He sits in a folding chair; arm resting on a card table. A flabby chest, spare tire around his waist, teeth yellow, a can of ginger ale in his hand, the old man looks out a sweating window while a cat circles his feet.

He lights a cigarette with a match. Blows out the flame. Knocks the ash into an empty seltzer bottle. The steam heater whistles and moans. He coughs and wheezes. The cat jumps on his fat belly. He rubs behind his ears. Whispers to it, want to eat?

An empty bowl sits in the corner next to a bag of Little Friskies. The fat man stumbles to the bag and pours dinner into the cat’s bowl. His green eyes look up at the old man. He meows and eats his supper.

Snow begins to fall. Small flakes glisten in the streetlights. He turns on the radio. Coltrane is playing My Favorite Things with McCoy Tyner on piano. Soon, the fat man will be sliding down chimneys across Manhattan.

He puts on a red suit, finishes the ginger ale, and puts out his cigarette. A red bag filled with candy and toys stands by the door. He rubs his bearded chin and tells the cat, I’ve got work to do.

The old man slings the bag over his shoulder and opens the door. He hears a couple arguing in the room down the hall. Scents of weed permeate the hallway. A hooker passes him by. 

Ho, ho, ho, he says. Merry Christmas, everyone. No one responds. Doors remain shut. The sound of Tom Snyder laughing comes from a room.

Merry Christmas to all. To all merry Christmas. He walks down the stairs sideways, dragging the bag of goodies. He lifts it up off the floor and opens the front door, which leads him to 8th Avenue. He walks the city delivering toys. Not like the old days when he had a sled and reindeer. Like all fairytales, those days are gone.

He stops a man on the street and asks for a smoke. Beat it, the man says. Who do you think you are? Santa Claus? Both men laugh.

Here, the man says. Take one. Go on. And, merry Christmas to you.

The fat man blows out smoke into the cold air. And merry Christmas to you, sir. Merry Christmas, indeed.