The Year Of Lowered Expectations

(A shopping center manager advises Santa about his upcoming appearance and how to adjust to the new "reality".)

There's no red carpet treatment this year, Santa. No helicopter arrival. No band. No parade. No fanfare. No grand entrance. It's the year of lowered expectations. You'll simply arrive in a rusty Olds 98 pushed by volunteers. You'll come through the back way and make a brief statement. You'll then sit down with the kids, read a story, take a few pictures, and walk back to the rusty Olds and be pushed away. You are not to take toy requests. Tamp down the enthusiasm Santa. Santa simply can't promise more than he can deliver. And with this economy, what you can deliver will be a lot less than last year. And let's face it; what you delivered last year wasn't much. You can't have folks losing total faith in you. You gotta set the bar real low. People are out of work, people are going hungry, people are having their homes foreclosed on, people are in dire straights. So instead of a hearty (loudly) HO HO HO, MERRY CHRISTMAS, well tone down the Ho Ho Ho's. It should be more like a (mildly) ho ho hum. Just call it part of Santa's austerity program – the new normal. Maybe there's an upside to all of this. Maybe just maybe folks will realize they didn't need all the latest gadgets and toys after all…that all this "stuff" just got in the way. And when the power goes off and the babies are crying and the car won't start…it's not a fat man in a red suit that's gonna come to the rescue. Oh no, he's gonna crawl down that chimney, get his fat ass stuck and need help just like the rest of us. Nope, it's just family, neighbors, our community…that's who's gonna help. Merry Christmas Santa. Ho ho hum.

Bob From Accounting

(An office accountant tries to convince his boss to donate to his Christmas charity.)

Yes sir. Thanks for the meeting. Most of the time you know me as Bob from accounting, but this time of year I transform into old St. Nick. I show up at the office Christmas party, I pass out gifts, I visit the local orphanage. And of course Santa wouldn't be Santa without keeping a list of who's been naughty or nice. It's amazing what you hear around the water cooler…the juicy gossip…the salacious rumors. It's also amazing the indiscretions you witness in the janitor closet. Of course your name comes up a lot in the office chatter. It also comes up a lot in the janitor's closet. Santa doesn't jump to any conclusions though. He's fair. He does his own investigations. And what I've found out sir is that you have been a very bad boy this past year. But the good news is that Santa forgives and forgets…for a price. And…well…Santa needs a new workshop and some shop tools to keep his elves busy. I estimate all of this will cost approximately ten grand. Oops…Mrs. Claus might get a little jealous. Better make that 15 grand. Your predecessor was a very naughty boy as well. He decided not to participate in Santa's charity. Of course he no longer works for the company. He works in the laundry room at the state prison. You see, Santa is one hell of an accountant.

Santa's Dilemma

(A mall Santa discusses the dilemma presented to him by a child with a special request.)

I have to admit most of my days are filled with the most outrageous toy requests by spoiled rich kids. Little Tommy and Sallie importune me to provide the latest, the greatest, the super duperest gifts. These kids exude a sense of entitlement. But every now and then a special child with a special request changes everything you've ever thought about Christmas, about Santa Claus, and about the poor innocent souls who inhabit this earth. There was one such child yesterday. She sits down, a dark haired girl of about 8 years old, not as wealthy and not as well dressed as the other kids. When I ask her what she wants for Christmas, she tells me that she only wants one thing. And what would that be I ask, relieved that this will be short and sweet. She then tells me all she wants is for her mom to be ok on Christmas day. And then from talking with her, I realize her mom has stage-four cancer. Her situation is dire. The chances are great that she won't be alive on Christmas day. My heart breaks. I'm not ready for this. Dealing with the snotty nosed rich kids was a lot easier. I could just nod and smile. And then I find out that the little girl's name is Virginia. That knowledge made my job a lot harder. I feel so worthless. I'm not a miracle worker. I'm not St. Jude. I'm St, Nick. But I'm not St. Nick. Even the beard is fake. I want to fade back into the woodwork. I just wanna go home, feed my dog and watch a mindless comedy. I wanna be someplace else…anywhere but here at this place, at this time. What to do? Do I tell her everything's gonna be fine and then her mom dies? Her faith in a benevolent Santa dies. Her faith in benevolence itself dies. Or do I tell her the truth? No Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. Sorry, my condolences. Here's a candy cane. It took everything I had to look her in the eye, smile without breaking down and tell her…I'll see what I can do. And then you hope…and say a prayer to St. Jude.

