Real Santa Chapter 46 MERRY CHRISTMAS!

MEGAN STARED AT the fireplace. Bits of black creosote fell

down onto the hearth like black snow. Megan kept her video camera

on the fireplace, barely breathing, scarcely able to believe she was

going to see Santa Claus emerge from the chimney with his gifts. This

moment contained the biggest question for her: How did Santa mange

to fit down the chimney with all his gifts? How did he actually climb

back up the chimney? Was he able to simply recreate the chimney

the way they did in The Santa Clause movie?

More pieces of creosote rained down into the fireplace and littered

the hearth. Then larger black pieces fell with heavy thuds. Some exploded

like small black bombs. This had never happened in any movie

Megan could remember. Now she became aware of other sounds.

Santa Claus was breathing heavy, grunting, thudding. Megan lowered

her camera and walked closer to the fireplace. The creosote was falling

like sand, as if someone was kicking the sides of the chimney. A cloud

of coal dust rolled into the living room, and somewhere far above

her she heard Santa again. His voice was deep and hollow, but that

might be because he was in a chimney. Megan stepped back into the

shadows and positioned herself. The sounds were getting louder, and

the size and amount of creosote had increased to a black avalanche.

Megan felt her heart and raised the camera again. Santa was

breathing very heavy and seemed to be grunting. A large black rock

of creosote hit the hearth and exploded like a small meteorite. The

sound stopped and Megan kept her eye on the camera, waiting for

Santa Claus to emerge in her living room. She bit her lip to make sure

she wasn’t dreaming. Here was the undisputable proof that not only

did Santa exist, but he had come down her chimney after landing on

her roof, and this proof would stream out into the world! She just had

to keep her camera aimed at the opening of their fireplace

A minute went by. Then another. Then another. Megan hit the

stop button and looked over her camera. She tiptoed up the fireplace

and bent her head, listening closely. There was no sound, then she

heard a single grunt, an expulsion of breath, then some dull cursing

followed by Santa’s voice echoing far up the chimney.

“I’m stuck!”

Real Santa Still On Holiday Sale   

Dickens Great Financial Failure

Charles Dickens book A Christmas Carol sold six thousand copies it's first week. A smashing success. But Dickens had put up his own money for production costs and they included color ingravings and an ornate cover. By the end of the accounting he barely made costs and had to turn to public speaking to make ends meet.

But it gets worse. We are now used to hearing how books are pirated and downloaded for free. Many see the end of traditional publishing in this now. But of course we think back on Dickens time as the golden age where people paid good money for books with no recourse to he internet. Well, there was the condensation. People took Dickens book and basically reprinted it with very minor changes. This was as standard practice. And within weeks of publication there were many of these condensations.

And to make matters even worse. Theatrical productions sparing up all over London. Pirated versions of a Christmas Carol where Dickens received nothing. He even went to see a few of them. Charles Dickens made money for the rest of his life primarily through reading A Christmas Carol to paying audiences. So the more things change the more they stay the same.

 Of course Dickens great financial failure became our great gain.

Real Santa



www.williamhazelgrove.com

Chapter 40 Real Santa 10 Days to Christmas

THE ROOKIE SIGNED up to catch crooks and crouch behind

cars like the cops on television. He saw himself like on NYPD Blue

or any of the other cop shows where he could run behind a car and

draw out his nine-millimeter and blow away a few bad guys. But here

he sat in the parking lot of Caputo’s with the radio telling him to go

investigate the appearance of Santa. He should be at home with his

wife and his baby, not driving to arrest some nut in his backyard

dressed up like Santa.

But that was how the call came in. “Man dressed as Santa Claus

in a sled with reindeer.” He had asked dispatch to repeat the report.

“MAN-DRESSED-AS-SANTA-WITH-REINDEER IN BACKYARD.

PLEASE INVESTIGATE. POSSIBLE MOVIE SET.” That was Ruth,

and he could just see her rolling her eyes. A movie set? He wondered

if there had been any permits given to production companies in the

area. Usually they notified the police.

