Yellow Mama Archives II

George Garnet

Acuff, Gale
Ahern, Edward
Allen, R. A.
Alleyne, Chris
Andes, Tom
Arnold, Sandra
Baber, Bill
Baird, Meg
Baker, J. D.
Balaz, Joe
Barker, Adelaide
Barker, Tom
Barnett, Brian
Bartlett, Daniel C.
Bayly, Karen
Beckman, Paul
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc
Beveridge, Robert
Blakey, James
Burke, Wayne F.
Burnwell, Otto
Campbell, J. J.
Cancel, Charlie
Capshaw, Ron
Carr, Steve
Carrabis, Joseph
Centorbi, David Calogero
Christensen, Jan
Clifton, Gary
Cody, Bethany
Costello, Bruce
Coverly, Harris
Crist, Kenneth James
Cumming, Scott
Davie, Andrew
Davis, Michael D.
Degani, Gay
De Neve, M. A.
Dillon, John J.
Dominguez, Diana
Dorman, Roy
Doyle, John
Dunham, T. Fox
Ebel, Pamela
Fagan, Brian Peter
Fillion, Tom
Fortier, M. L.
Garnet, George
Graysol, Jacob
Grech, Amy
Greenberg, KJ Hannah
Grey, John
Hardin, Scott
Held, Shari
Hicks, Darryl
Hivner, Christopher
Hohmann, Kurt
Holt, M. J.
Holtzman, Bernice
Jabaut, Mark
Jermin, Wayne
Jeschonek, Robert
Johns. Roger
Kanner, Mike
Karl, Frank S.
Kennedy, Cecilia
Keshigian, Michael
Kitcher, William
Kompany, James
Koperwas, Tom
Larsen, Ted R.
Le Due, Richard
Leotta, Joan
Lester, Louella
Lubaczewski, Paul
Lucas, Gregory E.
Luer, Ken
Lyon, Hillary
Mannone, John C.
Martinez, Richard
McConnell, Logan
McQuiston, Rick
Middleton, Bradford
Milam, Chris
Mladinic, Peter
Mobili, Juan
Mullins, Ian
Myers, Jen
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl
Nielsen, Judith
Onken, Bernard
Owen, Deidre J.
Park, Jon
Parker, Becky
Pettus, Robert
Plath, Rob
Prusky, Steve
Reddick, Niles M.
Robson, Merrilee
Rollins, Janna
Rose, Brad
Rosmus, Cindy
Scharhag, Lauren
Schauber, Karen
Schmitt, Di
Sesling, Zvi E.
Short, John
Slota, Richelle Lee
Smith, Elena E.
Snethen, Daniel G.
Steven, Michael
Stoler, Cathi
Stoll, Don
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swartz, Justin
Taylor, J. M.
Temples. Phillip
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don"
Turner, Lamont A.
Tustin, John
Tyrer, DJ
Verlaine, Rp
Viola, Saira
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Weibezahl, Robert
Weil, Lester L.
White, Robb
Wilhide, Zachary
Williams, E. E.
Williams, K. A.
Woods, Jonathan
Young, Mark
Zelvin, Elizabeth
Zimmerman, Thomas
Zumpe, Lee Clark


George Garnet


I wedge my old Fiesta on a ten-minute parking spot and gaze at the despised, four-story building of Bank Goldwest through the windscreen. A huge ballooned Santa, strapped to the facade of the building, lit by a chain of colorful lights, waves  cheerfully. The street, despite this hour,  is almost deserted, so I accept the cheers of my inflated 'colleague' sincerely. Because tonight I'm Santa too. I take a healthy swig of Haig from the flask, the liquid burning my throat and taking the edge off my nerves.

         As I yank the car door open, Jingle Bells from the loud speakers of the shopping center across the street invade the night. The sound, crisp and clear, floats in the freezing air and mixes with the dancing snowflakes.

         'Jingle all the way, oh what fun it is to ride'  I mutter under my breath while adjusting my two sizes too large Santa uniform, and reach for the bulky but light red bag stuffed with empty boxes. It's Christmas eve again. Two decades after my parents' eviction from our house we mortgaged. Simple default, they told us from the  bank I'm standing in front right now. A year after my father lost his job, ironically on another Christmas eve, a nice Santa present from the company he worked for as a carpenter. He got gravely sick while refurbishing the old bank building. Asbestosis, the doctors said. Nothing that they could do. My father was a liability for the company. He died ten months later in palliative care. Palliative care? What a fucking fancy word for pain relief. Because when you die from asbestosis you die a horrible, painful death, slowly suffocating, gasping for air, brain screaming for oxygen. But you can't scream,  you have no strength to open your mouth, let alone to breathe.

