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
