Let's not pussyfoot around it: I don't like this time of the year. The Christmas spirit is not in me, and I can tell you right now that it's not due to religious or political reasons. I'll drink the eggnog, I can enjoy the company of some relatives, and the music is kind of nice, but just don't ask me to be festive. You might just chalk it up to pessimism, you who would presume to know so well the nature of my soul, but no. I hope it doesn't offend you that I actually happen to have a past, and that a particular Christmastime several years ago happened to suck.
It was three in the morning on the night before Christmas. I was naked. I was also in the shower, in an attempt to wash off a month's worth of encrusted filth. It was working, but only with extreme effort and diligence; this I gladly gave for two reasons. First, for myself: not for my own hygiene yet still for my own well being. For my relatives were coming to visit the next day, or, if I were to consider it to be the next day already, in a matter of hours. They didn't like me. They made it clear that they didn't like me, and my lapse in presentability wouldn't make things any better. My immediate family didn't mind such things too much, but all of the other relatives would laugh and call me names, and they'd send me off to the corner while they played 'Pictionary' or 'Jenga' or 'Poker' or whatnot.
But that's beside the point. I was not terribly offended by what some of my more obscure and angry relatives had to say. No, they would be gone by the end of the day. What did bother me, and what was the second and more important reason for my being up and doing strange, unfamiliar things at that hour, was what my parents said to me. I was of an age when I supposed to be "mature," when I was to abandon such "childish" notions as the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. Oh, but I knew. I knew they were out there, that he was out there, somewhere. Wherever he was, it was cold, and he was watching, laughing, and writing down my mistakes; judging me. And he owed me for years of really lame presents.
I had a score to settle.
It was then that I heard the commotion above me. It was a tremendous thumping sound, made only worse by my being in the upstairs bathroom, and loud enough to be as animals mating on the roof. It was then that I knew it had begun. Knowing I had to hurry, I wrapped a towel around myself and hurtled down the stairs, three and four steps at a time. I came into the living room just in time to see a dark, bulky figure skulking around near the fireplace, followed by another bulky figure. Moonlight poured in through the large front window, but that seemed to do little to illuminate what I knew to be my target. I felt around on the wall beside me for the light switch. When I finally found it I wished I hadn't.
It was still the same rotund type of Santa shape, to be sure. Yet the standard red uniform was black. What at first appeared to be soot from the chimney was in fact just the fabric itself. Indeed, the jolly old elf was all Gothed out. Various sharp objects were embedded in his coat and pants. Paperclips, safety pins, nails, and Fordian "whip inflation now" buttons dangled from all angles. One pant leg was wrapped entirely in duct tape. I noticed a few neat, white braids in his otherwise tangled and dyed-gray beard. His pipe seemed to have been replaced with a large cigar. Too many years of getting cynical, sarcastic letters from cynical, sarcastic children must have pissed him off something awful. My gaze drifted to what had been the other bulky figure. It was a bit of a relief to see the familiar Santa toy sack slung over his shoulder; though dyed black the bag still appeared to contain the same annual, squarish, wrapped packages. Yet that was part of the problem.
While I was taking in the scene, Santa had turned to look at who had intruded upon his work. I decided to address him.
"So we meet at last. Drop the sack, old man." He complied, but with an ironic and strange air of defiance. He threw the bag through the air; it landed at my feet. I immediately set to the task of tearing open the packages. As expected, there was nothing but wooden soldiers, wooden dolls, wooden toy rifles, and wooden "to be assembled" rocking horses. Wooden. The best presents were made of plastic and/or electronic components. Santa was lagging behind the times by perhaps more than a century. It didn't seem possible. He must have been distributing inferior, old-fashioned crap toys out of spite and bitterness.
I looked up at him in time to see him reach into his beard and pull out a whistle. He blew into it long and hard; the piercing noise rang throughout the house and most likely the neighborhood. I covered my ears, but to no avail. It was then that the window shattered. I didn't think that kind of thing actually happened except for on television. Then I saw the real cause: a reindeer had leapt through the glass. It skidded across the floor, stopping squarely between me and Santa.
Santa's face began to grow red. It grew red as a cherry, then still more red like the flames of Hades. "Now, Blitzen!" He roared. The reindeer reared up and kicked at the air. I reached for one of the wooden toy rifles with which I could defend myself; perhaps I could swing it as a bat. But I was just a lad, and I stood no chance against the greater powers at work there, and thus, I crumpled to the floor with a hoofprint in my forehead. Through cloudy vision I saw Santa pull a revolver out of his coat pocket. From somewhere far away I heard him yell the words, "Time for a ho-ho-holocaust."
A shot rang out. An eternity passed. I was still very clearly alive. Turning my head, I saw my grandfather standing with smoking pistol in hand. Santa's firearm had fallen to the floor. Grandfather stared at him with narrowed eyes. "I thought I told you not to come around here anymore." Santa reached down for the gun, and grandfather fired three more times. Yet the bullets merely bounced off of Santa's colossal girth, leaving it to jiggle like a bowl full of jelly. The round one looked down at the vibration and paused, as if considering whether or not to retaliate.
He decided against it, and instead made a dash for his sack, then for the chimney. He whirled around and yelled, "You bitches just made my naughty list. See you next year!" He shot us the bird, then, and laid the finger aside of his nose; he yelled some more curses as he rose up the chimney, just before grandfather fired a few more rounds into the fireplace. Blitzen promptly took his leave through the remains of the window. A few moments later a flaming bag broke right through the center of the living room ceiling. That jerk gave me used coal for Christmas.
I understood, then, why my parents no longer approved of my belief in Santa Claus. They knew about him long before I had to learn the hard lesson for myself. I had felt some resentment towards him before because of some lousy presents, but I could never have been prepared for the true, horrible reality: this was not the eighteenth century's jolly Santa Claus. Oh no; how the times had changed. I came to appreciate his superior fashion sense, but that hardly made up for his character. The guy was a dick. He stole all of our silverware, his damn coal burnt nearly half of the living room carpet to cinders, and we had to spend hours cleaning reindeer excrement out of what was left of it. Maybe if we stopped believing, if we pretended he didn't exist, he would just leave us alone. I felt dirty after that whole affair. I decided to finish my shower, only to discover that I had left it running, so of course all of the hot, warm, lukewarm, and cold water had run out, leaving only freezing cold semi-icicles.
That was a few years ago, and thankfully Santa hasn't come back. The hoof print on my skull gradually faded. The memories did not. I stopped writing him letters after that. Maybe someday I'll work up the nerve to write him some hate mail. Until then I prefer to keep a low profile when it comes to holiday cheer, so that I don't somehow lure him back. So please excuse me if I always seem just a little bitter around the holidays.