Muskeg Press

Muskeg News wishes all its readers & advertisers a very merry Christmas filled with food & drink, friends and family. We’ll be taking the weekend off from news gathering, but leave you this silly poem to enjoy in lieu of our regular weekend essay. Happy holidays.

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This weekend, Muskeg News bring you our second Christmas story, a work of fiction filled with metaphors & similes galore by Rudy Kelly. The weekend essay will return on January 1, 2011. (more…)

New Year’s Eve 2010

Dear My Love,

The town was bustling with activity in preparation for what is the New Year’s bash. I met three very nice men in the alley behind what used to be known as the Daily News where more than a few bad eggnogs had sought and successfully attained jobs as masqueraded liars, including a one George T. Baker (his children, should he be so lucky, can count on Santa skipping their home). The men, whose faces were all a pale shade of brown, told me stories of how they had known me well as children but had forgotten what my job was. I was about to explain when one man, who seemed least familiar with me, offered a sip of his Sherry 74. I said I didn’t want to take from a man who had clearly little going for himself, but he insisted saying that it was a gift for my being so polite and all. They didn’t always receive such nice treatment from men with white beards such as my own.

“It’s nishe to meet such a good fella with such a hearty laugh,” said the man. His own beard was spotty, as was his collection of teeth. But his eyes suggested to me compassion and I could not turn down such an offer from a loving man.

It had been some time since I’d had a drink and was surprised by the way it took me almost instantly. By noon I was very drunk. So too were the men I was with. One of them began eyeing and chattered “I know you… no, I know you…”

I awaited him to finish, but he seemingly could not.

Then another one of them became completely undone. He began slobbering out his mouth and said in forceful tones that “you have never visited me! I have been good. Very good. But you don’t visit.”

I was panicked. Had I made a mistake? Had I forgotten this man as a child? Oh, it happened from time to time. With 6 billion people on this globe, it is very easy for a gift-bearing fat man in a red sleigh flying through the air to make a mistake or two. I began to mount my defence when the poor chap who’d offered me a few cups of cheer, performed a twirl and then fell completely to the ground. The other two gents turned out to be rotten cowards and soon dispatched themselves from the scene.

It didn’t take too long before the poor man was carried off on a stretcher towards the hospital and I was carried away in a paddy wagon to the drunk tank.

“But I am Santa!” I pleaded to the jail guards. One of the men, known as Mayor Dave, who had a wonderful Newfoundland accent, told me that he was sure he’d met me in Port Edward.

“I am not Tim East,” I said, still a little uncontrolled from my earlier digression.

“No, no. But we would like to find him,” said Mayor Dave eyeing me through the bars. “I am sure you were once in my house. But gosh, I can’t seem to place it.”

It soon occurred to me that the middle-aged man had in fact stumbled on to a memory that I knew well. Mayor Dave had encountered me as I placed his gift under the MacDonald family tree. He had confronted me that evening wondering what “Santy Claus,” had brought. Without a word from me, Little Mayor Dave then gave me a hug that warmed the Christmas spirit before running upstairs and back to bed. I was tempted to tell him about this memory, but felt ashamed that whatever I would tell Mayor Dave would reach all the way back to little Mayor Dave and destroy his faith in Christmas.

“Oh, I’ve probably been here a few times,” I said as a throwaway statement. I asked if I would be let out soon, but he was quick to say that this wouldn’t happen today.

I clung to the bars for an hour or so, until Mayor Dave returned from his lunch. With his soft smile and a fiery laugh he handed me a piece of letter paper and a pen of his own and said that I was free to compose that night.

And as I write to you my love, the Christmas spirit had never been warmer than on that cold bench in a Prince Rupert drunk tank surrounded by louts and bargainers, ringing in the New Year.

Undyingly,

Truly,

Your Saint Nicholas.

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New Year’s Day 2011

Dear My Love,

Last night was harrowing, as you might imagine. In my sleep I kept thinking about who I was and who I had become. My reward for my work on Christmas Eve was the wholeness in my heart. No good deed goes unrewarded. Unless you have been bad and then the rewards are off. Had I made the biggest mistake in creating the naughty and nice list? Did I place naughty first because I wanted there to be naughty people? Was I angered by the way people hadn’t repaid my generosity… that was it! I had to go to him. I had to see him.

