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 3

Well Santa, I went off to boarding school.

Which was pretty horrible. 

Being only twelve I was one of the younger boys and with my uselessness at sports and such I didn’t make friends easily. Plus I wasn’t the boarding school type, I guess, so my teachers were generally pretty disappointed in me too.

I felt lonely and dumb.

The one bright spot was art class, where I could draw.

One day after class the art teacher looked at my drawings of Bradbury the axolotl and said he saw promise in me.

I was so happy!

Then he touched me between my legs.

He told me how handsome I was and how he could see that I was a sensitive, loving kind of boy.  

That we could be special friends.

No one had ever spoken to me that way before, Santa.

So I let him kiss me and put my penis in his mouth and I have to say that it felt good.

Although I felt guilty about it later.

He used to make me stay after class so we could be alone. We did many things together which pleased him and I loved him with all my heart. 

He told me I was his special boy, but we have to keep it secret.

Of course it ended badly.

Another boy he was doing things with told his parents and it all came out. 

I had to leave school.

“Ugh! How could you?!” said my stepmother when I arrived home. “Doing it with a man. Little pervert!”

“I didn’t know it was wrong,” I said. “Really he was a nice person.”

“Little sissy,” said my dad and this time I knew he meant it.

We didn’t speak much after that.

But Boris, my stepmom’s brother who took over my room, he looked at me funny and that night he came to me where I was sleeping on the couch and said he wanted me to do the same things with him that I did with the teacher.

I said please no it got me into trouble but he just put all his weight on my chest pinning me down and told me to start doing it.

Then he called me some nasty names while I did what he wanted.

I was so scared my dad would catch us I used all my skill so that Boris would finish quickly.

He moaned and quivered and clutched me tightly.

I kept going till he was done.

Then he pushed me away and told me never to tell or I’d be sorry.

I was sorry already.

Boris visited me every night and even caught me in the bathroom a few times.

I remember the rug on the bathroom floor and Boris looking at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t like the art teacher, who was kind and said nice things. Boris was rough and called me names.

Like he hated me for what I let him do to me.

At least he stopped beating me up.

Luckily, I was soon sent to live with my aunt in Texas.

My father couldn’t stand the sight of me anymore, said my stepmother.

“So long, kid,” she added. “Good luck.”

She handed me $30 and put me on the bus to Amarillo, Texas.

My father didn’t even see me off.

My aunt picked me up at the station in Amarillo.

Her name, believe it or not, was Sissy.

Which made me laugh!

She laughed too. She had kind eyes like I remember my mother had so I gathered my courage and told her my story and how I came to be on her doorstep.

“I know,” she said softly. “Your daddy told me.”

“He thinks I’m a sissy,” I said.

“What do you think you are?” asked my aunt.

So we talked about it and I told her everything that I’d kept locked in my heart until then.

“It’s okay,” she said when I finished and it was the best thing she could have said.

Christmas that first year with aunt Sissy was fun. She had a daughter older than me away at university who came home for the holidays and with aunt Sissy’s husband Roger we all decorated the tree and had a grand time! 

It was the best Christmas I ever remember!

You brought me books that year, Santa, including one that became a favorite, James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl.

I suppose I identified a bit with James.

But then, don’t we all?

After awhile living with my aunt and her family I sort of forgot about Boris and the art teacher and the things I’d done with them.

I became a boy again. 

Aunt Sissy encouraged me in my drawing. She took me to the rodeo where for the first time ever I drew a live horse! She looked at my drawing and said my mother would have been proud of me.

Boy! That was a great day! 

Over the years aunt Sissy and uncle Roger became like my mother and father.

They loved me and treated me with kindness.

And I was a good son to them, making them proud mostly. 

I left Texas when I was nineteen, and went to New York where I hoped to become an artist.

“Don’t go, Rusty,” said aunt Sissy. “Stay with us and go to school here. You can go to New York later if you still want to.”

But I had wandering feet.

“I have to try,” I answered. “The bright lights of the big city beckon. I love you and uncle Roger and I’ll be forever thankful, but something calls me and I have to go.”

To be continued…