Saint Nick and a Pack of Pall Malls
FEW PEOPLE KNOW this, but Saint Nick lives in rural Nevada. It’s pretty far off the beaten path; more than a horseshoe’s toss from Death Valley. Oh sure, Saint Nick must spend at least a nominal amount of time at the North Pole to keep up appearances. But for the most part, he lives amongst the common folk, far out in the forgotten desert.
Saint Nick prefers to think of himself as mingling with the normal citizens of the world: the kind of people who’ll pull over to the side of the road to help you change a flat tire; the type of folk who’ll stop for a minute to chew the fat if you ask them for directions. Many of these people have had hard lives and have hard-looking faces to match.
December 24 always manages to sneak up on poor old Saint Nick with more stealth than a cougar on a hiking trail. And although he never plans it this way, every December 24, Saint Nick finds himself sitting on a barstool at Bernie’s Bar, with an ice-cold Bud Light sloshing around in a water spotted glass before him, and a non-filtered Pall Mall cigarette burning its short life away between his right index and middle fingers.
Saint Nick has never been one for complaining out loud, so he keeps most of his grumblings to himself. Most locals around town figure he’s nothing more than a drunken retiree who is too lazy to shave his elderly white beard. But Saint Nick’s been frequenting Bernie’s Bar for so many years that the bartender has put the pieces together. A few years back, he watched Saint Nick stumble out the rear exit door, rip the tarp off a sled and pack of reindeer, and holler a string of 1950’s profanities, as he silently disappeared into the black sky beneath the full desert moon.
It’s almost time. The sun has set, and Bernie’s Bar is almost completely empty. Saint Nick’s tired head has collapsed onto the bar, as the strong voice of Pat Benatar belts out a song about the battlefield of love from a jukebox in the grimy corner.
The bartender is a pale, skinny and wimpy looking man with a sad patch of diminishing red hair sitting atop his thin scalp. He cruises over to Saint Nick and places both hands upon his shoulders.
“Hey Nick, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s getting late and everyone’s counting on you,” whispers the redheaded bartender.
Saint Nick was dreaming about tropical beaches and girls in bikinis, but he is pulled firmly back into reality now. The bartender hands Saint Nick a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes with no filters; his usual. He pours one more Bud Light for the road, which Saint Nick slams down his gullet with embarrassing urgency. Saint Nick stands up from the barstool, closes his eyes, winces his face, and spreads his arms wide like a mummy awakening from a 500 year sleep.
“All right, Red. Let’s get this over with.”
Saint Nick rips open the pack of Pall Malls, removes one, and gently places the tip into his mouth. A stainless steel Zippo lighter is produced from his front pocket. The sound of the Zippo lid clinking open is rather soothing to Saint Nick, making him remember better days in America. The first drag of the cigarette goes down just right, warming his lungs and filling his heart with satisfaction.
Saint Nick stumbles toward the rear exit of Bernie’s Bar, waving his left hand over his shoulder and giving Red the peace sign. So long, buddy. See you next year.
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