Dear Santa
Michael W. Nadeau
Copyright 2011 -- all rights reserved
Special thanks to Doctor John for his editing and especially for his encouragement.
Peter and I sat opposite each other, enjoying the lunch buffet at our favorite restaurant after church. Our conversation on this particular Sunday turned to the relationship between him and Jerry, his partner of nearly twenty years. Peter had just finished telling me how he could remember only one or two small tiffs between them over the last year.
"You're jealous?" he exclaimed. "Of us? Why?"
"Just look at what you two have together," I replied. "You have each other. You both have successful careers. You own a lovely home together, and your children, as well as Jerry's, think your partnership is great."
It was true. I had met all six of Peter's adult children, their spouses and fiancées, even his ex-wife. At holidays Peter and Jerry went all out to include both extended families, as well as many of their friends, in the festivities. They both had successful careers, Jerry as a master pastry chef at one of the city's top restaurants, and Peter as the area's most sought-after massage therapist.
"But you have Brad," Peter countered.
"Had Brad," I corrected him. "He's straight, a shameless womanizer, and the only thing I ever got from him is `Mikey, buy me some smokes. Mikey, buy me a bottle.' I can't count the number of times I came home to find him standing in the window, flipping me off and thinking it's cute. Not really the sort of thing I want to see when I get home after a week on the road. Thank God he went back to his ex-wife; he's not my problem anymore.
"You see, Peter, I look at what you and Jerry have built together," I continued, "and I want that opportunity for myself. I can't tell you how much I admire you both."
I can't recall the last time I saw Peter blush like he did at that moment.
-0-
The printer on my desk sucked in a sheet of paper and spat it back out. I always like to print what I have written and then read it aloud. After hearing how the words flow, I'll make whatever changes should be made. Sounds old fashioned, I know, but that's just the way I have always done things. I guess that comes from my days in radio when I was a top- rated morning show presenter, back before the economy took a nosedive. I cleared my throat before launching into my recitation.
"Dear..."
Almost immediately tears came to my eyes, and my voice choked to a whisper before I got to the next word.
"...Santa."
Christ, I thought, how pathetic is this? I'm a grown man, writing a letter to Santa Claus because...because...why?
Because I'm so incredibly lonely. Because I just want someone to hold and someone to love and someone to care for me and about me and someone I can care about. Is that asking too much?
Okay, maybe I'm asking a lot. But shopping around for a boyfriend is not like going to the grocery store. And my line of work...well, thanks to the economy, I'm now a long-haul truck driver...doesn't make the social life any easier. I often wonder if it would be fair to a partner if I were only home one or two nights a week, if that often.
So, back to my letter to Santa.
Dear Santa, [I read aloud.]
Yes, I myself find it hard to believe that I'm composing a letter about what I really want for Christmas. I thought I had stopped believing in you years ago, but now I'm not so sure. Perhaps you are my last hope.
You see, Santa, I am a gay man. I'm quite comfortable with my sexuality. But what I really want for Christmas is a boyfriend, a steady boyfriend, maybe even someone with whom I can start a life. Make that we...we can start a life together. Yes, I have a small circle of like-minded men, but they're either taken, or they just don't fit the bill, not that I'm all that picky, but I know what I want. I'd like someone around my own age (mid to late 50's), someone of my own race and spiritual outlook, and -- and this one is perhaps the most important part -- someone who agrees that sex is not the most important part of a relationship.
I try very hard to be a good person, Santa. You already know that I'm a truck driver. Well, then you also know that I accept every order my dispatcher gives me, no matter how far from home it may take me, and I don't grumble or complain about it. I don't hang out with the `lot lizards'. I go to church every Sunday. And I do pray that everyone in this world, me included, gets what they really, really want in life.
So, if there's any room in your sleigh for nice guy who feels the same way I do, I'd be grateful if you'd leave him under my Christmas tree. I promise to take good care of him. I'll treat him with all the love and respect I can give, just the same as I would like to be treated.
Most people who write letters to Santa would leave a glass of milk and some cookies by the fireplace for you. But since we're both adults, something a little stronger might be in order: Perhaps a shot of peppermint schnapps to warm you up on a cold night.
