Letter to Santa Pt 4

So I went to New York, Santa, to became an artist.

My world enlarged and opened up.

For an artist must first of all be an observer of life!

Christmas in the city was fun with all the lights and music and shoppers.

But I still didn’t believe in you.

Besides, which one would I believe in? 

You were on every corner!

I suppose most boys and girls outgrow Santa Claus for a portion of their lives… but most of us come back, don’t we, Santa?

Many Christmases came and went.

I worked hard in the city and did well, as they say.

For years I was a carefree bachelor.

Because I didn’t want to fall in love.

I was afraid to.

Then one Christmas I met a girl at the office party.

She was kind and had a great sense of humor. 

She also had nice legs.

I couldn’t help myself. I fell in love and guess what? 

She fell in love too.

We fell in love with each other.

That was my lucky year because guess what again?

She was the boss’s daughter.

We got married and travelled the world on our honeymoon. 

At Daddy’s expense.

Her father said take your time my son and enjoy, then come back and be a better artist than ever.

He loved his daughter very much.

It was easy to see why.

We saw in our travels that the world was a beautiful place, but not always a fair one.

And I filled my artist’s eye with the wonders of the world.

Boy! I must have drawn Barbara at least a million times while we were on our honeymoon! Posing on a rumpled hotel bed, her shapely limbs silhouetted against the sheets, her smile natural yet alluring…

That’s the name of my wife. Barbara. She’s on your Nice list for sure.

She was way more fun to draw than a salamander or a horse!

Back in New York, I worked hard at my art and my marriage and my friendships, and life flowed along nicely.

The love Barbara and I shared for each other deepened and matured.

I put out a successful book of Barbara drawings.

You might remember delivering a bunch of them because it sold like hotcakes that Christmas.

Barbara was a bit embarrassed, most of them being nude studies.

But I thought they were pretty good drawings, and nothing to be embarrassed about.

So Barbara talked to my aunt Sissy on the phone about it. Aunt Sissy said the right thing again and we all felt better about publishing nude drawings of Barbara in coffee-table art books.

Art for art’s sake, I always say.

Then came a second volume of Barbara studies, called The Honeymoon Series. 

After that Barbara told me to find another subject.

So today I draw rare axolotls for museums and zoos around the world.

I still draw Barbara too, but I don’t publish those drawings.

Barbara and I had children and taught them to face life with bravery, honesty, and humor.

To treat it all as a bit of a joke and enjoy a good laugh.

As parents we taught our children all kinds of things.

And sometimes they taught us.

When he was sixteen I taught our eldest boy to make the occasional gin and tonic for my wife and I. 

We figured he could start to learn about alcohol that way.

Like I learned from my stepmother, only different.

Because children, as you know Santa, learn all the time from everything they see and hear.

He was very proud of his status as our personal bartender and Danny loved to please.

That’s our eldest son’s name. Danny.

Look for him towards the top of your Nice list.

“Lime or lemon in your G&Ts?” he used to ask.

“Doesn’t matter, son,” I answered. “Either one will be fine.”

“Dad,” he said one day as he handed me a drink, “I think I’m gay.”

“Really?” I said. We talked about it awhile. I never told my children about Boris or the art teacher, not because I was ashamed because I wasn’t, but because I didn’t want to make a big deal about it or change the natural course of my children’s own sexuality with the knowledge of it. Sometimes too much knowledge can be a bad thing to a young heart, like when I overheard aunt Tootsie and the milkman call my father a drunkard that day in the kitchen, so I didn’t tell my son about Boris or the art teacher then either. 

Instead I said, “Doesn’t matter son. Either way is fine. Just remember to respect yourself and when in love… always follow your heart.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said my son Danny and we hugged and something beautiful fell into place.

Well! I really got it off my chest, didn’t I Santa?

Rusty’s life story.

(You’d be surprised how much I left out!)

But I wanted to get in touch again.

And wasn’t sure if that was the real you on Facebook or not.

It looked like you, but I couldn’t be sure.

So I decided to write you a letter.

Didn’t know it would be such a long letter. 

Sorry, but you being Santa, I figure you’ll forgive me.

You wonder why I write, after all these years?

I’ll tell you. 

Because I have grandchildren now.

And they want to believe in Santa Claus.

And funny, but what they want, I want.

Because their laughter means the world to me!

We have an axolotl too, named Shakespeare.

But I don’t think he believes in anything.

I hope Santa you continue to share your gift of generosity and good cheer among people the world over. All the world’s people, please, whoever they are, because if one of us is hurting, all of us are hurting. 

That’s what you teach us, isn’t it?

That it’s better to give than to receive?

That we’re all human beings together, sharing our journey through the natural world towards eternity. That we should try to love and understand each other.

Yes even Boris and my cruel stepmother.

Whose spiritual pain must have been immense.

