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.
