Real Santa Chapter 33 (23 Days Until XMAS)

GEORGE STARED AT the electric candle in his window. It had

been burning all night in his bedroom, and he checked every thirty

minutes to see if the yellow glow had dimmed by horizon light. But it

was just three AM. His parents had tucked him into bed seven hours

before and then gone down the stairs. He had lain awake, willing

himself to fall asleep, but he just couldn’t. So he stared at the candle

and imagined it as a beacon for Santa and his sleigh. Several times

he went to the window to look at the sky, examining the clouds for

a big man with a beard and reindeer.

Then he heard something. He wasn’t sure if he had imagined

the hard steel runner of a sleigh touching down on the roof. George

jumped up and went to his window, a boy lit by a solitary candle on

a snowy city street. He tried to crane his neck and see where Santa

must have landed, because that was where the chimney was. He threw

up the window, inhaling an Arctic blast of Chicago night air. George

stuck his head out and looked up on the roof. The dormer eaves of

his window kept him from being able to see the chimney.

He pulled his head in and ran to his desk, pulling out the Kodak

Instamatic he had squirreled away for this moment. George went

back to the window and held the camera up over the eave, shooting

a cube flash into the night. Then he pushed the window down, feeling

the biting cold still on his face and hands. Several crystals of ice were

on the hardwood of his bedroom. He crept to the door and walked

out into the hallway. He listened.

There was someone down in the living room. Even up on the third

floor he could hear the sound of someone walking. His father had

told him a month ago that Santa would implode on reentry when he

had asked if there really was a Santa. He had stared at George and

frowned with the slide ruler in his top pocket, taking off his glasses.

“Think about it, George. You know those astronauts with a heat shield

in their capsule? Imagine them without that heat shield. They would

be French fries. Besides, the g-force would make Santa combust like

an overboiled egg.”

It had taken him a good two weeks to reason his father had not

said there wasn’t a Santa Claus. He had just said the physics behind

Santa Claus didn’t add up. He had done some reading himself and

reasoned his father could be wrong. Santa might not go up in the

atmosphere and might fly at lower altitudes. His father was just being

cranky, he concluded. Besides, he now had a picture that would prove

his father and all the other doubters wrong. And now he would get

another one.

George crept down the stairs to the first floor, passing outside his

parents’ darkened doorway. He paused and heard the rhythmic low

snoring of his mother. His parents were asleep, and Santa was down

in their den where the fireplace was. He felt the excitement in the pit

of his stomach. No one he knew of had ever taken a picture of Santa

Claus. He would publish it worldwide and start by sending it to the

Chicago Tribune. Surely they would put his picture on the front page.

George made the last turn, holding on to the banister like a man

holding on to a dock. After this, he was going into history. He checked

his camera and saw the glowing orange light. His flash was charged,

and he had advanced the film. He placed one bare foot ahead of the

other on the cold oak boards. His father kept the furnace low at night,

and George shivered but he thought it was from nerves as much as a

fifty-nine degree setback. He carefully placed his toes on the floor, trying

to minimize the creaks and gasps of the hundred-year-old joists.

George heard Santa’s breathing. He sounded like a man laboring

up a hill. Well, of course he was tired! He had probably been up and

down hundreds maybe thousands of chimneys. George didn’t know

how old Santa was, but he had to be over fifty. He probably wasn’t in 

the greatest of shape with that big belly. George saw the light spilling

from the den into the hallway. The breathing was louder and he heard

the tinkling of metal striking metal.

George raised up his camera and positioned his finger on the top.

He had to be ready because Santa might just shoot up the chimney.

The breathing was loud, and he thought he heard a muffled shit followed

by another muffled dammit. Santa curses! He wish he had a

tape recorder, but the pictures would be enough. He would soon be

famous as the boy who proved the existence of Santa Claus!

George turned into the den and heard an even clearer, “Jesus

Christ. Do they have to make these bolts so damn tiny?”

