The Night I Met Santa

When we were little, my sister, Shannon, told me that she knew Santa was real. She had seen Rudolph in real life, so it stood to reason that if Rudolph was real then Santa was, too. I believed her, of course. I was only about five, which would make her about ten. That meant she was the authority on everything in life. Our parents could tell us one thing, but if Shannon contradicted it, I went with her version, no question.

She hadn’t seen Rudolph at our house. The chance encounter occurred at our Aunt Bari and Uncle John’s house, the relatives who hosted our extended family’s annual Christmas Eve celebration. She swore one year she saw the glowing red light of Rudolph’s nose down the hall. There was no way it was an electronic device or the reflection of Christmas lights in a mirror or anything. It was Rudolph, plain and simple. And if Rudolph was there, you know Santa was somewhere nearby.

Since it was Christmas Eve, it was believable that Santa would have made an appearance, though I never questioned why he showed up mid-celebration when everyone was awake and the chips and dip hadn’t yet been depleted.

Or maybe that’s exactly why he showed up. If you’re used to creeping in late at night after everyone is asleep and only ever getting dessert, maybe once in a while you’d like to join the festivities and show up in time for appetizers.

Based on this secondhand experience, I was sure Santa was real. That belief persisted up until I was around ten or eleven when I was forced to confront the logistics of traveling around the world and making all those stops all in one night and at so many houses, especially ones like ours that didn't even have a chimney. Still, our mom warned us if we didn’t believe in Santa, he would stop coming. This was a fun way to bribe us into keeping up the Christmas spirit, and I loved it.

Now, grown and nearing the years where I’ll play Santa to kids of my own some day, I have been forced to accept that Santa isn’t real. Or at least, I use to accept that. Then I met him. In real life. The real Santa. This week. At a mall.

It shouldn’t surprise you to learn I met Santa at a mall. That is where he is most often spotted, probably even more often than on rooftops. It happened at an outdoor mall in Garland, Texas called Firewheel. I had plans to meet my sister for dinner at 6:30, but I arrived fifteen minutes early, like I do for most every event in my life.

I browsed a jewelry store before spotting a sparsely decorated storefront with its doors open across the way. A sign sat on the sidewalk out front, beckoning me: COME MEET SANTA.

Inside, there were two sets of stanchions, one for the incoming line leading you to meet Santa and the other meant to herd you back toward the register and out the door. On this Wednesday evening in early December, there was no need for line management or crowd control. There were no lines. There was no crowd.

Behind the counter at the front was a man in his late thirties. He had a close cropped red beard and wore a fitted Titleist baseball cap, topping off his sporty polo shirt. He looked like he would rather be playing a round or two of golf instead of guarding the King of Elves, but here he was.

“Can I meet Santa?” I asked. I skipped asking whether Santa was busy because I could see he was not. I maybe should have asked if he was conscious as he was slumped over on his jolly throne, not quite comatose, about fifteen feet behind the counter.

Santa’s Gatekeeper was on the defensive.

“We don’t do singles or cell phones,” he said. “Packages only.”

I had no idea the world of mall Santas was chock full of such jargon. Based on the various sizes of sample photos printed and mounted beside the register, I took this to mean I was about to be on the hook for some serious cash.

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m happy to pay. I just want to meet Santa.”

The gatekeeper seemed irritated.

“It’s FORTY dollars,” he said then paused, waiting for me to slink away.

I was more resolute than before. It offended me that he thought a mere price gouge would keep me out.

“That’s fine.” I said. He turned on his heel and began walking toward Santa. I took my cue and followed him. Santa seemed to power on at the sight of us.

I received neither a HO HO HO nor a MERRY CHRISTMAS. Instead, I was greeted only with questions.

“Just you?” Santa asked. “No kids?”

In this moment, I had an opportunity. I could lie and tell Santa I did have kids. That I was taking this photo for them. That I had to leave them at home for some heart wrenching reason. Then Santa would be at ease thinking I had a rational reason for being there.