So thanks for reading my letter, Santa. Give my love to Mrs. Claus and my regards to the elves.
Yours, Mikey
Well, not a bad effort, I thought. But how would it look, a man my age -- 58, if you must know -- dropping a letter to Santa in the mailbox at the post office? And what of the person who reads that letter? I'm out of the closet, but that might be just a little embarrassing.
Since I had made some attempts at writing erotic fiction in the past, I decided to post my letter to Santa on one of those sites where amateur authors can display their work. I wondered how readers would receive my latest effort. Would they view it as a flight of whimsy or a pathetic cry for help?
What the hell, I thought. I didn't really care what anyone else got out of it. My letter to Santa described very clearly the depression I felt on that evening in mid-December, how I always get around the holidays when families gather together to celebrate. I had no family and no one else in my life.
On Christmas Eve, just as I had promised, I left a shot glass of peppermint schnapps by the fireplace just on the off-chance that Saint Nicholas might come down my chimney. Then I retired for the night.
Christmas Day dawned clear and cold, without snow, leaving the morning news commentators bemoaning the lack of a "White Christmas". I didn't mind. As a truck driver I can handle rain and cold temperatures, but I'd rather not deal with snow.
I descended from my second-floor bedroom to find my stocking empty and nothing under my sorry excuse for a Christmas tree. It was just a small artificial tree on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. I headed for the kitchen to make some oatmeal muffins, hoping that the aroma of something from the oven might lighten my mood.
At holidays such as Christmas and Thanksgiving I usually go all out and make a feast, everything from appetizers to a decadent dessert. But this year it would be just me. My dispatcher had already scheduled me to leave the following day with a load bound for Kansas City. So any leftovers would just grow old in the refrigerator. As much as I would have loved a slice of mincemeat pie, it just didn't seem worth the effort.
I could have stayed in my condo after church, drowning my sorrows in a bottle of vodka whilst surfing my favorite porn sites. But Christmas should be a time for getting out and about, even if there's no family to share the holiday. The local casino put out a great buffet spread at holidays, and there would be no hassle of washing dishes and leaving the leftovers to go bad while I'm out on the road. I thought I might even get lucky at the blackjack table.
Finding a place to park in the casino's lot was easier said than done. But, as a truck driver, I'm used to navigating tight spaces. Even so, the closest space was at the far end of the parking lot. The place was packed beyond belief.
Every table in the restaurant was taken. So I chose to hit the blackjack table where I might win enough to pay for dinner. I've always been pretty lucky at the game, and I did, in fact, win enough to pay for dinner and a drink or two. When I checked the restaurant again after an hour or so, the crowd had not dissipated, and the hostess suggested that I might want to wait in the bar.
That sounded like a decent idea. But the bar was almost as crowded. I was fortunate to find a small table in a secluded corner of the room. It took a few minutes for one of the servers to notice that I was sitting there without a drink. He appeared to be in his mid 20's, well-built, wearing an obviously fake Santa Claus beard and wire-rim spectacles.
"Merry Christmas, sir!" he greeted me. "I'm Sam; I'll be your server. What can I get you to drink?"
I leaned back and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. "Let's go all out. Top-shelf vodka martini, two olives, on the rocks."
"Vodka martini, coming right up, sir." And he made his way back to the bar to get my order.
It was then that a good-looking man entered the bar. He appeared to be about my age, maybe a little younger, about my height with dark brown hair. He wore a grey suit...one might call it banker's grey...with a beige sweater-vest. He looked a little ill at ease, scanning the room as if he had never been in a bar before or wasn't sure why he was there. Beyond the initial glance I didn't pay him much attention, other than to make a mental note of how attractive he was.
Presently Sam arrived with my martini, and a moment later the handsome man stood before me.
"Pardon me," he began. "But there don't seem to be any free seats in here. I hope I'm not intruding, but, um, may I join you?"
I motioned for him to sit, and Sam was back at our table in a flash, placing a cocktail napkin before him. The man spotted my drink, and then looked up at Sam. "I'll have what he's having."
