Santa's Ghetto

In an up-stairs room, sitting on the edge of a bed, is a man posed with a guitar. He wasn't playing at our moment, just staring into space as if he was listening, or had been listening, but the sound had completed. The man didn't stop listening. He had just played his final note and it had lost all audible energy, but he knew it was there, somewhere. The man's hands were still so you could see the last chord that he had played.

The man had just composed his one hundredth song. But there was something about the song he had just written, at our moment. It was the same as every other song he had ever written, all ninety-nine songs. Not only were all one hundred songs exactly the same, but every song, every song, was a Christmas song.

Today, the day he had written his one hundredth song, was Christmas Day. The existence of a story had only become apparent at that point and that angered the man, that he was playing a part in fate's cruel play. Is there a way to escape one's fate? the man pondered. He had tried hard and relentlessly to write against the will of fate only to unconsciously be the author of fate itself. In his case this was to be an allegory of Christmas to which he was unimportant and replaceable.

The man walked out of the room, through doors, down stairs, and to the outside, putting on a jacket because it was cold outside. In his head he configured a maze of paths into a 3-dimensional map. The man walked the paths consecutively as they came up. They appeared as expected by his memory, things normally do, and if not, it would be the fault of his memory. The man walked through his memory paths with the intent of a man who is certain of his destination, making straight lines and definite turns. He doesn't slow or stop until he reaches a busy road. At the crossing, he stopped and waited for the green man. The safety of the green man.

Finally, the man reached the Forth Rail Bridge and walked to where he thought was about halfway. He climbed onto the old red iron girders, standing still against the hard wind and over the frothing waves one hundred meters below. In this picture time had stopped. Then the man inhaled a final icy breath, a Christmasy breath, and allowed himself to topple like a chess piece, stiff and without emotion, over the edge.

The waters of the Forth can on some days be calm, but today the waves would swallow a man whole. Any last regrets in the descent would not be heard today. But he was certain about his decision, so there was no need to discuss anything with the Forth.

Then, the man thought that it was over. Enough time had elapsed since he had allowed his fall. Once the swirling in his brain had stopped he could sense he was lying horizontal, albeit with his limbs thrown around awkwardly but fully intact. It was like he was lying in a giant red pillow on ecstasy. This must be heaven.

Then, from somewhere above him, the man heard a hearty voice.

“Ho Ho Ho! Stranger.”

Is that God? thought the man before his eyes focused.

It was Santa.

“Lucky I was just passing. The conditions were just right for the bridge dive. I'm not supposed to, not since we lost Blitzen.” Santa continued to laugh periodically, seemingly unfazed that a man had landed in his sleigh. For a moment the man thought about this, and then he remembered. I'm still in the story, the Christmas story. He wondered how much of his life had been free will. Did it start when he bought the guitar? Were my parents involved? he thought. Agents of fate.

The man's thoughts were interrupted - “Come on son, let me help you up.” Santa's rosey face moved over him like a moon as he was cast into shadow. The man hesitated, his paranoia giving way to Santa's disarming character and kind face.

Maybe Santa is just a pawn too. A dressed up pawn, or a knight. We're all sacrificial in the game. Who is writing the story? WHO is writing the story? “That's it! Who is writing the story?” the man shouted aloud. An unintended vocalisation of a thought. Santa turned his head and had clearly heard the man's exclamation. But he did not engage a conversation, not yet. And not that conversation. He returned to the reigns and guided the sleigh as the Forth became a river, smaller and smaller, and continued westwards.

Santa nor the man engaged a conversation for many miles as they glided above the landscape that seemed to flow like a river below. It was nighttime so the land was covered in darkness except for clusters of light comforting the folk in towns and cities from the fearful notion that the Sun sets and may never rise again.

“What do you think of that?” Santa finally broke the silence with a rather vague question.

“What do I think of what?”

“Don't you know it's Christmas time. The most wonderful time of the year. And we have one every year. That is if you discount the inaccuracies of time measurement, leap years, atomic clocks and so forth. Up here you age slower, something about time-dilation... anyway I dither... oh and that's why I have lived so long.”

“What has this baloney got to do with me? I hate Christmas, it's horrible, I live it every day.”

“Well if that's the case why are you so troubled? Let me show you something.” Santa finished and with a sharp tug of the reigns the sleigh dived into the light of the city below.

