Here Comes Santa's Clause

Making a list? Checking it twice? Old Saint Nick has sent a memo to several social media platforms wanting acknowledgement. Apparently he has updated his To Do and Not To Do lists. It's obvious he is hooked on updating his image, reshaping his game and considering shaving his beard of all things. Of course there's more to every story and I have been shovelled the task of investigating his identity crisis. Like I have nothing better to do than catch a flight up to the North Pole with two lame knees and a peanut allergy.

How does one pack for visiting Santa? I wear mostly black, red washes me out and green makes me look broad in the hips: I'm wearing a *Onesie, yes the original from Norway, navy blue with snowflakes and my knee high grey *Uggs ~ both were gifts from Santa last year so he should feel quite pleased. Should I pack all of my gifts? Hmm. Does he really know if I have been naughty or nice? This was an off year for me.

Food. What does this guy eat? Surely by now he knows I am allergic to milk protein: is Mrs. Claus still in the picture? Should I take some sort of gift? I assume they wouldn't need marzipan pigs from Sweden or sweet rice cakes drizzled in honey. Shouldn't they both be on KETO diets? I do NOT want to enable them. To be honest, I hate marzipan, Christmas, the whole jolly thing and this job. Hum-feckin'-bug! ~

This is not the flight of my dreams. The North Pole was never on my bucket list and Santa knows it: I bet this is some sort of celebrity stunt to pull in more Instagram likes. Thinking out loud here, you old bastar- WTAF? I am sabotaging my own wish list! Who calls the GUY, the DUDE in red foul names this close to his major debut? I have got to get my shit together.

Shortly before I have the meet and greet with the world's biggest mystery man I pop a chill pill with a swig from my flask of gin. A little calm down before meeting Sir Chubby Cheeks for this seemingly rigged interview is a must. *Note to self: Elves are weird little fuckers!*

My assistant, Roy the boy, lifts the heavy iron door knocker and lets it bang thrice. He then jumps behind me. It's so cold that my my eyelids have stuck to my eyebrow bone, my baby blues now project a frosty look of permanent fear; my knees, locked in the position of a wooden nutcracker, can't tremble as I squeak out a shivering "Hello!" to, you gotta be kidding me, a two-foot elf in a red and white pyjama gown. I don't know it's pronouns or if it speaks or whether it has ever left this house and I yank Roy the boy in front of me and proceed with introductions.

"Hi, my name is Drew, and this is my ass-istant Roy: we're from Vocal Media. Your, uh, ( Boss? Dad? Slave owner?) asked for an interview.

The elf stares picking his nose. Doesn't he know that's rude? The place is gawdy as hell and we're just in the entry way. Huge golden goblets full of peppermint are on the welcoming table. Roy helps himself. I want to eyeball him but catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror trimmed in fir-green, garnished with dashes of mistletoe. My eyes are still stuck wide open. I rub my hands together and place them over my eyes to thaw them out; just as I feel my eyelashes begin to flitter freely against my palms I hear a tender unfamiliar "Ho, ho, ho!"~

"Greetings! I am Mrs. Claus, please come in. (*weird little chuckle*) Have a cupcake and warm those cute little toes by the fireplace. Santa has been, well, in a funk as they say and will be down in a bit. One of my elves will keep you company. They don't talk but they can hear! Did you know that my elves understand every language in the world! Isn't that something?" (*another weird little chuckle*).

Momma Claus has a big ruby lipped smile with surprisingly good teeth for all the sugar she eats. I make note of her appearance. Roy the boy is supposed to record the whole thing, I give him a serious nudge as he gauges another cupcake down his soon to be strangled throat. I pull him aside and whisper when she waddles out of the sitting room; knowing the elf on duty can understand everything we say creeps me the fuck out. Man, this is so not my gig.

"Roy! You have to shape up; what's with you? You aren't paid to play around in Candyland, do you hear me? We have one job to do. That job is not to suck up sugar plums that dance around in your little head, now is it?" Roy clearly has a sugar buzz; the downfall is he will likely fall asleep by the fire if he doesn't have his caffeine intake kept up.

