For AXM Magazine, December 2005
Santa wakes me up on Christmas morning. I’m his last delivery. We smoke a spliff. He looks good. He’s lost weight and, instead of those silly clear spectacles, he’s sporting narrow black Gucci frames that rest coyly on his newly dapper cheekbones. He puts his manicured hand on my shoulder whenever he speaks of home, and I realize his face looks slimmer because he’s trimmed back his beard.
Speaking of beards, he doesn’t even mention Mrs. Clause. He talks of changing flight patterns, the fickleness of on-line dating, and of course, the Jews. He still doesn’t understand why they won’t let their guard down and invite him into their home and their hearth.
“The Muslims, that makes sense.” Santa says, stroking my hair as I lie near him, my head resting snuggly in his soft red lap. “They thrive in warm places near the Equator, so December 25th with all its snow and twinkling lights means very little to them. But those Orthodox New Yorkers, they act like they’ve got something better to do every time Christmas Eve rolls around.” He shifts nervously, and I feel the bulging muscles in his hard thighs. I think, Someone’s been doing their squats! “I show up at their homes – sometimes I take a detour, just on the off chance they might’ve softened up a bit – but they stare at me like I’m a Martian. Even the little ones. Breaks my heart.”
I look up at his sweet countenance, noticing a slightly obvious border where his neck appears paler than his jaw. Is Santa wearing make up? But who can blame him for a bit of bronzer? “Santa, don’t take it personally. The Jews hate Christmas ‘cuz it’s Jesus’ birthday.”
“Are you nuts? He was born in January. Believe me, He is a typical Capricorn. Always late.”
“You’ve met Jesus?”
“He reveals himself at functions, usually with some skinny young hippy.”
“That sounds hot.”
“Hot?” Santa pouts, like Bill Clinton, only innocently. “Well it would be I suppose, if Our Savior wasn’t so morbidly obese.”
“He’s not ripped? Like in those paintings?” I spent my childhood, hormones up to my plucked eyebrows, dreamily staring at his crucifixion, thinking ‘Come on Jesus, suck it! We’ve got time!’
“If you mean ‘ripped’ as in drunk, sure. Otherwise, sadly, no, He’s not ripped.”
“It must be all those wafers. They’re fattening.”
“Ho ho, yes.” His soft fingers pinch my cheek. He smells of Eucalyptus. “I gave up wafers, but Christ is an obsessive snacker. He’s also addicted to fine wine. And Operas, especially if they’re about Him.”
“When did you last spot God’s son?”
“I think it was Diana’s funeral. Or maybe Vogue’s Anniversary party. He came dressed as Mickey Rourke, who’s been fat and dead for years, so it’s good camouflage. He and his ‘whomever’ were bloodshot, probably stoned out of their minds, and they trawled the buffet, piling on the carbs. Christ loves His sweets. He had grease stains all over His tuxedo shirt and He was braying about Mel Gibson, who, apparently, is one cunt that has a lot to answer for, when the time comes.”
“Why? Because of that silly movie?”
“What movie?” Even with his shiny leathers, Santa is still so out of the loop. “Ho ho, no. Because, well, take this for what it’s worth, Christ is a vicious gossip, but, allegedly, Mel beats kids. And not just his. Everyone’s. Rumor is it’s a fetish, and he’s rich enough to feed his fantasies.” Santa tears up. He loves kids. And money. “Gibson probably hears voices. Why can’t those voices ever hum Simon and Garfunkle?”
“Santa,” I purr, nuzzling my left cheek into his bulging Saint Nick, “you’re just an old hippy yourself.”
When I wake up, it’s Christmas, midday, and I’m still alone. The only present I have is the gift of soggy, cum-stained sheets, which means another holiday spent in the Arab laundromat on Queensway, packed with screaming kids that I’d like to introduce to Mel Gibson.
During the spin cycle, I call my therapist who, thank God, is Jewish. He’s always available during Christmas, when, clearly, I’m not the only one who needs him.
“Scott, I’m on another call.”
“Busy day?”
“You’re actually fourth in line. Today is suicidal for single, thinking people.”
“In other words, queers.”
“And Anne Whiticomb.”
Quickly, I tell him my dream. I can literally hear his eyes roll at even the mention of Jesus. Then he tells me the same old line. That I’m merely wishing for the gift of intimacy. Then he hangs up.
The Sun’s astrology column agrees. I paraphrase: I need to find a man who can match me in every way, including my age. But on the very rare occasion that I venture into Soho, all I feel is mild disdain for the losers that trash their paychecks on overpriced vodka and beer.
When I do meet someone even remotely interesting and also 42, he wants to fuck someone half his age and twice his size.
Take Santa for instance. He’s dating Ricky Martin, who sleepwalks, which is how they met. Or at least that’s their story.
“Scott,” Santa barks through his cell phone, on his way to China to price some elves. The Chinese manufacture everything now, including, with a bit of ear restructuring, after-Christmas help. “I know you’re looking for a Daddy, but I’m a huge, crashing bottom.” I hear an odd snorting sound. “Oops, I shouldn’t say ‘crashing’. Scares the reindeer.”
I spring up from another nap. Change has fallen out of my pockets. When I bend over to retrieve my coins, I accidentally fart. An Arab man, sucking a cigarette that lost its light years ago, smiles and gives me the thumbs up. I smile back, bleary-eyed. I’m cold and in need of some kindness from a guy with emotional strength and a sense of humor. If only I had both those to offer.
Hence the spin cycle. My dirty laundry whirls ‘round and ‘round.