Dirty Santa

As I’ve mentioned before, there are weeks when I don’t have a clue what to write about.  Then there are weeks like this, where there is so much going on that it makes it nearly impossible to stay focused on one topic.

Do I write about the girl who sat next me in Starbucks talking to her friend about what to get for her first tattoo?  Spoiler alert:  She wanted it to involved horses, pirates, and bikes, but she was also willing to settle for a dragon viking.  I don’t mind tattoos at all, but having to explain the reasoning behind a horse riding a unicycle on a pirate ship for the rest of her life was clearly not on the forefront of her mind while she was making this decision.

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I feel your pain, Alice. Pretty much sums up my life.

Or do I write about sitting in a local Greek restaurant with a warm and inviting atmosphere, eating a wonderful meal and then looking out the window to see a parade of about ten men and women dressed in bridal gowns march by on what appeared to be a bar crawl.  I figured if they were trying to get a second use out of wedding dresses, good for them.

Or do I write about cookie fest at work, where, after the Pie Fest incident (the post that probably gets brought up in conversation with me the most), I had a plan to throw the office voting pool for best cookie. The plan was incite my revenge over my untouched pie, bruised ego, and shame eating a full pie by buying cookies from a bakery, putting them on a plate, and claiming that it was a secret family recipe.  Luckily I didn’t pull the trigger on this grudge, as the cookie flavors included apricot and tarragon, Frito chocolate chip, and red wine.  And don’t get me started on the deconstructed cookie piece of art that someone brought in, complete with its own tent and blowtorch.  My store bought cookies would not have stood a chance.

But alas, the highlight of my week was something completely mundane yet perfectly Seattle.

I hitched a ride home with a coworker of mine, and I was stressing about the upcoming work week and thinking about how I was days away from looking into buying some Nyquil to help me get a good night’s rest after routinely waking up at 4am, gasping for air, with no rhyme or reason.  That’s when I saw him.

A man was standing on the corner, holding a sign half his size that was flapping around in the wind.  He looked like a down-on-his-luck Santa Claus, dirt matted in his hair and his beard, but somehow there was a smile still on his face.  My friend pointed him out to me and said he was frequently around town.

I read his sign as we were at a stop light to see what he was asking for.  I did a double take when it turned out he was not begging for money, but rather had taken the route of an entrepreneur, selling something to the public.  Unfortunately, the service he was selling was kisses.

I started laughing so hard, I could not pull myself together, and reacted the only way I figured was reasonable.  I pulled out my phone to try and take a picture of him so that when I told this story I would have some sort of visual aid.

As he started walking our direction, my friend locked her door.  It was a move I don’t blame her for, as me laughing and whipping out a camera was probably misconstrued as a sign of interest as a customer.

As he got closer I made out more of the sign, and I deciphered that there was a price list going for two different types of kisses:  kisses with teeth and kisses without teeth.

On one hand I was impressed.  It took some serious balls for this guy to be sitting at home and thinking on what he could offer up as a tactic to make money.  And this guy was sitting around one day, when he thought, “I’ve got it.  I’ve been told I’m a really good kisser.  People will definitely pay me for this.”  The amount of confidence behind selling a service that most people can get for free after a few drinks in a bar blows my mind.

As much as I’d like to make an extra buck, I could never hold up a sign like that.  For starters, I could not provide a toothless kissing option, so my customer base would be more limited.  But to stand on a corner and hope that someone would look you up and down and agree to pay you for that was a different beast altogether that took a large amount of confidence that I do not possess.  I figured the people who would pay for kisses on the street likely weren’t the people I would want to be kissing anyways.  Plus talk about a breeding ground for disease.  I’d contract Herpes within the week.  Which I’m not confident this guy did not already have.

Then I wondered who would pay for the “kisses without teeth” option.  The best I could figure is it was some sort of fetish that people must have where they want a guy to take out his dentures and get all up in those gums.  I thought about it and threw up a little bit.  I decided I could safely say that if I went my whole life and never experiences a toothless kiss, I would consider it a win.

As the dirty Santa headed our direction, I was grateful when the light turned green and we pulled away, though I secretly regretted that I didn’t manage to snap a picture of him to assist me in telling this story.

But during a long week, every time I thought about this guy, I started laughing out loud.  There is a rare moment when something happens that I think is so funny, that I can just think about it and it cracks me up.  And this was one of those occurrences.  This guy was quintessential Seattle at its finest, and I was now the crazy lady, laughing alone on the bus while reliving the incident in my mind.

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4 thoughts on “Dirty Santa

  1. Great story. Talk about a parallel universe. I experienced a very similar scene when I was about your age. It involved a Mrs. Claus look alike, a trapeze and I’m pretty sure a ring tail lemur. Ahh the 70’s.

    Liked by 1 person

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