Sticky Fingers, Silent Night!

“Goddammit’,” Mr. McBride growled with a frown. He brake checked the man in the silver impala who refused to slow down. He glared at the store with the ugly blue awning. A smile curled around his lips, when he thought of the corporate greed he'd be conning.

From his jeans a crumpled list he drew, of mundane children's wishes, nothing much was new. Legos and books, video games galore, year after year, the requests were the same and a bore. Scanning each name with an acute practiced eye, all the fees had been paid, he let out a sigh.

Into the monolith, McBride would soon stride, right there in plain view as if there was nothing to hide. His cart, a vessel for every desire, crammed to the brim like a holiday pyre. Quiet and calm, he'd then make his retreat, back to his ‘ole red Silverado, completing his feat.

To be aging and ugly was both a blessing and curse, each day more ignored till that final ride in the hearse. People would glance but their eyes quickly stray, away from his hair that was thinning and gray.

Yet, one soul perceives through fogged memory's haze, Carl the greeter from McBride's school boy days. “How's it going Carl?” he said with a curt nod and wink.
“Good Billy,” Carl replied, with a smile. Not a thought to be worried, or so he would think.

Did Carl's mind, in an Alzheimer's daze, simply not recognize the theft that took place? Or had he in a bond long since past, free his old friend of any judgement he cast? Billy had no way of knowing, but his worry would cease, for Carl's welcomed presence brought him such peace.

The lights were obnoxious, how the fluorescent bulb stings, a migraine he fought, the type a hangover brings. His diet was awful, his mood so low, he just wanted to hurry, so soon he could go.

“Alright”, Billy said with a practiced hand. He swiped three large Lego sets from the overpriced brand. Four smaller sets, he tossed in with ease. Practice made perfect, shoplifting a breeze. “And some of these,” he murmured low, six pocket sized ones he would top with a bow.

Nearby a baby was crying, if he said he was patient, he knew he'd be lying. The sound was unpleasant, just what was the matter? He picked up the pace to avoid all the clatter.

“Shoppers can enjoy exclusive savings when they download our app. Get more bang for your buck ‘cause that's where it's at!” the loud speaker announced. “No thanks.” Billy thought, for apps were a thing he'd always denounce.

In the next aisle stood pink plastic mountains, a Barbie display. “People are so dumb they'll need apps to breathe if they continue this way.”

His cart overflowing with ill gotten loot, speaks volumes of Billy, the cynical brute. No fear of the law, his motives unclear, for he hated most humans, especially those near. He steadied his pulse, making way to the door. “See ya Billie!” Carl knew he'd be back, he knew that for sure.

“See ya!”
Under his seat, a drained bottle of Jim Beam sat. He loaded the gifts and put on his hat. “This year I did well,” he thought at the sight. “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

He knows one day he'll be caught as criminals oft do, but not without feeling a moment of joy or two. Life on the outside with its weight and its woes, feels much like a prison where hope seldom grows.

He parked in the driveway, his home paint chipped and small. The radio blared metal, he was having a ball. His home was double the cost his parents once knew, they had more square footage and rooms with a view.

Many would think Billy had altruistic bones in his body. It was simply a response to a system so shoddy.

“It's a damn shame,”Billy would say. “There must be something to atone for the lost hours of day.” So he plotted and schemed and created a plan to become the shifty “Santa” for folks of this land.

As Billy drove, his thoughts would then roam, through many memories of his childhood home. His parents, so hard working and true, had not a Christmas they didn't feel blue. He'd hear tales at school of gifts so grand and so bold. “Santa” didn't see equality as something to uphold. Under their tree was a very different sight, goods bought with coupons opened by a dim light.

Not perfect angels, he'd readily confess. He and his sister were a mischievous mess. Santa's judgement seemed to make it quite clear, they'd make the naughty list year after year.

In the rearview, a moment he took, to view his reflection, as he bore a sad look. His eyes once bright, now held no spark. Drinking made him alive, but only when dark.

His beard a wild tangle, unkempt and long, a mirror of struggles and things that went wrong. He drew a breath of cold winter air, a reminder of burdens that he continued to bear.

His car's old radiator emitted a hiss, a symbol of his finances, consistently amiss. “One day I'll fix this shit can,” he stated, but it must wait, lest my thirst for justice has been abated.”

Meanwhile, Michelle watched time slip away, a battle of turmoil, her nerves in disarray. She waited for local “Santa”, but wondered if it was a test. Something brought her relief, but kept grief in her chest. Each month the bills were paid, a roof over her head. Food on the table her daughter Emma was fed. The Christmas bells chimed a joyous refrain, but her daughter's wishlist brought forth a new pain.

How could she afford gifts with her meager pay, the weight of the season grew heavier each day. This secret arrangement was both solace and dread, a moral dilemma now dwelled in her head.

She confided in friends, in the teacher’s lounge they met, about Michelle’s daughter and the gifts she'd not get.

Tomeka, her colleague, knew just what to do! A local “Santa” would help and see it all through. A hundred dollar fee, for wishes galore. Gifts worth it all and then some, delivered right to her door!

With relative ease she was put on the list, admittedly her anxiety was mostly dismissed. December 15th, ‘tween seven and nine, the local “Santa” would come just in time.

But this “Santa” wasn't jolly with a sleigh and a sack, it was a man with a truck who lived in a shack.

The local “Santa” decided to take matters in hand, stealing from Saves-a-Lot and taking a stand. One hundred bucks per child, it didn't seem true. To bring joy to many, instead of the few.

Loud footsteps outside, a heart filled with dread. Boots on rock salt, fears swirled in her head. What if it wasn't “Santa” this silent night? But the law to come take her for committing a wrong that wasn't quite right?

She glanced through the peephole, her anxiety grew. Had she been deceived? Was she in danger? Did he bring a whole crew? Her joy for Emma now mixed with despair. Fear gripped her heart, almost too much to bear.

A glimpse, nay a flash, a figure in red. Faded jeans in boots silently fled. She strained to see, her heart in a flurry, but only caught the back of the man in a hurry.

Michelle's eyes welled with tears, a sight to behold, as she brought in the gift bag away from the cold. White with silver snowflakes, so festive and grand. Treasures delivered to Emma, by hand.
Softly she tiptoed, careful not to rouse, her little one slumbering curled up like a mouse.

The young mother found more as she dug in deep, not only for Emma but some her’s to keep. An apple pie candle, the scent filled the air, a gesture so thoughtful, perhaps he did care.

Hot chocolate with marshmallows and candy canes galore, sweet Christmas treats and so many more! The local “Santa's” kindness warmed Michelle's soul, relinquishing fears and making her whole.

In the bag’s depths, a pink sweater gleamed. Cashmere and soft, with sparkles it seemed. A gift card was hidden, was this just a scheme?

“The wants of the greedy, may they be denied, till they feel like the weary who are so tired and tried.

The rights of the many I intend to defend. When the unjust are deposed, perhaps this will end.”

Merry Christmas!

-”Santa”