The Santa Code by Christie Walker Bos, peppermint latte

Exhaling as he folds himself in half, Nick spreads his legs until his round belly drops between his knees, allowing him to pull on the stiff black boots.

            “I need to eat better. Maybe that Mediterranean diet...”

Then with a soft chuckle, he discards the idea like a used toothpick. Dieting during the holidays … what a foolish endeavor. Best save the diets for New Year’s resolutions.

Boots on, Nick straightens, arching his back to relieve the ball of tension at the base of his spine. One day he’d be too old for this gig, but not today. Pushing himself off the bench, he walks to the rack of cheap red coats. He longs for his rich burgundy robe trimmed in brilliant white fur still in mint condition after hundreds of years of use. The store, however, insists all their Santas dress alike to perpetuate the myth that there is only one Santa.

Scratchy coat on, Nick sucks in his belly. He forces the metal prong into the last hole of the wide black belt before letting out a relieved sigh. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, Nick scrutinizes his outfit for flaws. Finding none, he reaches for the final pieces of the charade … the itchy white wig and the curly white beard. Silently, he says goodbye to his actual beard, a thick wavy mass that falls off his chin and lands on his chest like freshly falling snow. It doesn’t seem right to cover his natural beard in favor of the shoddy synthetic imitation.

Securing the beard with hooks over his ears, then hiding everything with the equally annoying mane of curly white hair and the traditional Santa hat, Nick reviews the finished “product.” Pulling on one white glove and then the other, Nick runs through his mental checklist. Twinkly eyes, check. Merry dimples, check. He pinches his cheeks. Cheeks like roses, check. Cherry nose … close enough. Broad face and round belly, check and check. Seeing himself dressed this way always makes him laugh, causing his belly to shake like a bowl full of jelly, leaving a satisfied grin that curls his droll little mouth up like a bow.

Ho, ho, ho is for amateurs, he thinks.

Before exiting, he reads the list taped to the back of the door. The Santa Code … the Ten Commandments of department store Santas. Nick finds it quite telling that the first item needs to be: Santa never uses drugs, alcohol, or smokes. No drinking after Thanksgiving is Nick’s motto. But after the 25^th, all bets are off. Sitting in front of a crackling fire, feet up, a snifter of brandy to warm his belly as a circle of pipe smoke floats above his head is Nick’s reward after one endless night.

Santa always has good hygiene. Someone should point this out to Charlie who smells like day-old fish, Nick thinks, a soft, not unkind chuckle escaping his lips. Not everyone has a kind-hearted woman who does his laundry and points him to the shower when he gets too ripe.

Santa is jolly and happy. Each day, as he walks to the store through the city streets, Nick watches the homeless wander like ghosts, unseen and forgotten. It makes being “jolly” a chore, leaving him longing for the cold north, where no one is left outside alone.

Santa is punctual. They can have perfection or punctuality, but not both; Nick chuckles, knowing there is only one day a year that he’s on time.

The next two items: Santa never displays inappropriate behavior or language, and Santa should maintain liability insurance, have Nick shaking his head.

“Seriously? What is the world coming to?”

            Nick closes his eyes and presses his gloved hand to the Code, before opening the door. The glow from the fake snow beckons him to Santa’s Village, complete with animatronic reindeer, and bored young women dressed as elves who usher the children up the stairs to meet their idol.

Squeals of delight greet him as he approaches the crowd of children and adults—his second-most favorite moment of the day. He lets out a hearty chuckle, gives a wink and a nod to one of the elves, then climbs the stairs to his golden throne.  

***

Nick’s eager stride belies the fact that his lower back pulses with pain after sitting on that uncomfortable chair for hours. The orange glow of a campfire flickering from the top of a steel barrel draws Nick like a moth to a flame while the rhythmic squeak of the shopping cart’s wonky right wheel alerts the dark shadows of his approach. As he moves closer, the shadows coalesce into men and women warming their hands over the fire, who step aside to make space for Nick and his “sleigh.”

“He’s here,” someone announces from the shadows.

Above the crackling and popping of burning wood, the sound of tent flaps and plastic sheets being pulled aside creates a stir like the rustle of dry leaves. Within minutes, Nick is surrounded by faces illuminated by the warm glow of the fire and something else … hope.

No one steps closer. No hands grab for the items in the cart.  A young girl in a blue hoodie, at least three sizes too large, looks up at Nick with eyes as wide and bright as the full moon. Nick digs into the cart, finally pulling out a pink puffy jacket and a golden hair doll. Bending down, he helps the child into the jacket and hands her the doll.

“Thank you, Santa,” the girl says, barely above a whisper, clutching the doll to her chest.

He doesn’t need to wear a red suit or a fake beard for the girl to recognize who he is, which makes this his favorite moment of the day.

Nick passes out blankets and warm clothing, a few more toys, and finally, canned food, until the silver cart stands empty, glistening like tinsel on a tree. Someone wants to keep the shopping cart. He shrugs. He can find another.

Then, with a wink of his eye and a nod of his head, Nick leaves the warmth of the fire and disappears back into the darkness. An hour later, he arrives at a different encampment with another shopping cart filled with hope. 

Nicolaus Klaas lives by his own Santa Code; no liability insurance needed.

About the author 

 

Christie infuses her novels and short stories with a cup of heart and a dollop of humor. She began her writing career as a journalist before moving over to fiction. "After years of sticking to the facts, it's a real kick to be able to make up whatever I want." 

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