The morning brought renewed hope and a cup of cop coffee. The police let me leave out the backdoor so as not to make a scene of my dismissal. The streets were quiet, but remained rainy. It’s always raining in this town.

As the rain fell upon my eyes, it blurred my vision. But I made him out just as clear as the sun in summer. I recognised the bald head with its smooth contours as if he’d seen himself walking by. It was Timmy. But he didn’t have his toy rifle. He had a lunch pail instead.

“Timmy! Oh Timmy! It’s me… Santa!” I screamed, but he paid no heed. He kept walking across the intersection heading up Fifth Avenue West. So I coyly chased after him attempting to catch him on his way home.

A young woman with auburn hair asked me where I was headed. She wondered if I’d like a tea to keep me warm. I kept walking, however, until she caught me.

“But I really must go dear,” I pleaded. But she insisted and dragged me in.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, “I really needed to talk to that boy.”

“Enough about that,” she snorted. “I have a bet with a friend that I could help anyone out that I pleased. She said she doubted I had the guts or the sympathy to do this… is sympathy the right word? Anyhow, I saw you and… yuck…” she continued, waving her long hand across her nose, “… smelled you and I just knew you had to be mine. I could see that you are no killer, no thug. Not even a common day drunk. You just need a cup of coffee and warm soup and you’ll be right as rain…”

“Please don’t use that term.”

“…so sit right here and I’ll grab you a coffee. But first I have to call Carol. She’s going to die when she…”

I busted out the door and saw the boy up the road. Timmy was playing with a strange looking tomcat. The cat hobbled across the road in the most agonizing fashion: his hind legs didn’t seem capable of moving and so he dragged his buttocks along the road. But Jimmy waited patiently for him to make the curb. Once there, he handed the cat a piece of meat from his lunch pail and the cat ate it very quickly before throwing out a hiss and pathetically dragging itself away.  I remember thinking how ungrateful this cat was. I hoped that whatever cat equivalent of myself was out there would certainly place this cat on a naughty list.

I followed Timmy to his home where upon my arrival he turned and said, “well have you figured it out?”

I asked him what he meant.

“You want to come inside?”

We sat down and Timmy began painting with the stencil set I had brought him for being a good boy all year. I was regretting that decision every moment.

“So what have you been doing?” he asked.

I told him all about the people I had met and the terrible things that had happened to me in the crummy podunk town that sun forgot.

“Why are you missing the point? Do I really need to draw you a picture?” he wondered. “You are so close to the truth that you might be able to see it. But you won’t open your eyes.”

“What are on Earth are you talking about?” I asked. “I’ve watched a woman degrade herself, I’ve had a woman mistake me for someone else. I was arrested and put in the ‘drunk tank’. I watched as a man passed out from drinking too much. And you keep talking in these riddles. Would you please tell me what I should do?”

All Timmy would say was that I was close and not to give up. He then told me I could leave, walking me to the door. I tuned back to say something but Timmy ignored my words and began playing in the yard.

I walked across the street where an elderly man approached me. I recognised him as little Johnny. He had a slight hunch and a bird beak of a nose and asked me where I was headed. I told him to a hotel.

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

Standing in the rain, my satin coat soaked, I thought this man was insane. But he said he liked the way the rain felt against his face. I noticed that the droplets hit his skin and ran down his cheek until it reached his smile.

“What’s so special about this day?” I asked.

“There are just some gifts you don’t ask for. You don’t do a thing to earn them. They just appear. Sometimes you don’t know them as gifts. Sometimes they seem like curses. But it’s nice to welcome them without guilt, without understanding.”

That’s when I remembered the snow flake. I thought of you. I thought of the kind words from Mayors Jack and Dave. I thought of Sherry 74. I thought of Roger, the manager and the stripper. I thought of Bessie. I thought of Timmy. I thought of Tim East. I thought of how I had forgotten!