As the rookie drove through the snow, he wondered if he might

make a contact. He had written a screenplay that he had sent around

and received no response. If it wasn’t a movie, then he would have to

figure out if a man in a Santa suit with reindeer was disturbing the

peace. He would think a homeowner would be allowed to sit in his

backyard in a sled. The reindeer might be a problem. It might be some

dad trying to convince his kids that there really was a Santa Claus.

He turned his squad car and could see lights shining down the

street. Cars and trucks were parked on the sides of the street, and he

saw people walking toward a lit-up house. Definitely a movie shoot.

The rookie felt excitement down in his stomach as he flipped on the

squad’s cherries and drove toward the lights.

George watched the cop crunch across the snow talking into

his shoulder. The radio hissed back as he stared straight ahead like

someone pulled over for drunk driving.

“Mr. Kronenfeldt?”

He turned to a cop with smooth skin and perfect hair.

“Mr. Kronenfeldt?”

“Yes,” he said, with Jeremy next to him dressed like an elf.

“Sir, is this your sled and …” He paused, looking at the chewing

reindeer. “And your reindeer, sir?”

“Yes, officer, they are.” George nodded. “What can I do for you?”

Dean crossed the snow in a frenzy and held out his hand.

“Dean Sanders, officer. I’m the director of this production, officer,”

he announced, shaking the rookie’s hand.

The cop stared at the camera crane and nodded slowly. “So …

this is a movie?”

“Oh yes, sir, officer,” Dean answered, nodding. “Real Santa is the

name. We were just about to shoot our scene when you pulled up.”

The rookie smoothed back his hair.

“Okay, now did you get a permit to shoot this film, because we

have had some complaints from the neighbors.”

Dean frowned. “You know we filed for our permit, but we never

heard back, and you know it’s just one scene, and then we are all

finished.”

The cop’s eyes darkened.

“I’m afraid that without a permit, I’m going to have to shut you

down. There are some traffic issues, and you have a lot of lights that

are bothering people—”

Dean held up his hand like a man requesting divine intervention.

“Look, officer, we have invested thousands of dollars for this one

shoot—if you could look the other way, I could make it worth your

while,” he said in a low voice.

“Are you trying to bribe me, sir?”

Dean held out his hands.

“Oh, not a bribe, officer—a favor.”

George could see this was going off the rails very quickly.

“Officer …” He handed the reins to his son and turned in the sled.

“I know this looks ridiculous, but I think I can explain.” He gestured

to his house and the room with the movie light shining into the

snow. “You see that yellow window with the snow? My daughter is

up in that bedroom. She is nine years old and has started to doubt

the existence of Santa Claus.”

The rookie crossed his arms. “Go on.”

“And so I thought that I could give her faith back to her if I became

the Real Santa Claus—if she was able to see a real Santa fly onto the

roof and deliver her gifts and then fly away in a sled.”

The cop looked at the sled and frowned. “You’re going to fly in

this thing?”

“If I may interject, officer,” Dean said, gesturing to the roof. “He

will not actually fly, but we will create the illusion of him flying. See

those smoke machines up there and those digital projectors?”

“Yes.”

Dean took him by the arm and pointed to the far side of the roof.

“We will project the image of Santa flying against the smoke, and

then George here will run the reindeer up on the roof and come to a

stop in front of his daughter’s window, creating the illusion of flying.

Then when it’s time for him to leave, he will do the same thing and

go down the ramp on the other side.”

The cop shook his head. “That’s pretty neat. What about the

chimney? How are you going to do that?”

George motioned to the two mountaineers hanging off the chimney

like acrobats.

“I’m going to rappel down the chimney with the gifts, then I’m

going to be hoisted back up.”

“Holy shit,” the rookie muttered, staring at the chimney lit by

three movie lights. “And you hired all these people here—this isn’t

really a movie shoot?”

George shook his head. “Dean is a film director who I hired to

help me and has decided he wants to film it, which I’m fine with, but

no, this is really all about keeping a little girl’s belief in Santa.”

The cop stared at Jeremy.

“Who is the elf?”

“My oldest son.”

Jeremy held up a hand. “Hello.”

George turned around and saw his father behind him.

“And this is my dad.”

“Glad to know you, officer,” Kronenfeldt Sr. said, shaking his hand.

“My son is crazy, but it’s a good kind of crazy, officer,” he added.

The rookie rubbed his jaw and puckered his mouth.

