A Santa Story by Richelle E. Goodrich

I could feel excitement radiating from every person in the auditorium. Holiday carols featuring jingly bells and brash horns boomed from surrounding speakers. Glitter-heavy, paper snowflakes twirled overhead, dangling from silver string. There were lots of kids. Dozens. Most of them my age, some younger, not many older. An entire line of us were eagerly waiting, smiles pinned on our faces. Why would we not smile when Santa Claus—plump, jolly, fluffily bearded, and in the flesh—sat on his golden throne at the front of the line?

The fat man in red was surrounded by skinny, happy elves dressed in festive attire. None of the elves were as dwarfed as I had imagined they would be, but that meant nothing. Short or tall, they were plainly Santa’s elves. I could tell by how they beamed pure joy while handing out candy canes to mesmerized kids seated on Santa’s lap. I could hardly wait for my turn to tell the big guy how well-behaved I had been this year and how desperately I hoped for a brand new, cobalt-blue, silver-striped, Razor SX500 McGrath Rocket Electric Motorcross dirt bike for Christmas… with matching-blue full-face helmet of course.

I’d been waiting in line for a full thirty minutes, watching elves twirl candy-canes around their fingers, when a larger kid at the front of the line climbed up a set of wide, wooden steps to meet Santa. It was hard not to stare at the kid because he looked like an actual son of St. Nick. They were both big guys, both dressed in Christmas-red pantsuits with black belts and gold buckles. I suppose what happened next should have been anticipated, but it actually surprised us all.

It’s not like I never imagined doing the same thing, but a nagging inner voice always warned me that no-way-in-the-north-pole could I expect a gift from Santa Claus if I ever succumbed to the temptation of tugging on his snow-white beard. Such an act of disrespect seemed a naughty-list offense for sure. That said, it genuinely stunned me (and everyone else in the room) when the big kid seated on Santa’s lap had the nerve to do just that! It was no gentle tug either. He yanked so hard that the pillowy beard ripped clean off the old man’s face! A collective gasp echoed within the vaulted ceiling like a sound of rushing water, and we all stood there frozen…stunned…staring at a most unexpected sight.

Green.

That was the color of the exposed facial hair. It was short, scruffy, and green. I had never seen a green beard before. Well, except once on an animated character from a show that rhymed a tale about some dastardly creature who hated Christmas so much he tried to steal it from an entire township of Whovillers.

The big kid who was holding an apparently fake, white beard quickly tore off Santa’s velvety hat as well, revealing a matt of hair as green in color as the man's real beard. A few girls screamed at seeing it.

I pointed an accusatory finger at the charlatan. “He’s not Santa!” I hollered. “He’s the Grinch!”

The little girls who had screamed a note of shock were joined by others who screeched much louder and much longer, supporting my hasty deduction.

Now, I’m not sure if things that happen as a result of what you say are rightly your fault, for I had no intention of setting into motion what transpired next; nonetheless, my announcement caused a bit of alarm. The Grinch—that Christmas-hating monster—had already heard and memorized the gift-wishes of numerous children. He knew what kind of presents would be under their trees on the eve of December twenty-fourth. Aghast at this thought, we understood that the greatest enemy of Christmas had tricked us in the same way he had tricked unsuspecting Whovillers! Christmas was in jeopardy, and unless something was done to prevent it, the holiday would be spoiled for everyone!

The bold kid who had unmasked the pretender was first to assail the Grinch, grabbing him by his green whiskers while accusing him in a loud voice of abducting the real Santa Claus.

“Where is he?” the boy demanded. “What have you done with Santa?”

The Grinch growled a sound of pain and attempted to pry the boy’s hands from his face, but the kid held on tight, demanding the release of old St. Nick. Many other children chimed in, voicing their concerns about the welfare and whereabouts of poor Santa Claus too until all at once we witnessed an unthinkable betrayal by none other than the candy-cane-toting elves! Three of them laid hands on the big kid and yanked him off the Grinch’s lap; however, the green-haired villain was pulled along because no one thought to remove the chubby fingers clamped to his beard.

A child in line shouted out the obvious. “Traitors! You’re not elves!”

I had suspected as much earlier, having naïvely forgiven their uncharacteristic tallness in light of a convincing merry performance. They had fooled us and nearly gotten away with it!

The nonelves ganged up on the big kid and worked together to pry him off their boss—the nasty Mr. Grinch. Just then, a lanky, blonde-haired boy in Harry Potter glasses cupped his hands on either side of his mouth and sounded a deafening war cry. It was instantly heeded by good little children desperate to protect their spot on Santa’s nice list. We rose up like an army, prepared to defend the old man who would have been dizzily proud of us had he witnessed our united act of loyalty.

Children stormed the stage—despite parental attempts at interference—and tackled the Grinch, taking down his pointy-eared cronies as well. The villains tried to resist but were outnumbered by angry boys and girls who hugged tight to limbs, tugging at hair and clothing. It was enough to force them to the ground where they were stripped of their candy-canes and festive hats. Soon enough, a chant began that quickly rose in volume.

“Bring back Santa! Bring back Santa! Bring back Santa!”

“Okay, okay!” the Grinch surrendered, shaking two toddlers off his arms in order to sit up. “I’ll go get Santa.”

“We want the real Santa Claus,” growled the big, bold kid. He eyed the Grinch distrustfully.

“Yeah, yeah… the real St. Nick.” But no sooner had the name been voiced when a hearty “Ho, ho, ho!” carried across the room. It was a strong voice. It was confident. And it was jolly.

The nonelves were allowed to sit up as all eyes darted about, looking for the man in red. He appeared from behind a tall, decorated Christmas tree, his tubby tummy shaking with every “Ho, ho, ho.” No one moved. No one blinked or breathed or uttered a word. We simply watched the fat man in his plush, red suit; black, shiny boots; full, blushing cheeks and snow-white beard make his way to the stage before climbing up to take a seat on the golden throne.

“Well, now,” he said to the big kid who still looked the spitting image of St. Nick. “You mind letting my elves have their hats back?”

“Those are really your elves?” the kid asked. He looked skeptical. I was skeptical too.

“Yes, son, they are some of my best elves.”

The big kid scrunched his eyes wondering. There was only one way to tell if this jolly old man was telling the truth. Without missing a beat, the boy’s fingers clamped onto a fistful of beard and tugged. A collective gasp echoed once again but was quickly drowned out by cheers of joy.

The beard was real! The old man truly was Santa Claus in the flesh!

He belted a good, hearty laugh and accepted warm hugs from relieved young persons who then lined up to have a turn on the real Santa’s lap.

Thank goodness Christmas had been saved—due to the combined efforts of good, brave, observant boys and girls. We were heroes! At least I think we were. Our parents seemed less than pleased. And apparently no one noticed when the Grinch slyly slithered away. 

Copyright 2019 Richelle E. Goodrich, Being Bold