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RETURN OF MAD SANTA
By Al Sarrantonio
The whole mess began on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was in the sleigh shed talking with Shmitzy, my chief mechanic, about some minor problems he’d been having with the front-runners of the sleigh. Shmitzy’s a little guy—about two-and-a-half feet tall, a good foot shorter than me—a solid, reliable elf with a grease-stained beard. The sleigh sat polished and clean in the center of the room, and Shmitzy was leaning against it with his arms folded, throwing unintelligible technical terms at me. I’d just gotten him to tell me in English what the heck was wrong with the sleigh when the doors to the shed burst open and Santa Claus bounded into the room.
“Gustav! Shmitzy!” Santa boomed. “How are my favorite helpers?” He was fat and pink, his beard fluffed, his eyes twinkling. He leaned over, patted our backs playfully, and brought his rosy cheeks down close to our faces.
I gave him the thumbs-up sign and rapped my knuckles on the side of the sleigh. “A-okay, Santa. Everything’s right on schedule, and Shmitzy tells me he’ll have this boat ready to roll by tonight.”
“Good, boys! Good!” Santa threw back his head and gave us a hearty “Ho ho ho!” I was sick of that laugh—it usually started to get to me around this time of year, though I have to admit I’d have walked off a cliff for Santa, annoying laugh or no—but I gave him a big smile anyway. He patted us gently again.
“See you later, boys! I just came by to see how things were coming along. I’m supposed to be helping Momma with her baking for dinner tonight.” His eyes sparkled. “Special cakes for everybody! Ho ho ho!”
I winced, then quickly gave him a grin and the thumbs-up sign as he turned to leave.
And then a strange thing happened. He was halfway out the door when he suddenly froze in mid-step. He stood locked like that for a few seconds. Then, just as suddenly, he unfroze. He turned back to us with a strange, confused look on his face.
“Boys,” he said. But then he shrugged. “Oh, never mind. It was nothing.” He turned and took another step.
Again he froze. Shmitzy and I started toward him to see if he was all right. All of a sudden, he gave an ear-piercing roar and spun around, plucking Shmitzy up off the floor beside me and tossing him through the air. Shmitzy gave a yell and sailed like a shot put about thirty feet, hitting the floor in the corner of the shed with a groan.
Santa turned to me, his hands reaching for my neck. There was a horrible look on his face—his eyes bulged whitely from their sockets, and he was beet red above his beard. “Gustav,” he said, his voice a cold growl.
He opened his mouth in a gaping cartoon grin, grasped my neck with his white-gloved hands, began to squeeze…and then suddenly returned to his old self. It was like someone had flicked a switch. He dropped his hands and looked at me, completely mystified.
“Gustav, what happened?”
I was shaking like a belly dancer, but I managed to open my mouth. “I don’t know, Santa. You…didn’t look so good for a minute.”
There was an expression of helplessness on his normally jolly face. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said. He turned to Shmitzy, who was sitting on the floor across the room, touching his head tenderly. “I’m sorry, Shmitzy. I…just don’t know what happened.”
I took Santa gently by the arm. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Why don’t you go back to the house and lie down. Have Momma fix you something hot to drink. The rush must be getting to you.”
He brightened a bit and let me lead him to the door. “Yes, I suppose I should. Now that I think of it, Momma has seemed a bit irritable today, also.” He paused, trying to think of something. “And I remember something…a long time ago…”
“Well, don’t you worry about it, Santa. Go in and take it easy. You’ve been working too hard.” I smiled and patted his arm, nudging him in
By Al Sarrantonio
The whole mess began on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was in the sleigh shed talking with Shmitzy, my chief mechanic, about some minor problems he’d been having with the front-runners of the sleigh. Shmitzy’s a little guy—about two-and-a-half feet tall, a good foot shorter than me—a solid, reliable elf with a grease-stained beard. The sleigh sat polished and clean in the center of the room, and Shmitzy was leaning against it with his arms folded, throwing unintelligible technical terms at me. I’d just gotten him to tell me in English what the heck was wrong with the sleigh when the doors to the shed burst open and Santa Claus bounded into the room.
“Gustav! Shmitzy!” Santa boomed. “How are my favorite helpers?” He was fat and pink, his beard fluffed, his eyes twinkling. He leaned over, patted our backs playfully, and brought his rosy cheeks down close to our faces.
I gave him the thumbs-up sign and rapped my knuckles on the side of the sleigh. “A-okay, Santa. Everything’s right on schedule, and Shmitzy tells me he’ll have this boat ready to roll by tonight.”
“Good, boys! Good!” Santa threw back his head and gave us a hearty “Ho ho ho!” I was sick of that laugh—it usually started to get to me around this time of year, though I have to admit I’d have walked off a cliff for Santa, annoying laugh or no—but I gave him a big smile anyway. He patted us gently again.
“See you later, boys! I just came by to see how things were coming along. I’m supposed to be helping Momma with her baking for dinner tonight.” His eyes sparkled. “Special cakes for everybody! Ho ho ho!”
I winced, then quickly gave him a grin and the thumbs-up sign as he turned to leave.
And then a strange thing happened. He was halfway out the door when he suddenly froze in mid-step. He stood locked like that for a few seconds. Then, just as suddenly, he unfroze. He turned back to us with a strange, confused look on his face.
“Boys,” he said. But then he shrugged. “Oh, never mind. It was nothing.” He turned and took another step.
Again he froze. Shmitzy and I started toward him to see if he was all right. All of a sudden, he gave an ear-piercing roar and spun around, plucking Shmitzy up off the floor beside me and tossing him through the air. Shmitzy gave a yell and sailed like a shot put about thirty feet, hitting the floor in the corner of the shed with a groan.
Santa turned to me, his hands reaching for my neck. There was a horrible look on his face—his eyes bulged whitely from their sockets, and he was beet red above his beard. “Gustav,” he said, his voice a cold growl.
He opened his mouth in a gaping cartoon grin, grasped my neck with his white-gloved hands, began to squeeze…and then suddenly returned to his old self. It was like someone had flicked a switch. He dropped his hands and looked at me, completely mystified.
“Gustav, what happened?”
I was shaking like a belly dancer, but I managed to open my mouth. “I don’t know, Santa. You…didn’t look so good for a minute.”
There was an expression of helplessness on his normally jolly face. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said. He turned to Shmitzy, who was sitting on the floor across the room, touching his head tenderly. “I’m sorry, Shmitzy. I…just don’t know what happened.”
I took Santa gently by the arm. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Why don’t you go back to the house and lie down. Have Momma fix you something hot to drink. The rush must be getting to you.”
He brightened a bit and let me lead him to the door. “Yes, I suppose I should. Now that I think of it, Momma has seemed a bit irritable today, also.” He paused, trying to think of something. “And I remember something…a long time ago…”
“Well, don’t you worry about it, Santa. Go in and take it easy. You’ve been working too hard.” I smiled and patted his arm, nudging him in
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