Santa brought the sleigh down on a dimly lit street. A car was slowly crawling close to the kerb as if the driver was looking for something. A young woman stood under a lamppost, dressed rather provocatively for a casual stroll. “Any business?” Santa jumped when a girl appeared behind him. The man smirked as Santa began to flush bright red. “No, no, no thank you.” Santa rushed as he tied off the reigns to a railing, and the man looked on curiously after he seemed to remove a key from the dash. “You can never be too sure” Santa mumbled.

“So far all I have seen are prostitutes. Is this Christmas?” The man looked smug.

“What's your name anyway?” Santa said, changing the subject.

“I'm just the man. It's your story and so far I've been the man.”

“Very well, come Adam.”

“How did you know my name was Adam!?” the man looked astonished.

“You gave it away when you told me you were the man. It is told that God made man out of dust, and Adam is the dust. The answer my friend is blowing in the wind.” Then a prophetic gust of wind and dust temporarily blinded the man. “Now you see.” said Santa.

Just as the man had walked the dark cold streets, he was now accompanied by Santa, now looking a bit flustered and unsure of what his point was. As they turned a corner, there was a silhouette of a man crouched with his knees on the ground and sitting on the heels of his feet. “Any spare change?” the silhouette spoke and raised his head to expose a weathered and unshaven face. He was very thin, almost less human and more of a creature wrapped in a dirty blanket. His only accessory was a McDonald's coffee cup that looked like it had been chewed round the edges. “Sorry mate.” the man apologised. “God bless.” said the creature and for a moment he became human. But moments always pass, that's why they are moments.

At last the the surroundings began to brighten and the streets were clean, clean of creatures. There were impressive houses on either side, all detached, and none were identical. In a whimsical sort of way it was like if a fairytale had come to life, but it was something much more sinister. There were clues in the white picket fences, neatly manicured greenery and American flags. Yes this is the American dream, the sinister mirage. Santa brought the man's attention to one house that had the garden foliage adorned with tasteful white lights, not those tacky coloured lights you would find in a house with a leopard skin rug. Through the main front window was a family, cosy beside the open fire, eating a cheese board and watching movies. These movies would be a classic tale of a miserable man or creature, the Grinch, Scrooge and It's a Wonderful Life.

“There you go.” Santa pointed out. “You are that man in the movie. And like the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future I have come to show you the true meaning of Christmas.”

“And what is that?”

“Being together.”

“What like that prostitute is together with that John?, or together like that Gollum looking creature?... where's his together coming from? It's all a farce! Now bring me back to the bridge, I want to finish this.”

“If that is how you want to finish your story then very well. You were the master of your own story all along, everyone is. There is no fate.”

Now standing on the bridge again, Santa rather shakily climbed up beside the man and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“This is your choice.” Santa said softly.

“Yes it is my choice.”

And with that comment the man took a hold of Santa's arm and shoved him over the edge, and Santa almost seemed to fall in slow motion as he became a little red dot before hitting the surface of the waters below. Santa died on impact.

The man then had a thought, or more of a sadistic urge. He returned to the sleigh to find the key in the dash and with a turn it skidded across the tarmac and into the air. It wasn't difficult to master the controls, sleighs almost fly themselves these days. After a few attempts the man was able to gently skim the surface of the waters where Santa was now floating like a bloated tomato. It wasn't easy, and the now soggy Santa resisted stubbornly, but the man manged to wrestle his body into the sleigh. He returned to that room, the room at the start of the story where he had written one hundred Christmas songs. The sleigh perched neatly on the roof and the man rolled Santa and dropped his limp body through the skylight.

He was now about to fulfill his urge. Slowly he unbuttoned Santa's red coat, lined with white furs and underneath was a white vest that had patchy sweat marks, though this did not deter the man. His urge was too strong. The man removed Santa's boots next and loosened his belt. Slowly he peeled the trousers from Santa's legs leaving him almost naked on the floor. Then he turned him over so that his huge arse was sitting pert.

“Now you can't see.”

The man had placed Santa on his stomach, not wanting to see his dead eyes. The words 'Now you see' had reflected in his mind since Santa planted the seed in the moist soils of his brain. His urge was not sexual, that is your mind. What he did was out of curiosity, he slipped into Santa's trousers, then fastened his jacket with the black belt around his waist. Standing in front of a long mirror the man looked at himself in the brazen red outfit and repeated Santa's words - “Now I see. I am Santa.”