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"Fear of the Fat Man’s Gaze"
by Greg Wright
I looked up at her with my pants around my ankles in the snow. Randy was oblivious, fussing with his zipper, but when he did notice her, he’d be shocked too. I could explain everything. But Randy told me not to tell anyone anything. Mrs. Nelson would never understand us anyway.
Guilt. Shame. Fear. I was paralyzed. My eyelids pressed down hard, horrible visions danced in my head: shouting guards, flames, the whole, twisted plot holding us in its iron grip. I remembered the beginning, when it all started so innocently.
Randy and I were rehearsing for the second grade Christmas play. We were backstage when he ran to me, his shoes on the wrong feet, his older brothers having lied to him, saying that this would make his legs strong. The shoes aside, it was hard to take him seriously in a bathrobe and angel wings. Randy was more anxious than usual. He was a nutty kid – probably why we were such good friends – and grew up to be an equally nutty adult. He darted over to me, wings flapping. He had terrible news.
"Tom," he burst, spluttering, "listen: somebody told me there’s no Santa Claus."
Preposterous! This was another of his bizarre fantasies, and I wasn’t about to get sucked into it. I had to go onstage as a wise man, I had no time to talk. "Oh yeah, Randy? You’re such a duh-duh head. Who’s the guy in the big red suit?" I rolled my wise man’s eyes with my hands on my hips, my mother’s mannerism.
"That’s what I mean!" He said, flapping like mad. "Who is he? If there’s no Santa, who’s pretendin’ to be him?"
My skepticism kicked in, demanding a credible source. "Who told you there’s no such thing as Santa?" I asked, adjusting my chest of fake gold.
Randy’s eyes darted furtively. "I promised not to tell. But I think it’s true."
He explained the blasphemous logic behind Santa’s nonexistence. Hmm, it would be hard to make toys for every kid in the whole world, especially with wooden tools. And how could Santa be ring a bell on a corner while he was taking requests at the mall? Randy’s words wormed their diseased way into me. My doubts rose. I felt queasy.
"There is too such a thing as Santa Claus!" I cried.
"Nuh-uh."
"Yeah-huh. Even big people know about him."
"One person couldn’t do all that, Tom," said Randy. He was just warming up. His halo crackled with white-hot electricity. "Maybe Santa’s a whole bunch of guys."
My mind reeled. "Why would people pretend to be Santa?"
Because maybe, just maybe, that whole jolly old elf story was just a load of red and green crap. Maybe it wasn’t about being naughty or nice, maybe they were spying on us. Maybe it was a covert international espionage ring. Where were they hiding? The most brilliant place possible: out in the open. As Randy explained the lie I’d lived all my life, cold sweat poured down from my wise man’s turban.
"But big people believe it too," I tried to counter. "Adults know about Santa."
Randy strained to keep his voice down. "Maybe some parents believe ... and maybe some just pretend." Of course! One half dupes the other. What Randy said had frightful implications. This Santa Claus conspiracy wasn’t just for kids, it was global.
"But I met Santa. I sat on his lap."
"You sat on someone’s lap, but you don’t know whose."
My flesh crawled. I’d sat on some creep’s lap! I wanted to shower, I felt so dirty.
"Wise men, we need you." The other kings shuffled onstage.
"So what do we do?" I asked. Randy had to have a plan. He wouldn’t have come to me without a plan ready.
"I don’t know," he said. "Uhh, we need to alert the kids. Then we stop Santa!" This wasn’t the precisely developed plan I was hoping for, but it was a start. "But don’t tell any adults because they might be on the wrong side..."
"Now we sing … Wait, where’s my third king?"
"I gotta go, Randy."
"No," he said, "Wait! We need to tell all these kids."
"What’re you talking about?"
"After we get backup, we’ll go to the mall and figure out who Santa is."
"Who’s the wise guy? Tommy? Tommy, come on! We’re wasting time!"
"How can I get to the mall?"
"Go with your mom or something..."
"Talk to me at recess. I’m late!"
"Tommy! Out here now!"
Hiking up my robe up, I scurried onto the stage, fumbling with the gold. My fake beard made my face itch. The choir belted out "We Three Kings" painfully off-key. I heaved a relieved sigh at narrowly escaping trouble. I never suspected that a veritable Yule log of punishment would soon crash down on my head.
As my pulse slowed its tempo, I heard an avenging angel’s voice behind me with a message for the hearts and minds of all mankind. "Wake up, kids! There is no Santa Claus! Help fight the Red Menace!" I also heard the fake tree fall, its bulbs shattering.
Randy didn’t get to go to recess.
Since I didn’t talk to Randy again that day (we sat on opposite ends of the room), I eventually forgot about battling the Santa cartel. The propaganda machine reclaimed its hold on my short attention span. The comfort of routine returned.
