Notes on Writing, Research and Editing

Over at Write Anything, a topic is posted on Thursday for a freewrite to be posted on Friday. It seems like a fun idea, so I've decided to go ahead and participate.  This week's theme is:

It’s July 31st. What is Santa doing in downtown Chicago? (Or Sydney, or Manchester, etc…)

Here's my story:

Santa’s Cheezborgers

There he is again, that fat harbinger of joy.  He’s walking up Michigan Avenue at a snail’s pace two or three steps ahead of me.  I want to kick his shins.  Every July 31, he decides to grace Chicago with his appearance, strolling in and out of the stores.  I’d imagine it’s gotta be hot in that red suit.  I almost flat-tire him with my feet.  I’d go around him, but there are so many people out today there’s no way I can without getting trampled.  It’s like being permanently stuck in the lane that doesn’t move on the freeway – with everyone else speeding along laughing at you.

After a few moments, I decide to follow him, I’ve got nothing better to do today.  You’d think that Santa would take care to go undercover when coming to our city.  Of course, there’s so many wackos in the city no one pays much attention to him.

After a few minutes, Mr. Clause decides to make a pit-stop for the original Billy Goat Tavern.  I’ve gotta admit, I love their Cheezborgers too.  He dodders down the stairwell, resting after every few steps.  Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed me following him the last few minutes.  After the last set of steps, he leans up against the wall and coughs.  I’m torn between stopping and waiting for him to move again – in which case he might see me – or walking past him and going into the Tavern.  Some guy shoves past me while I’m frozen in my indecision hissing “excuse me” as if he were a cobra.  When I make a move to go into the tavern, he turns and stares at me.  His cheeks are round and red, his nose small like a button, and the man has so much facial hair I catch myself wondering if he ever chokes on it in his sleep.

“So, you going for a Cheezborger too?” The words fall out of my mouth before I can think about them.  He continues to stare at me as if I were the one wearing the velvet suit in the midst of a Chicago heat wave. 

After a long silence, he nodded and motioned for us to go into the Tavern.  I followed him patiently, curious.  He ambled up to the counter and leaned on it.  “Triple Cheezeborger – two, chips, and a beer, whatever you’ve got on tap today.”  His voice was softer than I anticipated and deeper than anyone I knew.

“You drink beer?”  Again, I was met with the stare, but then he motioned for me to order.  “Um, I’ll have the same thing – er, just one burger though.”  Santa nodded, and pulled a wallet out of his back pocket.

“My treat,” he said.  “Are you sure you don’t want two?  They’re really good, and you look like you could use them.”  I shrug and try to remember the last time I ate here.

I follow the old man to a table and wonder how it is that he received the reputation for constantly being jolly.  He looks like life kicked him around a bit, like me, only fat.  I open my mouth to say something but before anything comes out, the beer is delivered to our table.

TBC