Timmy was a gift that I had not asked for. He was dead ringer for me. He had portrayed me for several years, as many men around the world had, in order to remind children that I in fact do exist. I had done so little for him as a child. He had been a very bad boy. But he had changed. And I could offer him no gift, but he was now a man that I counted on. He was Timmy. And he had very good reason to disbelieve that my ethics could be counted on.

“Ho, ho, ho,” I laughed.

“Oh,” said the elderly man as he looked towards the sky.

The clouds had begun parting and the sun finally slipped through.

“That’s not so bad either,” he said smiling.

“Ho, ho, ho,” I laughed again.

I ran over to where Timmy was playing, but he was gone. I knocked on the door but one George T. Baker was there, his face carrying an ugly hangover from the New Year’s festivities. I took him by surprise and gave him such a hug and told him that he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

“Where’s Timmy?” I asked.

“No Timmy here,” George T. answered. “He’s not lived here since well before I was born.”

Timmy – Tim East! – was not there. Where could he have gone?

I went to Bessie’s. And as the front door opened, out stepped the very mirror image of me glancing at me as a curiosity.

“You all right, pal?”

I gave him such a hug and yelled he was… well. You get the point. I was back to my sleigh and began composing this final letter. Eagerness to return to you, however, forced me to put down my pen and bellow “On Rudolph!”

I passed over the Yukon and though it was belated, I dropped gifts from Whitehorse to Inuvik.

Finished and in mid-air, flying over the Arctic at a cruising speed, I pulled out my pen and wrote these words:

“We took off without as much as a whimper. But the lesson was loud and clear. Good or bad, Santa will always bring good Christmas cheer!”

Undyingly

Truly,

Your St. Nicholas

~Written by George T. Baker, who wishes everyone a safe and merry Christmas, even the naughty ones.

Santa had roamed the now soaked Prince Rupert for three days. His clothing was dirty and drenched to the bone and his beard was dirty with no shine. He was hungry having fought several wild cats for the half-eaten scraps to be found behind several restaurants. His spirit had become much like snow after a rainfall: a mixture of yellow and black slush. During this dark time, regardless of where he went, he was confronted by the most peculiar of questions that apparently related to a man named Tim:

“You still wearing that costume?” asked a young woman.

“Is that sign going to be ready by the end of January,” asked a local retailer.

“You heading down to Breakers?” asked a man named Trevor.

“How’s Bessie doing?” asked a middle-aged woman.

However, these questions were muted under the sounds of little Timmy’s voice. The damp clothing was immaterial compared with the large questions which anchored his mind: How could he not exist? How could he be fake?  He could sense objects with his fingers. He could smell the sea-salt kissed-air with his nose. He waved his hand at the man who asks for spare change for a coffee just like the other living walking around the soaked streets. But he didn’t feel real. If one young boy, as foul and depressing as he might be, thought he did not exist then perhaps the last 1,600 years had been all for not.

Had he not brought joy to the world? Had he not helped the Order of Goodness by rewarding young children for their best behaviour?  Yes. Of course he had.

The young boy suggested that he had ignored the bad children. But he hadn’t ignored them. He had kept a careful eye on them. He knew why they had not received gifts on December 24^th. Most had learned from their poor behavior: especially the wealthy children, who often just needed a kick in the posterior in order to right their ships.

“Tim!” a baritone voice called from behind. “How are you doing you old codger?”

Santa hadn’t heard the call as he was distracted by the delicious scents emanating from the homey bakery with an apt name, Baker Boys. He kept ignoring the baritone voice until he was tapped on the shoulder, turning quickly, slobbering a little.

“Tim, are you all right?”

Santa looked upon the man in disorientation. He asked the man if he knew who this Tim was and why he might be confused with him.

“Certainly, you’re Tim,” the man said convinced.

“You don’t know jack do you?” Santa responded tersely.

“No, I’m Jack. Jack Mussallem: Mayor of Prince Rupert. Certainly, Mr. East, you recall my 19 years of municipal governance.”