His voice was a rich tenor; I could have listened to it all day.
"Top-shelf vodka martini, two olives, on the rocks," Sam said. "Coming right up."
"I'm Paul." The man turned to me and extended his hand.
"Michael, but everybody calls me Mikey." I shook his hand; he had a firm grip. Instantly my mind went wandering to the place that wondered how good that firm grip would feel around my cock. I made a mental note to file this man under "Fantasies".
Sam brought Paul's drink and a complimentary plate of raw vegetables with ranch dipping sauce. We sipped our drinks, munched on the veggies, and talked of our lives. He was a computer consultant, just having moved to the city in the last few months, following an amicable divorce from his wife of twenty years. Co-incidentally he had rented a condo in the same complex as mine but spent most of his time on the road visiting his company's clients in person to resolve their computer issues.
I told him of my background in broadcasting and how the economic downturn had forced me to seek another line of work. At least we had that much in common: Living out of our suitcases.
"Just like your job, I never know where my next assignment will take me or how long I'll be there. In fact, I just got home last night from a two-week job in Peoria. I was so tired when I got home, my head hit the pillow before I had my shoes off."
"Peoria?" He had piqued my curiosity. "My home terminal is just outside Peoria."
"And yet you live in Indiana?"
"My usual routes are in the Midwest, anywhere from Missouri to Ohio," I explained.
"Any family?" he asked. I saw my opening.
"Just one brother who lives in Boston," I replied. "No wife, no kids. In fact, I'm gay."
He had no problem with that. He actually smiled and raised an eyebrow. Since he appeared to be unattached and I laid my cards on the table, I decided to make a small move.
"So, you come here often?" I asked with a smirk. "Yeah, I know what a cheesy pickup line that is."
He smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth. "Actually," he replied, "I've never been to this casino. I've got nothing against gambling, just haven't had the time."
"So what made you decide to get all dressed up and come here for dinner?"
"Well," he began, "it's kinda strange. When I got up this morning, I was going through the mail, and there was a letter, something about an invitation to an old-fashioned Christmas dinner with all the trimmings today at the casino. It sounded a lot better than having to search the kitchen for whatever might be there. And the price was reasonable. And it was just signed `S'."
It didn't strike me as strange at all, and I told him so. "You got on someone's mailing list. They printed a form letter, and here you are."
"I don't think so." He was about to reveal a mystery and pulled the letter from his pocket and showed it to me. "Look at the letters. When you print a document on a computer printer, the letters are always exactly the same. That's not the case here. When you write something by hand, the letters are never the same."
I can never resist a mystery. "Okay, you're the computer guy. Has anyone been able to create a font that varies the shape of the letters?"
"Not yet," Paul replied. "And here's something else. This letter was written with an old-fashioned fountain pen."
"A fountain pen?" I was in disbelief. "I haven't seen one of those in thirty-five or forty years. But how can you tell?"
"The smudges and trails left by the ink," he said. "These days almost everybody uses ballpoint pens, so we don't notice the characteristics of what's on paper."
By this time we had finished our martinis, and Sam stepped to our table to ask if we wanted a refill.
"Well, Sam," I began, "it's Christmas, so there should be something special, something seasonal."
"Yes," Paul agreed. "What magic have you got up your sleeve, Sam?"
Sam thought out loud for a moment. "Hmm, eggnog for Christmas Eve, champagne for New Year's. I know! I have just the thing. I'll be right back."
And he scurried away back to the bar, leaving Paul and me to wonder what he would come up with. In a moment he was back with two small shot glasses filled with a clear liqueur. He placed them on the table.
"And if you gentlemen are ready, I just spotted an open table in the dining room."
"Yes," I replied, "I'm definitely ready for dinner."
Paul and I raised our glasses in salute, wished each other a happy holiday, and downed the liqueur.
Peppermint schnapps.
The memory of the shot glass by the fireplace briefly crossed my mind, but there was no time to pursue that thought as Sam led us to a secluded table in the dining room. He seated us and took our order. We had passed the buffet tables which were loaded with all manner of traditional and modern Christmas dishes. Rather than look over the printed menu, we both ordered the buffet. Sam made notes on his order pad.
"Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen. Please help yourself to the buffet. And if you need anything, please let me know."
When Sam had left our table, we arose and headed for the buffet. Paul whispered, "Did you see that?"
"See what?" I wondered.
A questioning look crossed Paul's face. "When he wrote down our order, he was using a fountain pen."
"Are you sure?" I asked, looking at Sam's retreating backside. Damn, I thought, that is one fine backside. For a moment I thought I saw him turn his head back in our direction with a smile on his face that said he had heard my silent thoughts. "You think maybe he's S?"
"Who knows?" Paul conceded.
Dinner was everything the casino had promised, every dish a masterpiece of Yuletide cuisine, and we continued our conversation. I learned that he and his wife, Valerie, had agreed to go their separate ways on friendly terms. They still saw each other fairly often, each one harboring a secret hope that they might reconcile. Together they had two sons, one a high-school senior and the other in college. He kept pictures of them in his wallet; both boys had inherited Paul's good looks.
I told him of Timmy, my former lover; we had split about five years earlier when he decided that his life would revolve around his cat rather than his relationship with me.
"Oh, that's cold," Paul sympathized.
"Just as well," I joked. "Timmy was like a dead fish in bed. So, cat and fish, they're made for each other."
"Nobody since then?" Paul inquired.
I shook my head. "Sadly, no one. But I'm holding out hope. In fact, I...no, you'll think it's silly."
"Think what's silly?" I had aroused Paul's curiosity.
I opened up and told him of the letter I had written to Santa. He actually thought it was quite sweet. "If only it were that easy. Just put it out there and ask for what you really want. I like to think that the Universe does hear our requests and sends the answers. We just have to recognize them when they're right in front of us."
"So now you're a preacher?" I said with a smirk. "I think you'd like my church."
Paul smiled. "A little church-goin' never hurt anyone. Ready for dessert?"
"You bet," I said, arising from my chair. "I saw a mincemeat pie at the buffet. That's my all-time favorite decadent dessert."
As we returned to our table, Sam approached us, having cleared away our dirty dishes. "Did you gentlemen enjoy the main course? I see you've chosen the mincemeat pie for dessert. Our pastry chef brought out his grandmother's secret recipe; it's even got real meat in it."
"Venison?" I asked.
Sam smiled and nodded before leaving us. "Enjoy."
"Venison mincemeat," I said, savoring the first bite. "You either love it or you hate it; there is no in-between. Mmm, this is the real thing."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "You mean the stuff you get at the grocery store has no meat in it? Isn't there some law about truth in advertising?"
I grinned at him. "Shut up and enjoy the sugar rush."
After coffee and a complimentary brandy, I paid the bill and left Sam a nice tip. I hadn't seen a wedding ring on his left hand, but I know how having to work on holidays can take its toll on family. It was then that I noticed the surname on his nametag...Nichols. I wondered if he was any relation to the Nichols for whom my street was named. Paul and I returned to my condo to see if we could find a football game on TV.
I stoked the fire, added a couple logs to warm the place up, and started the ceiling fan to get the warm air down to our level. In just a few minutes the first floor of the condo was a little cozier. We removed our topcoats, and Paul settled on the sofa in front of the television while I went to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of something and a couple glasses.
"I hope you like vodka," I said.
It was then that Paul noticed the small tree in the breakfast bar. "At least you put up a tree; that's a lot more than I did at my place. But you've left your presents unopened."
I didn't think to look at my "tree". "No one sends me presents at Christmas although I might get a card from my brother if his wife remembers that I even exist. We've never been really close."
"Well," Paul remarked, "somebody left you something. Does anyone else have a key to your condo? Maybe your brother is in town waiting to surprise you."
"More than likely he's working a double shift at the firehouse," I said. "He always says how he and his wife need the extra money. But I'll call his wife just in case."
I reached for the phone and dialed his number. His wife answered after a couple rings and told me that Johnny was, indeed, spending the day at the firehouse for what seemed the twentieth year in a row. I wished her a Merry Christmas and told her I'd call back later and we'd catch up then.
