So here I am down in south LA, cruisin' these grimy streets, yeah, just like a fuckin' Dragnet voiceover. But I ain't a cop. If I was I wouldn't get the looks I get from the gangstas clustering on the street corners. I'd get hate maybe or sullen indifference, and I could turn to my partner and say "Fuckin' kids" and he would snort and sip his coffee. But the teenagers on the corner stare, scarred and rough-faced, silent.
Yeah, yeah, I know, it's the same for all of us, up in the rich neighborhoods too. They keep their tinted windows rolled up tight and won't look over at us when we stop next to them at the light. Eyes glued so tightly to that streetlight, just another kind of stare. Over in the suburbs, the kids, they got their thick winter coats and they grip the chainlink fence of their playground or backyard or whatever and they're quiet all of a sudden when we go past. The cold makes their cheeks red, and they look embarassed.
For Christ's Sake, it's only a job.
So now I pull up in front of a crumbling apartment building. I slide my permit onto the cracked vinyl of the dashboard. I lock the doors though I can't see any of the scraggly-bearded winos huddled around a vent in the sidewalk coming anywhere near my truck or the bundles of plastic in the back.
Inside, I stamp my feet to try to get a little feeling back into them. I look at the card: upstairs in 2D. As I climb the stairs, I wonder what they will say this time: "No, he was born in November." Produce a phony birth certificate? Or maybe trot out a neighbor's kid and say "No, see, we had this one before, you see?" Come up with a bribe, usually guns or drugs down here? Threaten me? Never works. I've heard it all, but the problem is that there are too few of them anymore for there to be any mistakes.
This one has a new ploy: "Take me instead." he says, thrusting his skinny unshaven chin towards me. I shake my head and his whole body seems to deflate. The mother is a flat-faced, wide-hipped Chicano woman. Her face is empty as I spread the plastic sheet on the yellow mildewey floor. When the baby's warm dark skin touches the cold plastic, it pulls it's arms and legs up and begins to howl.
The mother turns away when those screams begin. The father holds her head against his shoulder and he watches. He watches the baby squirm, watches the dim grey reflection of the kitchen lamp across the heavy blade of the sword, watches it arc downward in a pure geometric sweep, metal in motion looking like a firework, and when it stops, like plain metal again.
Sourdough, grim and silent, flips two cards into the air at him.
"Anyone seen Memphis Mike today? Three." says Louie. He picks up his cards from the stained wooden table.
"Naw," says Seven-Foot. "Him n' Two-Gun Anderson are bound to be riled up, though. About them coyotes we set loose on his herd. Two."
Sourdough's frown deepens and his thick voice oozes out like mud. "I thought I told you boys keep your dicks outta them sheep. Memphis'll break your scrawny neck like a chicken's."
Seven-Foot looks at his cards. "Sheee-it. Just let that nigger try."
Louie shakes his head. "Or maybe Two-Gun might just try shootin' us in the back, you ever think of that?"
Seven-Foot waves a lanky arm. "Didn't I tell you Louie? I got eyes in the back of my fuckin' head."
Peters laughs, then falls silent as the doors swing open and a cold December breeze whips the cards across the table. Peters squints into the bright sun, as three silhouettes, dark and sharp-edged as woodcuts step forward into the saloon.
There are two soldiers, and one thin-lipped woman. Seven-Foot scrabbles at his revolver, but the soldiers are faster. One grabs his arm and pushes it up hard behind his back. Seven-Foot rises to his feet, lips curled back in pain. The other soldier punches him in the face with a thick-gloved hand. He cries out. The saloon is silent except for his labored breathing and the wind. The woman looks down at the table.
"Michael and Anderson didn't come in today." she says drily. "You seen 'em, Lawrence?"
Seven-Foot shakes his head. "No ma'am, I ain't seen nobody, Miss Mary."
"What about you, Louis?" Mary says.
"No ma'am," Louie says, "I ain't seen 'em since yesterday. Maybe they went up to Tucson."
Mary shakes her head. "Private Harrison just came down from Tucson and they haven't been seen there either. Their beds weren't slept in neither. They never came in from herdin' last night. I reckon Mister Seven-Foot Lawrence Smitty has 'em trussed up in a corral somewhere."
"No ma'am, I swear..." Seven-Foot is cut off by another blow. His lip split, he tastes the salty tang of blood.
"Just keep that up until I get back, Private." Mary says, stepping to the door.
"Yes ma'am." the soldier says, rubbing his knuckles. Mary stands on the boardwalk, looks up at the over-bright sun and almost remembers, but Seven-Foot's childlike moan of pain drives it from her mind and makes her forget, how, between dreams last night, she half- heard through the half-open window a half-distant, half-distinct shout and her half-asleep eyes half-opened and she half-saw the immense bright light near where Mike and Two-Gun watched for rustlers. She had fallen instead into a deeper sleep, and an altogether simpler dream of her long-dead husband under stars of ordinary size.
Inside, Seven-Foot roars, a tooth dribbling onto the floor like a tear: "I don't know."
