This is a really rough chapter that goes "off outline," so it's going to need heavy editing later. But this is the "kitchen sink draft" so enjoy and rest assured that I know it's not nearly finished.

8.

 We didn’t do a lot of talking while we were up above the city. A helo like “Pegasus” (that’s our code name for our little EC130) tends to be kind of noisy. But I coded it to Big Man because Bobby, our on call pilot that day, had to set that sucker down in a school parking lot. And we couldn’t afford to take any chances in a school zone.

Once we were airborne, though, Lakesha and Taylor were too busy just gawking to talk, actually. Every now and then they’d look at me or each other, and then lean to check out the view again. Taylor seemed to be trying to memorize the moment—I studied her for a while, as she was gazing down at the city so intensely.

I could totally understand why she was mesmerized by the view. Tucson sits within a ring of really picturesque mountains—four ranges, the Catalinas being the biggest and most beautiful. You can ski up there. In fact, sometimes on one “winter” day you can ski in the mountains and then come down and have a barbecue by the pool. I’m not joking, we’ve done that for Thanksgiving and Christmas both a few times. Crazy cool, right?

And beyond those mountains is an endless, wide open stretch of pale pastel desert. Which is what I love about living here most. Yes, the people annoy the hell out of me sometimes, of course. Arizona has a reputation for being back asswards on most issues. Only if you come here, you’d be surprised how many people are pretty damned righteous—there are idiots in every state in the union, not just ours.

But the land itself…there’s nothing else like it anywhere. My favorite thing to do is go ‘way the hell out away from the city, which is still very easy to do here, and just…sit. Especially if I can get ‘way up high and watch the colors fire up just as sunset begins. It’s so effing awesome. Like God just totally showing you who’s the Boss, you know? You can’t get too big headed with all that to remind you you’re just a dust speck in the universe—I remember the first time I saw the Grand Canyon and just sat right down on the ground, put both hands on top of my head and went, “Seriously?” Spectacular, stupefying stuff.

But I wasn’t checking out the desert vistas this time. I was staring at this woman--ridiculously beautiful. Notice, I’m saying “beautiful,” not pretty anymore. Because in the bright sun and framed by that picturesque background…it was like a magazine shot. Even with the bruise, that face was stunning. Finely chiseled--she reminded me of that actress in that movie 10, I think it was called. You know, that Bo Derek babe that Dudley Moore was all obsessed with. Features like that.

But I was picking up something underneath all that--that part of her that ran away from the people who were trying to pull her back into their world. And while she was ‘way up above it all, she looked like she didn’t want that flight to end. Like she wouldn’t care where we went or for how long or anything.

I don’t think know why that made me sad, though. Usually wildness excites me. But I had heard her scream that one time, when she thought someone might open that bathroom door. Like a wild thing, cornered—we were up in the sky because I’d wanted to save her. But there was something in how she couldn’t take her eyes off the horizon that said it’d take a whole lot more than a helo ride to make her feel safe. Or free. Or…whatever those eyes were searching for.

“You gon’ be teacher’s pet fo’ sho’ now,” Lakesha teased me. And Taylor, in a way.

And Taylor turned that gorgeous face to us and said, “You own this?”

“I do.”

“And how…does a young man your age acquire something like this?”

“Flight’s too short for that story.”

“He own that building on Fourth Avenue got them Eqyptian things all around the roof—them King Tut lookin’ things,” Lakesha told her.

“Owns,” Taylor said.

Which made me laugh a little, because she wasn’t correcting Lakesha, she was continuing that other conversation.

So I said, “I have…I’m a Net entrepreneur.”

“A dot com sort of thing?”

“You could say that.”

“He in the newspapers,” Lakesha said. “We Google’d him.”

“What made you do that?” I asked.

And Lakesha gave me a little look and said, “Some o’ the boys tolt us to.”

I was searching for a loophole out of this conversation when Bobby turned to us and said, “Hold on, ladies—and gentleman.”

And the ladies shut up again, as the helo honed in on the roof of the warehouse where we keep our “toys.” And Lakesha gave me this little sock on the shoulder, the way kids do when they’re still at that stage when you can tell a girl likes you because she’s always hitting and harassing you. Only it wasn’t flirting, it was just like she didn’t know how to thank me or say what she wanted to say. And she sort of blushed when I said, “My pleasure! No problem.” I think she was sort of embarrassed that she hadn’t just said it in words, but it didn’t bother me.

