In a small midwestern community of the late 1950’s, there was a pattern in the divination of space and opportunity. There were jobs…good ones.  Characters were welcome, taking up the spaces between success and the commonplace.  We were coming off of the euphoria of WWII, and tumbling past the moral dilemma of the Korean Conflict. Dads were the ultimate generators of words and action; they were capable of many shades of superb conquest, but they were not Santa Clause...they just weren't.

Within the depths of any strong idea lies the secret of its ruination. A small-town Santa, one of the members of a national army of Santas who laid claim to a local market could qualify as a strong idea. Kids are the key in Santa’s success, and kids are the ones so solidly in need of asking the impossible to a sympathetic Saint.

Around 1959, Santa came to our town. He was honored with a small parade, and then appropriately installed at the local grocery, where he waited for children to share their dreams for a better life through toys and other unrealistic requests. 

My big brother and I had our lists. He was certain my list would cause serious grief to our family.

“Why are you asking for walkie-talkies? You might cause a plane-crash or an earthquake or something!”

He saw the surprise on my face. I thought anyone would want walkie-talkies for obvious reasons.

“I want to talk to Randy. His dad won’t get a phone. Randy wants to talk…”

My brother snarled, stood silent for a second, then said, “Randy has his family, especially his sister…wow! She’s real pretty. Why would any of them want to talk to you?”

“Randy is my friend, and friends talk...his dad hits him.”

My brother paused, and looked down momentarily.

“Well, you gotta use those walkie-talkies in your fort…underground, or you might make a tidal wave, or make a plane go down. I saw it in a movie.”

“OK…”

I was scared to do anything my big brother warned me against. With my new visions of world destruction and plane crashes haunting me, I decided to ask Santa for something else.

At the grocery store that same afternoon, there was hardly a soul in the Santa area. The 2 x 4 and paper-mache’ throne was in place, with the fake grass and strange red velour contact paper on almost everything. There were dirty, dog-eared cutouts of elves wired to a broken-down highchair, with soiled, worn-out gift packages on the chair's seat and tray.

A small girl from my school was sitting on Santa’s lap. My brother and I approached, reading the arrowed sign to the side of Santa’s throne. The girl caught my eye and she frowned, shook her head slightly, and pinched her nose. My brother caught the warning too and we looked at each other. Mom’s attention was on a display island adjacent to Santa. My brother was next. He reluctantly climbed onto Santa’s lap. A look of disgust came over his face as he squirmed to get down. 

“I smell poop! It’s wet!...MOM!”

My brother was seriously upset, holding his nose and feeling his seat with his other hand. He put his hand to his nose.

“Damn! It’s pee! Mom!...”

This frightened me. Looking up at Santa, I saw him grappling for something to grab onto. This was very odd, because he was already sitting down. Leaning out of his chair, he seized a large candy cane to steady himself. He struggled to an upright position, burped, and then sneezed with great force, trying to contain it with his free hand. When he raised his head, I could see a gigantic wad of  green phlegm clinging to the lower tip of his beard. It was realy gross. The smell of the fecal tragedy was almost overwhelming.  There was also the strong aroma of alcohol, reminding me of my dad and uncles at my aunt’s wedding the previous year.

“Boys, let’s go.”  Mom guided us towards the exit. The grocer, a friend of my parents, met us at the door.

“I am so sorry boys, Mary, this guy is just Santa’s helper, I’m gonna ask Santa to come here himself tomorrow…Promise!”

Mom gave the grocer a polite smile, pushed us towards the door and coaxed us into the car. We always sat in back. Mom pulled onto Main Street.

My brother was livid... with a wet butt.

“Yuck! Mom, that wasn’t Santa, he was a lousy drunk. I knew Gary would mess this up.” 

Mom was silent for a second. We turned onto our street.

“So now this is Gary’s fault? Why do you say that?” 

“He always wants messed up stuff when he sends his letters to Santa. Its junk no one can make…I think Santa don’t want to deal with it and just sends his other guys…his bums.”

Mom laughed as she put the car in park. She turned and reached her hand to my cheek. 

“Gary wants unusual stuff, and I think that Santa and his helpers can make anything. That man at the store was an actor, and a mistake. I think the grocery people were embarrassed. They will get the real Santa to come, I know they will.”

The next day, Mom loaded us in the car again and we drove uptown. The grocery had more decorations, and a tree with baseball cards on it! The Santa throne was way in the back by the grocer’s butcher shop. The throne was empty.

“Ho, Ho, Ho, Ho!...you boys come over here!” 

Santa came from behind the butcher pantry wall and sat on the throne. I thought to myself, “He looks like the grocer.”

“I’ll bet you’re Gary. Get over here and talk to Santa…Ho! Ho!”

I climbed onto his lap. His legs were very hard and bony. I clutched my list, trying to unfold it as his beard brushed my face. The beard felt scratchy, not like the cotton-down texture I always imagined. He was holding my waist like I was some little kid, and I began to lose my balance as I leaned out away from him. I looked at his beard, and I saw a gross patch of green-brown stuff hanging on the tip... I thought I was going to barf.

“Oh No!....SNOT!”

Mom and my brother were fussing with something on his shirt as they looked up. I was struggling to get away from Santa and he was holding me tighter, laughing, and sounding more like a real guy. Mom moved closer and looked at the beard. 

“That’s disgusting. Let him down! Come on boys!”

Mom was rushing us towards the door again as the grocer was yelling after us.

“Mary, what’s wrong…Ho!Ha, ho…oh…sorry..”

As we were driving home this time, my brother was more circumspect.

“Man, you would think Santa would have his guys carry a comb or get some shampoo or something. That was gross.” 

Mom chuckled.

“What about Gary. He had to almost touch the guy’s beard.”

I was still feeling a mild nausea.

“I did touch it Mom, it dragged on my face…Yuck!”

“Oh Honey, I’m sorry, I did think you were going to throw up!”

My brother was smiling as he looked out the window, the leaves were gone, white flakes were gently falling as our car cut a quiet path through the fair day’s infusion. He nudged me gently.

“No Mom, not my little brother.”

There was a rough, local idea floating around the community after our incident.  It was an event that inspired a system of defaults through the adult generation of our town. Every parent was on guard, in a way that had not been seen before, with concern about outsiders. Fortunately, with the way kids always hang out, there was still freedom amongst the smaller town members, with a new concern for the proper burial of bad ideas. Two Santas had become outcasts. They were fallen Saints, failing in their roles, with no prospects, friends, or as it concerned the kids of our community, no opportunities to get into the sky on Christmas Eve. 

For my brother and myself, a cherished myth is hard to shake. Santa, and his munificent deeds were still apparent in our community. As we matured, we continued, as most of our friends did, to humor our parents and maintain a feigned belief in Santa for some years afterwards.  It always felt good to give life to a benevolent idea. Even now there is still great good in that…mixing love, magic and reason.