Merry Christmas

Macy's SantaClaus sat drinking down the dark end of the bar at the Eunuch's Horn. It was just past Christmas eve and Joe the republican publican had deep black circles underneath the deep black pits under his bushy black brows, as tired as a barkeep gets and stays open. It was duty with Joe.

"Bout time you hit the road, Nick. Too many under that belt. Wouldn't want Rudolf smacking into a lamppost or something.''

"Call me Kris, Joe. Everyone else does." His voice was just the elegant belly-voice the job required, half Churchill, half Reagan. Real whiskers and real gut, the perfect Santa. The rest of the year he kept a low profile doing something under they streets, but Joe saw him Fridays and Saturdays like clockwork.

"Aw c'mon Nick, Kris Kringle's Santa's name, you gotta expect that this time 'a year. No one means nothing by it."

"That's right, Joe, no one does. None of it means a jot now. Unless you happen to be my employer. Or my employer's employer. Or their employer. Or whoever it is whose pocket gets lined. They know what Christmas means all right. They just don't call it that any more."

"Whatta they call it?"

"They don't call it anything. They have an after-Christmas sale, but they don't have a Christmas. They have Happy Holidays. No MerryChristmas signs. I sit with twelve dozen brats an hour screaming in my ear 12 hours a day for twelve weeks of Christmas, no lunch break, nothing but milk and cookies to keep me alive -"

"That's eggnog in front of you Nick -"

"I'm off now - and I have to say, Ho Ho Ho! Happy Holidays!. It's humiliating, that's what it is."

"Well, whyn't you go complain? They got to listen to you, right? Well, not at this hour. You probably ain't noticed, but there ain't a soul here but you 'n I, and I'd be kinda grateful to close up and go sneak a peek at Joe Junior before he wakes up and starts breaking toys."

"If only I could complain, Joe, if only. You point me in the right direction and I'll deliver a whole trunk load of coal. Ho Ho!"

"Lemme google 'm, Nick. Lessee Zimmerman ... no, he retired ... Terry Lundgren. Owns some joint called Federated Department Stores. They own Macy's, Bloomies, JC Penny, Here's his smiling mug for ya:"

SantaClaus pulled a dank white forelock out of foggy eyes. "That's some fancy toy you got your kid there, Joe. Okay, so where does Lundgren live?"

"Just a minnit, Nick. Hmm. Far as I can tell upstate New York. Some little gated burg called Painted Post. Here's what Yahoo sez anyhoo. Sez he's in the Kiwanis too."

Santa stood up and steadied himself. "I'll trouble you for my keys, Joe."

"No can do, Nick. You know where the cab rank is at."

"But I have to go see Lundgren, Joe. Tonight. I can hardly afford cab fair to get me upstate."

"Wait now, Nick, that's the gin talking. You ain't gonna actually go see this bork. What would you say to 'im? Look, sez here there's a Christian boycott onna guy fer this. O'Reilly's after him onna TV. No dime-store Santas needed."

"I really have a trunk full of coal, Joe. No, no, hear me out. Every year I stock up on the stuff. I hand it out to the screamers and piddlers - quiets them right down. No, I see that look in your eyes, but I never get called on it - the parents love a quiet child. I tell the little one that unless they're good, right now, that's all they get."

"Yer kiddin''".

"I'm SantaClaus, Joe. I do not kid. I joke, I riddle, sometimes I even pun, but I do not kid. The Christians do not own Christmas. It's a pagan festival dating back to Sumer. Sure I'm St Nicholas to the Christians, Sinterklaas to the Dutch - but they stole it from a much older tradition. I was Bacchus to the old Greeks and I'm still Hotei the laughing Buddha in the East. Washington Irving made me the fat coachman you know."

"Okay, okay, but you still can't have your keys. Santy ain't gettin' splattered against an underpass on my watch. I mean, can you see the papers? "Santa Killed Delivering Coal, pictures at 11"? No, Nick. But ... I'll drive ya."

"Are you forgetting Joe Junior, Joe?"

"Nah, he sleeps deep, we'll load 'im inna back seat. Dolores left me last year, Nick, you know that. Come to think, little Joe'll get a bang out of a rag like this. How's your brakes?"

"Rudolf may be weathered and dented, Joe, but he's serviceable and serviced. I do all the work myself and I guarantee it. Besides the old Plymouth has so much metal around us it's safe at any speed."

[To Be Continued] --PeterMerel