“So you see, mate, all we really need is about thirty minutes, and

then we are all done here, and we can restore the faith of a little girl!”

The rookie stared at the ramp and the reindeer and the people

on the roof and the lights set up in the corners of the yard. He shook

his head slowly and looked at George.

“You did all this to convince your daughter that there is a Santa

Claus?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

“I got a baby at home, but I don’t know if I would do all this if she

didn’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Wait. You’ll do whatever it takes to keep her happy.”

“What did this cost you?”

“About eighty grand.”

The cop looked at him then at the reindeer and the ramp.

“Alright, I’ll give you a half-hour. But if the neighbors call in again,

I’m going to have shut you down.”

Dean motioned the crane operator and his assistants.

“Alright, folks,” he announced. “IT’S SHOWTIME!”

Real Santa...Holiday Sale

MOVIE RIGHTS SOLD!      
  Vicki Rocco of Modern Family optioned the movie rights of William Hazelgrove's Real Santa for her production company Small But Mighty Productions with an eye to a feature or a made for television movie. Ms. Rocco has to her credits, Modern Family, Arrested Development, Stand and Deliver, U23D, Empire Dreams, Heather, Britany Spears Live, and sees Real Santa as a classic that will pull in people hungry for a new take on the Christmas movie. "No one has done this. No one has taken on the physics of being Santa Claus. It is funny and heartwarming and has all the things we look for in any great Christmas movie."
                                           
STARRED REVIEW BOOKLIST

"If somebody doesn't make a movie out of this book, there's something wrong with the world.                                                                               
                                                                                                 David Pitts Booklist


"The author marries the everyday dramas found in the novels of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby to the high camp of Carl Hiaasen or Dave Barry. Adults looking for a funny holiday-themed tale that doesn't lose its sense of wonder in the face of realism will find a treat here. A lovingly crafted comedy about the madness that fatherhood inspires."
                                                                                              Kirkus Reviews


Best-selling author Hazelgrove (e.g., Ripples; Tobacco Sticks) captures the human need to believe in something good.  This book will satisfy readers looking for a happy Christmas story.-- Library Journal

 

Real Santa Chapter 29 (27 Days Until Christmas)

THE FONDUE SMOKED in the middle of the table, and George

felt like a boy waiting for Santa except he was waiting for a semi loaded

with two three-hundred-foot ramps, lighting equipment, snow

machines, digital projectors, a sled, smoke machines, tracks, grips,

handlers, cameras, closed circuit television, a boom, a film crane,

walkie-talkies, union carpenters in case there were any last minute

changes, pyrotechnics, a director, a director’s latest girlfriend and

first assistant, two German mountain climbers with rappelling gear,

and finally nine reindeer and Bill McGruff.

Dean had arranged to have everyone follow the semi and assured

George he would handle the setup and breakdown. “The director,

mate, is the general. I’m in charge, and these blokes will have to do

as I say and we should have a STUPENDOUS film!”

George understood there had to be a project manager or otherwise

the bridge would not get built. Dean had taken on the role of

project manager and interceded between his father and the union

carpenters, navigated problems with McGruff, who couldn’t get a

trailer big enough to haul the nine reindeer, and arranged for the

semi with a sectioned off part for the reindeer. All McGruff had to

do was get them to a parking lot, and Dean would transport them

the rest of the way.

George heard the roar of a diesel engine and the hiss of pneumatic

breaks. He looked up from the table as his father nudged him. They
 

both looked out the window at a tractor trailer rolling to a stop in

front of the house followed by three dark SUVs, McGruff’s truck,

three older cars, and a concession truck.

“You have to feed the crew, mate,” Dean told him later.

George stared out the window and saw the hundred thousand

dollars he had spent. So his kid wouldn’t go to college. So he had no

retirement savings left. Megan would believe in Santa Claus.

“Shit!” his father muttered.

“Don’t say a word, Dad.”

“I just lost another shrimp, Daddy,” Megan announced.

“I’ll get if for you,” George said, watching his wife stare out the

window at the lights on the sixteen-wheeler and the people congregating

in front of the house.

“Why don’t you pull the drapes together. It will keep the house

warmer,” Mary suggested, staring at him icily, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes, it is cold in here,” George replied.

