Santa's Last Stand

The year he resumed gift delivery, Santa was shot down by an F-111 fighter plane. He saw the missile coming and knew he couldn't evade it. The reindeer bucked and brayed and threw howling fits, and both sleigh and beasts went into a dive after the missile's impact. Since magic, though now undeniably diminished, was on his side, Santa's sleigh was not destroyed by the blast, but he crashed hard into the Canadian tundra, and his sleigh was rendered inoperable. The reindeer, dusted in snow, gathered in a misshapen circle and hung their heads in dismay. They knew the score--shot down before visiting one house. The situation seemed hopeless.

Santa had been watching the pilots since infanthood--Gus Rodriguez from San Antonio, Texas, Jimmy Seevant from Brooklyn, New York--and, though he had been on hiatus during their childhood, knew that he would've put presents under their trees, the little troublemakers, as he had done for most children. Gus, who couldn't help himself when it came to firecrackers and armadillos, and Jimmy, who never saw a street fight he didn't start. Until age seven, both of them believed in a Santa who didn't actually bring their gifts. After someone stopped believing, whether or not Santa was active, the belief could never be restored.

For the world's children, Santa had always overlooked youthful transgressions and put something under the tree as long as they believed in him. It was the holiday's promise of hope. For hundreds of years, he was the deliverer of hope and the fulfiller of dreams and wishes.

That ended in 1951, when Santa quit. That year was the other time he had been shot down. Television, advanced weaponry, swelling paranoia--he saw the coming trend. The world's population was growing exponentially. He could handle that. But the new technologies, and the new ways of thinking that accompanied them, had squeezed him and his magic out. He had embraced a cynical thought he had never known--let the people of the world get their own gifts. And he refused the wishes of Bertram Wingberry, his former elfin Chief Officer of Toy Weaponry and Combat, who, in a letter written to Santa once a year, stated he should've made the holiday more Lethal Weapon than Miracle on 34th Street by fitting the sleigh with a guided missile system. On Donner, on Busey, on Glover and Gibson, he wrote. This was not what Christmas was about, Santa thought. It's better I bowed out, left the world alone.

In the snow, Santa tried to encourage his reindeer. The night's still young, he said. Somehow, we'll get airborne again. Hope is on our side.

But how? After Santa nixed Christmas, the elves quit. They had nowhere to go, and ever since have wandered the world hiding in shadows. They couldn't bear Santa's abandonment of the world and left. It was just the reindeer and Santa now, alone in the cold night. Neither reindeer nor Santa, unlike the elves, was a sleigh mechanic.

Restarting Christmas giving was a venture that welcomed failure. There were many questions. Since Santa had been gone so long, parents had been buying their children toys--what would he do about gifts already under trees? He could enter homes without notice, but seemingly couldn't fly without being tracked on radar--how would he counteract that? He knew that his magical abilities were diminishing--how would he adapt? And since the elves were gone, how was he going to build all those toys?

Despite the questions, Santa decided this year was the time to return. From the North Pole, he had watched the world the last fifty-eight years. It had become an unforgiving place, especially for children. In the last few years, the deterioration has accelerated. The world--the children--needed hope once again.

So, he worked feverishly making toys himself, deciding not to worry about the rest, and, on Christmas Eve, suited up and hopped in the sleigh. It felt great. The cold air washing his cheeks, the stars painting the night sky in twinkling white light. He could already taste milk and cookies, the warmth of lived-in homes. He had been thinking of stockings embroidered with children's names when he heard the sear of the missile approaching.

On the ground, Santa saw Gus and Jimmy returning for the kill. The reindeer scurried behind him, as he stood firm, red clothed belly extended toward Asia. There was still hope, he thought, as the plane, like an angry shark, moved feverishly closer. There's always hope.

Christmas in Latvia

Argo Kingsland didn’t count on being stuck in traffic in the Baltics on Christmas Eve. The cab driver told him, traffic in Riga was always bad but on Christmas Eve, everyone plays then prays. The cab smelled like cheeseburgers. The driver spoke Latvian, his head bouncing up and down, into a squawking radio. The car's stereo played a throbbing techno version of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," sung in Russian.

