Santa Claus Came to Town

SANTA CLAUS CAME TO TOWN

Al Griffin

It was Christmas Day, and Tom had been sitting in the hard, folding chair for hours. At his age, the chair became both blessing and curse. Tom had volunteered at this Christmas event every year since Mildred passed in the spring of ‘09. Before that year, before that stage in her disease, they had attended this gala without fail for the last 18 of their 64 years together. Mildred remained strong until the end. For that he was grateful. He couldn’t stand the idea of watching her suffer endlessly.

That first year together he couldn’t have imagined the pain of watching his beloved decline. The folly of youth is that we are forever young, forever vibrant, forever beautiful. And of course, as we age, we can only still see the strength of our young selves, the beauty of our young mates.

To this day he still smiled at the thought of Mildred’s golden hair trailing behind as she squealed and giggled sitting beside him in the ’64 Impala SS convertible. His hand found her knee as much as it found the four-speed shift lever in the floor. And her in that red bathing suit at the beaches, listening to the saltwater ripple the sand into intricate patterns.

But the best part was Mildred’s childlike wonder at the glow of Christmas lights. Her silence standing before over-the-top house decorations where whole neighborhoods made the season on big competition. Lights were her favorite.

Tom had so many good memories of their time together, but this event, this Christmas Light Extravaganza, had become the best. Tom and Mildred made it their annual ritual. Tom couldn’t stand the thought of losing this connection to his beloved. Also, being involved made him feel more vibrant as time crept up on him.

That first year he had helped install the huge displays, climbing the ladders and stringing millions of lights. By the fourth year his high ladder days were behind him. He could tote boxes and tighten bolts with the young bucks though. Even managed to get out on the ice once without busting his butt. All good things wind down, as did his abilities. But not his joy and enthusiasm. Always a child, even before what many called that ‘second childhood’ of his 92nd year. As time advanced, and abilities declined, Tom’s tasks diminished until this year. Now, he could only sit at the entrance and greet patrons, waving them into the proper line depending on whether they had a ticket or needed a ticket. Smile and wave them right or left.

It was enough. Enough to bring back memories of his Mildred when they held hands through the serpentine line. Memories of each first Christmas kiss under the glittering archway leading to singing reindeer, and skating children. Tom relived it all in exquisite detail. Now days the memories were less painful and more comforting than earlier years.

If he could have walked the green and red lit pathway he would have. If he could have just stood on the rail and watched the skaters, it would be grand. But this year he didn’t have the energy to sit upright in the chair. Not anymore. Truth was that Tom was sinking faster than the event organizers knew.

Tom hadn’t even noticed the event had a new Santa Claus this year. He knew them all by name, from the first year of his volunteer residency. The ‘Santa’ usually lasted a few years if he was a good one. Most of them were. But this one was younger than the others. No grey hair, no rotund belly, no flowing, white beard. However, he was very intense. To the point of being unnerving sometimes.

He never appeared so to the patrons, but there was scuttlebutt. Tom never noticed the underlying intensity though. The new Santa had been nice to him.

Today started like all the rest. He crept from the parking garage to the door. Met the other volunteers and took his place. Two hours later he felt mild discomfort radiate up his left arm as he lifted it, directing the flow of holiday revelers. The new Santa walked up behind him as Tom rubbed his arm. Santa never looked down as he reached out and touched Tom’s shoulder. A light touch, a brush that Tom barely registered.

No one in the line even noticed Santa’s presence as Tom tilted to the left and crashed against the side of the ticket booth. An off-duty paramedic in the line rushed to give aid. Another dialed 911 and reported a possible heart attack. Santa turned away from the scene without anyone in the crowd noticing.

The ambulance crew found no signs of life in the elderly victim. They loaded him into the rig and transported him Code 3 to the nearest hospital, where the E.R. Physician found vital signs strong enough to support admittance, but not hope. The patient remained comatose for 48 hours.

Tom had lived a good life, impacted everyone he met, loved and been loved, but his time had come. Santa had quietly and secretly made sure of that. The old man admitted to the hospital on Christmas Eve no longer existed. The monitor at the nurse's station signaled that event with a flat line, buzzers, and bells. The PA blared Code Blue. Nurses scrambled to Tom’s room. They were too late. Tom was gone.

Really gone. A smooth, muscled 19-year-old swung his legs off the wrinkled sheets, stood and dropped the hospital gown and retrieved Tom’s pants from the small locker next to the bathroom door. The nurses stood in amazement as the young man wearing baggy pants and faded shirt left the room, walked briskly down the hall, and stepped into the cold, cloudless morning of December 26, where he silently thanked Santa Clause for a new lease on life.

Mildred stood beside the ’64 Impala convertible, holding the passenger door open. “Merry Christmas my love. It is the season of miracles after all. The season of our most secret Christmas wishes.”