Santa’s Odyssey: Easter

On Christmas morning, as Santa Claus and two of his helpers returned to the North Pole, they came under attack by a group of holiday Icons angry that Claus was monopolizing the holiday glory. This year, stranded in the human world with no way home, Santa will be forced to take on the tasks for every other holiday — the Icons are on strike.

Previous Installments:

Four: Easter

Her eyes hung in deep, black pits. The twinkle, which was usually so characteristic of Mrs. Claus’s presence at the Pole, had evaporated, swallowed by sleepless nights and a hollow feeling everyone in the workshop shared. Santa was the one who was lost, but you couldn’t tell that by looking at his wife. Any casual observer would insist Mrs. Claus was the one with no home.

“Any news, Mrs. C?” Edgar asked as he opened the office door, ushering her in. It was a routine at this point: he asked if there was any indication where her husband might be, she said there was not, repeat. It hardly seemed necessary — as if she would wait for their next daily briefing if there were any news, as if she wouldn’t simply burst into the office the moment she had the slightest indication what could have happened to him. But order had to be maintained, ritual had to be respected, and thus she came in with her bleary eyes and said what Edgar already knew: “No. No news.”

She took a seat in her husband’s chair and Edgar felt a slight tinge behind his eyes. He dismissed it, though, turning his attention to the paperwork she came to examine. “At least it seems as though manufacturing is in order.”

“Yeah, I never would have asked to run this place, but I can at least keep it going if I have to.”

“Thank Heavens for that, at least. I don’t know that I could have survived these last few months if I didn’t know you had things under control on this end, Edgar.”

“Oh, thanks.” He smiled at the compliment. She returned the smile, but not with her eyes. It didn’t seem there was any smile left behind her eyes.

“Is there anything left to try?” he asked.

“One last thing. It’s a desperation play, but I’ll try anything at this point.”

“What is it?”

“Tomorrow is Easter,” she said. “I’ve put word out to the Bunny.”

“The Bunny? What for?”

“He covers a lot of the same territory as Nick. I’ve asked him to keep a watch while he’s out and about. If there’s anything to be found, I’m hoping he can find it.”

Edgar nodded. It was, to be truthful, the most openly and sadly desperate thing he had ever heard, but he supposed he didn’t blame her for trying. Still, the Bunny dealt with children too Where could he search that the Elves hadn’t already checked? The whole concept sounded like a pipe dream, a despairing woman’s delusion.

“That’s a great idea,” he said.

Together, Edgar and Mrs. Claus reviewed the progress of the workshop, the distribution channels, and everything else he had taken on since the boss vanished. With each successive report, Mrs. Claus nodded and told him what a fine job he was doing. To his credit, Edgar managed to resist the urge to tell her, “Thank you, I know.”

 

March 31st, 4:55 p.m.

 

As he had four days a week for the past six weeks, Santa Claus packed away the tools he used at Homer’s Repairs in anticipation for the five o’clock close of the fix-it shop. Gary had helped him find the place, and it had taken only minutes with a broken watch and a cracked smartphone to convince Homer Hayes he could fix just about anything, and quick. “I ain’t seen hands like that since my daddy retired,” the gentle old man had told him. He looked older than Santa, of course, and was certainly older than the age “Nicholas Christopher” put on his job application, but Santa knew differently. Still, the graying men had bonded quickly, and the shop turned out to be a good fit. It wasn’t home, but at least he was working with his hands, which he didn’t get to do as much as he liked even at the Pole nowadays.

“See you Monday, Nick,” Homer said, closing up the shop behind them. “Happy Easter.”

Ah yes, Easter. It had only been two weeks since the St. Patrick’s Day fiasco, but Santa had no doubt he’d be summoned into action tonight. Easter was one of the big holidays, after all, with an Icon that was probably second only to himself in popularity. The good news was that, unlike Pat or the Old Year or even Cupid, the Easter Bunny’s job was fairly well-defined by mortal culture. It was just a matter of when the rabbit would hop in and make him start.

Arriving home home — well, Gary’s home — Santa walked in to find Blinky on the couch watching a movie as Gary shuffled about in the kitchen. He smiled, cheerful as always, but something about him looked… off.

“Is that lamb I smell?” Santa asked.

“Easter tradition where I grew up,” Gary said. “I’m getting it ready for tomorrow. How about you, Nick? Any big holiday traditions in your family?”

Santa shook his head. “No, Easter was never that big for us. We were more of a Christmas crowd.”

“I’ll bet. You sticking around for dinner tonight?”

“I actually think I may have plans.” He took a closer look at his mortal friend, and his brain clicked on what had been nagging him since he walked through the door. “Gary, what is that under your lip?”

Gary reached up and brushed his fingers beneath his lip, ruffling the strands of an unfortunate soul patch. “Like it? I figured as long as we were trying new looks…” He pointed to the shamrock on Santa’s face and the old man’s cheeks turned rosy.

“Yes, well, we all make mistakes, Gary.” He patted his friend on the shoulder and returned to the living room, where Blinky was engrossed in his film.

The Sound of Music? How many times have you seen this, Blinky?”

“There’s no such thing as too many times with Julie Andrews, Boss,” he said. “Or Rita Moreno. Ah, Bernadette Peters! I tell you, they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

“I suppose not… eh, Blinky? Is everybody around here experimenting with new looks?”

“What do you mean?”

“When’s the last time you shaved?”

“Shaved? Boss, Elves don’t have facial hair.”

“Well, your father must have been part goblin, because there’s definite fuzz on your cheeks.”

Blinky touched his face and alarm exploded in his eyes. “What the holly… Santa, what’s going on?”

“It’s not just your hair, Blinky, your ears are getting longer!”

“Wha– whacht’s wrong? Why chan’t I talch?”

“Your teeth are getting longer!”

“SHANTA!”

As Santa watched, Blinky began to shrink. Fur sprouted all over his body and his ears elongated and slid to the top of his head. He hunched forward, legs turning to plump haunches, and whiskers sprouted from the sides of his pinkening nose. As the wailing sound of Santa’s name faded from his lips, Blinky twitched and convulsed and rolled onto the couch, now fully transformed into a fluffy little brown rabbit.

Santa’s ice-blue eyes saw red. “Bunny!” he shouted. “Come out!”

He half-expected the Easter Bunny to stroll out at he bellowed for him, but nothing happened. After a few long moments of watching, he went back to the kitchen. “Gary, have you seen anything–”

Sitting on Gary’s kitchen counter, casually munching on a half-chopped head of lettuce, was another rabbit, this one white with an unfortunate patch of brown fur beneath its mouth.

Behind him, Santa heard a chuckling sound. He spun around to face the Easter Bunny, leaning on a cane in the shape of a large carrot, clutching his gut with laughter.

“Come on, Santa, I thought you’d appreciate a good joke. Tomorrow is April Fool’s Day too, you know.”

“Don’t remind me,” Santa said. “An excuse for people to behave like idiots but still delude themselves into thinking they can keep off the naughty list. I suppose I should expect a visit from that idiotic clown tomorrow as well?”

The Bunny’s right ear tipped in a puzzled expression, then popped back up with laughter when he realized what Santa was talking about. “Oh, the clown! No, no, Santa, he probably won’t bother you tomorrow. He’s got his own deal.”

“Well then–”

“All that matters is, until tomorrow morning, you’re all mine.”

* * *

The Rabbit’s Burrow, as it turned out, was exactly as Santa would have expected. Although deep underground, with earthen floors, walls, and ceilings, it was far from gloomy. In fact, virtually every surface was festooned with bright colors, pastel banners, ribbons of crepe and festive mounts of Easter grass in every variety imaginable. Along with the decorations were bunnies, dozens of them, each about the size of Pat the Leprechaun. They wore vibant bows around their necks or in their ears, each carrying an assortment of candy, toys, and eggs. The treasures were taken to the center of the cavern, where an enormous Easter Basket stood, and they filled it dutifully.

“Looks like a busy day for you,” Santa said.

“You know it. I think every rabbit in the world is down here right now. Well… except for the ones in the accounting department.”

“Accounting department? Why do you need an accounting department?”

“Aw, Santa. Don’t you know that rabbits multiply?” He bellowed with laughter, slapping his haunches over how clever his joke was. “Ah, it only happens like every sixty years, but I love when April Fool’s Day and Easter go together.”

Santa did not have to struggle to refrain from laughing.

“So I just deliver the goods, right?” Santa asked. “That should be simple enough. This, at least, I’m used to.” He looked at the basket, towering over him, but felt no intimidation. His sack of toys on Christmas Eve dwarfed this basket, but when he reached out for it, it always adjusted to fit his grip. He had a suspicion the basket would do the same. He was right.

Once the enormous bulk of the basket had become portable, Santa picked it up and glanced at the Bunny. “So, how do we do this?”

“Well, I usually load the kids’ baskets with candy first, then–”

“No, I mean… How do you get there? I don’t see a sleigh.”

The Bunny’s whiskers pricked with laughter, and Santa thought he was about to be the recipient of another delightful early April Fool’s gag, but instead, the Bunny twirled his carrot-cane in the air and brought it down, walloping him on the head. The impact only hurt for a moment, but Santa barely noticed it in contrast to the other sensation he felt. His legs tightened and compacted, and he felt an odd coiling in his knees, like springs tensing. Then, like springs, his legs popped out, and Santa bounded into the air. Zooming up, he hurtled through a tunnel in the Earth and up into the night sky… and he kept going. Air whipped his face and his beard beat against his chest like a flag in a gale. He tried to shut his eyes against the wind, but opened them out of instinct when he felt himself arching downwards. In a sight that reminded him far too much of his sleigh crashing, he careened into an empty field some short miles from a small town. When he struck the Earth, though, instead of cutting a scar across the countryside, he bounced. This leap sent him, in a much smaller arc, towards the town. He bounced again, and again, each bounce smaller than the last, until he rolled to a dizzying stop at the end of a neighborhood near the town’s edge.

He rolled to his knees, trying not to throw up, and saw the Bunny bounding towards him in neat, dainty hops. “Santa, you’ve got to work on the landings.”

“Please,” he wheezed, “get a sleigh.”

After too many minutes of allowing his stomach to settle, Santa walked to the first house on the street. He grabbed a flower trellis on the side of the little home, rattling it to test its strength.