He paused in the doorway with his heart pounding in his ears,

then peered into the den and saw a formless shape by the fireplace.

There was only the one light on. George saw the Christmas tree and

piles of presents around the base. He’s already left the presents! That

meant all he had to do was go back up the chimney. George hunched

over behind the couch, and again he heard the low cussing: “Piece of

Japanese shit … Japs really screwed us with these …” So even Santa’s

toys were made in Japan! He had to get the picture now before it was

too late. George gave himself a count. One … two … three!

He jumped into the den, swung up his camera, and pressed the

button.

“Santa!”

His father jumped straight up like someone had shot him.

“What the … ?!”

POP!

Santa was blinded, and George had his picture for all time—a

disgruntled parent in the middle of the night trying to tighten the last

bolt on a Schwinn bicycle. His father recovered, holding the crescent

wrench out like a scepter.

“What the hell are you doing up?” he roared.

George stared at his old man. “Dad!”

“Who the hell else do you think is down here in the middle of

the night?”

George shrugged, feeling his face warm.

“I, I, I thought you were Santa.”

His father frowned. “Whadaya, nuts? I told you there ain’t no god 

damn Santa! Now get the hell to bed so I can get to bed,” he shouted.

George turned and walked up the stairs silently. He cried himself

to sleep and got up late the next morning, causing his mother to feel

his forehead.

“He always was up at the crack of dawn before,” she murmured

worriedly.

His father never said a word about their nocturnal meeting and

neither did he. But George developed the picture and kept it in his

dresser drawer for years. It was now the faded photo of a tired fortysomething

man with a crescent wrench. George tied the end of his

childhood to that picture. And maybe Mary was right. Maybe he was

trying to put the genie back in the bottle for that ten-year-old boy.

Maybe that’s why he went into his bedroom and slipped the picture

into the pocket of his Santa suit.
REAL SANTA...Holiday Special .99 

Chapter 14 REal santa ( A chapter a day until Christmas)

 

 

  EVERY TWELFTH MONTH he came to her classroom and

raised hell. The big man with the white beard and ridiculous suit

interrupted Mrs. Worthington’s carefully planned schedule with his

 HO HO HOs and MERRY CHRISTMAS! He threw the class into a


tizzy with his promise of gifts and goodies, and the children couldn’t

concentrate on anything except Christmas and Santa, Santa, Santa!


By the end, Mrs. Worthington felt like the Grinch in the famous Dr.

Seuss story, holding her head, screaming out in agony, finally, Oh the


noise, the noise, the noise!
And now that maniac Kronenfeldt, who Mrs. Worthington seriously

believed had several screws loose …now his daughter had

brought the class to a screeching halt with all the kids laughing. Mrs.

Worthington wanted to help her, but what Megan had just promised

to the class was a bomb waiting to go off. And it had started out so

well.

They had been moving along nicely all morning, slipping into

science. It was when they were talking about the giant iceberg that

had broken off from Iceland that Megan raised her hand and brought

the class to a halt.

“But Mrs.Worthington, you said the climate was too inhospitable

for Santa. If global warming is heating up the poles and the ice is

melting, wouldn’t that be better for Santa and the elves?”

The class had turned as one to Mrs. Worthington.

“Well, global warming is a theory, Megan,” she began, judiciously,

“the way Santa is a theory.’’

The kids broke into campfires of chatter.

“Children! Children! Please!”

“But Mrs. Worthington , you said it was too inhospitable for

Santa and his elves, and now it’s warming up. Wouldn’t that make it

a more viable climate?”

Megan sat with her hands clasped. And there was that hope in her

eyes. Mrs. Worthington knew she should just give Megan the bone

and move on, but Megan’s psycho father telling her not to mess with

 

Santa had really racked her off. Why shouldn’t she debunk Santa? The

myth antagonized her every year and ruined the last weeks of her

year. Why shouldn’t she poke a few holes in the old guy’s red suit?

