Work Text:
Jimmy Logan had promised his young daughter a trip to the Beckley Mall to see Santa. Since it required a nearly ninety-minute drive to get there–regardless of whether one took the interstate or the back roads to avoid tolls; sister Mellie crunched the numbers and they came out even–he had to promise Clyde a stop at the farm supply depot while there. Lengthy drives on West Virginia roads exacerbated the pain in Jimmy’s bad leg. He needed Clyde to tag in at times and let Jimmy recline along the back seats.
“My license is still suspended, Jimmy,” Clyde said.
Jimmy was clearing all the recycling he kept forgetting to take to the community center from the back seat of his pickup. “Stay under the limit and don’t run stop signs. You’ll be fine.”
“They got a Santa up at the Danville Library.” Clyde was hard pressed to turn down a trip to the farm supply depot, especially since Jimmy sprung for gas, but bad luck traveled the same routes. Wouldn’t take much for Clyde to slip his boot sole the wrong way over the gas pedal and gun the engine while passing a cop. Or maybe a latch on his prosthesis snaps and dislodges his fake hand. Lose the grip on the steering wheel and careen right into the back of an eighteen-wheeler pulling a container full of Amazon Prime.
Jimmy shook his head. “You mean Earl?” he asked. Earl, their mechanic, smelled perpetually of Lucky Strikes and WD-40. “Clyde, the kids all know it’s him. You can see the Scotch tape on his forehead from where he sticks the cotton balls on his eyebrows. He’s not even trying.”
“You know what Mommy used to tell us. Mountain folk don’t get to be choosy.” Clyde figured that sentiment also extended to Christmas traditions. “Anyway, Sadie’s old enough to know better.”
The bench seat empty, Jimmy slammed the back door. “Man, you must really not want to pet the baby chickens today.”
“It ain’t that,” Clyde said. “What’s so special about the Beckley Santa?”
“You’re right about Sadie. She’s old enough to realize Santa is more a concept than a person,” and Jimmy leaned closer, “but she’s convinced this one’s the real deal. Not only that, I get three extra hours with my girl owing to the drive.”
Clyde smiled. Time with their sweet girl was precious, especially during the holidays. “It’s the bunnies we’re petting,” he said. “They won’t let you touch the chicks.”
~*~
It turned out Clyde was unable to pet bunnies or chicks at the farm supply depot. They, the mall Santa, the helper elf, the mall Santa’s photographer, and the mall Santa’s photographer’s assistant were among the chosen few moved off property to one of the city parks. ANNUAL WINTER FESTIVAL read one lawn sign drawn up in thick marker, with an arrow pointing west.
“Sounds ominous, don’t it, Clyde?”
Really, the sign could mean anything. The city park might be full of mall store surplus, the winter festival actually being a tag sale. To Clyde, too, the lack of information smacked of a sting designed to draw at-large criminals into a trap.
Clyde suggested they drop him off at the store before embarking on their search for the Beckley Santa, but Sadie insisted he come along. “Uncle Clyde, don’t you want to tell Santa what you want for Christmas?”
“Sadie bear, I got everything I need,” Clyde said. Indeed, his trailer only allowed for so much. He wanted for few possessions, anyway. His library card kept his mind fed, and Mellie was always bringing over casseroles to fill his stomach. His bed still had plenty of room, but damned if he intended to talk to a stranger in a Santa costume about his desire for a boyfriend to warm his sheets.
They stood in the mall parking lot, with Sadie tugging on his good arm, until Clyde relented. As it turned out, the Beckley Winter Festival was a nice-looking affair held in a lush, grassy park. A kids’ play area featured a petting zoo with the bunnies and a few bouncy castles and lawn games, and food trucks lined their parking lot. Various booths featured artisan gifts, and a local shelter accepted canned food and clothing donations.
Beckley’s Santa held court in a large wooden sleigh painted red. The line queued around the playground and Jimmy carried Sadie there to wait. It left Clyde with little else to do than wander the grounds and try not to look creepy.
Option two: eat something. “Y’all want some popcorn?” Clyde asked. They spotted an old man with a large kettle near the trucks.
Jimmy handed him a twenty. “Save some for us,” he said, winking.
~*~
“Are you fecking kidding me?”
How dare–honestly, how fecking dare –this twat of a junior salesperson pull him off the floor right before he closed a sale? Stensland was furious. Two Saturdays before Christmas, at the height of gift shopping season, and the Beckley branch of Soft Solutions was mobbed. As the region’s top salesperson, Stens was sent by Corporate to help this particular location meet the December quota. So far, he’d exceeded expectations, but of course the mouth-breathers at this store had certainly set the bar low. Brushing the carpet, really.
From the moment the store, located in the Beckley Mall, opened, Stens had moved three recliners and a sectional. He was a beaver’s whisker from landing a couple admiring the adjustable memory foam California king when Junior, by order of the store’s manager, directed Stens into the main office.
“Blow this sale and you’ll regret it,” he threatened the beefy salesperson with the WV Mountaineers necktie.
The young man huffed. “You’re like, ten pounds soaking wet, McSlim. What are you gonna do to me?”
