Santa’s in my Car and I’m Keeping Him
Last weekend I went to a Christmas celebration in Mansfield . I stopped in the First Citizens Bank to see my friend, Dennis Garner, playing Santa Claus. Dennis is a big, hulking bald guy who coaches the local boxing club. At six foot one or two and couple hundred pounds, he makes a great Santa. Some of the muscle around his middle has turned to Santa fat so he’s pretty cushiony to little kids. I wanted to whisper to the children, “Watch out! This brand of Santa is a pugilist. If you fib about what a good kid you’ve been, he can box your ears!” After his Santa tour of duty was done, Dennis, Mayor Tom Weirboski and I stood talking about small things. Finally Dennis said, “Tom, can you give me a ride to the fire hall where my truck is parked.” “I can’t. I’m on my way to ring the bell for the Salvation Army.” He turned to me and asked if I could. I said sure. “Thanks,” Dennis said. “It would be a pretty long walk for a guy with one foot.” He’d had his foot amputated a couple of years ago and uses a prosthesis. I didn’t realize how massive Dennis was until he scrunched into the passenger side of my Taurus, put the seat all the way back and it was still tight. . We drove the half mile to the firehouse talking about boxing, the 1890s Weekend and the university. I parked next to his truck facing the highway and we continued our conversation. “I love coaching the kids,” he said. “But with a club outside the university the liability ourets a lot more expensive.” As cars passed, I could see kids in the back seats looking puzzled, then surprised. I finally realized what they were thinking: “Hey, Mom! That guy’s got Santa Claus in the car! Santa’s not getting out. That guy must be holding him until Santa promises to bring him everything on his Christmas list!” I could just hear them wondering as Mom continued driving: “I wonder how he lured him into the car?” I was the envy of every kid traveling on Business Rt. 15. Actually it was a little disconcerting to have Santa a foot from me taking up all available space on the passenger side and talking nonstop. In fact, part of me felt a little uneasy and I wondered why. When the answer came, it made perfect sense. It conflicted with my childhood memories. Santa’s communication pattern is supposed to go like this: “Ho ho ho! Hello little girl. What’s your name?” Kid gives name. “Have you been a good child?” Kid proceeds to lie like crazy, hoping the line “he knows if you’ve been bad or good” is a gross exaggeration. Even if it isn’t, the kid is going to lie because there is no choice. You’re sitting on the lap of the most powerful elf in history. You are not going to tell the truth about your behavior for an entire year. “Ho ho ho. And what do you want for Christmas? Kid spits forth wish list memorized over the past seven agonizing nights in bed. “Ho ho ho! Well, we’ll see what we can do. . . .” See what I mean? That’s all Santa’s supposed to say. He’s supposed to speak in a few short sentences. Ask a couple pertinent questions that never vary. Make a vague promise that doesn’t trap the parent, scoot the kid from the lap with a jovial "Merry Christmas" and greet the next one. Santa is not supposed to sit in the car and talk in full paragraphs about things like boxing, 1890s and the university. Santa isn’t supposed to engage in thoughtful conversations, especially with an adult who’s still a kid at heart. I watched the pure white, fluffy beard and mustache bob up and down as he talked about his work at the church. No! Don’t talk about church! You are the largest, most all-encompassing elf that ever existed! You have your own kingdom at the top of the world. You oversee thousands of little elves whose sole mission in 2005 was to make Xboxes, Play Stations and iPods! You are the god of givers, making the year’s most anticipated international flight with gravity defying animals, guided by a reindeer with a nose impediment he parlayed into a leadership position. You and your team seek out landing roofs, chimneys, milk and cookies, leaving in your wake toys, toys, toys! I actually felt relieved when Dennis opened the door and heaved himself upward out of the car. I watched him get into his pickup. I don’t have a problem with Santa Claus in a truck. He has to get around somehow and a truck seems logical with it bed to hold toy parts and elves. I looked back out at Business Rt. 15 and thought, “Okay, kids. I let him loose. He’s yours again. If you meet up with him, don’t let him say much more than: 'Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas.'"
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