A Christmas Baby

A Christmas Baby

By Cooper Baltis

 Published on December 21st in the UB Post

“The gift of life is a precious thing Pete, I agree. But the gift of an iPhone will suffice,” Jim joked, spilling some of his pint onto his silky blue tie as he raised his mug to toast. He sat with Pete at a small booth in the back of The Crown, which had recently been festooned with 10 year old Christmas decorations.

            “That’s for bloody sure,” Pete bellow, his fat jaw like that of a hippopotamus and his jagged teeth like that of a crocodile. The two men clinked their mugs together and increased their jolliness.

            “You see, if I didn’t know any better…” Jim stopped mid-sentence. His eyes grew large and his eyebrows curled inward.

            “Whatchoo see mate?” Pete asked, noticing the glazed over look in Jim’s eyes. “Jim?” he said again, touching his arm.

            Jim’s eyes flickered, as if they were a computer screen trying to refresh. “Can’t be,” he said, ignoring Pete. Following Jim’s gaze, Pete turned slowly, looking over his shoulder.

            “Santa?” he said, turning back towards Jim. “Is that what this is about?”

            Santa sat alone at the bar, his beard stringy and dirty, his cheeks puffy, pot marked and red from the cold, his bulbous, rhinophyma nose dripping, his white-cuffed red trousers filthy and threadbare, his red coat loose and hanging like a giant icicle off his bony shoulders, his scratched boots. He was a pitiful sight.

            “It’s not him…just some bloke,” Pete said, taking another gulp from his mug.

            “No, I think it’s him,” Jim said, his eyes still fixed on Santa.

            “Why would Santa be in a bar on Chapel Street two weeks before Christmas? How many pints did you have?”

            “Maybe three, but you very well know it takes me at least four to get good and sloshed. Besides, I had some friend chicken about two hours ago.”

            “What’s that have to do with anything?”

            “I’m just trying to point out that my stomach is full,” Jim touched his belly to emphasize his point.

            “It’s not the only thing that’s full.”

            “With a full stomach it should take at least five to get me good and hammered,” Jim reminded him.

            “Ah, I see…”

            Jim paused as Santa screamed something incoherently at the bartender, “You hear that? He just asked for cookies.”

            “Asked for cookies?” Pete shook his head and looked back over his shoulder. “Stereotyping Santa now are you?”

            “Santa always eats cookies. Every bloke in Merseyside knows that.”

            Pete listened intently as Santa yelled again at the bar tender.  He turned and looked at Jim, “Don’t be daft, he’s saying check please not cookies!”

            “You expect me to believe that? Here we are, sitting in this steamy lil’ pub and Santa’s sitting right there and I’m supposed to act like it’s just any old day? Brilliant, Pete, brilliant.”

            “Are you mental? The man is homeless,” Pete’s face grew red his agitation rose. “Just look at the poor wanker! Holes in his red pants, scruff marks up and down his black boots, a despicable Viking beard. Besides all that, he’s wall eyed! Which way is Santa looking? You tell me ‘cause I can’t bloody tell. Since when is Santa sitting at a pub drinking?”

            “He is probably dirty from shimmying down chimneys, and what’s wrong with being wall eyed? Mr. Bean is wall eyed! Who says Santa can’t have a drink at a pub? You act like he’s a saint!”

            “He is!”

            “He is drinking milk, clear as day,” Jim said with a huff.

            “Baily’s makes milk these days does it? Since when is milk the color of a cappuccino? Just drop it. You’re sloshed.”

            Jim took a deep breath and stared into the froth that hung like old dirty frost around the rim of his mug. “Yea, maybe you’re right. What would Santa be doing at a shabby place like this?”

            “Exactly. Why would Santa even want to visit Merseyside?” Pete started to laugh, noticing the defeated look on Jim’s face.

            “I guess I’m just a bloody idiot…” Jim lamented.

            “Ho! Ho! Ho!” the man at the bar bellowed, putting his hands across his stomach. Jim’s ears shot to attention as he looked from Pete to Santa. His cheeks puffed with excitement and a grin spread like butter across his face. “You hear that?”

            “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

            “He’s bloody coughing, Jim. The man is coughing. Probably has a disease.”

            “I’m going to go ask him,” Jim said excitedly.

            “If he is Santa or not?”

            “Why not? What’s there to lose if I am wrong?” Jim asked, burping loudly.

            “Well, we should talk about that. I bet you a fiver, no a tenner, that the man sitting at the bar isn’t Santa.”

            “A tenner?”

            “A tenner,” Pete replied.

            “A tenner and a round and you’re on.”

            “Best deal I’ve ever made,” Pete said, shaking Jim’s hand.

            “So here is what’s going to happen. I’m going to walk over there and ask him and I’ll tell you what he says.”

