The blistering sinus burn cuts briskly through the haze of afternoon cocktails. The new sense of clarity reconciles the sordid scene around me. A semi-posh men’s room, three lads wearing crumpled wool suits and inebriated expressions, all of us zipped up and jawing around the mirrors and inlaid marble. A horrific Lite FM version of The Most Wonderful Time of The Year wafts from the ceiling speakers, putting a tidy bow on the moment for me.

I’m in the men’s room of an upscale Italian restaurant in Midtown, sharing a bit of blow with three gentlemen who believe I work in Accounts Receivable on the eighth floor. I don’t know in what building this mythical eighth floor resides, as I have never met these men before. They are here for a firm holiday party that I have mistakenly become involved in simply by having been half drunk in this particular establishment early in the day.

I consider the social ramifications of shoving my head in the sink, and opening up the cold water tap until my lava filled blood vessels threaten to burst. Would a guy from Accounts do such a thing? Would such an undignified act finally expose this peculiar ruse? Could this develop into violence or legal action? My phone vibrates gently, and breaks the paranoid train of thought. I wrestle the vicious device out of my jacket and find a time scheduled text message I had sent to myself the night before:

“Put down the drink, pay your tab and get out. You have a plane to catch!”

At least it doesn’t read “unroll the bill and back away from the sink”. That sort of prescience would have been truly frightening. I put the phone away and make my excuses for splitting, wishing each of the lads and their respective families joyous holidays. Then I’m out in the artificial darkness of the restaurant’s basement event room. A few of the matrons from secretarial, who are convinced I worked in HR on fourteen, have taken control of the karaoke machine, belting out an ear rattling rendition of Summer Lovin’ with a few bemused boys from the mail room.

I make my way through the crowded room, waving indiscriminately to no one in particular wishing them all joyous holidays. Then it’s up the stairs to an empty dinning room. Concentrating on precision and efficiency of motion, I scoop up my overcoat and shoulder bag from a bar stool and leave a crisp hundred dollar bill under an empty snifter. My tab has most likely been rolled in to the firm’s bill, but a holiday gift for a barman who makes an excellent noonday gimlet is a good play. I have the car service on the phone by the time I hit the heavy oak doors, and it’s not long before I’m standing at the curb, enjoying the final glimmers of twilight and letting the sharp December chill settle in on me.

The city lights twinkle crisp and clean in the night air. Soon a blacked out Lincoln rolls to the curb with a sharp burst of horn. I roll into the back seat and the car lurches away before the interior light clicks off.

“Mister Swingshift, I was praying it was you brother. If I had to take one more snobby rich bitch ’round the shops I assure you there would have been a murda!”

“Well Jonesy, I’m pleased as punch to have saved the life of a soulless Park West socialite”

“Maybe next year” Jonesy replies with a snicker. “To LGA then?”

I’ve known Jonesy for as long as I could afford the occasional car ride. Over six foot tall, with three feet of dreads, he is nearly too large a character, even for the spacious town car. Always with a wicked smile and an impeccably tailored suit, he has driven me the circumference of Manhattan island many times over and as far as I’m concerned he is the best in the city.

The Lincoln slices through rush hour traffic in silence, making supernatural time crosstown. We soon hit the FDR and the wheel man loosens up and pulls a large neatly rolled spliff from the sun visor.

“You mind if I say a little prayer, brother?”

“Not at all, as long as you’re sharing with us back here in steerage class.”

“But of course fam, ’tis the season.”

The smoke and light conversation go a long way to soothing nerves frayed in the hasty escape from the restaurant. If I hadn’t sent myself the reminder, I’d certainly be locked in to a disgustingly intoxicated performance of Meatloaf with a middle aged secretary from out on the island. My skin crawls at the thought, but I shake it off, staring listlessly out into the urban night.

“Away for the Holidays?”, Jonesy’s calm baritone pulls my focus back into the car.

“North Carolina” Is my short answer.

“You from down south then?”

I laugh gently “No no, my folks went down there to retire. I served out my formative years in Jersey and I’ve been in the city since time now. How about you Jonesy, holiday plans?”

