The World of Myth Magazine

They called him Santa Claus, the old man who lived down the street because he had a long white beard that covered his ample belly and even longer white hair. His nose was red and bulbous because he drank so much and suffered from rhinophyma. His cheater glasses were pulled down on his face so he could see in the distance.

Glenn Gross liked that the kids thought he was Santa in the flesh. They’d stop and point their fingers at him when he walked down the sidewalk.

“Look, Mommy, Santa in real clothes.” The mother would smile as he touched the brim of his hat, walking by with a wink and a nod.

During the holiday season, right after Thanksgiving, Glenn would pull out the Santa suit his loving deceased wife made for him years ago. He looked better than the professional Santa when he walked into the local bar and drank for free all night. He was hired to come to people’s houses and deliver toys, sometimes simple greetings or listen to the tiny tykes tell him their hearts desire in the local department store.

“I want a firetruck, a doll, or the saddest; I want my grandma to get better.” Some of the children brought him cards or letters; some brought Christmas cookies. Glenn was touched by their offer to give a gift to him. Those children were the givers and not the takers. The worst was the latter. They whined about what they wanted and complained they didn’t get anything last year. Glenn would ask if they’d been good or bad. He could tell the liars because they didn’t meet his eye. The child would tell their tale, receive a candy cane and go off to their waiting mothers or fathers who hadn’t done a good job raising their liars.

Glenn was frustrated with the world and how things had become. There was a time when children were afraid to lie. “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” People looked the other way, letting the little scamps get away with everything.

Christmas was a time of miracles and change. Sitting in Faller’s “Why Go By” bar, he was having a beer while dressed in costume when a mother came in with her children asking to use the phone. A flat tire, she said that she needed to call roadside services. The bartender placed the phone on the bar.

The mother told her children to stay close while she dialed the number for the towing company. One of the older boys peeled away from his brother and sister and stood in front of Glenn, watching him swill his drink.

“Santa, why do you drink beer?” Large blue eyes stared into his. Glenn’s look turned away from the child, just like the liars.

“Well, I don’t often, but it’s Christmas Eve. I am celebrating! Ho, Ho, Ho!” The tyke seemed to accept his answer. Glenn felt even worse lying to the child. His mother handed the phone back to the bartender.

“Timmy!” She pulled the other two children behind her to collect the wayward boy.

“I’m sorry, Timmy doesn’t mean to bother you,” she grabbed her son’s hand and ushered him and the other children to the front door. Glenn picked up his beer, drained it dry, and followed the lady and her children outside. The Santa surmised that the woman shouldn’t be out on the street alone on this side of town.

The children were huddled around their mother. Glenn took off his heavy Santa coat and wrapped it around the woman and her children.

“Where’s your jack?” He pushed up his sleeves.

“In the trunk.” She pressed the fob, and with a beep, the trunk opened as if by magic.

“It’s alright the service said they were on their way,” the woman said with little conviction. She knew her chances of getting a wrecker to change her tire on Christmas Eve were slim to none.

“Lady, I doubt it at this time of night and this part of town.” Glenn found the jack and fitted it in front of the rear wheel. He jacked up the car after he loosened the lug nuts pulling the tire off. Glenn grabbed the spare, slid it on, and refastened the nuts. He spun the wheel, allowing the tire iron to do the tightening, lowered the car, and threw the jack and the bad tire in the trunk, slamming it.

“There. You best be on your way,” he told the family.

“Thank you!” The woman held out a twenty-dollar bill. Glenn shook his head and put his hands up.

“I wouldn’t be a very good Santa if I took money now, would I?” She smiled and ushered the children into the backseat.

“Everybody, buckle up.” She returned Glenn’s coat, and he rummaged through the pockets and found three candy canes. Lifting his eyebrows toward her, she nodded, “yes.”

The mother started the car, opening the windows and allowing Glenn to hand each child a candy cane.

“Thank you, Santa,” they said back. Glenn smiled and wished them a Merry Christmas when he saw a black sedan come around the corner with tires squealing.

“Best get going NOW!” Glenn shouted. The woman also saw the car coming and quickly pulled away from the curb.

Glenn buttoned his coat, ready to go back into the bar, when a barrage of bullets sprayed the front of the building, hitting him in several places.

He sat down hard on the sidewalk in shock. No doubt in his mind Glen had been shot by liars who had once been children who didn’t get what they wanted from Santa Claus. People filed out of the bar, standing around him.

“Did anyone see anything?” shouted the bartender with the phone in his hand.

“A black sedan with four men came by, shooting out the windows. I think they shot him because he’s dressed as Santa,” said a woman cradling Glenn’s head she leaned toward to his face.

“What you did for that woman, and her kids was a wonderful gesture. They’ve called an ambulance. It’s on the way. Hang in there, Santa,” she whispered.

“Glenn. My name is Glenn. I’m cold.” A man standing beside the woman took off his overcoat and dropped it on Glenn. He didn’t feel any warmth from it, he could only see he was looking through a dark tunnel at a bright light.

“Glenn, stay with me,” the woman patted his cheeks. But Glenn Gross was tired and went for the light as the ambulance stopped in front of the bar.

The newspapers read on Christmas morning, “Santa Claus is Dead.” In a hail of bullets, a good Samaritan dressed as Santa Claus changed a stranded woman’s tire in front of the “Why Go By” bar on Third Street. After the repairs were made, the woman and her three children left the storefront just as a black sedan sped around the corner and shot Glenn Gross, age seventy-three, dressed in a homemade Santa suit, sixteen times as the car drove in front of the bar. The reason is unknown at this time whether the deceased knew the shooters or if this was a random act of violence.

Glenn felt himself floating. He was no longer feeling cold. He was feeling light and airy, finding himself standing before the Pearly Gates, and there was Ethel, his dearly departed wife, waiting for him.

“Glenn, you’re wearing the Santa suit I made you.” She was all smiles as she patted his chest. St. Peter checked his roster as the clock struck twelve.

“Merry Christmas! You may go in.”

It was the best Christmas Glenn Gross had ever had. He made it to heaven despite his less-than-stellar record. His last act on earth was one of compassion. It was the act that tipped the balance in his favor. Ethel was there with a hug and a kiss, taking his hand.

“Come on, honey, let’s go home.” Glenn lifted his hand and stroked Ethel’s hair, the color of wheat straw that she had as a young woman. Her face had no wrinkles. He looked at his hands. They were the hands of a young man. Then he felt his pants drop around his ankles. He’d lost an incredible about of weight but mostly the weight that sat upon his shoulders for all those years.

He tipped his head back shouting, “Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas!” Which was appropriate for a man dressed in a homemade Santa suit on Christmas Day.

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