Character Sketch #1

71% completed:
Nano Word Count is 53,038 of a projected 75,000.

Drunk Santa Claus

Physical traits:

From a distance he is five foot, five inches about 150 pounds. A stocky gentleman in decent enough shape. He struts around with a slight limp on his right leg. Stands straight and points accusingly at people with his round little pot belly. About sixty years old with thinning white hair and a full beard. All as white as snow. He wears his hair in a mullet... all business up front- all party in the back. The top of his head is covered by a meticulously flattened and combed fuller brush. Sort of in the shape of a ladies Japanese fan. IT is in sharp contrast to his zebra striped uniform, black pants and highly polished black shoes.

From a distance his actions while refereeing the wrestling match look scripted. He takes chopping, measured steps as he circles the contestants. Like a peacock on display. Crisp and flamboyant hand motions signal changes in the score. He beeps his whistle and positions the wrestlers. He acts as though he is the star in a motion picture, prancing to the action, flopping to the mat to eyeball the pin. Baaaaaam. He slaps the ground and signals a pin and the end of the match. The wrestlers shake hands and Santa raises the winners arm with a flourish.

I moved closer to the action and notice his eyes. Close up he looks ancient. His bloodshot blue eyes are rimmed by red eyelids. The broken blood vessels on his nose hint at his alcohol problem. As the day drags on and he is given a match off he slips away and goes to his car. A little nip of Jim Beam buoys his spirits. I drift away and watch my son wrestle his bout.

Some time later, Santa returns from his tour at the second gym and saunters back into the main arena. His gait is wobbly, and he catches himself by grabbing on to a folding chair to keep from falling. Santa quickly looks around, sees our stares and steadies himself. Puffing out his chest, his pot belly points accusingly at us. He regains his composure and prances gingerly with a little skipping motion over to the scorers table ready for another bout. My son and I watch this. I ask him what he thinks.

"That's drunk Santa," he declares. I agree that he does look like Santa Claus. "We saw him run into the wall. He bounced off the wall in the other gym and he almost knocked himself out." He acts out how the man ran into the wall.

"He's pretty cool in a funny way." Hmmmm. I think...pretty funny.

I look closer at the man... this drunken Santa. Who is he? What's his story. I sit down and let my imagination go. So here it is:

A Viet Nam vet who returned to the U.S.A. at age nineteen to finish out his military hitch. Raised in Wisconsin, he had never seen such a town like sleepy little San Diego circa 1968. When released from service he stayed and took a job at McDonald Douglas. Good pay, good benefits... enough for a place down in Pacific Beach where he still lives. He learned to surf and all was good except for the night terrors that still haunted him today. At first a little dope, a little booze anything to make to stop--- but nothing does. Over the years a little turned into a lot. He has fewer and fewer friends- no family- until he's all alone. He drinks more and more: not because he wanted to- but because he had to.

Yes he's an old surfer dude. He had totally changed his image from Midwestern farm boy to California surfer. Back then he had lot's of bucks and life was good. He drove a 1966 red Ford Mustang convertible with a sparkling white top.

Why does he limp? Was he injured in 'Nam? Hurt at work, bitten a shark? No. He limps to imitate John Wayne's walk. He imagines that he is John Wayne... the hero... walking across the plain after stopping the villains. He struts around the ring- his white hair flowing behind him. Dipping his shoulder and pointing to the scorekeeper. Tweet- he cautions a kid and takes away a point. He's in charge- fierce blue eyes sternly demanding to be listened too- even as he sways unevenly in the center of the ring.

Hard to take him serious when he reeks of booze and is wobbling and bouncing off the walls- but in the ring he's in charge and calls the shots. There's no Merry Christmas ho, ho, ho mirth in his eyes now.

When the final matches are over and after the scorecards are signed, the referees leave the building. Most are greeted by their families and drive away. Not Santa. He walks into the darkness alone and hops into his faded red 1966 Mustang convertible with the ragged white top. He slips behind the wheel and after another sip of liquid friendship, he starts the engine and heads home leaving behind a blue cloud of smoke.