But then I looked at him, and I knew he would know if I lied. Plus, there was something delicious about freaking out Santa and his golf buddy.

“Nope. Just me,” I said, advancing on him.

Santa began shifting to one side of his green velvet throne.

“Beside me or on the knee?” he asked. I couldn’t help but think if I were a kid he may have kept up the pretenses a little more.

“I would say knee, but I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Santa said as he repositioned himself back in the center of the seat and patted his knee.

The interaction had taken on a bizarre tone. To be fair, it started with a bizarre tone but here we were. Grown woman in jeans and business-casual top, wearing nice leather shoes, a deranged smile on her face. A grown man in a velvet suit that had been worn more than a few years in a row, sitting on a throne, surrounded by tinsel and candy canes, maintaining character.

What were we doing?

I sat on his knee and planted my feet, one on each side of his leg.

“No, no,” said Santa. “Swing them over. Put both legs on one side.”

I tried complying with his commands, but the position caused me to lose balance. No matter. Santa, unfazed, wrapped his white gloves around my waist.

I turned toward the camera and smiled. Santa’s helper snapped the photo.

“How does it look?” I asked.

The helper hesitated.

“You can come over here and look for yourself,” he said. I hopped off Santa’s knee.

“Looks awesome. I can’t wait to show my fiancé,” I said, still looking at the screen.

“Oh,” Santa said. “Am I supposed to be making your fiancé jealous?”

“No, I think he’ll laugh,” I said. Santa’s face fell.

The gatekeeper and I walked back over to the register, leaving Santa to slump back over in his chair. I heard the whir of the printer as it shot out my photos. The gatekeeper and I stood in silence.

Santa got up and started toward us. He had forgotten to ask whether I had been good or bad and what I wanted this year. Surely he was headed back to right this wrong.

Wrong.

Santa made a beeline, not toward me, but to an enormous styrofoam cup from Sonic, America’s Drive-In. He reached out his gloved hand and drew the straw up to his mouth.

I knew if I didn’t ask, I would regret it forever.

“Hey, Santa - what is your go-to Sonic drink?”

The jolly old elf didn’t hesitate. “Diet cherry limeade.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“Got hooked on these about fifteen years ago,” he continued as he walked past the counter toward the front door. “I don’t get them so much anymore.”

“Did you get tired of them?” I asked.

“No, there’s just no Sonic near my house.”

“I guess Sonic needs to add a North Pole location,” I said with a grin.

Santa grunted and walked out the open door.

The printer finally stopped. It had spit out the four photos I had committed purchasing to as part of my $40 package. But there was also a fifth photo. A much larger one. An 8x10.

“This is part of the upgrade package,” Santa’s helper said.

I knew this grift. We did it when I worked at the tourist boat company and when I worked at the theme restaurant. Printing the photos costs pennies, and if it’s already there, people are more likely to buy it. Maybe this worked on sucker parents and their snot-nosed kids, but not me. Throw my photo in the trash. I don’t care, I thought.

“I’m good,” I said. Rather than the trash, I noticed he slipped the photo under the countertop, down where the paperwork was stacked up.

Hey, that's not the trash.

I paid for my photos and headed out the door where Santa stood motionless, staring into the night sky.

“Bye, Santa,” I said. “Thank you.”

Santa broke his gaze, coming back to the present. 

“Yes, yes. Merry Christmas,” he said.

Walking toward the restaurant, I caught up with my sister who was heading over from her car.

“Guess who I just met,” I said.

“Who?” she asked, looking at the envelope in my hand. I told her I had just met Santa.

“Was it the good Santa?” she asked. Having never met any other Santas up there, I had no frame of reference. Still, I knew the answer.

“No.”

I pulled out the photo.

“Oh,” she said, recognizing the face. “That’s the one we call Sloppy Santa.”

“The word ‘bedraggled’ came to mind, but ‘sloppy’ has more of a pop to it.”

Once we were both so sure she had seen the real thing. Now we were faced with the reality that there are many Santas, and they come in varying qualities.

