I was barely six when I got the goods on Santa. It was all quite accidental, although my suspicions had already been aroused at least the Christmas season before, when it dawned on me that everywhere I turned, Santa was there. And he always looked a little different, always had a slightly different mannerism, seemed hearty at one turn, and slurred his speech at the next. But mostly, he never remembered that we had chatted just an hour ago.
Never.
My parents' contrived reassurances that those "Santas" were actually elves the Big Man employed to get wishlists back to him did little to qualm my doubts. Little kids are not stupid. Even then, I knew elves were not six feet tall. And I really didn't want to believe Santa lived in a shadowy North Pole underworld populated by double agents and operatives constantly surveilling my every move.
I wanted to believe - I really did. But that one evening when I was six sealed the deal. This Santa was good — jolly and empathic -- and almost had me fooled. I thought he had to be the real deal. So when he told me he had to go check on his elves, I just had to trail him. I furtively followed him through the Lasater Grocery aisles and watched him disappear into the backroom warehouse. I clambered onto the idle conveyor that moved produce onto the sales floor to get a better look.
What I saw would shape all my perceptions for the better part of the next forty or so years. "Santa" was sitting on boxes cajoling with the workers in the warehouse, drinking beer, smoking a stogie and talking about honkey tonkin'. His padded red coat was off, and so was his "beard." Santa was just another redneck picking up beer change. He did have a cool, greased-back head of black hair, though.
Article comments
1 - Rose DesRochers
We plan on watching this movie tonight. I enjoyed reading your review. Merry Christmas.
2 - Ray Ellis
Thanks, Rose--and a Merry Christmas to you, too!It'll bring one of those good kind of tears to your eye.