“Oh good, you’re here!” My father’s voice was booming and jolly as I appeared in his office, and he welcomed me into his usual bear hug.
“Of course I’m here. You teleported me,” I grumbled. “Haven’t you ever heard of a text message? Email?”
“This is faster.” My father shrugged, taking a seat in his massive red leather chair next to a cozy fireplace.
“Sit, Yule, sit.” Yeah, that’s right. My parents named me Yule. But, it’s really more of a nickname. My real name? Well, that’s complicated. It’s Santa. Santa Claus. As of today, at least.
Sighing because I knew what was coming, I sat. It wasn’t that I wasn’t excited about being Santa. It was a pretty damn cool job. It was also a damn overwhelming one, and I knew I was about to undergo orientation. Otherwise known as second-thought central and information overload.
“Now, Yule, as I was saying, I’m glad you’re here. As you know, per tradition, tonight, on the eve of your thirty-ninth birthday, I retire, and you take over in my place.”
“Yes, sir. I’m aware of the tradition.”
My father beamed, stood, and then, with an assured nod, crossed to the antique armoire in the corner of the room. He muttered to himself as he opened drawers and took things off hangers, making a pile in his hands.
Then he turned and held the pile out to me proudly. “Here you are. Don the uniform, then. It’s time to make this official.”
I closed my eyes and steeled my shoulders. Making it official was daunting. My father’s job was only the most important job in the world. And now it would fall solely on me.
Last minute thoughts aside, I was ready. It was time. I looked at the stack of clothing in my father’s outstretched hands and took a deep breath. And then I snapped. One simple snap of my fingers, and that was all it took. The articles of clothing left his hand and took their place upon my body. It was official. I was Santa Claus.
“Oh, no! I missed it? Noel, you were supposed to wait for me,” my mother scolded my father as she bustled in with tears in her eyes and a plate full of cookies.
“Well, don’t worry, honey. We’ve only done the official donning of the uniform. There is still the reading of the official Santa code, the factory tour, the elf orientation, and, you know, the talk. I would never do the talk without you.”
I raised my eyebrows and regarded them hesitantly. The talk? That sounded suspicious. Even more suspicious was the fact that I had never before heard of “the talk” as part of the official passing of the jolliness.
The way my mother blushed and giggled when my father said it, I was reminded of the birds and the bees talk they had given me at the tender age of thirteen.
“Um, guys? Might I remind you that I am thirty-nine years old, a grown man, and I’ve already been on the receiving end of the talk? It is not an experience I wish to repeat, especially not now.”
My father rolled his eyes at me.
“Not that talk. The talk about Mrs. Claus and the nonbelievers,” he whispered, looking around like someone was going to jump out at him for saying some sort of forbidden phrase.
“I’m sorry? Isn’t that two talks? And why are you whispering?”
“Sorry.” My father grimaced, looking pained. “Nonbelievers are a tough subject for Santa.”
“But, you’re not Santa anymore. I am.”
“Oh. Right. Well, this should be easier, then.”
“Let’s get on with it, dear. There’s lots to cover before the night is over,” my mother reminded him, patting his knee. “And the boy doesn’t have much time. Christmas is only two weeks away.”
“Right.” He nodded at her and turned his attention back to me.
“As you know, Son, there is more to being Santa than making and delivering toys. There is also the mission to rid the world of nonbelievers.”
“Yes, I know. It is the job of Santa to bring the magic of Christmas to everyone, young and old, and help to rid the world of nonbelievers because nonbelievers dampen the joy of Christmas for others.” I recited part of the Santa code from memory.
“Yes, and...”
“And once I begin working my way through the list of nonbelievers, somewhere in my mission, I will find my Mrs. Claus. Just like you found Mom.”
“That’s right. Your mother was my thirty-fifth nonbeliever. I found her before my first Christmas as Santa. As you will.”
I narrowed my eyes and squinted at him, frowning. “This Christmas? Like the one that is in two weeks? Holy freaking fruitcake! I hope you are kidding me right now! That’s impossible. There’s no way it will be that easy. And, what if my Mrs. Claus is not a nonbeliever, and I don’t find her in time because all I’m focused on is the mission?”
“She will be, and you will find her. You see, Son, your mother…well, she was not an exception to the rule, she was the rule, and failure, my dear boy, is not an option.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your Mrs. Claus will have been a nonbeliever. She must be. It’s in the bylaws. And if you do not make her your wife by Christmas Eve...” He paused and took a deep breath. “Well, let me reiterate, failure is not an option.”
“Fabulous,” I deadpanned, wondering how many more bombs they planned to drop on me tonight. “Okay, then. This should make for an interesting dating pool. How many existing nonbelievers are women between the ages of twenty and forty? Like fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? A thousand? What are we looking at here?”
My parents exchanged looks before my father turned to me and held up one finger. “One.”
“I’m sorry? Did you say one? There is only one nonbeliever left in the whole world?”
“Erm, females in that age bracket, yes. My father pulled an iPhone from his pants pocket and began clicking away at the keys. “This woman.” He turned the phone to face me. The woman on the screen was a stunning brunette with skin slightly olive in tone and large chocolate-brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with little flecks of gold in them. At least she was pretty. She was beautiful, actually, and I was getting hard looking at her. “Her name,” my father continued, “is Crystal Turner. She’s thirty-one years old, and she resides in Las Vegas of all places.”
“Oh.” I stopped short in my tirade, stunned with this new bit of information. “Well, Kringle Krisps! Okay, then. At least I’m not running around blind. Any tips for how I turn her not only into a believer, but also into Mrs. Claus in two weeks’ time? It’s not going to be as easy as it was for you with Mom, you know. I can’t just turn an unknown woman over my knee and spank her into believing.”
My father laughed, a loud guffawing knee-slapping laugh and then, all of a sudden, he stopped and turned very serious. “Well, you could certainly try.”
I narrowed my eyes and waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. That was all he had on the subject. Fabulous.