The Eyes of the Few

Santa Clause

        I slipped and slid through the slush coated sidewalk outside of Macy’s, my toes curled in the knock-off Uggs my dad had gotten me for Christmas last year. My nose stung as I inhaled the cold winter air, my eyes crossing so I could see the same breath exhaled, visible against the frozen landscape.

            I pushed against a windowed metal door that wouldn’t open, before reading a sign that read pull. As I do practically every day, I realized my mistake and instead pulled on a smooth handle. I entered the vestibule and was immediately greeted with warmth. The heat swirled around me, but the comfort that usually came hand in hand with the sensation just wasn’t there.

            I walked through a second door and into the store, returning a smile sent to me by one of their saleswomen.

            “Do you need help finding anything?” She said with a small smile.

            “No, no; I’m fine,” I replied, “Happy Christmas.”

            “And to you,” she said, walking off to a shopper who had been waiting patiently off to her left.

            With a sigh, I walked towards the opening that led to the rest of the mall, my shoes squeaking against the tiled floor. Just then, an elderly woman ran by, her arms full of boxes and bags, and half of a price tag hanging off of the bright red sweater she wore.

            I rolled my eyes and continued on my way. I walked past a Sears, Payless, and a Justice before a young boy, maybe five or six, was whining to his father in front of a GameStop.

            “But daddy, everyone has it but me!” He cried.

            The man, handsome in a business suit and with graying hair, smiled at his brat. “Now Jimmy, I can’t get it for you. Wait one more night, maybe you’ll get it from Santa!” He told him.

            “But I want it NOW!” Jimmy screamed in reply, and his dad seemed rather uncomfortable as heads turned from all directions.

            I shook my head and continued on my way, ignoring the wails that came from the small boy.

            I passed a Hollister and an American Eagle, paying no attention to the girls who shopped there only to buy forty dollars jeans that I buy for four dollars. I walked up to a tall board- a map- covered in different colors and names of different stores. I found the place I was looking for, which happened to be the place my dad told me Santa Clause would be allowing children to sit on his lap for a photo.

Heading off in the direction the map sent me, I reached the food court, where loud chatting could be heard, and both disgusting and delicious smells wafted from every table and every restaurant.

“Free sample of Peppermint Mocha!” A young woman yelled from behind the counter of a Starbucks. Jumping at the chance, I went over to her. She handed me a small cup not taller than my pinky, but steaming all the same. I took a sip, disregarding the taste and just swallowing the hot liquid, savoring the moments it took to burn my throat.

“How much will it cost for a full cup?” I asked the woman after throwing away the empty foam container that had held the drink.

“Three dollars and twenty-five cents. Would you like me to get that for you?”

I eagerly reached into my back pocket, disappointed to pull out a one dollar bill and a nickel. I looked up at the woman, but she just smiled sadly at me and turned to her next customer. I tilted my head up to a security camera nearby, then back at the Starbucks’ counter, where a plate of chocolate chip cookies laid untouched.

No. It wasn’t worth it. I would be caught, and suddenly that cookie wouldn’t mean so much to me anymore. I went back to my walk, rushing towards the sound of Christmas music, the melody growing louder with every step I took.

There in the middle of the mall sat Santa Clause.

I crossed my arms and stood in the back of the line that consisted of three little girls, two boys, and a mother with a crying toddler; all except the last, of course, eager to see the face of the man who was to leave them presents the next morning.

After the mother lifted her crying child from Santa’s gloved hands some ten minutes later, it was my turn to go up and see him. I walked up to him and kneeled at his side. This Clause was good- his beard, although not exactly long enough and not a perfect curly white, was real. His eyes, although they weren’t exactly twinkling, were happy and welcoming. And his heart, although not many might know, is kind and certainly in the right place.

“Hello sweetie, what would you like for Christmas?” He asked, smiling at me.

“To go home,” I said with an obviously false sense of joy, “Dad, come on. It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve been working all day.”

He sighed, looking behind me to see if any more kids had come to see him. Seeing no one had, he stood, walking over to the photographer and a short woman who stood at his right.

They talked for a few minutes, before my dad retuned to me with a grin. “Seventy dollars!” He told me proudly. I smiled and hugged his belly, squishing whatever it is he had stuffed his coat with.

            My dad excused himself to the restroom so he could change out of his costume. When he returned, we walked in silence, enjoying the last moments of Christmas Eve.

            “Rose?” My dad asked, turning his head to me. “Why don’t you enjoy Christmas?”

            I thought for a moment; “Well, there’s the fact that for people like us, it’s just like every other day. We don’t get presents, we don’t get a feast. Another reason would be that I don’t like how all of the parents lie to their kids about Santa- sort of like what you did today.”

            I could have gone on, and I would have if he hadn’t interrupted.

            “Firstly, I want to say that I was acting as Santa’s helper. Next, Christmas is a special day. Unlike every other day, you can freely fill yourself with a sense of hope and love, and honestly believe that anything is possible.”

            It took me a minute to comprehend his words, so I just focused on the fact that my father was ‘Santa’s helper’.

            “But again I say, Santa isn’t-”

            “Don’t say it,” my dad interjected. “You’re still missing the point. The point of Christmas isn’t the presents, or the food, or even Santa. The point of Christmas is hope- more specifically, hope for peace on this earth. And Santa,” He said, stopping me from talking before I could even start, “Is that symbol of hope.”

            I smiled. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

            He hugged me from my side, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

            “Merry Christmas, Rose.”

~*~*~*~*~

AN: K, so I just realized I never posted this... Merry Christmas?

This story won in my class, those of you who know me understand :P