“Let me tell you, Christmas is tough on those of us who are liberal with our seed if you get me. I got three babies in the city with three mothers and all expect yours truly for dinner. Thank Jah, I’ve got my own wheels or the travel alone would bankrupt me.”

“The eating must be good though?”

“Oh yes, afterwards I sleep and fast until New Year’s”

We share a nice laugh, as the town car careens off the Grand Central and on to the labyrinthine coils of airport service roads. I rummage through my jacket frantically, and come up with my crumpled boarding pass for the gate number. Jonesy slides the car into a spot at the curb and gets out even though I have no luggage in the boot. Instead he wraps me in a warm holiday embrace.

“You watch yourself, Mr. Swingshift. They don’t take kindly to your flavor of Yankee down south”

“I’ll keep my eyes open, and good luck with your babies’ mama marathon Jonesy.”

“Don’t worry about me none, the almighty does not challenge one beyond one’s means”

With these words of wisdom, he dives into the jet black Lincoln, cuts off three yellow cabs, across two lanes of traffic, and disappears in to the night.

Through the airport’s wide automatic door, I’m greeted by a vast sea of frantic humanity and decide it best to make a pit stop in the gent’s to fortify myself for the near endless queue. The restroom is surprisingly empty, a few folks dashing about and a few others with nowhere else to be. I slide into a somewhat clean stall and break out my bag of holiday cheer. The oversize bumps hit me pretty hard and I let my head lie back against the cool tile wall a moment. I find myself gently tapping my fingers in time with a horrid muzak version of Little Drummer Boy. Combined with the sudden overwhelming stench of urinal cake, the saccharine standard nearly makes me wretch. I slip the quickly dwindling bag of drugs behind my balls for safe keeping through security, and emerge from the stall just as Drummer Boy gives way to Sleigh Ride.

An actual crew of midgets, dressed as shopping mall elves are running about the place, animatedly shouting at each other in what I believe to be Portuguese. The surreality of the Portuguese elves gives me license to just drop my head over the sink and splash some bone chilling water on my fiery cheeks. It takes a few application to bring back signs of humanity. I gaze ahead into the mirror and am greeted by the bleary eyed fiend that’s wearing my suit. A few nights’ lost sleep has taken its toll, but at least I’d had the sense to shave and put on a fresh shirt before leaving the house.

Just then a dank musky scent curls its way through the thick disinfectant of the restroom. Crossing behind me in the mirror, I suddenly glimpse a frightening creature. Nearly 6′5″, it is dark with matted hair and wrapped in a patchwork of animal skins. But the creature’s most arresting feature is a long, black forked tongue. A tongue so long that it does not fit in its mouth and simply slithers about its lips. I freeze up for a second, as its piercing yellow eyes make contact with mine in the mirror. I spin around for a better glimpse, but all I see is the stall door close shut and latch.

My eyes dart about the men’s room for some form of confirmation. Unfortunately the only people left in the place are several of the elves, and my Portuguese is in no way up to the task of asking if anyone else had just seen a demon pop in the stall to drop a deuce. In any event, the elves all look pretty calm, in no way panicked, though the one at the sink shoots me a nervous glance that goes a long way in convincing me to chalk the demonic vision up to a bit too much blow.

Feeling seriously agitated and certain that I do not want to wait around for the demon to finish his business, I flee the confines of the crazy men’s room for the wide open madness of the main terminal. I grab a giant cup of high test coffee as a kind of visual cover story. “Mommy why is that man grinding his teeth and twitching?”, “Oh, lil’ Jimmy, see that extra large latte he has there, he’s obviously had a bit too much caffeine, ya know.” I take a deep breath, and surrender to the overwhelming mass of humanity pushing its way through the terminal.

I dutifully shuffle my way into the endless serpentine queue. The music out here is markedly different from the restroom. It is still composed of worn out holiday standards, but the theremin and analog tape aesthetic has been replaced with the soaring melodrama of full orchestration. White Christmas spills through the cavernous space with such clarity that I am momentarily convinced that an actual orchestra is hiding in the rafters. All around me, tardy travelers scurry along tugging luggage behind them, pleading with staff and other passengers for assistance making urgent flights. Several mothers shout after mislaid children. Their cries falling in to an odd call and response, until they all descend on an unsuspecting Red Cap with nervous entreaties.