“Megan, as I said before, the North Pole is a hostile climate. Think

about it. Let’s keep science in mind, children. Santa Claus would need

very expensive equipment to survive in those conditions, and global

warming is a theory that some people believe and others don’t.”

“My father said it’s big business ruining the planet, and that only

morons don’t believe in global warming.”

The class turned as if at a tennis match, and it was Mrs. Worthington’s

serve. She smiled icily.

“Your father is wrong, Megan. Global warming has not been

 

proven, and there are natural cycles the earth goes through that could

explain the melting of the icebergs.”

Megan frowned. “Then if it has warmed up, maybe Santa had a

chance to build a factory to build the toys.”

Mrs. Worthington rubbed her brow.

“Santa Claus has nothing to do with our discussion, Megan! Santa

Claus is a myth! Myths cannot be proven! They are generally not true,

and I don’t want any of your parents coming in here and saying that

I said there wasn’t a Santa Claus! The idea of Santa Claus is a myth,

children and, at best, a theory … like global warming.”

The children stared at the teacher breathing hard. Mrs. Worthington

had hoped they could return to the subject at hand, but the

silence, the round eyes, the quivering lips, told her the jolly man in

the suit was coming for his due.

“Well, I am going to prove there is a Santa once and for all. My

father is going to let me use his video camera and stay up all night

and videotape Santa, and then I’ll put it on YouTube and bring it to

class, and I can prove to the world there really is a Santa Claus!”

The class erupted into a riot with voices on top of each other.

This was the equivalent of splitting the atom for children. They said

it could be done, but no one had ever seen an atom or Santa. Proof

was what Megan Kronenfeldt was offering.

“Children. Quiet! Please!””

The voices came down, and Mrs. Worthington stared at the child

in the middle row. “Your father approved of this plan, Megan?”

“Yes. He’s going to let me use the video camera.”

The man had rocks for brains. What parent would set themselves

up for something like this? Already there were snickers around the

room.

“You’re lying. Your parents won’t let you do that,” Johnny Brandis

said from the front row, turning his head toward the back to face

Megan.

The other kids began to nod knowingly.

“Johnny that will be enough!”

“All you’re going to see are your parents putting the presents

under the tree,” Jackie Spagelli scoffed.

The cat was out of the bag. The room broke down into factions of

those who believed it was parents and those who didn’t. At the center

was Megan Kronenfeldt, who everyone had decided was telling a lie.

“Children, I have had enough of this!”

And that’s where they had come to. Megan’s eyes had welled up,

and she was staring at the top of her desk. Mrs. Worthington was

never very good in these moments. Other teachers could handle

children crying. She had never been able to cry as a child with her

father, and she had to resist telling kids to buck up.

“Megan, we believe you,” Mrs. Worthington said, glaring at the

other children, daring anyone to snicker.

Megan shook her head and wiped her eyes. “No, you don’t.” She

lifted her head and turned and faced the class. “I’m going to prove to

all of you that there is a Santa Claus,” she declared. “My dad says there

is one, and I’m going to bring you the proof. I’m going to videotape

Santa and prove it to the world!” 
Mrs. Worthington popped the two aspirin by her desk, drinking

the dry capsules down with water. She looked at Megan Kronenfeldt,

staring defiantly at the class.

“Oh, shit,” Mrs. Worthington said.

Order Real Santa  
   

Chapter 13 Real Santa 49 Days To XMAS

 

 

“THIS BROAD DOESN’T know where she’s going!”

“It’s a computer, Dad, hooked into Global Positioning Satellites.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s hooked into a donkey’s ass, it still

doesn’t know where the hell it’s going! Only a moron would follow

this English lady into the middle of nowhere.” He gestured to the

GPS box on the dashboard. “She has no goddamn idea where she is

going, and she won’t admit it!”

George looked at his father in his floppy hat. The last comment

belonged to when his mother would be driving and his dad would

turn to him. She has no goddamn idea where’s she going, and she

won’t admit it.

