Travis Erwin's Blog, page 19

I'll Tell You What To Believe, another Saga of the Second Rate Santa

I don't want this blog to become All Christmas ... All the Time, but I did say I would get another Second-Rate Santa Saga up this weekend. But this will be the last one until late next week or even the weekend, because I'd hate for my readers to require insulin after too many tales of sugar plum fairies. In another couple of weeks we'll all be so sick of hearing Jingle Bells and All I Want for Christmas is a Hippopotamus that the only way to make our spirits bright is to mount a giant hippo head above our fireplaces. But I digress.I've had a hard time deciding which Santa tale to go with next. There is my personal favorite,which I think will be titled Midnight Meat, - but I have special plans for that one later on in the month and besides, I need to set up a few things through other stories first. There is one highlighting the immaturity of grown men, myself included, that I'll call, Ye Olde Yuletide Log, but since I described the three kinds of adults that visited Santa in the last post, I think I'll do the same with kids in this one. Again most of the kids fit in one of three categories.The Awed- These were the kids that approached wide-eyed with mouths agape. To them I was a mystical hero capable of fulfilling all their dreams and wishes. The would climb up on my lap and speak their hearts desires in whispered tones. And they would listen with rapt attention as I instructed them to listen to their parents and not fight with their brother's and sisters. I'll tell you there wasn't near enough of these kiddos, but they were the ones that made it fun.The Scared- Again these kids were wide-eyed and their mouths were open - screaming at the top of their lungs. "No! I don't Want to! Please Mommy, please!" Nothing makes you feel better than to instill raw terror into small children. I know what Quasimodo felt like. But it could have been worse. The parents could have gathered up torches and pitchforks. Instead, they handed me their squalling and bawling offspring and then stepped back and said, "Smile, pretty for you picture honey." Ever try to get a terrified kid to stop crying and smile? It ain't easy. Especially when the very thing they are afraid is holding onto them.The Skeptical- These are the kids who walked up with narrowed eyes and smug grins. The IRS should hang around Santa's throne at malls and recruits these little doubters cause once they get on your case they can't be dissuaded. And is there really much difference in these two questions? "If you're really Santa then where is you Reindeer?" "Mr. Erwin, do you really expect me to buy into your claim that you traveled to Las Vegas solely for book research?"They have the same ring to them huh? Yep, and it is about as joyous as the racket those Salvation Army Santas make out in front of Wal-mart. And here is a little tale to prove my point.There I was sitting on my throne, well not my throne, the mall's throne they built for Santa. My throne is made of porcelain and doesn't have a stitch of red velour in sight, but at least there is always a good book near my throne. But back to Santa and the mall. The line was fairly long as it was a weekend afternoon. In times like that I fell into a routine. Welcome the next group in line, ask them what they want for Christmas, smile for the picture, and then tell them to be good little boys and girls because my elves were watching. In between I'd try to wave to the kids that gathered around the little white picket fence.For a long time I noticed this one little girl about eight or nine standing there. I'd wave but she wouldn't respond. Finally, a small boy of about five joined her at the fence and finally the two of them along with a man and woman got in line. A good fifteen or twenty minutes went by before they made their way to the front. Here is the scene that followed."Merry Christmas," I shouted.The boy smiled. She did not."And what would you like for Christmas?"The boy said, "A new bike and a hamster."I turned to the girl. "And how about you.""I know you're not the real Santa Claus, and my mom won't let him have a live animal cause he squeezed our parakeet until it died."At this point Galen, said smile and the flash went off, but the girl wasn't done."The real Santa doesn't have time to sit around all day taking pictures.""So what does the real Santa do all day?" I asked."He builds toys.""I have elves to do that." Yeah I now. I was arguing with an eight-year old over something she was right about and I was wrong, but I had to have fun somehow."And he has to feed the reindeer.""They fly around and find their own food," I countered.She rolled her eyes, "Right."I appealed to her little brother who I decided was an easier sell. "You be a good little boy and Santa will leave you a surprise Christmas morning.""Will you bring me a hamster?""I'll have to ask your mommy first. Santa can't bring you something unless your parents say it's okay."At this the girl gave a hearty, "Huuumph," and hopped off my lap. She grabbed her brother's hand and drug him off with her. As she left I heard her say, "See, I told you he wasn't the real one. The Santa can do anything he wants, as long as Mrs. Clause says it's okay."I couldn't help but laugh, but deep down I already felt sorry for the poor guy who would end up married to her.