“What are you doing?” the Bunny asked.

“Looking for a way to get to the chimney.”

“The chim — geez, Santa, that’s not how we do it here.” He whipped his carrot-cane again, popping Santa once more and driving him underground. Santa rolled through a tunnel that he was fairly certain hadn’t existed seconds before, bursting out on the floor of a charmingly-decorated country kitchen. The Bunny slipped out of the hole behind him, then folded his arms to watch.

There were two empty baskets on the dining room table and a familiar voice clicked in Santa’s head. Dylan and Emily Peterson. Nice list. Dylan wants a Lego X-Wing and Emily wants a science kit.

He shook his head. That was a Christmas order. He focused in on the voice again.

Dylan is allergic to peanuts and Emily loves white chocolate.

Santa smiled, reaching into his own basket. He loaded the baskets on the table with appropriate candy, then tossed in a few small toys and a stuffed bunny for each. That done, a tray of brilliantly colored hard-boiled eggs appeared in his basket. He lay the tray on the table and carefully arranged the eggs in a pyramid shape, then surrounded them in a garland of purple Easter grass for good measure. Satisfied with his work, he turned to leave, but the Bunny was glaring at him.

“Okay, so what did you do wrong?”

“What? Nothing! Didn’t I give them the right candy?”

“Yes.”

“And the right toys for each child?”

“Yeah, sure, for Easter.”

“And aren’t the eggs arranged in a visually appealing tableau?”

“Gorgeous. And that’s the problem.”

“What are you talking about?”

The Bunny picked up an orange-and-yellow egg from the top of the pyramid and cracked it open on Santa’s forehead. He peeled away the layer of shell and casually began to munch. “It’s Easter, Kringlebrain. You’re supposed to hide them.”

“Oh.”

* * *

Once Santa got over the mental obstacle of having to conceal the evidence of his work, the evening ran much more smoothly. In essence, mechanically at least, the Easter Bunny’s task was very similar to his own. There was more candy and fewer toys, but going from house to house quickly and quietly as a rabbit was second nature to him. If anything slowed him down, it was finding places to hide the eggs that weren’t so obvious the children would finish the hunt in thirty seconds, but not so difficult that they would face an unexpected stench in a few days. The Bunny stayed quiet for much of the night, but put his enormous, lucky foot down on one specific point: hiding eggs under the couch was a bad idea.

After a long night nearly as prolonged as a Christmas Eve, Santa took one last enormous bounce and returned to the Burrow, rolling right into a cavern wall upon landing.

“You still need to work on that, Hoss.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s it. Nothing left but for the mortals to eat ham and candy and go to church one of two times this year.”

“Hmm. We really do have a lot in common.”

“I’ve always thought so. I mean… too many people forget it, but our holidays are kind of the two ends of a cycle, aren’t they? You’re birth, I’m rebirth. And it’s all about the same guy.”

“Yes. Tell me, Bunny, how do you think that guy would feel about you all keeping me away from my home like this? Away from my wife?”

“Ah, she’s fine, Santa. Talked to her the other day.”

“What?”

“Nice gal. Wanted to know if I’d seen you.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I’d let her know if I ran into you on my rounds.” He laughed. “The beauty part is that they weren’t my rounds this year, so technically I’m not breaking a promise if I keep my mouth shut.”

“You abominable…”

“Oh come on. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Santa didn’t answer. He was fuming too much to form words.

“You know, Santa, the others almost didn’t even bring me in on this whole thing. If you’re the number one Holiday Icon, most of the others consider me number two. At least, the ones whose egos don’t get in the way. They didn’t know if I would be on their side or not.”

“But you were on ‘their side,’ weren’t you? When it counted?”

“Eh, I straddle the line. I do a lot of the same work as you, get way less adulation. I get where they’re coming from, but I get where you come from too. We’re the top two because we do the most work.”

“Just send me back to Gary’s, Rabbit. And turn my friends back to normal.”

“I changed them back as soon as we left. I’m not cruel. But as far as sending you there… you could just stay here. I wouldn’t mind a partner.”

“Are you joking?’

“C’mon, E.B. and the S.C.! The Big Two Icons of the Big Two Holidays! Wouldn’t that be a blast?”

“And how do you think your friends would take that?”

The Bunny scratched his chin, whiskers bouncing. “I suppose you’re right. It’s really easy to piss off Cupid. Okay, then, buckle up.”

He whipped his carrot-cane around one last time, but this time Santa was prepared. He ducked and let the cane swish over his head, and as he looked down, he saw one last egg in the basket still dangling from his arm. It was larger than a softball, and shimmered like enamel. Red and green stripes wrapped around it, and it was topped with a clear snowflake pattern. He was still staring at the egg when Blinky grabbed his arm.

“Boss? Are you okay?”

Santa looked around. They were back in their little room in Gary’s home, the egg still in his basket.

“I’m fine, Blinky. Are you and Gary okay?”

“We’re fine. In fact, except for running out of lettuce, Gary didn’t even notice anything had happened. You?”

“Just another long night.” He picked up the enamel egg, turning it over and looking at it from all angles. “At least I have a souvenir this time.”

“You had a souvenir last time, Boss.” Blinky chuckled. “Looks like there’s a catch on the side of the egg. Does it open?”

“Let’s see.”

Santa thumbed the switch on the side of the egg, quickly realizing his mistake. The top of the egg popped open and, from within, a pressurized jet of air sprayed an absurd amount of whipped cream into his face. The Bunny’s laughter echoed in his ears until he snapped the egg shut. Sheepishly, Blinky handed him a towel.

“Happy Easter, Boss?”

“April Fool’s, Blinky.”

* * *

It was, to Ophelia Hendricks’s way of thinking, the greatest Easter Egg hunt she had ever hosted. The food was perfect, the eggs were meticulously hand-painted and all of her grandchildren were at the estate to participate. Even the Bunny she hired was perfect — barely taller than most of the children, but somehow still cheerful, expressive, and interactive beneath the head of the costume. The children were having a ball, and when the Bunny slipped into the house for a break, Ophelia slipped in after.

“You were marvelous! Simply marvelous! The best Easter Bunny we’ve ever had, sir!”

The Bunny took off its head to reveal a small, smiling blonde woman with glittering eyes. “It’s ma’am, actually, but thank you.”

“My dear, I’ve been hiring Paulsen Party Planning for years, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before. Are you new?”

“New to town. New to Paulsen’s. New to kids’ parties.”

“Well, you’re doing a fabulous job.”

“Thanks. It’s not home, but at least I’m starting to feel like I fit in.”

To be continued…

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Santa’s Odyssey: St. Patrick’s Day

On Christmas morning, as Santa Claus and two of his helpers returned to the North Pole, they came under attack by a group of holiday Icons angry that Claus was monopolizing the holiday glory. This year, stranded in the human world with no way home, Santa will be forced to take on the tasks for every other holiday — the Icons are on strike.

Previous Installments:

Three: St. Patrick’s Day

Edgar felt a weight in his chest. It wasn’t bad enough that nobody — even three months later — had the slightest idea what had happened to Santa, Blinky, and Eleanor, but now the news from the mortal world was trumpeting the fact that Toys R Us was going out of business. Although the North Pole operation was responsible for a large amount of the manufacture and distribution of childrens’ gifts throughout the world, for much of the 20th century they had begun to lean on some of the larger retailers to help pick up some of the burden. Parents who didn’t believe anymore would buy some of the gifts their children wanted and place them under the tree, and Santa would mix his own gifts among them. Somehow, the parents never seemed to notice extra gifts they had nothing to do with.

Now he stared at his spreadsheets, his manufacturing reports, the reports from Toy Fair letting him know which items were likely going to be in the highest demand… and he shuddered.

Chanticleer knocked on the door, carrying — as always — a raft of papers to share with his temporary boss. “How’s it going, Edgar?”

“Well, we haven’t burned the place down yet. I suppose there’s that. Any news?”

There was no need for him to specify what type of news he was hoping for, but the way Chanticleer’s face fell made it obvious that there would be nothing to report. “I don’t think Mrs. Claus has slept in two weeks,” he said. “She’s really taken point on the search, but it’s not doing any good.”

Edgar shook his head. “She should just give up at this point. He’s gone.”

“Edgar–”

“Come on, don’t you think Santa would have been back by now if he could? I don’t know what happened to him, and we may never know what happened, but we can’t keep pretending he’s going to walk through the door and make everything okay.”

“That’s not a very cheery attitude to have.”

“Have you watched the news? It hasn’t been a cheery year.”

Chanticleer sighed and placed the papers he was carrying on Santa’s desk. “More reports from the game division. Fans seems to be pretty angry at Electronic Arts this year.”

“What else is new?”

Chanticleer walked to the door, but peeked back. “For what it’s worth, you look good behind the desk.”

As he was left alone, for the first time since Christmas Eve, Edgar felt a smile at the corners of his lips.

 

March 17, 9:02 p.m.

 

“Another drink, Nick?”

“I’d be obliged, Gary.”

“Bill?”

The Elf picked up the nearly-full mug in front of him and tipped it. “I’m good.”

Gary, Santa, and Blinky were crowded around a table at a pub called Finnegan’s Wake. It wasn’t a huge place, but on this of all days, it was bursting at the seams. Every available space was filled with warm bodies wearing green clothes, green hats, green sunglasses. They sported green temporary tattoos of shamrocks, tied green ribbons in their hair, ate green mozzarella sticks and drank green beer. At a generous estimate, Santa guessed maybe five percent of them had Irish blood.

Gary picked up the empty mugs he and “Nick” had drained and made his way to the bar. “Bill” sipped at his beer. “It’s going to take forever for him to get back.”

“So what? We’re not going anywhere.”

Blinky started to protest, but stopped himself and turned back to his drink. What would be the point of arguing? Santa was right. Three months in the mortal world and they were no closer to finding a way home, no closer to finding Eleanor, no closer to anything except Gary, who had turned out to be a delightful host. The two of them had even offered to chip in on the rent with the money they made from the part time jobs they had found, but he refused. Instead, they bought groceries and kept the cupboards full. Since Gary rarely went out in the evenings, especially after the Valentine’s Day disaster, it was handy.

“Is this seat taken?”

Someone placed a hand on Gary’s chair and started to pull it out. “Yeah, someone’s sitting there,” Blinky said, but the hand continued on its journey, and its owner hopped around into the seat. The smiling face was fringed with red hair and a red beard, with red cheeks and a red nose. His clothes, of course, were all green.

“Well, if it isn’t Lucky the Leprechaun,” Blinky said.

“Pat,” he said. “Just call me Pat.”

“I wasn’t sure if we’d see you tonight,” Santa said. “I mean, I knew that St. Patrick’s Day had an icon, but the more I thought about it, the harder it was to figure out what your job was. There are no gifts, no candy, nobody falls in love… In America, at least, it’s pretty much an excuse to go out drinking in the middle of the week.”

“It’s Saturday!” Pat snarled.

“Sure, this year.”

“Say the word boss,” Blinky said, “And I’ll see this little runt out of the place. It’s not often I get to throw down with somebody smaller than me.”

It was true — as short as Blinky was, compared to Santa and the mortals all around them, Pat was even smaller. His eyes barely rose to the level of the table, and he’d have to stand up on his chair to face Santa eye-to-eye. Nobody in the bar seemed to notice anything unusual at all.

“Back off, Stretch. I don’t have much, but this is my day of power.”

“It’s fine, Blinky. Let him do what he came for and let’s get this over with. Er… what did you come here for?”

The tiny man waved his hand over the table. Blinky’s mug and the one he’d brought with him both instantly filled to the brim. After a second, he snapped his fingers and another full mug appeared in front of Santa. “I guess that’s what for,” he said. “The frustrating thing, Santa-boy, is that you’re right. St. Patty’s Day doesn’t actually mean anything here. They throw a parade and they throw a bunch of dye in their rivers and they pretend to be Irish for a day, and it’s so damn depressing I can’t even stand it.” He picked up his mug and drained it with a single chug, then twirled his other hand and filled it again.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Santa asked. “When you all started this, you told me I’d have to do your jobs. What’s your job?”

“This is it. I show up. I drink. I drink with friends. Hey, friend!” he waved wildly as Gary came up to the table, holding a pair of mugs.

“Um, Nick, it looks like you’ve already got a drink.”

“Gary, this is my old friend Pat. We bumped into him while you were gone.”

“Pat?” Gary laughed. “Kind of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Pfft. You’re just jealous there’s no Garyday.”

Gary pulled up a chair from a nearby table and the four of them returned to their drinking. Around them: cheers and shouts, carousing and howls. In the corner, someone broke into an Irish shanty and Pat mournfully joined in. He leapt up and stood on the table, waving his arms wildly. Once the tune shifted to “Danny Boy,” he fell into Santa’s lap and began crying.

“It’s all a bloody joke!” he screamed. “They put on a pair of shamrock sunglasses and say ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish!’ They’re not Irish, Santa. They’re not Irish!

“Is he okay?” Gary asked.

“He’s upset that people don’t show St. Patrick’s Day the proper respect,” Blinky said. “Can’t you tell?”

Pat, eyes now as bloodshot and redder than his beard, got back on the table and grabbed Gary’s lapels. “You think this is bad?’ he howled. “You should see what they’ve done to Cinco de Mayo!”

“Okay, maybe we should head home, Pat,” Gary said. “I think you’ve had plenty.”

“I can’t, bubba, not until the day is over.”

“Gary, why don’t you go home?” Santa said. “I’ll help Pat get to where he’s going.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ve got catching up to do anyway. We… um… used to work together.”

“All right, then. Nice meeting you, Pat.” Gary tipped his drink and finished it, walking away.

“That’s a nice lad, Santa. Where’d you pick up an Elf like that?”

“He’s mortal,” Santa said. “That’s why we needed to get rid of him before you really started spilling the beans.”

“Beans? Beans!” Pat launched into a spirited rendition of “Beans, Beans, the Musical Fruit,” and Blinky drained another mug.

“You know, for someone who does this every year, you’d think he could hold his liquor better.”

“It’s not his fault,” Santa said. “I’m starting to get the hang of this. Remember on New Year’s Eve, when I started to feel everbody’s wishes?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded at Pat. “I’ll bet he’s feeling the effects of everybody’s drinks.”

“What makes you think that?”

Santa smiled. “Because I’m feeling it too”

He stood up and put an arm around Pat’s shoulder — possible only because the Leprechaun was standing on a table again.

“Hey, Pat, I’m curious. Is it true that there’s a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow?”

“Only when I can’t find a better pot to piss in!” he yelped. The two of them began laughing maniacally, and Blinky found himself looking around. If anybody thought the behavior was odd, they were too busy engaging in their own wild carousing to notice. A pair of women in the corner were aggressively flirting with the bartender. By the dartboard, a bald man wearing a green eyepatch was tossing darts into the ceiling. None of it was truly disturbing to Blinky until an old woman who resembled his own elfin grandmother locked eyes with him and blinked in a manner he could only assume was intended to be seductive.

“Santa, you guys have had plenty,” Blinky said. “Should we–”

“Have another?” Pat yelled. “Don’t mind if I do!

They two of them threw back two more mugs and launched into song. Pat’s voice, even soaked in enough beer to drown a whale, was clean and clear.

“When Irish eyes are smiling

Sure it’s like a morning spring

In the lilt of Irish laughter

You can hear the angels sing

When Irish eyes are happy

All the world seem bright and gay

And when Irish eyes are smiling

MOTHER OF GOD!”

Blinky thought for a moment that this wasn’t how the song was supposed to end, then realized the diversion was probably related to the fact that Pat was howling and grabbing his own buttocks. He reached back and extracted a dart, a tiny red bead dripping from the point.

He turned to the dartboard, where the man in the green eyepatch was bellowing with laughter. Pat pointed the dart at him, eyes burning. “What’s the meaning of this?” he hissed.

“Just a little target practice.” His remaining eye was gleeful, and his lips pulled back to show a bold, toothy grin.

Santa pushed his way forward. “Just who do you think you are?”

Eyepatch straightened up, his full height besting Santa by at least a foot and a half. “I’m Finnegan,” he said. “And this is my place. Is there a problem?”

“Clearly,” Santa growled. “Jerry Finnegan. Tinker Toys, ‘63. You were on the naughty list then and you’re still on it now.”

“What are you talking about.”

“I gave you coal then,” Santa said, “But you know what I think you need now?”

“What?”

Wordlessly, the jolly manifestation of Holiday Cheer raised his hand and poked Jerry Finnegan in his one good eye.

Finnegan wailed, grabbing his eye with one hand and flailing in front of him with the other. He reached down, but Pat leapt backwards and hid beneath the fold of Santa’s coat. With Blinky rushing ahead to push the crowd apart, the three of them made a hasty exit from Finnegan’s Wake. They staggered down the street, laughing and singing, finally collapsing on the stoop of a tattoo parlor.

“I like you, Pat.”

“I like you too, Santa. I don’t think you’re a big holiday hog like the rest of them said.”

“Thanks, Pat. I don’t think you’re short.”

“Thanks, Santa. That’s the nicest said anybody ever thought about me. And I don’t care what the Turkey says, if people wanna put their tree up on Thanksgiving, I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

“Oh, the Turkey,” Santa bellowed. “I could tell you some stories about him.”

They laughed again, loud and hard, until both of them were left gasping for breath. Finally, the Leprechaun put his hand on Santa’s shoulder. “Well what now?”

 

March 18, 7:15 a.m.

 

It wasn’t that Santa was unused to alcohol. He liked his wine, he liked his egg nog, and in the United Kingdom a glass of brandy was still was the traditional offering rather than cookies and milk. But he was not used to — hoped to never be used to — an entire nation concentrating a single night of drunken debauchery into his head all at once. He woke up in Gary’s spare bedroom craving a glass of water, four extra-strength Asprin, and an axe to drive into his own forehead, not necessarily in that order. He rolled his head to see Blinky sipping a cup of coffee. He held out another towards Santa.

“Thanks. What happened?”

“You learned the true meaning of St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Why does my face hurt so much?”

“Because of the true meaning of St. Patrick’s Day.”

Santa frowned at Blinky, realized that it hurt considerably more than it should, and stopped it. He drank his coffee and, still feeling like the bottom of a reindeer pen, stumbled into the bathroom. Blinky quietly sipped his coffee and counted to three.

“WENCESLAS’S BEARD!”

There it was.

Santa burst back into the room, clawing at his face, then wincing in pain for having done so. “Is this what it looks like?”

“Yep.”

“Is it temporary?”

“No.”

Santa returned to the bathroom mirror and stared in terror. Who was going to tell the shopping center Santas of the world they had to get a shamrock tattoo next to their right eye?

*   * *

Sally Mendez looked over the application. There weren’t a lot of references — a few restaurant jobs that had only lasted a few weeks, and nothing earlier than the first of the year. But Eleanor Ivy had a… unique look that made her perfect for Sally’s company.

“I wouldn’t usually take a chance on someone who doesn’t have any recommendations or references or educational records or medical records or a permanent address, but… there’s something about you, Eleanor.”

“I get that a lot.”

I just have one question, then. Do you have any experience with children?”

Eleanor’s smile grew ever wider.

 

To be continued…

 

Santa’s Odyssey: Valentine’s Day

On Christmas morning, as Santa Claus and two of his helpers returned to the North Pole, they came under attack by a group of holiday Icons angry that Claus was monopolizing the holiday glory. This year, stranded in the human world with no way home, Santa will be forced to take on the tasks for every other holiday — the Icons are on strike.

Previous Installments:

Two: Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day at the North Pole was usually a time of celebration. After a month off, elves gathered together at massive parties and talked about how they’d spent their vacations, shared tales of adventures in the four corners of the holiday landscape, and exchanged coy little cards and messages. In truth, elves rarely needed much of an excuse to celebrate. This year, though, when they probably needed it more than ever, nobody was in the mood.

In Santa’s office, Edgar sat in front of the desk, a few phone books stacked up on the chair he’d pulled up to work. He was doing Santa’s job as best he could, but he still refused to sit behind the desk. That wasn’t his place, wasn’t his right. It wasn’t where he belonged.

Instead of vacations, they had formed search parties. Instead relaxing with beach reads, they had poured over intelligence reports from all over the world. Nothing had helped them figure out where Santa and the missing elves could have gone. Remarkably, trying to find a chubby older gentleman with a white beard was not the challenge. Finding the right one was. It was like looking for a needle in a stack of needles — men matching that description were practically omnipresent. Cross-referencing the search with a pair of little people had turned up some interesting matches in San Francisco, but nothing that was really useful.

A knock at the door prompted Edgar to close the laptop he’d been working on. It wasn’t doing any good anyway. He slid off the books and opened the door, admitting a sluggish Brownie named Chanticleer, one of the heads of the manufacturing department. He had a raft of papers held together with a clip, and a hangdog expression stained his face.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Did you hear me screaming with joy and going on a hot chocolate bender?” Edgar snapped.

“No.” Chanticleer sighed. “I didn’t really think so, but… an elf has to hold out hope, right?”

“What do you want, Chant?”

He held out the papers. “Projections for this year. Toys, clothes, video games, candy. Orders haven’t started coming in yet, but based on the popularity of certain items and the demographic that we service, we’re trying to estimate how many we’ll need to make of everything.”

“And?”

“We’re already behind.”

Edgar’s shoulders slumped and he felt an ulcer spontaneously begin carving a hole in his stomach lining. “Of course we are,” he said. “How bad is it?”

Chanticleer pulled himself up into the chair where Edgar had been sitting, perching atop his tower of phone books and laying the pages out on the desk. “It’s pretty bad,” he said. “We’re already a couple of weeks behind schedule.”

“Anything we haven’t overcome before?”

“No, but… it was different then, you know?”

Yes. Edgar knew.

“But I think I’ve got a few ideas that could help us streamline things and get back on schedule before things get too out of hand. Want to take a look?”

Edgar stammered for a second. He’d need to climb up and sit at the desk to see the papers, but Chanticleer was already in his spot. There was only one other place to sit in the office, and he didn’t feel right about it.

“Edgar? Are you okay?”

He blinked for a moment, then shivered. This was silly. It was just a chair.

“I’m fine,” he said, pulling himself into Santa’s seat. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got going.”

February 14, 7:30 p.m.

It would happen tonight, Santa was sure of it.

He and Blinky had been thrust into their situation very abruptly, unceremoniously and he hadn’t exactly been given a primer on what to expect. Not every holiday even had an icon, exactly, to bear a grudge against him, so there was no visit to be had. Still, on Martin Luther King day he had felt a rather stronger-than-usual urge to stand up for the oppressed, and on Super Bowl Sunday he had a compulsion to add all NFL referees to the naughty list. Today he was feeling the odd effects of a mild hangover that he could only attribute to the fact that yesterday had been Mardi Gras.

Valentine’s Day, though… that was one of the big ones. Decorations in the stores, cards in the mail, overpriced flowers lining the streets, and chocolate/peanut butter hearts that inexplicably tasted better than the traditional cup shape of the candy. Most importantly, this day had its own icon, someone Santa knew, and knew well, and was expecting. So Santa did something a man who has to manufacture toys and plot out a delivery route that encompasses the entire world has to be able to do: he got ahead of the problem.

“I’m not sure about this, boss,” Blinky said.

“I’ve been around for centuries, Blinky. I’ve catered to the desires of billions of people. I think I know what humans want. Here, dry.”

He ran a plate under the water from the sink in front of him and passed it over to Blinky. The elf, towel in his hand, dutifully began to dry it. Although Gary Valechi had never asked the two of them to do household chores in the month and a half they’d been staying at his apartment, Santa insisted that they do something to show their gratitude to their new friend.

“You give train sets to kids, Santa. This is…”

“A wish is a wish, Blinky. And when that chubby little twerp with the wings gets here–”

“Twerp?”

Cupid’s voice rang out before he appeared. There was a loud “POP” in the air above the sink, and Blinky dropped a plate, smashing it on the ground. Cupid hung in the air, his tiny, aerodynamically dubious wings gently fluttering to keep him afloat. He did, of course, resemble a baby, only he was considerably larger than most of them… and most babies didn’t have a quiver of heart-shaped arrows strapped to their back. “Who you callin’ twerp, Big Boy?”

“Oh come on, Cupid, I didn’t mean anything by it. Anyway, you’re not the only one whose form has changed because of human expectations. I didn’t always look like this, you know.”

“Yeah, but they changed you from a skinny old fart with whiskers to a chubby old fart with whiskers. You look like everybody’s favorite grandpa. I used to be a literal Greek god. I made Channing Tatum look like Mr. Potato Head! Now…”

“Yes, we all know about now.” He nodded towards the elf. “You remember Blinky, don’t you? He was one of the two elves on my sleigh when you shot me down.”

“Right. What happened to the other one?”

“We’ve been looking for her for six weeks,” Blinky snapped. “You don’t know anything about Eleanor, do you?”

“Sorry, can’t help you. My area of perception only extends to lovers. Which brings me to why I’m here.”

“Yes, we know,” Santa said. “It’s Valentine’s Day. You’re here to show me how hard it is to be you. We understand the protocol. But I’ve got news for you Cupid — I’m ahead of your game.”

“What are you talking about?”

Santa indicated the apartment they were standing in. From the clean, modern kitchen, they could see the tastefully decorated apartment, high-end television mounted to the wall between a pair of framed posters for old science fiction movies. “We’re in my friend Gary’s apartment. We met him on New Year’s Eve and he has been kind enough to let us stay here while we try to get ‘back on our feet’.”

“What? In New York, some guy is letting two complete strangers crash in his pad?”

“Well, I’m not really a stranger, am I? Gary is one of those grown-ups who never entirely stopped believing in me. On a subconscious level, I think he suspects who I really am, although he could never admit it to himself.”

“Fine, whatever. You’re living the Lifestyles of the Young and Yuppie. So what?”

“Well, Gary isn’t here tonight, is he?”

“I repeat: so what?”

“He’s out because I got him a date.”

Cupid’s jaw dangled. “You what?”

Santa beamed, terribly proud of the work he’d accomplished. “Oh yes. Down on the corner, you see, there’s this lovely young woman named Carrie. Works at a newsstand. I noticed Gary blushing every time he bought a newspaper from her, so I gave him a little nudge and convinced him to ask her on a date.”

“For tonight?” Cupid said.

“That’s right.”

“A date.”

“Yes.”

“A first date.”

“Of course.”

“On Valentine’s Day.”

“Naturally.”

Cupid glared at him, his wings beating faster, his face growing red.

“You’re even stupider than I thought,” he snapped.

“Hey!” Blinky hopped up on the counter and leaned in, eye-to-eye with Cupid. “You can’t talk to Santa that way!”

“It’s my day, shrimp, I’ll talk however I want!”

“What are you talking about?” Santa said. “It’s Valentine’s Day! I’m helping two people find love! That’s what you do!”

“Wrong!” Cupid reached into his quiver and pulled out a handful of arrows, shoving them under Santa’s nose. “That’s what these do! And they screw up more often than not! That’s not what Valentine’s Day is for, Egg Nog Breath!”

“I don’t understand. The cards, the flowers–”

“Yeah, yeah, and the candy and the jewelry too, right? It’s all crap, Santa. It’s all different ways for humans to cash in on something that should have a deeper meaning. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Well…”

“Exactly. How long has your buddy been on his date?”

“He was supposed to pick her up at 6 o’clock.”

Cupid glanced at the clock on the wall. “Nearly two hours. Perfect. Why don’t we go take a look, see how things are going? Because unless you got lucky, crazy lucky, million-to-one winning the Powerball lucky, I think we’ll be able to see just why first dates on Valentine’s Day are a terrible idea.”

Cupid waved his bow over Santa’s head and the two of them were caught up in a swirl of white, pink, and red mists. Blinky and Gary’s apartment vanished, and Santa felt a sensation of movement. Very soon, they weren’t there anymore.

“You’re in for a rude awakening, Nicky,” Cupid said.

“I think you’re the one who’s going to be surprised,” Santa said. “You don’t know Gary like I do. He’s a good man, kind and generous. He’s got a good job working at a toy company, he takes care of his mother, he…”

“He’s blowing it.”

The mists cleared a little, and in the haze Santa saw Gary and Carrie, sitting at a table in a fine Chinese restaurant. Each of them had a bowl of soup and an egg roll in front of them. Carrie also had a phone out, casually tapping on her screen as she ate.

“How’s your soup?” Gary asked.

“Oh,” Carrie said. She lifted a spoonful to her mouth and sipped it. “Good.”

“Great.”

“Yeah.”

She turned back to her phone and Santa looked at Cupid. “I’ve heard more lively conversation from a pack of snowmen.”

“Well what did you expect? The humans put so much stupid pressure on themselves for this holiday. They have to find someone, they have to fall in love. Then the slightest thing goes wrong and they decide the entire thing is a disaster. How can you possibly live up to those expectations? Hell, I knew Zeus in his prime and even he would have had trouble performing under those circumstances.”

“But what happened? What went wrong?”

Cupid twisted his arm in the air and a phone appeared. He grinned. “Let’s find out.”

“How, you’re going to call them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “She’s been live-tweeting the whole date.” He tapped the screen a few times and brought up Carrie’s feed. Scrolling back to a few minutes after six, he found what he was looking for and laughed.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Here it is, Santa. The genesis of romance.” He held the phone out to Santa could read what she’d posted.

“This guy got a taxi instead of an Uber. #AuspiciousStart.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Santa said. “She checked out on Gary for not using Uber?”

“You think that’s the stupidest reason anyone has ever given up on a date?”

“Well… I guess not, but… is that really the only problem?”

“Naw. She was also bothered that he ordered an unsweetened tea because ‘Hashtag Who Drinks That?’ And he put hot mustard on his egg roll — ‘Hashtag Nasty Sauce.’ Oh, and why are they sitting so close to the kitchen?”

“What? But that’s not even his fault!”

“Once a human gives up, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Well what about Gary? What’s his side of it?”

“I dunno, he hasn’t been tweeting. But look at him, Santa.” Cupid adjusted the point of view of their image so they were looking straight at Gary. He wasn’t on his phone, but he was slumped over, not making eye contact, chewing on his egg roll with hot mustard. He looked, Santa realized, the same way he did when he left the party on New Year’s Eve.