Now there are probably some things you have right. I am pretty short, about three foot eleven. Tallest guy I know at Hilltop besides Fatso and Dry Beaver themselves is Mick and he's four-three. Mick is stupid as a bag of rocks, but we had him running the Barbie molds over in Section 44.
Yeah, Hilltyop. Because we're at the top of the hill. No he doesn't call it that. That's our name for it.
Well, so, it's X minus about 23 hours and I'm doing quality control with about a dozen others down at the computer center. Green lights green lights, that's all we want is green lights. I know we're supposed to have red too, but any red light we see is roundly cursed by both us and every poor bastard unlucky enough to pull a shift down on the assembly line right now. Red lights mean we gotta redo a whole batch. Don't want some kid whining to their parents about how Mario is three pixels short or some such shit.
Like I say, I'm sitting there watching the boards, green, green, green, and Crimshaw sticks his head in and yells that Big Red wants to see me pronto. Everyone stares and I wonder what the fuck he wants, doesn't he know we're _busy_? So I go trotting over to sit in some cushy conference room in the executive suites and try to get as much grease on the chairs as I can. Sittin' there is Mick and a guy who says his name is Martin. I'd heard his name and that he was a bookworm from R&D. Nice fella. But here it is 22 and a half hours to go and we're sitting in these dark red upholstered chairs in some office somewhere instead of out gettin' the job done.
So in walks...well I see I gotta break it to you now. I usually try to leave that illusion for the end, but this story is different. So I'll give it to you straight. Santa don't care nothin' about kids. Maybe he did once, I dunno. Damn sure nobody alive today can remember when, and we live a long fucking time. But the only thing that keep him going now is inertia. He can't go and do anything else. Ever see "Miracle on 34th Street"? Good movie, once a year. But anyway, it ain't like he doesn't have any marketable skills. The guy's a design genius, he's the best stealth pilot on the planet and he's a walking market analysis corporation to boot. He makes Madison Avenue look like the Tuba City Ladies Auxilliary. I'll tell you why he can't quit everything and get a regular job: it's the booze. He knocks back enough to kill a whole herd of horses, and that's just for breakfast. The Missus takes a few knocks when he's had a bad day, so she takes it out on the help, so dinner gets served burnt, so he staggers out bellowing into the snow at five in the morning, et fucking cetera. Here are the facts: Santa is a mean-spirited, union-busting, slave-driving, shrieking booze maniac and don't let anyone tell you different because they don't know him and they never worked for him and I do and I did.
So Fatso sweeps in with his usual retinue of aides and hangers-on. I used to hate them, call them "natty brown-nosers" and "pinstriped fuckstains." Looking back I see thay had the worst job at Hilltop, bar none, even mine, which was pretty bad. He knocks back a slug of whiskey and I can see the fire in his eyes. Santa was pissed off. "You three head over to the Stables and get suited up." He let loose a horrific belch and a sharp- toothed grin. "You're going out with me tonight."
We were in a panic on the way over to the Stables. See, nobody goes out with Santa. It's just not done. Nobody had every done it and probably nobody ever will again.
News spreads fast on Hilltop and by the time we got to the Stables, half of Section 14 had turned up outside and most of the residentials had emptied. There was a gigantic crowd, and we walked slowly through, not saying anything. My niece Kimberly told me goodbye, but I couldn't bear to look at the kid.
Yeah, yeah, I'm getting to that part. Just take my word for it, it was a real touching moment.
So we get suited up in these polymer flight suits, and they look brand-new. Our names are stitched on: Albert, Mick, Martin. Weird- lookin' helmets too, but no microphones or holes for our ears or anything so we leave 'em off.
We're on the flight deck sitting on a cold metal bench. I say "What the hell do you suppose he wants?"
Martin shakes his head. "I wish I know. And why did he pick us?"
Mick looks like he's about to cry, and he says "He never takes anybody."
I say "So tonight, he takes us. He can't want help."
Martin: "No, you're right. That can't be it. There's some fundamental information we're missing here, and without it, we can't figure anything."
We sit on the bench and watch the flight crew scurry around the hangar like gnats. Up in the control tower, shadowy forms move against blinking lights, red and green, but more and more of them becoming green all the time.
I look at my watch. "Shit. X minus 28 minutes. Crimshaw is going to fuck the loading just like he tried to do last year and I'm not going to catch him. Fuck. There's gonna be Super Mario World cartridges coming in for re-entry all over Siberia." I rub my forehead. "Shit."
Martin says "Someone will catch it."
"Yeah," I say, "Yeah, you're right." I rub my forehead.
We watch the hangar doors, thick and black against the sky. Mick looks up at the starless inkiness above us. "At least it isn't snowing." he says.
"Bite your tongue," Martin says. "You'll jinx us."
Mick covers his mouth so quickly, I can't help but laugh. "That's OK, Mick. We can handle a little snow. We live at the North Fuckin' Pole, right?"
He grinned. "Yeah, Albert. North Pole."
Any kid, or NASA egghead, can tell you that the last few minutes before something are the longest. We're sitting there in the dark, staring over at that stark black building, for maybe 40 minutes tops. Seemed like days. Seemed liks hours in between our little snippets of conversation. We were nervous, and when the doors started to open on the hangar, we got scared.
