Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... BEEP... BEEP... BEEP... BE-THUD!
The small, black plastic, alarm clock had been fighting this battle for well over an hour now, and so far it was losing. Every nine minutes the chirping would begin anew, one piercing beep after another, starting out barely audible and slowly rising in pitch and tenor until it reached earsplitting volume before being unceremoniously silenced. This ritual repeated itself countless times, each attempt trying with futility to rouse those nearby from their slumber, only to be greeted coldly with the heavy slap of a leathery hand on the big red button labeled SNOOZE. Glowing LED lights illuminated the dimly lit room, a red hue splaying the time across the glossy finished wooden top of an antique nightstand. It was 7:46 a.m.. A calender hangs loosely on the back of the maple door, adorned brightly with red X’s marking the days gone by, 23 of them on this page. A bright red circle is drawn around the 25th box, but one empty space, today’s date, remains ominously unmarked before it: December 24th. Christmas Eve.
In just over 16 hours, kids throughout the world would be lying in bed, pretending to be asleep, listening for sleigh bells. They would pull the covers over their head and imagine reindeer on the rooftops and Old Saint Nick coming down the chimney, filling their stockings with treats and leaving parcels under the tree. It had been this way for as long as they could remember. The next morning the cookies would be half eaten, the milk drank, and the carrot left for Rudolph would be gone, presumably fueling the magical flight to the neighbors and beyond. Most importantly, there would be presents. Wonderful, magical, joyous presents with shiny wrapping and big red bows. The night was torturous: Every creek of an old house’s floorboard sounded like sleigh landing on the tile roof, and every time those young eyes peered at the clock on their bedside it seemed as if time had become trapped in suspended animation, like some trickster constantly moved the hands backwards each time a tired eye closed. Some children would be brave enough to sneak down the stairs to the living room and watch the fireplace with anticipation, waiting patiently for that perfect moment that lived inside of them as only a dream, when Santa Claus would descend into their hearth and pull treasures from his sack. But tonight, they would not catch a glimpse of Santa, because on this particular Christmas Eve, Santa Clause was sleeping through his alarm clock.
Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... BEEP... BEEP... BEEP... BE-THUD!
“Nick, its time to get up!” shouted Mrs. Claus, with frustration from the kitchen, where a pot of coffee sits brewing on the stove, and hot pancakes smolder on the griddle iron. Usually the smell of maple syrup was enough to rouse her husband from his slumber, but today, nothing was working. She had tried all of her normal subtle tricks: delicious breakfast aroma's of coffee and sugar; Jingle Bells blaring loudly over the kitchen radio; open bedroom windows that let the crisp North Pole air blow an icy breeze through the house. None of it was working today.
“Today of all days,” she muttered to herself, as she poured a glass of water. “This should do the trick.”
The past few years had been difficult on the Claus family. The recession in America had hit everyone hard, including the first family of Christmas. In Washington D.C., Congress was too busy fighting about a debt ceiling debate, a representative phallic photo shoot, and other trivial things to pay any attention to yuletide politics. The Santa’s Workshop Bill had not been renewed, the government funding and subsidies that the Claus’ had enjoyed for decades had quite suddenly all dried up. The North Pole was quickly running out of money, and making matters worse, the elves were not happy. The first thing Santa did was freeze elf pay: No one got a raise, and no one was hired. There was some grumbling in the workshop but things carried on mostly as normal. Toys were made, carols were sung, and the naughty or nice list was double checked--twice. When the eggnog and cookie station budget was slashed, things began to get more hostile. There was growing tension at the Pole: The elves began threatening to unionize and strike, to ruin Christmas! It was only through a very heated, sugar cookie aided, negotiation that Mrs. Claus had managed to satiate the workers for one more Christmas season. She knew that after the presents had all been delivered she was again going to have a crisis on her hands, the tenuous agreement with the elves was only good until December 26th, but that was not important today. Today she needed her grumpy husband to get out of bed and make Christmas magic happen, and so far her persuasive tactics had fallen short; a glass of icy North Pole water was needed.
Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... BEEP... BEEP... BE-SPLASH!
“HOLY MISTLETOE, THAT’S COLD! WHAT IN THE NAME OF RUDOLPH! I’M AWAKE GOSH DARN-IT, I’M AWAKE!”
“You’ve been hitting the snooze button for hours, dear. Its Christmas Eve, you don’t want to be late for the children, do you Nikolaus?”
“No, no, of course not.... but did you have to wake me up like that?”
“I tried everything else, darling, you’ve been refusing to get out of bed for hours now. This poor alarm clock has been working overtime. I bet even the elves in the workshop could hear you beating its snooze button every 10 minutes.”
“Oh, what’s it even matter anyway, damn kids are so jaded today. Hardly any of them believe in me anymore.”
“That’s not true, Nikolaus, and you know it’s not. They still believe in you. They just need a little reminding now and then.”
“Reindeer-shit! They don’t even sing carols anymore, not one of them decorates a gingerbread house! Most of them think their parents leave the presents under the tree. Can you believe that?! Whats the point?”