            “Go ahead and come back with the round while you are at it,” Pete said, folding his hands in front of his nearly emptied pint.

            “Just watch, my reaction should immediately give it away once I ask him.”

            Jim stood, burped one more time, and made his way to the bar. He walked around a couple dining on fish and chips and nearly ran into a waitress carrying three mugs in each hand to a boisterous table over by the window. Jim sat down next to the suspect Santa and slowly looked him over. The man, feeling someone’s eyes on his shoulder, turned and looked at Jim.

            “Something wrong?”

            “Nope, nothing. Just got off work, ‘bout to enjoy a few pints,” Jim said.

            “Nothing wrong with that,” the man said, laughing in a jolly way. His beard jiggled as his cheeks moved up and down.

            “Name’s Jim, Jim Moore.”

            “Kris,” the man said, extending his arm which was draped in a red sleeve with a filthy white cuff. “Kris Joulupukki.”

            “Joulupukki, huh?” Jim said, not sure where he had heard the name before. “Well listen Kris, don’t look now, but over my shoulder, to the left a bit, there is a bald man with a fat face staring at us intently. Just glance quick, you see him?”

            “I see him.”

            “Well, we have a bet going that you are Santa.”

            “Santa? As in Santa Klaus?” the man laughed.

            “Yes, Father Christmas himself. So, what I need you to do is just nod at me, ok? And if he comes over here to verify, I need you to vouch for me.”

            “Vouch that I am indeed Santa?”

            A smile formed on the man’s face as he began to slowly nod his head.       

            “That’s it.”

            “And what’s in it for me?”

            “Well, you see, my friend here was born on Christmas day so he has always had a bit of a thing against Christmas—”

            “—because it interferes with his birthday,” the man dressed as Santa commented, picking up a pair of Ben Franklin glasses and placing them across the bridge of his nose.

            “Exactly, and anyhow, he has won—”

            “—the last five or six bets between the two of you,” the man said.

            “How did you know?”

            “Lucky guess, anyhow, continue.”

            “So, I think a little prank like this will be just what he needs—”

            “—to lose some confidence by being proven wrong for once,” the man said, scratching his beard. Jim noticed his eyes twinkle slightly.

            “Yea…how did you know?”

            “Oh that’s beside the point. Anyways, you are on. I’m nodding my head right now,” the man said, reaching into a red bag he had strewn across the seat next to him and pulled a long scroll out.

            “Alright, thanks mate,” Jim said, clapping the man on the shoulder and turning around.

            “What did he say?” Pete asked as he sat down.

            “He’s Santa, that’s what?”

            “You expect me to believe that?”

            “Look for yourself,” Jim said, smiling.

            Pete turned around and looked at the man. He sat at the bar with a very long list that wrapped all the way from the bar to the front door. He was placing checks next to some names on the list and scratching out others. Next to him sat a plate full of cookies and a tall, slender glass of milk. The light around his head what lighter than the light around his body and clothes were fresh from the cleaners. The man looked up at Pete and smiled, a warm smile topped like ice cream with two cherry red cheeks.

            “Your round mate,” Jim said, finishing his pint.

Six Minutes 'til I Love You

Six Minutes ‘til I Love You

By Cooper Baltis

Anything to make her happy, he thought, as he lit three Christmas candles in the bathroom of his small apartment. He checked his watch again for the umpteenth time. Six minutes, she would be there in six minutes and in six minutes, give or take a minute or two, or not, he would tell her that he loved her for the first time. The first time. The big bang. The first hurrah? In six minutes she would be standing in front of him, in the flesh, in the black dress suit she always wore on Thursdays. She would probably have a Christmas tree pin affixed to the collar.

            She was a scrupulous woman, raised in on military bases around the world, an army brat, the type of girlfriend who made your bed and tucked the corners with sniper precision while you were shaving in the other room. This is why he knew she would be on time. She hadn’t been a single minute late in the year since they had started dating. Curiously, she had never been a single minute early either. One time, he even set his cell phone clock ahead by five minutes, just to play devil’s advocate. Somehow, be it divine grace or a clever taxi driver, she arrived five minutes early that day—on time as always.

            He poured a package of green apple Turkish bath salt into the bath and started the hot water. A Frank Sinatra Christmas album softly wavered in from the stereo in his room. He heard the oven timer go off in the kitchen and closed the shower curtain. Spinning on his heels, he left the water running and went to check on the casserole. He grabbed his oven mitt, the mitt that she had bought him with the gimlet-eyed rooster’s head at the gripping point, and opened the oven to pull out the casserole.

 “No,” he said aloud. “No,” he said aloud again, just to make sure someone said it.

