Last year, around Christmas time, three Santa Clauses – two tall ones, and a short, fat, jolly one – followed me onto the subway. I didn’t think they were following me, per se. But still, there they were. It was rush hour and the subway car was packed. Not sardines packed, but full. And I pressed myself up against the back wall, which is where I stand when I’m standing in a subway car. And the Santas were nearby, huddled together. One of the tall ones had an mp3 player turned up way too loud. The other ate a sandwich from a bag.
And after a minute I noticed that all three seemed to be staring at me and nodding and whispering. And I thought, nah, they’re not looking at me. But they were. And then everyone in the car was staring at them staring at me, some smirking. And I was creeped out and pissed. And then one of the Santas – the short, fat jolly one – lifted his hand and pointed a finger at my crotch.
And I looked down…and saw my fly was open.
So, I turned to the back wall, nonchalantly, and zipped up. When I turned back, the short Santa nodded and smiled: good job. The mp3 Santa gave me a thumbs up.
And I said the only thing you really could say at that point: