Ho-Ho-Ho & a Bottle of Rum

Dock Street runs red with velvet. The Cape Fear River wharves are swamped in the yuletide flotsam of burnt gingerbread & gurgled eggnog. This is SantaCon. For what it lacks in civility, it compensates for with drunken charm & the incessant ringing of little bells. Holiday spirit is thick in the vein of the hordes. And the hordes are legion: tens of dozens of jiggling santas, with elves aplenty, all marching to the same little drummer boy. At present, the average blood alcohol is 0.137: benign if kept out of reach of heavy machinery. Collectively buzzed, but not drunk. Not yet. The afternoon is still young. The crowd appears delightfully numb & incoherently festive, but there is an ominous undercurrent, a malevolent voltage stirring in the echoes of carol. This must be what the last Christmas before the End of Times looks like. Tonight, there will be a reckoning. Jesus is either coming or going. 

I’m crossing Front Street with a cuppa Joe splashed with rum. That’s nutmeg you smell, Officer. Uniformed police, horsed, lord over the commotion with scowls of patronly disapproval. Accidental bystanders bear witness to the atrocity; elder fingers shield the eyes of the innocent, but it’s too little too late. Children are traumatized from double-visioned images of santas standing in the cobblestoned alley, urinating against the red-bricked wall. Don’t judge me!, one stumbling santa begs of the onlookers as he hoists his unbuckled pants. Its unclear if he is a member of our ranks or a hobo who found good company. 

Jesus, man, Aubrey says. Is nothing fucking sacred anymore?

He hasn’t had his santa outfit for a full 24 hours, but Aubrey’s sleeves are already pocked with cigarette burns and saturated with beer spilt by rival revelers. His beard is earned: overgrown, grizzled and deloused of reindeer ticks by a fog of medicinal marijuana; a fog which sits as a cloudy halo atop his red velvet crown. 

We are off the street, within Barbary Coast, where the density of Christmas is thickest. Aubrey’s baritone preacher-voice rises above the noise, as he asks, is nothing fucking sacred anymore? His lamentation is not over the tinseled orgy o’ elves in their candy-cane leggings, but rather the mishandling of jell-o shots by a nearby Mrs Claus in a cowboy hat. Fucking travesty, Aubrey bemoans, hollering in Mrs Claus’s direction, asking, what’s the point of a cocaine-nail on your little finger if you don’t use it? You’re not supposed to eat the plastic communion cup the jell-o is served in. Fucking amateur. Is this your first day in America?, you fucking savage.

This dive, Barbary Coast, my favorite along the river, is at capacity. Pimento Mike is the only one behind bar. He’s fucking had it with this crowd. He is the lone resistance against the annexation of Barbary Coast by the North Pole. Pimento Mike is back & forth to the street to usher beer bottle drinkers back inside. He’s busted a few rings of jell-o shot smugglers. You know better, he says to the outlaws, get the fuck out. And now what does he find? Some blonde chick is sipping contraband booze out of a goddamn Christmas ornament. What are you sipping on?, Pimento Mike asks the Elf Queen about her ornamental flask. She smiles back like a kid caught hand in the cookie jar. What are you sipping?, Pimento Mike asks again. His assuring smile is a trap. The Elf Queen, having considered her options, grins & lies, saying, vitamin water…? No, the omniscient bartender’s smile fades. Get the fuck out, he says. Pimento Mike’s pissed. She doesn’t leave. She smiles, what?, really?, we’re witnessing the fall of the Anthropocene and you’re going to bust my balls about this? Pimento Mike is not up for debate and turns his back on us, forsaking this entire corner of the bar. The Elf Queen smiles at me and shrugs her shoulders as she sips the last drops of booze from her Christmas ornament. 

I mean, what the fuck is a Barbary Coast anyway?, the Elf Queen asks her courtiers gathered at the bar. Maybe it means the Outer Banks, Puck offers as the barbaric beach of reference. Jocomo, a costumed Christmas tree, says, the Barbary Coast is probably just more pirate bullshit. A Pittsburgher, Jocomo knows her way around a river pirate. You know how this town is, Jocomo suggests to the Elf Queen. They love their pirate bullshit. Aubrey says he doesn’t know & he doesn’t care then he asks of me. Where the fuck’s Vic?, that goofy motherfucker’d know. 

And I do! I do know. 

Here the fuck’s Vic!, I say, climbing atop the rungs of my barstool. To reveal my face, I turn the strap-on Christmas beard around to the back of my head to sit like a snowy mullet. Fueled on caffeine, if not rum, I lecture with a raised index finger enhancing my exclamations: Barbary Coast!, North Africa!, never-mind Black Beard when the scourge of Europe is a red-bearded corsair by the name of Barbarossa! And then!, and then!, then much later!, Thomas Jefferson said enough!, send in the marines to the shores of Tripoli! And that’s how harissa is made! Etcetera, I say in conclusion. I take a bow and return my ass to its seat. 

Like I said, Jocomo summarizes, just more pirate bullshit. And she is right. This is a pirate town. Every flounderman on this coast grooms a beard in homage to Ed Teach. Barbary Coast is not the only pirate bar in town, but it is the oldest. 

And what is the true spirit of Christmas?, Aubrey asks, if not piracy? 

Oh?, says Jocomo, tell me more!

Santa was a pirate!, Aubrey preaches to the masses. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, but he is clearly stoned. Santa Claus was a chimney sweep!, Aubrey says, who would case the joint by day and then rob the rich by night. And then he’d repackage the rich people shit and give it to the poor. The rich bastards would wake in the morning to realize they were robbed. And the only clue to the crime was fucking lumps of coal in the chimney from you-know-who, the Robin Hood of Dickensian England!Meanwhile the orphan waifs would wake and find their stinky stockings stuffed with pirate booty thanks to the jolliest fucking Roger, the dreaded pirate White Beard, aka Old Saint Nick!

You’re an ass, Jocomo says to Aubrey, but I love it. Where the fuck’s Pimento Mike?, she asks. No one is serving bar. Has he walked the plank? I think we’re being punished, Aubrey says, for the sins of the Elf Mother. Fuck him!, the Elf Queen says quite dramatically, that guy needs to pull the Krampus out of his anus. 

I decide to set off on my own in search of the true meaning of Christmas. And a beer. I leave my stool behind and fight through a crowd fattened with santa bellies, slaloming my way deeper into the valley of mirth, seeking a new entry point to grab a beer. But I am not alone. The claus mob is thirsty, angling for their own needs. And they are paranoid. In a bar full of fake-beards and masks, there is a sense of distrust amongst fellow santas. Who the fuck are you?, one asks. A Mrs Claus reaches for my beard, asking, who are you really under there? All I can see is red. I slap away hands and begin evasive measures, knocking-over pint glasses and raising-up yells. Where do you think you’re going?, another santa horse-collars me from behind. 

He’s with me, says the getaway driver. Everyone backs off. The getaway driver, while not in santa wardrobe, is easily recognized as someone not to be fucked with. He does have on a holiday sweater of six geese laying. ‘Sup, Vic?, he says. His adjacent girlfriend is dressed as a partridge in a pear tree. There are no signs of the other days of Christmas. Unless we’re counting seven wretches retching. 

What the fuck with these people?, I ask. Tis the season, the getaway driver explains to me. Plus, there’s murmurings of a narc, he says. The partridge in a pear tree says, SantaCon has been infiltrated by undercover police disguised as santa. They know what you’re thinking, Vic, she teases. You better watch out, better not cry. Too late!, the getaway driver says with a laugh. But why?, I ask them, would police infiltrate a Christmas-themed bar crawl? Because Tumbledown Tim Dixon, they say. 

Who the hell’s Tumbledown Tim Dixon?

The getaway driver and the partridge in a pear tree exchange looks. He agrees to fetch a round of drinks. She agrees to educate. Tumbledown Tim Dixon, she says, was the original Cape Fear santa-pirate. Ten years ago, he was leading the SantaCon bar crawl out of downtown, up Castle Street towards the Juggling Gypsy, when they spotted a Christmas party. They decided to crash the party, but carefully. Gradually. It was like boiling a frog. You didn’t know your party was being overtaken by santas until it was too late. One minute, you are wondering where the Christmas caroling santa choir came from. The next minute, you realize “jack my balls” and “it’s beginning to look a lot like syphilis” aren’t real song lyrics. Were you there?, I ask the partridge in a pear tree. It was my party!, she says. And half the guests were off-duty cops! She goes on to explain when she got fed-up with Bigotes Blanco y los Bucaneros Rojos, as the drunken santas started calling themselves, she cued the law enforcers to boot anything in a pointy hat. They chased Tumbledown Tim Dixon and his holiday hooligans all the way to Pender County. And he hasn’t come back since, she tells me. He hasn’t?, I ask, what’s keeping him? Arrest warrants. Mostly for overdue parking tickets. Disturbing the peace. Public intoxication. General mischief, she says before accepting a drink from the returned getaway driver. He comes bearing gifts of cold beer & hot gossip. He says, I heard Tumbledown Tim Dixon tricked cops into eating a rum cake laced with LSD. The partridge in a pear tree pauses, carefully choosing her words. I can neither confirm nor deny these rumors, she says.

If Tumbledown Tim Dixon hasn’t been seen in 10 years, why are police looking for him now?

Tumbledown Tim Dixon does comes back to town for SantaCon, the getaway driver says. When he can disguise himself with the rest of the idiots. Present company maybe/maybe not excluded. Let me get this straight, I say, we have a pirate at large, hiding as a santa amongst santas and we have undercover cops also disguised as santas to find the pirate? Pretty much, the getaway driver confirms. 

Jocomo has approached to tell me she & Aubrey cannot get bar service and are going to continue the Christmas crawl at the Blue Post. I ask her if she’s heard about Tumbledown Tim Dixon and the possibility he might be hiding among us. Well, she says, they say Santa only comes once a year. But no…, Jocomo says as she scans the crowd, Tumbledown isn’t here. How can you be sure?, I ask, do you know him? Yeah, Jocomo says, I know him. I ask, is Tumbledown Tim Dixon rightfully accused of premeditated sabotage of holiday parties? Oh, hell yeah, Jocomo confirmed. Tumbledown has stories about going to Burning Man. He and his camp would dress up like viking marauders and steal furniture from other campsites in the middle of the night. His Burning Man viking high-jinx eventually evolved into Christmas pirate raids. 

We find Aubrey having a cigarette outside the front door. When he sees us coming, his free arm sweeps out in a grand gesture. Some people put a star on top of a Christmas tree, he says in a romantic reference to Jocomo’s costume, but I prefer a decapitated angel. Shut-up, Jocomo says while blushing.  

Vic!, Aubrey calls to me. Where’ve you been? Were you giving out secret santa handjobs in the men’s room and I missed it? Jocomo mentions we’ve been discussing Tumbledown Tim Dixon. Aubrey ignores her to continue his bathroom humor, saying, that wasn’t horchata spilt on the floor! Ow!, he says after Jocomo punches his shoulder. You were asking about Tumbledown?, Aubrey asks, aka “Bigotes Blanco”? Yeah, so, Aubrey says, SantaCon was originally less about festivity and more about discord: tearing at the seams of the fabric of society’s under-panties, peppering itching powder into the jockstrap of the establishment. The big “E” Establishment. Tumbledown learned all the Cacophony stuff at Burning Man and brought those philosophies back to North Carolina. He would employ spies throughout Cape Fear. Snitches who would inform him where the Christmas parties would be. He would have volunteer “sleigh-drivers” who would drive the rampage buses through the neighborhoods. The santa berserkers would storm the party, creating adult mischief. Eventually, Tumbledown was run out of town. 

Puck & the Elf Queen have joined the conversation. Puck says, I heard he would leave magic mushroom fruitcake at parties and one time an off-duty cop lost his mind and wandered into traffic shooting at Christmas lights. No!, Aubrey said, that’s all rumor. Perhaps based on fact, but only speculative hearsay. 

Could Tumbledown Tim Dixon be hiding here among us?, I ask. Sure!, Aubrey says, maybe I’m Tumbledown. Maybe Puck is Tumbledown. Who me?, says Puck. Not last I checked. The Elf Queen asks, aren’t we all Tumbledown Tim Dixon? She begins a soliloquy enhanced by the empty red orb flask she carries like Yorick’s skull. She says, I keep hearing the true meaning of Christmas is pirates, but that’s bullshit. The true meaning of Christmas is humanity. We have fewer differences than we have things in common. Don’t we? So then aren’t we all Tumbledown Tim Dixon? I mean, who among us hasn’t slipped a hallucinogenic mickey to a cop every now & then? You know what?, I am going to go ahead and say it. I am Tumbledown Tim Dixon! She then turns and yells at the bouncer outside Barbary Coast, if you want Tumbledown Tim Dixon, come and get me! 

The bouncer is unamused by the Elf Queen and returns his gaze to his phone. 

Yeah, Jocomo says, and I am Tumbledown Tim Dixon. Puck joins in, I’m Tumbledown Tim Dixon. 

Aubrey looks at me with a head shake, saying, Tumbledown Tim said it best: God damn us every one. 

SantaConsequences: Aftermath Addendum

2024 Update: Year 2

We’re at an alley pub called the Ivey. There was no visit to Barbary Coast this year for the crimson tide of revelers. Why? We were banned. I sent out a text:

the Ghost of Tumble Down Tim Dixon haunts us still! No Santas are allowed on the premises of Barbary Coast. SantaCon cancelled indefinitely at Barbary Coast. Even pirates have codes.

