#10) The Size of Things

IT HAS been 3 days since I am allowed back into House #7. I have made three previous attempts to come back, each one punctuated with Santa slamming the door in my face. They went like this.


‘Knock, knock’
“What do you want?”
“Ummm...hi...You told me to come back.”
“Wrong answer.”
SLAM!


‘Knock, knock’
“What do you want?”
“Hi, Santa I brought you ginger snaps?”
He takes the plate, then raises one eyebrow expectantly.
“Ahem...I want all the little children to be happy and I wish for peace and prosperity for all humankind. And I want the bad people to be good and the good people to be gooderer.”
“You're a sarcastic little snot.”
SLAM!


“What do you want?”
“I want to learn the ways of the badger! I want the caribou to be my lover and for the cicada's to teach me their song!"
SLAM!


I Wanta fly jets sir!
SLAM!
I want to teach the world to sing!
SLAM!
 I want to believe in Peter Pan!
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! SLAM SLAM!
 (To make a point, he opens the door to slam it in my face multiple times. )


Today, he merely opens the door and looks at me.
I stand there in my red knickers with the bells on my hat hanging in my face, a pathetic sight.




“I want...I could use...somebody to talk to...please.”


He stands aside and lets me in.
Then he tunrs away from me and goes back to his work bench. Slowly, he begins to turn the handle on a vice that is gripping a long curved piece of wood.


“Oh. Are you making a rocking horse?” I say with a patronizing tone.
And as soon as I do, I wish I didn't.


He stares me down.


“I'm fixing a door, you nitwit.”


He stares more, “You could help.”


I grab the plank of wood to steady it as he tightens the vice.


“So, have you figured it out?” He begins to run the plane up and down the rough length of the lumber.


“That you're some kind of Super-Janitor, you mean?”


“No, Why are you here?”


“...because I'm terrible at directions”, I joke.


Santa gives me a look that says, “I'll throw you out the window.”


Quickly I say, “I don't know, Santa.” My face falls. “I feel like I lost something.”


“Mm,” He grunts sympathetically.


Like hope. I feel like i've lost hope.


I don’t say this.


“I- I-feel kinda 'broken'?”




Santa regards me for a moment, then in a whiny, mocking tone says,  "I feel kinda broken. Waaah!"


"Umm...Santa, I thought you were supposed to be sympathetic and understanding...?"


"I'm whatever you want me to be. I thought you were a big, untouchable, smart ass? “I’m too good to be an Elf!” “My name is Tinsel Dick or Lab Rat or Snow
Goat or–”


“GLOB. SnowGLOB,” I say defensively. “It’s a good name.”


“Right. It is better than...?


“Winky,” I mutter.


“Ooh, yes, Winky sucks. Truth is, most Elf names are impossible to pronounce anyway.” He sits down on a crate, “So...what's bugging ya?”
When he says it, it sounds like "boogin'"


I want to make fun of him sounding like Bono, but the smell of cookies, the warmth, they're paring down my defenses.“I guess I had a hard year, Santa.”


“Mm.” Santa runs his finger along the edge of the door.


“I feel like I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I feel like I’m losing. I've lost work. I've lost ...I...lost...” my voice trails off.


He trains his eyes on me, “...somebody.”


“Yeah, somebody...” I mumble.


" 'A stranger to tears, she did not weep.
I asked her to stay, she smiled sadly,
but no answer came.
Her shoulders lifted upwards, then down in a shrug.
She did not blink.
She did not sigh.
She did not melt.
But I cracked.' "




“Did you just quote Pasto Gallegos?”, I inquire, crinkling my nose in disdain.


“Actually, he quoted me. Mopey little guy used to come visit me all the time.” Santa says, and then as if reading my mind. “Bono did too.”


I sigh. “Well, Pasto hit it on the nose...”


Santa undoes the clamp on the vice and stands the door up on its end. It is a beautiful mahogany door, with ornate carvings of penguins and reindeer.


“Ya gotta just keep moving forward. It doesn't matter how hard you hit, what matters is that you can take a punch and keep on moving.”


“That was from 'Rocky Balboa...you seem to 'borrow' your wisdom from a lot of others.'”


“Izzat so? I don't know, I have a lot of visitors, he probably quoted me...”


“...Sly Stallone?” I interject.


“Yeah! Used to come see me a lot." He pauses, then points enthusiastically to a corner of the room.  "Ya wanna see the ring?”


I never noticed it before, but in the corner lies a crimson tarp. Santa moves to it and as he pulls it up and away, he reveals a professional size boxing ring that shouldn't have been able to fit into the size of our little Santa house, but somehow does. It has gold and green ropes and a red mat and is lit from above by four rows of incandescent lights. It is awesome.


“Ya wanna go a few rounds?” He grins.


It's an odd proposition and as I turn to address him, I see that he is now standing ready, wearing a robe, gloves and a pair of Apollo Creed like trunks, but instead of stars and stripes, they have snowflakes and candy canes.




“You're possibly the weirdest department store Santa I've ever met.”


He tosses a pair of gloves to me.


“Oh? You mean you don't have a label for me yet? 'Cranky Santa' or 'Fix-It Santa' or–”


“I kindga mphike 'WTF Sphanta' ”, I say as I lace the gloves with my teeth.


I've never boxed before, but I figure “what the hell?” Besides, he's Santa, he's in TERRIBLE shape.
I'm small and wiry, I'll just dance around him the whole time.


Santa gets in the ring and just like the size of the room, the size of him looks different. He's still blocky, but more defined and kind of cut.


“You know, cynics of the world, they think kindness and understanding make you some kind of wussy. I'm here to tell you it takes a badass to be compassionate. The strongest warriors in the world never use their fists, they use their hearts and their minds.”


“So...you're 'Warrior Santa'?”, I make "quotey" fingers with my boxing gloved hands. “You could have more action figures than Batman.”


Santa sighs. “You can be such an idiot. My point is, just because something looks like a 'preposterous, fat man in a red suit' doesn't mean that it lacks power.”


“You mean, maybe I need to look deeper? To see a different more powerful Santa, one that works for me?"


“Now you're getting the idea.” And then he slugs me in the jaw.