O, to be as ravenous as a dove — craving even an olive of sunlight, a far branch of peace…
The goy up there knows from chimneys, does he ever, knows them like he knows his own throat, windpipes whether of brick or metal, he knows their flues and their fires, too, and the smoke in the eyes and lungs, had squeezed through them, all these years, too many now, immemorial, generations turned to smoke, their mouths smirching sky; how he’d shimmied through them and whatever had stuck them up: a fallen pigeon, a downed owl, summer neglect. His sleigh, a green cabriolet cutter hung with lit lanterns, he’s parked against the slope of the roof at its lowest scarp; racingstriped runners tearing up the shingling, his team of flying reindeer idling patiently, letting rest the awesome ripple of their legs: lashed trunks, ragged fundaments; giants of meat and raw, with eyes that are nothing if not oily mad, anything but jolly, more like violent in their majesty, lidded hoary and hardened; they’re scraping their hooves as if to herd forward, butt heads, to charge the chimney down which he dove; they give soft snorts from their nostrils, then quiet, to graze upon stars. On each of their antlers hangs a crown: tarnished gold for one, the others are rotted, wormtwisted wood. None have a red nose — they have snouts.
Him, he sucks it in, in his motheaten suit down he goes the dark throats of houses and into the warm of their guts.
One night only, year after year — the fullness of good little wellbehaved boys & goyls…
Most are expecting a stockinglike sack, though that’s so last season, roll the eyes, snigger: the sack molders up north, in the attic of his bungalow, yearround doneup in Millennial Terrific, though itself without chimney, only a Pole, kept topped with an ostentatious antenna, festooned with the flags of the world.
Tonight, it’s a can he carries, a metal battered can as if of paint; it’s a bucket, for the record — filled with the blood of the lamb, cut with that of goats when the Arctic slaughterhouse went short on a stray flock.
A chute through the chimney, no fire, lucky for him this fireplace is for appearances only, an arched validation of a mantel above upon which to display photographs, more of them, those of the immediate family, at home, on vacation, which was Florida, Mexico, anywhere always July, flushed at weddings, at graduations proudly awkward — and then, at the furthest gilded edge, the newest immortality, made in a gaudily mirrored frame: it’s Him — at the hospital, in the arms of His mother if no longer living then sleeping, still, upstairs-upstairs, have patience, have pity, have dreams. Benjamin’s head propped atop the pillows atop the sofa, Claus ducks in then prods aside the screen, steps soft gingerbread tread over the brickwork ledge then onto the carpet, proceeds into the kitchen and beyond, to the frontdoor trailing blobs of blood, to dearm the alarm, unlock the door from the inside; he dips his chin, a beard’s brush, a patch of stain flecked with soot and then, with tense shakes of a hackneyed head begins to mark the jamb, not even acknowledging Benjamin to spit a gift on Him.
A poor guest, we’ve known worse.
The problem with this tradition has always been once he’s gone down the chimney, how does he manage to get back up to the roof? If the devil Satan must fall, one might argue, then a saint like Santa must rise; once finished with his swathe and slather, he might lick clean the plate of warmed goodies, gargle the icy milk of mothers left behind — more time to think his way up and out, though this house would never provide. Maybe they have a fowl in the fridge, he thinks, and a little shot of schnapps, helps to hope.
And then, there’s always a ladder in garages like these.
This year, though, another task, each house its own — he doesn’t ascend, doesn’t rise to the roof, to fly off into the air, full reindeerpower ahead. Maybe later. Work to do. Not for nothing he’s the patron saint of our kinder.
To dry his hairs on the Rag, which drawer he knows.
And where the laundryroom, too.
He and with a silence that seems to twinkle returns to the den, if den it is, takes Benjamin by the hand. He’s a body come to life from the photographs on the stairwell. He’s the father of His father, whose father he might otherwise be. To take him slow, and as gently as you’d expect, naked fist in mitten fringed in tinsely poms, to lead Him to the stairs then up them, three at a time, and down the hall of shutdead doors to His room above the garage and its angelic ladder expected — forget it, you might as well stay a while, won’t you, make yourself comfortable, my house is yours, there’ll soon be beds empty enough; the two of them, Santa and son almost of equal size, stepping high, huge, and damn sleep loud into His room — and then Santa, holding a forefinger through the loose skein of yarn worn to his lips, slams the door bang behind them, though there’s no one left alive to awake.
At the corner of Deaf & Mute, known to most as the intersection of Eastern Parkway & Kingston Avenue, Brooklyn, in sunglasses at night, Mel Chisedic — not blind, but that’s how he makes rent out of season; habits are often stoned into Laws — loiters in front of a display window shattered open to winter, screening the madness as presented on networks owned by the dead. Eleven months out of the year his profession’s the panhandle, begging, predicated on this blindness, which wasn’t as much blindness as it’s more exactly the use of sunglasses, though occasionally there appeared an opening in Retard, an abandoned corner or curb, which estate, retardation, though more difficult to fake was for that very fact all the more lucrative, but this season as for the past decade or two of Xmases, ever since being released from the far from paradisiacal prison island known as Rikers and so reintroduced into the general population of the inexcusably unemployed, he was one of the legions of the Great White, a Santa, though less Santa or even a scrambly Satan as he often laughed than a lush, fat middleaged, more desperate than jolly, more wanty and needy than giving; his lap aching from the sits of adorable, panracial kinder with their marketable talents and astronomical intelligence quotients; his left ear — its ruby shard of earring out inseason — aching from their whispered wishes: for ponies ribboned, wrapped so shinily well they’d asphyxiate, for Mommy and Daddy to not get divorced, to love each other and me all over again, to buy like this new mansion for us to live in together high upon the fluff of an exurbiated cloud, hovering above the beach, Miami, maybe, then for me the sweetest ride, pimped to the maximum military surplus, with marzipan turret and gelatin treads; for this Xmas, all I want is for this scary acute lymphocytic leukemia to go away — is that too much to ask, Santy? Jesus.
Rummy cup of coffee in hand, dopey sack of a hat on his head, those wraparound mirrored sunglasses greasing down the slope of his nose, Mel stands offduty, riveted to the proceedings on the screens displayed as peaceful, orderly looting goes on around him: smashed plate glass, panes from windows and doors, splinters and scrap; hulking goyim of every color and class loading all sorts of kitsch into their idling cars, gaping trucks, highpiled grocerycarts, trashcans not aflame. A vast ziggurat department store specializing in just about every need of a number of minorities lately in the majority, those who hadn’t made the lottery to light out for Siburbia just yet (which designations would apply to Mel, too, whose Santa suit was as oppressive as his poverty and skin), Laz-R-Us is ten bags of stale popcorn away from being declared entirely out of stock, shelves laid bare, then the shelves taken themselves. Though slim pickings after the rush of last weeks, enough merchandise’s gone to worry the CEO of any insuring firm into investing a tenth or so of his own salary into stock in an overseas manufacturer of indigestion pills. The leftover lawn-front nativities they took, the plywood mangers and glittery tangles of hay, the remaindered miniature camels humped in velveteen and those swaddled plasticine babes, factoryseconds without mouths, and voluminous gallons of water, batteries and cannedgoods, everything save the kernels, popping on their own in the fires the looting’s left raging; though all had miraculously left the screens stacked in the window smashed open, amid the glass and glassy tinsel and the signs and the wonders, the pyramids tottering of empty boxes and the decapitated remains of mannequined amputees as if veterans of discount wars and riotous sales — but the screens: not only to leave them but to leave them on as if in the seasonal spirit, a public service, to inform, and to warn; it’s civics, but mute.