Bobby set us down easy—always does. He’s my favorite pilot. And the only one I’d trust to land us right in town. It’s not something we do often, because it’d be really inconsiderate with the noise and all. As it was, all the people on Fourth—a real cool little “bohemian” neighborhood where we live—sort of freaked out, even though the locals had seen us do that a few times before. Pegasus does sit up on top sometimes, to give the tourists something to talk about and take pictures of. They read about us in all the tourist brochures and newspapers and whatnot, so that’s an easy way for them to find what they’re looking for.

There were three cars waiting by the elevator you take down to the ground floor exit: the Hummer and two black Lincoln sedans for Taylor and Lakesha. No “prom specials” for us. You know, those long limos people order for special occasions. That’s Big Man being a snob again, of course. Every time we pass a stretch he makes some kind of comment about it. Or he used to, until just to teach him a lesson one time, I hired this gargantuan Hummer stretch with the mirror balls and all that crazy shit inside for his birthday. And when Aisha brought him out, the rest of us were all standing there doing the John Travolta disco finger pose with the disco music blasting and that mirror ball already going and throwing little “stars” all around the interior even before we got in. Whenever we tease him about it, he just rolls his eyes and “tsks.” But he laughed a lot that night, though. One thing about Big Man, he can take a joke, even when the joke’s on him.

So Lakesha did this hilarious runway walk to the sedan with the good looking Mexican driver standing by the open door, and looked back to blow me a kiss. And then she got out her cell and had the driver pose for her while she got in. And then she had the driver take a picture of her inside.

As the car pulled away, she yelled, “Bes’ Christmas present, evah,” through the window. And when it pulled off she got on her knees in the back seat and started waving at me like mad through the back window the way little kids do—she was still waving when the sedan turned out of eye shot. Crazy girl. Google hadn’t put her off me, apparently. It scares some girls sideways, what we do.

“Well, you’ll be the toast of Twitter today,” Taylor said.

And then she smiled quietly and said, “I think I’ll Google you, too.”

“You may as well. It’s gonna be the main topic of discussion when we get back.”

She gave me this look—not a frown, but a deep gaze, like she was trying to read my mind or something. Or maybe hypnotize me, given what she said next.

“But you’re not coming back.”

“We’ll see.”

“Well…thank you for…everything. I wasn’t expecting you to take me quite so literally, but…I must say I’m glad you did.”

“What’ll they do with your bike and all?  I mean, they can’t just leave you hanging ‘til after the holidays, right?”

“Believe me, the district will be in touch. With you, too, probably.”

“What a messed up day you’ve had.”

She smiled up at me and said, “Oh, but it ended well.”

I definitely felt better when she said that.

After a last glance back at the helo, she reached up and gave my cheek a little pat before heading for her car. And once the driver shut the door, she leaned to look out at me once, like maybe she had something else to say. But when I waved, she smiled and sat back…and the sedan took her away.

And once the two women were all squared away, Big Man beeped at me and I went on over and got in.

“So what’s the news?” I asked. It was my usual greeting after I’d been away from everyone for a while.

“They got all the rides up but one,” he said. “Girls already been on the one that drops you from ‘way up there.”

“Did you go?”

He turned and scowled at me.

“Do I look like that big a fool to you?”

“Wow. Just set it up for me, why don’cha? How can I not say, ‘Yes?’”

He chuckled and went back to driving. And I said, “I think we finally figured out how to get past Bonnie, by the way. Later on.”

“You invite that girl over here?”

“She has a right to be here.”

Big Man chuckled and looked back at me.

“Yeah, well Bonnie’s gonna read you up’n down, son.”

“Yeah, well I don’t care. It’s her own daughter!”

“Yeah, but that’s not the daughter she raised.”

“She might do better if Bonnie’d cut her a little slack.”

“How is she going to cut her some slack after all the shit she put her through? And you, too!”

I sighed and shook my head.

“I don’t know. I just feel…well you know how I feel.”

He chuckled and shook his head this time.

“That’s what started all this in the first place. You feelin’ and not thinkin’.”

“Oh, you went there, huh? Santa’s gonna put coal in your stocking this year.”

“You know Santa loves me.”

I smiled—he caught it in the rear view. I had a present that was going to blow his mind. He knew something was up, but he couldn’t have guessed this one if his life depended on it.