Holiday shoppers frantically clogged the mall’s arteries as my mom bargain-hunted. I was dragged along, reluctant and bored. Scouring the mall nonstop on my sacred Saturday free time made my head and feet hurt. We headed for the car at last.
"Oh, Tomtom! Wanna sit on Santa’s lap? You’re not too big, are you?"
Calling me "Tomtom" was annoyingly appropriate as my pulse pounded a staccato war march in my ears. Horror shot through me. My mother was handing me over to some evil minion. Randy’s words burned in my skull. If I refused, she’d get suspicious. Mom couldn’t find out there was no Santa Clause. The shock could kill her.
Dully, I shook my head yes. Sure, bring on the white-bearded demon! Put me right on the fat pervert’s lap. I’ll tell him I want a football or some such crap.
"You okay?" my poor, deluded mother asked. "You don’t look so good."
Shouts echoed from Santa’s Village, where a sudden flurry of activity erupted. The mall shook as spooked overweight shoppers stampeded away. What were they fleeing? A flaming arc shot from the fray. I watched in mute awe as it crashed nearby. It was Rudolph’s shriveling plastic head. Flames licked his antlers, his eyelids winking as they melted down his grinning face. In a flash, mom hoisted me up and sprinted for the car. I bounced under her arm, hypnotized by the blackening reindeer head.
There are many accounts of what happened. Even the newspaper reported it, featuring pictures of the remains of Santa’s Village. Here’s what I’ve pieced together.
Basically, Randy came to the mall and all hell broke loose. When his mother invited him to visit Santa, Randy saw the opportunity for confrontation. According to Randy, when Saint Nick asked "What do you want for Christmas, little boy?" Randy responded "Your head on a plate, fat man." I doubt Randy’s credibility, but I did confirm that Randy yanked off the guy’s beard and shouted "Look, everyone, he’s a fake! This isn’t Santa Claus!" Then Randy smashed his knee into the impostor’s crotch.
The crowd was stunned as Randy leapt over the workshop’s fence. With stunning accuracy, Randy began kicking the happy, plastic heads off the elves, shouting for support with his insurrection. Most of the children just wept. A few nearby teenagers, though, were ready for destruction and loved that some kid was smashing the North Pole. They dove in, too, and punted animatronic woodland creatures into the nearby crowd. The mall security tried to contain the situation, but since rent-a-cops are the sworn enemies of all mallrats, the fight was resoundingly bitter.
In retaliation, the angry youths set the fake snow on fire. They unleashed their full teenage angst, heaving fiery shrapnel in all directions. Parents flew from the wreakage, some leaving their children behind. While the security guards waited for backup, the teens escaped into the smoke.
Luckily for Randy, none of the guards connected him with the riot. Randy’s parents, however, grounded him for several months. News of Randy’s failed North Pole coup shot through the rumor mill, and my parents told me not to play with him. Randy was branded a "bad kid," a damning judgment. Although Randy was blacklisted, my peace of mind was restored. Only a "bad kid" would tell lies about Santa.
On Monday, I returned to school, brainwashed back into the Santa conspiracy. Doubting Thomas returned to the flock. Randy passed me a note: "THEIR AFTER ME. SANTAS WATCHING ME. HELP!" Not falling for more ungrammatical "bad kid" treachery, I crumpled the note. At recess, he was harder to ignore.
"Everybody’s watchin’ me, Tom. They all know."
Pretending not to hear him, I balled up snow for a snowman.
"Don’t you see? They’re gonna get me. Even our teacher, Mrs. Nelson!" Oblivious, I built up my snow playmate. "We scared ’em, though." We? I rolled the ball bigger. "Yeah, the mall battle worked, but we need more help." He angrily kicked my snowball. "Listen! You’re as bad as them!"
"I’m not bad! You’re the bad kid!" I screamed.
Randy staggered backward, sliding to his butt in the slush, physically knocked back by my accusation. Everyone had abandoned him. Even I had dubbed him a "bad kid." Tears welled in his eyes, no doubt stinging in the December wind.
"You’re on their side?" he whimpered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Seeing my friend so pained, with a soggy behind, I relented. I wanted to believe in Santa’s goodness, but looking at Randy’s tortured face, I just couldn’t. No kind-hearted old man could do this to a boy. It all seemed strange: a fat man stalks kids to see who lives up to his standards, breaks into their houses at night with presents, and eats their cookies. The idea of an undercover spy ring seemed much more likely. The presents were bribery to hide the truth. No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus.
Succumbing to his theory, I pulled Randy up and gave him a hug. Before I let go, he began explaining his next plan to me.
