Body of Lies: The Story of Santa Claus.

Santa. Remember him?
Remember the FEAR you'd feel, Christmas eve before bed?
"Someone better get to bed early," my Mom would say. "If Santa sees you still awake, he won't come this year! He'll skip the house!"
"For FUCK's SAKE!" I wanted to scream. "Why the HELL didn't you TELL me there was a possibility of him skipping!??! I would have gone to bed HOURS earlier! This may very well have RUINED Christmas!!!!"
Of course, I never said this out loud, but I was stunned that my parents didn't let me in on this little tidbit...that it's possible Santa will skip your house if he sees the lights on.
I went to bed furious, and then the wheels would start turning.
"What if he thinks I was bad this year and doesn't come? What if he knows about how I yanked on Jason McKnight's rat-tail and nearly tore it off? What if he can read my mind and hear all the horrible swears I think about? He is magic after all...
What if there's no Santa this year?"
I would spend every Christmas eve in bed, stomach in knots, wide awake and wide-eyed, sweat on my clenched and worried brow, heart-pounding with sheer terror at the thought that Santa might not pay me a visit.
"He's making his list...he's checking it twice...he's gonna find out who's naughty or nice..."
The song lyrics would echo in my head like a warning, a harbinger of a bleak and desolate year, flirting cruelly with the idea of a big empty space under the sparkling Christmas tree.
How could I go on for an ENTIRE year without ANY Christmas gifts?
I'm telling you: Tortured. Childhood.
Of course, morning would roll around - or at least some time would pass that I would fall asleep or black-out from worry - and I would regain consciousness and sneak out of bed to steal a peek at the tree - which my parents kept lit all night.
Presents.
What seemed like mounds of perfectly, strategically placed, gorgeously wrapped presents.
No human could place presents under a tree so beautifully.
It could only be the work of supernatural forces...a bearded man who drove around with flying reindeer and slides down chimneys.
"Although," I'd think, staring at the ceiling - "We don't have a chimney or a fireplace."
My mother told me he had "other ways" of getting into houses, without chimneys.
What other ways?, I wondered, staring at my toys, heartbeat quickening.
And what if this "other way" gets out, leaks to the public and criminals learn of his methods?? They'll have FULL access to our house while we sleep! They could steal things - or worse yet - give me a lethal injection and I'd never wake up.
It was a dangerous power, Santa had.
I feared we may have given him a bit too much of our trust, the fact that we allow a stranger into our home while we sleep, to rummage through our living rooms and snoop at his leisure...it was sickening.
We were a bunch of sitting ducks, at his mercy.
If Santa ever had a nervous breakdown, or his "other methods" got into the wrong hands: All of humanity would be completely fucked.
My parents insisted I leave out a 6 pack of beer and two raw hot dogs each year.
"Santa has enough cookies and milk from the other houses," my mom told me. "By the time he gets here - he needs a break...like how Daddy needs a break after cutting the grass...or Mommy needs a break after housework. Santa likes a beer on his breaks too!"
Santa was a thirsty fellow, as he always polished off the entire six pack.
The hot dogs however, were for his reindeer.
They were never finished...just nibbled.
Teeth marks up and down the shafts of my Oscar Meyers.
"So...the reindeer come in the house while we sleep TOO?" I asked, in complete disbelief.
My parents exchanged nervous looks.
"Um...no. Santa takes the hotdogs out to them, they wait on the roof."
I looked at the reindeer ravaged hot dogs...and looked at my parents.
"Why does he bring the half-eaten hotdogs back inside...and why don't they EVER finish their hot dogs?"
"They're probably...full...," They'd say and then point to a particularily LARGE wrapped gift under the tree. "Oooh look! I wonder what THAT one is!"
I'd open my gifts cautiously, eyebrow raised, so many dead-end, unanswered questions dancing in my head like visions of sugarplums you may have heard-tell about.
"Are my Star Wars figures built by Santa's elves?" I asked.
"Yes," My Dad said, cracking a beer. "His elves...carve them up in their...shop."
I stared at my Darth Vadar doll, ran my fingers over his smooth plastic helmet.
The hands of elves carved this, I thought to myself and smiled.
I sighed.
Going to see Santa was nearly just as stressful. You'd think I would have been more excited. You'd think all the kids would.
But we stood there in line, hand in hand with our parents and stared at each other.
I'd look at the other children, cringe at the snot leaking from their noses, grimmace at their weirdness.
They'd stare back at me.
We'd all stare at each other.
Every once in a while we'd hear a distant "Ho Ho Ho" and catch glimpse of Ole Saint Nick up on his throne, surrounded by fluffy clouds, sparkling stars and twinkling lights.
"There he is Danny!" My mom would say, "Aren't you excited?"
Tough question.
I mean, in theory - I should have been.