The Second Rate Santa and the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ... but mostly the Ugly.

When you mention mall Santa's, most people think of kids, and probably 90% of the people who stood in line and came to sit on my lap were under the age of twelve. Then you had the older kids who hated to be there, but their parents still wanted that yearly picture so they forced them to shuffle up and plop down beside Santa in the over-sized chair. There was no way those 'tweens and teenagers were about to sit on my, or any other Santa's lap.Then there were the older people, women mostly, but a few men as well. They were a mixed bag. Some were all too eager to sit on Ol' Saint Nick's lap and reveal their heart's desire and they ran the gamut from ...The Good- An entire shift of Hooter's girls, a couple of shapely twins, and pretty young woman who only wanted to ask Santa for her fiance to be sent back stateside from Croatia in time for their planned Valentine's day wedding.The Bad- An obviously gay man in a trench coat, no I can't say for certain that he had on anything else, the women who obviously had some kind of Santa fetish and delighted in making my cheeks rosy, and the plethora of hacking, wheezing flu ravaged people who thought I as a mall Santa had the magical ability to ward off disease.The Ugly- The ugly took many, many forms and will be fodder for this series throughout. When I say ugly I don't just mean physically, though Frosty knows there were plenty that filled that sleigh. Along with the aesthetically challenged I had to deal with the hygiene deficient, the personality perplexed, and the downright delusional that actually thought I could fulfill their wishes. Then, there were those who fell into all of those categories and then some. Like the couple from today's installment.It was early on, in that first week after Thanksgiving, before I'd become completely jaded against the entire legend of Santa Claus. I'd already encountered a few weird things, but I chalked those up as anomalies. The night had been steady, but far from the hectic madhouse it would become in a few short weeks, and with less than an hour to go until the mall closed I was feeling rather jolly. (A couple of weeks alter the mall started staying open til midnight and then with an hour to go I was just trying to sane.) Most of the elves had gone home so it was just Galen and me. He took the pictures, I smiled and listened to all the kids list.But our next customers were far from being kids. And as they walked up Galen whispered out the the side of his mouth, "Get a load of these two."They were in their early twenties. She had on a pair of ratty red sweat pants that were two sizes two small and with her rotund build the overall package looked sort of like Santa's gift bag. If it were overstuffed with about two dozen Christmas hams. The woman's hair hadn't seen a brush since Prancer was nothing but a twinkle in his mother's eye, but she wore enough make-up to make Rudolph's nose seem dull.In stereotypical fashion her boyfriend was as skinny as she was large. His body was all angles and bones, like a broken up candy cane. And there was a smudge above his upper lip that could have been a mustache or a smudge of soot. A chain hung from his grease-stained jeans and the cap on his head read something like,Truckers Do It For The Long Haul.I made room for them to sit one on each side, but of course she plopped down right on my left knee. With a pat on my right, she said, "Bobby you sit here."He shook his head. "I don't think so." His filthy hair hung stiff like icicles. Though I'd never seen icicles made of oil. But just because I'd never seen it, that didn't mean 10w-40 didn't freeze.Like I said, I still had a bit of holiday cheer in me so I gave Jack Sprat and his girlfriend a hearty, "Merry Christmas!"He mumbled something that might have been " F ... off and die," but I can't say for certain.Next, as was customary, I asked what they wanted Santa to bring them this year.She giggled and said, "An engagement ring would be nice.""Dream on," he answered."Maybe a puppy then."He cast her a dirty look. "What are you stupid? You know my mom is allergic."She returned his nasty expression with one of her own. "Then maybe we could move to a place of our own."At this point Galen said smile and the flash went off just as the boyfriend said, "This is bullshit. I ain't made of money."He grabbed the girls hand and yanked her down from my lap. My knee thanked him.Galen said to them," Want to have a look at your picture?""Hell no. We ain't buying no fuckin' picture."The girl stopped walking. She crossed her arms across her chest and stuck out her bottom lip like a two year old. "I want a picture.""What for?""I just do."He hauled out his wallet by tugging on the chain." Okay, but this counts as part of your present."As he paid, the girl said, "Gawd, Bobby you can be an asshole."He shrugged. "And you can be a bitch."Smiling, she draped an arm across his skinny waist and slid her hand into his back pocket. "I know, but that's why you love me."Galen handed the happy couple their photo and they walked away, arm in arm. Just before they rounded he grabbed a handful of her ample sweatpant covered ham.