"As I expected," I said, returning to the sofa, "he's at the firehouse, keeping the city safe from careless people who start fires."
Paul was still curious about the package under my tree. "Well, are you going to open your present, or am I?"
"I suppose," I said. "But I can't for the life of me think of who would leave a present, much less how they would have gotten in without tripping the alarm."
Paul smirked. "Maybe it's from Santa after all."
"Yeah, right. And reindeer really can fly."
I retrieved the small, flat package from the breakfast bar and looked toward the fireplace. It was then that I noticed that the shot glass had been emptied.
I sat back down on the sofa with the package on my lap. I turned to Paul and said, "Let me smell your breath."
"What for?" he asked.
"Just humor me."
He breathed on my face, but I smelled no trace of peppermint.
"So what was that all about?" he asked.
"Remember when I told you about my letter to Santa?" I explained. "I told him in my letter that I would leave a shot of peppermint schnapps by the fireplace. Now the shot glass is empty. I didn't drink it. And I didn't smell any peppermint on your breath. So you didn't drink it."
"Maybe Santa took you up on your offer. Do you walk in your sleep? People have been known to do stranger things in their sleep."
I looked for another explanation. "A free drink is just what my ex-roommate would be looking for. But I'm sure I got his key when he moved out."
"Let's worry about all that later," Paul said. "Now, open your gift, or I will."
Paul was emphatic. I like that in a man. I tore open the wrapping paper to reveal a picture frame as a small envelope fell to the floor. As I turned the frame over, the picture in the frame made my blood run cold.
It was a picture of Paul and me, walking barefoot and hand in hand on a beach, carrying what looked like a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a grocery bag that looked like it contained some snack food items.
My mother used to tell me to close my mouth, or I would look like I was catching flies. But that was the look on my face at that moment: One of astonishment and maybe fear.
"What the hell?" I whispered.
Paul seemed just as perplexed. He bent down to pick up the small envelope from the floor. "Maybe this will explain a few things."
He tore open the envelope and removed the card. "To Paul and Mikey,'" he read aloud. "Merry Christmas and many more to come.' And it's signed `S'. It looks like the same pen from my letter."
He took the letter from his jacket pocket and held it next to the card. "Yes, these were written by the same hand with the same fountain pen. Whoever sent me this letter is the same person who left this gift for you."
I was determined to pursue the mystery. "I think there is someone else involved."
I reached for the phone and dialed the restaurant at the casino. The head bartender answered, and I quickly made up a story of leaving my wallet in the bar and that perhaps our server had turned it in. After a few questions and fewer answers from the bartender, I ended the call.
"What was that all about?" Paul asked. "You didn't really leave your wallet at the bar. I saw you put it back into your pocket."
"There is no Sam Nichols working there today or any other day," I explained. "In fact, they don't have any male servers at all.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"I'm Paul," he replied, "the guy you met at the casino a couple hours ago."
Almost immediately I regretted my choice of words. "No, that's not what I meant. I don't know what I mean. This picture, you, the empty shot glass...can you tell me what's happening to me?"
It had been years since I cried, but I could feel the tears start to come, tears of confusion mixed with tears of joy. Paul was quick to lean in, and he wrapped his arms around me.
"Hey, sweetheart, no tears on Christmas; it's a time to be happy," he tried to comfort me. But I couldn't stop the tears.
I stopped crying after a few minutes. "I'm sorry about that. I hope I didn't ruin your jacket. But all this is so confusing." I stopped for a moment before continuing. "Why did you call me `sweetheart'?"
"I'm not sure," Paul replied. "You seemed to need consoling, and I just did what came naturally. Tell me, what do you know about Sam Nichols...or anyone named Nichols?"
"I just met him right before you walked in." I wanted to solve this mystery just as much as Paul did. "Let's see...Nichols...I went to school with a guy named Nichols, but I haven't seen him in forty years. One of my ex-boyfriends, his half-brother was Nickel like in money. But his mother says he's just a raving alcoholic these days. Then there's Nichols Boulevard, the street we live on. That's it. What about you?"