So he said, “See there! Lookit him smilin’ at me.”

“I’m thinkin’ about how sad you’re going to be Christmas morning.”

“Well, you better be thinkin’ about how we’re gonna wade through all these damned people up in here! I don’t know why they all line up when they can’t get in ‘til tomorrow.”

“Once the big rides go up they always do that.”

Big Man went on “two-way” with security and pretty soon the crowd sort of started to part like the Red Sea in front of us. They’d always start lining up in the alley between the two blocks our buildings are on the day before this event I spoke of. The buildings almost take up a block a piece. And there’s a parking area behind each one, which means there’s a big open space—that’s where they hold the annual Community Christmas Carnival every year now. And I’ll talk about that in a minute. But first, I have to give you the “blow by blow” of my welcome “home” after my first day back at school.

Because before I even got out of the Hummer, Aisha came running like I’d been gone for a year. And I braced myself, because she always jumped up and wrapped her arms and legs around me like a little girl.

And when she pulled back and looked me deep in the eyes, I felt that rush I get even after all the years I’ve known her—we go ‘way back. We were little project kids together. She’s only three years older than me. And I never get tired of just looking at her. She’s beyond beautiful. Ask anyone who knows us and they’ll tell you how she stunned them senseless the first time they saw her.

She’s got this sort of Eurasian face, and smooth brown skin so flawless it makes other women mad. So does her hair—it’s all thick, shiny and so long it swings and sways back and forth against her butt when she walks. Which gives guys an excuse to stare at that butt, too. She gets ‘em comin’ and goin’--relentless T and A, I swear. Guys look at her…then at me…and give me high fives of complete surrender as they pass by. I’m not kidding.

I walk a little bit behind her in crowded places just to watch people get all spastic when she passes by. I’ve seen guys trip over their suitcases in hotel lobbies and forget to step off of escalators and whatnot. Or run into lamp posts on the street—that sucks, because the metal ones sound like gongs when you hit them. So everybody turns around and gives you that, “What a dip shit” look.

She ran a finger down my nose and said, “You know, I was on my way over there.”

“She was,” Big Man said. “Got all riled up.”

“How did she even know?”

“Oh, you know she was going to find out when she heard me call the copter, son. She’s got that mother hearing goes through walls and shit, man. If I think your name her ears perk up.”

She got down off me, but took hold of my arm like she was afraid someone was going to run up on us or something.

“I’ll cut a bitch in a minute, she come at my baby,” she told me, those hazel eyes all lit up. They look like jewels, those eyes. When she turns around, flashes them at me and smiles I forget my own name for a minute.

“Yeah, like I’m not in enough trouble already,” I said.

“They the ones in trouble! I hear they started some more mess they gon’ need more than Big to hold my ass back,” she said—as you can tell, she speaks English as a second language. Ebonics is her first. I worry about that, now that she and the girls are going into their own business big time. You can’t sit up in a board room talking about how you’re going to “cut a bitch, fo’ sho’,” okay? It’s just not on.

The other two came trotting over and heads really turned then. So let me stop and do all the introductions here. Because if it matters how I look, it really matters how they look. They’re the “franchise,” the “Fun House Girls.” That’s trademarked, by the way—their bodies are insured, too. Lloyd’s of London. If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’—without a helo. Our lawyers insisted.

So…there’s Mike, who is a dead ringer for Billy Idol, if Billy Idol was a hot blond with legs for days. She keeps her hair sugar white and cut real short and boyish, but that pouty mouth and killer rack put an end to any speculation about her gender, though she and Cat are both what I call “biflexible.” They’re sort of a couple, actually, but not entirely monogamous. None of us believe in that.

Her posters and t-shirts and stuff are big sellers with rock bands and metal heads and dudes who are into fast cars and extreme sports and all that. But she gives you that androgynous, glam punk vibe. Makes a guy have to wonder about himself a little bit. But then they start checking her out from the neck down and it’s all good. Real good.

Catherine, “Cat,” is our glamor girl. She does the pin up girl poses, and I think men are almost intimidated by how picture perfect she is: green eyes, full, hot pink lips, the auburn hair falling in gentle waves—one of ‘em always falling into those smoldering eyes, so she can shake it all back and blow your mind. Old Hollywood, you know? Rita Hayworth, Jane Russell “hour glass” bod—I thought that Jessica Rabbit cartoon thing was anatomically impossible ‘til I met Cat. I like watching fashion models get all frustrated when she’s on the scene—when all my girls are around, actually. Nobody even notices their skinny asses.