“Your friend is smarter than you are. He knows this is all donezo, and he can’t be bothered to put in any more effort than she is, even if he’s not going to be rude about it. And then, once this date is put out of its misery, he’s going to go home alone and be even more depressed than he would have been if you hadn’t done anything in the first place.”

“I don’t understand. What went wrong?”

“What went wrong is that you went Hallmark, Chubbs. This isn’t what Valentine’s Day is. It never should have been. Good grief, it started by commemorating a guy who got executed for trying to give comfort to persecuted Christians under the Roman empire. How the hell we went from that to a 64-count box of assorted chocolates is beyond me.”

“Fine then. Enlighten me Cupid. What is this supposed to be about?”

Cupid looked deeper into the mists, glancing around the Chinese restaurant. His eyes fell on a table across the restaurant and he grinned.

“Try this one on for size, Santa.”

Their perspective changed again, and Santa found himself looking at another couple. Steven Morten. Gayle Abrams-Morten. Married six years. Two children. Their first night out together in nine months. Each of these facts clicked into Santa’s head the same way the prayers for a New Year had on December 31. As he watched them, Santa could feel how each of them was feeling. It was love, deep love. But it was… cool.

“Check the phone,” Cupid said. Santa realized that he was holding the phone now, and that it was open to Gayle’s Facebook page. He scrolled down. Three pictures of her with the kids. A post asking where to get an oil change. Another picture of the kids. A tag from someone asking if she remembered some music video from high school. Two more of Gayle and the kids. A Spongebob meme.

“Where’s her husband?” Santa asked.

“Click the other tab.”

He did. Steven’s page was more of the same. Him with the children, expressing how much he loved them, he loved them, he loved the Rangers even if this wouldn’t be their year to hoist the Stanley cup, he loved the kids.

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re tired, Big Guy. Day in, day out. Nobody is mad here, there hasn’t been a fight. They’ve just been together so long and done so much that they’re… tired.”

“This is almost as sad as Gary and Carrie.”

Cupid rolled his eyes. “Do you hear it when you say it out loud? ‘Gary and Carrie?’ Man, what were you thinking?”

“Forget them for a minute. What about Steven and Gayle? What do we do?”

“Well, that’s what you have to figure out, isn’t it?”

“I… fine. Give me an arrow.”

“Nope. Arrows spark passion. There’s no shortcut to reheat it. You’re gonna have to work for this one.”

Santa reached out into the mist. As he did, he felt sparks of memory. Their first date. The day Steven asked Gayle to marry him. Their wedding. The births of each of their children. The big moments, the huge moments, the moments that are etched into the DNA of any relationship. What was he supposed to do? Remind them of their children? Pointless, the children never left their minds. Recreate their first date? It had been to a Chinese restaurant — this one, in fact. What else was he going to do? Play the song from their wedding dance? Santa pictured himself standing outside the restaurant with a boom box on his shoulders, then immediately pictured himself getting a restraining order.

He reached again, brushing aside the big moments. He saw smaller ones now: birthdays, Mae’s first day in preschool, Arlen’s first cold. He saw Steven taking Gayle’s car in for new tires, saw Gayle picking up Steven’s clothes from the dry cleaners, saw Steven washing the dishes even though it was Gayle’s turn because she’d had a bad day at work, saw Gayle making Steven hot chocolate when she woke up before him on a snowy morning in January.

He saw something small, something sweet. And most importantly, something that was already in Gayle’s purse.

The waiter approached their table as they finished their meal, smiling. “Would you care for any dessert?”

Steven was about to say something, but Gayle held her hand up, shaking her head. “No thanks, just the check.”

The waiter nodded and lay a black folder on the table walking off. Steven looked at his wife, puzzled. “No dessert? Not even those pineapple tarts they make?”

“Eh, those are okay,” she said. “I have something better.” She looked in both directions, surreptitiously, and reached into her purse. From within, she drew two small tupperware containers, and slid one across the table to her husband.

“What’s this?”

“Dessert.”

He popped open the lid of the container and smiled. “You made creme brulee?”

“It’s not hot, but I know it’s your favorite.”

His smile got wider, then shrank a little. “Sorry I’ve been so busy lately.”

“I’ve been busy too. It’s not your fault. Maybe we should get your folks to babysit a little more often.”

“Yeah, maybe we should,” he said. He leaned across the table and kissed her, and she kissed back. As they did, the mists closed around them, and Santa and Cupid found themselves back in Gary’s apartment.

“Boss?” Blinky dropped the dustpan he was using to sweep up the broken plate. “Boss, where did you go?”

“He was learning a lesson, Jingles,” Cupid said. “So what exactly did you learn, Kringle?”

“Fine, I get it,” he said. “It’s the little things that count, right.”

Cupid shook his head. “Man, for somebody who’s supposed to be so good at giving people what they want, you still miss the obvious, don’t you? Look, I’ll spell it out for you. Your day is about the big, ginormous things that kids spend all year waiting for. But focusing on the big things on Valentine’s Day is a recipe for disaster.”

Santa thought about Gayle. About Steven. About creme brulee.

“Sometimes you just need to take the time to celebrate what you already have,” he said.

“Now you’re getting it. I’m sure your missus will be happy to see you taking that approach.”

Santa glowered at him. “My missus is back at the Pole. And I’m missing Valentine’s Day with her because of your stupid little games.”

“Maybe, but you guys can have more Valentine’s Days until the end of time. Folks like Steven and Gayle? If they’re lucky, they’ll get what? Forty? Fifty? If they’re unlucky, this might be the last one.”

“The same is true for Christmases, you know.”

“Sure, sure. But that’s not my department, is it?” Cupid flapped his little wings and bobbed in the air. “Well, I’ve said my peace. Happy Valentine’s Day, Tubbs. Shorty. I’ll probably see you again before this is all over.”

Santa was about to ask him what that was supposed to mean, but a swirl of pink and white made took the cherub away, leaving the two of them alone.

“I really dislike that guy,” Blinky said.

“Hmph.” Santa walked back to the sink. “Come on, let’s finish these dishes. I want to get this apartment in shape before Gary gets home.. I have a feeling his date hasn’t gone as well as we would like.”

*   *   *

“Would you care for any dessert?”

Carrie shot a filthy look at the waitress. “Are you kidding me?” she asked. “The chicken was dry, the egg rolls had so much salt my lips are burning, and the tea may as well have been water. I’m not trusting you people to scoop out ice cream. Just give him the check, twerp.”

The waitress’s eyes grew wide and watered. Her hands fumbling, she put the folder down on the table and walked off without saying a word. Gary’s face was turning red as he reached for the bill.

“Was that really necessary? She didn’t make the food, you know.”

“Then she can pass the message on to whoever did.”

“And what about that last crack? That was unnecessary.”

Carrie laughed. “Come on, what is she? Three feet two? It’s like having a third grader wait on the table.” She chuckled at her own wit and turned back to her phone. Gary put his credit card on the folder and sat in silence as the waitress retrieved it and brought it back. Of the three of them, the only sounds made were Carrie occasionally giggling at something on Instagram. Gary picked up the bill and looked down, trying to do math. A twenty percent tip would have been about twelve dollars. Under GRATUITY, he scribbled “$30” and added it to the total, then wrote “I’m sorry” underneath.

Carrie led the way out of the restaurant, not even noticing that Gary didn’t immediately follow her. Instead, he stopped at the host’s podium, where a kind-eyed man was coordinating the restaurant’s many, many customers. “Excuse me,” Gary said, “are you the manager?”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“I just wanted to let you know our waitress was wonderful. Just a charming, lovely person.”

“Oh, thank you sir. Who was your waitress this evening?”

Gary glanced down at his receipt for her name. “Eleanor,” he said. “Her name is Eleanor.”

To be continued…

Santa’s Odyssey: The New Year

On Christmas morning, as Santa Claus and two of his helpers returned to the North Pole, they came under attack by a group of holiday Icons angry that Claus was monopolizing the holiday glory. This year, stranded in the human world with no way home, Santa will be forced to take on the tasks for every other holiday — the Icons are on strike.

Previous Installments: Prologue-Christmas Day

One: The New Year

Edgar stood alone, staring at the empty chair. A week out from Christmas Eve and he didn’t want to move. The others had done everything they could to snap him out of it: hot cocoa, sugar cookies, Christmas crackers… nothing. Edgar, as North Pole Chief of Operations, had been the one in communication with Santa’s sleigh when they lost contact. If he lived to be thirty thousand, he’d never forget what he heard over that radio. Screams. Blinky shouting that they were under attack. Static. Then, a gut-churning eternity later, eight reindeer returned to the barn, their reins fluttering behind them, tattered ends that looked like they had been pecked through. Everyone turned to Edgar then, as he was technically in charge when Santa was gone. But he’d never had – nor wanted – the responsibility for this long.

Traditionally, the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve was one of celebration at the Pole: parties, gatherings with friends, subversive meetups under the mistletoe, and one mega-blowout on the 31st before the whole Pole went on vacation for the month of January. Not this year. The past week had been chaos. Elves running everywhere, search parties scouring every corner of the Pole, trainers trying to get the reindeer to retrace their steps. All they had uncovered were a few chunks of vine and brown feathers stuck in the reins.

Now, as midnight hit Greenwich Mean Time, the rest of the senior staff was gathered with Edgar in Santa’s office, looking at his enormous green chair. Nobody had touched it in a week. Nobody wanted to.

Finally, a silver-haired elf from the licensing department cleared her throat. “Edgar?” she asked. “What do we do?”

He cleared his throat, wet his lips. He didn’t know if he was parched or just stalling, unwilling to say the only thing he could say.

“Cancel leave,” he said. “All of it. We need to keep looking.”

The other elves nodded, one at a time. It wasn’t the answer anyone wanted to hear, but it was the one that made the most sense. Nobody was particularly in the mood for a vacation anyway. How could anybody justify a month at the beach or riding roller coasters when Santa, Blinky, and Eleanor were missing? Everybody wanted to keep looking. The trouble was that nobody knew where to look.

“He has to be in the Real World somewhere” said Dale, the elf in charge of preadolescent surveillance. “We can keep up the search.”

“Of course you can,” said Jamie from Reindeer Care. “You guys watch the entire world. How hard can it be to find Santa?”

