DECEMBER THUNDER      He watched the beer cans stacked in a line do the hula.      "So you're saying that in a perfect world you'd rather be a hit-man than Santa Claus," his friend said, leaning forward, hunched awkwardly, gesticulating with his forearm while he kept his elbow anchored to his knee.      "Yeah. Pretty much," he replied, his nausea clipping the statement. He put his head back against the wall and listened to the electrical current run through the wires in the wall up to the naked light-bulb that dangled from the ceiling, the screws around its base either missing or loose.      "See . . . the way I see it . . ." his friend's words trailed off and sat like belches in the close quarters of the room. They sat. The beer sat. The light bulb tottered in its foundations. The world didn't move, rather reveling in its fat laziness. He saw the phone shake but didn't hear it ring. His friend moved to pick it up.      "Hello," his friend said. "Yeah . . . sorry . . . I'm busy . . . ok."      "Who was that?" he asked.      "My sister. She needed a ride home from a party."      "What'd you say?"      "I said no. She said she'd get one from someone else."      "That red outfit would suit me, though."      "Yeah. That's really where I was coming from. Forget all that Œgive stuff to people' crap. Santa's major advantage is the . . . red suit."      "A hit-man is violent."      "Very desolate. Very iconoclastic."      "Santa Claus is something of a rebel too."      "He's a Marxist, no doubt. Red suit. Free gifts for all the little girls and boys."      A flash of lightning, shredded by the city skyline, slammed against the window and projected a deranged shadow on the floor. The rain that had been reeling down through the air slowed as thunder sounded. The pace of the rain soon sped up again, the patter seeping into the room. Its drumming sounded against the bookcase and the unplugged television set. His friend sat silent, pale. He could see his friend considering his next move. He rearranged himself so that his head rested against the arm of the sofa while his friend grew paler. The light flickered.      "My therapist says I'm depressed," his friend said.      "My therapist says I need to confront my own mortality," he replied.      "I guess the ultimate question is one of transportation," his friend offered in monotone.      "A black Cadillac or a flying sled," he mused. A yell sounded, syncopated with the slamming of a door down the hall.      "It's funny that my problem would be so simple as depression."      "Yeah. Maybe you should invest in a more original therapist."      "As if my life could be so simple as to be solved by ­ " his friend paused, "Prozac." He picked out a pool of beer on the floor and watched the bubbles burst momentously, their effervescence replaced by a dull shimmer the color of urine. The room went dark as a peal of thunder shook the windowpane. They sat and watched the reflections of lightning in the inanimate television screen.
Nathan Huttner
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