Springdale's Santa Claus
                              by Homer Pheeder
                      Copyright 1994-2000 by Dave Laird 

Twas the night before Christmas and through all the land there was great
hunger, and the greed symbiosis which lives off it as our nation constantly
teeters on war of one kind or another. There are families starving and
homeless on the same streets where diamond trinkets are sold. Santa Clauses
wearing foppish beards and meagerly disguised rental suits appease mothers
and coddle children while merchants, vowing a deep and abiding love for all
mankind, nervously watch their wares through hidden mirrors, lest someone
steal them blind. 

Nothing seems noticeably out of place anywhere, including Springdale, yet
everyone is facing Christmas this year with the same skepticism with which
they reserve for the Fuller Brush man. It is doubly difficult to nurture the
spirit Christmas impoverished town with three politically aware bars, two
churches that are unaware of anything and a host of political and social
groups that each distrust and malign everyone who doesn't belong to their
clique. 

Even the plastic Santas adorning every street light in Springdale already
seems delighted that their part in the macabre farce Christmas is nearly
done for yet another year as their grins sag sadly in the frigid winter air.

Freddy the Logger screeches halt front of the Reservation Tavern, narrowly
missing a reeling pedestrian who had just been evicted from the Tavern.
Usually, Freddie would have leaned out the truck window and rendered a
tersely lurid description of the poor drunk's immediate family tree for
nearly getting run over. To my astonishment, he instead climbed slowly out
of the truck,watching the man stagger on down the street to the next tavern,
smiled broadly and yelled after him, "Have a Merry Christmas!" before going
into the tavern for his customary evening's beer. 

Down on the corner, Joe Red Dog and his wife, Tercella, were about to begin
yet another in a series of amateur boxing contests after afternoon marked
drinking copious amount of whiskey in the Winkin Blinkin & Nod Lounge. As
they walked past me, I saw a subtle change come over Joe's face. Gently
putting his arm around his wife, he said softly, "Tercella, I am sorry. We
both have had too much whiskey, and besides it's Christmas Eve. Let's go
home." As they staggered over to Joe's dilapidated farm truck, he slipped
his arm slowly around Tercella's ample waist, and to amazement, having been
witness to several of their marathon brawls in the past, kissed her softly
on the cheek.

"What the hell is this?" muttered into the night. "Have all the drunks in
Springdale pulled the plug on their realities?" 

I heard a distinct chuckle from up above me somewhere, and peering up in the
black night, I could just make out the outline of an odd-looking old man,
sitting on top of a street light pole. Much to my bewildered eyes he
appeared, swinging quickly down from his perch to land beside me as I
nervously watched Joe Red Dog and Tercella slowly weave their truck up the
street.

"Hiya Homer!" he said with a hearty grin. "Merry Christmas to ya." The
stranger was an odd fellow, all dirty and stout. His pants had a huge,
jagged tear on one leg, his hair untrimmed, much like some of the hill folk
that live west of town. He sported a black eyepatch and his beard, like some
I have seen, appeared full of yesterday's lunch. 

"Pardon me," said hesitantly, with every ounce of bravado I could muster,"
but where the hell do I know YOU from?" 

The stranger let back his head, and laughed so loudly that the windows down
the street at the Grange rattled in their casements. As fast as he had
loosed the roaring, tumbling unrepentant laughter, he stopped, and looking
me seriously, eye to eye, and said, "I'm Springdale's Santa Claus. I know
everyone." 

Omigod. My first thought was that, with all the pressure of Christmas hype
this guy has come unscrewed. Suddenly my home and my easy chair by the wood
stove seemed dearer to me than all the sights and sounds of Christmas Eve
anywhere in the world. wondered,somewhere down deep within myself, if I
would survive to see yet another Christmas. 

"Okay," I ventured, diplomatically. "So you're Santa Claus. So where do I
know you from, and what were you doing up there on a lamp post?" 

The old man laughed and laughed, and, holding his finger aside his nose,
rose lightly up in the air, to resume his seat atop the lamppost, but
bounced back down within a few seconds only rejoin me, once again. My heart
pounded, blood raced through its tiny courses, as I considered what had just
seen. 

"Ho! Ho! Ha!" Santa laughed, not sounding that different from any Santa I
had ever heard. "I am Springdale's very own Santa Claus, and that is why I
know you, Homer Pheeder. I am actually Springdale's angel and was just
appointed to this town, since nobody ever wanted the job." He cleared his
voice a minute, then whispered in a sly way, "I actually have never been a
Santa before. Usually they use me as an elf, but that's damned boring,
sitting around all day SMILING and making toys. Why," he said, looking up
and down the street in a manner equally conspiratorial to match his voice,
"Look at all the damned fun I can have just making people happy in this
town." 

My immediate thought was that I must have missed a turn coming into downtown
Springdale, and somehow turned off at the funny farm. Here I was, talking to
a gypsy that thinks he's Santa Claus, the entire time freezing my feet and
hands to the bone record-breaking winter chill. I should be in one of the
taverns taking mental notes about the denizens this burg at Christmas, not
taking up residency with loony that has a fetish for sitting on lightpoles.

"So what do you want with me?" I asked impatiently. Tricks or no tricks, I
wanted to get to the bottom of this and get back whatever reality I had left
behind. "Springdale has never had an angel of its own, no more than it has
had a Santa Claus. Sure, Fred Bowdish plays Santa over at the Grange every
year, but he doesn't fool anyone. He eats so much garlic for his heart, that
practically everyone knows him by smell." 

"This old world goin' to hell in a handbasket, and it's up to everyone to
stop it, Santa said gently admonishing me, shaking a dirty finger in front
of my nose. "Christmas is a good example. One day year most people walk
around smiling and helping each other out. The rest of the year they go back
to being nasty old bastards, cheating and lying and hateful..because
Christmas is over and their excuse to love one another is gone for another
year." 

"That's the way it's always been," I said, adding, "Nothing you or I do will
ever stop that, either." "Nonsense. The world is falling to pieces, but
everyone is looking at everyone else for solutions. It is up to you and I."

With that, putting his finger aside his nose again, he rose up into the air
once more, only this time to disappear entirely. Seconds later heard the
distinct sound of tiny bells ringing overhead,and far off the distance, I
heard someone say, "Merry Christmas to you, Homer, and to all a good night."

It is late in Springdale, now. All the taverns are closed, their windows,
staring like blank eyes into an unknown, passionless future. The giant fir
trees that stand their sentinel watches over the town nod softly to one
another as a late night breeze stirs the frigid air. 

The Springdale Town Marshall rides slowly down the main street, listening
voices in the night from Spokane and Colville that speak of crime, agony and
of death itself. Finally, as the Marshall goes home, the Town Springdale
sighs in its sleep, turns over on its side, with clatter of empty beer cans,
and resumes its slumber. 

I admit I didn't like Christmas one damned bit this year. The artifice and
greed that have come symbolize Christmas almost more disturbing to than the
thought that this may be, itself, a harbinger of war. However, from where I
sit, here on Springdale Hill watching my town sleep, the thought that my
futile fingers on the keyboard could effect this needed change seems almost
ludicrous. 

But I guess Santa has a point. If everyone worked at it, maybe we could have
Christmas all year, minus the trappings. That doesn't sound like such a bad
idea. From up on my perch above Springdale, sitting alone in the night, I
hope your Christmas will last into next year, and into the years thereafter.
Pray for peace. 

Homer Pheeder 
Co-Sysop 
The Used Kharma Lot BBS 
Springdale, Washington