Mrs. Claus furrowed her brow and let out a long sigh. She was worried. Her husband had had bouts of melancholy before but he had never sounded as disillusioned with the holidays as he did this morning. The state of the world was deeply troubling him. Christmas cheer was at an all time low, and it was eating away at her husband like a parasite.
“Whats a Claus to do,” she asked herself as her husband plodded his way into the bathroom and began drying the icy water from his once white beard.
The grey hair was new this year, it had come along with the fiscal issues, as well as a smaller waist line, a longer face, sullen eyes, and a noticeable reduction in jolly. It had been a troubling year in the North Pole, no doubt, a year that had turned white beards gray, and Santa’s Christmas cheer into Christmas sneer, but today, more than any day, her husband had to put on his jolly face and get through it. The children needed him.
“I made your favorite breakfast,” she called into the bathroom, “eggnog pancakes with maple syrup!”
There was no reply. This was serious.
The life of a North Pole wife was never easy. There were the regular things: Cooking and cleaning, doing laundry (Four loads a week: Whites, reds, reds, and more reds), taking care of the house. Lately however, it seemed as though Mrs. Claus’ duties had multiplied, and the weight on her shoulders had become increasingly more burdensome. There was a tenuous agreement she had brokered between Santa and the Elves, which had seen the head elf and Santa practically stop speaking to each other except when absolutely necessary, forcing Mrs. Claus to become an unwilling intermediary for workshop correspondence. She had taken to taking more care than normal for things that were usually her husbands job: the naughty or nice list, sleigh maintenance, and feeding Rudolph. Worse of all, perhaps, was dealing with her increasingly bitter husband. His attitude had worsened with the Dow Jones, and while the declining amount of letters from children hadn’t phased him at first, it was starting to wear on his soul. Mrs. Claus had to do something, she had to save Christmas, and she had a plan.
When Santa emerged from his shower he was looking a bit more like himself. He had donned his traditional Christmas robe that Mrs. Claus had meticulously cleaned, ironed, and set out for him the night before. While his beard still showed a hint of gray, the white was beginning to glisten and a renewed twinkle in his eye was almost visible. Despite the difficulties of recent years, he was still in love with the holiday spirit. Today was his day, and even though he may have started out sluggish, he was determined to make the best of it. After all, it is Christmas.
Before him at the breakfast table laid a holiday feast. Brown fluffy eggnog pancakes topped with blueberries, whipped cream and sprinkles; crisp fried bacon; perfectly cooked sausage; lightly scrambled eggs with melted cheese; apple cider, coffee, and milk; maple syrup, sugar, and cream. Everything a man could ask for before the longest work day of the year, but despite the smorgasbord Santa’s eyes fixed immediately on something else at his sitting. On his plate sat a white envelope, small and sealed clumsily, with sloppy blue crayon handwriting on the front. ‘SANTA’, it read. Intrigued, Santa took his butter knife and slid it into the top of the envelope, separating the fold from the body and removing a wrinkled hand scribbled note.
“Deer Santa,” it read. “I know u dint come to my hous last xmas but may be you can come this yeer. my brother needs a new hart because hes sick. my dad needs a job to make muny for are famlie. my friends say u arn’t reel but i know u are. plees Santa.”
The letter was signed in crayon in big block letters: “SOPHIE”.
Santa put the letter down on the table, finished his breakfast, and set out. There was much to do! The reindeer must be prepared, the lists checked, toys bagged and stowed. He had a renewed vigor. This child, Sophie, this altruistic little child that wanted nothing for Christmas except help for her family, not presents, not skateboards or Barbies, just health and a family to spend the holidays with. This child had given Santa hope; that children out there did still believe, and that they still needed him. He must assemble, he must prepare! There was Christmas magic to be spread.
Santa flew with great haste to his workshop, and he rallied his elves, he laughed a guttural laugh and he ho ho ho’d. He told everyone who would hear him that he had been reminded by a child of the meaning of Christmas; of hope, and joy, and children's dreams. He went to his stable and petted his fleet, he climbed aboard his Sleigh and set out of his flight.
“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! and, Vixen!” he roared.
“On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!”
Mrs. Claus watched her husband snap the reins and smiled. She gave him a wave and Santa looked back at her, a massive smile on his face.
“Merry Christmas to all!” he yelled, as the Sleigh sped out of the stable and into the night. Christmas was saved. Little boys and girls everywhere would wake up tomorrow with presents under the tree, treats in their stockings, and warmth in their heart.
Walking back into her North Pole home, Mrs. Claus stopped and smiled, staring out at the North Pole skyline, her husband long gone in the distance to make his rounds. She was a proud woman on that night. It wasn’t easy being Mrs. Claus, but it was a job she took great pride in, and sometimes, it pays you back, like a night like this one, where you get to save Christmas. Now, she had to start preparing the Christmas day feast for when her husband returned, but first she had to put a blue crayon back in its box and return it to the elves workshop.
