Big Red Jacket, coming out of the car with a cloud of steam. Wouldn’t know if its Donner or Blitzen. Certainly didn’t blitz to get here. Saints never usually do; they like to take their time. Make you wait for hours in a cold parking-lot of an abandoned Sports Authority at the end of a large strip mall. Yet, Christmas came early this year; he was almost on time. My Santa gets in the car, greetings are exchanged, seasonal in fact. He says Merry Christmas, so do I. Ironic cause I know he’s Muslim. I’m Jewish. But today we’re both Christians. And in his brownish backpack that he dragged in with him, nothing but tannenbaums. “Half off for the Holidays?” I ask facetiously.

He laughs, mutters how he’s gotta eat, then pauses and says, “Awe hell. I’ve been paying attention, you’ve been a good homie all year. Why don’t you take an extra dub, you can pick the bag.”

”You sure?” I reply. “You don’t gotta do that.”

”I’m sure man, it’s the holidays, I was already thought about it twice before I pulled up on ya. Ask again and the offer goes with me.”

We dab hands, I say my gratitude, he tells me he’s gotta get back to his “hoes”; we laugh and I let him go. Out of my car he gets back into the cold, pops the trunk, swings in his sack, and slams the door back down. He walks to his driver side, big red jacket gleaming from my headlights, opens the door and surrounds himself in a cloud of steam. Ol Saint Nick gives a wave, hops in his sleigh and off he flies. Back to his workshop, or more deliveries, only he knows.