Page 142 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“Sorry,” I say, reaching down to help him up as people stream around us. “I wasn’t looking.”
“Oh, that’s okay, brother. I wasn’t looking either. I was looking inward.”
Fuck me, I have something in common with this clown.
“Say, you look like a helpful guy, and I could use some help,” he continues.
Here goes, I think, half expecting him to tell me he dropped a bucket of quarters in the dark alley across from us, and he needs help picking them up so they can be donated to orphans. No doubt I look like a mark, walking around in a daze, wearing an expensive suit.
“What is it?” I ask stiffly.
“Never mind, never mind. It’s probably a terrible idea.”
“What is?” I ask, even though I’m inclined to agree with him.
He scratches his head. “It’s just…my girlfriend broke up with me last night, and it wasbrutal. I mean, she said I lacked ambition. I went to acting school, and now I’m an actor,Shannon, how’s that not ambitious? Anyway, I may have stayed out a little too late.”
“It’s almost 4 p.m.”
“I may have stayed out all night,” he says, waving a hand flippantly, “and I’m supposed to be Santa at this event, and man, I really don’t want to disappoint those little fuckers. Those kids might ask some serious questions, if you know what I mean.”
I pause, caught off guard, then point to myself. “Are you saying you want me to cover your shift as Santa Claus?”
“Uh, yeah. I mean, you could have my coat and beard and stuff, if you’ll do it. I’m already going to be late, and I don’t think I can stay awake for four more hours.”
“No,” I say, thinking of the Cheetos beard I took from Curtis the night of Santa Speed Dating. One borrowed fake beard is enough for a lifetime.
He scratches his head, which reminds me of lice, which in turn reminds me of Lucy. Because I guess everything does. God, she would love it if I play along and do this. She would also never let me live it down.
“So, is that a no to the whole thing?” Drunk Santa asks with another suspicious head scratch. “Or, like, just a no to the suit? They could maybe find you another suit if you were interested, I mean, I think they could. But it’s probably too late for them to find another Santa.”
“Give me a second,” I say, stepping toward the side of the high-rise closest to us. He shrugs, then sits down on the sidewalk. People walk around him as if he’s a new fire hydrant, although I see someone flick a few dollar bills at him. He shrugs and scoops them up as I pull out my cell phone and dial Lucy’s cell number.
No ring. It goes directly to voicemail, suggesting today is one of those days in Hideaway Harbor.
I leave her a quick voicemail, saying I’ll call her later—I don’t want to spill my heart out with the brokenhearted Santa sitting in the middle of the sidewalk next to me and the smell of piss stinging my nostrils. Then I dial her home phone number—no answer—followed by the landline at the Sip. The phone is answered by an older man.
“Hello? Whatchu want?”
An interesting method of answering the phone at a place of business, but since he doesn’t work there, I’m guessing he’s not interested in tips on phone etiquette.
“Wayne?” I ask. “Why are you answering the phone?”
“Is this one of those sales calls?”
“No. I’m Lucy’s boyfriend,” I say, liking the sound of it. Wishing he weren’t the first person I’d said it to.
“So you made it to New York. Good, that’s good. Did you get that job?”
“I got the job offer, yeah, but I’m definitely not going to take it. Can you tell Lucy I’ll call her later?”
“Okay, champ, I’ll tell her all about it.”
He hangs up, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least Wayne will pass along the message. I think.
I walk over to the Santa on the sidewalk and find him fast asleep.
“Uh…Santa?” I shake his shoulder and he flails awake.
