Merry Christmas Redux

The following story is trotted out by this author every time I create a blog and every time I post it, I'm compelled to reread it and make changes, cursing myself for what I view as less than perfect work. This year, I have made no changes. This is one of the finest things I've written and I'm unabashedly proud of it. In and between its lines are all the truths about what's good in human beings and, given the environment in which we currently find ourselves wandering around, the author likes to think everyone has these qualities in abundance.

Merry Christmas

By Anthony Simone © 2009

It was 8:45 when I got there and I wasn’t sure if I’d have time enough to do it. See Santa, I mean. In Macy’s. Yeah, the one on 34th Street. From the movie (and not that lousy remake for TV, either). It was chilly, too, given that it was Santa’s first day for this year’s New York gig. Under-dressed for the weather but determined to see Santa, I hustled up the escalator (no elevators for me, bub) to the fourth floor where the old man was situated, not too far from the toaster ovens.

Sure enough, he was there and since it was his first day there weren’t many kids around or anybody for that matter. So I ambled up to him and said, as earnestly as I could, “Santa, can I have a few minutes of your time?” He stared at me from behind the granny glasses perched on his red nose and said, “What are you, kidding me?!” I blanched. “You’ve got to be 40 years old at least!” “Fifty-one, actually, Santa,” I muttered, “and I still believe in ….” my voice trailed off. Santa glared at me for a moment. “Damn!” he finally said, “I haven’t seen one of you in a long time.” Another stare. “I get out of here at 9, wanna have a drink?” “I always want to have a drink, Santa,” I replied, barely concealing my delight over this unexpected good fortune. “Great, “he said. “Meet me at the main terminal bar in Grand Central at 9:15. Sharp.” And, with a wave of his hand (no sashes available), I was off to Grand Central.

The main terminal of Grand Central station is a wonder at any time, but during Christmas it is glorious. The ceiling is already covered with the constellations ever so softly lit and, with the addition of all the Christmas lights, wreaths and ornaments, that ceiling becomes a canvas of urban beauty and imagination. Since the bar is close by, the images are always around you from peripheral points. Santa knows his spots. No sooner had I sat down than he appeared. Just like that. “So, great spot, huh?” I nodded in agreement. Santa looked at me again intently and smiled. “Let’s get a drink and you’re buying cause Santa doesn’t carry money.” “Not even gas money?” I asked. “Very funny,” he said. The drinks were ordered, arrived in short order and, after what seemed to be an interminably long sip, Santa looked at me again. “So, let me ask YOU something?” I nodded. “What in the world would make a 51-year-old man want to talk with Santa?” Before I could answer, he blurted out, “and why do you STILL believe in me? I’ve been thinking of hanging this up and letting the deputies handle the admin stuff anyway.”

“Well, Santa,” I began, and he interrupted me again. “Listen, I know you call me Santee Clauz and that’s what you say to all the kids, too, so go ahead and call me that.” I grinned and said, “OK, Santee, here’s the story. I’ve got a lot to ask of you this year; a lot more than usual, so I thought I’d make a trip to see you, and New York was the closest and best spot I knew of.” Santa fingered his rocks glass and replied, “You don’t ask for much, to begin with, at least not for yourself. So, what do you want?” “How long have you got?” I questioned. “All night, son. Things don’t get hopping till around December 15th. And when this joint closes we can always go the Waldorf, I got a suite there.”

“All right, how about I get myself out of the way first?” I asked. “Sure, sure, whatever you say … hey! How about some peanuts over here?” Santa shouted. A waitress scurried over with a heaping bowl of nuts. “Nuts!” Santa laughed, “This world’s full of them.” I got myself reorganized and continued. “You know I’d like a little whiskey and maybe a couple of good books and a nice sweater or two. That’s it, really.” “How about cigars this year?” Santa queried. “Naw, I quit smoking,” I said. “Remember I told you I wanted to live to be 100?” “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Santa said. “You know age is just a state of mind …. and gravity.” “Got you, Santee, thanks.” “Sorry,” he said, “keep going.”

