#9 The Kid

 #9 The Kid

WE'RE sitting in Au Bon Pan. I'm having
pumpkin soup and turkey sandwiches with
Skittlez and Starcluster.


It's break time and most elves
frequent this deli that's
located right out front of
the Santaland entrance.
Santaland is on the 8th
floor of the building. To
go anywhere outside the
building for lunch is usually a chore because it is so time consuming to get down the elevators or the escalators when the store is teeming with shoppers.


So, most of us grab a sandwich and head back to the dingy elf break room located near the elf lockers behind the maze. But today, the three of us managed to snag a table at the cafe and are enjoying our time out in the open.


“I heard Santa was invented by the Coca Cola company for the sole purpose of selling their crappy soda.” I throw that out there.


Starcluster chuckles. “I heard the same thing.”


Skittelz says, “That's ridiculous. Santa's been around for centuries.”


I like these two. They see irony in Santaland and although, both of them are very positive people, they aren't so in that annoying, fake, sugar-coated way that grates on the nerves. Starcluster is probably 24 or 25 years old, he's funny and is doing his best to make it as an actor. Skittlez is a little younger, 22 or 23 with large walnut eyes, which sparkle when something hoaky or incongruous occurs at Santaland.


Starcluster counters, “Are you sure? I mean, I always see those pictures of him from the 40's and 50's.”

“You're talking about the “advertising” Santas? Yeah, there's those, but how about St. Nicholas? Or all the other traditions-Pere Noel, Babbo Natale? How do you explain Father Christmas in Victorian times?”

“It doesn't matter,” I say, “Weren't they all conceived to manipulate the masses anyway, either culturally or economically.”

“Look, one can always choose to be cynical. But you do have some control over your perspective of it. You do have choice.” Skittelz says.

“How so?”

“You have the choice to believe or not.

It's up to you.”

“Riiiiiight”, I say.

“Yeah.”

My eyes narrow, “DO YOU believe in Santa?”

Starcluster laughs, “Of course, I do, or I'm out of a job!”

Skittelz smiles.

I look at her unflinchingly. “Come on! Do you...? ” I use her real name, “Katie, DO YOU BELIEVE IN SANTA?”

“Yeah, I do. In a weird sort of way, I do.”

I let out a snort of derisive laughter.

With a twinkle, she says, “There is a piece of Santa in all of us.”

“That sounds like a dirty punchline.”

She laughs,“You don't have to be a douchebag. But to answer your question, yes, It's a ...spirit kind of thing.”

“Its a preposterous, fat man in a red suit.”

“Look, at one time you believed in Santa, right? He was real to you.”

“Yeah?”

“But he was real to you only from a childish perspective. Maybe it's still possible to believe, but in a grown up way?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She takes a deep breath.

  “I stopped believing in Santa when I was 11.

  There was just too much of it that was 

  improbable. When December came, I began to 

  do everything I could to disprove it to my

    family. "Santa's not real", I would say to

    whomever would listen. One day, my 'Pinky' 

    had had enough.

“Wait....your 'Pinky' ?” Starcluster interrupts.

“My Grandpa. He used to bounce me on his knee and go 'Pinky-Ponk! Pinky-Ponk!' and it sorta stuck as a family nickname.”

“Oh.”

“So, Pinky said to me, 'You're wrong! You're looking at it with cynical eyes!' I remember looking at him, an 11 year old skeptic.

He continued his rant, 'I can SHOW you that there is a Santa, I can PROVE to you that Santa exists!'

This was a bold statement.

'BUT, in order to do so, you have got to be able to suspend your cynicism for one moment, open your mind and be willing to put in the work to find the proof of it!'

I think I rolled my eyes at that point and he slammed his fist down on the kitchen table.

'I'M SERIOUS, GODDAMNIT!'

I was shocked because Pinky never got angry.

'THIS is important,” he said, a little calmer.

'The significance of this will hit you much later in life, when you come to understand that it takes a courageous, open mind to FIND a way to create and alter the world in a positive way,” He scratched his chin. ‘As opposed to a closed and destructive mind that tears down and ravages our edifices of hope'

'Okay', I agreed, moved by his conviction.

'Tomorrow, after school. I want you to come by my place of work. And we'll go from there.'

I should note here that Pinky was a retired Mail Carrier and continued to work part time down at the post office. When I popped in after school, he ushered me to the break room in back and emptied a crate of letters onto a card table in the corner. I picked one of them up, and noticed that it was lettered in colorful child's handwriting and addressed to “Santa Claus, the North Pole”.