“I’m Irish,” Stens told him. “Like Liam Neeson. I have a very special set of skills–”
Mr. Stensland, please report immediately to the office, blared the loudspeaker.
The big emergency, to Stens’s bafflement, involved the mall Santa suffering a gout attack at the nearby winter festival. As the primary sponsor of the Santa, it fell to Soft Solutions to provide an alternate jolly old elf.
“So we’re sending you,” the manager told Stens.
“To do what?”
“Solve the problem.”
Stensland watched the man’s face for half a minute, waiting for something more sensible to come out. Nothing. “What you described to me sounds more like a human resources issue best left to somebody in charge of, you know, hiring people,” he said. “I am a sales associate. I sell furniture to people with empty doublewides.”
“And you’ve more than boosted our sales for the quarter, and we thank you,” said the Beckley manager. “Now it’s time for you to share your magical skills with the winter festival and save Christmas.”
This was the worst Hallmark movie ever. “Perhaps you heard me incorrectly,” Stens said, slowly this time. Maybe his accent threw these mountain folk. He thumped his chest. “Me sales. Me no personnel.”
“Stensland,” the older man’s voice rumbled, “You are a damn fine salesman, yes, but you’re making all of us look bad. We need jobs, too. Get out of my store and go fix this Santa problem, or else Junior and I will personnelly kick your ass.”
“Was that supposed to be a pun, because–”
“Get out!”
~*~
Well, terrific.
The kettle corn man had sold out of the plastic buckets with handles. Good for him, Clyde supposed, but he could have draped the handle over his prosthetic like a lady’s purse. Easier for him to eat and walk.
Instead he settled for a long paper bag, which he had to hold in his good hand. The fake was essentially a mannequin hand designed to restore his physical symmetry–it was a glorified hook lacking the ability to close into a fist. He paid the kettle corn man and stared at the bag for about a minute, working out the logistics in his head.
He licked off the top layer of popped corn, savoring the combined sweetness and salty flavors. Seeing as how he intended to share the rest with Jimmy and Sadie, though, he didn’t want to slobber into the bag. He tried shaking a few popped kernels into his prosthetic palm but more fell to the ground than stayed.
“No. Go on, git.” Clyde kicked up a bit to discourage the ducks waddling up to snatch the fallen treats. They displayed no fear of all the people milling around the park, leaving Clyde to guess they’d been fed enough and conditioned to beg for scraps. Anyway, popcorn wasn’t good for ducks, or geese, and he predicted seeing the grounds covered in duck shit before they left.
“Shouldn’t they all be flying south?”
Clyde perked up at the sound of the lovely, accented voice. A man of about his height–bit skinner, blue toque covering his ginger hair, cute as a button–high-stepped over the meddling waterfowl to get to Clyde. “Aren’t they aggressive?” he remarked. “Reminds me of dollar martini nights at this jazz club I used to frequent. Hello there.”
“Hi,” Clyde said, trying to discern the man’s interest. He held a bulging paper sack and flashed a sweet smile. “I got nothing to donate, sorry.”
“Not why I’m here.”
“If you’re intending to give me a Bible tract, I already believe in Jesus.”
The ginger man laughed. “Nothing like that. Not that it’s bad that you… forget it. My name is Stensland and I’ve been put in charge of Santa wrangling.”
“Like in a rodeo?”
Stensland turned paler, if that were possible. “Oh, my. You’re all like this, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Uh, sir–”
“My name’s Clyde.”
“That was my third guess.” Stensland lifted a Santa jacket out of the bag. “The Beckley Mall Santa has suddenly taken ill.”
Clyde looked past Stensland to the lengthy queue. Jimmy and Sadie waited in the middle, and on the sleigh rested a sign that read Candy Cane Break, Back Soon. “Well, that ain’t good,” he said.
Stensland nodded. “Exactly. I counted forty-five young children, high on sugar and anxious to have their wish lists heard–”
“The Danville Library had a Santa. We could have just gone there.” Clyde said it more to himself than to Stensland. “Uh, why are you telling me this? I ain’t a parent.”
Stensland gave a timid laugh. “You see, it’s imperative we replace the Santa for… reasons,” he said. To Clyde, it looked as though the man struggled to think of one. “I happened to notice you by the large kettle, and your structure…”
Here Stensland panned his gaze on Clyde, forehead to boots. Clyde swore he saw the very tip of Stensland’s tongue poke out and massage the corner of his mouth, all sly and contemplative. Like he wanted to lick something. The sight caused Clyde’s heart to flutter.
Clyde extended the bag. “Want some kettle corn?”
“Wish I could.” Stensland eyed the bag with longing. “Long story for another time. I’d love a soft pretzel, though. Those I can eat, and digest without disaster striking.”
Another time. Clyde heard that first.
Stensland held out the coat. “You have a nice, deep voice, and you look like this will fit you. In the arms, that is. We have padding for Santa’s belly. Please substitute for our Santa and I will be indebted to you.”
“Not sure you want that. I’m not the luckiest man…” Yet as Stensland’s expression drooped, Clyde quickly backtracked. “I’m just sayin’ you won’t have to owe me anything, if I’m doing this for the kids.”