“You can say that again,” his father muttered.

But it was too late. Megan was already staring at the semi and

the cars and the people standing around the lit concession truck.

“What is that truck doing in front of our house, Daddy?”

George whisked the drapes together, facing his wife and father

and his daughter, who was already out of her chair. Kronenfeldt Sr.

crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling.

“Now let’s get back into our seat, Megan. It is just the Shantis

getting some furniture delivered.”

“Lots of furniture,” his father mused.

“Why would they have furniture delivered on Christmas Eve,

Daddy?” Megan asked as he continued pulling curtains and shades

in the living room, dining room, and kitchen.

“Oh … that’s normal. A lot of people do that. They are giving it

as a gift. People give pool tables and couches and dining room sets

as gifts, and that’s what the Shantis are doing.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “Seems weird to me.”

“You have no idea,” Kronenfeldt Sr. said, looking at his son.

George made sure Megan was safely in front of the television

watching Elf for the tenth time with Mary and his father. He then

slipped out the door and ran across his lawn to where Dean was

standing with a group of men with LOCAL TEAMSTERS U35 pinned

to their hats and several young women with clipboards and walkie-

talkies.

“’Ello, mate! Are we all ready for the shoot?”

“It’s not a shoot, Dean, and what are all these people doing here?”

George hissed.

Dean shrugged. “Gaffers, grips, electricians, digital technicians,

Teamsters, assistants first and second, cinematographers, crane operators,

handlers, pyro technicians—all necessary, mate, to give your

little daughter the STUPENDOUS show she deserves!”

“We don’t need all these people, Dean,” he whispered fiercely.

“This is not about your movie!”

Dean sipped his latte and took George by the shoulder. He carried

his riding crop under one arm and cocked his beret forward.

“Look, mate, you hired me to do a job. What you basically asked

me to do is create a world, create a character, an illusion, mate.”

He stopped and stomped his riding boot. “That’s what I’m doing !”

Dean tapped his chest. “I’m an artist, mate, and I am a perfectionist,

which is a good thing for you. What if I didn’t bring the necessary

equipment and blokes who know how to operate snow machines

and smoke machines and digital projectors? And yer ass is on yer

sled, and your little daughter there sees that it is daddy and not Santy

Claus coming down the chimney? Then you would say, Listen, Dean,

I hired you to do a job and you didn’t do it, and you would have every

right to fire me, mate.”

George rubbed his forehead, seeing two bearded men with rappelling

equipment walking toward him in the darkness.

“Alright, but did you need all the film equipment too?”

Dean held up the leather-riding crop.

“Remember our deal, mate. I’ll create the visual of Santa Claus

for your little mite there, but you’ll allow me to film for my STUPENDOUS

upcoming feature-length movie!”

The two men with rappelling ropes over their shoulders and

spiked boots clicking on the street walked up.

“Ya. 

said, shaking his hand.

George nodded, glancing toward his home. “Nice to meet you.”

“We came early to get you down the chimney, ya?”

“Uh … yeah. Yes. We are going down the chimney and back up.”

“Hello, mates! I’m Dean, and I’m the director of this shoot,” Dean

announced, shaking their hands. “Why don’t you speak with my first

assistant Leslie there, and she will get you all set up.”

“Ya …Ya …”

Dean adjusted his beret and looked at George.

“You see. All under control, mate.”

George watched people getting coffee and donuts from the concession

truck. Already, several neighbors were looking out their windows.

He realized then his father and his wife were correct—he had

lost his grip on reality and had created a monster.

“Just give me a jingle on the cell phone and let me know when

we should start getting set up. Then when you are ready to suit up,

mate, I’ll give you your cues and spots, and she should all go like

clockwork,” Dean assured him.

George stared at the short, swarthy man who had taken sixty

grand of his money. He wondered if he had just built another bicycle

bridge people would laugh at again. He looked over the people

milling about with the low thrum of the diesel engine coming back

from the houses across the street. He didn’t have many neighbors,

but the Shantis were nosy enough to blow the whole thing with a

bunch of questions.

“Alright, I’ll give you a call within the hour,” George said, turning

to Dean. ”I have all the shades down around the house, so you can

start setting up. Then I need you to get these trucks and cars away

from the house. Spread them out or whatever, but I can’t have it

looking like a movie set around my house!”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about a thing, mate!”

