Hankering

I went to Alaska for the dark, for the cold. It seemed like a place where a man could
reflect upon his sordid past. I settled into a remote cabin pretty quickly just outside a
small village and spent several nights a week in a watering hole with a good jukebox and
just enough neon to not be flashy.
–

Tonight, I sat on a stool next to a haggard-looking Santa who seemed like he’d
just finished a rough shift with a bunch of screaming, snotty, crotch-kneeing kids. The
jukebox hadn’t been fed its coins, and the bar was quiet except for low-talking from the
few patrons.
–

“Kids grind you down?” I said.
–

“No,” he said, not turning to look at me, just staring down into his whiskey glass.
–

“Wife kicked me out.” He sighed deeply, and his thick white beard vibrated.
–

“Sorry, man,” I said. “I’ve been there.”
–

This man looked the part, and when he turned to me and nodded his sympathy, I
saw a face that used to be jolly. There was a twinkle hidden somewhere in his eyes.
“If we weren’t such lying, cheating, drunk-assed sons-of-guns, the gals would
keep us around,” I said, and I chuckled.
–

He didn’t laugh. He turned on his stool a little more, facing me now. His stomach
growled, and something jingled. Like a bell sound coming through his bellybutton. “She
kicked me out because I couldn’t stop eating.”
–

He was a round guy. No need stuffing a pillow under his red suit.
–

“Her fault for being a good cook,” I said, trying to sound light. I knew I’d started
the conversation, but I didn’t want to get too deep into this guy’s Christmas sack.
I tossed back the rest of my whiskey and turned to signal the gal tending bar for
another.
–

The Santa guy belched, and damn if something didn’t jingle inside him again.
Every time Santa lets off gas, an angel gets its wings, I thought. I laughed out
loud.
–

“It’s not funny,” he said. “Gluttony is a serious thing. It’s uncontrollable.”
–

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But you have a handle on it now?”
–

“Hardly,” he said. “I just told you it’s uncontrollable.”
–

The gal gave me another whiskey, and I turned back the glass and downed it all at
once. The burn filled my chest. I almost couldn’t hold it down, nor the vegetable soup I’d
had in the cabin before coming in here.
–

The Santa belched again, and this one was boisterous, but revolting and juicy. He
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I always thought it would be the reindeer,”
he said. “Prancer looks like he’d have some delicious tenderloins and backstraps!” He
looked wistful for a moment, and then he said, “I just have appetites!”
–

The Santa took a sip of his whiskey and kind of gagged. He started coughing, a
wet, thick cough, and then his mouth opened and expanded into a grotesque maw, and
he vomited all across the bar-top.
–

Soggy little pointed hats with bells on them were spewed forth in brown ooze,
with pointy ears, and little legs, and small heads that looked like they belonged to dolls.
I got splattered with digestive juices and bile and near-shit, and a curly little elf
boot landed in my lap, along with a tiny, slimy toymaker’s hand.
–

“Yeah, I love the little guys,” Santa said when his stomach was empty, “but I
always figured it’d be the reindeer.”