First a story. A little Christmas story. I call it, “The Story of Clayton, the Skeptic of Ohio”
This simply would not have happened with a sensible holiday, like Saturnalia. A grab bag of pagan customs mixed with Christian and Roman folklore was to blame. In the middle of a night, at the start of winter, any sane person should not have to wake up to the cries of two excited children and creep around a darkened house because they thought they heard Santa downstairs. Yet there Clayton was in his flannel pajama pants, which strike him as far too “dad” at moments like these.
If anyone one was downstairs, it was most likely some sort of criminal. He doubted that his flashlight would be an effective weapon in that case. Maybe he could get them to go away for some milk and cookies. Say what you will about Santa, but he is a very accommodating home invader. Clayton was sure he’d just have a look around, tell the kids there was nothing, and get back to sleep.
The only problem was Santa Claus was in the living room. His kids would never let him hear the end of this.
Or at least Clayton assumed it was Santa. He had the hat on, and a red coat with white fur. Well, red hoodie. Although the jogging pants were not what Clayton expected. And he was pretty sure that beard was fake. But the man was definitely taking packages out of his bag, not putting things in it. Through his thirty-six years on the Earth, Clayton had thought himself prepared to face anything life could throw at him. He had to admit, though, he was thoroughly at a loss for how to respond to this situation. Standing at the foot of his stairs, at the door to the living room staring at the fat red ass of a legend. Luckily, the assumed-Santa seemed more adept.
At the sound of Clayton’s arrival, Santa turned with a jerk and said, “Oh, shit. I mean… Ho ho ho.” It was definitely a fake beard, and this guy was couldn’t be older than thirty. Also the man was Brandon.
“No.”
“It wasn’t a question. ‘Ho ho ho’ is the traditional--“
“I know that. That’s not what I was ‘no’ing. I told you not to do this.”
Clayton shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. Brandon told him he was going to do this.
“No, it’s not what you think.” Brandon was doing his best to whisper, a courtesy Clayton decided not to share.
“It’s not what I think.”
“No.”
“You’re not in my house dressed like Santa?”
“Well, yes. But--“
“After I explicitly told you that you’re not to pretend to be Santa for my kids.”
“Technically, that’s not what’s happening.” Brandon had him now. Clayton couldn’t resist something that was technically something. The best kind of something.
Clayton was starting to get used to this sort of thing from Brandon. He shouldn’t be, he told himself, but he was. Against his better judgment, he asked, “How is that not what’s happening?”
“First off, I’m not doing this for just your kids.”
“Please… oh, please tell me you not breaking into other houses dressed like that.”
“Not always exactly like this, but roughly the same.”
“I’m going to assume asking ‘why’ is a lost cause and go straight to how many.”
“How many this year?” They were reaching the point in the conversation where both parties were convinced that the other one was absolutely insane.
“You’ve done this before?”
“Obviously. Shouldn’t you let your family know everything’s okay? Tell your kids you heard hoof beats on the roof.”
“No, Sara has the kids. They’re fine.”
“But you have to let them know San--“
“I will not tell them Santa’s here!” Rookie mistake. You can’t let Brandon’s crazy get to you. “Now how many houses are you breaking into this year?”
“A couple.” The pause crept into every corner of the room with the quiet confidence of a glacier. ”Billion.”
Clayton cupped his face in his hands while he searched the breadth and depth of his knowledge to find the perfect response to such a statement. Somehow, “What?” seemed to work best.
“That’s my other point. Technically I’m not pretending to be Santa for your kids. Because I’m not… pretending.” Clayton face was fixed with the blank stare that only the staunchest of skeptics ever develop. Brandon pushed on with the truth the way only the best liars can. “To be Santa Claus.”
Clayton shook his head and turned towards the hallway. “I need a drink,” he admitted defeat. Point Brandon.
Clayton sat at the small kitchen table holding tightly to his glass as if letting go would send him flying into space. Brandon took the seat opposite him with a glass of eggnog lightly held in his hand. Removing the hat and beard, he took a drink of the eggnog. Drinks. There was something solid Clayton could grasp. “Is there alcohol in that?”
“Of course. You think I’m going to do this job sober?”
“Will I’m having a hard time grasping that you’re doing the job at all, so a bit of a moot point.”
“Come on, Clayton, it’s very simple. You know how I’m a time traveler, right?”
“It’s one of the first three things I think of about you.”
“Okay and you also know that I’ve been immortal for while now.”
“That’s another one of the three.”
“Well at one point in my past, in your present Brandon’s future, I get a bit bored. So I was thinking what would be a good use of my time? I’ve always been a big fan of Christmas, so I thought I’d try to meet Santa Claus.”
“Clearly the logical response.” Clayton was surprised how fast his glass was emptying.
“I started by going back to see Saint Nicholas, real nice guy by the way. But it turns out, he didn’t do most of the things that we contribute to him, the things that evolve into the Santa mystique. So I figured, I could step in. To save Christmas. And once I had fulfilled the role of Saint Nick, it kind of snowballed on me. Being a mythical figure has a lot of momentum.”
“So you’ve been going around giving gifts to all the children every year?”
“More or less. Up until they stop believing in Santa. I usually pick one kid and go from year to year. Seeing them grow up that way is like live action time-lapsed photography. With your kids, I’m doing it in reverse, just to keep things fresh.”
“So you’ve already been to my house in the upcoming years?”
“I will have already been.” Brandon never could resist the tense argument.
“That can’t be the right tense.”
“I’m a time-traveler. I think I would know.”
“I have a degree in English. Do you have a Bachelor’s in Time Travel?”
“Only like two universities even have that program, and how am I supposed to get in? They don’t accept high school transcripts from 2,000 years before the school opened.”
“Wait, is there really-- no. I’m not getting sucked into one of these conversations.”
“You’re doing a piss poor job thus far.”
“So what’s with the almost Santa outfit?”
“Well I tried traditional at first, but that thing gets hot in a hurry. And when I’m lugging gifts year in and year out, that it starts to smell like death. I modernized a bit. So sue me.”
“And the beard?”
Brandon chuckled at that. “Actually, from time to time, I like to work as a mall Santa. I love when the older, jaded kids claim that I’m not the real Santa.”
“Certainly ruins the time-tested beard pull as the Santa test.”
“Well this has been weird, but I should probably get going before I drink too much.”
“Maybe I should have brought my kids down to see this.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll probably let them see me when they’re too young to be taken seriously.”
“So any jokes about ‘something’s got to be done about my kids’?”
“Not tonight. I told you that next year.”
“Now that one was on purpose.” He was right. It was.
He spoke not a word, as he finished his drink
Rose from the table, placed his glass in the sink
And put on his mall-Santa beard and his hat
And walked down the hall barely missing the cat
He strolled out the door and into the winter snow
And he left for the years yet to come and long ago
Chrononaut Santa said, with his hood pulled up tight
“Merry Christmas to all, hope that I did all right.”
