Santa Comes to Dinner

This Santa is a bit different. He brings two bags full, slung over his shoulder, and rather than using the chimney, bursts through our back door, unexpected. He leaves another knob-sized dent in the drywall and pries the trim from the doorframe as he forces his oversized load through the undersized threshold. And this Santa doesn’t arrive with a cheerful greeting, but a somber, “Hey,” followed quickly with a slightly less somber, “What’s for dinner?”

The pan-fried chicken portioned for three now needs to accommodate five, since this Santa, even at 153 pounds, boasts a Clausian-sized appetite. Santa drops his load in the laundry room and proceeds to pester his mother with a series of questions about how the machines work, which detergent to use, the history of the dryer sheet and its rise to prominence, until she finally relieves him of his post. 

“Hey,” I say, which I assume will garner some acknowledgment after he’s completed the pressing matter on his phone—but I’m proved presumptuous. I watch Santa shift his attention and begin scanning the room. He skulks, snoops, rummages—cupboards, closets, dark corners—nowhere’s safe. He sprints up the stairs, impressive for a jolly old soul, then down to the basement, before taking a second pass at the main floor. But what makes this Santa truly unique is his propensity to leave a house with less, and never more, than when he arrives. Year after year phone chargers top his list, but he’s not picky—pens, paper, cereal, snacks, small furniture, socks, pillows, bedding, speakers, batteries, and, of course, garbage bags. Garbage bags are especially coveted for their versatility as laundry bags, grocery bags, shopping bags, laundry baskets, dresser draws, suitcases, and least of all, garbage bags. To be fair, there is a decent chance we’ll be getting some of the stuff he swipes back, wrapped haphazardly, when the holidays actually do roll around.

Once we settle in for the meal, I ask, “How are classes?” Santa is a man of few words. Scratch that. Santa is a man of few sounds, and I think I hear something that resembles, good. His answer originates as a subtle vibration in his chest that somehow bypasses his vocal cords and just happens to ride the passing current of conditioned air to my left ear before fading into the ether. “How’s Mrs. Claus?” I ask. The inside joke doesn’t register, but the question reminds him it’s been too long, eight seconds, since he’s checked his phone.

My daughter has better luck. She asks Santa if he had Mrs. Silsmeyer when he went to Bradford West. It’s enough to distract him from his screen to begin searching the middle distance for a definitive answer. He returns with something that sounds like, maybe, before resuming his default position.

My daughter accepts his answer and uses it as a springboard to rail against the chemistry professor for the next twenty minutes. I am her only captive audience since my wife has left her meal to cool while tending to Santa’s formidable mound of mentionables and unmentionables. This will be the third time I’ve heard of Mrs. Silsmeyer’s starring role as the Wicked Witch of West. Santa dismisses the story with the occasional huff and grunt, which is plenty to keep my daughter encouraged until I remind her that two bites are not enough to stay alive. 

It’s no secret that Santa is a busy man and a popular guy, especially right after dinner. He’s engrossed in an urgent call, so much so, that my daughter and I need to repeatedly reposition him so we can clear his plate, his fork, his knife. his spoon, his glass, his napkin, and then wipe his place setting, his chair, and the floor beneath. When I begin washing the pots and pans by hand, Santa seems annoyed by the noise from the running faucet and intermittent disposal, and how it’s added to the rumble from the laundry room. The ruckus is forcing him to strain to hear his girlfriend. Graciously, he relocates to the den and closes the doors behind him.

Santa reemerges just in time to find the kitchen spic and span, which I’m guessing is a rare sight from whence he’s come. I imagine he must find it all rather mysterious and magical. 

With his laundry still not done, there’s time for Santa to make a pile by the back door of the goods marked for export. It’s a light load this time—one garbage bag with items we’ll only discover gone long after he has. There’s really no telling what’s in the opaque black receptacle, only that it bears no rhyme or reason. We’d be just as likely to find expensive electronics as a pair of dress shoes, or a box of Q Tips as a box of Bisquick—so random and varied, and in that way, reminiscent of the real McCoy. 

Meanwhile, I’m busy tending to garbage bags of my own, that actually have, get this, garbage in them. I side-step Santa and his loot and shift sideways to tip-toe the hefty sacks through the doorway so as not to further damage the house on my way to the trash cans. When I get to the driveway, I see that his sleigh is blocking my path. It’s backed in close, anticipating a large haul. I call back for Santa to move it, but it’s my wife, with key in hand, who assumes the duties. 

When I return from my chores, I find Santa, tired and weary as you’d imagine, parked on the couch, in front of the TV. And like the day I found out the truth about Santa, I balloon with shock and anger. I’ve had it with the laziness, the messiness, the disregard. This once loving, jolly, smiley, pudgy bundle who regaled us with songs and dance, overflowed with infectious joy and enthusiasm and provided such hope and promise of great things to come, year after year, is now reduced to something unbearable. I tamp my instinctual temper. I understand my pivotal role in this development and recognize my duty to set things straight—again. 

Sprawled upon the couch, clicker in one hand, his phone in the other, oblivious to the storm that’s brewing, Santa scrolls and scrolls while I summon the nerve and my argument. I rehearse the lines in my head: things have to change, this behavior is unacceptable, you are better than this. I fill my lungs and part my lips.

Then Santa turns to me. And speaks. Audibly. “You wanna watch the game?” He motions to the TV where he’s cued up the pre-game show to tonight’s match between the Sixers and the Nuggets, a possible preview of the NBA Finals and a matchup of the two teams my son and I happened to see the last time we caught a live game together. He says, “It’s the Nuggets. Remember when we saw them a few years ago? That was fun. We should do that again.” Then my daughter curls up next to him on the couch and he puts his phone aside to wrap his arm around her. Then his mother hands him a bowl of caramel corn and he thanks her and shares it with his sister. And then the dog lumbers over and plops himself down and my son begins stroking his fur with his foot. And I stand there, lips still parted, suspended in space and time, and figure that maybe I could find a way to believe in Santa again.