Even when you fake it, Christmas stays real

By Ivan Morgan

The stupid legs wouldn’t go over my boots, so I’m leaning against the fire truck trying to yank them on. My then 20-year-old daughter is keeping a lookout, so the little ones don’t see Santa getting dressed.
This actually happened to me a quarter century ago.

I’m in the Portugal Cove Fire Hall. Upstairs the St. Philips Beavers are having their annual Christmas party, which will culminate in a visit from Guess Who.

Now I’m learning that the Santa suit is snug around the middle. Too chubby for a Santa suit? Terrific. I hear my daughter snicker as she goes out to check the hall again. The belt certainly isn’t going to fit. Swell. On goes the beard. I’m getting a disturbing musty odour that makes me think of all the greasy faces that this mass of tangled, stained rayon has been strung across before mine. Pheeewww.

Is it time yet? No. I sit on the running board of the fire truck in my fousty, tight Santa suit. Upstairs they are playing some sort of rowdy game. You can hear the rumbling of lots of little feet.

My lookout’s gone. So here I sit alone, a shabby Santa among the firetrucks in a cold empty fire hall on a snowy Tuesday night in the Cove. Noise on the stairs. They’re ready. Strangely, I’m a little nervous. Up the stairs into the room and . . .

I go in waving and doing my best Ho-Ho-Ho. The grown-ups make great fanfare at my arrival. I am led to a chair. Everyone sits around me in a semi-circle – the parents smiling, the children suddenly strangely quiet. One by one little ones are brought over to sit in my lap. I keep the Ho-Ho-Ho thing going. That’s the gig. Truth be told the whole thing’s a little overwhelming. The kids look at you awestruck – they are totally enthralled in your presence. I Ho-Ho-Ho while quietly freaking out.

Then in the background I heard a man’s heavy feet coming up the stairs. Then I hear a man’s voice ask a question. All I hear are the words, “blue Jetta.”
I own a blue Jetta.

Santa asks a small lad, “Have you been a good boy?”

I think I hear another person say, “Oh my God. It’s Santa’s car!”

The little boy looks up at me in total wonderment. “Yes, Santa,” he said in an almost breathless whisper. His little back was trembling. Santa chuckles warmly while quietly freaking out.
My car! My car!

I’m trying to hear what’s going on by the door.

Santa tells the little one he’s been a good boy, and Santa is going to bring him something nice. Little arms snake tight around Santa’s neck. The hug of a true believer. Another little girl is brought forward. I can tell she’s nervous.

Santa says in a warm deep voice, “Now now, you don’t have to worry about Santa.” Santa thinks, “What’s happened to my car?”

I need my car! I’m the single parent of four who lives 15 kilometres out of town. It’s two weeks before Christmas. Santa desperately scans the room trying to make eye contact with another adult. They’re all over by the window pointing and talking.

Santa leans gently forward. He calls the child by name. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you, my little one?” he chuckles. Her eyes change through fear into delight. No. She’s not afraid now. Up onto the knee. There we go. Santa wrestles with a well of panic rising in his chest.

I look up into the lovely blue eyes of one of Santa’s helpers. Doing my best Santa voice, I ask, “Is there some sort of problem outside, my dear? Ho-Ho-Ho.”

I will never forget the look on her face. “Oh Santa…” she said with a weak smile. “I’m so sorry.”
My car.

Here’s what Santa didn’t do. Santa didn’t jump up screaming, “Holy S%t! My F&*%#@# car!” and run out of the Hall. Santa should have. Instead for the next 20 minutes I live a double life. On the outside, the jolly old elf himself. Inside… my car! MY CAR!

Then we are done. With a cheery wave and one last Ho-Ho-Ho I am down the stairs, out of the suit and out the door faster than the real Santa soars up the chimney.
Oh my car, my car, my car.

The driver of the truck that struck my parked car seems shaken. We stand looking at the considerable damage. Then, as he goes to get his insurance information from his truck, through the big wet snowflakes, I hear a little voice come through the crisp winter night.

“It was him, Dad. I knows when it’s a fake Santa. He was the real one. I knows it.”

Ivan Morgan can be reached at ivan.morgan@gmail.com