A Merry Little Christmas
2003-09-06, at 4:21 a.m.
Story time again, boys and girls! I know this comes a little early in the year, but...here's a little something to get you into the Christmas spirit!
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A Merry Little Christmas
by John Grimm
It was a perfectly beautiful night. The stars shone with that surreal, wonderful light which only happens at Christmas time. There were clouds, but not many. No hint of storm hung in that crisp, ethereal air. The snow covered the ground in an immaculate white blanket.
The houses were silent; all the little boys and girls were in bed, awaiting the great morning. The parents, tired and happy, were also in bed. The last gifts had been wrapped and the last toys assembled. The stockings had been hung, and cookies had been left on paper plates, beside glasses of milk.
Off in the distance, just now appearing over the horizon, something flew through the air. No sound of bells accompanied it - the stories were wrong on that score. But as it got closer to its destination, it grew from a dot in the distance, to a beautiful red and silver sleigh. Amazingly, in this age of science, this sleigh seemed to be magical. It was pulled through the night air by eight tiny, underfed reindeer.
The person who sat on the driver's seat and held the reins was an old man, and obviously tired. He looked as if he had been very fat once, but now he was just at the edge of being overweight. His long white beard was a little yellowed now, and the wrinkles on his face looked as if they may have come as much from worry as from laughter. His right cheek had a slight tic to it, and his eyes gleamed...but whether from glee or mania, who could say? His white-trimmed, red fur suit looked as if it had seen better days, and the ball was missing from the end of his worn red hat.
It hadn't been a good year for Santa. For this old gentleman existed solely on the faith of the people whose houses he visited each year. Although he still had the magic to make the sleigh fly, and to create all of the wonderful toys for the boys and girls around the world, he could feel the magic dwindling. People were starting to lose faith, it seemed. The littlest girls and boys still believed, but in this age, they grew up much too fast. Why, the schools were teaching sex education in the fifth grade now! Computers were a necessity instead of a luxury, and faith in the sciences taught on television - even in the cartoons - was slowly replacing faith in the magical things of old. There just wasn't much room in young hearts anymore for things like the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy...or for Santa Claus, for that matter. Once, a child would have been eleven or twelve years old, before asking if Santa was really real! Now, though, they were asking that dreaded question by the time they were five or six years old.
And the parents, in this enlightened age of science and truth, were telling them that Santa did not exist.
And as the little ones' faith in him dwindled, so did Old Saint Nick's power.
The sleigh drew nearer to the first house on the hill. Santa looked down at it, searching for the perfect landing approach, as he did every year. He brought the sleigh around with a skill born of centuries worth of practice, and landed it lightly on the rooftop.
"At least this roof is not as steep as some," he said to himself. Why, he had almost fallen off the last rooftop, what with the steepness of the roof, and the looseness of the shingles!
He took the bag from the back of the sleigh, and walked lightly over to the chimney. There was no smoke curling from this chimney, which was a good thing. Once, many years ago, he had gone sliding down a chimney, right into a blazing fire! It had taken all his magic to keep himself from being burned.
But the fire at the bottom of this chimney was out. Santa dropped the bag in first, and then followed it down. He landed beside it in the ashes, with hardly a sound.
Ducking under the mantlepiece, Santa entered the living room. It was a large, well-decorated room. The tree stood in the corner, in all its holiday splendor. There were already large piles of presents under the tree, attesting to the lack of faith this family had in a visit from Saint Nick. He looked around the room sadly...surely this was part of the cause of his dwindling power. These people had everything they wanted; what could they possibly ask Santa for?
Which brought him to another thought - what about the poorer children, and their families? He had received hundreds of letters from children - and even from a few adults - who were in poverty this year. They all wanted the same thing, for the most part...a job for mommy or daddy, and a little Christmas cheer in their houses. But none of them really believed in him...
Santa hesitated, half in and half out of the fireplace. Maybe he would do better to leave this house of plenty, and go quickly to other houses, where there was more of a real need for him. After all, what did this family, who had everything, really need?
But then, he remembered the letter. It had been from this address, and a little girl named Suzie had written it. It said, "Dear Santa, Mom and Dad say you are not real. I don't think they are right. Bring me a Barbie doll. They don't know I want a Barbie. Suzie." No please, no thank you...just the words of a spoiled little girl, out to prove her mommy and daddy wrong. She probably only wants the Barbie to prove her point, Santa thought. Oh well...the Barbie was tucked down in his bag, and he had never failed to make a delivery yet. He shuffled the rest of the way into the living room.