A blonde with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie set up a folding

chair with DIRECTOR on the back. The assistant turned around with

a logo on her jacket: REAL SANTA.

George walked back to his house as his father met him at the door.

“What’s going on?”

“You don’t want to know.”

George shut the door and looked around his shoulder.

“Megan still watching Elf?”

“Yeah. What’s going on out there? Is everything here?”

George pulled off his parka and shrugged.

“It looks like the whole world is out there, including a concession

truck.”

His father stared at him. “A concession truck?!”

“Shhh, keep it down. I have to keep Megan away from the windows.

She already is talking about a white Christmas and wants to

look out the windows.”

His father frowned. “How are you going to keep her away from

the windows?”

“How the hell do I know? But I have to get Dean and his guys

going, because it doesn’t look right having a tractor trailer in front

of the house.”

His father frowned. “The ramps are in the truck?”

“Yes. So are the reindeer.”

Kronenfeldt Sr. whistled. “I’ll bet that truck is full of shit!” He

shook his head. “Are you sure it’s worth all of this, son?”

He stared at his father.

“Do you really think I need to hear that, Dad, when I’ve spent

close to a hundred grand and it’s Christmas Eve?”

“No.”

He reached past George for his coat on the hall tree.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going out there to check on those ramps and see if these

knuckleheads screwed up my specifications.”

“Where do I say you went if Megan asks?”

“Tell her I went to get some milk.”

Kronenfeldt Sr. went out the door, and George realized then

he might not have milk for Santa. The details were mind numbing.

Santa gifts had to be hidden in a special place then loaded into the

“payload bag,” and they all had to be a certain diameter to fit down

the chimney. Even though Joe had given him room, there was no way

he could go down carrying the gifts. The gifts would go down ahead

of him or behind him. 

George rubbed his head. A million things could go wrong. He

might get stuck in the chimney. He might fall to his death. The reindeer

might bolt. The reindeer might not move. The digital projector

and smoke machine wouldn’t give the proper illusion. He could fall

off the roof. The reindeer could fall off the roof. He might not be able

to get back up the chimney. The sled and reindeer could tumble down

the ramp. Megan might not buy any of it.

“George ?”

He jumped and turned in the hallway to his wife.

“What’s going on?” Mary asked.

“Nothing. Just half the world is in front of our house.”

Mary opened the door a crack, and she saw cars, lights, an idling

truck, and people milling around. She shut the door and turned, her

face white.

“Oh, my Lord!”

“I know. It won’t be as bad once they are set up in the backyard.

But I think I really screwed up.”

George’s cell phone rang. “Yeah.”

“Hey, mate, listen. We have to let these reindeer out of the truck.

They have to go you know, nature’s call and all that.”

“Alright. Start setting up in the backyard. I’ll keep Megan away

from the windows.” He paused. “We probably should start.”

 

“Right-o, mate!”

George held down his phone and looked at his wife. “It’s begun.”

“Oh, shit,” she murmured.

Real Santa  STARRED REVIEW BOOKLIST

"If somebody doesn't make a movie out of this book, there's something wrong with the world. This could have been played as an out-and-out slapstick comedy, but instead the author approaches the story like a character study: a portrait of a man with the best intentions in the world watching those intentions collide with reality. It's a steamroller of a story, starting small, with George's idea, and getting bigger and bigger as George tries to put the elements together, as his obsession takes him further and further away from reality. Beautifully done."                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 David Pitts Booklist


"The author marries the everyday dramas found in the novels of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby to the high camp of Carl Hiaasen or Dave Barry. Adults looking for a funny holiday-themed tale that doesn't lose its sense of wonder in the face of realism will find a treat here. A lovingly crafted comedy about the madness that fatherhood inspires."
                                                                                              Kirkus Reviews


Best-selling author Hazelgrove (e.g., Ripples; Tobacco Sticks) captures the human need to believe in something good.  This book will satisfy readers looking for a happy Christmas story.-- Library Journal


"Hazelgrove's lively improbable narrative will appeal to the readers in the mood for holiday fiction."
                                                                                              Publishers Weekly