I can still hear wounded Santa cursing and swinging a red bamboo stick at shadows in the dark. He was an unlikely hero, a bruised saint, a twisted fantasy. He was not what any child expects at Christmas, which means he was perfect.
Today there are meek mall Santa?s who smile warmly and listen carefully to every child?’s wish. They sit on plywood thrones surrounded by tufted cotton snow, cookie cutter sets and stuffed animals. Elves with digital cameras manage them and their young visitors. Parents seek them out like sages from nostalgic memories. Clock-punching Santa?s are polished, well-mannered and politically-correct. They are company men. They take the list, check it twice, pose for the shot, wipe off the vomit and urine and move on down the line. Corporate Santa is smokeless, bourbonless, drugless and probably has a postgraduate degree (considering the economy). It was not always this way.
I recall a Christmas in the early 1960?s when Santa showed up at my grandparent’s house with an attitude, yelling “?ho, ho, ho” and things only adults would understand as he ripped out the window beside our fireplace, leaving a gaping hole in the wall where my peering face looked into the cold, South Alabama night.
Bubba Santa had an agenda and worked for free. He would never have been hired by a department store, not even the one run by Mr. Limenhoffer who was an angry bachelor. Unhirable Santa’s charity was endless but his patience was not. He was a crude character and could get surly if provoked. While visiting homes randomly, he left – among other things – toys which were not on anyone’?s wish list. He had a round face and a big beer belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of chili, salt pork and collards. He might kick down a door or toss his gift through a window. He was Batman Santa and Joker Santa combined into Coen Brothers Santa. Laying a finger aside his nose, a lugie the size of a cow cud he would blow. We loved Lugie Santa.
Rumors ?of Unbalanced Santa swirled around the small town.? I asked J.C. Penny Santa what he knew about the dark-side the jolly old elf. J.C. Santa didn?t speak highly of Vigilante Santa. His lack of a full endorsement broke with the code.
“?Don?t be giving that Santa no list,”? said J.C. Santa. ?”He?’s not bonified. He’?s a dangerous sort. He?’s no Santa.? He is a vagrant terror.”
Perhaps, perhaps not, but Renegade Santa was the real deal to a rural, Southern boy in the 1960′s who saw rules as lines in which to color outside. It was not hard to see why Stumpjumper Santa would scare Goodie-Two-Boots Santas. WhupAss Santa carved his own crusty niche in a traditional, vanilla Santa world. Coca-Cola ad men turned Santa into the modern icon we know know as St. Nick. Our Santa was the Coca-Cola version with a Jack D. chaser and might leave a well-chewed plug of Bull Of The Woods in your floor.
He carried his ?”North Pole”? (a six-foot length of bamboo painted red and white like a candy cane) to dissuade dogs and parents from attempting to detour his appointed rounds. His fake beard, homemade red suit and mufflerless Oldsmobile – known as the Dread Sled? – added to his mysterious anti-Santa-ism. He was far beyond the company payroll. He was Freelance Santa, Tony Soprano Santa, Paroled Santa. He had his own list and never checked it. Not once.
His reputation fell somewhere between Jesus and Satan. He was crude, cursed loudly, drank too much and did not care if the kids were black or white. He was just as likely to get into a fight with the people at the home where he was delivering gifts as he was to eat their cookies and drink their milk, beer, liquor, wine, Sterno and aftershave. He peed on my cousin’s Christmas tree and ran over my uncle’s scuppernong vine. Some parents feared him. Preachers warned of his yearly trek. A teacher told me to hide if ?”that Sick Santa? came to my house.” His reputation meant that he was the only Santa that mattered.
We had just settled under twelve quilts for a warm winter?’s nap when I heard the Dread Sled coming down the road on Christmas Eve. The motor was loud and he had Jerry Lee Lewis cranked up as high as the Delco would go. My grandfather heard it too. I could never tell if Shlitz Santa and Grandpaw were friends but they were certainly business associates.
The dogs started howling. My grandfather?’s face creased into a smile. Christmas had begun.
?”He’?s here,”? said the old man as he pulled on his coat, sweat-stained hat and brogan boots, slipping out the back door. I grabbed a quilt and stood at the front window and waited. It didn?t wait long.
