Because It Has Been Pointed Out To Me (The Santa Chronicles Continued)

Not every one of my stories starts with me getting chased by someone. I mean, sure, some do, like the one about the time I jumped into a creek while wearing chain mail, but really, that's more the exception than the rule. Also, I was much more partial to being chased when I was younger and thinner, and could therefore move a lot faster. These days I'm more likely to stand my ground and start swinging whatever cudgel-like object comes to hand, though thankfully this is largely a theoretical exercise.

Take the Santa story, for example. That didn't start with me getting chased. It started with my father driving me into the right neighborhood in South Philly - like I said, I was 15 at the time, so driving was right out - and my clambering out of his car in full Santa kit. Beard, check. Belly (artificial and suspiciously pillow-like), check. Hat, sack full of candy canes, you name it - all checked. And armed with stripey peppermint goodness by the double fistful, I set off for the address of the nice folks who were first on my list.

Dad, for his part, sat in the car and listened to the Eagles game. This was the first mistake of many that were made that day.

I was a party Santa, you see. My job was to come in, say "Ho Ho Ho", hand out some candy canes, and skedaddle. If the parents wanted pictures of their kids on Santa's lap, sure, that was all part of the service. But really, I was there to be jolly and make kids happy, and then amscray before anyone started tugging on the beard.

This, as you might have guessed, was a responsibility I took seriously. Very seriously. For one thing, I was terrified of screwing up. Scrawny Jewish teenagers from the suburbs are not generally your first candidates for South Philly Santas, and as this was my first time Santifying, I wanted to get it right. Besides, while we were blissfully Santa free in my childhood household - neighbors who tried to tell my three year old self that Santa had brought something for me were solemnly told that Santa couldn't stop at our place because we were Jewish - I figured it would be no fun for any kid to have a lousy Santa, and I didn't want to be responsible for any parents needing to confess awkwardly that Santa wasn't real any sooner than necessary.

So I psyched myself up to be Santa. Walked with a Santa stride. Slung my sack of candy over my shoulder jauntily. Muttered "Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!" under my breath in a lousy basso profundo that sounded more bassoon in a tub of water.

And then I got to the address. It was a row home, solid and made of brick, and there were three steps up to the tiny porch at the front door. I stared at it for a second, gave a passing neighborhood kid a candy cane (not technically allowed according to the details of my contract, but who was watching? Besides my Dad, anyway, and possibly Santa. The real one.), and then marched to the front door. With a white-gloved hand, I rang the doorbell.

Maybe ten seconds later, a woman opened the door. She was, my brain noted but did not process, dressed in black. "Ho ho h-" I started, and she said, "I'm sorry. My mother died last night. We canceled the party." 

I'm pretty sure I dropped the candy cane I was holding. My mouth hung open underneath my scratchy Santa beard. The woman pushed the screen door open a crack and shoved a twenty into my now-empty hand. "I'm sorry we didn't call," she said, and closed my fingers around the money.

"I'm sorry," I finally squeaked out in a very un-Santa teenager voice, but the door was already closed, and she was gone.