Santa Doesn't Go to Vegas

Merry Christmas! Here's a short story from me to you

pic via

I stood in the middle of our apartment building courtyard, which was a big dirt pit with a single Queen Palm that had just been planted a week before as a Christmas gift for the residents, or so I heard my dad say when he was complaining about the rent going up “because of that goddamn tree.”

But I wasn’t concerned about the tree. I was concerned about Santa. I was five and having my doubts about the man’s existence. Many things have been tuning out different from what I had been told, and the trust I was born with was eroding. 

For one, before we moved to Las Vegas, my parents said things would be better than they were back in Buffalo. But they didn’t seem better. We lived in a smaller apartment, so I heard my parents argue more. It was hot all the time, so I had to stay inside the smaller apartment more. And I had to start going to school, which meant I got to watch TV less. 

What was better?

But lately, the thing that had been causing me the most stress was this nagging feeling that Santa couldn’t deliver presents to every apartment in this massive complex. There were at least 100 apartments, none of them had chimneys, and everyone locked their doors, according to my mom, who made sure to double check that every bolt on the door was locked every time we came inside. 

How could Santa do it? 

I stood in the pit, imagining Santa trying to deliver presents to every apartment, and still having time to go around the world. Just this apartment building would take all night. And so I figured he couldn’t. And if he couldn’t, then they lied about Santa. Who lied? Everyone. My parents, the TV shows, the cardboard cut-outs at the stores. 

Feeling depressed, I started going back to our apartment to watch TV, and they better not be showing any Christmas junk, either. 

That’s when Glenn, the kid next door who was my age, ran up to me with a handful of dirt and threw it in my eyes.

This was the third time Glenn had done this to me that week, and since I recognized the pain of pellets hitting my eyes, it didn't hurt as much. But I still cried as I ran back to my apartment.

The doors were bolted locked as always, so I banged on the door, screaming “MOMMY!”

My mom let me in. Last time this happened, she panicked and moistened a towel to gently remove the dirt from my eyes. This time was different. She moistened the towel and roughly got the dirt out of my eyes.

“You can’t just let that little shit do that to you,” she said. “You gotta fight back.”

My dad grabbed the towel from my mom and threw it aside. He grabbed my chin to make eye contact like a man.

“If you come back here crying again, I’ll give you something to really cry about,” he said. 

I was still thinking about Santa’s logistics, but I knew he was serious. 

The next day, I was standing around in the dirt courtyard by the new palm tree again. There weren’t any parks or playgrounds nearby and child abductions were a regular feature on the local news, so the dirt courtyard was the only place I was allowed to go. I stood there wondering if Santa saves kids from being kidnapped. And if not, why not since he must have some sort of magical power, but how come you never hear about such things happening, when Glenn popped up again.

“Hey fatso,” he said.

 I forgot to tell you that I was a chubby kid. Glenn was a skinny kid with long hair. I don’t know if his dad lived with him, but mine lived with me and I didn’t want him to give me something to cry about. So I grabbed Glenn’s hair and banged his head against the tree.

Since I was a chubby kid and he was a skinny kid, it was easy for me to keep hold of his head, which is something I had never realized before. It felt good, so I banged his head against the tree again.

And again and again. 

I kept on doing it until a large woman in sweatpants and a t-shirt came running at me.

“Let him go!” she screamed. 

I didn’t because now I was thinking about all the dirt in my eyes and I was enjoying my first experience of revenge. 

But then the large woman slapped me. It hurt and I let go of Glenn’s hair. He ran away a few feet crying. I saw his nose and mouth were bloody and I felt good. 

The large woman reached her arm back to slap me again, but my mom appeared out of nowhere and punched the woman in her mouth, knocking her down on her butt. 

“Don’t you ever touch my son, you bitch!” my mom said. 

When my dad came home, my mom told him what happened and he was the happiest I’d ever seen him. He laughed and hugged us both and even picked me up, which he never did because I was so chubby.

“That’s my goddamn boy!” he said. 

He kissed my mom.

“And that’s my woman! Knocked her on her ass!” he said. 

My dad was so happy that he went into the bedroom and came out with a brand-new Nintendo, which is what I had asked Santa for. 

“It’s a few days early, but what the hell,” he said. “Merry Christmas, kid. You earned it.”

I couldn’t believe it. A Nintendo! I had one now. I had only seen it on TV and now I had one in real life. 

“Santa didn’t bring it, did he?” I said. 

“No. I did,” my dad said. “Come on, let’s set it up and see what the hell I spent so much money on.”

The world made more sense now. 

My mom patted my head gently.