And let’s get this out of the way early, too: yes, I’ve hit all that. At our house, the bedroom doors are never locked for a reason. But we don’t get all possessive or confused about it. I don’t think any of us will ever get married but I could see us having lovers we live with for a while, maybe. I don’t know how the fuck that would work, though. I mean, men, knowing they might get in on the “action” might go along with it. But women…I don’t think so.

The few I’ve dated were so totally freaked out by the girls from jump that they just couldn’t act normally even when we were alone. They kept asking me about the girls and what we did all the time. I told them they didn’t really want to know, and in truth, they were partly turned on by it and partly really pissed about it. We confuse people that way. But that’s not our problem. We understand ourselves. And we like what we have.

On the day I’m writing about, we were out as a “family” with all the church and social service people who’d really be running the carnival. See, it’s really a way to offer free medical care and other services to the “indigent,” as they put it. You can sign up to see a doctor, dentist, career counselor, all that—we have hair dressers and massage therapists and all that, too, along with clothing, food and toy “banks.” You sign up for the services you want, and while you’re waiting to be called, you can eat all the deep fried shit on a stick you can hold, or have a good meal in the Christmas Café in one of the buildings we open up for the whole month leading up to Christmas Day.

Every year, me, the girls and all the people who’d be working out there--afternoons ‘til 7 p.m. and weekends damned near 24/7—have a big party the Friday before the carnival actually opens, just to give everything a test run. And the “staff” is quite a mixed bag, I have to admit. Aside from the ones I’ve mentioned, I’d recruited a bunch of skaters who ran this place call “Sk8” that we’d built for the local kids to run around in when they weren’t in school. And there were some ‘way too earnest leftie politicians who kept pitching their pet projects to me, some pretty cool cops we could trust not to hassle people, and social service people and…well…we ran right into the best of the bunch as we were walking in, actually.

That was Joie di Vivre, a 6 foot tall drag queen who was damned near as hot as the girls when she was in full war paint—dead ringer for Brigitte Bardot, she was. And a pretty hot looking guy when s/he scraped the paint off, too. So everybody mad dogged Joie, males and females alike. And she would just roll her eyes and drawl, “Honey, blame God, okay?”

That day, she and her “squirrel friends” (girls with nuts—get it?) from her club—also named Joie di Vivre—were sporting red Daisy Dukes and little midriff-baring Christmas sweaters. They had tinsel mistletoe in their big, cotton candy hair, too. The chubbiest one, Kandi Kane—how Christmas is that, right?--had even figured out how to weave blinking Christmas lights through the big braid wrapped around the top of her head. For the actual event, they had these little red sequined Santa suits that the church people were a wee bit nervous about. But they knew how to work a crowd, Joie’s crew. A lot of people came especially to see them, so they had to be there.

And they were there in full force that evening, too—Joie came strutting, took hold of my other arm, gave me this little wink and said, “Hey, Beau Dacious! How was school today?”

“Beau Dacious” is the “stripper/porn name” she gave me. My pimp name is just “Lil’ Daddy” because this one guy Aisha’s mother used to hook for started calling me that back when we were little kids, Aisha and me. All his women used to play round like they were flirting with me, see, so he’d go, “Lil’ Daddy gon’ steal all my bitches,” whenever I was over there.

I said, “Go on, tease me about it. Get it out of your system.”

And Joie said, “I just wish I coulda seen all those little baby bitches go bat shit crazy when you walked in!”

And she gave my arm a squeeze and looked down the alley with this big smile on her face.

“I just love this,” she said. “I don’t envy many people, but whenever we’re out here I pray to God to come back as Colton James in my next life. So I can sign the checks that make all this possible.”

“I don’t make it all possible.”

“You sign the checks!”

“And they do all the work.”

“Lord, why am I arguin’ with you when I know I can’t win?” she cried. But she was just teasing me.

And I knew what she meant. It was beautiful to see the faces of the little kids running around with cotton candy and stuffed toys and whatnot in their dirty little paws—they always ran, I noticed. As if they thought if they didn’t hurry someone was going to flip some kind of switch and it’d all disappear. So they’d jump off one ride and make a beeline for the next, almost knocking people down trying to get through the crowd.