“Dad, it is Global Positioning Satellite technology. The woman

has nothing to do with it.”

“Then why are you listening to her?”

“Because she—”

Turn Right on McGruff Road.

George looked at the little blue car on the screen mounted on

his dashboard as McGruff Road swung into view.

 

YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE RIGHT.

“There, you see, Dad. We aren’t lost.”

“Ah, she lucked out,” he muttered.

George started to slow down and saw a driveway peeking out of

frosted pines. He turned into the trees and entered Santa’s village.

Reindeer antlers poked out from tree trunks with flashing Christmas

trees and large red and green ornaments shining on Austrian firs.

George continued on to a house that looked like a place Santa Claus

might reside—a Swiss chalet made from logs with snow piled up on

the porch. A big F-150 truck was parked in the drive with RENDEER

plates.

“This must be the place,” George murmured.

His father frowned. “What is he, some kind of Mountain Man?”

MAKE A U-TURN.

“See, she still doesn’t know what in hell she is talking about!”

George silenced his GPS.

“Well, I better go see about some reindeer.”

His father slouched down in the car.

“Leave the engine on.”

“You aren’t coming?”

“I’m going to get a little nap in,” his father murmured. “You handle

the reindeer.”

George emerged into the winter quiet of a Midwestern snowstorm.

“Reindeer should be coming around the side of the cabin any

minute,” he said to himself.

He trudged to the porch and stared at the antlers mounted to the

railing. A barrel of Jack Daniels had a Christmas wreath around the

top. George looked for a doorbell but settled for the knocker in the

shape of a German beer mug. Heavy footsteps pounded toward him

as the door pulled back to a roaring fire and a man with a large bear

on his head. That’s what his furry black hat looked like to George.

His beard mixed with the buffalo robe, that spread out like a king.

“You George?”

“Ah yes, you must be Big Bill McGruff.”

He spat off the porch and nodded.

“That I am. You be wanting to see the reindeer.”

“Yes.”

He charged out of the cabin and plunged into the snow in kneehigh

boots with woolly mammoth fur. George followed the large man

through the heavy snow around to the back of the cabin. A clump of

brown reindeer turned and stared at the two men approaching the

slatted fence. 

“Well, here they are! You’ll find Bill McGruff’s reindeer are top of

the line and will fit any need yer have. My reindeer have been used

all over the country for movies and such. They are a fine breed of

reindeer ilk, and I put them against anyone anywhere.”

George felt his face numb from the wind squalling through the

pines. “Are there nine there?”

McGruff poked a large finger to the reindeer that seemed larger

than the ones George had seen in the movies and television. One of

the reindeer relieved himself with a sizzling steam and another one

defecated cannonballs. This was something that had not occurred

to him. What if the reindeer crap all over the roof? But wouldn’t that

make it more realistic? Didn’t Santa have to deal with the same thing?

"Yep. Nine on the button,” McGruff said, nodding.

“Good. I’ll take them all.”

McGruff motioned to the cabin. “Let’s go parley around the fire.”

They tramped back through the heavy snow and onto the porch.

McGruff walked into the cabin with snow falling off his leggings in

a trail of slushy ice. George stomped his own hiking boots on the

porch then walked in. The fireplace staged the room with antlers

on either side like totem poles. A large reindeer head was mounted

over the mantel.

“Pull up a chair and warm yer bones there, pilgrim.”

George pulled an old recliner up to the fire and sat down. The

cabin was plain and simple, except for a plasma television mounted

to the stacked logs that reminded George of Lincoln Logs from his

childhood. He looked around the room and felt the coziness of the

shelter against the flurrying storm.

“This is quite a place you have here.”

McGruff picked up his pipe and regarded him with cold grey

eyes. He flamed a small jet engine and puffed smoke. George noticed

a laptop on the kitchen table and an iPhone.

“It fits me needs.” He leaned back, motioning with the pipe. “Now,

what do yer want nine reindeer for?”

