Santas Everywhere
“That’s not the real Santa,” said my two-year-old daughter as we passed an inflated Kringle, pinioned to a front lawn, swaying in the light breeze. “That’s just a pretend Santa.”
“Totally fake,” I said.
This is our Year of Santa, in which she possesses the awareness to absorb and repeat back our most endearing communal falsehood. From Santa’s fabled home in the north to his magical capabilities, omniscience and rag-tag reindeer crew, we are all in on the Big Lie.
The results are undeniable. Santa excitement is sky high, with most conversations reverting to the topic, including numerous recountings of the night Santa’s elf stopped in to check the tree/chimney situation. Good behavior has remained stagnant but mentions of niceness have tripled.
“Santa’s gone come and bring lots. Of. Presents,” is the company line.
When she sees Santa, in any form, the delirious prospect of his arrival emerges anew. And, being a devoted father, I can’t help but encourage the excitement by pointing out Saints Nick whenever I see them.
“I see someone across the street,” I say, teasing out the thrill.
“Santa!” she cries with the same glee whether it’s a ragged lawn ornament or a ten-story tall monument.
Now I see the Santas that are everywhere. On lawns, in windows, in TV commercials I spot them. In print media and digital, they draw my gaze. I lurch to share with my daughter the Santas that haunt parking lots, movie theater lobbies, and pharmacies. “Another Santa,” I mutter, the only one in the car.
Santa is the perfect canvas for omnipresence, for he is, like the greatest characters, a contradiction: an honest illusionist; a cat burglar whose victims are also his accomplices; a completist who knows every child in his collection as if she were the only one. That he is everywhere at once — in many different forms — only feeds his legend, the rosy-cheeked Kaiser Soze of the holiday season.
He took on a fine form in the plush chair in the corner of our neighborhood toy store, with bells on his wrists, a real beard and a pauper’s air. Authentically shabby and generous with the lollipops, he cemented her conviction and became the one true Santa, or at least a fair competitor to the Santa who ambled up to the park unannounced for some impromptu child worship a few days prior. One does not replace the next — rather, they layer atop one another like geological strata.
The final act, of course, is to become Santa oneself. In the quiet after bedtime, when we’re still whispering because the little one is very likely still awake in her bed, the joy returns with the thrill of belief. To see Santa is one thing; to be Santa quite another. This first year of awareneness, I could hardly contain myself as I took in hand a bundle of jingle bells and stomped theatrically from the fireplace to the tree.
“Did you hear Santa last night?” I asked her on the big day.
“Yes, I did, daddy,” she said. “And Rudolph, too.”