Dale shook her head. “We’re equipped to surveil children,” she said. “Our equipment is trained on them. We’ve got a computer system that analyzes the footage and alerts us if the kid does something naughty. Other than that, we never actually see them. We’re actually going to have to start combing through film, looking for some sort of trace of him. In footage of every child in the world. Even if we had a specific region to look in, some way to narrow it down–”

“Just do what you can, Dale.” Edgar put a hand on her shoulder and she nodded. He looked at the faces of the rest of the senior staff, their eyes pleading with him for some sort of guidance. He didn’t want this, he reminded himself. He never wanted this.

“What if we don’t find him?” Jamie finally said. “What if it’s February first and it’s time to start getting ready for next Christmas and there’s still no Santa Claus?”

Edgar nodded. It was exactly the question he’d been asking himself since he realized he was the one in charge. “Then we do our jobs,” he said. “Whatever it takes, we make sure that Christmas happens next year.”

December 31, 11:45 p.m.

New York City was cold. Oh, it usually was when Santa visited. They might not have a white Christmas every year, but it was usually at least chilly when he came through. Despite being open-air, his sleigh had precision climate control, and it never bothered him. Today it bothered him. It bothered him a lot.

Santa and Blinky had hitchhiked to Manhattan after they finally found the road outside of Rochester. It only took them two days to make it, with Santa using a tiny bit of his magic to make people treat them with good cheer along the way. In a way, Santa felt lucky they’d crashed in New York state. It wasn’t home, but no place in North America loved Christmas as much as New York City. His magic drained rapidly after Christmas was over, but he felt certain this was the one place he could cling to as much of it as possible.

But that magic was dying quickly. He’d managed to generate enough goodwill amongst his fellow men to get them some new clothes and a pair of cots at a shelter. But here it was, New Year’s Eve. No home or food, no sign of Eleanor, no sign of rescue.

At a quarter to midnight, Santa and Blinky were out on the street, miles away from Times Square and all the lunacy that gripped that piece of real estate on this day, still able to see the glittering ball from a distance. Santa sat down on the bottom stoop of a building, arms folded over his knees. Blinky was on the top stoop, making him eye-level with Santa. Across the street, with the shimmering ball above, a bar was loud and raucous with celebrants ready to bid farewell to the old year and welcome in the new.

“Well… happy new year, Santa.”

“Would that it were, Blinky,” he said. “In all the years we’ve been in operation, I’ve never felt as lost as I do right now.”

“There’s nobody you can call or something?”

“Like who? There aren’t any mortal telephones that can dial the North Pole, and that’s by design. Can you imagine the hassle if children could actually contact us there?”

“Anybody we can recruit to get us back? A non-holiday Icon like Sandman? Tooth Fairy?”

“The Icons only serve children. We couldn’t summon them, even if I punched your tooth out of your mouth.”

“NORAD?”

Santa shot his elf a dirty look, and Blinky shrugged. “Hey, if you’ve got a better suggestion…”

Santa sighed. “All I’ve got is a headache. I wish everyone would just be quiet.”

“Aw, the bar’s not that bad from out here, boss.”

“It’s not the bar, it’s everyone else.”

“What are you talking about? There’s nobody else here.”

Santa looked around, realizing for the first time that he and the elf were alone on the sidewalk. “If there’s no one here, where are the voices coming from?”

Not for the first time since the crash, Blinky looked worried. “What voices, boss?”

Gotta be better than last year…

…gonna lose weight, go back to the gym, give up the fast food…

…this year, I swear, I’m going to get a new job…

…he doesn’t propose by Valentine’s Day that’s IT, it’s OVER…

…has to be better than last year.

“Blinky?” Santa asked. “What’s happening?”

A slow tapping sound echoed down the street. Santa looked up to see an old man – an ancient man, in fact – staggering down the sidewalk, cane in hand. They saw this man just a week ago, but already he looked so much older than he had then. “Ah, Santa Claus,” he said. “I told you we’d meet again tonight.”

“Santa, who is that?” Blinky asked.

“It’s the Old Year,” Santa said. The old man laughed.

“Only for another eleven minutes, Claus!” he said. “Then I become the New Year all over again. Or, more accurately, you will.”

“What’s he talking about, boss?”

“Like we told you, little elf, this year your master is taking on the duties of each of us Icons. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, Santa, you’re already hearing the prayers.”

“Prayers? For what?”

“For the New Year, of course!”

In his head, the voices started to get louder. Pleas for money, for health, for children, for love. One woman’s voice swore that this was the year she would visit Europe, another was begging this year to be the one when she found a job in which she could finally afford day care. A man asked if this year he would get a new car, a young one swore with all his might that he was going to buckle down this semester and study, dammit, because he was lucky not to have been thrown out of school already, and if he didn’t fix things it would break his grandmother’s heart. One girl wanted a puppy this year. A boy promised to make the baseball team. A man said he’d try to go vegan, while his wife anxiously promised to get him to stop spending so much time on the internet. More than one voice, more than one chilling voice, asked that please could nobody else die this year, because they couldn’t take any more.

Santa grabbed Blinky’s arm trying not to tip over. He looked up, gasping, while the Old Year’s face continued to grow more wrinkles, longer whiskers, eyes sinking into their sockets and cheeks hollowing before their eyes. “What are you doing to me?” he asked.

“Nothing I don’t endure every single year,” he said. “You’re lucky I come first, Claus. You still have a good deal of your power. Christmas technically lasts until January 6, after all, so your residual magic is probably making this easier on you. Can you imagine if you had to listen to these voices in June?”

“Boss, what’s happening to you?”

“Prayers… cries… people pleading… people everywhere.”

“Prayers for the New Year, Claus.”

“It’s overwhelming,” he said, squeezing Blinky’s arm even tighter. “Everybody wants something. Everybody needs something.”

“Boss, you hear people ask for things all the time. It’s your job!”

“I hear children, Blinky. This…”

“Yes, adults are quite different, aren’t they, Claus?”

…going to learn to speak Mandarin this year…

…this glass of champagne and then that’s it, I’m done drinking…

…just so tired of being alone…

“They’re all in pain!” Santa shouted. “They’re all in misery!

“Oh, not all of them,” the Old Year said. “Just the loudest ones.” In the distance people in Times Square were howling with joy. The countdown had reached one minute to midnight. He looked down at Santa, his face almost skeletal now as the skin pulled taught against his leering skull.

“I don’t understand!” Santa slumped forward, grabbing the Old Year by his cloak. “Isn’t anyone happy tonight?”

“Of course they are,” the Old Year said. “But they don’t need us, do they? That’s the incredible thing about the New Year, Claus. As a marking of time, it’s really quite meaningless. It’s arbitrary. The mortals could have decided the year ended any time they wanted – the beginning of July, the day the crops were planted. It doesn’t mark someone’s birthday or a historical anniversary or any of the things some of the other holidays do. Closing one calendar and opening the next is irrelevant. But they’ve placed so much emphasis on it, haven’t they? They pretend that things are ending, that it’s a time when everything else can start over.”

The countdown was happening. Santa could almost hear it over the voices in his head.

…this is it…

…it all starts now…

…thank God it’s over…

“Don’t you understand why you’re hearing from people in misery, Claus? Because nobody needs a New Year more than someone whose Old Year was agony.”

He closed his eyes as the voices behind them turned into an incomprehensible din, a sickening miasma of prayers and hopes and grief. Screams and cries of celebration broke – from Times Square, from the bar across the street, from all directions. Santa thought that the voices would stop, but if anything, they got louder.

show them some real fireworks at the office…

…dammit, I knew she’d kiss somebody else at midnight…

…last glass of ch—ah, but I’m still AT the party, right?

“Why isn’t it stopping?” Santa asked. “Why isn’t it stopping?”

“Santa?” Blinky asked. “Where’d the Old Year go?”

Santa opened his eyes and looked down. The Old Year was, in fact, gone, his cloak lying on the ground in front of them. Lying in front and… moving. Santa reached down and pulled the cloak aside. On the ground, wearing a smirk that one would never have expected in one so young, was a newborn baby.

“It’s not stopping, Santa, because it’s not over yet.” The newborn rocked up onto his bottom, smiling up at Santa and Blinky. “People don’t stop asking at midnight. It takes a few days, even weeks sometimes before they stop asking the New Year to be different than the old one.”

“But… all of those cries… all that pain. What are we supposed to do?”

The infant looked surprised. “Do? Santa, you’re already doing it. You’re hearing them.”

“Aren’t I supposed to help them?”

“They’re not kids, Santa. They don’t want dolls and candy. How are you gonna help them? Give Tory Kittridge a new job? Find a way to make Edna Carson’s son call her for a change?” He stood up, grabbing Santa’s beard and pulling it down until they were eye-to-eye. “You got a cure for cancer in that sack of yours, Santa?”

He let go of the beard and Santa rocked back onto the stoop, staring up into the sky. His stomach was curdling, despite the fact that there was relatively little inside it. As he gasped, the voices continued, although they started to settle a bit.

“Here’s the harsh truth most humans don’t want to admit, Santa. No matter how much they want to believe it, the year doesn’t control anything. If something is going to change, it has to come from them. But who wants to hear that? It’s not my fault I’m broke! It’s not my fault I’m lonely! It’s not my fault I’m sick! No! It’s just this crummy year.” The cynicism coming from such a young face was almost comical. Santa may have laughed if he weren’t trying to prevent the conflicting voices in his head from driving him mad.

“Nah,” New Year said. “There’s nothing you can do to help them, Santa. They have to help themselves. All you get to do is listen to each and every prayer they have.”

He patted Santa on the cheek, smiling. “Well, I’ve said my peace. Have fun on the next holiday. Someone will be there to hold your hand then, too.”

Santa watched as the New Year, still waddling around in a baby’s body, gathered up his cloak and toddled away. As he did so, the voices, the prayers, the pleading in his mind continued.

“Boss, are you all right?”

“It’s too much, Blinky. It’s just too much.”

He put his head down on the stoop, trying not to allow tears to break his eyes. Across the street, the doors to the bar had been thrown open and people were cheering in the fact that they all had to buy a new calendar, and nothing else. Santa rolled his head and looked up at the stars in the cold January morning.

“How am I going to do this? How can I handle an entire year of this? We’re lost, we’re alone, we…”

“Hey, are you all right?”

