I’m not a Christmas person. I’m not good at it. Truth be told, I despise it. Especially now that it starts in August. The commercialism and greed sticks in my craw like a grease-soaked cotton ball. If I were in charge, I’d make Christmas references illegal until after the first of December.
Speaking of greed. I’m stood on the street corner, waiting for the light to turn. The polar gusts somehow coil icy tendrils into my heavy winter jacket, leaving me shivering. A pathetic excuse for a Santa swings a bell that sounds as if someone had dropped shards of glass into a cheap tin cup. His drooping red sack of a coat is tarnished with soot and enhances a skeletal frame, he didn’t even have the decency to stuff a pillow under his shirt.
I glare at him, not hiding my disdain. Beside him, a handwritten sign, glued beneath a cracked plastic bowl wired to an old shower curtain rod might fool a distracted passerby, but not me. There’s a pitiful pile of coins at the bottom, like he couldn’t even be bothered. This guy’s a fraud. I should report him to the police. How despicable, a thieving Santa.
He’s not even wearing boots, just those fake wrap-around pieces of felt one sees in children’s plays. What a joke.
As the crowd surges forward, I catch a glimpse of his shoes, they’re full of holes, taped and covered in black marker. Blue skin, tight against bony ankles, protrudes above the shoes.
The light flashes green and I’m swept across the street. Grateful a few minutes later to be snug in my warm office and holding a mug decorated with eight tiny reindeer. Tendrils of steam wafts up, promising a hot cup of wakeup.
I pull the shutters down, but all day, whenever I hear the icy pellets rattle my windowpanes, I think about corner fraud Santa. I’d spent five minutes outside, dashing from parking lot to office, wrapped in a heavy jacket, grateful to get in out of the elements. Is raggedy Santa still on the corner, I wonder.
Eight hours later, when I step out onto the streets, colourful city lights twinkle against newly fallen snow. It’s almost up to the top of my low hikers. Heavy flakes, thick as blobs of yogurt, are still falling. I’m buffeted by shoulders, arms and hips by the masses of shoppers as they stream by me. Inside my thick toque the noise of the city is muffled, but, as I move closer to the corner, I hear the pathetic sound of broken glass.
Santa’s still there, arms wrapped around his body, hands covered in black socks. He’s stamping, almost prancing, trying to keep his feet from freezing. I hurry past him, he’s huddled close to a brick wall, his only windbreak. Recalling my self-righteous glare from this morning, I drop my gaze, the memory makes my cheeks sting more than the cold.
I hesitate at the parking entrance, then instead of going in, I continue toward a nearby discount army and navy store. Its windows stream friendly golden light, promising warmth and the pungent aroma of gun oil. Once inside, I scramble up and down aisles, guessing at sizes and filling my bags. Santa doesn’t even look up when I stop in front of him. “Here,” I say holding out two large sacks. “Put these on before you lose your hands and feet.”
He jerks and reaches out instinctively; his mouth widens into an oh. There’s a sturdy pair of boots inside. Two pairs of woolen socks, heavy black mittens, snow pants and a dark green scarf. Water floods his eyes; a perfect droplet clings to an eyelash as if reluctant to fall. Or maybe its already frozen in place.
“Oh. And I almost forgot…” I pull a red toque, trimmed in white fur, from my jacket pocket. I’d stolen it from our window display as I was leaving. “Santa needs a hat.”
His mouth moves but there’s no sound. Tears sparkle against his white cheeks, but before he can speak, I turn and run.
Merry friggin Christmas, I think as I make a beeline for my car.
Photo Credit
Photo is courtesy of the author
Hi Gab,
And a happy new year! Hope you have a good one. I love your writing style. Your piece was awesome, and I am sure Santa was very happy with you as well.
Thanks for this….