Santa's Gloves

The doorbell was insistent. It rang and rang. Then it rang and rang again. When it rang a third time following a pregnant pause, and commenced continuous ringing, I roused myself from my nice warm divan bed, despite one broken corner supported on a pile of books, and stumbled the five or six feet to the front door of my crappy one-room studio flat, where the rent was three weeks overdue and the bailiffs expected any day. I rubbed and unglued one eye and looked through the peep hole.

That was a relief, it wasn't the bloody bailiffs or the lowlife loan sharks, just the unmistakeable flat-nosed face of Eddie Griffiths, who I used to attend school with, back when I had something to fully occupy my daylight hours. I opened the door. Brrr! It was bloody cold out there. I looked at Eddie with one eye open and the other still glued tightly shut.

"Come on, sleepy bones," Eddie growled and, as usual, not mincing his words, "Some of us've got jobs to do."

"Well, what'yer doin' wasting' time an' effort round here for?" I summoned the effort to reply, surprised that my dry throat made any sound at all.

"I got summink for yer, Jack, that's why!" he said, all snarky-like, "You should be up an' about be now, it's gone ten o'clock."

"So?" I bitched, remembering now that Eddie worked as a delivery man, and just noticed the bloody great white van blocking up my ground floor flats's natural light, with 'FedEx' painted on the side in big bold letters. "Ain't got nothin' to get up fer, 'ave I? Yer bangin' on the wrong bloody door, Eddie, mate, I don't ever get no letters or parcels, only bills and you kin keep them buggers, smoke 'em for all I care."

"It's a little package," he announced, like a snappy male midwife after a long labour, telling an exhausted mum that her infant was ginger and ugly before giving the looked-for gender-specific verdict, "An' it's come all the way from the USA."

Now he was starting to annoy me. Eddie always was a kidder at school, only he never knew when to bloody well stop kidding, that's how he got that flat nose.

"If it was just a little package, yer could've stuck it through the bloody door instead of wakin' me up, yer bastard."

"I need yer to sign for it, otherwise I 'affter take it back to the depot, an' I don't get paid if I takes it back. Bein' self-employed I only gets paid for delivering, not for bringin' the buggers back, sunshine."

"Alright, Ed, g'us it 'ere," I gave in, wondering what this bloody thing could be.

"Sign first!" He thrust a thick sort-of mobile phone at me with a stylus, pointing at a box near the bottom, "Sign there, Jack."

I took the stylus and deliberately inscribed an X.

"Yeah, like that'll do," Eddie sneered, "I coulda signed the bastard meself."

"Then why didn't you, an' then put it through the bloody door?"

"Regulations," he grinned, as he handed the light package over. "By the way, you gotta flat offside rear." He indicated with a thumb towards my antique rusty cherry red Peugeot 206.

"Bugger!" I exploded, "An' I've got a fuckin' job interview later this morning."

Well, it wasn't really a job, just a Father Christmas in His Grotto gig for three weeks at Walker's Department Store.

"What, you goin' fer a job, Jack?" Eddie not only sounded interested, more like incredulous.

"Not exactly, it's selection of the new Police Commissioner, what'd'yer think, ya prat?!" Sometimes I wonder how Eddie keeps this job, when I can't get even one. I wouldn't trust him to deliver frozen pizzas while they were still cold.

He handed over the big plastic envelope with a cheerful "Cheerio" and walked off to his van, walking around it checking he still had all his wheels before driving off with a cheerful wave. Can't be too careful round here, where I live, the thieving' buggers are quick an' quiet when it suits 'em. I only keep my wheels codes they've got locking nuts on 'em and the tyres are virtually bald as Jean-Luc Picard.

I checked the name and address on the package. "To Maurice Alfred Jackman", at my address. Fuck! My real fuckin' name's my fuckin' business.

Now you know why I insist on being called 'Jack Jackman'.

I closed the door, although it was colder inside the flat than outside. I ripped open the big envelope and shook out a thin padded envelope about 150x200mm, with a repeat of my name and address in block capitals on the front. I turned it over and read the return address, and whistled. My old man himself, Jonathan A Glover, no less, lately of some exotic location in Burbank, Californ-eye-ay.

Before you ask, yes, it's him, the former A-list movie actor. He was really big at one time, not long after he dumped my unmarried mum and me, especially in that Christmas movie that comes on for about 30 bloody repeats every bloody Christmas. That was one of the high points of his career, let's face it. Then his films started to bomb when I was a teenager and suddenly he wasn't an A-list movie actor any more. He did a few TV soaps and then disappeared. Drink and drug abuse rumours abounded for a while, then the tabloids simply ignored him.

I had that same relationship with him. He'd ignored me since I was about 8, 14 years ago. He didn't invite me to any of his three weddings and I didn't invite him to mine, or my divorce a year later, a year-and-a-half ago.

I tossed the unopened package on the bed and washed my sorry face in the sink. A shave, I needed a shave for the interview this morning. Aww! Bugger! The blade's blunt as a witch's nipple and I had to use a bar of soap, the shaving foam ran out over week ago, which was the last time I shaved. I was halfway through dressing myself when I remembered the flat fucking tyre, so I redressed in old clothes and went out to inspect the bugger.

Yeah, flat as fuck! I jacked it up, undid three of the wheel nuts, then got to the locking nut. Bugger! Where's the key? Couldn't find the bastard anywhere. I was sure I put it somewhere memorable, but couldn't remember where.

I would have to catch the soddin' bus. I scrubbed my hands of grease and grime, well, almost got them clean. I dressed in yesterday's undies, I'd had no spare change for the launderette, donned my only crumpled suit, and tied my one tie.