They’re gone now. Crossed off your Naughty list years and years ago. Dead in a car crash on La Brea down by the In-N-Out Burger. My father was behind the wheel. The car they were in was struck and exploded in flames.

Ironically hit by a drunk driver.

On Christmas Eve.

Life’s funny, isn’t it Santa?

Well, that about brings us full circle.

Say hi to Mrs Claus and the elves for me.

And please remember; 

I’ve been a good boy again this year.

Sincerely,

Rusty

PS. If you’d care to prove your existence by slipping a new iPad under the tree… I’ll leave out some milk and cookies.

Letter to Santa Pt 2

The year after that Santa you brought me clothes and a suitcase. 

I guess because I was going away to boarding school.

That would have been 1965, when I was twelve.

My stepmom said boarding school would do me some good, and maybe even make a man out of me.

My dad looked down at his feet and said yeah son, like she said, it would maybe do you some good and make a … 

“But I don’t want to go away!” I cried. “I don’t want to be a man yet!” 

Too bad, they said. They understood, they added, they really did. But what could they do? 

After all, it was for my own good.

“So stop crying mister!” said my dad. “And be glad you have a swell stepmom like the one you’ve got, whose always thinking of you!”

Little sissy, he added, but I don’t think he meant it.

He’d started drinking again and sometimes said things he didn’t mean.

“Well,” said my stepmother. “That’s all settled then. Now be a good boy and go make us a couple drinks.”

“And don’t fuck it up like you always do!” she added. “Dumb kid.”

Then her and my father turned to watch tv.

So it was off to boarding school for me.

My stepmom’s younger brother moved in and took over my room, even before I left.

For my last two weeks at home, I had to sleep on the couch. 

His name, believe it or not, was Boris.

You might remember him, Santa. He was a really big guy with a mean streak a mile wide. 

He was probably on your Naughty list.

Unless your list is totally up the creek.

Boris tore down my drawings and smashed all my model airplanes and he laughed as he spilled my books unto the floor and kicked them around. 

Reading was for shit-heads, he told me.

Please don’t hurt my books, I pleaded.

“Shit-head!” he called me, proving his point.

Then he beat me up.

I hid my bruises and kept quiet, because Boris said he’d have my stepmother tell the men at the hospital to come and take my dad away again if I told. Then he called my father some nasty names, just like aunt Tootsie and the milkman had.

I didn’t want to go stay with aunt Tootsie again, so I kept quiet.

That Boris! What a two weeks that was! 

He was always up to mischief.

Like a little devil, only he wasn’t so little.

He did a lot of stuff that was no good and made sure I got the blame.

“What’s wrong with you lately?” asked my father. “You gone crazy or something?”

I had no answer, which only proved to my father how crazy I’d gone.

Now he knew that putting me in boarding school was the right decision, he said.

Boris thought it was very funny.

He even let my pet turtle go free.

Which he knew would kill the turtle.

I told him, Please, I said. Some things cannot survive on their own.

Some things need love and care.

But Boris just laughed and dumped the turtle out in the bushes.

Then he beat me up to distract me so I couldn’t find Clarke.

I came back later, but Clarke was gone.

I figure the neighbor’s cat got him.

He was always sneaking around, that cat, and chasing the birds away.

The turtle’s name was Clarke, by the way, after the writer.

Because I’d used Bradbury for my pet axolotl.

(And Asimov, you may remember, for my robot.)

ABC. Get it?

I figured you would, Santa, having delivered as many books as you have.

An axolotl is a type of salamander with beautiful long external gills which are filled with blood and very red. They have friendly faces too, with wide smiley mouths and little button eyes.

They don’t actually do very much though.

Boy! I must have drawn Bradbury a thousand times! Floating at the bottom of his fishbowl on weightless legs, his glorious gills waving in the current from the pump, his button eyes unblinking, he himself immobile, waiting for his dinner.

Bradbury died a few days before I left for boarding school.

Boris fed him chocolate instead of hamburger.

Which he knew would kill an axolotl.

I told him. Please Boris, meat only, I said.

But Boris didn’t pay attention to me and offered Bradbury a piece of chocolate on the sharp end of a knitting needle, just how he likes it.

Poor Bradbury! He didn’t know better and he ate it right up. Gulp and down it went! A minute later he twitched in pain and sort of lathered up all over, while Boris laughed his head off.

Bradbury thrashed in his fishbowl as his beautiful long red gills faded and wilted, then he died.

I cried that night before I fell asleep on the couch. 

Why would Boris do that, I wondered through my tears, and then laugh about it?

What harm had Bradbury or Clarke ever done him?

Then I cried for me, because what harm had I ever done him either?

And once I’d started crying I couldn’t stop so I cried for my dead mother and my disappointed father and my mean stepmother and for Asimov in the deep end and lemon not fucking lime in the G&Ts and having to go away to boarding school and everything else in the whole mean world that never seemed to let me be happy.

