Engaged

by Pil Lee

Santa tried to get out of the Emory’s downstairs toilet but it was no good.

He’d just snuck in to relieve himself before he left for the Mortensen’s and had become completely jammed. He realised when he’d first crept to the door by the kitchen landing that the Emory’s must have renovated since last year, but it was only a passing observation. The step down was a little wider and there seemed to be a new glass-fronted cupboard opposite the toilet with shelves of gleaming china. Santa recognised a couple of very nice Lladro figurines that he himself had delivered back in ‘92. The old creaky sliding door to the bathroom had been replaced with a white painted door that opened silently inwards and he’d given thanks for that – those creaks were nearly his undoing when they’d still had old Biscuit, the little bugger, sleeping in the kitchen.

He’d turned on the light and pushed through the doorway, just barely wide enough, and eased his body sideways around the sink before a gentle but firm nudge with his right buttock had closed the door behind him. It was always just a quick toilet stop at the Emory’s and he was soon finished. He moved to turn around back to the doorway but the cold ceramic washbasin ground tightly into his hip. He wiggled backward a bit and got his hand around the doorknob behind his back, but he then realised that opening the door would only decrease his area for turning even further. He tried crouching down, then standing high on tiptoe, but still the washbasin was in his way. Finally he realised the only solution was to climb onto the toilet, turn around, lean down and open the door and then step down and out.

Satisfied that he’d soon be on his way he stepped firmly up onto the plastic toilet seat whereupon his left foot went immediately through it and into the bowl, his hands madly cartwheeling to find a grip and his face smacking soundly into the tiled wall. He froze, shocked and terrified as he grasped a handle beside him, as his mind replayed the whipcrack shatter of the toilet seat, the splash of water and the thwack of head, fighting for breath as he waited for sure discovery.

Gradually his breathing calmed and he listened desperately for approaching feet. Finally he decided that the Emory’s must have slept through the noise and he sagged in relief, but he was still held solidly by the jaws of plastic gripping his left shin like a beartrap. He looked around desperately for a tool to use and saw that the handle he was holding himself upright with was in fact a telephone. Santa stared at the receiver and the buttons beside it, realising this was probably his only hope, but having no idea who to ring. He’d never used a telephone before and the only number he could remember from TV was 9481 1111. He knew he had to do something quickly, the night was ticking away, and he pushed the buttons with a trembling hand.

“Merry Christmas, Pizza Hut,” said a bright voice.

Santa quickly hit the cut-off button, but was left still stuck in the Emory’s downstairs toilet. He bit his lip and dialled the number again.

A different voice answered with the same cheery message. “Merry Christmas, Pizza Hut. Is that the Emory residence?”

“Yes,” Santa said, startled.

“Would you like the usual order, Sir?” asked the voice.

“Er, yes,” said Santa again, his mind awhirl.

“That’ll be twenty minutes Sir,” said the voice. “Merry Christmas.”

“Wait, Wait,” said Santa, starting to panic. He tried to calm his voice. “Would it be possible to deliver it to the kitchen door? Down the side path. The door will be open.”

“Yes certainly, Mr Emory,” said the voice.

“And just knock quietly,” added Santa. “I’m, ah, everyone else is asleep.”

“Not a problem, Sir, I’ll let the driver know. Goodnight.”

Santa hung up quietly and tried to ease into a more comfortable position. His leg was starting to burn where the plastic bit into it and he could feel his face swelling across his whole temple. In the confines of the tiny room sweat dripped down inside his velvet suit and he couldn’t even turn to slip a hand under the water tap. Red and overheating he tried flushing his trapped leg but then he worried about the sound carrying and stopped. The minutes dragged agonisingly by but at last he heard a faint tapping through the toilet door and the sound of a step in the kitchen.

“Er, hello,” said a voice.

Santa quickly unbuckled his wide belt and, grasping it by one end, hurled the buckle over his shoulder and at the door. He was amazed that it connected the first time with a small sharp crack and he pulled it back and did it again.

He heard a hesitant step on the little landing outside.

“Hello? Mr Emory?”

“Yes, yes, hello,” said Santa. “I’m in here. Can you open the door?”

There was silence outside and Santa tried again.

“I’m in the toilet and I can’t get out, I’m stuck, um, the door’s stuck. Can you open the door.”

He spoke as quietly as he could but by now his leg was a shaft of flaming pain and he was ready to throw caution to the winds.