Column: Christmas, The Saga Begins

My friend chuckled and said, "Santa is not coming." I chimed in, "I know Santa doesn't come until Christmas and that is exactly 55 days away. I have just enough time to scan all the Christmas catalogs, make up my wish list and watch all the Christmas specials." She chuckled again and said, "Santa is not coming in 55 days. He is not coming at all. He doesn't exist!" And so began one of the all time great debates in the history of humankind. A debate that could only be compared to arguments over whether Superman, Spiderman or Batman would win in a fight. As usual, our debate was steeped in eloquence and tradition like Nixon and Kennedy, Lincoln and Douglas or even the Devil and Daniel Webster. "He does too exist!" "Does not!!" "Does, too! You pighead!" "I know you are, but what am I?" "Hey, takes one to know one!" "I'm rubber and you're glue, anything you say bounces off me and sticks to you!!!" My friend served in her traditional role as the pragmatic, all knowing, immovable object. I got to play the idealistic, all seeing, indestructable force. But I wasn't about to say anything that would bounce off her and stick to me. In the end, I hung up the phone more intent than ever on visiting Santa and giving him my new and improved, everything-I-deserve-because-I-was-darn-good-at-least-once-this-past-year Christmas list. My friend, well, she was still sore over being really good for all of last year and then getting silly dress clothes instead of a pony from Santa. This is the only way I could explain her disbelief. She certainly had no rational proof that Santa doesn't exist. I on the other hand, had iron clad evidence, gift tags signed by Santa, himself! Regardless of what my friend had condescendingly said, I knew Santa existed. Who else would feed Rudolph, with his nose so bright, and keep Mrs. Klaus company during the long off season? Beside that, if there was no Santa then all the elfs would be unemployed. They would have to look for new jobs. And I knew that I hadn't seen any little guys in pointy hats and funny shoes at employee presentations or waiting in line at CPPS. I turned my attention to the more important matter at hand. Once again, I had let Christmas sneak up on me. Why hadn't I started to act like a perfect little gentleman in order to squeeze a few extra gifts from Santa and the folks? Maybe they would all have short memories and could be duped by a sudden rush of angelic behavior? Still, I was pretty sure, Santa wouldn't buy my "I wasn't really naughty, just misguided" speech for another year. And perhaps my parents had gotten wise to my all time classic, "who is to quibble over what is naughty and what is nice, now that I have reformed?" dissertation. I knew I had just turned my calendar to the month of November but it really was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Stores are featuring holiday cards, candy cane wrapping paper, Santa cut outs, red hats and gift displays. Can Christmas trees be far behind? I was worried. I had yet to roast a chestnut, have Jack Frost nip at my nose or even hear sleigh bells ring-ting-tingling. How could I be dreaming of a white Christmas when I had research papers to finish? And how could I be decking the halls with boughs of holly when I was trying to avoid getting mugged walking home? And then the most terrible of all thoughts filled my head. What if my mom had rushed out during the "Christmas in July Sales" and bought all my presents? What if my sisters had seen the "End of the Summer Pre Christmas Promotions" and purchased my gifts. How would they know every little thing my heart desired? Even worse, what if the holly jolly fellow from up North had already checked his list twice and I was slated to receive coal in my stocking? How could I miss out on the greatest getting holiday of all time? I had only one hope left. I must call on all my powers of cover letter flair, resume embellishment, creative excuse making and late night paper BSing. I had to send a rush letter to the North Pole. Maybe Federal Express could deliver it, or better yet, perhaps, I could send a fax directly to Santa's private line? Can tragedy be averted? Will this season bring doom and a big empty space under the tree? Stay tuned and in two weeks read the "tell all," super convincing, letter to the really plumb, (ooops, old habits die hard), just perfect, ideal guy with the kickin' beard and sideburns. And don't miss his personal response. Santa speaks . . . Kurt Michael Reidenbach is a Wharton senior from Summit, New Jersey. In The Sandbox appears alternate Fridays.

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