"You meatball, did you hear her say elves can hear what we say? That means keep your trap shut, keep your mic on at all times and take dubious notes. Got it?" Roy nods feebly. I force him to sit on the hardest chair in the room so he doesn't zonk out on me. I approach the freakishly odd elf and speak.

"Hi Elf, might I trouble you for coffee, that is two double espressos, hold the sugar, please?" The elf's face appears to be made out of peach tinted plastic, it's expression clearly resembles a painted doll. The elf points at the table beside me: the coffee has magically appeared. This is scary. I wonder what else I could ask for. Tempting indeed, I thank him.

Espresso after espresso continues to be produced. I realize that I also need to tell the elf to stop with the coffee before we develop tachycardia. Just as I am chugging down my last speed ball in comes the man himself. Not a single "Ho" is said.

Santa: Thank you for coming all this way. I see you've been made comfortable.

Without a grin he motions for the elf to leave the room and sits down in a big red velvet chair with a sigh. Santa is in his usual duds and it's immediately clear he's not at all jolly.

Santa: I asked for this interview for I've come to this juncture in my life where I just want to be mortal. I have been around for thousands of years and am so sick of everything. - Santa clasps his white gloved hands together while looking into the crackling fire and continues. I glance at Roy, who's on the edge of his chair. - Year after year I have watched small innocent children full of dreams and joy grow up and become so detached from the calamities of this beautiful planet. They once asked for board games or crayons, now they want electric scooters or i-phones in kindergarten! - Santa raises his voice, throws his hands in the air and begins pacing back and forth. Our eyes follow him.

Me: Santa, may I call you Santa or should I call you Mr. Claus?

Santa: I have a name actually, my name is Will. No one ever says my name. Could you please call me Will?

Me: Absolutely. Will it is. I apologize, in my research I never came across this information.

Will: That's because no one has ever researched Will. I have always been seen as St. Nicholas, Père Noël, Kris Kringle, Babbo Natale, yadda yadda yadda. Trust me. I am Will.

Me: When you began your role as Father Christmas were you happy? If so, why? Could you elaborate on your decision to become mortal? How does one change from a spirit form into a bag of bones like me?

Will: Good question Dean, I mean Drew. Yes, I do recall happiness. It was very simple, a presence, something I didn't aspire to, I just was. I felt happy when I left a sack of fruit by the fireplace to a hard-working farmer's family who wasn't sure he could keep his children fed until spring. I felt happy when I left fabric so a young mother could sew a new dress for her daughter who was growing too fast or when I left wool so a grandmother could knit socks for her soon to be born first grand-child. Mm, I was content I'd say. Warm inside.

Me: It does sound meaningful. Will, please continue to the part where you question your spirit?

Will: Let's not rush. Isn't that part of the human condition that got me here in the first place? I know it's rhetorical; existentially speaking I am so wanting to just be the old man I deserve to be, to feel the aches and pains of this chaotic world on my back, to smoke my pipe and let go of taking care of happiness, of glee. What is glee anyway? I will tell you what it is Drew. Glee is being able to slide down a snowy slope on nothing but a piece of cardboard, skate on icy streets under moonlight with just your shoes, or to jump nude into an icy cold pond. That's glee for you. Everyone questions their spirit. I am renouncing mine so I can absorb what's left of the humane in humanity. I think that's a much better approach to making any change in this world now. Can you excuse me a moment?

Me standing up now: Certainly Will. I, umm, of course, take your time.

Will looks back and winks. He thanks me and says, "Time. I like the sound of that word. It's a big word Drew. Sit on that awhile."

When Santa, Will, Kris whatever disappears Roy the boy and I lock eyes. What just happened?

Roy the Boy: Dad? Do you believe in miracles?

Dad: If there were miracles son, there wouldn't be starvation and genocide.

Roy the Boy: Oh.

~

Somewhere Will becomes personified, a place within us to build upon. The Earth's Will is to survive: humans are responsible undoubtedly for the conditions we encounter, for, we created them. Santa never returned for the rest of his interview. Drew doesn't recall ever visiting the North Pole.

May your hearts find contentment in the present throughout the holidays.

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