Worst Job of All Time

I can see the heat. The damned and unwavering waves arise from the relentless concrete. Around these parts they know no end. A lone man stands, blurred by the bands of ultraviolet.His look is fictional, like a oasis on the horizon. A surreal beast of the industrial district.

What is Santa doing in Australia ? In the middle of summer? After Christmas? I refuse to believe in a more unlikely situation, or a worse job for that matter, because to believe in that is to lose hope in all humanity.

He doesn’t see me coming, his back turned to adjust the i-pod that adorns his white fur clad neck. I notice that his santa suit is cleaner than it has been in the last couple weeks, the trim of his suit is no longer the guttural grey it used to be.

“Hey man,” I give him a friendly tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. Im smiling like an idiot, so much so that I am nearly aware of it. “What is this store about?” I ask in all earnestness, but Im still smiling like an idiot.

“What do you think this store is about?” He looks at me dumbly, the fur from his hat partially obscuring his eyes.

Street Santa 1. Chris 0.

“I mean why are you still out here? Its the middle of freaking summer.”

He doesnt really have an answer, just a deep breath. His eyes still obscured by the fir, he mumbles on about how they want to keep him out there another week, until the end of January. The shop barely looks open, dark and dingy. Santa in the window, smiling cruelly at his street elf.

“A jobs a job.” is about all I can say. He looks like hes going to faint.

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