“So, what I’m looking for is stuff for the people I love and a couple of things I can’t really explain, except to say that they aren’t things but something else; something I don’t know how to define.” Santee Clauz gave me a once over and said, “You’re getting a little psychiatric if you know what I mean. Do you know how hard it is for me to just get around to the toys? Hell, half the time the elves are off boozing it up or hitting on each other … a repulsive sight, really. And anyway, I’m having a harder and harder time with the mentality gifts.” “What do you mean,” I asked. “Pal,” he answered, “half the world doesn’t believe in me and tell their kids I’m just a creation of Rankin and Bass, and the other half of the world tells their kids that I represent all that’s materialistic and take away from the true spirit of Christmas. Hell, I was there when Jesus was born! I know what a big deal it is. This stuff about having Christmas in your heart all the time has to come from all of you. I just don’t have the horse, er, reindeer power to do it.” I began to look down into my drink and Santa added, “But go ahead and tell me. I can always do my best, which is usually pretty good. And anyway, you’ve been a very good boy this year.”

“Well, Santee, “I said, “it’s good to know you think I’m pulling my weight.” Santa laughed and replied, “It’s not about pulling weight, kid. It’s about not denying to yourself or anyone else what happens on this planet and how you can affect it and others.” Now it was my turn to give Santa a penetrating look. “Hey, Santa,” I said, “You’re not going to give me the Christmas Carol treatment, are you?” “No,” the old man replied, “but a variation on the theme. Wanna’ take a ride?”

The first thing I noticed about Santa’s sleigh was its simplicity. No high tech lights, ultra-shiny bronze ornaments or spotless stainless steel sleigh rails. It’s Radio Flyer red, of course, with gold trim and plain iron rails. The bench isn’t leather, more like a buffalo hide that’s more than a little worn. The one accommodation to modern times is the GPS unit mounted on the dash. “Even I gotta’ have one of these,” Santa confided to me. “A couple of years ago Rudolph had a head cold and we wound up in Manitoba instead of Minnesota.” The second thing I noticed was that this sleigh and reindeer were situated smack dab in front of Grand Central and nobody noticed at all. “Are we invisible?” I wondered aloud. “Nope,” Santa said, “but just like the sleigh bells – you have to believe first to hear and see.”

We rose from the street and into the air effortlessly, without noise or hoof beats, like the ascension of a hot air balloon. Once we got to what seemed like an Everest like elevation, we rode the air as a surfer does a wave. I felt no cold and heard nothing but my own thoughts … so did Santa.

“You’re wondering where we’re going, huh?” he asked. “Well, sure,” I said. “I’m surprised I didn’t see blurriness before my eyes like you see on the TV when you’re headed into a dream or flashback.” “I don’t pull stunts like that, buddy,” Santa said. “God equipped me with the space-time continuum gift. Works wonders when you’re running late or you forgot your house keys.”

Before I knew it we had stopped. “First stop,” Santa announced. “Where are we?” I questioned. “Take a walk around and you’ll see,” Santa commanded. Commanded was the right word because it was clear to me we were on a field of battle. I felt the cold at this point and, on either side of me, there were miles and miles of barren fields, horse carcasses and shredded tents atop trenches. It looked much like Verdun or Flanders may have in 1917. Not too far from me, I saw a group of men huddled behind an embankment, their uniforms barely more than rags, long rifles leaned on as canes and in their midst a flicker of a fire. The air smelled rancid and, far off, I thought I saw stars and a few stripes. I knew immediately. “Valley Forge,” I said aloud. “Smart lad,” Santa said. “Of course, it could just as easily be France, Germany, Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan or Iraq. Does it really matter?"

“Take a look around and you’ll see why this Christmas at Valley Forge is important for you to see firsthand.” Santa gestured broadly across the field and said, “Do you see that fellow about a hundred yards to your left? Next to what remains of that tent?” “Oh, yes,” I said, “I see. He looks pretty beaten down.” Santa leaned over and touched me on the shoulder. “That’s your multiple great Uncle Henry Rivette. With the Long Island first regiment.” My jaw dropped as Santa went on. “Your mother told you about him once, didn’t she? How he had come down from Canada only a few years before the revolution, joined the cause just before the battle of Long Island and ended up a Captain in the Continental Army, right?” “Right,” I stammered. “You know Washington lost nearly half the army just before and during Valley Forge from desertion and lack of re-enlistment. But not your uncle. He stuck it out and gave up his Christmases until 1783.” “I had forgotten about him,” I said slowly. “Well, don’t forget anymore,” Santa said, somewhat sternly. “Let’s go.”

As we winged across the sky I said, almost casually, “Santa, much as I was thrilled to see my uncle, what was the reason you showed me, Valley Forge?” “Well,” Santa replied, “you know already, I hope, that Christmas isn’t about asking for things, it’s about giving things.” “Yes,” I said, “I do prefer the giving to the getting. But all long-suffering, people-pleasing martyrs do.” Santa threw back his head and laughed to the point of rocking the sleigh. “At least you know yourself, son,” he finally said. 

