Chris-mas Eve

“So yeah. It’s pretty stressful.”

“Sounds like it.”

Chris patted Donnie on the shoulder with a firm hand. “You should be happy with your job. What is it nowadays? Fast food?”

Donnie nodded, licking his lips. He could smell the carrots steaming from the kitchen. "Yes, that is one of my… many jobs.”

“Many?” Chris laughed. “You’re a hard-working lad.”

“Well, yes, Dad. Not all of us have a job that pays as well as yours.”

The doorbell rung as Chris nodded his head. “Who’s that?”

Donnie was already up on his feet and answering the door. “Remember, I told you my friend was coming over for our Christmas Eve dinner. Be cool.” Donnie opened the door and let in a stout, sturdy, and somewhat frozen man. “This is Bill, Dad.”

Bill shook Chris’s hand.

“Bill, huh? I like your jacket,” Chris said.

“Thanks, it was cold out there. I like your beard.”

“Oh please,” Donnie said, beginning to lead Bill toward the kitchen. “Don’t get him started on his beard. He’s been growing it out for years, and he’s too proud of it.”

“Why don’t you let him sit down and we can talk together?” Chris asked, reaching over to gently touch Donnie’s arm.

Donnie sighed and gestured Bill to a chair by the Christmas tree.

“So,” Bill said, sitting down, “what’s cooking in the kitchen?”

“Carrots,” Donnie said.

“For the reindeer,” Chris added.

“Reindeer?” Bill asked. “Like Santa’s reindeer?”

“No,” Donnie said quickly. “My dad actually does sleigh-rides for people. Like carriage rides, but for the Christmas season.”

“Does he pretend to be Santa?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Okaaaay,” Bill said slowly. “Well, I suppose that seems like a fun job.”

“I actually run a business,” Chris said. “It’s a delivery service, of sorts. We manufacture things and deliver them to houses. At least that’s what the business is supposed to do.”

“Does it not work?” Bill asked, confused.

“Well, sometimes it’s pretty hard to get those little men to make everything correctly,” Chris explained.

Bill’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. Are the men actually little—like in size—or are you just verbally belittling them?”

“They’re usually about four feet tall.”

“So,” Donnie interrupted, “dinner?”

“Forget dinner, Don!” Bill exclaimed, standing up. “I think your dad is Santa Claus!”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Chris laughed, his body shaking in a way in which one might describe as a bowlful of jelly.

“No, I’m… pretty sure your dad is Saint Nick. Look at his cheeks—they’re red like roses. Don’t you remember the poem? His cheeks are like roses, his nose like a cherry.”

“I highly disagree,” Donnie said, gripping Bill by the shoulders. “His cheeks could easily be as red as tomatoes.”

“And his nose?”

“Like a red… grape?”

Bill stared blankly at Donnie.

“What? Is that not a thing?”

Bill took a few deep breaths, composing himself. “I actually think I’d better head home now. I would like to tell my kids that I met Santa Claus.” Bill started to leave.

Donnie turned to Chris. “You have got to find a better way of explaining your profession.” Then he turned and headed toward Bill. “Bill, don’t leave! My dad isn’t Kris Kringle!”

“I’ll see you tonight, Bill,” Chris called after him. “Don’t forget the cookies!”

“Dad!”

“And I like my milk warm!”