The stockings had been hung by the chimney, but not with care. As he passed under them, one of them dragged across his back. It clung to the red flannel of his suit. A small vase, which had been holding the stocking on the mantle, fell to the floor with a crash.
Santa jumped as if a reindeer had bitten him, and uttered a small, strangled cry. He spun to see what had fallen. This had never happened before...in all his years of delivering gifts, he had never, never made a noise which might wake the people of the house! But his luck had apparently run out, he thought, looking at the broken vase. He listened closely, to see if he could hear any sounds of activity in the house. Running feet, perhaps, or maybe someone dialing a phone to the police station.
He listened...and heard only the normal silence which comes late at night (or early in the morning) on Christmas. Maybe, just maybe he hadn't awakened anyone.
And then the voice spoke.
"I knew you was real! I knew it!"
For the second time that night, Santa jumped. He spun to face the voice...and a light came on, momentarily blinding him.
"My friend Amy said you wasn't real, but I knew you was. Where's my Barbie?"
As Santa's eyes adjusted to the bright light, he saw that a little girl sat on the end of the couch, her hand still raised to the lamp's cord. She was about nine years old, very pretty, and obviously spoiled rotten. An old quilt covered most of her small figure; she had obviously been waiting for him. He stared at her, speechless.
"Where's my Barbie, I said? You didn't forget her, did you?" the little girl demanded.
"SSShhhhhh! Keep your voice down!" Santa whispered. "You'll wake up your parents!"
"Nope, they drunk lots of Christmas Nog at the party tonight," she replied. "They won't wake up for nothin'. They never do after parties. Now, I want my Barbie! NOW!"
Santa relaxed, as much as he could. He was starting to get a headache. This was the first time he had ever had to deal with a demanding child...thank God he didn't really do mall appearances! For a fleeting moment, he spared a little sympathy for those poor souls who impersonated him in the malls and department stores each year. Then he turned his mind back to the situation at hand.
His skilled old hands untied the knot on the bag. They unerringly went straight to the box, wrapped in pink foil and marked 'Suzie'. As he found the box by touch, he looked at the girl. Time to remind her of who she was dealing with.
"Have you been a good little girl this year, Suzie?" he asked. He had watched TV shows with mall Santas on them, and they always asked that question. Not that HE had ever had to ask it before.
"Not really," said Suzie, "but it doesen't matter."
Santa frowned. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. "And why doesen't it matter, Suzie? You know Santa Claus only gives toys to GOOD little boys and girls, don't you?"
"Oh, you're gonna give me my Barbie anyway."
"And why would Santa give a Barbie to a little girl who's been bad?" This is just too weird, Santa thought. This is NOT how it goes on TV.
"Because," Suzie said, taking something from under the quilt, "Santa doesen't want to get shot, now does he?" She aimed a very large, very unfriendly-looking pistol at Santa.
For the first time in his long, long life, Santa felt fear. Not for himself so much; he was pretty sure he was immortal. It was a fear that, if this spoiled little brat shot him, he wouldn't be able to deliver the rest of the toys in his sleigh. And there were children out there who depended on his deliveries...for some of them, it was the only Christmas they got. Why, oh why didn't I check the naughty and nice lists, he thought.
"Suzie, listen," he said, "you don't need that bad old gun. I've got your Barbie right here. Just put the gun down, and I'll give it to you right now. You don't want to shoot good old Santa...who would deliver the presents next year, right?" As he spoke, Santa edged closer to Suzie. If he could get close enough...
"You stop right there," Suzie said. "I want my Barbie, but I want somethin' else, too." And much to Santa's dismay, she used her little thumbs to cock the pistol.
Santa stopped. His mouth was dry. On top of the year I've already been having, he thought, now this. He felt his headache get suddenly worse.
"What more do you want, Suzie? I've got your Barbie right here."
"First off, I want all the toys in that bag," Suzie said, smiling. "And I want you to promise you're gonna bring me everything I ask for, every Christmas, for as long as I live."
Great, Santa thought, a pint-sized extortionist. He could just imagine it...working all year long, just to satisfy the whims of one little girl. And ALL the toys in his bag? What would he take to all the other children?
"Suzie," he croaked, "I just can't make a promise like that. I mean..."
"I don't care what you mean," Suzie interrupted. "My daddy teached me how to shoot this gun, and I'll shoot you if you don't promise. I'll shoot you in the leg, and daddy will come beat you up and call the police." She smiled. "And if that happens, they'll put you in jail. There's big mean men there who will put things up your butt. I saw it on TV!"