“Yes. Young Jack. That’s right. I recall you as a young whipper-snapper. But I’ve lost touch with you since you turned 18… you became a Mayor! Wow, talk about beating the odds.”

Mayor Mussallem gave a closed smiled and offered his hand.

“Good day to you, Tim. Go home to Bessie. She misses you.”

Santa thought of Mrs. Claus and what she must be up to this day. He hadn’t called her! She must be worried sick about where he was. He ran up Third Avenue West towards the coffee shop in the old bank building. He asked the man who asked for spare change if he could borrow a quarter. The man looked at Santa as if he was in need of a trained professional. But he did produce a shiny moosehead and then spoke:

“Spare change for a coffee?”

An exasperated Santa merely shook his head and said, “no you dingbat. I just took your quarter. Don’t you understand?”

The man still put out his hand, but Santa left to return to the West End Chinese-Canadian restaurant which had a pay phone inside. He began dialing.

“Hello?”

“Yes dear, it’s me.”

“Nicholas! Where have you been? You didn’t even make it to the Yukon. Children have been crying for three solid days there. Angry parents have called me to tell us off because we hadn’t given their very good children their reward for the year. One father questioned what use we were if we couldn’t produce on the one day we were asked to. Another asked if we were city workers? One mother even told me that her son had been very polite and courteous for the past 12 months, but on Christmas morning, when he didn’t see a gift from you, he threw out a curse-filled rant about the dangers of being good. She in turn paid that sentiment forward to me. Oh Nicholas. It has been so horrible.”

“I know.”

“Well, where are you?”

“Mars.”

“What?”

“Well it might as well be. I think this place is filled with aliens. They don’t seem to know who I am; like Santa is a foreign name. People here keep calling me ‘Tim’ and wonder when I’ll be finished the signs.”

“For what?”

“I have no idea… another alien invasion or something. The Mayor of this town seems to believe I’m this ‘Tim’. And a little boy who I met on Christmas Eve said that I did not exist because the bad children didn’t receive gifts.”

“Oh come home dear.”

“I can’t. At least not yet. I have to convince this boy that I am real. That giving gifts for good behavior is the honourable thing to do.”

“How long will that take?”

“Hard to say. But I’ll keep you posted.”

“Saint Nick…”

“Yes my dear?”

“Be safe. I love you.”

“Yes my dear.”

Santa looked out to gaze upon the retail road. The rain pelted the window with loud droplets, each one asking him to “come home.”

“I love you too, Mrs Claus.”

Santa hung up the phone, walked outside and in to the windstorm that was ripping the boards off the empty storefront windows. He dodged one that flew right for his skull. But he couldn’t avoid the next one.

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December 29, 2010:

Dear My Love;

I struggle to find the words that might share with you my peculiar set of circumstances. I was apparently hit by a flying plywood board. It struck my temple knocking me cold for six hours. When I awoke, I was in an emergency room surrounded by people receiving check-ups for their coughs and stubbed toes. My doctor kept referring to me as Mr. East and brought this poor woman named Bessie to my bedside, a name I’d heard much about, but finally met. This kind woman brought me to her home, but the poor thing kept on calling me Tim. She asked me if I was up for Breakers. Trevor had been asking to go for days. I was unable to speak for the first few hours, but I kept shaking my head ‘no’.

At about half-past six last evening, Bessie made me a fancy cup of tea and held my hand as I lay on the couch trying to regain my bearings. As she placed two lumps of sugar in my tea, she gave me the warmest smile I’d seen since I left you on the 24^th.

Let it be known that I had no intentions whatsoever of bedding with her at all. But in her confusion, based on her either not being in the right mind or having lost her resistance to my natural holiday charm, she moved in to kiss me. It was not until out of desperation I shouted “My god woman, I am a married man!” With that she awoke from this reverie and demanded to know why my voice had changed.

I laughed and said I was from the North Pole where we all had same jolly voice.

My answer did not placate her. She wanted to know what had happened to this ‘Tim East’ who I had been hearing of all week. But I had no answer for her save for a lost look on my face.

