[stylist] Holiday exercise, part 1: Schmanta Claus

[Chris Kuell]

Here's my first submission for the exercise--1400 words. I'm planning on 
another, maybe 2, depending on how satisfied I am with the work. All 
comments, suggestions, fan and hate mail are welcomed.



Schmanta Claus

By Chris Kuell


Irving Nusinowitz shoveled another spoonful of lukewarm oatmeal down his 
throat. The taste was bland, a dull beige, perfectly mimicking his mood.

His wife, Helen, was jabbering about the fur coat Sylvia Goldbass was 
wearing at Temple Saturday night. Something about her nephew Maury knows a 
guy in the city and got her such a deal. She turned and scowled at him.
""Irving, why the sour puss?"

Without responding, he looked at her. Thirty-four years of marriage allowed 
Helen to read his thoughts through that look.
"Listen, Irv, it's only for a short time. You've been outta work for 
nine-months now, and we really need the money. Winter is here, and we need 
oil to heat this place. The kids and our seven grandchildren are coming for 
Hanukah, and I don't want them worrying about us."

Irving dipped his head and forced another spoonful of mush into his mouth. 
Helen took the kitchen chair next to him and spoke softly. "I prayed for God 
to help us find money to make it through the holidays. He works in 
mysterious ways, Irving. Swallow your pride and do a good job. It's only for 
a month. "

Irving pushed his chair away from the table and stood to go. Sylvia used a 
napkin to remove a glob of oatmeal from his thick, white beard before 
hugging him good-bye and handing him a sack lunch. She offered him a few 
more words of encouragement as he buttoned up his overcoat and left the 
house for whatever the day wood bring.

Parked a half-hour later at the Mall, he took a long swig out of the pint he 
kept in the glove box. Unemployment had not been easy for the 58-year-old 
ex-accountant. He grabbed his Dunkin Donuts coffee and his canvas bag and 
locked up.

Inside the security office at the Mall was a nice changing room and a locker 
where he could store his clothes. Irving was afraid Mr. Connor, the man who 
had hired him, might smell the gin on his breath, but he quickly reassured 
himself that the coffee would cover it up and he changed. The silly pants 
were elastic at the waist at least, so they could close around his 62-inch 
girth. The red jacket was also tight, and the cheap nylon fabric was 
probably going to give him hives. He buckled the wide, black belt, which was 
vinyl instead of leather, and muttered, "And you Goyem are always calling us 
frugal."

The final accessory was the red felt stocking cap, which fit perfectly on 
Irving's snowy head.

Mr. Connors introduced him to Dwayne Thomas, a short black guy dressed up in 
a green elf costume that matched his own in ridiculousness. Elf Dwayne 
smelled like he hadn't had a shower lately, and Mr. Connors was not the 
least bit happy when the elf lit up a Marlboro.

While they walked, Mr. Connors went through his schpeal about proper 
behavior, never telling the kids much of anything, keep it all open ended, 
and push them into pressuring their parents for a photograph.

As Irving took his seat in the large wooden chair in the center of the Mall, 
surrounded by Christmas songs, artificial trees and snow and enough blinking 
lights to illuminate a major US city, he thought back to his bar mitzvah. 
The day he fully embraced his Jewishness and became a man. How far he had 
come, and how low he had sunk, to be sitting here representing a 
capitalistic fantasy to all the bratty little gentile children.

Irving played Santa to 43 children before lunch break. You can take the man 
out of the accounting office, but. 29 were boys; 14 girls. Three kids couldn't 
work up the courage to get on his lap, and one cried so much his mother had 
to come and take him away after a grotesque pleading session that made 
Irving want to throw both the kid and his mother into one of the fake snow 
banks.

 For lunch, Irving went back out to his car and polished off the gin with 
his tuna fish sandwich. He ran into Dwayne the Elf as he was walking in, and 
they both had a cigarette before heading back for Act II.

The line of nervous children and cookie-cutter parents depressed Irving as 
he took his throne. The lies about being good, the greed of the brainwashed 
little consumers and the idle promises about bringing lots of toys carried 
on through the afternoon.

Irving's lower back was killing him, his bladder was about to burst and he 
nearly launched a fat little girl onto the white picket fence when she 
pulled hard on his beard, asking, "Is this fake?"

He stood, massaging his sore chin and watched as Dwayne escorted a lone boy 
over to meet Santa. Usually the kids had a cheery, encouraging parent 
observing from outside the picket fence, but this kid was all by himself. 
Irving thought he saw a slight trail of smoke escaping from Dwayne's cupped 
hand as the kid stood before him.
"Hello, Son. Is your Mommy or Daddy with you today?"

The kid said, "My Mom's shopping at Filene's. I've got a cell phone to call 
her if you try to feel me up or anything like that, so don't even think 
about it."

Taken aback, Irving sat down and stared at the kid. He was maybe 
eight-years-old, had sandy brown hair and reminded him a little of his own 
grandson Samuel.
"Would you like to sit on Santa's lap, or is that a little too close for 
you?"

"I'll just stand here, if that's OK." He said. "I know you're not Santa 
anyways."

"What kind of attitude is that? Don't you want Santa to bring you lots of 
gifts under your tree come Christmas?"

The kid looked at Irv with sad brown eyes." There won't be any tree this 
Christmas."

"What? No tree? Why not?" Irving asked.

"My Mom and Dad got divorced. My Dad is Jewish, and so is his new 
girlfriend. I'm going to spend Christmas break with him in stupid Denver."

"Well, then, you will be celebrating Hanukah, the Jewish celebration of 
Lights,"" Irving said to the boy.

"Hanukah is stupid. All my friends are home having Christmas. I know Santa 
isn't real, but I'm going to miss out on all the fun stuff." The kid looked 
down and nudged the toe of one boot in the fake snow.

"Santa, Schmanta, that's what I say," Irving told the boy. "Listen, kid. I'm 
going to let you in on a little secret. " Irving lowered his voice and 
motioned for the boy to come closer. The kid took a step closer and pulled 
the cell phone out of his pocket, just to let Santa know he was serious.
"All of your friends, with their presents and reindeer, are missing the big 
picture. Santa isn't about Christmas at all.  The Christians stole him and a 
lot of other stuff from pagan rituals."

"What's a pagan ritual?" the kid asked.

"That's not important. What is important is to know that Christmas isn't 
about gifts and trees. It's about God, and God's gifts to the world. God 
gave the Christians Jesus, to try to teach them what is important in life, 
love and compassion. The Jews, we don't need Jesus, because we had Moses 
thousands of years before Jesus came along. God gave Moses the gift of the 
commandments, which he shared with us. God gave us these things because he 
loves us, all of us. Doesn't matter if you are Jewish, Christian or one of 
those Hari Krishna's that parade around in their bathrobes at the airport."

The kid contemplated this while Irving continued.
"Kid, you've got the best of both worlds. You get to experience the rich 
traditions of your Jewish heritage, and visit Denver where I hear the skiing 
is fabulous this year."
This got a smile out of the youngster.
"Before you go, I'll bet your Mom will load you down with lots of crap you 
don't need. Just like an early Christmas. In fact, I bet she's out buying 
you all kinds of fun junk that will turn your brain into mush right now."
A deeper smile rose on the kid's face, and Santa seemed to catch it.

"Santa," Dwayne the Elf called, a wisp of blue smoke escaping from his 
mouth. "We need to move along."

The boy took two steps forward and hugged Irving. He stepped back and said, 
"Bye, Santa."

Irving smiled wide and answered, "Shalom, my friend."