The Elf Queen, from whichever foreign port she’s causing mischief within, responds:

Could be my fault! I pissed off the grinchy bartender last year.

Which, yeah, of course this is her fault. But at least we got a story out of it. Future generations of SantaConArtists will only be able to experience SantaCon at Barbary Coast through oral tradition storytelling or, of course, Uncharted Dives.

As for this year, the shit-show goes on. Slimmer in ranks. Slimmer figuratively if not figure. The Elf Queen and Puck are inconveniently out of town. Jocomo is raw-dogging Christmas by facing it sober. Aubrey is with her at home drinking wine and painting his abstract pornography. All that leaves is your faithful narrator and those still standing of last year’s 12 Days of Christmas. Chief among them, the getaway driver known as “the Goose-Chaser”, Gustaf Odinson. Dude’s been on a warpath of late. Ever since our Mälort-fueled bender in Savanah, Goose’s humanity has hardened into last year’s fruitcake. His Krampus-spirited antagonism is evident on his “Merry Creepmas” sweater. When a single-minded shepherd unwittingly steps into range near bar territory, Goose goes in for the kill. 

Back on his heels, the shepherd says to Goose, man, I am just trying to enjoy the holidays. Goose continues to challenge him, But why Joseph? You could claim to be any of the Three Wise Men! Why would you be Joseph?

Was it the sacrilegious concept of portraying the step-father of Christ that had Goose outraged? Or did his distaste for the shepherd originate out of Joseph’s approach to lady elves, asking for any virgins he could bring back to his stable? I remain uncertain. Goose’s morality has the qualities of a stripper’s sequined-bra: sparkly until it’s tossed to the ground. 

Don’t you see?, Goose asks the shepherd. By cosplaying Joseph you are acting as the world’s first cuck. 

Historically, I speak-up to address the raucous crowd, the world has seen cuckoldry long before Year Negative-One AD. Indeed, before Christ, there was a little get-together known as the Trojan War when the most famous cuckold of all, Menelaus, the King of Sparta, went knocking on the walls of Troy for his wife, Helen. Which led to Odysseus building a Trojan Horse. Which, naturally, was the inspiration for condoms as a covering for the evil deeds of men. 

Goose scoffs at my lecture, Menelaus is not more cuck-famous than Joseph! Helen ran off with Paris, but Mary slept with God! Renounce your Josephness!, Goose says to the shepherd. And call yourself a wise man. I need you to up your frankincense and myrrh game, bro. 

The shepherd turns away from the bar and hides amongst the leftover ladies from last year’s 12 Days of Christmas. I’ll be damned if I remember who was the French hens, the piping pipers, or the wretches retching, but it’s irrelevant for this year they dressed instead as an evil elf queen (not to be mistaken with the already mischievous Elf Queen in absentia), Mrs Klaus and the Man-Eating Panda of Yuletide. 

A text from Jocomo,

Is someone dressed as lambchop?

Response,

No, that’s the Yuletide Panda which eats the flesh of wicked boys

Meanwhile, there are a pair of Sagittariuses present whose unrelated birthday celebrations have been absorbed by the meandering madness of SantaCon. Goose, who is Sagittariphobic, insists they must battle to the death. There should only be one! It would be an intriguing matchup. She’s former USMC and sinewy, like a lady-asp. He’s former Army and looks like a Baldwin Brother after taking a shit-ton of steroids. My money is on the asp. But she is more interested in crawling out of her own skin and wearing Goose’s instead.

What did you ask Santa for Christmas this year?, she hisses into Goose’s ear.

The delusion of self-acceptance, he tells her while looking for a stick to protect himself with. 

Next bar!, the call goes out. Goose hollers at those around us, toss ‘em back! On Dancer, on Prancer, on Dasher and Panda!

Onward along Front Street, en route to Slainte Irish Pub, Goose notices his nemesis has disappeared. He asks the Evil Elf Queen where her Joseph went. He’s not my Joseph, Evil Elf Queen says, he’s married! Mrs. Klaus laughs at this and says, so was Black Baby Jesus, but that didn’t keep him from grabbing my ass!

Later in the night, there’s a text message from Jocomo, 

Are yinz still going? Or have you crashed like reindeer on a tin roof after lapping up too much eggnog. 

Goose texts her back, 

Still going, but Vic bailed before the titty quarter-bouncing shenanigans.

Yes, I had ghosted. As I’ve always said, the most important thing about a pub-crawl is knowing when to get out. Especially when there’s a Yuletide Panda on the loose.