I give in to the zombie shuffle and let my over-clocked brain idle. I am pretty sure my coffee is spiked with some vile peppermint flavoring, but I find the warmth and unnecessary caffeine rather enjoyable. I relax again and prepare myself for what will surely be a lengthy stay in the airport bar. The odds on my flight leaving reasonably close to the stated time are stacked firmly against me. Then, like clockwork, things get weird again quick as I reach the boarding pass checkpoint.

I reach into my inner jacket pocket and find it stuffed with strands of shiny gold tinsel. As I pull out the tinsel, strands float in all directions on the stale airport air. The already unamused security woman is quickly approaching the precipice of her patience. How the hell could this have happened? I want to blame the elves from the restroom, but none of them were tall enough to reach my jacket pocket. I’m unnerved, but fight to uphold the appearance of composure. No need to make a scene when you have a sizable bag of blow tucked behind your coin purse. I don’t know what to do with the massive hand full of tinsel, save that I can not ask the foot tapping security woman to hold it. Instead I turn around and hand it all over to the nearest small child, who, to his mother’s displeasure, shoves the shiny strands into his mouth and begins chewing laboriously. Eventually I dig out my papers and hand them over narrowly avoiding a rough date with doctor jelly finger.

I am trying my best to stand still and think attentive, yet nonthreatening thoughts, when out of the corner of me eye, I catch another bone chilling glimpse of the creature. It approaches the metal detector with the clip clop of cloven feet and though I am nowhere near it, my nostrils fill with the same putrid scent as in the bathroom. I realize now why the beast is so familiar. I had recently nursed out a hungover afternoon with a marathon of History channel documentaries on holiday mythology. One of the more obscure bits of folklore was the Eastern European Krampus tradition. The Krampus is a somewhat demonic creature, similar to the boogie man of my childhood, who while in the similar line of work to old St. Nick, actually visits the naughty boys and girls and rewards their immoral and undignified behavior with a few choice lashes of a wooden switch or better yet spirits the extra nasty kiddies away in his black sack to toil in his sneaker factory in Malaysia, or something like that.

Now here he is, tossing his lumpy black sack, most likely full of foul mouthed toddlers, onto the conveyor belt and gesturing inquisitively at a TSA screener, as to whether he need remove his ghastly vest of filthy animal pelts, before trotting through the metal detector and not one person seems to notice. Everyone is going on about their business paying absolutely no mind to the mythical demon making his way toward the departure gates. I certainly do not support racial profiling at airports, but I think, that when it comes to demonic horned figures, perhaps an exception needs to be made.

My papers returned to me, I’m allowed to proceed. I turn around just in time to glimpse the Krampus retrieving his sack from the conveyor and setting off down the center corridor before disappearing into the thick crowd. I try to hurry my way through the security check, but these things move of their own time and I am still being hawked by my fellow travelers after the tinsel incident. By the time I pass security and grab up my shoes and belt, the creature is nowhere to be seen.

It’s over an hour before my scheduled departure, but my flight is already listed as running two hours late. The delay is a bit of a relief, as the whole demon sighting thing has left me in desperate need of a cocktail. I head for the Anheuser Busch American Experience, a horrendous neon emblazoned establishment, where the decor looks like a low budget science fiction film set run through some sort of 4th of July processor. A menacingly gigantic eagle perches above the door. Its razor claws are wrapped around a massive x-mas wreath, studded with strobing lights and a large Santa’s hat sits rakishly on its head. It would not surprise me if lasers shot from its beady eyes and incinerated a traveler or two just to draw extra attention to the place. I enter the bar to the blaring sounds of a violently bad country version of Jingle Bells that almost sends me back out to the corridor, until I spy an open stool at the bar that I cannot resist.

I walk up to the bar with a touch of suspicion and claim the open seat, laying my elbows down in a well practiced motion. The bartender, her name tag reads “Susan”, is over quickly. It is my experience that, though they trade under different ridiculous names and sponsors, all of these overpriced and overlit airport joints have one common item that is geared toward those of us who start drinking early in the day and can use a serving of nutrients and vitamins with minimal chewing.

“I’ll have a really big Bloody Mary.” I gesture emphatically with my hands to emphasize the bigness I require.