 

“More often than not the joy of giving is missed. You see, those boys at Valley Forge stayed there not because they wanted to shoot Brits and Hessians. Well, all right, maybe a few did. They stayed and endured that misery because of their desire to give to their cause and new country. Sacrifice is never a valuable experience at the moment. Keep that in mind.” As I pondered that life lesson we arrived at what, I was sure, would be the next one. “Here we are!” Santa bellowed. “Get out of my car.”

I was astonished to see myself. Myself as a boy of about 8 or 9, seated next to my older brother in the back seat of my father’s then car. A huge, blue Dodge Monaco, with a white vinyl roof. In retrospect, it was without question one of the ugliest things ever manufactured, but when you’re an 8-year-old boy large blue mechanized things are always cool. We had been Christmas shopping that night all over Schenectady, NY. Anyone nowadays who knows anything about Schenectady thinks of it as a dump, but in 1970 people actually worked there and liked the place. My absolute favorite store in Schenectady was Dwayne’s Toyland. Dwayne’s Toyland was most certainly NOT your average toy store. First, it occupied what could only be described as an enormous, jerry-rigged army barracks. It had two floors, and the one that we loved was downstairs. Down some very rickety, wooden slat stairs. The stairs led you into a basement where you could see the water pipes above your head and, stacked up on wooden pallets were games, trucks, cars, models (remember when kids actually took the time to build and paint models?) and building materials such as Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys and kits to create your own masonry structure and ruin your mother’s kitchen floor.

As my brother and I wound our way around selecting a few things (always large and loud), my father picked up a few things of his own and had them brought upstairs by a clerk (Yeah, a clerk. Speaking English. Someone who actually helps you in the store and who knows where things are). Anyway, we finished exploring the wonders of Dwayne’s and were driving back home when my father said, “I’m going to make a couple of stops, ok?” “Sure,” we replied. And for the next half hour, my dad stopped at three houses, got out of the car, opened the trunk and carried something to the door. When the door opened he spoke briefly to the person answering the door, handed them the bundle he carried and got back into the car. After the last stop, my older brother finally asked, “Who were those people we stopped to see, dad?” My father was silent for a minute and then simply said, “Oh, they’re some clients of mine who didn’t have anything to give their kids for Christmas, so I got them something.” That was all. Not another word was said, but I noticed my brother tearing up a bit and I confess it was a great example for me.

“Your old man was all right, you know,” Santa said, interrupting my reverie. “Indeed he was Santee,” I replied. “He did stuff like that all the time.” Santa looked back at me as we walked toward the sleigh and said, “You mean it was just the way he was wired, right?” “Pretty much,” I responded. “Uh-huh,” Santa grunted. “Now let’s make one more stop before it gets to be morning, or this story you’re writing gets too long, I’m not sure which.”

“So, this is the last stop, pal. You having fun yet?” Santa purred as we were once again airborne. “Thanks, Santee, for bringing me back to that time with my father and my brother,” I said. We were quiet for a time and I found myself suddenly angry that my father had died so young, and I blurted out, “Why the hell are you doing this Dickens thing anyway?! I keep Christmas in my heart and all that. Whaddya gonna’ do now? Point a bony finger at my tombstone? Well, I’ll save you the trouble, I’m being cremated and scattered!” Santa laughed. “Now THAT’s what I like about you, you find a joke in everything.” I smiled inwardly, then brightly. “Ever hopeful, right?” Santa said. We both laughed.

When we settled to the ground I saw we were next to an excavation pit, surrounded by scaffold and fencing. It looked oddly familiar to me and as I slowly turned my body around, a most familiar site stood out. Before I could speak, Santa read my mind. “Just look about twenty yards to your left.” “For what?” I said. “Just watch. Patience really never has been your strong suit, has it?” “For some things, Santa. For some things,” I mumbled.