Because nothing had been connected to me so far, I had a clean record. None of the agents would be watching me any closer than normal. As Randy openly headed the resistance, he was under much closer scrutiny. And since we didn’t know who the agents were, we had to assume that anyone could be in on the Santa cabal. Our plan was to create a diversion, and buy Randy some time without surveillance. Once the pressure was off, Randy would lie low and piece together who’d been tailing him. I was the plan’s decoy. Our strategy was not as complex as we might have liked. We planned to switch clothes during recess and run in opposite directions.
To hide from the agents, Randy and I darted behind the equipment shed to make our plans. Then, Randy unbuttoned his shirt, shivering in the frosty air. "What? We’re changing already?" I asked. Randy whispered that we had to move fast.
I was as far as pulling down my pants when Mrs. Nelson caught up with us. Nothing stood between my nakedness and her except flimsy rocket ship underwear. She saw Randy fumbling with his fly, muttering "Quick, before someone sees." Two kids in their underwear hiding behind the shed in the snow. Mrs. Nelson got the wrong idea.
"You boys know what you did is wrong, right?" the principal asked us.
"I’m not saying a word to you. And if Tom does, I’ll kill him."
Our parents were astounded at our behavior when they arrived. They agreed with the staff that after Winter Break, Randy and I should see a counselor twice a week after school. Randy screamed that they were all in on it, that their plan was mind control. My parents were more confused than angry. But I was even more confused than they were. The principal never even said why we were in trouble! Our underpants weren’t dirty, we weren’t hurting anyone! Randy was right, the school had to be in on it! I was even more determined to expose Santa as a fraud.
On Christmas Eve, Randy called from "an undisclosed location." His new plan was to sneak behind the couch late at night and catch the secret agents in the act. Loyal to our cause, I promised to confront the pseudo-Santa at my house too. I had a net ready in the chimney, but Dad probably burned it when he built a fire soon after.
In a rare team parenting move, both my parents tucked me in that night. I immediately faked snoring. Once alone, I sat and kept repeating "I must stay awake. The world’s at stake. I must stay awake..." After maybe ten minutes, maybe fifteen, despite the pressures to create revolution, I was out like a light.
I jerked awake. What was that noise? I heard a crash and muffled swearing. Gasp! The F-word! Santa’s evil toady had a potty mouth! Maybe my net worked after all. I snuck quietly down the hall with a blanket to contain the vile intruder. I didn’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t the size of my bedspread. I hadn’t planned that far.
Fighting the urge to pee, I crept behind the Christmas tree. My feety pajamas clung with sweat as I peered at the dark figure. Now or never! I jumped out screaming anti-Santa rhetoric, and heaved the blanket with all my might. It wafted down around the giant’s feet. I stared in horror. It was my father! Even he was in on it!
My courage faltered. I was truly alone. My own parents had betrayed me. Overwhelmed, I slumped to the ground. Forget saving the world, I was busy crying.
My mother rushed downstairs, arms open to the crying child beneath the tree. Runners of snot slid out my nose as I explained how I tried to catch Santa’s helper. Blubbering, I told them of spies and conspiracies. I revealed sensitive information. I didn’t even care. My whole life I’d slept down the hall from conspirators.
Still confused, we all had a long talk, my father laughing with relief at what he thought was the restoration of his son’s masculinity. "Hah! You’re not in the closet, you’re Claus-trophobic! Get it? Hah!" Mom and I rolled our eyes, hands on our hips.
They explained Santa Claus, how parents use him to spoil their kids. What a fool I’d been! Santa’s one of those things people pretend to believe in, but know isn’t real, like fairies or dragons or millionaires. A smile of sweet relief split my red, tear-wet face.
I slept so soundly that night.
As soon as I could, I ran to Randy’s house with the glad tidings. When I arrived, he was in his treehouse in his pajamas, his older brothers having locked him out. I gave him my coat. Immediately, I blurted the good news: "Randy! Guess what – you’re right, there’s no such thing as Santa! But guess what else – there’s no spies either!"
"If you’re lying ... if I find out you’re a double agent, I’ll kick you in the crotch."
I dismissed the threat. After a hurried explanation of the Santa situation, I saw some of the tension melt out of Randy’s wild eyes. He then confessed that the idea of Santa espionage came from his older brothers, embellished only by his paranoid imagination. Despite the icy-cold air, we felt warm, secure, and relieved.
Finally calm, we talked about what we got for Christmas. I said how my parents called the principal that morning to sort things out. We weren’t in trouble and didn’t need to visit the counselor. If it weren’t for the mild frostbite, we’d have been elated.
"Don’t it feel good," I said, resting my head on my hands, "not to be scared of Santa?" For once, Randy didn’t have an edgy reply. He just smiled and nodded.
Our moment of peace was sort-lived. Randy’s brothers attacked us with iceballs. We fled into his house, wet, shivering, and miserable. But Randy’s mom made us hot cocoa, so everything seemed worth it after all.
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