Pinky pointed to the pile and said, 'These are the one's who need extra care and attention.'

I spent the next 45 minutes reading letters from children, who, like me, have requested gifts for the holidays. But instead of asking Santa for the latest CD or video game, most of their letters were asking for things which I took for granted. 

Coats. Gloves. Underwear. 

As I read through, I learned from Pinky, that he and many of his co-workers had put aside extra money to provide some of these necessities to the children, and in some cases, parents, who had 

written to Santa Claus.

I came across one letter and

recognized the name. It was a

girl in my class at school.

Jenny Heets.

Pinky grabbed his coat, pulled me out the door and

we got into his Dodge Dart and took a drive. 

'This is my old carrier route,” he said

as we drove slowly through a series of streets in a depressed neighborhood. “After a while, you do one of two things, you put blinders on, or you make it your job to notice things. You start letting the world in.' 

The next day at school, 

for the first time, I'm 

 looking around at my fellow

  classmates in a different light. I start letting the world in and I  notice that there's more going on around me than I ever knew. 

I begin to notice little details, like the dark circles under Eric Morris' eyes or that Julie Lavigne has worn the same skirt for three days this week. But nobody seems to be as bad off as Jenny Heets. Jenny Heets just was that kid. The one that always sat by herself at lunch. She had this sort of yellowing, jaundiced complexion. And, even in deepest winter, she always wore the same old frayed pink coat; one that just didn't seem thick enough to keep out the ice and chill. Somebody told me that there was a death in her family recently.

When I got home from school, 

I gave Pinky a full report. He 

rubbed his stubbled chin and said,

'Good. Tomorrow at school, I want you to start keeping track. Making a list, so to speak.'

As I started to protest, he snapped his fingers and said, 'Hey! You promised! Do. The. Work.'

Resignedly, I agreed.

This went on for about a week. In this time, I began to collect copious notes. Things like, Jenny had a fondness for cupcakes and Hello Kitty.

Finally, as we draw nearer to the holiday, Pinky said, 'Come with me'.

We got into his Dart and drove down to the Walmart, where we picked up a number of items including mittens, a Hello Kitty hat and a new and tasteful girls peacoat. We stopped by the Safeway and we loaded up on groceries, including a selection of velvet cupcakes from the deli. Then we wrapped all the items in brightly colored packages and signed each one with Santa's name. 

We drove out to the neighborhood where Jenny Heets lived and as the evening shadows grew dark and purple, we pulled onto her pock marked street. Her tiny, modest house stood at the end. Just beyond her lonely abode was a series of industrial buildings and warehouses. The small yard was overrun with weeds and plastic siding. Pinky parked down the block in the shadows and got out of the car. He retrieved all the packages from the trunk and handing a chunk of them to me, said, 'You ready?'

I nodded.

We crept down the street to the Heets' front porch, my 75 year old grandfather and I.

We carefully laid the gifts and groceries out around the front door. We placed the tray of brightly colored cupcakes on top, with a note that said, “To the Heets from Santa.”

Pinky winked at me. Then he rang the doorbell and 

we ran.

We hid in the bushes along the North side of the street, where we could still see the Heets' front porch.

Jenny came to the front door and she let out a giggle.

You have to understand that in all my years at school with her, I had NEVER seen her smile, let alone giggle.

And it was a remarkable, joyous and hopeful sound.

She called back into the house with delight and was joined by her father and a little boy.

Pinky turned to me.

'You tell me,' he said intensely, with tears in his eyes. 'You tell me that Santa isn't real.' ”

I looked over at Starcluster and his eyes were glistening with emotion.

Katie grabbed my hand, “We're all part of the Santa equation. Just at some point you have the choice to grow up and take an active part in it. At some point you have to accept your responsibility AS Santa!”

But what the hell does Katie know. 

She's just a 23 year old kid with a 

crazy grandad who goes, “pinky-ponk.”

[*This was inspired by two 

different sources. Operation Santa 

out of the New York City Post Office,

my friend, Maurice's grandpa, Pinky. 

Operation Santa out of the New York City Post Office answers letters sent to them and allows patrons to “be” Santa and fulfill Christmas wishes.  You can check it out by contacting Operation Santa at the James A. Farley Post Office in New York, or visit https://about.usps.com/holidaynews/operation-santa.htm. 
It is one of the coolest things you ever might do.]