A Not So Jolly Santa

(One of Santa's helpers stalls for time awaiting Santa's entrance.)

Hey kids, Santa's running a little late today. You might say he's been under the weather. He's had a...uh...a stomach virus. Yea that's it. Uh...well...no, that's not exactly true kids. I can't lie to you. Santa wants us to be truthful right? His stomach does hurt along with his head but it's because of something we adults call a hangover. Let your parents explain that to you. Because Santa hasn't been feeling good, please keep your requests brief. Very brief. Single requests only. Grab your candy cane, exit right and be on your way...to a very  merry Christmas that is. You know Santa will try to do his best, but sometimes he's very forgetful. Sometimes he just forgets to show up at the mall when he's supposed to. But like I said, he'll be out in a few. Now don't ask him about Mrs. Claus kids. It will get him very mad. It seems that Mrs. Claus had a very amorous encounter with one of Santa's elves. He was a very bad elf. He no longer works at Saddle Creek Mall. He's officially listed by the police department as "missing". He's going to go where all bad elves go...HELL! Santa just might have to trade Mrs. Claus in for a younger more beautiful model. But you didn't hear it from  me kids. Hey, while we're waiting you kids can have your picture taken with Santa's stand-in Clyde. Come on up here Clyde. Just pretend Clyde is Santa kids for photographic purposes only. I know he doesn't look like Santa. Just use your imagination. And please visit Clyde at the Willow Brook retirement home. He will absolutely love the company. Clyde, please stop  drooling. And kids don't even think about going to the West Bend Mall. That Santa over  there is just a big fat fake. He's a Santa wannabe. He ought to be locked up for impersonating the real santa. Report him to the police kids. Ok kids it looks like Santa's stumbling in now. Don't be disturbed by Santa's black eye. It seems Santa was doing more  than kissing mommy around the Christmas tree. Ha, ha (slaps cheek) Oh did I say that...I'm  sorry kids, just a little adult Santa humor. Well, I'm outta here. Have a very merry Christmas!

Efficiency

There he is. I can see it just as clear now as when it happened 35 years ago. It was Christmas Eve. He was sitting at the kitchen table ensconced in a plethora of liquor bottles, with a half eaten sugar cookie dangling from one side of his tortured mouth and a nasty colored drool being emitted from the other side. That fat bastard, No not Santa, but Dad spoiling my Christmas memories in his moth eaten Santa suit. The gig was up. The deeply held secret was laid bare in the haze of an alcoholic meltdown. It wasn't like I didn't have my doubts. The previous year, Santa had the smell of whiskey on his breath as he staggered and toppled over the Christmas tree. But he made a quick recovery exiting the house before suspicions arose. I may have been let down by Dad's antics, but I was determined he wasn't going to spoil Christmas for my little brother and sister. I did some quick thinking. Mom and my siblings were on a last minute shopping trip and would be back shortly. I would need assistance from our next door neighbor Mr. Wagoner who was in the middle of watching It's A Wonderful Life. When a bell rings, an angel might get its wings, but when Mr. Wagoner' s door bell rang, it usually meant Dad was on a bender. So I cleaned up all the mess, liquor bottles, and blood...not sure how that got there. With Mr. Wagoner' s help, I dragged Dad up the stairs, making sure he hit each of them. I kept thinking wow that's gonna hurt in the morning. When he hit the last step, I knew that was really gonna hurt. We got Dad into bed. Mr. Wagoner changed into the Santa Suit. Luckily it fit! We were back down the stairs when mom, brother and sister came back. Mr. Wagoner did his best Santa impression and everything went off without a hitch. However I did owe Mom one he'll of an explanation. I had to repeat this same routine for the next four years. This would come in handy later in life when I set up shop cleaning up damaging situations for the rich and famous. I was very efficient.

Santa, His Own Self

I was born in 270 A.D. of Greek descent in modern day Turkey. I am known by the names Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, Sinter Klass, and Kris Kringle.  I became the Bishop of Myra. I have been memorialized, commercialized, parodied, satirized, mythologized, and homogenized into something I don't even recognize most of the time. I've even been portrayed as a "Bad Santa" by Billy Bob Thornton. I was once imprisoned and tortured during the Great Persecution under Roman Emperor Diocletian. I am the patron saint of children. I once saved three girls from eminent prostitution. I once saved three men from eminent execution. I started the practice of secret gift giving. I've never lived at the North Pole, never owned reindeer, had a sleigh, or had a stable of elves to manufacture toys for children.  And contrary to popular opinion, there is no Mrs. Claus.  My image has changed over the years thanks to the Dutch and the Americans.  But really, they changed me into something I never was…a fat man in a red suit getting drunk on eggnog being excoriated by some snotty nosed rich kid because they feel like their entitled to the latest video game or the trendiest toy.  No, that's not what I'm about. What I am about is providing the poorest children in the poorest regions of the world with food, shelter, clothing, prayers, and most of all…love.  Officially, they say I died in the year 343 A.D. But my spirit is still around. Hopefully, I'll always be around.  

