Santa
I grabbed a cigarette with sweaty fingers and took my first drag in five years, eleven months and twelve days.
We sat down with Santa Claus to discuss his interest in replacing Dustin Hoffman for the next sci-fi installment of the Meet the Parents franchise, Mind-Fockers, set to start filming in a week. A lot of livelihoods were at stake. He was making a fuss over another character’s joke in the screenplay about Christmas. It became clear to me, as my boss and I assuaged him, that he had never watched a film in the Meet the Parents franchise— he was most excited about working with Ben Stiller since he “loved the shit” out of the “center for ants” scene in Zoolander. He reenacted it, thrashing all our paperwork onto the floor, not letting us move on until we responded to him with Mugatu and Todd’s dialogue. As Santa cackled, I shot my boss a look. She laughed as hard as Santa and set a pack of cigarettes on the table, offering one to Santa. She lit Santa’s cigarette then her own. Dizzy at the sounds of their exhales, I grabbed a cigarette with sweaty fingers and took my first drag in five years, eleven months and twelve days. The three of us grinned in the thickening smoke. My boss agreed to Santa’s rate, which was triple my salary. I
couldn’t quit smiling. We were tapping our ashes onto the papers on the floor when Santa realized he was to replace Hoffman, not De Niro. He pouted, unhappy to work with De Niro since he’d seen De Niro’s tattoos. Three squares deep, my mouth felt like a microwave full of golden light. I said we’d fire De Niro and hire whoever he wanted. My boss kicked me under the table. Santa recommended the Easter Bunny and I said let’s call him. He said he wanted to shoot the Easter Bunny with a big gun and I asked how big. He showed us with his hands, wide as one of those novelty checks. My boss said fuck it. She told me to set up a meeting with our stakeholders to inform them that Mind-Fockers was a go. I asked her why she didn’t set it up herself since Santa and I would be finishing this conversation on the way to buy more cigarettes and some booze and guns the size of field goals. Santa asked if our guns could match.
Julián Martinez is the son of Mexican and Cuban immigrants. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Hooligan Mag, Little Engines, The Sonora Review and elsewhere. He is the author of the chapbook This Place Is Covered Head to Toe in Shit, available now with Ghost City Press. Find him online @martinezfjulian or martinezfjulian.com, or IRL in Chicago. He doesn't have any tattoos but still gets coal for Christmas.
