Milson (Chapter 4)

Chapter 4.

The next morning Milson awoke to the sound of angels. The refuge staff had decided to play an arrangement of Classic Christmas Carols to ‘cheer the resident’s spirits’. (Little did the staff know the men had been cheered on spirits for most the night). Milson, upon finding, much to his dismay, that he was not dead, decided to make the best of the situation and get up.

Milson spent the morning thinking of ways to get fast, easy cash. He contemplated the casino and horses, but soon realized money was first required for this. He scoured the papers for anything he could find, handyman work, delivering newspapers, paid laboratory experiment. Anything.

And then, he saw it, barley noticeable amongst the large corporate ads in comparison;

 

Supermarket Santa Needed. Experience not necessary. Contact 0876 567 873 for enquiries.

As Milson looked down at his sagging belly and sausage fuelled legs, for the first time he felt maybe they were good for something; filling out a Santa suit.

Wouldn’t that just make her turn in her grave’? Milson chuckled to himself.

Milson was never allowed to sit on Santa’s knee and request toys and bikes and games alike. For Christmas, it seemed, was not about material possessions and a ‘silly red man in a suit’, but for worshipping the Saviour and his birth, his sacrifices and salvation and all that shit. Merry Christmas Milson.

Best thing to expect under the tree was new attire for the next school season; an eternity’s supply of socks and undies and, quite appreciably in the scope of things, some chocolate. No bike, no toys, no puzzles or games, not even books or coal. Which he’d rather. At least then he may have been able to use it to sketch in a school book. Doodles of death were his specialty. Heavy hand strokes of hatred that smear across the page and slightly tear its flesh with its fury. Pictures of piled corpses, peer’s peeling skin bringing pleasure to the senses. Milson found it therapeutic, and, yes, somewhat concerning, however figured it was better than killin’ some poor bastard.

Still perched at the kitchen table perplexed, Milson fretted as wasn’t quite sure what to do from there. Ring the number he figured and perhaps someone will let him know. Which he did, and no-one didn’t really. ‘Auditions held at Safeway Supermarket tomorrow at 9am’. Milson had never been to a job interview before, let alone one for the position of Santa Claus.

Milson spent the rest of the afternoon fretting and pacing and catastrophising with the best of them. The other men offered assistance and soup stained suits and ties, and some well considered advice.

‘If they ask if you like children, you should try not to dribble when you say “yes, I like little children very much”, cause, like they might think you’re a pedo or sumthin’.

“Yeah n’ like, say you feel like you and Santa have this amazingly bizarre link, and you feel you know, like, really channel the essence of Santa, and you should like rattle off all the names of Santa you know like, Father Christmas, n’, St Nick n’, ummm Santa, so they think your like fully into it n’ shit, yeah”.

Yeah’. Milson thought. ‘This is going to be embarrassing n’ shit’. However, what would be more embarrassing is to be the guy who got thrown in jail for evading Corpse Carters Inc.

With a sigh, Milson took all his borrowed belongings, picked out the salvable and set his attire by the foot of his bed, as he eagerly awaited the morn.

Milson felt worthwhile. He had plans, and somewhere to be and a purpose. His mother’s death had given him hope for life. It was only then that he realised how strong of a hold she had on him, despite the fact he hadn’t seen or touched his mother in over 40 years.

That night Milson didn’t say his Final Prayers.

Instead, he fell into a peaceful sober slumber.  His life it seemed may not be doomed after all. It had simply taken a wrong turn.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference”.

 

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