We walked in the restaurant and enjoyed dinner, but the whole night, there was one thought I couldn’t shake.

What if - and stick with me on this - but what if this so-called Sloppy Santa was actually the real deal?

You have to admit the clues all add up.

EXHIBIT A: Wouldn’t the real Santa be sick of North Pole jokes (no matter how clever they were)?

EXHIBIT B: Far away from Mrs. Claus left back at home, wouldn’t the real Santa be thrilled at the opportunity to make a fiancé jealous?

EXHIBIT C: After centuries on the job, working 24 hours a day during his busiest season, wouldn’t he look a little “sloppy” especially if he was just sitting around in a mall in Garland, Texas?

When I got home from dinner that night, I showed Paris the photos. He was not at all jealous and did indeed laugh.

“I think it was the real Santa,” I told him.

“I’m sure it was, babe,” he said.

That’s all it takes. Just a little bit of faith.

***

This piece first appeared in Sunday Morning Hot Tea. Subscribe so you don’t miss another piece.

Gifts

This year, I got Paris a ladder for Christmas. I also got him some running clothes, but my big purchase - you know the one you get excited for them to open - was the ladder.

The ladder we already had was originally found in an old garage where I once lived. It is wooden, admittedly rickety, and only reaches up about 8 feet. It holds no sentimental value to me, but it’s one of those things where you have it and technically it works, so you never throw it out.

Before I was born, my dad got injured on a ladder. He was coming down and missed the last step. He tore his achilles tendon and was laid up for a few weeks. After that, he became a zealot about ladder safety. Sure, ladders can be dangerous, but so can saws or drills or, I don’t know, the enormous trampoline he set in the backyard for us to leap upon. But once you’ve been injured by something, it changes your perception of that thing forever. He always required that we fear and revere the mighty ladder.

As such, I grew up eyeing ladders with a certain amount of suspicion. One wrong move and BAM! It’ll get you. It’s like having a hair trigger mafioso hanging beside the rakes in your garage, ready to break your legs at the slightest upset. We couldn’t play on, climb, use, or think about the ladder, even with supervision.

All this to say I was nervous buying a death machine for the man I love, but he wanted one so much, I caved. It was a tool he could use, a symbol that he is even more of the handy homeowner he has started to become.

I did some research and decided on an adjustable model that could go from straight up and down, to A-shaped, to so super tall that it could reach the peak of the house. The only problem? I didn’t order it in time to be shipped to the house by Christmas because I am a procrastinator.

Instead, I searched “available in store” on the Home Depot website and set out on December 23. In the store, found an orange-aproned employee on one side who directed me to the ladders, all the way at the other end where the “pro” section is. Home Depot Pro (TM) is where actual legitimate professional contractors go to rent and buy heavy duty stuff. I am not an actual legitimate anything, so I felt weird breaching the Pro barrier.

In the Pro section on the very last aisle, up on a shelf about 2 feet in the air, was the exact ladder I’d seen online. The description on the website claimed that this ladder was “super light weight” but in fact it was super metal and heavy as fuck.

I tried taking one down myself but winced under its mass. Luckily, the ladder aisle is directly adjacent to the employee hang zone. I’m sure they call it a break room, but either way, I could peek into an open door and see several employees, their orange aprons slung over their shoulders sitting at small tables. One was bent over a stained Tupperware container, enjoying a reheated spaghetti meal. I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt them. Instead, I stood casually beside the rack, working up the courage to stop the next free worker who walked by.

Working retail is not easy. Working retail at the holidays should be prohibited under the United Nations Convention against Torture. Sensitive to their plight, I tried to position myself to be as helpful as I could to whomever would have to help me. I got a flat bed for myself and positioned it right below the shelf. I even tried once again to lift the ladder myself. But when I put my hands around it and squeezed, nothing moved.

Then I saw the perfect candidate: an employee walking toward me with neither purpose nor destination. 

