuck cares?" He waved me in, but the effort cost him his balance and he toppled over onto the floor, completely passed out.

I stepped over his sprawled body and headed towards the back, where I could hear twinkling bells and a mournful 'ho ho ho.'

I opened the door to what appeared to be an empty workroom, lined with tables and industrial machinery, and stepped inside.

Santa sat at the far end of the room, sighing to himself as he looked at a long list in his hands.

"Hey Santa," I said. "Is that your list of who's naughty and who's nice?"

"This? No, son. These are my wife's demands from the divorce settlement."

The list rolled out all the way down the floor and across to the next table. Glancing at it briefly, I saw that, amongst the items Mrs. Clause wanted, she'd included the Ferrari, the portable hot tub and the summer house in the Hamptons.

"Wow, you're pretty rich," I said, impressed at all the items.

"Not anymore," grumbled Santa. I watched him as his belly began to shake like a bowl full of jelly, and then stumbled backwards as Santa let loose a huge, honking fart.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Since Mrs. Clause left, I've had to substitute her home cooking with beef jerky and microwave burritos. It's been hell on my constitution."

"Yeah," I said. "Anyway, since you're retiring, can I have your old job?"

"What?" He squinted at me. "And what makes you think you have the qualifications to be the jolliest man on earth, delivering presents and good will to all men?"

"Well, I exercise a lot and I really love children," I told him.

"And are you a worthy person in life?"

"Sure."

Frowning, he pulled another, even longer list out of his fur-lined red coat. He unrolled it and scanned it until he came to my name.

"Charles Manson?" he asked.

"That's me," I said.

He stared at it, frowning even deeper. "It says here you orchestrated a series of murders."

"Well, yeah," I shrugged. "But I'm past that stage in my career."

"And apparently you were the leader of some cult and...." he stopped reading and looked up at me, really looked at me, and his eyes widened.

"Dude," he said, "you have a swastika carved into your forehead."

I shrugged again, feeling disappointed. The interview wasn't going too well. I probably wasn't going to get the job.

"I'm always kind to animals," I protested, but my heart wasn't in it.

Santa Clause, glaring at me, showed me to the door. I stepped over Rudolph and walked out of Christmas Town, leaving my dreams of riding in a big sleigh and breaking into stranger's houses unrealized.

Thankfully, the whaling ship was still there, so I grabbed a ride back home and went to bed. I was still depressed the next morning, but then I took a bread knife and stabbed Earl Grey in the eyes for a while. That made me feel a little better.

Cheer up, I told myself. Okay, so maybe the Santa Clause thing didn't work out, but maybe that job wasn't really for me, anyway.

Now if Cupid retired, that would totally suit me better. I'd get to run around, half-naked, shooting an arrow into people's hearts. Fuck Christmas. Fuck running another cult, even. I wouldn't need to anymore. Love was one of the deadliest weapons of them all.

Smiling, I made myself some breakfast and began making a plan.

It was time that Cupid had himself a little accident.