Santa tilted his head and looked at the man approaching them. He was coming from the direction of the bar, a few chunks of confetti fell from his shoulders as he walked, but he didn’t have the joyous expression that most of the revelers wore. He was a bulky man, with deep brown hair and a tiny scar in his upper lip, which was pulled down into a look of concern.

“It’s nothing that should worry you, young man,” he said.

“Are you sure? You sounded pretty downbeat.” He reached out and Santa realized he’d heard this man’s voice before, only moments before. He was one of the many, many people who was pleading for a better year.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Come on, pal, it’s Christmas.”

Blinky frowned. “It’s January First.”

“Yeah, and like my grandmother always told me, Christmas lasts until the sixth. Epiphany. You’ve heard of the twelve days of Christmas right?”

Santa looked the man in the eye, and for the first time since his sleigh went down, a small smile crept onto his face. “Have I met you before, son?”

“Could be. It’s a big city.” He held out his hand. “Gary Valechi. You?”

“Nick. And this is Bill.”

Gary Valechi. Nice list. Asked for a Super Nintendo when he was seven years old.

“Look, the party across the street turned out to be… not what I wanted. I was going to go get something to eat. You guys want to join me? My treat.”

Santa and Blinky exchanged a look, and Blinky shrugged.

“All right, Gary,” Santa said. “Maybe there’s a little Christmas left out here after all.”

*   *   *

In Central Park, Chuck Parker listened to people cheering all over the city. Must have been New Year’s Eve again. Eh. December, January, Christmas, New Year… out here, it was pretty much all the same. The only thing about the holidays ending was that people got a little less generous with their spare change. Whatever, he made it through last year, he’d make it through this one.

He shuffled down to a bench, one of his favorites, and pulled his coat tight around him. Someone had left a pile of newspaper on his bench, filthy animals in this city, and as he lay down to stretch out, he kicked at the paper to clear it out.

“Ow! Watch it!”

A hand grabbed at the paper and yanked it away. Beneath was a small, angelic face fringed by silvery golden hair. Her face was dirty, but unwrinkled and unmarred, and the green hat atop her head was cocked at an angle.

“Kid, what are you doing out here?”

“I’m no kid,” she said.

“Well I ain’t seen you around here before. You lost?”

She looked up into the sky, staring as if she were looking for something. “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

To be continued…

Santa’s Odyssey: Christmas Day

For many years now, it’s been my tradition to write a new story to share each Christmas. Despite how crazy this year has been, I didn’t want to break with that. However, one story was stuck in my head, the only one that could come out. It’s not just a Christmas short story. It’s something… larger…

Prologue: Christmas Day

“Do you see him yet?”

“Nay, not yet.”

“Well he’s got to come in soon. It’s almost morning! Are you sure he’s going to come this way?”

“Pretty sure. We use basically the same routes, so he should cut through here on his way North.”

“If you are wrong, I swear, I’ll skin you alive and hang your feet from my fingertips as a warning to any who would dare deceive me.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic, son.”

“Leave the boy be! Let him express himself!”

“Would you all be silent? Look, in the skies above! He approaches!”

“Wonderful. Light it up.”

*   *   *

Despite the way it is frequently depicted in the media, Santa Claus’s Christmas Eve run is not as simple as hopping in a sleigh and flying south. There is a reason that nobody, no airplane or spacecraft, no weather balloon or dog-drawn bobsled has ever been able to locate Santa’s Workshop. Santa’s home is not, technically speaking, on Earth. Not Earth as we know it, anyway, but in a sort of otherworldly shell of Earth, in a place where those anthropomorphic personifications of the things humans cling to tend to spend their time, and where the veil between their world and ours only grows thin when the humans’ need for such a creature is great. Were a human to ride in Santa Claus’s sleigh on his way home after making his deliveries, they would see the ground beneath them become a snow-covered plane, frozen and unbroken for what seems like thousands of miles, before finally being punctuated by the glorious, colorful workshop from which Santa Claus does his good deeds. It would not be a journey they could replicate, however, and they would have no hope of returning home without the aid of Santa or another such anthropomorphic personification such as Mother Nature, Jack Frost, or Amy the Arbor Day Arugula. All this is to say that it’s particularly difficult to move from our world to theirs when it is not your time of power, and it is for that reason that the plot to eliminate Santa Claus was almost successful.

“Almost home, boss,” said Blinky.

“I think I can see our house from here,” Eleanor chimed in. Blinky and Eleanor were, of course, elves, and two of Santa’s best. They sat in the now-empty sleigh, lounging in the empty space that had been previously occupied by an enormous sack of toys, each now in the hands or heart of some child or another, at least until he broke it while throwing it at his sister.

“Not a bad run, eh?” Santa asked, smiling down at them. “Ah, hundreds of years and I never miss a beat.”

“Not too bad. Almost had to put a kid out at the Franklinton house, but he settled back down before I needed to break out the sand.” Blinky was in charge of security – he scouted the home before Santa popped in, ensuring that the children were nestled and not a creature was stirring. Occasionally he would encounter a mouse that attempted to defy this edict. When that happened, Blinky took care of it. Per Santa’s orders, he was gentler with children. If one was found to be awake, he whisked them back to sleep with a handful of sonombula, a sleep-inducing dust provided to them by the Sandman.

“Oh, the Franklintons,” Eleanor said. “I hope Stacy likes the pony stable.” Eleanor was in charge of distribution. She catalogued orders and made certain Santa was delivering each toy to its proper recipient. He used to keep track of such things himself, but as the number of children in the world continued to grow there were too many instances of kids who asked for blocks waking up to socks, toy boats being confused with toy goats, and children asking for action figures of the DC superheroes waking up to find Marvel instead. Since Eleanor took over operations, things had run much more smoothly.

On the horizon, the brilliant glowing dot that indicated Santa’s Workshop grew closer. When it first appeared, a yellow dome in the distance, it was the first sign of light. Now the sun was coming up off to the right and the color of the dome was different. It didn’t look yellow anymore. If anything, Blinky thought, it was turning an odd shade of orange.

“Thirty-seven seconds faster than last year,” Eleanor said, looking over the schedule. “And that with 426 more deliveries.”

“It was a boom year for babies in New Orleans,” Santa said.

“Santa…”

“And the Japanese stops went much faster than usual.”

“Well, cutting over North Korean airspace speeds things up. Don’t tell anybody we did that.”

“Santa…”

“I’m a little concerned about the British, though.”

“Well, they ebb and flow, and it’s been a rough couple of years there. Britain always bounces back, though. They love me better than anyone. Ho-ho! Why wouldn’t they?”

“SANTA!”

“Blinky, what on Earth–”

The security elf extended a green-clad arm, pointing across the snowy waste, and Santa’s words trailed away when he realized why. The glowing dot, the one that they’d thought was the same Workshop they returned to year after year, was no longer yellow. It was quite clearly orange, with tendrils of green light in the mix. What’s more, the soft gingerbread peaks and candy cane architecture they were used to was missing entirely, replaced by a harsh, angular structure that looked like a spiny gothic castle, crawling with pumpkin vines and surrounded, as it seemed, with headstones.”

“Santa, what is that?” Eleanor asked.

“It’s Halloween,” he said. “But what is it doing here?”

As they stared at the castle, there were two bursts of light from the turrets. A pair of missiles – wrapped in red, white, and blue ribbon – shot through the air, brilliant colored sparks streaking the sky in their wake. They watched quietly, but only for a moment. Eleanor lost the ability to remain silent when it was clear that the missiles were headed straight for them.

She shrieked even louder than the missiles on their collision course with the sleigh, but instead of making impact, they blew past them and exploded in the air immediately over their heads, the burst of light dazzling Santa and the elves. When Blinky’s eyes cleared, he saw a pair of turkeys sitting on the reigns, pecking at the leather straps that held the reindeer to the sleigh. They were almost through.

“What’s going on?” he shouted. He grabbed the sleigh’s onboard radio and hit the SEND button. “Blinky to North Pole! Blinky to North Pole! We are under attack! Edgar, send help! Repeat–”

Repeating was not an option. A pink, furry paw swatted the radio from Blinky’s hand. He looked over to see a snarling bunny, larger than the elf himself, yank the radio cord from the dashboard and throw it over the side. Eleanor grabbed the bunny, trying to wrestle it away from Blinky, but it grabbed at a cord attached to his hip and yanked. A brilliant pastel parachute whipped out of a pack on his back and he was jerked up and away from the sleigh. The parachute opened up to reveal its light blue egg shape.

“Eleanor!” Blinky howled. The distribution elf was still holding onto the bunny as it trailed away and drifted into the distance.

“Blinky, hold on!” Santa shouted. The turkeys bit through the last of the reigns and the reindeer continued on their way. The moment the leather was cut, the sleigh’s forward momentum slacked off and it lost all lift. Blinky realized with terror that they were hurtling towards the ground.

“Blinky! CRASH POSITIONS!”

Santa and the remaining elf grabbed one another, eyes closed, Blinky howling all the way down. Santa allowed himself to peek just for a second, just in time to see a bed of clover poke through the snow beneath them. The sled hit the clover and bounced off, cutting a swath through the snow beyond before colliding with a tree, catapulting the occupants through the air and into drifts of snow beyond.

“Santa?” Blinky moaned. “Santa, are you okay?”

Santa sat up, brushing snow from his face with his hat. “I think so. Are you?”

“No injuries to report,” Blinky said “Any sign of Eleanor?”

“We lost her somewhere.”

The snow cleared from his eyes, Santa looked around to get his bearings. As he did, he realized he and Blinky were not alone. Approaching them from the trees were an enormous pink rabbit, a giant turkey, a bearded man in star-spangled clothing, and several others. When a winged cherub landed on the shoulder of a very old man with whiskers down to his knees, Santa felt a tinge of dread.

“I told ye this wouldn’t work,” muttered a small man – about Blinky’s size – wearing all green, with tufts of red hair poking out from under his hat. “He’s still too powerful on Christmas morning.”

“Ah, he’d be too powerful in May,” the rabbit muttered. “I didn’t think we’d actually take him out. Plan B?”

A woman with her hair in a bun came up behind them, looking down at Santa with a scowl of bone-grinding disapproval. “Oh yes. Plan B it is.”

“What is the meaning of all this?” Santa said. “East? Is that you?”