He was thin and roughly my height, around 5’4”, with a close crop of hair so blonde it was nearly white. Masked up, I couldn’t make out the rest of his face to tell his age. If I had to guess, I would say he was thirteen years old.

“Can you help me get this ladder down? I am too weak to lift it,” I said.

“Sure,” he replied before beginning to struggle with the silver metal beast himself. “Apparently I am also too weak,” he said to himself.

My face burned red under my fabric mask. “Oh no,” I said. “You're not weak. It’s just that I moved a bed yesterday and my arms are shot. Noodles really.”

I watched him grunt and struggle and realized this explanation was not much more helpful. I had now implied that he wasn’t just weaker than me, he was weaker than me after I performed a day of manual labor. Shut up, McKinney.

Finally, he mustered whatever was inside him - courage, shame, irritation, Christmas spirit - and heaved the ladder over his head and down onto the flat bed.

“Thank you so much,” I said, then looked at the ladder. It had an enormous dent in the front step. I looked to another one on the shelf and saw this was not a design characteristic, but actual damage.

On reflex, I took up that voice that I hate so much, that high pitched voice where every phrase ends in a question mark that we all do when we really hate to bother someone but we’re going to bother them anyway.

“I hate to ask this? But is there any way you can get the next one down and switch it for this one? This one has a mark? See? And normally I wouldn’t mind but this is a gift ladder?”

Ever helpful, he said it was no problem and went to work on a second ladder, now breaking a sweat.

Once it was loaded, he led me down the aisle toward the cash registers. I spoke quickly to fill space like I always do when I am nervous. I said it was for my boyfriend. That the ladder at home would likely kill him some day due to its structural deficiencies, and boy, I sure hoped this one didn’t kill him instead. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Merry Christmas, here’s your ultimate demise! Ha ha ha! Oh boy. Ladders are dangerous, you know — then boom. Mid-sentence, I crashed my cart into a row of other carts, causing a Rube Goldberg of orange metal flatbeds to smash into one another then into the shelves. I couldn't be trusted with a ladder on a cart, much less one in my home.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” the employee said. “Just check out here.” He pointed to the pro checkout line, I’m guessing because it was closer and not because he mistook me for any kind of professional.

After paying, an employee whose job it was to pack products into cars followed me out, taking the cart from me. When I laid down my back seat, he crammed the ladder in so tightly that it required me to move up the driver seat all the way until there was only a rib cage of space between the seat and the steering wheel.

“Want me to move it to the other side?” he asked.

Not wanting to put him out, I said no. Before I could change my mind, he vanished into the parking lot, leaving me to expel all the air in my lungs and wedge myself in the car.

I made a handful of other stops before heading home, each time sliding myself carefully out from behind the steering wheel. I worried about what would happen if I were in an accident. That close to the steering wheel my body probably would have shattered, a mess of blood and bone and ladder chunks.

When I got home, I had the unfortunate task for removing the ladder from my backseat myself and putting it under the tree. Normally Paris would do things like this for me because he is both helpful and strong, two of the many reasons why I love him. But he wasn't home, and anyway, it was a surprise so I needed to do it myself so I could wrap the thing.

I slid it out of my car using leverage and gravity and managed to heave it into the house. I wrapped an entire roll of paper around it, leaving a ladder-shaped lump standing beside the tree.

I looked at the paper-covered monstrosity over and over the next few days. Imagining us using it to hang next year’s Christmas lights, fixing roof tiles, sweeping the high hung ceiling fans. I also thought of my dad, his torn achilles tendon, and how he couldn’t walk for weeks. I worried about falls, wondering whether I’d bought the device of destruction that would knock Paris unconscious, or break his leg or worse. What if years later, that ladder is the thing that takes him out? I would have brought into our home the very thing that killed the man I loved. A horrific slideshow played on loop in my mind.

But then again, isn't that love? Constantly wondering what horrific fate will take out the ones we so cherish? In response to this mental PowerPoint of horrors, I silently vowed to always stand beside him whenever he used it, to help him with every task, to instill in him the same reverence and fear I had for the ladder, and to give my very life to keep him from any home improvement calamity.

