connorjimauthor-blog

[connorjimauthor-blog]

Old Saint Nick

His digital watch read “7:06” in bright, merry green numbers set upon the little patch of skin between his sleeve and his glove. The sign perched next to his chair held up by a cheap, black aluminum stand read “Meet Santa! 11/22 – 12/25 9am – 7:00pm.” He stifled a yawn and peaked around his gold wire reading glasses at the line of children still waiting, wrapping around the corner past the mall stores already closing their doors to go home for Christmas.

The photographer, a tired middle-aged woman in an ill-fittingly festive green elf getup, sighed heavily as she saw the glint in his eyes. She closed her eyes as if in pain, but she forced half a smile and mouthed to him, “OK, fine”. On the one hand, it was Christmas Eve; on the other? It was Christmas Eve. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and with a huge smile gestured the next child to head on up to Santa's lap.

His face lit up like that house on the corner of 3rd and Elm as the little girl bounced excitedly towards him. He bellowed with the warmest sound you've ever heard, “HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!!” She sat on his lap and told him that she'd been “marginally nice” that year, and that maybe she didn't deserve everything on her wishlist, but maybe – just maybe – he could get her that chemistry set that she's wanted all year. After all, it was educational so it isn't like she's being greedy. He laughed and gave her a wink. Then came the flash, and it was the next child's turn: he wanted a train set – a BIG train set (his mother grimaced). Santa chuckled. Santa always chuckled. Children came and went, each beaming with a candy cane from Santa in hand (full-size, not the mini ones), but the line seemed to go on forever. “It was going to be a long night. But, isn't Christmas Eve always a long night for Old St. Nick?” he chuckled at the thought.

“9:37” flashed the digital watch in its happy, Christmas green. The photographer was snapping her camera case closed as Santa packed up the commemorative stockings with the plastic slot for your picture with Santa to sit. There were a lot leftover this year, but at least they won't have to buy as many next November. Out in the parking lot she helped him load up his old bright, red Econoline van. “Thanks for the help, Betty. See you next year?” he asked.

“Next year? I don't see why not. Can't seem to keep any other clients,” she sighed heavily as a wave of disappointment crossed her face. “Anyway, Merry Christmas, Nick.” Betty got in her little blue car. It started with a croaking whine and she drove off, trailing thick white smoke out of the exhaust pipe.

“Merry Christmas!” he called out behind her. His trademark cheer seemed to have all drained out of him. There was no chuckle in his big, round red-clad bowl of jelly; just the slow turning of wheels in his head and a weight pulling at his heart. Christmas Eve used to be so magical. It was the moment – the last night before the big day finally arrived. He used to hurry home, singing jollily to spend the evening with his family. But life happened. Kids moved away – he had expected that, but did they have to move so far away? They weren't visiting this year. No one was waiting at home for Nick this year. And after Christmas Eve, he wouldn't be Santa anymore. After Christmas he just went back to being Nick, and children stopped sparkling when they saw him.

So, Nick got in his bright red van feeling heavier and smaller than usual. It was hard to remember all the magic he had given away to hordes of children now, when the job was done. Now it was the parents' turn to spread the magic in their homes. He pulled out of the mall parking lot and turned on the Christmas station on the radio. It crackled a little through his frayed antenna, but he smiled. It sounded a little like a cozy fire, and his van felt a little warmer as he drove on those icy winter streets.

Pulling in to the gravel driveway at his little house lit with big, colourful strands of light, the wheels that had been turning in his head finally clicked on something. He sat in his bright red van in the driveway and set his mind to figuring out if it was actually possible. If he should do what he was  thinking of doing. He put his sleigh into reverse and backed back out of the driveway.

Jolly old Nick, still wearing his thick red Santa coat and hat (that Mrs. Claus made for him so many years ago when his beard first went white). Drove up and down the little streets all over town stopping at each and every door. As quietly as his old bones could, he crept up the walks and left on the porches (there weren't a whole lot of chimneys in town, and he doubted he could fit anyway, no matter how many kids had called him Santa over the years) a commemorative stocking (with a little plastic sleeve where you can slide in a picture) filled with a handful of full-size candy canes. In each stocking he slipped a note handwritten on his red and green Santa stationary. “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year” they said and he signed them “Old Saint Nick”.

A huge, dopey smile was plastered on his kind, bearded face as he worked. He had never really stopped to think just how massive the little Midwest town was until he hand delivered a stocking to every single front porch including the house he swore was abandoned (he didn't want anyone to feel left out – it was Christmas!). Hour after hour he went to door after door leaving a stocking, candy canes, and a handwritten note. The crates of stockings were shrinking – he would definitely have to order more for next November, but the labor felt good. He never felt better than when he gave away a little magic, and he couldn't remember ever giving a little magic to so many people at once.

The last house he found himself at was dark. There were no lights in the yard, no sign of Christmas at all. It wasn't the only house like that he had found, but this one had a familiar little blue car parked out front. Nick left the very last stocking at the door, with a handful of candy canes inside. The note read, “Merry Christmas, Betty. I hope the New Year finds you so many clients you'll have trouble keeping track (but I know you'll manage).” Also in the stocking was 40 dollars “I hope this will help in some way” the note said. He didn't sign the card. Something made him hope that maybe Betty would think it from the Santa Claus, but he knew she'd know it was him anyway.

The sun was just beginning to peak its head over the horizon as Santa's sleigh pulled back into the gravel driveway of his house. Little festive green numbers read “5:01” on the digital watch on his wrist. It had been a long night for Old St. Nick indeed. But as he walked to his door, Nick realized that he doesn't have to be Santa to spread a little magic around the town. And he doesn't have to give away all his merchandise either. You can give a little magic any day of the year with a few kind words and twinkle in your eye, even when no one expects it. Especially when no one expects it.

He opened his door and he stepped inside. But before he closed the door behind him, he turned around. He looked at the early morning light glinting off the week-old snow on the ground and he smiled. He said quietly (he wouldn't want to wake anyone up) in his rich, friendly voice, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.” The door clicked behind him and the wreath swayed slightly, the bells on it jingling merrily.