There once was a time when Santa made a point of showing up in person for every pre-Christmas event scheduled anywhere in the Greater North Pole Metropolitan Area. Since there were so many small communities in that area, Santa was kept busy eating and parading and photo-posing right up to Christmas Eve and takeoff time for his sleigh.
It was an annual scheduling nightmare, a chore that fell to Santa’s reliable right-hand elf, Bells. Until one year…
“OK everybody, take a seat. We’ve got a full agenda. Lots of events to schedule and, as usual, so little time.”
Bells jiggled his cap bells until he had everyone’s attention. Representatives from all the different towns, fraternal organizations, nonprofit groups and schools crowded around a Christmas-ball-shaped conference table.
“East North Pole, your slot is Wednesday at 1p.m., a cheesecake-eating contest and parade. None of the lighted decorations will show. And the kids’ll all be in school.”
“Well, maybe you can switch with the Rotarians. They have Wednesday at five with “cheesesteak dinner with Santa … they can make it a cheesesteak lunch.” The Rotarians reluctantly agreed.
Bells continued down the list after noting that Santa would be eating a “lot of dairy that Wednesday.”
“South North Pole has the Tuesday slot. West North Pole gets Thursday and North Pole Point has Friday.”
Sausage and pancakes in the morning. Hoagies at midday. And this year, the “Southies” have arranged for Santa to compete in a hot dog eating contest.
“Can you spell “H-E-A-R-T-B-U-R-N?”
“Yeah and don’t forget, we’re talking ‘bout a big-hearted guy.”
In between the main events, Santa was expected to turn up to lead a singalong ice cream social at the nursing home in North Pole Crest followed by a sampling of mothers’ chocolate chip cookies at the preschool in Upper North Pole.
“How about weekends?” the Lower North Pole rep asked.
“His Saturdays are booked … flight plan organizing with the reindeer. Of course, Sundays are out of the question.”
The weeks before Christmas filled up quickly as Santa was in demand. Soup and sandwich with the Middle North Pole United Church fellowship group. A benefit bake sale, pie sampling at the Lower North Pole thrift shop. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, ‘tween meal snacks. The weeks before Christmas promised once again to put some pounds on the jolly fat man.
“He won’t be able to fit down a chimney.”
“You say that every year.” Bells replied. “Besides, he won’t say no. After all, it’s for the children.”
Bells thought about that a moment. Used to be, Christmas Day was for the kids but now it’s a monthlong event. Santa was expected to show up everywhere … and EAT!
“It’s overkill, I tell you.”
“Tell that to the Sons of Italy and the Knights. They’re still bickering over who will host SC for their annual Seven Fishes Christmas Eve Dinner … and SC doesn’t even like fish.”
The group finally ironed out all the scheduling details. Bells sighed in relief but in the back of his not very large mind, a worry lingered.
“What if…”
What if you-know-who gets a tummy ache and can’t make all these events, Bells asked himself. “Has SC ever disappointed before?” he answered himself. Hundreds of years on the job and he’s never let anyone down.
“Lay out the spread and he’ll show up,” he told himself. “Don’t go jinxing Christmas with a lot of ‘what ifs’.”
As happened whenever his brain was taxed with thinking, Bells fell into a deep sleep. And as always happened when he slept, Bells dreamed.
In his dream, SC wasn’t a jolly fat man in a red suit hohohoing his way across the world in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. Instead, Bells saw a pale and shrunken man lying in a sick bed at North Pole General Hospital, suffering from the biggest tummy ache of all time.
“You overscheduled his pre-holiday eating engagements,” a teary Mrs. Claus chided the elf. “There won’t be any Christmas this year …
“And it’s all YOUR fault.”
Bells staggered out of the sick room, feeling pretty poorly himself. Outside, the hallway was crawling with media people, sticking microphones in his face and snapping shots with cellphones. All wanted to know one thing:
“Are you the elf who killed Santa Claus?”
Bells glimpsed the headline of the Greater North Pole Herald, scooping all the other news outlets. In bold yet festive red and green type, it read:
“Bells the Elf Makes Santa Sick. Christmas Canceled. Congessional Committee to Investigate.”
Bells’ situation did not improve after he escaped the media onslaught. Overflowing the sidewalk were hordes of angry children and parents holding vigil for their stricken idol. Each child held a lighted candle.
Suddenly someone spotted Bells trying to skulk away.
“There he is,” that someone shouted. “Bells, the killer elf!”
“Let’s get him,” the mob screamed.
They converged upon Bells from every direction.
“Burn him!” frenzied adults screamed. “Kids, use your candles!”
No one spoke in the elf’s defense. So, he spoke for himself.
“I was just doing my job.”
Even he realized that didn’t sound very good.
As the mob closed around him, things didn’t look very promising for Bells’ future. Fortunately, as with all his dreams, this one ended before it ended … with Bells awake, cap bells jingling. A call from Santa.
Instead of a bed-bound Claus, Bells found the boss in the middle of the bustling workshop, holding up his Santa suit for Bells to see.
“My pants don’t fit,” he bellowed. “Bells, have it taken in some more.
“By the way, where do I have to eat today … I hope it’s not pizza again. Last night’s ‘Pizza Pig Out with Santa’ fundraiser at the brewery had pineapple and anchovies for toppings.”
“You know I hate anchovies. Heartburn.”
Bells was so happy to see Santa, he didn’t answer. Everyone in the workshop turned to look at him.
“Well?” Santa asked.
“Nowhere, Santa. No more eating engagements. Not today or any day until Christmas Eve. Then you can stuff your face with milk and cookies all night.”
He then flipped out his cellphone and started punching numbers, calling every town and organization in the Greater North Pole Metropolitan Area to cancel Santa’s appearances. If he’d taken a moment to look, he would have noticed an expression of relief on SC’s face.
It took an entire North Pole day, calling or texting, but he reached them all. Some were not happy at the change in plans.
“Well, hire a jolly fat guy to wear a red costume and laugh and eat a lot then,” Bells told them. Turns out this was a good idea, one that freed all those who wanted an event visit from Santa to schedule anytime they wanted rather than being “squeezed in.”
In fact, it was such a good idea that it became an annual tradition at the North Pole and one which quickly spread all over the world. So, today and every day until Christmas, you’ll probably run into a Santa anywhere food is being served for some cause or other.
As for the real Santa, he never complained again about a tummy ache. And he’ll be there Christmas Eve at your house … assuming you were good this year.
Just be sure to leave out those milk and cookies.