"Nichols...Nick...Nick...Nicholas," Paul turned the name over out loud.
"Sam," I continued his train of thought. "Sam...S. Nichols...S. Nicholas...Saint Nicholas?"
Paul smiled. "Santa Claus. There's no other explanation," he said, satisfied that we had reached an answer, maybe not the right answer, but a satisfactory one just the same. "And I guess he answered your letter. I am your Christmas present."
"You can't give a person to another person as a gift," I said, suddenly not wanting to believe in Santa Claus. "This is crazy."
"If you've got a better explanation, Sherlock, I'd love to hear it."
"You're right; there is no other explanation," I said. "So where do we go from here?"
A small smile crossed Paul's face. "Well, I've never been with a man. So you could take me upstairs, and...we could get to know each other a little better."
There was another surprise waiting for us in the bedroom. The room was dark yet filled with candles casting a soft, warm glow and a delightful fragrance. The covers were turned down, and there were condoms and lube on the nightstand beside the bed.
That afternoon we had sex, wonderful romantic sex...no, we made love...over and over again into the night. I taught him things about sex between men that I had learned over the years. And he showed me a few tricks his ex-wife had used during their twenty-year marriage.
When the alarm sounded in the morning, I didn't dare look to the other side of the bed, fearing that it had all been a dream, that my Christmas wish had been just an empty, unfulfilled wish. But Paul was still there, slowly opening his eyes.
"So," I began, "where do we go from here?"
"Good morning to you too," he replied with a smile. "I would suggest we go downstairs for coffee, and then we face the day. You and I each have our travels decided by other outside forces."
And we did. We enjoyed coffee and the previous day's muffins, and we realized that our meeting had been arranged by forces bigger than ourselves. As we both lived in the same complex, it would be easy to keep in close touch. We decided to take it slowly and see where our relationship took us.
-0-
One year later
The printer on my desk sucked in a sheet of paper and spat it back out. I found myself in a situation similar to that which I had faced the previous Christmas, but I was in a completely different frame of mind. I cleared my throat and began to read aloud. This time there was no catch in my voice.
Dear Santa,
I can't begin to thank you for what you did last Christmas. When I was in the deepest, lowest depression a person can experience, you sent an amazing man into my life, and I love him more than anything. I don't know how you did it. Maybe some mysteries are not meant to be solved.
Paul and I moved in together last July. His ex-wife and her boyfriend moved into my old condo just a couple doors away. Paul's two sons have accepted me and welcomed me as their new uncle. They are all accepting and supportive. I now feel like I have a real family. Any thoughts of depression are completely gone from my life.
We took some time to consider how our jobs on the road would affect our relationship, and we found a satisfactory solution. I handed back the keys to my truck and took a job at the local community college, teaching new drivers, and we have set up an office in our spare bedroom for Paul to use in his consulting work.
But the most astonishing thing happened last October on my birthday. Paul took me out to our favorite restaurant for dinner, and I thought it would be just dinner. And it was a fantastic dinner. Co-incidentally, our server was none other than Sam Nichols, the same server who apparently brought us together last Christmas. He still looks just as good as he did that day. I'm getting off track. Anyway, before dessert was served, Paul put his hand on mine and asked me to marry him. I accepted immediately.
We'll be married on December 24th, Christmas Eve. I know that's probably your busiest time of the year, what with having to deliver presents all over the world. But if you have a free moment, we'd be delighted to have you join us.
Thanks again, Santa. You've made two lonely men the happiest couple in the world. Give our love to Mrs. Claus and our regards to the elves.
Yours, Mikey."
-0-
The Author's Last Word
Every story has some basis in fact. I do drive a truck. And like many single people, I do tend to get depressed around the holidays when families are gathering to see the old year out and ring in the new. Sadly, there is no "Paul" in my life...well, not yet.
So, Paul, if you are out there somewhere, I'll be at the casino on Christmas Day, enjoying their great buffet. I'll be easy to spot; I'll be the one eating mincemeat pie for dessert and sipping peppermint schnapps.