And of course, it really was almost too good to be true. All the carnival games were set so that they mostly won for once. And they had “coupons” instead of money to ride the rides with—we had paid the carnival people ‘way more than they would’ve made from admission and all that. That was my biggest contribution, paying the carnival part of things so that the churches and organizations putting it on could just concentrate on logistics—how I do all this is coming up soon. But suffice it to say that I did it for personal reasons you’ll hear about in the following conversation—for once, you don’t have to wait. That “teaser” thing gets old, doesn’t it? It’s not on purpose, it’s just that if I told you everything up front I’d wind up wandering off topic even more than I already do. And…have again. Shit.

Anyway, I said, “Well, I fuckin’ hated Christmas when I was little,” as a way of explaining things to Joie.

“Well, honey, you had reason,” Joie said. “I mean…my God…your whole…family…”

Everyone sort of froze. I knew why, but I didn’t say anything because if I did, then we’d have to talk about “it.” And I didn’t want to go there—another “bird walk” averted for you, too.

Aisha offered a quick segue.

“Shit, Chris’mas was jus’ another day for me an’ him,” Aisha said. “Din nobody have no money. And if they did, it wun goin’ for no toys or nothin’—went to keep the damned lights on.”

“Yeah, but holidays meant a lot more men going in and out, over your way,” I said.

“Oooo, you damned skippy, honey—you would think a man’d be home puttin’ up the tree and whatnot, wouldn’ you?”

“Oh, please! We’re talking about men here!” Joie said. And then she held up her hands like the two sides of a scale and went, “Pussy…tree…”

And the “pussy hand” dropped ‘way down, to show it carried the most weight.

“I gotta say I agree with that assessment,” I teased her.

“Like you need any more pussy,” she said, giving me a little shove upside the head.

I just laughed and watched this little girl going ape shit because she’d sat on Santa’s lap and told him what she wanted. What she didn’t know was that she’d get as much of it as we could get for her—they filled out these forms, the parents and kids, and we bought ‘em the big ticket items, mostly. Things they would never be able to afford otherwise. I was a little worried about the bikes and game consoles and things like that, because I’d lived in some of the places these kids lived—I’d been homeless, too. People steal your stuff or you have to leave it behind because there’s no room in the shelter or wherever you wind up spending the night.

But it felt great when we got something. Anything. And it felt awful when we didn’t—that was why I got involved in the carnival, in a nutshell. So at least a few kids in the same situation wouldn’t have to feel like everybody on the planet was invited to the best party, ever, except them.

“I used to lie to the littlest ones about how we didn’t have a chimney for Santa to come down,” I said. I could still feel the hurt as I said it—so weird, how that never goes away.

“You stole enough stuff for ‘em, though,” Aisha laughed. “This child stole a damned turkey from somewhere one time!”

“Almost froze my balls off, too,” I said. “Thing was frozen solid’n’ I slid it down in my pants—we’d pin pillow cases and stuff like that under our clothes sometimes, to slip stuff into, right? And I had this big ass coat on and I was carrying one of the kids to hide it, so I had to press her up against me to hold up her’n’ the turkey both.”

“A whole turkey?!” Joie cried.

“Butterball, too! Kind of little, but still.”

“Brought it over to our place--we ate good that year,” Aisha said.

“Her mother could burn, that’s for sure. We had that real, muddy looking gumbo and all kinda stuff--so good.”

Aisha smiled at me, but her eyes were sad that time. Those were not the good old days for us by any stretch of the imagination. Her mother, Lavinia, had been beat down by a series of two bit pimps who started eyeballing Aisha as soon as that body started to shape up. But when Lavinia wasn’t too high and stressed out to think straight, she would go on these cooking jags—dishes from her childhood in New Orleans, mostly. She’d keep sending me and Aisha to the store for this and that, and the dining room table would fill up with all kinds of food. And we would eat until we couldn’t swallow anymore—amazing stuff. Exotic for me, but the best food I’ve ever eaten. And at this point, I’ve eaten in some of the best restaurants in the world. Not one of them could top Vinnie’s feasts. Not one.

“That was one day we had all the food we could eat,” Aisha said. “Every year, this child fed us’n’ them kids some kinda way.”

“Well, he feeds the whole damned world now,” Joie said. “And that Santa’s really good this year, too. No liquor breath.”

“You sit on ‘is lap?”

“We all did!”

