The Reminder is making its archives back to 2003 available on our website. Please note that, due to technical limitations, archive articles are presented without the usual formatting.
A rush of frosty air sweeps in as the door swings open. Out of the gloomy winter darkness emerges a large, round figure. His eyes are concealed behind foggy wire-rimmed glasses. Tiny icicles dangle from his thick white beard. He gently stomps his feet, dispatching delicate particles of snow from his leather boots onto the ridged mat below. His wrinkled red face sniffles from too much time in the giant deep freeze that is mid-December Flin Flon. He raises his left hand to his mouth, biting down on the tip of a soggy mitt to extract it from his hand. He repeats the exercise with his right hand and deposits both mitts onto the counter. Off come the foggy glasses, which he slowly rubs on the sleeve of his velvety red jacket. His vision restored, he notices that I am watching him. "Ho, ho, so sorry I'm late, young fellow," he says repentantly. "Not a big deal," I toss back. "How was your flight?" A minute of idle chatter follows as his thawing persists. After he huffs some hot air into his cupped hands, I invite him into my office. I plop down in front of my computer screen and offer him a seat. He slides the sturdy metal chair up to my desk and squeezes his considerable backside in between the arm rests. I can't help but glance at his belly. A colossal blob of flesh, it pours over his belt like rising dough escaping the edge of a bread pan. I'll bet when he laughs, it's like a bowl full of jelly. "I'll cut right to the chase," I begin. "I wanted to interview you because my sources Ð let's just call them older kids Ð are telling me that you're nothing but a myth." Surprise registers in his twinkling blue eyes. Just as it hits me that perhaps I had been too abrupt, his still-red cheeks levitate into a rich smile. "Hoooo, boy," he laughs. "If I had a nickel for every time I heard that one, I'd be able to retire." He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. "Well, Mr. Reporter," he continues, "I'm sitting right here. Am I a figment of your imagination?" "Of course not," I say. "I guess a better question would be, how can you deliver presents to every single home on earth in one night? That's a physical impossibility." "Ho, ho, this from a guy who got a D in physics." Before I can respond Ð or inquire how he knows about my academic record Ð he carries on. "See, I don't go to every home. There are millions of homes without children, homes with only naughty children, homes with 'no trespassing' signs. It's a challenge, but I get a little hot chocolate in me, ho, ho, and I go pretty darn fast." His answer sounds almost plausible. For a phony, he's sure done his homework. "All right," I say. "But come on. Flying reindeer? That's a little hard to swallow." As if on cue, a loud rumble startles me. It's too early to be the mine blast, and I soon realize that the noise is originating not below me, but from above. Someone Ð or something Ð is on the roof. "That's just Rudolph and the boys," my subject says nonchalantly. "They get impatient waiting outside and like to practice landing. The big night is soon!" Part of me begins to surmise that maybe, just maybe, this jovial old man is genuine. Still, why would my sources lie to me? "You must wonder why older kids keep alleging that I'm a fake," he says, as if he's reading my mind. "Let me just say that your 'sources'" Ð he makes quotation marks with his fingers Ð "are upset that they didn't get anything under the tree last year. My advice to them? Work yourself off the naughty list." He's still making sense, but he can tell that I'm not 100 per cent persuaded. Without a word, he reaches into a bulky jacket pocket. His hand returns grasping a tightly-bound notebook. He cracks it open. "When you were seven years old, you got a train set..." "How did you..." "...and when you were nine you got the Batman video game for Nintendo, along with a bean bag chair. When you were 12, it was..." He goes on and on, checking off the dozens of miscellanies I've unwrapped since childhood. A sense of awe envelopes me. A warmth fills my heart. With nothing left to say, Santa Claus rises from his chair and flashes me a grandfatherly wink. "Merry Christmas, friend," he says. "And Merry Christmas to all." Local Angle runs Fridays.
