"Bischoff-SantaRitual" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bischoff David)

DAVID BISCHOFF

SANTA RITUAL ABUSE

The day after Thanksgiving, the specials at Fat Chung Wo's restaurant by Larry's
Loft featured turkey to mein, turkey chop suey and turkey fuk yew. In the lobby,
there was a sprig of evergreen coming out of Buddha's head, and a little manger
scene with Salvation Army stickers still on Joseph and Mary. Christmastime was
coming to Eugene, Oregon.

I walked into the Loft, went to the bar and ordered a cup of coffee and a bowl
of hot and sour from the bartender. He stuck the order for the soup through the
window into the Chinese restaurant that makes like a Siamese twin to the bar,
and then he got me my coffee. Caffeinated mud, as usual. Professor's coffee. I'm
a professor. I like the stuff.

"Pete," said Jurgen the bartender as I poured some milk into my steaming cup.
"Check out the dude at the other end."

I casually glanced up at the mirror past the garden of colored bottle spouts
behind him. At the opposite end of the old-fashioned worn wood bar, feet hooked
in the slats of his stool as though they were stirrups, was an old wizened guy
with a brown roadster cap, a pint of Widmer Hefewizen beer at one elbow, a shot
glass of whiskey in front of him. He regarded the whiskey glumly for a moment,
then picked it up, drained it, and followed that with a chug of Hef. He pulled
out an unfiltered Chesterfield from a cellophaned pack, and lit it with an
orange Bic lighter. Burning Virginia fields. Alcohol-preserved Americana.

I sipped at my coffee. "So?"

"It's Santa."

Jurgen was an erstwhile grad student at the University of Oregon who stayed on.
His accent stayed on too, and he spoke with an exaggerated sibilance about his
's's and 'z's, especially when he was excited, as he clearly was now.

"Zanta? Zanta who?"

"Santa Claus." As in Klaus von Bulow. "He's been here all day, drinking hard."

Oh, I thought. The traditional drunken department store Santa, taking the
afternoon off from dandling kiddies on his knee to get soused.

"I didn't know Eugene had a Macy's," I said.

Jurgen looked at me in his constipated Hitler youth grimace, and whispered.
"Nein. No. That is really Santa Claus. He lives in Pleasant Hill in the summer.
He's usually up at the North Pole by now. Something's wrong." Jurgen shook his