“I am going to be Santa for my daughter on Christmas, and I

obviously need reindeer if I’m going to be Santa.”

McGruff puffed away, watching him closely.

“Yer going to put the reindeer in yer backyard?” 

“Well,” George sat back in his recliner, “not exactly. Actually, I’m

going to put the reindeer on the roof of my house.”

McGruff’s furry eyebrows drew together. He took the pipe from

his mouth. “No yer aren’t. Not my reindeer!”

George took out the folded diagram from his pocket.

“I would say the same thing, but I can assure you my father and

I are engineers and we know what we are doing. Dad is asleep in

the car or I would have him explain it to you.” He handed McGruff

the diagram. “As you can see, we are going to have two large ramps

going up to the roof. One for the reindeer to go up and one for them

to go down. In between these two points they will be harnessed to

a sled with me as Santa. They will pull the sled a short distance and

stop. They will wait for me while I go up the chimney and down and

deliver the presents. Then I will come back and take them down the

ramp on the other side.”

McGruff puffed and studied the diagram with the fire crackling.

His phone rang, and he didn’t move. He finally looked up and gestured

with the pipe. “Why?”

“I have a nine-year-old daughter who is questioning Santa. She

has friends and teachers telling her that Santa isn’t real, and I want

her to still believe in the magic of Christmas. So I am going to be the

Real Santa for her.”

McGruff closed one eye. “Mister, it is no business of mine, but

yer liable to kill yourself on that roof.”

“I can assure you every safety precaution will be taken for animals

and humans.”

“It’s going to cost you a pretty penny. I don’t even know if I can

get anyone to handle the reindeer on Christmas Eve.”

“I am willing to pay.”

“They have to be transported to the site. I need at least three

handlers for all these animals, then clean up, working on a holiday.

Aye, this will be an expensive venture for you.”

George crossed his arms. “How much?”

“I can’t charge you an hourly rate. There is too many of them.

Most people rent two or three at most, and they aren’t putting them

up on a roof. I’d say four thousand dollars at the minimum for the

night, and if you need them longer—” 

“Fine.”

McGruff teethed his pipe then shook his head.

“I don’t know. The whole thing sounds crazy. I don’t know if I can

risk me reindeer. What if they fall off the roof, then what?”

“I would pay you for them.”

He breathed heavily. “Aye, you say that now but I will be the one

with dead reindeer. Hmm. I am sorry, mister, but I think the risk is

too great.”

George stared down at the hearth. “Five thousand.”

“I would have to handle them myself and that is me Christmas,”

McGruff mused, puffing away.

“Six thousand.”

McGruff shook his head again.

“Hmm, I am sorry. The risk is too much.”

George breathed heavy. If he had no reindeer, then there really

could be no Real Santa. He stared at the large man.

“I know it sounds crazy, and I understand your concern, but I

want to keep my daughter’s belief in magic. I want her to believe there

is something good in this world as long as I can.”

McGruff puffed on his pipe and didn’t move.

George waited then stood up. “Well, thank you for your time.”

He began to walk toward the door of the cabin.

“What is your daughter’s name?”

George stopped and turned around. “I’m sorry.”

“Her name. I said, what is your daughter’s name?”

“Megan,” he answered.

McGruff stared at the fire, his woolly boots steaming from the

heat. “I had a daughter once.”

George paused. “Oh … what was her name?”

“Julie … She died of cancer.”

George stood with his hands in his coat.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Aye,” he said tiredly.

The fire crackled in the silence. George didn’t know if he should

stay or go. McGruff didn’t move, but sat with the pipe in his mouth,

his eyes on the fire.

“Well, thank you for your time again.” George turned to the door. 

“I’ll do it for five.”

He turned and saw McGruff still hadn’t moved. George rolled

his shoulders.

“I’ll pay six if that will make it any easier.”

McGruff turned and pinned him with his good eye.

“I’m not doing it for the money, pilgrim.”

Real Santa