         Before I step on the road, I check both directions and the bulky bag rocks on my back. I wait  patiently for the slow traffic, just the few cars heading home. There are no people on the street.   But of course they are deserted -  it’s  Christmas eve, family time for dinner, a honey-glazed turkey in the oven, presents, good memories and happy times.  People are at home now, preparing the table, the Christmas tree glowing with blissful lights and ornaments. The symbol of prosperous America. God, I really love Christmas. I should write a song about that, a song clear and crystal, full of hope for tomorrow.  

         I cross the street and enter the bank building, the entrance brightly lit, festive, with a glimmering tall  tree  solemnly standing in the corner.  As I spot the security guard my heart pounds in my chest.  I try to relax by deeply inhaling. Even the smell of wealth and money is different at Christmas.

          The uniformed man extends his  hand. "Slow down, Santa. Where to?"

           "To the party, dude."

           "You're two hours early!" He looks bewildered, and suspicion creeps into his eyes.

           "The party's just started, dude. A present for you. Fetch!" I throw at him a fake baseball which is nothing but a disguised taser, one of the latest ones that come in any shape, and with  a remote control. A small nifty thing. Made in China of course.

           Instinctively he catches the ball and I squeeze the remote trigger. The dude has no chance. I feel sorry for him but that's life. While he twitches and goes limp I quickly drag him out of sight beside the revolving glass door.

           Still huffing from the exertion, I straighten my Santa poncho and step into the customer area.  Shiny Christmas stars, fake gold garlands and tinsels hang  generously from the ceiling, the walls  and above the four bank counters, trying to warm up the coldness of the place. Nice try. Well, Christmas disguise  might work for a while, making people forget all the covert financial activities  of companies, banks, captains of the economy,  government and who knows who else screwing America. Not to forget the stock exchange - especially when the stock market collapsed and wiped away people’s life savings. The president then approved the bailout of the collapsed banks. That was nice. Really good samaritanly.  With taxpayer’s money of course. Well, with mine too. Didn't that happen around Christmas too?

My hand slides over the rough handle of .45 tucked in the waistband of my Santa trousers. The gun once belonged to my grandfather. He served in the army and got wounded in the Korean War.  He ended up in hospital, later to be discharged and sent home with a veteran's pension. A few years later, just before another Christmas day he received a notice that his entitlement was to be reduced significantly. Some kind of retirement fund fraud, they explained to him.

For sure Christmas is the best time of the year.  Nothing wrong with Jesus and his hope and wish for a better life for ordinary people. How nice and humane if you believe in that. Not me.

          I pull out the .45 and yell, "Hands up! Step back!" 

         The four bank tellers behind the counter freeze. It’s quiet for a moment. The jingle outside hums  'Bells on bob-tail ring Making spirits bright...'

           "It's just fucking money. Don't get shot on Christmas, your loved ones will be devastated," I yell again.

          I don't want to harm any of the bank tellers, they are just ordinary slaves - they only want to bring bread home at the end of the day.

          I hastily empty my Santa bag on the floor and throw it at the woman at the counter, gun pointing at her. "Fill it up! Fast! The rest of you on the floor."

           The women obey. The one dumping the cash into my bag is fast, despite her trembling hands. Once done I wave at her to step back, hands in the air so that I can see them.

          All really goes unexpectedly well. Maybe because it's Christmas and Jesus watches from Heaven. Who knows.

         I lift the bag, at least a couple of pounds. Maybe two to three hundred grand. How nice. Expected, by the way, this time of the year. Before  the Armorguard comes to pick up the cash. Well, I'm Santa after all, bringing joy and presents to others. Selfless. But this time -  a nice present for me.

         I wave the gun again, take a look at the guard squirming on the ground beside the door. He will be okay, just a taser shock for Christmas.  His family will be happy that he is alive. Surviving such an ordeal will be like a present to his family.

        I take a final look at the women, the guards and the hall. The Christmas tree in the corner with its beautiful flashing lights, its gold star on the top glistening like a huge diamond.

          "Merry Christmas everyone," I shout and bolt for the revolving door.  Outside the snow has carpeted the footpath. The jingle of the speakers louder now, "Through the fields we go laughing all the way..."

          Back in my Fiesta, I jump on the gas and keep jamming the pedal for the next eight blocks until I reach the projects.

While feeling shielded by the dilapidated houses, the thought pops into my mind: the first Christmas that will be merry.

The dream Christmas that I righteously deserve has arrived.



George Garnet is an Australian fiction writer.  Other works of his may be found in periodicals, including Pulp Modern, Mystery Tribune, Switchblade, Out of the Gutter, Mystery Weekly, The Dark City Crime and Mystery Magazine, Storyteller, Needle in the Hay, Literary Hatchet, Heather, Flash Fiction Offensive, Romance Magazine, and elsewhere.

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