“Oh, this is a relief. Thank you.” Stensland motioned for Clyde to follow him to a tent marked The North Pole. “It’s basically an improv job. You ho ho ho, ask the kids what they want, snap a photo. If you get flustered, I’ll be there to wingman for you.”
“Really?” That sounded good.
Stensland made a capitulating noise and pulled out a green jingle bell hat. “Yes, well,” he removed the toque, “turns out the helper elf and the mall Santa were hooking up so she went to the hospital with him.”
He secured the hat and stared at Clyde, his expression defeated. Still too cute. Clyde wanted to put this sweet elf on his lap and feed him soft pretzels.
~*~
As the winter festival wound to a close, Santa Clyde gave one last ho ho ho and set the little girl in the pink wool jacket back on the ground. Elf Stensland, freezing his jingle bells off in his skin-tight green leggings and thin red tunic, handed her a candy cane and steered her toward her parents. He collapsed next to Clyde in the sleigh and slid his hat over his face.
“Are we done?”
“We’re done. Everybody’s leaving,” Clyde said. “That was fun. Thanks for asking me to help out.”
“Thanks for volunteering.” To say nothing of saving his hide. Stensland regretted the absence of Junior and the rest of the Soft Solutions staff. He thought at least one might have come out to see if he’d fail in his mission. If any praise for the substitute Santa drifted back to the mall, Stens pictured the store manager taking credit for it.
“Guess how many kids we saw.”
Stensland moaned. “All of them.” Talk about a never ending line of children waiting for lap time with the big guy. Then all the single moms in their snow go brrr knit hats and mittens posing on Clyde’s knees for pictures to send to their ex-husbands. “May they all find the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe under their trees this year.”
“Seventy-three. Some of those kids looked in need of other stuff besides presents, too. Hope they do alright.”
“Yes.” The coat and canned food drives saw to that, Stens hoped. Those weren’t his responsibility, but perhaps as a thank you to the universe he decided to hand them a few bucks on the way back to his car.
Stensland sat upright, brushing his knee against Clyde’s. The big man radiated the warmth of the holiday spirit–plus hard muscles underneath red velvet. With no children in sight, Clyde removed the white wig and beard to reveal his handsome face. Yet, Stensland also found him quite fetching in the full costume. Clyde probably had one of those giggling live-laugh-love ladies waiting at home. Lucky bitch.
“I’m sorry I am unable to compensate you for your time,” Stens told him. “I mean, if you want a good deal on out-of-season patio furniture–”
Clyde shook his head. “I ain’t done this for money, Stensland. I was raised to help people in need, and I wasn’t about to see all those kids disappointed, even if it wasn’t necessarily my choice to come here today.” He set the wig and beard on his knee and unzipped his jacket. “Now, if you wanted to make it up to me…”
A girlish squealing interrupted them. Stens shrank back in the sleigh as a youngster ran toward them, her presumed father limping behind from a distance.
“Seventy-four,” Stens said, nudging for Clyde to restore the beard, at least. “And I’m out of candy canes.”
“It’s all good. That’s my niece, Sadie. She done had her turn.”
Sure enough, Sadie clutched a sticky cane, with the stripe on the top curve licked away. “You ready to go, Uncle Clyde?”
“Just about.” Clyde smiled at her. “I need to return this Santa suit.”
“What did I tell you?” said the man Clyde introduced as Jimmy. “Sadie said the Beckley Santa was special. She wasn’t wrong.”
Sadie caught Stens’s eye. “What did you ask Santa for, mister?”
“Oh.” Stens blinked. “Nothing, I guess. I’m not a kid.”
“No, but Santa gives gifts to his elves.”
News to him. Seeing all eyes on him now, Stens suffered a rush of nerves. “Well, I want for little myself,” he said. “Just peace on Earth, an uncongested commute to and from work, and a boyfriend with whom to spend the rest of my days.”
Sadie pointed her melting candy cane at Clyde. “Uncle Clyde can give you that third thing.”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you to say, but I won’t impose on your uncle to match me up with–”
Stens turned toward Clyde and the words stuck in his throat. The big man’s posture curved into obvious embarrassment. Hunched shoulders, pinked cheeks not from the cold, gaze cast down at the flattened grass.
“Oh.” Oh.
Stens flicked his gaze out toward the remains of the winter festival. One large object remained, its owner still catering to the dwindling crowd.
“Clyde,” he said, “would you like some popcorn?”
“Maybe later,” Clyde said, and reached for Stens. The heat from Clyde’s hand on his thigh spread through his leggings, better than any electric blanket. Stens turned weightless in his Santa’s arms when pulled onto his red velvet lap. “How about we go back to the mall and see if the pretzel stand is still open?”
Stens waited. He noticed Jimmy leading Sadie away, despite the girl’s insistence on staying, and silently thanked the man for giving him and Clyde a moment alone.
“You know, I keep a box of them in my freezer at home,” Stens said, “and I have been a good boy all year.”
Clyde drew him closer. “Want to come join me on the naughty list?”
To hell with pretzels. “Feck, yes.”