by Guy Biederman
We’re drinking zombies at the Wreck Dec Bar next to arrow-less Cupid and an easter egg who lost its jellybeans long ago, with Thanksgiving already in our rearview. Jack’s trying to make it to Christmas— no man’s land for carved pumpkins, longing for a glimpse of St. Nick, but he’s sagging badly on the barstool and oozily asks me, “Can’t you cast some kind of spell?”
I’m not that kinda witch, even though my hat looks real deal, and we both know Jack with his jaunty question mark stem has lasted longer than anyone else from his patch after Halloween, ever, but then we hear a thud outside, followed by bells at the door, and Santa treks in— fake beard but real belly, straight from the mall just in time. I swipe a candle from a half-slice of birthday cake and slip it inside Jack’s three-tooth vacant grin with a giggle, flame still burning.
Santa nods, gives a merry Ho-Ho-Ho and winks, and I swear Jack winks back, though that may be the candle flickering as his triangle eyes cave in, having seen what he hoped to see.
Grinch orders pumpkin eggnogs on the house while I sip witches brew and save three seeds from behind Jack’s flattened smile, hoping next time around we’ll make it to New Years, with a champagne toast for my sweet jack-o-lantern friend.
Guy Biederman is a caretaker who spends his time on a houseboat in Sausalito, an adobe house in El Paso, and the long road in between. He’s the author of six books, including Translated from The Original, one-inch punch fiction.
