No, Virginia, There is No Santa Claus

The other day, I was in a department store and I passed by a long line of young Asian children waiting their turn to sit on Santa's lap. I peeked around the corner and saw that this appointed Santa looked about as phony as this guy on the right. I wondered to myself whether these Asian kids ask the rhetorical question of why Santa has round eyes. And do African-American tots consider it strange when they are handing their list to a Causcasian St. Nick? As a matter of fact, here's a song devoted solely to that very topic:

It seems so antiquated now to believe in Santa Claus. Maybe because all the kids that I am associated with are all grown up themselves. Yes, I went through the ritual with them. I specialized in eating the cookies that were usually left on the fireplace mantle. I don't, however, remember specifically how any of them came to learn the harsh reality.

I do recall how it ended for me. With the nastiest and most abrupt thud you've ever want to experience.

I must have been six or seven. And this was another childhood nightmare precipitated by my neighborhood pal, Monte. I've written about him before. The idiot is still in the damn house and he hasn't had a haircut or a bath since Reagan was eating Jelly Bellies in the Oval Office. He's the one who told me stories from his nuns about how doomed I was not being Catholic.

The myth ended quickly. We were playing outside one December day and Monte turned to me with a wry sense of malice.

"You know all your Christmas presents are being hidden in my house?"

"Huh?"

"Yeah, your mother asked my mother to keep them till Christmas. Because there is no Santa Claus."

I went home to mourn. But, yet, I still wasn't sure Monte wasn't pulling a fast one.

A few weeks later, on Christmas morning, I happened to lift the box containing my Flintstones play set upside down. And there it was. In big black letters.

SHOP AT MACY'S TOY DEPARTMENT.

Is that where Santa got it?

More likely, Monte had chipped away one more piece of my childhood.

Dinner last night: Chef's salad.