On the ninth Daze of Christmas,
Beau Johnson gives to us. . .
Beau Johnson gives to us. . .
Making Spirits Bright by Beau Johnson
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By
the time he starts in on the second cake, I can’t help but be impressed. His
footwear erases this: black boots, not dirty sneakers. The finishing touch to
every Santa suit the world over.
“Remember
what I said, though, take them as you find them: pubes, piss, and all. You keep
that in mind, you just might get outta here alive.”
He
looks up at me from his position on the tiled floor, blue pieces of crust
caught and holding in his not-so-jolly beard. He grumbles something. A thank
you, I think. Then his hands dip into the middle urinal, the one which holds most of his blood.
Six
days late with his second payment, he deserves more than the beating he’d
already taken. It was Christmas, though, and this time of year has always held
a special place in my heart. Might bring me some heat, not doing Lionel as I
should. Let’s be honest, I’d probably be taking care of him before this
time next week. Santa costume or no, things remain as I like them: this time of
year bringing out nothing but the best in me.
“That’s
it, m’man, keep it going. Like I said: you do all five cakes, I let you walk. Do
not confuse this with a free pass, though. You’re still gonna owe.”
Would
he pay? Does Trump have big hands? He’d tell himself he’d pay, sure, as this is
what men like Lionel did. What most of his kind failed to realize is there’s
really no need for men like Marcus to employ men like me. It doesn’t bother me,
not as you’d think, as I believe consequence for the engine that it is.
Some
would disagree with my thought process here, but seeing as I once stopped a man
who used intestine for tinsel, I’ll stick with my way of thinking, thank you
very much.
“You’re
not slowin’ down on me here are you, partner? Be quite a shame you start doin’
such a thing, seein’ as far in as you are.” The fat man shakes his head, doubles
down, but a little bit of making room for seconds has gone and entered
the equation.
The
guy using innards as ornaments was a disgruntled employee from back in the day.
The piece of garbage deciding Marcus’s son was the one and only way to go about
voicing his displeasure. What we ended up doing to that man as a response,
(think man-puree but chunkier), is the reason I do what I do now. We all need
hope this time of year. We all need spirit. Otherwise, we become savages.
“Maybe
think of it this way: imagine how fresh your breath is bound to be come New
Year’s. You start concentrating on that, pretty sure you’ll be able to go and
get that last one down.”
Pulling
himself down the line of urinals, he reaches in and grabs the last puck. It’s
full and brand-new. The look it creates on his face runs counter to the one spreading
across mine. Done, he fails to void, and I’m amazed at the turn of events. I
was sure of the addendum about to come. Instead, I slip from my position
between the sinks and offer him my hand. He’s wary, of course, and I can
understand why.
I
tell him not to worry, not for the immediate future anyway. He has done what I
have asked. The pair of us committing to the season and all I believe it holds.
I
unlock the door and open it. The mall’s version of Jingle Bells long gone and replaced by what I assume is Little Drummer Boy. We regard each
other in the archway as he takes his Santa hat from my hand and I pat
him on his way. He cringes at my touch but I understand the reasoning behind this
type of reaction as well.
It
allows me to shove instinct aside and block the due diligence struggling to
rise. How feeding Lionel porcelain until the hand dryers held portions of his teeth
remains in the realm of hypotheticals and what still may be. Some would judge this
as being weak and perhaps this is the case. I don’t see things that way,
though. Not since I was paid to turn a man to soup.
All
told, it means there might be hope for me yet.
All
told, it’s why I love this time of year.
