synanpses 3
By Mathieu Cailler

We drive in Jimmy’s truck;
it’s got a rusted bumper,
ripped vinyl seats, a
faded dash, and one workin’ headlight.
“A pediddle,” he calls it.

Jimmy won’t get the fuse
fixed, not ‘cause it costs
too much
or ‘cause he
can’t find the part, but
‘cause he wants to spread

He tells me about the game:

“When people see a pediddle,
they have to smooch.
I’m a

I laugh. And we keep headin’ north.

“So you’re Santa is
what you’re sayin’?”

“Basically,” he says, “a little
skinnier though, and I work all

We continue down Alamitos Avenue,
in Jimmy’s winkin’ truck,
cuttin’ through the night,
dishin’ out kisses.


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