Unhappy with my inability to answer her questions, she demanded to at least know who I thought I was. I responded that I had once thought I was Ol’ Saint Nick, but had lost my esteem amongst the children of the world. So, I supposed that I didn’t really know who I was anymore.

You should have heard her howl. Like a long lost wolf. But she was very kind to me and said that I could sleep on the couch for the night, but for posterity’s sake I would have to leave the next morning.

I did leave this morning and headed to a coffee shop where there were a great number of beautiful women here – the kind you might have seen in a Sears Catalogue playing with their model boyfriends in a faux snowball fight. Again kindness rained upon my silly soul. One girl working behind the counter offered me a cup of coffee on the house because, as she said, I was familiar to her. Her smile would have melted the entire arctic ice sheet.

I write this letter knowing that no matter the magical gifts of other women around this oddball rainy town, it is still you that I think of.

Undyingly,

Truly,

Your Saint Nicholas.

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December 30, 2010

Dear My Love,

I had been loafing about town looking for a job. I had resolved to find employment simply out of a matter of survival. If I was to find a hotel room for the evening I sure as heck couldn’t offer to pay in left over Santa cookies. But I was struck by the difficulty a man with my experience had in finding work. In this town that one man referred to as “Podunk” – a term that I was sure this man had made up – it is exceedingly hard to not only find a job you are qualified for, but find a job at all.

I did manage to find work by evening’s end. At a bar that carries one of those old western appearances, I was hired as what is called a “bouncer.” The manager, a nice woman with a straight-edge exterior, told me that I looked the part. I believe I sold her on my previous bouncing experience, which as you know consists of knee jerks with toddlers on my lap.

The pleasant manager gave me my orders with a smile: “No cameras inside, no dancing on the stage and no funny business in the bathrooms.”

It became readily apparent that the customers were the former constants on my naughty list. Each time a man came in, I asked to frisk them. Reaction depended on the breed of man. Some were so ready to be frisked, they offered their souls. Others were so reticent that they offered only their fists. But as harried as it got, I managed to clear those who came with good intentions and those who did not.

Another chap that I met, Roger – who happened to be the main bouncer – was very cordial in teaching me the ways of proper bar room etiquette: he told me that a forearm shiver was quite effective in a pinch. He said never be afraid to look a drunken man in the eyes. And he impressed on me that asking men to sit down “and be good little children or you won’t receive presents” was a useless approach.

As he gave my lesson, I soon learned why it was an important job to make sure the patrons had no camera devices with them as they marched in: there was another woman who I recognised as a little girl who had frequented my nice list for many years. She marched on to the stage and proceeded with a wink in her eye and twist of her head, walking and dancing and giving me much to dread! She was slender and bright, her clothes were so tight, that men laughed when they saw her, but gave me such a fright. She spoke not a word, but went straight to her work. She removed her stocking and turned with a jerk. And rising her shirt to the tip of her nose, her entire family history before me was exposed! I ran and hid behind the bar.

The nice bar lady paid me out that night, a cool $200, which paid for my hotel and three square meals. I have no intentions in returning.

I checked on the reindeer and fed them their mix. Aside from having to chase a couple of scallywags smoking what came across as holly smoke in the sleigh, Rudolph et al appeared to be handling this rain storm far better than I am.

As I retire to my bedside I look upon the sad streets of this town and wonder what you are doing? While it may be selfish of me to think this and even worse to write it, I must admit that I hope you are thinking of me.

Undyingly,

Truly,

Your Saint Nicholas.

For Part 3, click here.

Each house was not much more than a list: a good girl here, a bad boy avoided here, a rocking horse there, and a lump of coal there… etc. And so it went on like this once a year.

It’s been 1,600 years of this. From Myra to the North Pole, Saint Nicholas has delivered on the night before his lord’s birthday. He had his list. It helped. It was his trusty list. There were names of four billion children, some who deserved his generosity and others that did not.

The night sky was slowly passing as the globe traded darkness for light. But not before he got home. And he had a few stops yet.

He made the trip north bound. He’d always finished his routine in Canada and not only because it was so close to home and the time zones worked. It also gave him the one guarantee that the big man in the sky could hope for after a night of work of generosity: the breaking emerald sky waves known as the Aurora Borealis. He would ride them home every Christmas morning thinking of nothing but Mrs. Claus and warm beaches.

