Josias had arranged to work as Santa Claus as a way to make some extra money. He was already counting with the little he was going to make and with the leftovers of the dinner of the fat cats who had employed him to take back to the slum where he lived. He arranged the costume and got into his old car. But, you know how it is with poor people, they always run into bad luck. As soon as he entered the expressway the car broke down. Shucks! Eleven-thirty PM and there he was.
Meanwhile...
The family was gathered in the beautiful house in the suburbs. The oldest son, a director in a multinational, had arrived a while before from Chile with his wife and their two small children. The sister, a really thin university professor and her husband, a silent intellectual, plus the two daughters of the second marriage of the patriarch and, of course, the man himself, very happy and proud with his third wife, presiding the reunion. The full dinner served over the white linen table cloth, the correct wines, the champagne, everything perfect.
Midnight and no Santa Claus. The children with long eyes put in the bright Christmas tree surrounded with beautiful packages. Twelve fifteen and still nothing. Twelve thirty. The multinational son argues that perhaps they should open the presents without waiting for the good old man because the children were already getting sleepy. The very thin sister refuses the suggestion peremptorily. They will wait for Santa Claus and that’s that. The argument increases in volume and mutual recriminations put in their appearance, eventually, the quiet intellectual slaps the multinational son in the face on account of four letter word (not love) directed to his wife and a fight ensues. In a blink of an eye they are rolling on the floor hitting each other, going under the table and dragging everything down with them: turkey, glasses, champagne, presents, nuts, everything to the floor on top of them. The patriarch, very red in the face, breathing in spasms, his hand over the heart, trying to go up to the second floor helped by the scared third wife, the daughters shouting and saying that it was all his fault, children screaming and crying. Everything very family like.
Josias, dirty with grease at a quarter to one, with the white beard sticking in the sweated neck, the red sack full of newspapers to make volume, gets off the motorcycle that finally had given him a ride and rings the bell at the door of the house.
He hasn’t quite understood what really happened till this day. The door flew open and two disheveled gentlemen, their shirts out of their trousers, came out calling him names and cursing loudly. He had no doubts, he turned round and ran down the street as fast as he could. The people in the few cars in the street at that hour must still be trying to figure out the scene they saw: two breathless and potbellied gentlemen running after Santa Claus, screaming and shouting.
Oh well... Merry Christmas.
