The world had several ideas about me lately that weren’t too flattering. Initially it was a preoccupation with reminding me how bad I was at falling in love. It would rub it right in my face, “You got problems babe”.
And maybe life was right. Perhaps if it read in bold letters on my lapel “how’s my living”, I would get what you really think of it all on some tidy 1-800 voice mail. A good antiseptic tiding from across the phone might just kick it all into shape; let me know really what I was doing wrong.
Really, how many times can you fool yourself into thinking how different a relationship will be next time? Every time a great dance ends, you remind yourself of the things you learned, things you won’t yell again, or ways to keep a partner smiling, it all meant something… I’m sure everyone gets tired of starting over, but we can’t seem to set the brakes.
Today, none of that spoke even a whisper above the clamor of the plaza. Its open spaces were rife with the usual antiquated ideas of open air commerce. Hot dog vendors fit neatly between cell phone merchants and littered again by the occasional bible thumper. For your convenience, you could pick up god and a new pair of ray bans today, and you didn’t even know who to thank.
That was my stroll down 10th street, teetering at the few spots that still pandered to foot traffic. I watched life going on at an exaggerated speed. Hundreds of people lying in some estivated state of consumer activity, seeking bargains with their heat pits and striking with closed eye when the time is right to save.
Bells clinked and feet patted down sticky sidewalks. Holiday employees vied for attention, leering from behind red velvet or musty beards, driving us all out of our minds with those bells.
Somewhere among the whole dance of over stimulation; someone, somehow, knew that it was all getting too out of control. To many arms slinging money, and stooping for change, and grabbing the last doll or dump truck effigy. Too many eyes darting like protective mothers, but with their eggs at home!
His bell landed with a thud on the sanded pavement. I turned to pan upward on lavish figure. Sandals and a Santa suit, with a worn canvas shirt under cheap rouge velour, this was the anti-Clause. We were collectively awed.
With no interruption in the procession of events, he stooped with eyes upon the crowd. He inspected with a half turn the bent dome of brass, and then with a slowly building beat began the chiming again, though different. Now instead of a humble grin and an urge to put your change in his melancholy bucket roja, he balked the attempts with his body language. His free hand passed in slow motion before our astonished eyes and plunged to the wrist in dimes, nickels and such; the occasional folded bill and numerous glued together pennies.
“Help the Needy!?” he screamed out with a questioning anger.
“You are the Needy!”
Nobody prepared for this; they all began to fall from ranks, mothers grabbing children, any children, running for their lives.
The bell soared over the crowd and skittered across asphalt, under cars and out of our minds. Hands reaped the bucket, our new Santa wild with glory, grinning maniacally and tossing handfuls of dirty discarded change into the air to land on the terrified and amazed alike.
I must admit, I laughed like a delighted child in the rain; even if it was a rain of snotty pocket metal. Our new Santa preached against this breed of moral ambiguity that we believe with all our little heart in. He said take your fucking bread crumbs and come back when your strong enough to help anyone at all.
I backed up a step to avoid another rush of the infuriated and could not help brush shoulders with a dark haired girl.
“You like the show?” She quipped, taking the bump in stride and using the opportunity.
“It is a delightfully right way to start the evening.”
She smiled and in taking my hand we walked past all the disgusted folks who raised their hands in anger; who swear at he who dares interrupt them with only 20 shopping days ‘till Christmas.
She told me first about the Navaho Indian tribe, right out of the blue. Not with an eye of reverence, but just alluded to their customs and intricacies in a way that made me wonder how our culture would be described in a thousand years by some prudish history novel. We laughed and compared, deconstructing societies heavy blocks one by one.
It was strange how all her stories seemed to say to me “we are not just the byproducts of society.” How right she was, because watching the growing craziness from the truck stop window was enough to prove what happens when a single mask is let down.
“They worshiped the sun… But not as a god you see, more of a…”
“Respect? Acknowledgement?” I would fire back.
“Maybe that’s important…”
“What’s left to respect...? Ourselves?” I quipped with a furrowed grin, letting out my laughter.
All she could do was laugh, and carry me on with her, until we had every other restaurant goer gawking in our direction. We seemed to say “Of course not”, and that was enough of a philosophy for us.
Strangely we all met later at the truck stop. Our sad red clown staggered in, tired from performing, and we invited him down with a knowing nod. We talked about love, wealth and the scrambled eggs. He left that night as we sat in refracted street lighting and we tried to make him out through the window glare. My companion though she heard hoof beats as he sped away from the store, but I swear it was an old brown Vespa scooter. Either way, the meaning is what we make of it as growing brooding individuals. I for one will be leaving out chili and hash browns for my new Santa hero this year; albeit he might just be on the road instead, his haver sack full of clean underwear and no shiny toys for Mr. Johny.
At least he has my goddamn respect, as we both pull at the same strings and padlocks, trying to let ourselves out of that big cold box called complacency.
And as for the Navaho…
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