Dec 24, 2009 @ 10:41 PM
Christmas Drabble
I figured, the giving season was a blanket term; it applied to anyone right? I mean, Santa Claus distinguishes between good and bad to be sure, but the last time that version of the story was edited had to be before kids started learning how to use guns prior to teenage years. Seriously, every kid has a console now – I think my first ‘gun’ was at the age of 6. So Santa had to have changed the rules by now…no?
I’m hopeful, what of it?
As I stand in apparent patience near the front of the line, with kids of all sins and sizes surrounding me with serious need of learning the meaning of ‘personal space’, I pointedly try to ignore the parents to the side of the enclosure. They whisper, giggle, their complete mirth held back only by the desire to see what would come from this scene. We are separated by a low, flimsy fence which is somewhat amusing – because Santa now needs to be locked up. My, we are getting desperate…but I’m not complaining. Saves me the trouble of hunting him down and demanding presents from the past 2 decades.
Got the picture? I’m 20 years old, standing in line with the kiddies and waiting for my turn to sit on Santa’s lap. It’s not like I particularly need anything from him –and I’m not so horribly naïve as to still believe the obese employer before me is actually the real thing— but…I would like to have a good, old, heart-to-heart with an assurance of confidentiality.
I’m bored, what of it?
The waiting game does nothing to ease my boredom, with the line shifting by maybe one kid every 10 minutes. You’d think 20 years of living teaches me to at least be more resilient than the miniature devils around me, but who am I trying to kid... In the end everyone wants something – I daresay the littlies know what they’re after better than the adults. They’re just limited to crying and screaming to get it.
A half hour later and I get what I’m after at this particular moment in time – the right to sit on Mr Fake Santa’s lap. I see his brows furrow beneath a white crusted hat as I approach him, and it is as though each step I take across the velvet carpet causes the man to shrink beneath his oversized coat. Come on. I’m not that bad; my generation didn’t even have that many consoles.
You know, Santa has really pretty green eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s lived an eternity, maybe give or take 40 years. And just to shatter the fairytale even more, I think I see brown hair under his hat. Oh wow…Santa, I know what to get my mum now, can I have whatever face cream it is that makes you younger?
I have to give it to you, I think silently to the fake Santa as I come to a stop before the steps leading to his throne. He hasn’t bolted yet. What a good fake Santa. He deserves a present, and I’d make him sit on my lap and tell me all his wishes if I didn’t think a good eighty percent of that oversized bulk were real. So I sit down on his left thigh, aware that I might give him a numb knee if I don’t make this quick.
I am old enough to not give a damn about what any people I know might think, and young enough to have no shame in public. I smile toothlessly at the camera as it flashes brightly at the same time as Santa manages a little grimace. He’s not annoyed with me, yet. Just that a 20 year old man can get quite heavy, which is why he hurries along with the charade.
“What would you like for Christmas dear bo – sir?”
I smirk at the correction then cover it up with a face of innocent loss.
“I don’t know,” I say, not a complete lie in itself. I thought that maybe the man would write me off as a prankster (which I was), and maybe even sic security on me. It seems however, that the department store managed to pick a good man for the job. His green eyes instead crinkle calculatingly, and with horror I realise he is pitying me. He thinks I’m a nutcase! Or else someone with an extremely deprived childhood! I am no such thing! Sure, I was bored, I had nothing to do, no one to see, so I’m visiting the department store and sitting on a random guys lap but that is NOT…
…how would you define deprived again?
Fake Santa decides to test the waters.
“Would you like a new toy car?” he tries in a sickeningly sweet voice, and amusing as the façade is coming from a man of such calibre, I’m afraid me laughing till I fall off his knee might just destroy my own plans. So I settle for shaking my head from side to side. He frowns. The square watches as he strokes his wiry beard in thought. I lean forward towards his face.
“Santa…what would you like for Christmas?”
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Oh my god. Someone help me write the rest of this thing. I am trying sooooooooooo hard to keep it G rated but...help? X.X