A not very merry interview with Mr. Claus

Originally published Nov. 25, 2012

As one of the top five reporters on the staff of the Lebanon Daily Record, I pretty much get the plum assignments around here. Any time a celebrity or politician passes through town, I'm on it like tinsel on a shag carpet.

So it's no surprise that I was able to wrangle the assignment from my boss when Santa Claus came to town Friday night. We had negotiated with his agent for an exclusive interview following his appearance at the LDR office during the Community Christmas Tree celebration.

For a couple hours, he sat there listening to kids' Christmas wishes. Once the last tot had teetered off with its parents, the jolly old fellow leaned back on his big chair and sighed tiredly.

I could tell when he asked Mrs. Claus to go start the car that he didn't intend to spend a lot of time on this interview.

I noticed a dark red spot on Santa's pants leg in the vicinity of his lap. Apparently a child hadn't been able to contain his or her excitement during the short visit. I wondered how many blissfully ignorant children had sat there after that little accident.

"Mr. Claus? Or may I call you Santa?" I began, introducing myself.

"Mr. Claus will do," he said, studying the framed newspaper awards on the wall of the conference room-turned-Santa chamber.

"Not seeing your name anywhere up there," he observed.

It seemed I had caught Santa in kind of a cranky mood.

I gestured toward the damp spot on his leg. "That happen a lot?"

"Enough that I wear rubber scuba pants underneath the suit," Santa said. "It's murderously hot in here. Don't you people ever leave a window open?"

I ignored that and got right down to my list of questions. Well, truthfully, I didn't have a list. I tend to wing it, often resulting in long pauses between questions during which I pretend to be writing something down.

"First off, your agent said you're the real deal, not one of the helper Santas," I said. "Do you have any way of proving it?"

Santa snorted in disdain. "Why should I? It's your article. You can look stupid by interviewing a helper Santa or claim I'm the real Santa and you got a scoop. It's bad enough having to constantly prove I exist without dealing with people who think I am an impostor."

He seemed to have anger issues.

I wondered if maybe Santa had been at this job a little too long. Too bad he can't retire, I thought, but his 401K probably got creamed like everybody else's in '08.

To settle the issue of his identity, I leapt at him and pulled at his beard. Santa screamed in pain and batted me to the floor with a white-gloved fist. I pulled myself up warily, rubbing my sore head.

Santa stood as if ready to stomp me with his shiny black boots.

"Sorry," I said. "Had to be sure."

"That didn't prove ANYTHING!" Santa thundered. "I could just be a regular guy with a white beard!" He took a step toward me and I backed away.

"Calm down," I said. "Hey, I'm sorry I pulled your beard. Really."

"Sorry doesn't cut it," Santa said, but his tone lost some of the rage, and he went back and collapsed into the chair again. "Man, this job gets to your back."

This interview was going better than the one with Gov. Nixon had.

"So," I said, "Why reindeer? What's up with that?"

"Horses don't fly, you idiot," Santa said.

"Good point," I said, pretending to write something down and trying to come up with a good question. "How long you been doing this Santa Claus gig?" I asked.

"Since about the 4th Century," Claus said.

"Long time," I commented. "How old are you?"

Santa looked exasperated. "I'll bring you a calculator next month," he said sarcastically.

"You know, you're portrayed a lot nicer in Hallmark movies," I said, sick of his attitude.

He grinned. "I spend a lot on PR," he said.

I nodded. Made sense.

"Hey, do you feel that bringing free gifts to children gives them a sense of entitlement that will hurt them in the long run by making it less likely they'll be willing to work to get the things they want in life?"

"No," Santa said. "I think kids like toys. You can over-think these things."

I pretended to write down something. "By the way," I said at length. "That Vertibird I got when I was 8 was totally cool. I played with that for weeks."

"Actually, that was supposed to be your sister 's," Santa said.

"You were getting the Easy-Bake Oven, but your dad switched them. That was the year you cussed at Vacation Bible School."

"Oh yeah," I remembered. "Stupid popsicle sticks and cheap stupid glue. I don't know how anybody builds anything out of that crap."

"Speaking of which, I flew over that house you and your wife are building in Falcon last year," Claus said. "I see you haven't changed much."

I let that - which might have been an insult - pass. "Speaking of Joyce, she said to tell you hi," I said.

A car horn honked. I looked outside the big windows of the newspaper office and saw a huge Chrysler Imperial, red of course, pulled up to the curb.

Mrs. Claus was shouting something we couldn't hear and gesturing.

"Gotta go," Claus said. "She's got to see her shows on the television or she's a bear to live with."

"I hear ya," I said, standing and shaking his hand. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Claus," I said.

"Likewise," he muttered, and left.