This was my one moment, the make-it-or-break-it moment - I got to sit on Santa's lap and ask him to bring me ANYTHING in the world.
It's like having a genie and getting ONE wish.
You have to watch out you don't short-change yourself by blowing your one wish on something that will end up being stupid and useless.
I had to maximize my Santa-time.
I never answered my parents. I'd just stare, zombie-like into la-la land at the other kids.
There would always be the crying kid.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I wanted to ask them. "Pull it together because this is your one shot! Santa's not going to HURT you! Have you EVER read The Night Before Christmas??? Clearly you weren't paying attention!"
Idiots.
My time would come, and everything would go in slow motion.
There would be a brief exchange between my parents and the elves, who all of a sudden spoke like adults, not elves.
Money would come out.
Change would be made.
But I wasn't really paying attention.
I was walking beyond the candy-cane coloured velvet rope, into a literal Christmas candyland - and all eyes were now on me.
I was The One.
I had Santa's undivided attention.
This was it.
The rest went by in a blur.
Hands on my shoulders, spinning me forcefully.
Suddenly I'd be lifted by the feet and hands and placed in his lap.
Santa-beared mashed against my face.
It was uncomfortable. Too close for comfort.
He had no concept of personal space.
His clothes smelled like the stinky hardcover books at my library.
His breath smelled like dog shit.
"What would you like for Christmas?" He'd bellow.
I stared out infront of me, the crowd of people, the masses all watching me.
A flash went off in my eyes and I blinked, stunned.
Confusion filled my brain. I may have blacked out for a moment.
"Castle Greyskull," I whispered.
"What?" He asked.
"Castle Greyskull," I said more firmly.
"I'll see what I can do!" he said, but I could tell by his inflection, he still didn't hear me. He had no idea what the fuck I said.
He was being phony.
I was going to repeat it again, to make sure he heard me - to make sure it would be the ONE THING he wouldn't forget, but I was being yanked off his lap and sent on my way.
I stood there for a moment, looked back at Santa who was waving at me, looked over at another set of parents, conferring and exchanging bills with the elves and stared at another kid, wearing a kitten t-shirt, pink tights and black rain galoshes with a look of panic on his face.
The I saw my own parents, smiling faces at the sidelines.
Relief washed over me like a tidal wave.
"What did he say?" My mom asked me, excited.
"I don't remember," I said.
It was almost like none of it even happened, it was over so fast.
But it did happen - there is photographic evidence.
Polarized forever in a photo...you can see our awkward body language.
Santa all over me like a drunk sailor on a stripper...and me - ever so slightly pulling away from him...head tilted towards the crowd of spectators, voyeuristically watching us - the slightest "help me" expression on my face, combined with nausea, worry and of course - the unmistakeable wonder of Christmas that only Santa can inspire in a kid.
I know hindsight is a wonderful thing, but if I think back really hard, and try to re-embrace the innocence of being a child at Christmas, I think I knew in the back of my mind, us kids were being duped.
The idea of Santa was ludicrous.
What threw us all off was our parent's motivation.
Why would they LIE about such a thing? He MUSt be real!
It wasn't until 4 years later...I was 8 - and kind of music-saavy for my age.
When Santa left a Bangles album under the tree for me, I knew the jig was up.
The Different Light album was NOT made in Santa's Toyshop.
It was made in Los Angeles.
It was put out on Columbia records.
I watched tons of music television back then - and they actually gave out tidbits like this, and somehow, my 8 year old brain retained it.
No denying - it was possibly the best gift ever...but how Santa came up with 4-part harmonies and jangly guitars - and then laid the tracks down on vinyl...well...come on!
That shit just wasn't possible.

And it all unravelled.
The phony Santa at the mall. The nibbled hot dogs. The empty six pack. The flying reindeer.
And the fear. The dread. The worry I lived with for my first few Christmas eve's.
All that worry. All those clammy palms.
Sweaty brows.
Pounding heartbeats.
All for nothing.
But all of them amazingly, incredibly magical nights.
Yup. My parents got me.
They duped me.
They duped all of us.
I remember my mom and dad tucking me in one Christmas eve.
They left a little glowing Christmas tree by my bed as a night light. It cast a red and orange and pink glow all over the room.
"Mom," I asked, staring at it, "When does Santa STOP coming?"
She paused for a minute, letting it sink in - probably realizing what I was ACTUALLY asking, the under-lying question that I didn't even realize I was poking around at.
How much longer does the magical fairytale last? How much longer will my childhood last?
Finally, she said: "If you want Santa to come every single Christmas, he'll always come. Even when you're a grown up."
I laid there that night, eyes wide, listening for reindeer on the roof thinking about what my mom said.
He'll never skip my house, I remember thinking, the twinkling lights lulling me to sleep.
Not even when I'm all grown up.