I suppose it was about then, Santa, that I stopped believing in you for awhile.

To be continued…

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

It’s been a long time since I wrote. 

You may not even remember me. 

I was the skinny blonde kid living on Wheeler Ave in Lake View Terrace? In the San Fernando Valley out by Hanson Dam and Laurel Canyon? 

I lived there in the 1960s.

Just me and my mom and dad to begin with. 

It being southern California, we didn’t have much of a chimney, so you probably wouldn’t remember that. 

Maybe Santa you remember kids from the presents you give them? 

The first present you ever gave me was a book.

A gift for which I truly thank you.

It was a how-to book about drawing animals. 

Boy! I must have drawn 10,000 horses from that book before I ever saw a live one! Most of these 10,000 horses were pretty poorly drawn I admit, but after about eight or nine thousand they started to get better.

From this book I learned something about myself I never knew before; that I really liked to draw. I used to show my drawings to my mother when her headaches weren’t too bad. Usually she didn’t feel good and would look at me with big shiny eyes and say, “Please Rusty. Some other time, okay? I’ve got a headache.” 

So I left her alone as much as I could.

Maybe you keep track of this stuff Santa, because everyone says you know naughty from nice and even keep a list, so I suppose you know my mother passed away a little bit before the next Christmas.

Which the grownups said was a blessing. 

I guess that’s true, but she wasn’t their mother.

That was the Christmas you didn’t come.

1960. Remember?

Did you think we’d all been naughty?

I was living with different aunts and uncles that holiday season while my father got better. He was in hospital with the DT’s whatever that is I didn’t know but I overheard aunt Tootsie say it to the milkman while they had a cigarette in the kitchen.

They’d come out of the bedroom, her and the milkman, laughing and playful as children, while he tucked his shirt into his trousers and she straightened her hair.

Then she called my father some terrible names, thinking I couldn’t hear.

The milkman laughed and said too bad, some guys can’t take it.

Yeah she answered, and now I’m stuck with his brat!

Never mind, Santa, I understand you not making it that year. 

It’s difficult to visit a family that isn’t a family anymore.

Besides, what I wanted was impossible. I know that now. 

How could you bring back my mother?

But things got better, like they always do.

You brought me a blue and yellow remote-controlled robot in 1962 that was so wonderful I still remember it to this day! It rolled on treaded wheels and was powered by batteries and out of its head would shoot little spring-loaded missiles!

I shot them at my new stepmother, saying look isn’t it great! but she hardly noticed.

She didn’t care for little children or robots, she said.

I named my robot Asimov, after the writer. 

I used to imagine Asimov talking to me when I was lonely and helping me with my homework when I was dumb.

Sometimes I imagined him blowing-up my stepmother.

Alas! Asimov fell into the pool and short-circuited one day during a battle with the neighbor’s cat.

Then Santa next Christmas you gave me a football and a helmet and a jockstrap and my dad thought they were great presents and he played with me a lot for awhile. That was a wonderful time until my dad saw that I was useless at sports and really I’d rather read a book or draw a bird in a tree than catch a ball or block a linebacker. 

I could see he was disappointed.

He called me a little sissy but I don’t think he really meant it.

I think he was still sad about mom dying, and this made him a bit mean sometimes.

Then the next year Santa you brought me a bicycle. 

I didn’t have it very long because I forgot and left the garage door opened and it got stolen!

In broad daylight!

Plus they took my dad’s golf clubs and some other stuff. 

Boy! was my dad ticked off!

Well, there goes your xmas, stupid, said my stepmother. That’ll teach you to mind your shit better, she added.

Sorry, I said. (Too bad they didn’t take my football helmet and jockstrap was what I was thinking.)

So instead of riding my bike I made a skateboard with a board and a skate and broke my leg falling off it before New Year’s day arrived.

I learned to my amazement that even the smallest pebble can stop a hurtling skateboard dead in its tracks!

I also learned that a body in motion tends to stay in motion, as I flew through the air after my skateboard had been stopped dead in its tracks. 

I was learning a lot until I landed.

Well, there goes your new years, dummy, said my stepmother when I got out of hospital the next day. Maybe that’ll teach you, she added. But she never said teach me what because she’d turned away and started watching her tv shows by then.

Bring me another drink, stupid, she said without looking at me.

So I hobbled into the kitchen and made her a drink.

She’d taught me to make gin and tonics, with lemon.

Not fucking lime, you idiot! she’d yelled at me when I got it wrong. Then she slapped me a few times to help me remember.

Lime’s for fucking tequila, dumbass! she added.

So I remembered. 

Lemon in her G&Ts.

After four operations in the hospital that year, my leg healed pretty good.

I missed a lot of school, but I don’t limp hardly at all now.

Stupid skateboard.

Or was it the pebble?

To be continued…