“And he turnt all red,” Aisha said. “Girl, this town’s gon’ miss the hell outta you!”

“Oooooo, word!” Joie cried. It made us all laugh when she did her “tough black bitch voice.” She really did sound like one.

My watch “buzzed.” I knew why, and the girls did, too, but it was nobody’s business but ours. So Cat stepped up and rubbed me in the small of my back, and said, “You go on. We’ll meet you at Joie’s.”

I gave everyone kisses and headed off through the crowd. But right by the other end of the alley, I saw these two little Indian kids fiddling around with one of those machines with the claw inside—you know, the ones that get you to spend $10 worth of quarters trying to pick up some dumb stuffed toy that only cost a nickel to make.

There was the teeny, tiny little girl crying and pointing up at the stuffed animals inside. And the little boy around maybe eight or so was looking down at her like he just didn’t know what to do next.

So girls, tears—you know me, right? I swerved right on over and said, “What’s up, lil’ man?”

They were some of the dirtiest little monsters I’d seen in ages—knees worn out of their jeans and toes sticking out of their tennies, dust in their hair. But they both had these big, bright, black diamond eyes—they looked like anime cartoons almost with those eyes.

And the boy said, “I tolt her this things don’t work, but she won’t listen!” He said “this things” like a lot of Indians and Mexicans do. It made me smile.

And I said, “What is it she wants?”

“I don’t have any more change.”

“Yeah, but what does she want, though?”

“She wants that stupid blue thing over there. With the one horn—I don’t know what you callit.”

I picked baby girl up and said, “Point to the one you want.”

She smelled like clay dirt and pee and a hot dog she’d had not too long ago—the mustard and relish and all. And she had a snotty nose, so I figured I was probably going to be sick over the holidays. But I didn’t care because she wanted something and I had to get it for her.

So I set her back down and gave the “game” a good look. I didn’t think it was old enough to be “fixed” the way they used to be. But I went around back and bent down and saw that it just might’ve been one of the ones I’d learned to hack a while back. They were supposed to have set them to be easy already, but they hadn’t. And I figured they’d got out their old ones for this occasion, so they wouldn’t have to reset the newer ones.

So told the brother, “I need you to stand here and look like you’re tying your shoe or something.”

“My shoes don’t got laces,” he informed me. They had those Velcro things, but that wasn’t the point.

“I said look like,” I told him, sort of mussing up his hair. “So I can duck down.”

That, he liked. He gave me a little smile as I put his little sister down, and went into a perfect act, like he was tying her shoes that didn’t have any laces, either. There were some other arcade games in a row and they were almost up against this tent, so nobody was going to see me real easy while I went to work.

That gave me time to check the lock in back—I didn’t even have to look around for something to pick it because there was a big bobby pin on the ground like God was with me on this one. So I opened it up and turned the little wheel things right quick, before shutting the door so it didn’t look like it’d been messed with.

And then I got up and said, “Okay, kid! Let ‘er rip!”

But the little boy went, “I got no more money, I said,” like I was the dumbest fool he’d ever met.

So I took out some change and gave it to him, and he said, “I’m not puttin’ no more money in there,” again like I was just too dumb for words.

So I gave his little sister a quarter and said, “Put it in there, sweetie. Go ahead.”

And she looked up and blinked and then toddled over to the thing. And I positioned the claw so that even if I hadn’t turned it, she would’ve gotten her stupid little blue unicorn. And damned if she didn’t get the unicorn and some other goofy looking thing at the same time—jackpot, right?

Well, after about the fourth time we got something all these other kids came, so I got them what they wanted, too. Which was when this wiry guy with one of those bulbous, pock marked noses that tell you he drinks most of his meals came rushing over all red in the face. And of course, the kids all ran off laughing and waving their prizes at him. I loved that part. Street kids have excellent instincts—not the most loyal creatures on the planet, but you gotta pick your battles.

So Big Nose turns to me and goes, “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?!”

I could’ve smelled his dinner on his breath from a mile away. Gin. I hate gin. But I figured he drank that on the job because it looked like water. But so did vodka—lots of liquor is clear. That’s how kids bring all kinds of booze into school in water bottles. So that shot my theory all to hell right quick.

But I said, “I’m doin’ your job! They’re supposed to be fixed so they win all the time.”

“Who’n’ hell told you that lie?”

“Your boss!”

