Santa's Last Trip

WC 919

Santa’s Last Trip

By Jack Rawlins

When I answered the banging on my door and saw this guy in a Santa Clause outfit, I thought it was a joke or a robbery.

“Excuse me, kind sir,” he said, “But as I napped in your barn early this eve, I seem to have dropped the key to my sleigh. I can’t leave your home without it.”

“Oh, cut it out, Charley. Come on in and have a toddy,” I said, certain I was talking to my wacky buddy, Charley. “Where’re you headed?”

“Kind sir, I am not Charley. This is not a rental outfit I’m wearing. I am the real McCoy, out for the evening to spread joy—and lots of expensive gifts to greedy little kids who already have too many things.”

“Yeah, sure, Charley. You aren’t the kind of guy who gives stuff away.”

“Kind sir, I am not your buddy Charley. I am Santa Clause and if you don’t help me, there will be no Christmas for the greedy.”

“Okay, Charley,” I chuckled. “I’ll go with the gag. What happens next?”

“You must help me find the key to my sleigh. I dropped it in your barn when I got drowsy and popped in for a power nap.”

“Sure. “ I said. “Where in the barn did you drop it?”

“I hate to admit it, “he mumbled, “but I dropped it in the hay.”

“Come on, man; you’re pulling my leg. You dropped the key to your sleigh-- in the hay-- in my barn? And I suppose you can’t get your sleigh started without it?”

“Good sir, you are indeed a quick study: Right. I can’t get started without it.”

“Come on Mr. Clause,” I quipped to go along with Charley’s gag. “You don’t need a key to start a sleigh.”

“Well, kind sir, you never used to need one; but in these times if you don’t lock it down, anything with metal will walk to a junk yard and be sold for scrap before dawn.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” I agreed. “Tell me Charley…I know it’s you Charley… how big is this key?”

“It’s special. It’s the size of a big needle. In fact it looks like a needle--well actually, it is a needle. Crooks carry jimmies, pry bars and bolt cutters, but you never see one with a needle. They would need my needle to pick my lock.”

“Well, how about your reindeer,” I asked. “What do they do while you’re goofing off?”

“Kind sir, they have enough to do getting me from point A to point B. They’re not watch dogs.”

“You know what, Charley? I’m getting a headache. Come in and have a drink. And if you call me ‘Kind sir,’ one more time I’ll kick you in the crotch.”

“Sorry, my friend. But you must help me or you’ll be directly responsible for spoiling Christmas for all the spoiled children in the world. Can you live with that?”

“Okay. Okay,” I said. "Let’s say you are the real Santa Clause. Let’s say you really dropped your needle-key in my hay. Do you know how hard it is to find a needle in a haystack?”

“I know it won’t be easy. But it has got to be done. And technically, it’s not a haystack…just a big pile of hay.”

“Damn it Charley—Santa, whomever you are---you are nuts and you’re making me nuts,” I snapped. “Come closer so I can get a better look.”

When he stepped close, I grabbed his beard and gave a hard yank.

“Ouch!” he yelped. “Why did you do that?”

“Just checking,” I answered. “Your beard didn’t come off, so I know you’re not Charley. He couldn’t have grown one since I saw him this morning.”

“So does this mean you’ll help me find my key; save Christmas, and not disappoint those greedy kids who expect me to show up with all that expensive electronic junk crammed in my sleigh?”

“No.” I countered. “I refuse to be a scapegoat for your failure to perform your duties. Don’t you keep an extra key hidden under your sleigh somewhere?”

“I felt that was redundant, so I never bothered.”

“No wonder Christmas isn’t what it used to be. Santa, you are an incompetent klutzy Clause. But I’ll help you. I’m a logger. I cut my own timber and I have a metal detector so I can find tree-huggers’ spikes before they ruin my chain saw. If you show me exactly where you were snoozing, I’ll set that baby on full warp plus ten and we’ll find your needle in the hay pile.

“And, Santa,” I added, “When we find your needle-key, how do you start your sleigh—jab your reindeer in the butt?”

“Oh, no, “he explained. “The key unlocks the flight control runners.”

It was easy to scan the spot where Santa had snuggled in the hay. After a few beeps from the metal detector we retrieved what looked like a giant steel knitting needle. Santa stuck it up first one sleigh runner and then the other; squeezed himself in amongst his load; thanked me, and to his team gave a whistle.

And just like that, with a touch of modern technology and a little magic, Santa was airborne in a flash. I’m concerned, though, about his future. I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all, but this is my last night. I’m getting too old for this business.”

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