Saga of a Second Rate Santa

That's right folks, that is me lurking beneath those snow-white whiskers and red hat. And here is the story of how I became a mall Santa and happened to have a six foot plus two hundred and something pound red-headed man sitting on my lap.The year was 2001. I was just shy of my 29th birthday, far too young to make a good Santa but then again I never claimed I was a good Santa. The previous spring I'd agreed to play the Easter Bunny at the mall so the Santa gig was my second stint for the company. Who ran the company? None other than the red headed man on my lap, who also happened to be my boss at the Post Office. He knew I had a new family and could use a bit of extra money so he hired me for nights and weekends.The Easter Bunny was easy. Ten bucks and hours plus commission if we met our goals of getting so many pictures. Later, I will share some Bunny stories, which are actually funnier than the Santa ones, but y'all will have to wait for spring for those. The good thing about the Easter Bunny was I just had to sit there in my suit. No talking, no Ho, Ho, Ho'ing. Just wave and sweat in a gimongous fur covered suit while the sun beat in through the mall's atrium windows. Easy money.There was nothing easy about being Santa. First, because I was young and my eyebrows are black, I had to get this wax pencil and color my brows white each time I donned the suit. Also the middle part of my mustache bled through the fake beard so I'd have to use the pencil to color what I'll call the Hitler portion of my 'stache white as well. Then, despite having a fairly ample gut of my own, I'd have to tie this big poofy pillowed girdle around my torso. Then I'd slip into the red velour trousers and shirt, hoist up the black suspenders, and then slip into the leather boots. Did you know Santa's footwear isn't much different from a Hell's Angel's?Last, I'd slide the beard into place. It itched like hell and those little fine grey hairs constantly found their way inside my mouth and nostrils. They tickled like hell and over the course of a night spitting out the hairs and keeping them out of my nose proved to be nerve racking. For all I know they gather that crap my the backside of Polar Bears so who the hell knows what kind of germs I was ingesting. Of course every sick and snotty nosed kid in town ended up on my lap, so it didn't really make a difference.So after a half hour of getting dressed I'd wait for the Santa on duty before me to come back so I could take his place on the throne. Then the fun would really start.At Easter you might get three or four people in line at the busiest time. The parents are calm and relaxed for the most part since they haven't spent all day running around from store to store maxing out their credit cards in the name of good cheer.Christmas was an entirely different story. After a ten minute break the line would be twenty screaming kids long. Parents would be eyeballing their watches and scowling like constipated elves forced to eat prune-laced fruitcake.Between now and Christmas I'm gonna tell y'all many a tale of what went on after that. From sad, to funny, to head shaking, people- are-crazy. But I just might have been the craziest of them all. I also might have been the worst mall Santa the world has ever witnessed, but my pain, and the scarred memories of many a child is y'alls gain. So get ready to read all about, The Saga of a Second Rate Santa.** a couple of notes**The man on my lap's name is Galen, As I said he was the boss at the Post Office at one time. I took a good amount of flack for working for him on the side. Things like Santa's nose is supposed to be red, not brown. This picture was taken to really give them something to talk about and to prove I could take anything they wanted to dish out. Don't worry I paid them back. If there is one thing I'm good at it is getting even, or even better getting ahead.