A loud altercation occurred in the side yard. Dogs. Yelling. Thuds slammed the wall and the trees. There was laughing and crying and coughing. Something smacked like a 2×4 hitting a ham.
“?There you go!”? I was not sure whose voice groaned that line. It was a tight fight.
Ripping! Laughter. Gnashing of teeth. Barking, A protracted burp shook the floor. I saw a dog run, tail tucked and growling. A bucket flew through the air, then a brick.
I saw him briefly. He wore no Santa suit, but a redish-brown flack jacket and military boots. His fake beard was backward’s on his melon-sized head, like a mullet. He ran through the yard, a red blur followed by a grandfather blur. Around the corner came an aching sound like nails being pried out of old wood that didn’t want to give them up.
That is when the window beside the fireplace blew out into the back yard. Santa had pulled the window out of the wall with his bare hands. He landed on his back under splintered wood, twisted screen and broken glass. I heard kicking sounds and grunts in the dark. Cold air rushed in through the hole and with it a paper grocery bag that landed on the floor, disgorging its contents – a model airplane, still in the box, shrink-wrapped in cellophane with the price sticker in the corner, a baseball bounced off the table and into the fireplace, a single wooden drumstick and a gimme cap with a Massey Ferguson logo rolled across the uneven planks. A can of Schlitz careened off my grandmother’?s sewing machine cabinet. I rescued the burning baseball and examined the gifts. None were on my wish list.
My grandfather came back into the house, looked at the window and shook his head, mumbling things that could hardly be considered good tidings of great joy until he saw the dented Schlitz. In his left hand he carried a crooked, broken, bamboo stick painted red. His cheek was swollen and his bottom lip was bleeding. He grinned, picking up the beer and slipping the can into his overalls pocket.
“?What did you get?”? he asked in a tone that indicated everything was perfectly normal.
I held up the cooked baseball. He took it from me and rubbed his calloused fingers around the warm leather and baked stitches.
“?Still a good ball,”? he said. “?Let?’s give it a workout in the morning.?”
I heard my grandmother?’s voice from the kitchen, “?Fix the window.”?
My parents arrived to the wonder of the moment and surveyed the aftermath of Santa’?s visit.
“?Whose Oldsmobile is that out on the road?”? asked my dad. “The thing is packed floor to ceiling with merchandise.”
“?Sandy Claws,”? grunted my grandfather, grinning and raising an eyebrow toward the gaping hole where the window used to be.
?”Smells like burning cowhide in here,”? said my dad.
“?Baseball,”? I said. Grandpaw held up the smoked orb.
My parents looked confused but my grandfather and I knew exactly what had happened.
Out in the dark, a deep wailing cut through the frosty cold. Gogs barking pierced the air like canine hammers. I never heard Santa yell, “?Merry Christmas!”? He yelled something that sounded like Noel, but was most likely, “No! Hell!” The dogs could be nasty.
An Oldsmobile cranked, backfired and chugged down the road, dogs chasing it all the way to the wooden bridge. Jerry Lee banged his piano off into the silence.
Robin Hood Santa was no friend of the local merchants association as his gifts probably came gratis from their shelves without their knowledge. He was, however a real-life, flesh and blood Santa. He gave everything away and was willing to fight you to bring it. In the South of that era, he was a conflicted moralist. The parents of rich children went to great lengths to further the Santa ruse every year. For us, however, we had to contend with Maniac Santa who lived up to his reputation in ways that would scare Bing Crosby and Burl Ives. He was never arrested, however, and no one ever dropped the dime on him.
One Christmas, Santa did not come anymore. A few months later, my grandfather died as well. Upon a visit to the cemetery to replace the flowers on my grandfather’?s grave, I noticed a small, decorated Christmas tree at the edge of the cemetery. Glittering tinsel attracted me to the tiny tombstone. Red bows and ornaments covered the grave. A badly-wrapped gift sat, splattered and soiled in the red clay. A toy horse and a red fire engine were parked next to the gift. A red and white painted bamboo cane pole leaned against the new headstone. There was no name etched into the granite, but the birth date read: September 20, 1897. Look it up.
That? is when I started believing in Santa Claus.