“East?” Blinky said. “Do mean to tell me that rabbit is the Easter Bunny?”

“Guilty,” the rabbit said, grinning. He tossed an egg casually in the air, bouncing it from hand to hand. “But not as guilty as your boss, Elf.”

“What are you talking about?” Santa said. “This is absurd. Why on Earth would you attack us?”

“Attack you?” snarled the cherub. “You’ve been in an all-out assault on us for years!”

“You’ve got your diaper on too tight, Cupid,” Santa snapped. “I’ve never done a thing to any of you.”

As a whole, the group groaned and rolled their eyes. In the back, a clown threw his hands up in disgust.

“Nothing except hogged all of the glory,” the Bunny said. “How many letters do you think kids write to the Easter Bunny, fat boy?”

“People forget their fathers half the time,” said a man in a suit wearing approximately 37 neckties. Even from the back of the pack, Blinky could smell a sickening miasma of different cologne brands emanating from him.

A man in a hardhat slapped a wrench into his hand. “There aren’t even any decorations at all for Labor Day.”

The Turkey scratched at the ground. “Holiday creep, that’s what it is! People waste half of my day buying crap for yours!”

The tallest figure – a slender form with a body made of rotting tree branches and a head carved from a pumpkin – extended a pointy finger at him. “The sales begin even before my time of power. You just can’t be satisfied with your own time, can you, Claus?”

“Here’s the point, boyo,” the man in green said. “For too long now, ye’ve been taking up all the holiday glory for yourself. Every year, your power seems to grow, while ours gets weaker and weaker.”

Santa looked around at the others – icons of Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving… who the heck was the clown supposed to be? Whoever, none of them were in their time of power. Only one was close…

The old man stepped forward. “It’s been too long, Santa Claus. Your time of power is ending, while mine quickly approaches. It will be a long year before you’re back at full power. So it is the informed opinion of us, a jury of your peers, that you spend that year being made to understand what you have stolen from us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ain’t it obvious?” Cupid asked. “We’re on strike.”

Santa looked at each of them, bouncing from face to face, his blood growing as cold as the snow he was still kneeling in. “What do you mean?”

“We each have a time of power. One day, for most of us. You seem to command an entire season–”

“YEAH!” the Turkey snapped.

The old man shot him a look, then looked back at Santa. “If you insist on creeping earlier and earlier, then perhaps this year you would like to know what it’s like to take on the responsibilities of those days you usurp.”

“You’re doing our jobs this year,” said the man in the necktie. “All of us.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the old man said. “We’ll be there to make sure you don’t ruin things too badly. But from now until next Christmas Eve, our responsibilities are officially being handed over to you.”

“This is madness,” Santa said.

“I’m sure you feel that way,” the old man said. “I’ll see you in a week, Santa.”

As he stared at the group, the Turkey vanished, followed shortly by the stick-man with the pumpkin head. The rest of them popped out one at a time.

“One week,” the old man said, fading.

Santa and Blinky, lying in the snow, looked at each other. “Santa? What do we—”

“Wait, wait! I’m haven’t made my dramatic exit yet!” The clown poked his head out from behind a tree, giggling.

“Who are you?” Santa asked.

The clown winked. “I’ll see you when I see you,” he said, vanishing.

“Santa?” Blinky said. “What do we do? Where are we?”

Santa pushed himself to his feet, brushing the snow from his knees. “I can’t get us home,” he said. “Not without the reindeer, not now. It’s Christmas morning, the gifts have been opened. My time of power is ending.”

“Then how do we get home?” Blinky said.

“I don’t know,” Santa said. “I don’t even know where we crashed.”

The two of them stumbled through the snow, going back in the direction they’d come from. As they passed the spot where the sleigh crashed, the patch of clover they’d collided with was gone, although Santa did notice a few shredded green leaves mixed in with the white. They walked for some time, close to an hour, before they crested a dune and saw a long, gray stretch of highway appear. Cars were zipping past, people travelling to spend the holiday with family and friends, while Santa and Blinky were cold and away from home.

“A sign,” Santa said. “Blinky, you’ve got those elf eyes. Can you read it?”

“Elf eyes?” Blinky said. “Where’d you get that from?”

Lord of the Rings. Why, is that not a thing?”

“No, no, it’s a thing. It’s just kind of a stereotype, that’s all.” He squinted and looked at the green sign at the edge of the highway.

“What does it say?”

“Rochester, New York, 60 miles,” he said.

Santa sighed. “Well, at least we know where we are.”

To be continued…

Dad Drain

Hey, all — a quick update. I certainly haven’t forgotten my vow to fill you all in on the tumultuous week of Eddie’s birth, and I’ve got every intention of talking about the ups and downs of parenting (for example, the fact that a loose nipple wound up soaking both the baby and myself in formula at 3 in the morning today.) However, as anyone who has ever had a newborn can certainly attest, those first weeks are draining. Erin and I have been about as tired as we’ve ever been, and even now that Eddie is sleeping a bit better overnight (a bit, I stress), between taking care of him and keeping up with the day job, I’ve been too pooped to pontificate lately. Fingers crossed that this will change soon, because heaven knows I’ve got an awful lot to talk about. In the meantime, all is well.

The Name Game

20170830_162250Our son, Edward Wallace, was born on August 30. But I’ve still got several “Dadding” blogs written during the pregnancy period. Before I get into the new stuff about active parenthood, I’m going to finish the saga that got us here. Including this post, which I wrote back in February, but that I wasn’t ready to share until now.

Name Game
(In which Erin and I prove that naming your child does not necessarily require an executive order)

Frankly, I don’t know why some people act like naming a child is a big deal. Erin and I did it over dinner. And that wasn’t even the purpose of the dinner, it just happened to come up in conversation while we were waiting for our Copeland’s King Cake Cheesecake (which we highly recommend, by the way). It was probably less than an hour from the time we started discussing it until we had settled on our choices. Already, we decided, we were amazing parents.

It’s odd — when it comes to choosing a title for a story I’ve written, I agonize for days, but naming a kid? No problem! Erin said I was the same way when it came to picking our wedding date. “I just said ‘When do you want to get married?’ and you said ‘How about June 14’?” she said. In fairness, though, once you settle questions of venue and availability, your actual wedding date doesn’t really matter all that much unless you’re choosing it for sentimental reasons, like the day you first met or Stan Lee’s birthday. Picking a name — that’s a more substantial decision.

When my sister was most recently pregnant, she chose a name in a very traditional way. She got a book (To Kill a Mockingbird, I think) and started highlighting all the names she liked, then she gave the book to her husband so he could do the same thing, then she grew increasingly frustrated as it became more and more apparent that he’d totally forgotten the book existed. She finally settled on her baby’s name when a time-traveler from the future appeared and begged her not to name him “Ethan.”

“Why? Will he become an evil dictator or something?”

“No. There are just way too many people named ‘Ethan’ 20 years from now.”

Despite the brevity of our conversation, I know that choosing a child’s name is significant. You’re setting the tenor for their entire life, after all. You don’t name a kid “Jarvis” unless you want to lock him into a future as a butler. “Bambi” has a 79 percent chance of becoming a stripper. Any Wu-Tang name will either land them in jail or on the Billboard charts, so you’re rolling the dice there. All I’m saying, though, is that once we eliminated names we definitely didn’t want, it wasn’t too hard.

The only real point of contention between us came when Erin suggested the name Patrick. It’s a fine name with a proud legacy and it wonderfully represents her family and her Irish heritage, and I would have been fine with it except for the fact that our last name is Petit, and there’s no way in hell I was going to send a kid to an American public school with the initials P.P. Erin said I was overreacting, I said she had too much faith in the goodness of children. She brought up Spider-Man, I pointed out that there may once have been a time when a child could be nicknamed “Beaver” with no repercussions, but today is not that day. She asked if my cousins Philip or Patricia ever had problems, I said that if they did, maybe they just didn’t want to talk to everybody about that time John Harris stole my hat and threw it in a urinal. She said I must have been majorly damaged in elementary school, and I had to concede she may have had a point there.

Any other objections I had were all teacher-based. Every teacher mentally keeps a list of the most obnoxiously frustrating students we ever teach, because we can never give one of our own children those names. It would be like giving a kid the name of your ex-boyfriend, except people are generally more forgiving if you tell them a name makes you want to put their face through a windshield if you say it’s an ex instead of a student.

Finally, again as a teacher, I insisted our kid have a name his or her future educators could pronounce. We’ve all heard of the twins named Lemonjello and Orangello, or the girl with the exquisite name “Ladasha” (spelled “La-a”). I cannot verify that these names ever really existed. Very likely, these children are apocryphal. I’m just saying, based on some of the names you people do give your children, I wouldn’t be surprised. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone named their child “Apocryphal Jones” because they read it in this post and thought it was pretty.

I’m just saying, speaking as a teacher, it’s really frustrating to have to guess what to call a child whose name looks like somebody spilled a bowl of Alpha-Bits just because their parents didn’t want them to have the same name as any other kid in the class. I have no problem believing someone would write “Phr3q’trwilli-HenryKissinger” on a birth certificate and say “But we pronounce it ‘Frank’.” Yeah, I know you like those designer names because they’re “unique.” Well I gotta tell you, naming a child “Adolph” in 2017 would be pretty unique too, but you ain’t finding that name on a novelty license plate at Six Flags either.

All that covered, we started to talk about names that didn’t make us wretch. The girl’s name — which I’m not going to share here because it’s still a little personal — took only mild deliberation. The boy name was easy. I’ve wanted to use my grandfather’s name, “Wallace,” as a middle name for a very long time. Erin wanted to use one of her father’s names, “Deen Edward.” Since her brother is also named “Deen,” I suggested taking her Dad’s middle name to avoid any confusion. Plus, I just liked how the name rolled off the tongue. Sure, “Edward Wallace” may sound like a hard-hitting news reporter from the 60s, but as the world is sorely lacking in those these days, it’s okay with me.

“Did we just pick our baby names?” she asked me.

“I think we did.”

“We are awesome at this.”

And then we high-fived.

While driving.

We still need to work on a few things.

You may have heard, Blake and Erin have a baby, so he hopes you’ll allow him to remind you he’s got a bunch of books and short stories for sale on Amazon, and suggest you follow his author’s page on Facebook.