Come On Baby, Light My Fire

How long has it been since you ate a hot juicy steak right off the grill? Well pardner, that's too long.You know those ads right? The ones where Sam Elliott proudly proclaims ...Beef, It's What's For DinnerI tried to get him to guest blog and say this ...How Long has it been since you read a post on here about writing. Well pardner, that's too long.But Sam was busy, so it is solely up to me to deliver a meaty post on the subject of writing fiction.However, there is one small problem. I can't even get the charcoal lit on my mental grill. Right now my writing is a cold hunk of fatty, poor quality ground chuck. Sure the right flame along with a bit of spices could jazz it up to make one fine burger, but I am finding it extremely hard to maintain the humorous tone I need to make the novel version of Plundered Booty work. The problem is I need to set up things to make the plot believable down the road, but damned if I have been able to provide the set up and make it funny. Heck, I'd even settle for entertaining at this point.These struggles have made me get to thinking how important timing is to a novel. Yeah I know that seems obvious, you don't want to give away the plot twist or the whodunnit in chapter one, but I'm talking about the more subtle points.What if the opening scene of the first Harry Potter book had been of Harry turning Dudley into a toadstool? We as readers would have looked at him as a character totally different, but instead we saw Harry as a victim right from the start. We hoped for something good to happen to him. We were already pulling for him to find an escape from the Dursley's and then his magical abilities were slowly revealed both to us as readers and to Harry himself we were as quick as Harry to snatch onto that hope.Or inThe Great Gatsby. What if we had seen Gatsby meeting with Meyer Wolfsheim(the guy with mob ties) right from the beginning? It isn't until we know Gatsby as a character that Fitzgerald shows us the means behind Gatsby's wealth. By that time we don't care that Gatsby has gained his wealth through shady dealing we already see him as a tragically romantic character willing to do anything for his heart's desire.So my advice. Watch your timing really step back and see how and when something is introduced affects the feel of the story you are writing. Unfortunately novels are not like steaks. There is no chart -- Red, Slightly Warm Center = Rare, Warm Pink Center= Medium. Nope the only way is to pick up your knife and slice off a chunk and plop it in your mouth and see how it tastes. Or better yet serve up a portion to a few trusted readers and see if they like how your words taste. If they gag and spit it out you know you're riding, or writing, a rancid cow.Now where did I leave those matches and that lighter fluid? I need to get my flame going.

My Real Writing

Due to the quick nature of blogging, y'all have endured my terrible typos, gruesome grammar, and some shoddy storytelling. I'm sure many of you have went so far as to say, "And this guy calls himself a writer."Well, today I'm proud to announce that starting today you can read in it's entirety and completely for free -- An actual sample of what I affectionately call my -- Real Writing.That's right head the story I blogged about selling a month or so back is now up on theUNDERGROUND VOICES site. Head on over and read my short story titled, The Simplest Of Sounds.Don't go expecting humor however, as it is a dark tale. The story is one of my personal favorites and I'd love to hear what you think, so drop me a line in the comments after you read. Or send the fine folks over at Underground Voices an email and let them know you enjoyed what you read. Who knows maybe they will buy more of my stuff in the future.

Yo Ho Yo Ho

Pirates don't wear glasses! Those were the first words out of my five year old's mouth about my costume. But more about that later on in this post.ME, IN THE CLASSIC CAPTAIN MORGAN POSE. Don't tell anyone, but that rum bottle in my hand is actually Whalers coconut rum.The beads were woven into my actual beard and they were a hell of a lot easier to get in than out. I used old fashioned moustache wax to make mine stand out like that, the chest hair is real, Mr. Smee from Peter Pan wore glasses so why not me, the costume cost about fifteen dollars top to bottom and the clothes were all from the thrift store with the exception of the tattoo sleeves which aren't really shown in any picture but trust me they looked cool. They came from Wal-mart and cost about a third of the total price of the costume. But still, I spent more on rum than anything else.