He crossed his arms and gave me a real mean stare. He had those kind of eyes that look all wet and cloudy all the time.

“You must be lookin’ to get that pretty little nose busted, son!”

“I’m not lookin’ to fight over a buncha cheap toys, dude. I’m just sayin’.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought! Pussy…”

I laughed when he said that because seriously, he was three sheets to the wind and weighed about 20-30 pounds less than me soaking wet. His own breath woulda knocked him over.

So I said, “Whoa, wait—no reason to get all snippy, man.”

He pointed this arthritic looking finger at me and yelled, “That’s breakin’ and enterin’ right there, son! I seen what you did.”

“That’s breaking and entering?” I said. I was sort of laughing when I said it, and that riled him up even more.

So he goes, “Okay, smart guy! I’m gonna call somebody’ll kick your pansy ass right outta—“

“Jake!” somebody yelled. “Jake, god-damn it! What the fuck?!”

It was this sort of younger carny guy, but he had on a nicer shirt and jeans and I could tell he ran the thing probably. Or was there representing the company, actually—that kind of guy, that they would send to maybe even contribute to the cause and stand up in front of the crowd when we thanked them for their hard work and all.

And he looked at me when he got there and said, “God, I’m sorry—is there something I can do for you?”

“It’s not fixed right,” I said. “I mean, it’s not fixed like we agreed.”

He looked over at that Jake guy who was all puzzled now, and said, “What’d I tell you last night? Huh?”

“I thought it was the games—“

“This ain’t a game?”

“Well, not the kind I thought—“

“You know who this is right here?”

The Jake guy glanced at me and then said, “Naw, I don’t.”

“Well, lemme help you with that,” the company man said. “He paid your salary for the next coupla weeks, is who he is.”

You shoulda seen that Jake guy trying to look tough even though his mind was totally blown.

I said, “Yeah, but now I owe you a machine, too. I broke the lock on this one.”

“That hunk o’ junk’s about due to be scrapped anyway,” the company man told me. “We usually put these ones ‘way back somewhere, just for when people are on the way out to the car or something. I don’t know why Hank won’t just let ‘em go. Nostalgia, you know. They were around when his folks first started this thing, I guess.”

“I figured,” I said. “It’s still got wheels in there.”

“Well, I’m sure sorry, though.”

“He was just lookin’ out,” I said.

“I’ll tell you what he was doin’. He was prob’ly thinkin’ he’d help himself, is what he was doin’. Before we turned over the loot to the Reverend.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. They usually gave half or more of whatever they got to the cause, and kept a little to get ahead since I’d paid them already once. So if Big Nose kept them rigged, each one would have ‘way more money in it than anyone would expect. Which meant he could skim some off before he turned in the rest and nobody would notice, maybe.

So I said, “Would you do a thing like that?” to Big Nose. I was teasing, but actually, I really don’t know how they handle their money, though, so I could’ve been wrong. I like to hope I’m wrong about people sometimes. This was one of those times.

He said, “I didn’t mean no disrespect,” looking like he was hoping I’d be as good to him as I’d been to those kids but feared I wouldn’t be.

So I said, “It’s all good. Maybe you didn’t get the memo, is all.”

And the company man smiled and said, “He’ll get that pink slip all right, though.”

“Aw, c’mon,” I said. “It’s Christmas. And I broke in, like I said.”

The company man looked over at Jake and said, “Lookit that! He’s worried about your sorry ass.”

Jake sort of grunted and walked off. And the company man said he was sorry again, but I just sort of laughed and told him it was all good. So he walked off shaking his head like he was all humiliated by the whole thing.

And when I started off again, I saw this really big Indian woman trundling my way with the little snotty nosed girl on her hip and a bunch of other little kids trying to keep up around and behind her. She looked sorta pissed.

“You give them all this?” she asked me. Which I liked because mothers should care when some stranger gives their kids an arm load of toys.

So I said, “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

And just like that, the anger on her face turned to a big old smile.

And she said, “Well, damn, if you’re givin’ all kinda stuff away, what do I get?”

I figured I’d play along, so I winked at her and said, “What do you want?”

And she said, “Santa could put you under my tree anytime.”

And boy those kids really cracked up at that one—she did, too. And if this was the end of this whole story, the last line would be:

“And that’s why I don’t hate Christmas anymore.”

But…I had other things to tend to. And some of them had the potential to suck all that Christmas cheer right out of me.

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