I saw a group of uniformed men climbing from the pit, carrying what looked like a long sack of potatoes. My eyes were able to make out a few of the men, faces were drawn and tearful. As my eyes looked downward, a few fire helmets made themselves obvious, red and yellow with familiar gold numbers embossed on the front. “Do you know what this is?” Santa said. “I think I do,” I answered. Silently, I watched the procession from the depths. “Who are these men?” I asked, knowing full well what they were, just not who. “The fellow in the front holding the tip of the bag is Battalion Chief Joe Pfeifer, of Engine Company 33 in Manhattan,” Santa said. At that moment, Santa’s face morphed into that of Joe Pfeifer. I gaped as he continued. “We carried him through a field of twisted steel and metal and then up that dirt hill. When we found him, it was over five months after the attack.” “Found who?” I asked. Pfeifer was silent for a moment, and then looked at me straight into the eyes, “My little brother, Kevin.” “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Kevin was one of the first firefighters at the World Trade Center after that jet hit the north tower,” Joe said. “I was setting up an operations base in the area when I met up with Kevin. He shouted over the racket, Jesus, it was loud, that he was going inside to lead our guys out the only open passage. He got most of them, too.” After what seemed an eternity I grabbed Joe by both shoulders. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank all of you.” What was Joe Pfeifer’s face slowly transformed itself back into that of Santa. The warmest smile I have ever seen spread across his face as he said to me, simply, calmly, “You’re welcome. After all, it’s Christmas.”

We found ourselves at the funeral, in St. Margaret Roman Catholic Church. I heard Joe say in his eulogy that as he rode the ambulance with his brother's body, "I remembered all the good times we had together. And that feeling of horror passed to a feeling of peace." When Mayor Bloomberg stood to speak, he mentioned the paper snowflakes and snowmen taped to the windows above the church by students at St. Margaret School. "The children are why Kevin was here. We all live because Kevin and the 11,000 people that he worked with go into danger to protect the rest of us." Turning to Kevin's parents, Helen and Bill, the mayor said, "Thank you for giving us Kevin. We exist because of him."

“The NYFD lost 343 men that day, son,” Santa intoned. “Ten from company 33. Another of those fellows, John Tierney, had his send-off yesterday in Staten Island.” A long pause as I drew my sleeve across my eyes and shivered in what was now a very cold air. “Let’s go, pally,” Santa said. “I think you’re getting the idea.”

The next thing I knew we were by a campfire in a place I knew well. Indian Lake in the Adirondacks. “Coffee?” Santa said. “Why are we here?” I asked. “It’s morning. Actually about 10 a.m. if you must know. You want it black this time?” “Uh-huh,” I said. The old man poured the coffee, handed me my cup and sat beside me. Putting his hand gently on my knee he said, “I brought you here because you love this place. Because in this quiet, with this blanket of snow and faint sounds of deer and perhaps a bear or two, you’ll understand and internalize what I’m about to tell you.” “OK,” I replied.

“You’ve been told all your life that Christmas is about giving and I’ve told you the last few hours that it’s really about giving up. Sometimes it’s about giving up money, or possessions, or once in a while your life like Kevin Pfeifer did that day in September and Somebody else did a couple of thousand years ago.” Santa stared at me intently. “You came to me last night to tell me that you believe in me and what I stand for. I’m telling you now that what will keep the spirit of Christmas alive in you, and son I need guys like you big time, and others is that you believe it’s worth it to give up some and sometimes all of yourself for somebody else.” As I looked off into the nest of pines and, as the good nuns used to tell us, examined my mind, Santa continued. “This story that you’re writing about this experience"-I interrupted him. “I’m not writing any story!” I said. “You will,” he replied. “You can’t help yourself.” “If you say so," I said. “I do say so," he retorted. “And I’ll tell you something else. One more thing that will make it all worthwhile for you and everybody else. Your reward for what you do will be paltry. You’ll be thought a romantic. A fool who lets his emotions rule his life. You will give in huge disproportion to what you receive and you will have to regularly fight the urge to be bitter. Don’t do it, don’t give in to it. What I mean to say, is that there is a payoff for your single-minded romantic notion that the good guys win. Like your father used to tell you, nice guys don’t finish first, but they don’t finish last either. You’re doing fine.” “Thanks, Santa,” I said. I flashed an enormous smile as I felt that inner warmth that comes from a certainty of purpose and strength of conviction. “Do we have time to maybe jump to another favorite place, like St. Croix?” “Nope,” he answered. “Time to go.”

Just like that, I was back in Macy’s, next to the toaster ovens. Of course, it wasn’t Christmas day (Macy’s is still closed on Christmas day, for the present). As I headed out onto 34th a swizzle stick fell from my pocket. I bent to pick it up and, as I raised my head I saw Santa or a fellow who looked remarkably like him, standing before me, smiling benevolently. He bent down and cocked his head to my ear. “By the way," he whispered to me, “I haven’t forgotten what’s on your Christmas list.” I smiled. “Patience my boy, patience.”