“I’ll be home soon, my lady,” Santa spoke out loud, comforted that none could hear but the clouds and reindeer. And if any of them spoke, well, that would easily overshadow whatever it was that he said.

Low clouds hung over one of the last towns he was meant to visit. Prince Rupert was normally a little grey. This night it was white with little flakes descending down from the fog. Homes blew out smoke from their chimneys one after another, as if they were expensive cigars lit up in a boardroom of filthy billionaires. It made travelling through a little more hectic, but he liked the moist harbour air and the scent of honesty the town emitted as he headed in. And heck… he was Santa Claus. This was all in a night’s work.

Each house was easier than the next, a few ramshackle, a few apartments missed. Even a mistake: He visited a home on McKay Street written down mistakenly as good. But once he arrived, he could clearly make out the stolen bikes in the backyard. He made sure to repack the gift before anyone awoke to notice his error.

By and large the delivery went well as he easily slipped in to chimneys with nothing to resist him but the light of day that fast approached.

He came to the last house, an orange house, or was it a house-shaped orange – it was so peculiar – where he determined to make a quick drop to a strange but good boy, not more than ten, and then head off home to his dear sweet Mrs. Claus. The unpacked snow made landing on this apex roof a little more difficult than normal. But as the frustration tempted to show face, a little snowflake the shape of an angel landed on his cherry-coloured nose.

“Yes my dear I’m coming home,” he said. “No I didn’t mean you, Rudolph. You are a different kind of deer.”

He sized up the chimney. There was no fire. He quickly slipped through the narrow tunnel.

There are phantoms at night that make more noise, but a porky boy was stirred anyways. The thump at the chimney awakened the sleepless spirit. He went charging in to the room with a toy long gun rifle and bad intentions.

“What do you think you are doing in my home?!” the pork screamed in furious terror.

The fat man in an ivory beard wore a garish crimson red coat and pants combination and laughed as he poked the boy in the belly. To the boy, his fingers felt like stale Twinkies. His bluesy eyes were empathetic.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he bellowed. “Do you have a permit for that little boy, ho ho ho.”

The boy would have none of it.

“No, no, no. But I do have bullets,” he said as his face scrunched and he backed off with an arch in his back. He once again demanded that the obese intruder explain his presence in his home.

“What, you don’t know who I am. Really?” the fat man asked. “How many fat men do you see travelling down your chimney for Pete’s sake?”

“This is Prince Rupert. I’ve seen some fat guys do some extraordinary things.”

The tense stand-off did not alleviate.

“I’m Santa Clause, Timmy. Santa!”

Timmy stood there with the toy gun still pointed at Santa.

“I don’t believe in no Santa,” he said while noticing the bag over “Santa’s” shoulders. It was a felt and sequin number, worn a little bit, but magnificent all the same. He kept his left eye on it expecting something malicious to appear at any moment. A lightbulb on the Christmas tree gave out.

“What do you have there?” asked Timmy.

Santa looked upon the short man with a bit of incredulousness and huffed.

“Toys. It’s always toys. And always has been. You don’t catch on quick, do you little fellar,” said Santa. “I’m Santa.”

Timmy became angry and thrust his gun forward just as a knight might have done in the golden era of the dark ages, looking upon Santa and daring him to do something. Santa was not visibly concerned about this. He appeared to know just what to say and said it with such conviction that Timmy almost put the rifle down.

“Santa. Yeah. I used to believe in you.”

“Used to? I’m standing right here; about to place your gift under your tree – a good reward for a good year.”

“There ain’t no such thing. That’s what mom says. She says that the only kind of good year is one which ends quick. And when I asked her about you she said the only kind of person that comes tumbling down mom’s chimney is either a thief or her friends. And since you ain’t no friend of mom’s, I guess that leaves one last option.”

“I don’t want to steal from you, ho ho ho. I want to give to you.”