He was trying to return to his hotel to call his brother Tim in Baltimore, where it was close to 5:00 in the afternoon. The sun just setting, Tim, his wife and two girls were probably just finishing dinner, readying to have dessert and hot chocolate, watch a Christmas movie. All decked out in red and green, sweaters with tree and reindeer patterns, posing for a Norman Rockwell painting entitled simply, "Family Christmas." Firm-footed Tim waiting for world-wandering Argo to call was not part of this picture. The phone call would be a disruption, jarring the scene and its participants loose. Argo's Christmas scene would have a name too long, be painted by Picasso in a "Guernica" state of mind, colored in browns and grays, installed in a circular gallery where its end would just fall short of meeting its start.

He told the driver he could just walk. The driver said, no, you don't want to walk. Pickpockets, even on Christmas. The car would roll a few feet to a squeaky stop then roll again.

Riga was domes and spires. Barren trees, snow-covered parks. New skyscrapers competing with churches in touching heaven.

Last year it was Paris. Previous years were Portland, Berlin, Tokyo. This year, he thought he’d go some place completely off the mark, so he went with Latvia. The dream of world traveling—he had fulfilled it. But with each passing year, he felt more and more that he was just spinning—going everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Revellers dancing between stopped cars, singing Christmas carols. They weaved through traffic, disappeared into churches and apartments. Church bells rang in the distance.

The song in the cab, just as it seemed to end, started again. The perpetual carol, with a dance beat. The cab seemed to have become stationary. Maybe, Argo thought, he had died and gone to hell.

"Somehow," Argo said. "Christmas ends up like this. A traffic jam. In a foreign country."

"Never where you want to be," the driver said, turning his head. His eyes were wide whites, beard patchy, skin doughy—Argo figured he was probably in his mid-forties. "Yes, I know this feeling. My brother watches my little girl while I drive. Dead mama—God rest her soul—gone papa, yet she still believes in Santa Claus. When I get home I will kiss her on the cheek, move her hair off her face while she sleeps. Tomorrow we will have Christmas for a few hours."

"Sounds familiar," Argo said. He had no children but only his nieces. Right now, they were probably counting the minutes until Christmas, bouncing up and down at the thought of the bounty that would await them under the tree. "You, me—we seem to be everywhere but home, hanging stockings and sitting by the fire. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?"

"I don’t know,” the driver said, his right hand in the air as his left clutched the steering wheel. “I don't have a fireplace anyway."

Argo smiled, felt his pockets for a cigarette. Nothing. He smoked his last one an hour ago. The driver reached back, handed him one.

"Eggnog?" The driver held up a metal thermos with a thick-fingered hand. "Strong and bold, fuel for a Baltic winter!"

“Sounds good. I could use a stiff drink.”

He poured Argo some in a paper cup. It was harsh with vodka, had mere hints of cinnamon and nutmeg. The driver appeared to be drinking an innocuous soda out of a can.

"Just look around you." The driver turned around and faced Argo. "Snow on the ground, red brake lights, Christmas songs. I'm here, my family is there, but Christmas--it's all around us. Wherever you are, I say."

The driver answered a radio call, his voice re-descending into Latvian.

Argo looked ahead. A stick-like clock advertising chocolates indicated it was past midnight. He'd crawled into Christmas.

The song morphed into a slow, ethereal version of "Joy to the World." His cigarette and drink vanished. The traffic, though, was the same song.

He thought about Tim and his family, their Rockwell painting life. He closed his eyes and saw himself slipping into the picture. Wrapped and ribboned gifts surrounding him. Kids climbing on Uncle Argo’s lap. Tim handing him a glass of eggnog, a plate of snowflake cookies. Christmas songs playing on the stereo.

Maybe next year.

But now, here was Christmas. Imperfect as it was. He opened his eyes. All around. Wherever you are.