Santa's Fixer

We've got a situation here.  I've heard good things about you.  I think you're up for this assignment, so I'm going to need you to get to Minneapolis asap.  It involves a Motel 6, a three-legged hooker, cocaine, an Uzi, a Shetland pony…and what am I leaving out?  Oh yea…a colostomy bag.  I need you to clean this mess up.  Discretion is paramount.  This incident involves one of the world's most celebrated figures…  Santa, his own self.  You see, I'm the big guy's fixer.  I extricate him from some very sticky messes and frankly keep him out of jail.  It's more than a full-time job.  He has grown careless, reckless, and rudderless these last few years.  There are the "accidents" at the workshop.  Those poor elves didn't even get a proper burial.  Then there are property damage claims from around the world due to those drunken sleigh rides.  Chasing mommy around the Christmas tree becomes more than chasing…grabbing, groping, well use your imagination.  And those reindeer are so badly mistreated to the point that the ASPCA has me on their speed dial.  I must make sure he is their biggest donor.  Santa has made me a very wealthy man.  Money is no object for him.  He'll just dip into one of those secret offshore accounts and Cha Ching…problem taken care of.  And Mrs. Claus?  Well, she has her own fixer.  Thank goodness I don't have to get involved in that.  But you know there is a higher purpose to all of this.  It's about protecting the brand.  Afterall the world is still better with a tarnished Santa than without one.  So, take these stockings full of $100 bills.  You'll never know who you'll have to pay off. Let me know when you're done.  You know I kept telling him that bad things always happen in Minneapolis…bad…things…always…happen…in Minneapolis, but the fat bastard never listens.

The Death of Santa

(Santa's press secretary confirms the rumors of his demise)

Well, as you've heard, the rumors of Santa Claus's death are true. He passed away peacefully last night under the mistletoe with Ms. Claus performing the last kiss. Dignitaries across the world have sent their condolences – the pope, the Dali Lama, most of the world's heads of state. Noticeably missing however was any sort of communication from North Korea's Kim Jong Un. He had received a lot of coal in his stockings over the years, but fortunately for him he had to burn it to keep his palace warm. What an ingrate. We were particularly touched by President Biden's memories of "The Big Man."  (Quote):  Santa remembered me as Joey, a scrawny kid from Scranton. He built sleighs in his back yard. Then one day, he was just gone. Poof! Then the next thing you know, he's living at the North Pole creating some crazy cult involving reindeers and elves. You just never know. End quote. Okayyy…let's move on. The cause of death? Well, he was old, he was obese, he was a diabetic, he had arthritis, he had hardened arteries, a bad liver, an alcoholic…too much eggnog…way too much eggnog, high cholesterol…he even cooked his Atorvastatin in lard. Santa is survived by his long-suffering wife, his long-suffering elves, and his long-suffering reindeer who will surely miss those drunken sleigh rides across the planet. He is also survived by his many mistresses…oops…I mean female admirers. Santa was a good man, a decent man. In fact, people remember him as the very definition of goodness and decency. But he was not entirely free of scandal. There were always those annoying paternity suits beginning with "I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus." But let me set the record straight…he was impotent. At least, that's what he told me. There was that sad incident where it was alleged that he bitch-slapped one of his trusted elves over a manufacturing problem. It ended up in the tabloids. Things got messy, but hey we settled out of court. The elf in question is living in Miami under a doctor's care. The family asks that you don't tell your children of Santa's demise. It will just break their hearts and scar them for life…especially Virginia. Don't tell that girl! He will be buried underneath the frozen tundra of the Arctic. His coffin will be transported by his trusty reindeers. In lieu of flowers, please send your generous donations to the Santa Claus Memorial Fund from which a library, museum, and gift shop will be built. His spirit will live on as well as his legion of impersonators. Elvis don't have anything on the "Big Man."  And just like Elvis, Santa has left the building. Peace on earth. Goodwill to men. Merry Christmas!

All from Les Marcott's Character Flaws, a collection of monologues, short plays and short stories published for Scene4 Books by Aviarpress.

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