“A Mile High Mary?”

“That’s the one, yes.”

“You can make it a double for two bucks more.”

I like Susan already.

The place has the ambiance of a shopping mall food court or a Disney theme restaurant but, with the exception of a few Midwestern families gorging on fries and hot wings, the patrons, or at least their corresponding doppelgangers, can be found in any shabby local tavern. At the far end of the bar, in the shadows of the massive televisions are the sad sacks, the desperately alone and the recently divorced. The holidays hit these guys hard and they’ve probably been drinking straight since Thanksgiving. In a twisted and mangled desire for human contact, they will start a fight with anyone within ten feet of their highball and are to be avoided at all cost. Next to the sads are a crew of “home for the holidays” college boys, loudly engaged with some manner of sporting event on the massive flat screen televisions that hang above the bar and from every vertical surface in the place. They are already locked in to an escalating cycle of cheap pitchers of lager and intermittent rounds of Jagermeister shots. For now they’re harmless, but soon the Jager will take control and a few of them will inevitably end up beating the stuffing out of one of the newly divorced and regretting it deeply. At least one of them will puke, hopefully not on me.

Susan returns with an outsized glass, possibly a liter, full of tomato and vodka goodness. However, in the spirit of the season, the celery and olives I was counting on for base nourishment, have been replaced with a twig of spruce and some poinsettia leaves that I’m pretty sure are poisonous. I give Susan an inquisitive look, but just as I’m about to open my mouth, she shoots me the patented middle aged bartender look that conveys, “don’t you even fucking start with me” with breathtaking efficiency. Without warning, my relationship with Susan the bartender has hit a rough patch, and with her keeping my tab at the register, I can’t even tip my way back into her good graces let alone a stalk of celery.

These places are designed to turn over quickly, as patrons rush off to their flights, but the airlines are so backed up that people keep coming in, while few can leave. I fish all of the poisonous garland out of my drink and try and let my mind wander, while staring blankly at what I think is a college basketball game. I’m unable to sort out who is playing let alone winning, but I could care less as I’m in it for the distraction. By the time Susan is hoisting my second MH Mary, I’m beginning to chill out, if just slightly.

Then, just as my muscles are beginning to uncoil and the brain swelling is easing, a deafening thwak cuts through the bar room chatter and nearly throws me from my stool. I flail around and discover that the section of the bar on my left has been taken over by a group of massive Canadian lumber jacks. Each of them looks like a stand in double for the Brawny towel guy. They are each over six foot and nearly as broad. The violent thwak was actually the sound of one of them casually burying the head of a large menacing ax in the rail of the bar. As I turn around his buddies all follow suit, punctuating the gestures with deep chuckles. What’s more, curled up around their feet like puppies, are a trio of full-antlered reindeer.

I can’t help, but stare and in the process, I catch the eye of the lumberjack nearest me. However, my panic fueled reaction is quickly cast aside by a boisterous warm greeting, an overpowering handshake and a slap on the back that nearly sends me over the bar. His name is Jack and he introduces me to his mates who insist I join them for a shot of whiskey. Jack promptly flags down Susan who appears untroubled by the menacing weaponry lodged in the bar. The whiskey burns like kerosene and I know instantly I will regret it. My new friends throw it back with the same casualness with which they handle their axes. I find a momentary drop in conversation and use it to duck out to the gents for a few bumps of holiday cheer. I ask Jack to watch my things as he seems the best man for the job.

When I return from feeding my sinuses, the crowd has swelled. I struggle my way back to the bar through a tumultuous sea of stranded travelers. Fortunately I find my bag and jacket next to the still chuckling lumberjacks just as I had left them. Jack confesses that in my absence, a deer has chewed up one of my gloves. I assure him that it is no big loss and offer the deer closest to me the other glove which it gladly accepts and proceeds to chew with vigor. Jack remains apologetic and demands that I join him and the boys in another round of whiskey to make amends. Just as I toss back the harsh brown poison, Jack unloads another monster back slap on me. I choke back the liqueur through sheer force of will. Through tear flooded eyes, I can see the ax men having a hearty laugh at the expense of my festive green pallor.