With his mitt-less hand, he felt the top of the casserole. It was lukewarm at best, partially cooked. The corn still sat on top of the casserole in the cream of mushroom soup that had yet to harden and the cheese that had halfway melted. He looked at his oven temperature: 250 degrees. He could have sworn that he had set it to 350. He glanced up at his microwave, which sat on top of his refrigerator, and nodded like mad professor. He would have to nuke it.

            Searching through his kitchen utensils, he found a spatula with a blue rubber handle. He used the spatula to slice a gold bar sized hunk out of the casserole. This should do for now, he thought, slopping the casserole onto a square plate and shoving it into the microwave. Five minutes until her tiny wrist knocks at his door. He set the microwave to four. Better to give the casserole a minute to cool. Make it just right. He smiled at his own genius.

            He heard the water filling the bathtub and made his way back to the bathroom to check on his makeshift spa. If this isn’t romantic, he thought, I don’t know what is. He breached the bathroom door and looked at the candles. One had fallen to the floor but had stayed lit, leaving a small puddle of purple wax on his shaggy bathroom rug.

“No…”

            He panicked and bent forward to retrieve the candle. He overshot his quick gesture and hit his forehead on the bathroom counter, whipping his hands instinctively in front of him and swiping the remaining candles onto the floor. As the candles fell, they doused his left arm, exposed by his rolled up sleeves, with hot wax. He jumped, and in mid curse, noticed the oven mitt was still on his right hand. He used the mitt to try and wipe away the wax but it had instantly dried. He took the mitt off and set it on the counter, trying his best to pick at the wax stuck in the hairs of his arm. He grabbed some toilet paper and started to scrub at the wax but quickly gave up.Rubbing his forehead in frustration, he gazed down at the waxy mess on his bathroom floor. He looked at his watch. Three minutes.

            Tonight is the night, he thought, determined not to let the candles or the microwave casserole ruin his plans. He had waited exactly a year to tell her that he loved her. One year the words weighed heavy on his lips. There was no way he was going to let a pan of botched casserole and a few stupid candles stop him from saying the most powerful three words in the English language.

            The bath, he thought, noticing that it wasn’t making the metallic sound of water hitting water, as it should have after filling for a few minutes. He opened the shower curtain and nearly screamed. In his hurry to catch the oven timer, he had failed to plug the drain. All the green apple sea salt had completely dissolved and escaped down the drain. Stuck in a mildew circle, he spotted a long forgotten bottle of kiwi shampoo. In a fury, he jammed the plug into the drain and emptied the bottle of shampoo into the tub. He stuck his hand in the water and mixed the shampoo in. She won’t notice, he thought, stirring his hand in the water, and if she did, at least it would smell nice. Two minutes remained before she arrived. He quickly placed the candles back onto the counter and carefully lit them.

As he reached to turn the bathroom light off, he heard a small explosion in the kitchen. The casserole. His microwave. The mess to follow. He burst into the kitchen, clipping his right foot on the pale olive trashcan that sat in front of a barrier that separated his kitchen from the front door. He barreled forward but caught himself on the kitchen counter. The trashcan fell sideways, spilling a couple empty cans of corn, onion peels, the receipt from the grocery store, an empty bottle of Heinz ketchup, and a few soggy tea bags across his floor. The ketchup bottle slid across the lacewood floor, slapped into the leg of a bar stool, and spun five times before finally giving up on its escape. Spin the bottle.

He looked slowly, dejectedly, vehemently, from the ketchup bottle, which was practically mocking him, to the microwave. The dinger on the microwave went off. The light inside turned on. The casserole had been splattered like Jackson Pollock painting inside the microwave.

“No….”

He started to pick up the cans. He stepped over the trash, looking at his watch—less than minute—and with spite for all the world’s microwaves, opened the microwave door to curse at the bloody mess. Strings of cheese hung from the ceiling of the microwave, one string held a single piece of corn like lone trapeze artist.

He reached to touch the plate and burnt his hand. “No!” he yelled.

He started to search for his oven mitt, and realized he had left it in the bathroom. As ran to the bathroom to retrieve it, he heard a knock on the door. He grabbed the oven mitt.

Don’t panic, he told himself, just take her out to dinner. No, tell her someone just robbed the house and left a mess. No, just…just…tell her you are sick! Yes! Tell her you are sick. No. She will know you are lying. He heard her knock again. He took a deep breath, steadying himself in front of the door. With the oven mitt in hand he opened the door, accepting his fate like we all must do one day.

She stood holding a pizza with a big smile across her face. Her Christmas tree pin glimmered in the light from his hallway. He could instantly smell the cheese boiling inside the cardboard pizza box.

“I thought you might be hungry…” she said, her smile turning a little as she noticed his oven mitt, the contrite look on his face and the wax stuck in the hairs of his left arm.

“I love you,” he said, sighing loudly and dropping the oven mitt.