§ 6, ¶ 9: The Santa Clause

It’s Hard to Stop Believing in Santa Once You’ve Met Him

A short piece on meeting the real Santa when I was a kid

There was a time when I lost faith in Santa. Me and my buddy Ned were 10, and one day at school a boy in our class blurted, “Santa ain’t real. It’s your parents that leave presents under the tree.”

Ned and I called him a liar. The derisive laughter of our fellow students was terrible, but conveyed the truth of the boy’s words. The teacher shouted for everyone to quiet down. Then she asked me and Ned, “Is it true? Do you two boys still believe in Santa?”

We nodded.

She turned back to the rest of our class, said something like, “This is what happens when you don’t take school seriously. You turn into a dunderhead who believes in silly kid stuff.”

Everyone laughed even harder.

Teacher called our parents. Mine and Ned’s. Told them the whole thing. My parents sat me down and explained that Santa was, indeed, made up. They also said I wasn’t a kid anymore, and should’ve known better. Since they knew most of my classmate’s parents, they berated me for embarrassing them in our community.

That was childhood for ya.

The ’90s were a different time.

Every year, early December, we went to a large Christmas party at Ned’s. His dad and my dad had been friends for years. That’s how Ned and I first met.

I usually looked forward to the party, but this year I was dead-alive. When we pulled up to the remote farmhouse, glittering in the dark like some wise-man’s star, my mom told me to quit jittering like a goddamn fairy with a sugar rush. Couldn’t help it. I loved those Christmas parties. I was excited, but only for a moment.

Ned and I were forbidden to attend the party. After an hour of isolation, we rolled into the kitchen like a couple raccoons sneaking into a campsite. We assumed the booze would lighten everyone’s mood, but it didn’t. Ned’s dad, Hector, saw us headed towards the collection of charcuterie boards and chased us away with a fire poker.

“This party ain’t meant for you two slack-jawed morons! Go on! Git!”

We sat outside the living room, sulking, until we heard the jingle of bells and the front door opening. One of the tots up and yelled, “Santa!”

Ned and I exchanged looks, and — as one — took a peek.

Sure as shit on the floor of our Savior’s stable, old Father Christmas stood in jolly regalia. Fat, white beard, rosy cheeks, and a bag of presents. This didn’t jive with my new understanding of his — whatchamacallit — chimerical quality. Ned though, he was elated.

Santa handed out presents, listened to the inane ramblings of the tots on his lap, ate a couple of cookies, then bid the party farewell. When Santa closed the door behind him, Ned grabbed my arm.

“Come on. I have to know,” he said. We went out the back door, then around the house to the front.

We saw nothing outside. This didn’t make sense. It’d been only ten seconds or so. Even if this Santa was a fake, he’d at least have driven here. No car in the driveway, nor the road.

“Ho ho ho! Are you two looking for me?” came a jolly voice from behind us.

We turned and there he was. I knew it was the real him. Had a rose gold aura, sparkling eyes, and a grand ol’ grin. Ned ran right up to the man and hugged him.

“I knew you were real!”

Santa patted his head. “Of course! Everyone knows I’m real. I’m Santa!”

Ned was crying happy tears while I looked on, stunned. Then Santa grabbed the back of Ned’s shirt and hoisted until their faces met.

“It’s fine to believe, but you keep that to yourself. Ol’ Kris Kringle is kid’s stuff.”

Santa looked to me. “What about you, boy? Do you believe?”

I shook my head.

“Good.”

Ned’s shirt ripped and he fell. He coughed and cried in pain on the ground. Santa started kicking him, and though Ned cried, he did not try to defend himself. His cries brought all the adults of the party outside. Ned’s dad, Hector, took a couple steps towards the two of them.

“What in tarnation is going on here?”

Santa gave Ned another kick and offered up another of his famous chuckles. “Ho ho ho! Your boy told me he believes in me! That’s a problem.”

Hector went to his son and knelt down beside him, booze-reddened face made redder with his anger. “I already told you Santa Claus is kid’s stuff, you pea-brained good-for-nothing!”

Hector stood and turned to Old Saint Nick. “You do what you gotta do. Me and my wife are young enough. We can make another son — a better son.”

“Now that’s the Christmas spirit!” said Santa as his sleigh came flying down from the sky. He kicked Ned away, then grabbed Hector by the throat as chains shot out of the sleigh and slid around Hector’s body. Ned scrambled away from the pair and over to me.

“W-what are you doing?” Hector shouted.

Santa chuckled. “The Christmas spirit is also kid’s stuff.”

With Hector bound behind the sleigh, Santa whipped his reindeer into action. He never left the ground, just dragged Hector along behind it in a looping circuit around the property.

This went on for 12 days and nights, and we watched most of it. The other guests had jobs to get back to, but my parents were self-employed. We stayed, watched all day everyday, and sang Christmas carols. Then on Christmas Eve, without a word to us, the sleigh rose into the air. Hector’s body still dangling behind it, screaming — kept alive and mostly intact with Christmas magic. Santa flew up until we couldn’t see him anymore. Heard a final, “Ho ho ho!” and he was gone.

Ned and I watched this final scene from the front window of his house, sipping hot cocoa. My dad put a hand on each of our shoulders. There was a tenderness in his grip that had never been there before.

“Congratulations, boys. You’re men now.”

I guess that’s what growing up was.

The ’90s were a different time.

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