The woodsmen are certainly good folk and having them on my side in a chaotic situation would be choice. However, I need to put some space between me and their endless rounds of Canuck rotgut, if I’m going to get out of this alive. I check the phone for flight updates; my plane is now four hours delayed which means I have at least two hours to kill and probably more. I turn to check the score of the game. The same crew of jocks are still cheering at the screen. The ratio of Jager to blood is probably running a bit rich by now. The whiskey has me sweating and The Fear starts to settle in on me. But then a gentle voice slices effortlessly through the roar of the packed bar.

“I don’t think Georgetown is going to be able to pull this one out, do you?” A tall sharply dressed gentleman sits to my right shooting me an inquisitive glance.

“I’m not really following to be honest.” I confess.

“Probably for the best if your a Hoya fan. My name’s James, but call me Jimmy.” He extends a friendly hand.

“Jimmy, call me Dick, Dick Swingshift.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Dick.” He has a calm New England accent with a bit of a stammer, old school good looks and a calming air. I can’t help but feel I know him from somewhere.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to a joint like this?”

He hoists a nearly empty martini glass in response.

“Calms the nerves a touch before take-off. I have a bit of vertigo from my younger days. Can I buy you a drink?” He motions toward my girl Susan.

I examine my empty glass and discover that I have amassed a rather large pile of spruce twigs and poinsettia blooms, fashioned into a rather festive door wreath, with a bow from who knows where added in for effect. That is a massive amount of tomato juice and horseradish. I ask Susan to give me whatever Mr. Stewart is having. She returns with two sweating martini glasses with a few small holly leaves floating in them. I know for certain holly is poison, but it adds a bit of texture to my bar wreath.

Jimmy and I get to talking, though mostly I just listen. He says he’s from Bedford Falls, some sleepy burg up north where he runs some flavor of S&L operation. As far as I can tell, his business ran into some trouble a few years back, perhaps during the whole Milken fiasco in the 80s, but I don’t want to ask him about it. Jimmy’s stories are corny as hell, but they are warm and familiar, the way all small town stories are to guys who have set out for the big city, especially this time of year.

It’s not long before Jimmy befriends a couple of attractive girls in their early thirties who hang on his every word. He introduces himself as George, which I assume is a signal he’s a married man. I go along as George/Jimmy regales the ladies with tales of youthful football heroics and adventures with a guy named Clarence, who is a drinking chum or chauffeur of some kind. I enjoy the company, but have trouble focusing on the conversation. The bar is full beyond capacity and the volume is pitched. The reindeer are looking extremely nervous. I decide to keep an eye on them, assuming that if trouble erupts, their keen instincts will sense it first.

Admittedly, I have drifted off and dropped a chunk of conversation, but things appear to have taken a rather sharp turn in a morose direction. Jimmy/George is locked in to a morbid trip about attempting suicide and it is obviously making the ladies uncomfortable.

“…and there I was on the bridge on Christmas Eve…”

I’m just about to jump in with a bit of canned wit to try and salvage things, but I never get the chance as inevitably the room is consumed by chaos and violence. As I had anticipated, cheap scotch and loneliness had led to an altercation between a lushy sad sack and a red faced frat boy. Also as anticipated, Jagermeister and sports-fueled aggression quickly moves the altercation in a violent direction. However, unforeseen to yours truly, all the ruckus spooks the reindeer and sends them charging wildly about the overcrowded bar, stirring up a near riot panic in the process.

Frantic madness swirls around us. Children are crying, mothers shrieking. One of the college lads has been gruesomely gored by an antler, and his buddies are slipping in his booze thinned blood, as they shout for help. All the while Jimmy/George continues calmly chatting up the girls who are rightfully freaking out and trying to politely make a run for the door. I watch the riot spill out into the corridor and decide the safest place at the moment is right where I am. Through all the noise I catch the gentle tones of Mannheim Steamroller doing We Three Kings. Instead of fighting it, I surrender to its dulcimer calm and watch a holy leaf float gently across the surface of my half drunk martini.

Once medics and security show up things calm down amazingly quick. The gored frat guy will need some stitches but will pull through. The instigating lush is hugging one of deer bait’s friends. After a tense conversation, security lets Jack and the other lumberjacks carry on hatchets, blood lusting reindeer and all. A jumpsuited janitorial gentlemen appears and mops up the dude blood by the bar. Soon the place is quiet and calm and only a third full. My flight is still over an hour from boarding.

