The Evening Before Christmas
by Philip Siddons


It was the evening before Christmas. The TV and the kid's radios were blaring, reminding us that despite the noise level in our home, the outside world was doing its best to make something of the holidays. The crocheted stockings with each of our names on them hung from a string over our new antique wood burning stove, which we dared not use because they want sixty dollars for ten feet of wood.

The children were squabbling from being over tired from staying out till three at parties, and this evening we couldn't tell whether they were fighting or trying to be heard above their music. So after consuming a number of pills proportionate with our ages, we settled in under our electric blanket, which I swear will someday electrocute us because our bed has been a wrestling mat for the kids.

I woke up around four, wondering if our neighbors were cutting down a tree in the front of their house with a chain saw. I went downstairs to the front hall to the window, and to my amazement I saw a figure getting off his Ski-doo, which he had managed to park right on the rose bed which I had painstakingly covered with plastic after considerable hounding from the "job jar."

The man, who was dressed in a Santa Claus coat and pants, had also managed to knock down a section of our front yard fence in his arrival.

"Must be some disoriented party-goer." I mumbled to myself. Next the door bell rang.

As I opened the door, in past me swished a man in his 60's, about 5'8", wiry, and in need of a shave. He was carrying two blue Sears bags.

"Where do you want these?" he said over his shoulder as if he was a long expected relative, several minutes late for a party already underway.

"Am I on Candid Camera?" I asked.

"Sure, if you want to believe it that way," he answered with a smile. "How about over there?" he asked as he stooped to put the bags in a corner by the Christmas tree, without waiting for an answer.

Wondering what would happen next, I asked him:

"Where's the little round belly that shakes like Jello or something? And what about the beard, the sleigh, and the trip down the chimney?" I asked, also wondering if this was an elaborate 20th century distraction scheme of two burglars.

He walked over to the coffee table and picked up the white candy dish, saying:

"I've been in weight watchers for two years, and now I'm on maintenance. Whatever you do, don't even tell me if you have chocolate chip cookies. I have no resistance.

As for the beard, the state unemployment office threatened to cut off my food stamps if I didn't make more of a clean cut effort to get a job. Oh yes, the sleigh." he paused. "That was abandoned since the S.P.C.A. got on my back about giving Rudolph martinis to make his nose red.

You know, I even had a stereo in it. Now its just collecting dust in my garage. Maybe it'll be worth something someday as an antique. And with most people not having fire places these days, I've gotten out of the practice of that trick.

Besides, when I come through the front door, I run less of a risk of getting arrested for breaking and entering. You know, I spent thirty days in the can in New jersey last year because I was a little too creative, and came through a bay window, sled and all.

Nice candy dish, Lenox I believe."

"That's right," I said, "it was a gift."

Plopping down on the couch he continued:

"Sure it was. Everything is a gift these days, isn't it? You go out and charge anything you want all year, and then in December you blatantly hint with specific sizes and colors, and pretend for one day a year that someone else really got it for you."

Somewhat taken back, I flopped down on an opposite chair, and asked:

"Well, how do you celebrate Christmas at your house?"

A look of surprise spread on the old man's face. "You're the first person who ever asked me that" he said slowly. "But to tell you the truth, we celebrate it in January, after all the nonsense is over with. We get out the book and read the story, drink a few eggnogs, and sing happy birthday. Simple, but nice."

"You look a little tired, Santa." I said with some concern. "I bet going to all those homes really wears you out. How do you do it?" I asked.

"Well, fortunately your house is the last one on my route," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Pausing to look down at the coffee table, he said: "Are you sure I didn't bring that Lenox candy dish two years ago?" he asked as he held the dish.

"Nope!" I said. "I remember my dentist gave me that because I've given the office so much business."

"Oh well, I must be thinking of someone else. I get things confused, you know. I keep saying that someday I'm going to learn how to work one of these computers I keep delivering to keep my inventory straight, but I just don't discipline myself. Oh by the way, you got one this year."

"How many deliveries do you make?" I asked to keep the conversation going.

He strolled over to the front door and for the first time I saw his brown loafers sticking out from under the white puff, that was haphazardly sewn around the bottom of his worn red trousers.

"It used to be millions," he replied, "but now, with so few believing anymore, its down to around 378. I suspect you'll drop off one of these days too."

Somewhat embarrassed, I defended:

"Well what would you expect? With all those guys dressed up like you, in fact, better than you, working for the Salvation Army and on TV, anyone is bound to figure it out."

"Figure what out?" he said with a laughing smile.

"Figure out that you can't be everywhere, in all those places at the same time" I replied more confidently.

"Can't seem to fool anyone these days," he said. "Why just three hours ago, I almost got killed by a little impy genius who sent a 220 volt robot after me."

As he put on his rather worn brown gloves, he went on.

"With inflation and all that, I'd be lucky if there is even a handful of deliveries next year."

"Did you ever think of going into a different line of work?" I inquired.

"Always wanted to be a preacher" he said.

"A preacher?" I responded in utter amazement.

"Yes," he replied with a renewed grin. "But people don't believe them either. They talk about what Christmas is really about, but everyone is too busy to listen."

After a pause he continued, as if lost in his own thoughts:

"Maybe I'll try being a quarterback next year. Now there's someone people take seriously."

"Now wait a minute" I said. "You said you and your wife celebrate Christmas in January, singing happy birth, and all that?"

"That's right," he said with interest in his face.

"Well, how about me and the rest of the family coming over in January and celebrating it with you folks. We could bring some diet candy and our vintage eggnog that is always a success."

"Sure," he said. "That would be swell" he continued as he scribbled his address on the back of a Christmas card. But before I could get a chance to say anything else, he said: "See ya than," and was through the door.

I bounded up the stairway and down the hall into our bedroom, and with one leap, I landed on our bed in a cross-legged position, shaking my still sleeping wife. She turned over slowly, like a large bin full of raffle tickets settling for the last time. As she painfully raised her eyelids to see what the new day demanded of her, I said enthusiastically:

"Guess where we're going to celebrate Christmas next January?"
~~~

-------
Author's note: Philip Siddons is an editor of NETWEAVER who
proves repeatedly that some people who write about technology
are poets too.