The reindeed trotted forward, stupid and happy. No bells, no velvet reins. Nope. Functional brown leather probably made from the 'deer that Rudolph replaced all those years ago. Fatso lolled on the seat, the thick brown bag behind him. "Helmets on, you little shitwads. Up onna seat." He was going out drunk, not for the first time. We pulled our helmets on. As one, our watches chimed.
"Merry Christmas." he said, and snapped the reins. I looked over at the control tower, now bathed in a sickly green glow, and I could feel their eyes staring out at us. Weird.
It was like one of those wind tunnels, or some virtual reality shit, I dunno, but we're tear-assing along, and if we hadn't had the helmets, I think our faces woulda got burnt off. Fat Man doesn't seem to notice it. He starts talking on speakers in our ears. "Got a little job for you boys. Some stuff gotta be d-d-delivered personal-like."
Martin's head bobs around like one of those old dolls with the spring in the neck. I can't hear what he's saying, but I can hear the old bastard's reply. "Ordersss from upstairs."
I say "I thought you were the boss." That almost makes him turn around. Instead he just lashes the whip backwards and I feel the sting go straight through the suit. It hurts like a knife. "I am the boss." he slurs, the sleigh rocking from side to side, "Don't fuck with me."
I rub where the whip hit gingerly and then Santa roars with sudden drunken rage: "NO!" and Mick cringes like a little kid. "NO you are NOT going home." he shrieks. "NEVER. They say you have to deliver the presents, and I have to say oh yes yes yess I'll let the little pointy-eared dimwits deliver them but they can't CHOOSE the gifts, they will NEVER be able to NEVER. That's for me to decide. Gonna f-find out who's naughty and ni-ice. Well fuck them. You'll take what I send the little BASTARD." He laughs. "Bastard."
We stop and he turns around, and we can't see his eyes, coal-black. He raises a gloved hand and points at the ground, about five feet below. "Get out."
Five feet is a lot for someone like me. I clambered down onto the tarnished silver of the runner and dropped to the ground. Mick followed. As Martin stood at the edge of the sleigh, we saw him jerk forwards, pushed from behind, and he smashed hard on the ground. His helmet visor shattered and bits of sharp plastic cut into the skin of his face. We heard a sneering "Ho, ho, ho." from above. The sleigh swept to the left and three packages tumbled out. The last I saw of Mister Santa H. Claus was a showoff bank turn and a blast of cold wind and sand.
I pull off Martin's helmet as gentle as I can and he tries not to whimper. His face is all torn up, slashed good. Mick is no help, he's squatting down in the dirt crying. "Come on, big guy," I say. I'm not sure who I'm talking to. Martin spits. "Goddamnit." I say, helping him up. "Goddamnit."
"I'm alright." Martin says. I pick a sliver of plastic out of his cheek. "Aah." he says suddenly, then, "I'm OK."
Mick pulls off his helmet and throws it hard towards the west, where the sleigh has already disappeared. It breaks against a rock.
"Come on, Mick." I say, "It isn't like it was a great job or anything."
Mick just stares at me. Martin runs his hands through his hair. "Yeah," Martin says, "Twelve hours a daw, three-hundred-sixty-four days a year, no vacations and no retirement. We're out of that place now, Mick. It's a blessing in disguise."
Mick holds his head in his hands and manages to nod ponderously. He gets up. Martin trots over with the three gaily-wrapped packages in his hands. The largest goes to Mick, the long thin one to me, and the short squat one Martin keeps.
Mick hefts his and frowns. He shakes his head.
"What is it, Mick?" I say.
"This don't feel right." Mick says. His thick hands tear at the paper. Inside is a cardboard box. He tugs it open and shows it to us: "Underoos," he says "Model 14. Made not to fit for another three years." Martin is carrying a package of cheap red and blue plastic cutlery. In my box is a Love Boat pencil case.
"Some kid's gonna have a lousy fuckin' Christmas," I say.
Martin purses his lips. "That idiot." he says.
Mick just closes the box quietly. "So what are we gonna do?" he says.
"We don't gotta choice," I say. "We gotta deliver these presents."
Mick nods, and slowly, Martin does too. We start walking along a footword path through the desert towards the light of a town. We walk for ten, twenty minutes. Then Martin says "I don't know why we kept on working for that psycho anyway."
"Yeah," I say, and cough, and say "Yeah." Mick's cheeks shine in the starlight, wet with tears.
He stops and looks at Martin and me. "I know," he says, "I know why."
Martin looks at him and I look at him and we know why too, but we let him say it anyway.
Mick says "For the kids. They wouldn't have no Christmas if it weren't for us."
Martin nods. "That's right."
I nod. "You got it."
We keep walking towards the town, and then Martin notices that one star in the sky is brighter than all the rest, hanging low over the little town lying still and asleep below us. We walk faster, and, in our hands, we feel the gifts become heavier, thicker, and we are not surprised when they are opened at last and are quite different from what we had been given.