Not surprisingly the crowd has thinned down to the hardcore drinkers. A few lushes on the nod at the far end of the bar, a pair of security guys calming their post-fracas nerves with a few shot and beer combos before returning to work, and Jimmy/George next to me talking up a line of charm to Susan. I brazenly pop a few bumps of cheer off of a key and catch a disapproving look from Susan. Feliz Navidad blasts through the PA loud and clear, as the Portuguese elves from earlier walk in and climb up to the bar a few seats over.

The elves totally bring things full circle. Jimmy gets us another round, proceeds to down his in one, and departs, explaining that he has to meet up with a traveling companion before his flight boards. I raise a slurred toast to his departure and throw back my drink. Too drunk for my own good, my nerves totally shot, I just stare blankly into the filthy poinsettia strewn bar for a long moment. Then Susan lays some hideous concoction down in front of me. A hurricane glass filled with an unnatural green liquor, a float of crème de menthe and a candy cane garnish. The horrid smell of pine-sol cleaner laced with high-fructose corn syrup almost sends me into fits. I stare up at Susan with a confused and pleading look.

“From that character over there.” She gestures down the far end of the bar.

My eyes squint to sure up my blurred vision and there, sitting casually between two passed out lushes, is the beastly Krampus himself. Catching my gaze, he razes a casual toast my way and takes a long drought from what appears to be a large steer’s horn. The desire to flee is both instant and sobering.

“Susan, I best settle up and be on my way.” The bartender looks at me quizzically for a moment.

“There’s nothing to settle darlin’, your tab is covered.” The statement doesn’t really compute.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t. I mean, a few were on the house, but the others got picked up, by your charming friend Mr. Smith, the Canucks, those young ladies; hell, even the little fellas bought a round”

On cue, the elves wave at me in unison.

I slide a fresh hundred under the untouched green drink, wish all joyous holidays and a happy New Year, and hastily make my exit, while avoiding looking in the direction of the Krampus.

My flight finally boards, well after midnight. I find my seat, flop in to it and shut my eyes. I zone out in a fitful half-sleep through takeoff, thankful that no one has claimed the window seat next to me. I eventually stir when the seat belt light dings off at altitude and I hear a familiar voice.

“Well Dick, I had no idea you were heading south for the holidays.”

“Jimmy, what are the chances?” I look across the isle, to see my drinking buddy from just a short time ago.

“The names Elwood, but that’s no matter, can I get you a martini? Harvey here makes the absolute best martinis, don’t you Harv?”

Jimmy/George/Ellwood sits back and reveals a seven foot tall white rabbit sitting casually next to him. The rabbit looks up at me from over a martini shaker. It becomes instantly clear that my little cat nap has not set reality right for me. I ask Harvey to hold my drink a moment and excuse myself to the lavatory.

In the pisser, there is too much turbulence to manage a bump of cheer, not with my hands shaking this violently. The light flickers like a slasher film and the water refuses to run cold. Defeated, I return to my seat hoping beyond hope the rabbit, and perhaps even Jimmy/George/Elwood will no longer be there. I collapse into my seat exhausted and am quickly overcome with the musty stench of sulfur and brimstone. I realize with horror that the ghastly Krampus is awkwardly crammed in to the seat next to me. It sits hunched over and calmly facing forward. It’s body is eerily still, save for the horrid black tongue that wriggles and squirms about its ghastly face. The pudgy foot of a toddler pokes out from a black duffel on its lap.

I am beyond fear, screaming or even madness now. I am lost behind a twisted glass, with little possibility of returning. Turning to my left, I take a perfectly chilled martini from the giant rabbit, thank Harvey and Jimmy/George/Ellwood politely and hit the stewardess call button above me. I take a long cool drag of the martini. I have to admit it’s pretty damn good. Though the plane should be silent, a crackling grocery store rendition of Silent Night hangs in the stale cabin air. I figure I have about two minutes to conceive of a reasonable explanation of my situation that will not result in the plane heading back to New York and me spending the holidays in Bellevue.