Timmy raised his trusted toy rifle to Santa’s rosy nose and said that it was time Santa had a seat. They had some things to talk about. First, Timmy wanted to know why Santa had broken in to his home.

“To leave you gifts,” he implored.

“But I never asked for a gift.”

“That’s not how it works. You were good this year. You receive a gift for that.”

Timmy lowered his rifle and massaged the bottom of his jaw, giving a crooked eye to the exasperated fat man who looked about ready to quit this question-and-answer session.

“But I was good last year.”

“Not in my books.”

“Do you judge people based on being good and bad?”

“You aren’t too sharp, are you my boy?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why you thought you could slide stealthily on to mom’s roof, allow your reindeers to hove all over mom’s tiles while you drop down mom’s chimney with a half-filled sack and look under mom’s tree. You didn’t last year.”

“Perhaps you were good this year.”

“Seems a little weird, don’t it?”

Santa’s whole face turned the colour of rare meat making his eyebrows look like fat rinds on a steak as he furrowed at the comment. Timmy lit a cigarette, unconcerned about Santa’s temperament, and puffed.

“There is nothing weird,” started Santa, his jowls flailing about as a dying sea lion might when attacked by a Great White, “about flying in the sky on a sled led by reindeer so that I may sneak into houses around the world late at night in order to bring good will and cheer. And would you put that out! You are way too young to be smoking. That’s a good way to get back on my naughty list.”

Timmy took another drag and blew the acetone, cadmium carbon monoxide and the 3,973 other chemical poisons towards the fat man.

“So you are happy continuing on with this even though it betrays your original intention?”

“Well, I guess… what?

“I’ve done my research.”

“But you are only 10.”

“Any four-year old can type Wikipedia. But you don’t seem to know that. You are very old. I guess 1,600 years will do that to you.”

“What on Earth are you talking about? What kind of talk is that for a ten-year old?”

Timmy stood up and looked at the clear night sky. He could see the red light of the radio tower blinking over Mount Hays in the distance.

“Have you ever met a kid that you gave a gift to that you though ‘geez, he was borderline good this year. But he was good enough.’ Did he receive a borderline gift? Have you ever met a kid whose only crime was stealing on a weekly basis even though he knew it was wrong? Did you skip his house?”

“All the time.”

“What if that good kid was only good because there was no reason to rebel? He was simply a perfect fitting part of the machine. He had everything he needed. What if the rotten child didn’t fit? What if he just was the wrong piece and the only way to wrench him was lost because his parents had left him to fend for himself while they were off drinking Sherry 74 in a back alley?

“If you want to know why I no longer believe in you dear Santa,” Timmy continued, turning to look at Santa, “it’s precisely these questions that go unanswered year after year. Just ‘cuz you show up once every four years don’t make you as jolly as everyone says you are.”

Santa sunk back further in to mom’s chair. He stared at the plastic tree and roaring pellet stove without emotion. The tree was empty of both decorations and presents, save one with a note: “To Timmy, love Mom.”

“When you walked around Myra way back when, you used slip a coin in any shoe you passed without thinking about good and bad. You just did it. Why not now?”

Timmy noticed the fat man had a tired, dizzy look on his face such as someone who’d just given a pint of blood. He offered Santa a cookie and a glass of milk and watched as Santa vacuumed the biscuit and hoovered the glass of milk. It was a magical display, not a crumb in his beard, and notwithstanding the fact he had a white beard, the milk was no where to be seen on his top lip.

Timmy placed a record on his turntable and turned the volume up… full blast. The sounds of cynical holidays could be heard throughout the house.

“And that’s why you are dead to me,” said Timmy.

Santa was crumpled in his chair. His face sagged and his rosy cheeks had lost all colour. He raised his head, boogers drooling into his now off-white beard, his eyes closed and his toy sack wilting.

“It’s time to give up the charade. You no longer exist. And you know it.”

“But what would I do?” Santa asked.

“That’s for you to figure out. Now get out of mom’s house.”

Santa left out the front door in a slump and called for the reindeer. As soon as he was far enough away, Timmy shut the door. He turned both locks.

~Written by George T. Baker

For Part 2, click here.