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by Little Billy Postlethwaite
It all became clear during my visit with Santa at the mall last Thursday. On the way there, Mom told me that I’d been afraid of him as a baby and had wet myself while sitting on his lap. Now I'm eight years old, and it was kind of a surprise when I saw Santa last week and he still smelled like wee wee.
I wondered why he didn’t make the elves do some laundry for him once in awhile, and that’s when I figured out who Santa really was. He doesn’t live at the North Pole at all! Jolly old Saint Nick spends most of his time between Christmas Eves hanging around the downtown library. I’ve seen him lots of times.
Earlier this month, I was in the “Young Readers” section counting the Nancy Drew books I’d already read and looking for something I could read for extra credit before the holidays, and it was really quiet, and then I heard a noise like a zipper being pulled down on the next aisle, and then Johnny Nash from over on Cumberland Drive came running out crying and waving his hands. He said, “Make it go away, make it go away,” and then the security guard came over and went down that aisle and came out with that guy I didn’t know then was Santa.
Johnny kept crying for a long time, but I laughed and laughed at the funny dance the guard and Saint Nick did on their way outside to play. The librarians must have known he was Santa, because they only talked about him in whispers and a weird code. When I got home, I asked Mommy what “takes a dump in the parking deck elevator” meant, but she wouldn’t tell me. I guess she’s in on the secret, too.
Anyway, right after I got a whiff of Santa at the mall last Thursday, I guessed his secret identity. Of course, I told him about it right away, and then he told me that he couldn’t bring me any presents because I knew who he really was, and it made me really sad, but then he said he could bend the rules if he only had a magic five-dollar bill. I still had my allowance, ‘cause I wanted to buy something for Mom for Christmas while I was at the mall, and guess what? It was the exact magic money Santa needed! He could tell, ‘cause it said “U.S. Treasury” on it.
We’re going back to the library on Saturday to return some books, and I'm going to take some cookies and milk and leave them in the parking deck elevator for Santa. I know he spends a lot of time there, because it smells just like his red suit.
POSTSCRIPT FROM EDITOR – Little Billy’s a lucky boy. One day, his parents will tell him the truth about Santa, even though the toy manufacturers and merchants and their advertising people don’t want them to. No, indeed; the toy manufacturers and merchants and their advertising people want Little Billy to believe in Santa forever and to keep devoting lots and lots of time, devotion and money, especially money, to the whole Santa thing. Then one day, the toy manufacturers and merchants and their advertising people can change their titles to “archbishop,” “bishop” and “priest” of Santa and wear silk garments through clouds of incense to the bank forever and ever and ever, because that, historically, is what happens whenever people are childish enough to keep on believing in a Santa-like character even when he smells more than a little like wee wee.