I grew up under the impression that Santa was from the North Pole, not the Accounting Office of a shipping supplies company. I also thought Santa smelled like candy canes, not Abercrombie & Fitch cologne.
I was 12 years old. Most kids my age no longer believed in Santa Claus, but my instincts told me otherwise. It was Christmas Eve, I was dressed warmly in my cotton Superman pajamas with Velcro cape, and I had just tucked myself beneath my sheets and tried to try to fall asleep.
Before I could dance with sugarplums, I heard a clatter. I leapt from my bed to see what the hell happened. I tiptoed down the stairs, curled myself around the wall and peeked into the living room.
It was Santa.
Jolly St. Nick was in my living room. He was dressed in a bright red suit with white fur along the edges. He was slimmer than I had imagined, but he still held that warm Christmas cheer that had filled my heart for years. The smell of freshly baked cookies lingered with the scent of trendy, cheap cologne.
A million thoughts raced through my head: Do I say something? Can I really meet Santa? Is that cookie smell just the Yankee Candle on the table?
Mr. Kringle was crouched below the tree moving and shifting gifts about. My mother suddenly entered from the kitchen. I was worried Santa would be caught and the magic would end, until I noticed her holding a glass of milk. She was dressed like she was ready to grind the North Pole. Santa stood and faced her; she slowly poured the milk down the front of her erotic elf costume. My eyes were telling me something different now.
I scanned for mistletoe so I could justify why they started kissing so passionately, but alas, none was hung above them. My mother started giggling and mentioned a Yule log, but we didn’t have a fireplace. She then latched his strap-on beard securely in her teeth, exposing his 5 o’clock shadow.
I uncurled from the corner and pressed myself against the wall. I tried to form an explanation for what I was witnessing, but I fell short. Suddenly I heard a commotion of jingling bells. I slowly returned to my peeking stance.
There was Santa disrobed in red and white striped suspenders and an undershirt. His red coat was hanging off the coffee table as if it was tossed in a fit of Christmas joy. The candy cane stockings my mom had bought at Kohl’s for her office Christmas party were scrunched down one leg with the rest sweeping across the floor.
I peered back over at Santa and realized it was her co-worker friend, Brad Nordberg. Brad sold my mom’s company their office and shipping supplies. He was closer in age to me than he was to my mom and there he was, dressed as Santa Claus and riding my mother like she was Blitzen.
As I ran back upstairs to my room, I caught myself in the hall mirror. I stopped and gazed at my reflection. The “S” on the chest of my pajamas was glowing from the hallway nightlight. I knew what I had to do.
I opened the window in my room and pulled off the outside lights that framed my bedroom window. I coiled them around my elbow and shoulder, forming a perfect circle. I hung the lights around my shoulder and bent down under my bed. I found the secret box where I kept my fireworks that snapped when you threw them at the ground. I grabbed a handful and went back down the steps.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs. I knelt to the floor and tied a circle in the lights to construct a lasso. I stood facing the living room and watched my mother grip onto tree branches so tightly that ornaments and pine needles shook off and littered the floor.
I took the bombs I had in my hand a hurled them over my head at the man who was shoving his partridge in my mother’s pear tree. As they fell like snowflake mortars and popped all over the floor, Brad got disoriented. I then tossed my light lasso at the tree. It looped around the top, and I pulled it as hard as I could, making the tree come crashing down on top of them.
I knew I couldn’t be standing there when they got out from under the fallen tree, so I turned and ran up the stairs to my room, my red cape soaring behind me in the midnight air. I jumped into bed, pulled the sheets over my head and tried to fall asleep.
From that Christmas on, I’ve always had a bad taste in my mouth about that song “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” I did see my mom kiss Santa Fraud — who turned out to be Brad fucking Nordberg in a $20 Santa suit he bought off Amazon.
To this day my dad walks around whistling that song and joking about how funny it would be if I woke up and saw it. I glare at my mother every time and she glares back at me, knowing I had something to do with 1998’s Christmas catastrophe.
That’s right mom – you kiss Santa again, and I’ll deck his balls with boughs of fury.
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So does your father not read your work or is this your way of finally telling him that your Mom likes to role-play with salesmen?