Then I noticed in the mirror the padded envelope on the unmade bed. What would my old man be sending me? We have no contact, like forever. Not just occasionally, like Christmas, birthdays and stuff, simply no contact. I simply don't exist for him. I was a one night stand, I had his looks, maybe, but none of his charisma or his possible introductions into his world of opportunities.

I picked it up. Modern padded envelopes are light, not like those old ones, filled with shredded newspapers. I weighed it in my hand. It appeared to be an empty padded envelope. A small Christmas card inside, maybe? If it was, it would be a first. A letter, unlikely. A ... check, I think that's how the Yanks spell it. Money. A one-off payment from the old man, a tiny sliver cut from one of his 16 million dollars a movie fees, to assuage his guilt from years of neglect, because... No, can't think of any reason that would materialise in the selfish bastard's consciousness.

J.A.G. didn't have feelings, that's why, other than that stand-out performance as Santa, he only did shoot-'em up action thrillers, where Brit actors usually end up play the villain, which he did so well once upon a time. Still, it could be a check, or international postal order, maybe?

I ripped it open with shaking hands. A transparent bag, like a stay-fresh sandwich bag, dropped onto the bed. What was that inside? I picked it up, it looked like a pair of latex gloves. Why would he —?

I jumped as my mobile rang. I jumped because the battery was flat. Not just flat but absolutely dead. Wouldn't-take-a-charge-any-more kind of flat. Dead as a doornail flat. Gone to Duracell heaven flat. The bloody thing shouldn't — couldn't have rung — but it bloody well rang again.

"Hello?" I asked tentatively, like I was the first contact with aliens who, as far as I knew could eat humans through the airwaves, after melting your brain first and then sucking the delectable-to-them juice through my ear. The way I've felt recently, my brain was already halfway there.

A bright female voice greeted me.

"Hello, Mr Jackman, this is Melanie from the Employment Agency, we only met the once, a few months back. You have an interview here later this morning, and I was hoping you could come in maybe twenty minutes beforehand?"

Melt-in-the-mouth-Melanie? The cute chick from the Agency? Speaking to me? I was stunned. The posh-totty manager of the temp agency never spoke to me before, ever. To her I was common as muck. I'd been with that Agency for fruitless fucking months, looking wistfully at her from afar, without the sniff of a job offer, just this offer of an interview which came through late on Friday, probably about the same time that my old man posted off that package with the sandwich bag inside.

"Hello, Melanie, I thought this job interview was for someone ... more mature, fuller-figured, with experience, and that my inclusion was, well simply to comply with ageism rules as the token kid, in other words a waste of everyone's..."

"Oh, no, Mr Jackman," Melanie's cultured, spine-tingley sexy voice, continued, laying it on thick and sweet, "To be frank with you ... Jack, can I call you Jack?"

"Yes, of course!" I blustered, thinking she could call me anything, I just loved to hear her voice and conjure up a vision in my head of her exhaled breaths coming from her hot lungs sitting just behind those lovely, oh so lovely breasts of hers. Yes, babe, I thought, call me Jack and I'll recall her voice and conjure up her vision next time I jack off, no, every time that I...

"The job's a given, Jack." Melanie said interrupting thoughts that I should have saved for later, much later, "We checked your personality profile on Friday, you are perfect for the job, any job in fact. Can't understand why we didn't run your profile through the program before. An oversight, sorry. Look, Jack, you don't even need the interview, the job's a given. I just wanted to see you myself ... I ... I need a hot escort to our Christmas party and I was hoping... Don't make me beg, Jack."

"Yes, of course!" I replied, anything, Melanie, for you, anything, "I would be delighted to escort you, whenever, wherever."

"That's marvellous Jack, you can't imagine how refreshing it is for me to actually meet a genuinely sweet man at last," she breathed, "I wasn't going to tell you until you got here but on the 2nd of January you will be appointed Chief Buyer at Walker's Department Store. Daddy thinks —"

"Daddy?" I asked.

"Sorry, honey, my father, Michael Walker, chairman and owner of Walker's Department Store, he charged me to find the right person and you, Jack, with your profile and sales experience, are perfect for the job. Daddy thought it would be great fun to have you finding out how the business runs and meet all the staff, disguised as Santa for the three weeks leading up to Christmas, and then turn up as one of the top managers in the store immediately." There was a noise at the other end of the line. "Look, Jack, sweetheart, we've got a last minute panic on here, I could send Daddy's car to pick you up, James has been our driver since I was little, he is very discrete."

"Sure." If I sounded dumb. Well, I was struck dumb by the conversation.

"I look forward to seeing you at 11.30, Jack, honey. Then perhaps we could do lunch? Daddy's paying of course. Then we have all afternoon and evening. Byeee!"

What the fuck just happened? I sat down on the bed and the sharp corner of the envelope slipped down and nudged me in the arse.

I looked in the envelope. No check inside, just a letter, with very few lines.

"Son, if you're reading this, I didn't survive the seven year's bad luck we both had to pay for me stealing Santa's gloves from Wardrobe. It all started on December 4th 2004 when I enjoyed seven years' good luck followed by seven bad ones. You had it the other way round, you lost your Mom, had no career or love opportunities, so now it's time for you to enjoy seven years' good luck before Santa gets them back at the end of our sentences. Wear the gloves, they become invisible and enable you to do or become anything you desire. Even in your pocket or in a safe place at home, nothing but nice things will happen to you for the next seven. After that you're on your own and you make your own luck. Good luck. Love, Dad."

I put on the gloves. They covered up the grease and looked and felt exactly like warm skin. Then I remembered where I left the wheel locking nut.

It was in the fucking glove compartment all the time.

THE END