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 concealed by foggy wire rims, he says nothing. His face is so beet red, tiny icicles dangling from his beard, that I wonder whether his jaw is frozen shut.
He gently stomps his feet, dispatching particles of snow from his leather boots onto the mat below. His wrinkled face sniffles from too much time in the deep freeze that is a
Flin Flon December.
Off come the cloudy glasses, which he 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,” he says repentantly.
“Not a big deal,” I toss back. “I hope you had a good flight.”
As my guest 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 chair. He squeezes his considerable backside in between the armrests.
I can’t help but gaze at his belly. A colossal blob of flesh, it pours past his belt like rising dough over the edge of a bread pan. I’ll bet when he laughs it’s like a bowl full of jelly.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” I begin. “I wanted to interview you because my sources – let’s just call them ‘older kids’ – tell me that you’re nothing but a myth.”
Surprise registers in his twinkling blue eyes, but his still-red cheeks levitate into a rich smile.
“Hoooo, boy,” he laughs.
He pauses 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 to deliver presents to every 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 – or inquire how he knows about my academic record – he carries on.
“See, I don’t go to every home. There are millions of homes without any children, homes with only naughty children, homes with ‘no trespassing’ signs. It’s a race against time, but I get a little hot chocolate in me, ho, ho, and I move 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???”
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 – or something – 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, you know.”
Genuine?
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 saying I’m fake,” he says, as if to read my mind.
“Let me just say that your ‘sources’” – he makes quotation marks with his fingers – “are upset 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 fully persuaded.
Without a word he reaches into his 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,” he says. “And Merry Christmas to all.”
Local Angle runs Fridays.
