The Fat Man Crosses the Line
I couldn’t sleep. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and I am only eight. I snuck to the stairwell and peered into the living room to see if the fat man had been there yet. I don’t know why I cared. All he ever left for me was clothes. What I saw down there was disturbing. The fat man was making out with my Mom in front of the tree. My father was nowhere to be seen. Probably passed out drunk somewhere, which was his wont to do on most holidays.
As disturbed as I was at the sight of it, the ardor with which my mother was hungrily sucking Santa’s face through that mountain of yellowing white beard was disgusting. I lost the last vestige of respect for that harlot if I ever had any, to begin with. What was worse was the stink. Santa smelled like my father; stale tobacco, whiskey, fetid sweat, and desperation. I was left to wonder, is this what becoming a man entails for everyone? If so, I want no part of it. I went to my room to get my baseball bat. This shit ends tonight.
It's not too late to get your copy of Shot to Pieces for Christmas! Have you got that somebody who is impossible to shop for? Signed copies of the novel are available for $15 at Turn of the Corkscrew Books and Wine, in Rockville Centre.