'Tis the season forgiving copyright 2025 by Don Taco
It was the night before christmas, and all through the house, the damned mice WERE stirring. You can hear them in the walls, which are paper-thin in a decrepit old trailer like mine. It gets really bad, like this, when we have a sudden, severe cold snap, which isn't that common. The weather in Oregon is temperate, even, easy-going, almost friendly. As long as you don't mind the fact that it rains every day. It does, you know. Now, it doesn't rain all day every day. That would be biblical. It rains a bit every day, and a lot some days, and a middling amount on other days. Which means grey, overcast, often gloomy days at least half of the time, and rare appearances of the stars. When the meteor showers are announced, we dutifully peek our heads out at the appointed hour, take a quick glance upward at the cloud cover, with no expectations, and go back inside. The children of the sun rapidly move away again to other, shinier states.
So, it's christmas eve, and it's raining, lightly, and the mice are doing whatever the hell it is they do that makes that scratching sound, in the wall by the front door, near enough to my desk to be annoying. I suspect the noise is them chewing on things, absoluely anything, but what can you do about it? Pounding on the wall stops it for just about long enough to get back to the desk and sit down again, and that game gets old really fast.
The scritchy noise seemed odd tonight, and after a minute I thought, "Is that coming from outside?" I went over to the front door. The top half is glass. Pulled aside the cheap vinyl blinds and looked out. There was a scruffy-looking shaggy-haired individual, all dressed in red, sitting on the steps of my front porch, with his back to me. I quickly deduced that he was using the bottom step to scrape mud off his boots. Then I realized he wasn't dressed in red, but wrapped in red. A Pendleton blanket, very much the worse for wear. I don't know how popular, well-known, or common a Pendleton blanket is in the rest of the world, but here in the Northwest, they are as identifiable as they are ubiquitous. The Pendleton Woolen Mills have been supplying us with blankets, shirts, and sweaters since the pioneer days. Quite recognizeable patterns. The saying goes, here in Oregon, that 'Sunday best' means a clean flannel shirt. They seem to be everywhere because they are everywhere. I own several, and I never wear wool, because I'm one of the people that find it so itchy that I can't stand it.
He continued assaulting my lowest step with his ratty footwear. I opened the door and stepped outside. "What the hell?" It startled him. He whipped his head around and said, "Oh shit. I thought no one was home." All my cheesy 1970s double pane windows are packed full of bubble wrap, the cheapest insulation available, and covered inside with thick plastic sheeting, so he can be forgiven for thinking no lights were on. He jumped to his feet and turned to me, wobbling a bit. I immediately assumed he'd been drinking. I had, myself. It was a cold winter night.
I said, "Who the hell are you?" Why his identity, or even his name, would be important information to me, I have no idea. I opened my mouth and that's what I blurted out. "I'm Santa Claus," he stated, not slurring the words too very much. Now that made me laugh. It takes some chutzpah to claim you're Kris Kringle with only a week or so of scruffy beard stubble. Me, I have the beard, but no one accuses me of being Saint Nick, because, well, I'm not jolly. The word you want, I think, is 'acerbic.' Plus, even at this age, I'm scrawny. In fact, as I reach a ripe old age, I'm shrinking again, in height and girth. So be it. I wasn't born to be glamorous, or photogenic, and I accepted that long ago.
"Okay, Mister Claus, " I said. "I'm going to have to ask you to move along. I can't have grubby strangers hanging around on my porch. Not in this neighborhood. People will call the cops, and I don't want to chat with them any more than you do." And that's completely true. Some of the neighbors seem to think I myself am a homeless bum, even though they know where I live. He looked out into the rain, which was falling a little harder now. "C'mon man," he said. "It's christmas." Ever the pedant, I replied, "No, man. It's christmas eve." He took a few steps, to the edge of the overhanging roof, then stopped and turned to me again. "You wouldn't happen to have a couple of bucks for a bottle of wine, would you?" he pleaded.
Now I was really tickled pink. You can't stop at a highway rest area anymore without finding at least one bum settled in, with a cardboard sign sttesting to their woes, and need for assistance. And even in a tiny burg like the hamlet I live in, busy street corners are being worked by individuals and their cardboard announcements. And those stories are all lies. Out of gas. Wounded veteran. Family of eight. Unfairly evicted. And so on. All lies. They write whatever they think will gain the sympathy of the folks who actually have some empathy. And loose change.
So his unexpected and candid honesty was a rare treat. Ordinarily I'm not someone who gives money away. I don't have any to give. And if I did, there are causes I support that are far more important to me than the homeless. Plus, I want my tax break if I'm going to make donations. That's why I refuse to round up for the charity'du'jour at the grocery store. Why should a mega-million supermarket get a tax deduction using my money. Let them donate their own.
Chuckling, I got out my wallet. I don't carry much cash. I put everything on the card, and write one check a month. I'm lazy. All I had was a five, so I gave it to him. He lit up like the Madame LaRou pinball. He'd hit the jackpot. I don't have any kind of idea what wine appeals to him, but five dollars wouldn't even buy a small bottle of anything I'd consider drinkable. Not him, apparently. He muttered profuse thanks and headed out into the drizzle and down the street.
After a minute, I got to thinking. And I ducked inside, shrugged on my coat and doffed my rain hat, then started down the street after him. It took about a block and a half for him to notice. Then, for the next two blocks, he kept glancing back over his shoulder, looking more nervous all the time. I followed. It's not my fault that I look menacing in a trench coat and fedora. That's what I wear.
I caught up to him at the stoplight. It's a tee intersection, and the bulk of the traffic is turning to the right, so it's worth your life to try to scramble across without waiting for your proper walk signal. He confronted me, whining a little. "What's going on, man? Why're you following me?" I leaned in close, and told him, "I just want to make sure you don't waste any of that money on a burger or a cup of coffee or something."
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