For a moment, it all seemed too much for Santa to bear. She was right...nobody believed in him anymore. To the police, he would be just an old, bearded housebreaker. He closed his eyes, and stood there, shaking. But then, an idea came to him. Slowly, the shoulders squared. He opened his eyes and smiled.
"Suzie," he said, "I promise I will bring you everything you ask for, every Christmas, for as you live." He smiled his most winning smile. "Now can you put down the gun and let us be friends?"
"Sure!" Suzie put the gun down on the couch beside her. "That's all you had to say."
Santa sat down beside her and handed her the giftwrapped Barbie. "I hope this is the one you wanted, Suzie. There are so many different kinds of Barbies, you know."
"I know," said Suzie, already tearing the paper off the box. "Yeah, it's okay," she said, when she had opened enough of the paper to see the doll inside. She dropped it on the floor. "You meant what you promised, right? Santa can't break a promise, can he?"
"No, Suzie," Santa said gently. "I won't break my promise. But I'm sure you're going to want a lot of things each Christmas, aren't you?"
"I sure am! I bet I can think of a billion things between now and next Christmas. And you have to bring them all!"
Santa sighed. "And you really want me to leave you all the toys in my bag, don't you?"
"Yep," Suzie smiled. "I get lots of toys this year, and next year, and as long as I live!"
"But Suzie," Santa tried one last time, "what about all the other little boys and girls? What about the toys that were meant for them? What will I take to them, if you take all the toys?"
"Who cares," Suzie said. "I want ALL the toys, and you promised!"
"Yes, I did," Santa said. "I'll leave them under the tree for you, Suzie. Right now, though, I think we'd better get you to bed, okay?"
"Okay. And you have to talk to me till I'm 'sleep, too."
"I will, Suzie."
Santa picked Suzie up, still wrapped in the quilt. He took her to the room she indicated, at the foot of the stairs. He gently tucked her in, and then sat beside her, on the edge of the bed. And then, quietly, he started to cry.
"What's wrong, Santa?" Suzie asked.
"Oh...I'm just thinking about how hard next year is going to be," he replied. "So many toys to make..."
"For me!" she crowed.
"Yes, for you. Plus, as far as I can tell, you may be the only little girl in the world who still believes in me," he smiled at her. "Just you...and you don't really have any Christmas spirit, Suzie. You've just got a good case of I-want."
"Damn right," Suzie said, yawning.
"I just don't know how I'm going to do it. You see, if nobody believes in me, I don't have any power. All my magic comes from little girls' and boys' faith in me. And that's fast running out."
Suzie's eyes were almost closed. She opened them now, and looked sleepily at Santa. "You know, my daddy says something every time I get cryin' or somethin'. It sometimes makes me feel better, even though I don't know what it means."
"What does he say?" Santa asked, leaning forward to listen to the great secret.
"He says, 'Take heart'," Suzie replied, slipping easily into sleep.
Santa sat and watched her sleep for a while. He stroked her hair back from her forehead, and thought about the promise he had made to her. "Everything you want...for as long as you live," he whispered. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, with that look which could have passed for either cheer or madness.
Then he reached into his pocket and took out an old, old pocketknife. It, too, had some magic. After all these years of riding in his pocket, the knife was still razor sharp. He unfolded it, and looked down at Suzie.
"I promised, Suzie. As long as you live." Santa bent down and gently placed the blade to the small breastbone.
"Take heart. Take heart? Not a bad idea, you little brat. Not a bad idea at all!"
And Santa began to cut.
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Later, in the sleigh...
Santa flew low over the snow cover, looking for the houses of the good little girls and boys. He reached one bloodstained hand into the box which sat on the seat beside him. They won't be able to tell their kids I don't exist now, he thought. They'll ALL believe in me now.
A man could get a taste for doing it like this, he thought, as he bit off another mouthfull of Suzie's heart. He smiled at his own pun, as he chewed the warm, raw meat. Take heart? Indeed. And lungs, and liver, and kidneys...it was going to be a long night, after all. A man his size needed energy, and he wasn't quite as fat as he used to be. There was a lot of work ahead.
He had his lists out. One of them, the 'nice' list, was pinned to the bag behind him. The 'naughty' list sat beside him on the seat. A bloodstained old pocketknife held it in place.
This year, he thought, everybody will know when Santa comes to town...
--end--
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I am feeling:
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