I am not as familiar with Santa Claus as most people, for he was a sporadic visitor to my home during my incorrigible childhood.
That is why, on a fog-shrouded visit to the Riverwalk during lunch hour Monday, I did not immediately acknowledge the “right jolly old elf” as he slouched wearily on a park bench.
But he did catch my gaze and, recognizing me, the demeanor of his broad face assumed the countenance of the airline customer service rep when first approached by a traveler whose luggage has been lost. He held up a gloved hand in the universal sign language that says, “I don’t want to hear about it.”
So I didn’t speak, but was content to sit down on the bench next to him and wait for him to initiate the conversation.
“Rudolph weather,” he said absently as we stared across the expanse of the misty park toward the shadows of what we judged to be the Tombigbee River.
“I saw on TV that the weather is going to be pretty good on Christmas Eve, though,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood.
“I’m a world-wide operation,” Santa noted icily. “The one thing you can count on in my line of work is bad weather somewhere.”
It wasn’t the most promising start to a conversation, but it did serve as an ice-breaker and over the next five minutes, we made polite small-talk.
“I used to work at a pizza place when I was a teenager,” I said. “After a month, I got sick of pizza. It took me years to get an appetite for pizza after that. I bet it’s the same for you, huh? With the cookies, I mean.”
A sad smile crept across his whiskered face.
“Personally, I prefer a nice pork chop, but no. It’s always cookies,” he said. “Look, I’m already 350 pounds. I need another cookie like Philip Hickman needs another textbook.
“Just the other day, I was telling Mrs. Claus…”
I interrupted.
“You’re married?” I asked.
He leaned back and studied me for a moment.
“Yes, I’m married. This surprises you?”
“It’s just…Well, I just assumed….Married, huh? And yet you are allowed to leave the house dressed like that.”
Santa’s eyes narrowed..
“You always were a little snot,” he said.
“Yeah, well, there were a lot of years you weren’t on my list, either. How many times did you bring me Christmas presents? Three, maybe?
“More like seven,” he said. “In fact, I visited you the first four years of your life. But once you got fully ambulatory, it was pretty much over for you as far as I was concerned. But I did visit you in 1966 and 1968 and 1971, too. Believe me, I had to look the other way quite a bit, even in those years.”
Santa gazed off through the fog. He seemed to be recalling the events of my life from the distance of 40 years or more.
“In 1969, you were this close,” he said, finally, holding his thumb and index finger a half-inch apart. “Then two days before Christmas, there was that unfortunate incident with old Mrs. Simpson’s underwear.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said.
Santa let out a chuckle.
“Oh, I am sure you don’t remember that,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You don’t remember that poor woman’s underwear hanging out there on her clothesline. You don’t recall snatching them as soon as she went into the house. You don’t remember collecting every stray dog in half of Lee County and dressing them up in that poor old woman’s underwear and marching them down Old Saltillo Road like some sort of perverted Victoria’s Secret catwalk. The bulldog in a bra was a particularly inspired choice, I thought. But, no, you don’t remember any of that, do you?”
“I vaguely recall some misunderstanding involving Mrs. Simpson’s laundry, second-hand information, of course,” I said. “The way I heard it, Jimmy Morgan….”
Santa roared out a laugh.
“Don’t give me any of this Jimmy Morgan stuff. Remember, I know if you’ve been bad or good.”
I was beginning to get a little uncomfortable – there were other closets, other skeletons. I wasn’t eager for him to unpack them, either. So with a flourish I threw out my arm and made a big production of looking at my watch.
“Wow, look at the time.” I said. “I gotta get back to the office.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got stuff to do, too,” Santa said, slowly extricating himself from the park bench.
He paused, “You know, you turned out better than I thought you would… My expectations were pretty low.”
Then, laying a finger aside of his nose, he was gone in a flash, disappearing into the mist. I followed the sound of bells jingling for a few seconds before the sound faded away to the north.
I shrugged and turned to follow the sidewalk back down the Riverwalk.
“Who names a reindeer Donner anyway?” I mumbled.
And then I started remembering those dogs dressed out old Mrs. Simpson’s unmentionables, a crime that rendered me a late scratch on Santa’s itinerary in 1969.
“It was worth it,” I said aloud, “definitely.”
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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