Walt said it best ... It's a Small World After All

Come on admit it, you're humming that song right now aren't you? Especially, you WordVixen since you love all things Disney.Since Purdue Boilermaker ultra-fan, Phats was wondering about a new edition of the Yellow Flag Tales and several people have suggested I need to blog about the good Ol' United States Postal Service I'm going to do both today. All in one glorious story. Okay, glorious might be getting carried away. How about mildly interesting story?Now I'm a pretty big guy, so anytime something heavy needs moved or lifted, I'm often recruited for the task. So several years back the fellow who is in charge of maintenance at all the small post offices here in the Texas Panhandle needed a bit of help moving a safe up in the small town of Follett, Texas.So me and Wayne load up in the Postal owned stake-bed truck, which looks something like thisand take off for the 150 mile trip to Follett. Now Wayne is a nice guy but not the most thrilling of storytellers. He is one of those guys that takes a three or four minute tale and stretches it to fifteen. Also, he normally travels and does his work alone, so on the rare occasions when he has company he makes the most of it. I'd been with him before so I'd already heard his best takes, however that did not stop him from telling them to me again.A couple of hours in my eyelids were getting heavy, but every time my head began to list forward Wayne would increase his volume and say something like, "You know what I mean" to wake me back up.So I was barely paying attention when he announced, "Boy I sure hope we have enough gas to get there." This became a reoccurring theme as he said the same thing about every other minute. Now in Wayne's defense the stake-bed wasn't his normal vehicle. He usually drove a large maintenance van, but we'd needed the large bed to take along some extra tools.The road leading into Follett is quite hilly and we just happened to be about halfway up one of those hills when the truck sputtered, shuttered and stalled. Our momentum carried us up over the that hill and gravity carried down to the bottom of the next one as Wayne tried fruitlessly to recrank the fuel less engine. Then he said, "If only we could make it over this next hill we could drift into town."Doing my best Luke Duke impression, I opened my door and hopped out of the still rolling vehicle. I figured I could push the big thing since it was already moving, but I knew that once it stopped it would take me and three mules to ever get the thing rolling again.Now I'm not the most graceful of fellas so my maneuvers where mighty ugly but I manged to get back behind the truck and start pushing up hill without falling or otherwise injuring myself.And we made it to the top even though I was huffing and puffing like an asthmatic chain-smoker. Then gravity took back over and I had to race back up to the passenger seat open the door and hop back into the moving truck.Wayne lied. We drifted down that hill up another small one and down again and still there wasn't hide nor hair of the metropolis, Follett. (Population less than 500.)We rolled until we came to the base of another steep hill at which point Wayne said. This must be that last hill. Seeing as to how I still couldn't breathe I said, "Maybe so, but I'm done pushing."We parked grabbed a gas can out of the back and commenced to walking. Turns out town was still a solid mile away. By the time we hit the city limits it was lunch time and as we passed by the high school students were pouring out of the parking lot on their way down to the local convenience store for a fried burrito or chimichanga or corndog or some other deep fired delicacy. As Two strange men walking through a small town with a gas tank, we drew a lot of stares, and a few offers for a ride but at that point the gas station was only a block away, but we did get a ride back out to the truck after filling our gas can..That would be the end of the story, except this was a Thursday and guess where I was scheduled to ref a varsity football game come Friday night? Nope not Follett. My schedule read Silverton, Texas versus the Valley Patriots @ Silverton.But ... I had a message on my answering machine when I got home that evening, From the secretary of the ref association. Wanting me to switch with so and so because he couldn't make it to his game on Friday night in time. Where was this other game? You called it, Follett, Texas.So the very next day I made the same 150 mile trip to Follett, with plenty of gas to spare I might add. Decked out in my black and white stripes I pulled my black hat down low and walked out to the middle of the field for the opening coin toss.One of the Follett Panthers captains frowned and stared at me a second and then his first words were, "Hey weren't you that guy who ran out of gas yesterday." So much for a lucky break.And the first time I got near the Follett sideline this gem came from the coach, "Guess it's too much to ask from a guy to see the other team holding when he can't even see far enough to read his gas gauge."I turned away from that coach with one thought on my mind. Thanks Wayne.