On Christmas morning, before he tore into the paper, he asked, “What could possibly be in this ladder-shaped packaging?”

After the paper was heaped in a pile on the floor, he grabbed the ladder with both hands to take it into the garage. I started to ask whether he needed help, whether I could keep him from a Day 1 ladder injury. I watched him lift it effortlessly and head off to the garage. It’s only about 25 feet from the Christmas tree to the back door, and all the ways the ladder could kill him in that short distance flashed in my mind. Then I took a deep breath and decided to let him go it alone, watching from the couch as he disappeared around the corner. After all, he is so helpful and so very strong.

***

This piece first appeared in Sunday Morning Hot Tea. Subscribe so you don’t miss another piece.

Legal Question: Kevin McAllister: Attempted Murderer or Hero?

This question comes from LeeAnn via direct message.

“Would Kevin on ‘Home Alone’ get in legal trouble for setting all those booby traps? Or would he be let go with self-defense? Aren’t you allowed to protect your house? Can you also find out how his dad paid for a whole fucking family to go on that vacation?”

This is an excellent question. There are tons of great legal analyses of the Wet Bandits’ actions in Home Alone, so I won’t rehash all those thought experiments. Instead, I will answer the question by focusing on the oft-cited Castle Doctrine and how it could apply in this case.

First we should cover a couple of things. Home Alone, like other John Hughes movies, is set in the Chicago area, so I’ll look at Illinois law for this. Kevin is an 8-year-old kid. In Illinois, children that young aren't usually tried as adults, absent some pretty heinous facts. Judges apply a factors test to determine which juveniles are tried as adults, but that's outside the scope of this, and anyway, I have a lot of issues with children being tried as adults. (For further reading, check out the book Just Mercy.)

So instead of asking whether he is able to be tried for the actions he committed, we’ll just focus on the culpability. 

Illinois has its own version of the “castle doctrine,” a type of home defense law you may have heard about in the news. The Illinois version is more limited than other states, but it generally says that a homeowner is justified in using force against an aggressor when the homeowner reasonably believes that force is necessary to stop the aggressor’s entry to the house. 

The caveat to this law is that the use of deadly or particularly violent force is allowed ONLY if the aggressor’s entry is made in a “violent, riotous, or tumultuous manner” and if the homeowner believes the deadly force is necessary to prevent violence to him or someone else in the house. It can also be justified if the homeowner reasonably believes that deadly force is necessary to stop the commission of a felony in his house.

Short version: you can attack someone who is trying to break in, and you can attack someone SUPER HARD if they roll up on you violently and you think the force is the only way to stop them from hurting you and yours OR if you think they're trying to bust in to commit a felony.

What is NOT allowed under Illinois law is the general use of unattended booby traps. A man in southern Illinois in 2018 used a spring gun booby trap to prevent burglars from entering his shed. When a potential burglar opened the shed door, the spring gun went off, killing the potential burglar. The homeowner, William Wasmund, was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to 30 years in jail.

But what about the Castle Doctrine? Wasmund’s defense attorney actually argued that his client was justified under the Castle Doctrine. However, the jury found it was inapplicable because Wasmund was not home at the time of the shooting. The gun was a trap set in advance, not meant to defend against any specific party. That meant the trap could have shot anyone, not just someone who was trying to enter in a “violent, riotous, or tumultuous” manner.

Taken together - the Wasmund case, the Illinois Castle Doctrine, and the facts of the movie - all mean that Kevin McAllister was justified in his actions. 

The key difference between Kevin and William Wasmund is that Kevin was home and actually heard Harry and Marv specifically say that they would be coming by to burgle the house at 9PM on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t until right around 9PM that he pushed aside his mac and cheese and got ready. He poured the water on the outside steps, held his BB gun at the ready, and set out the other various traps in the house, meant specifically for the Wet Bandits.

First, hearing them attempt to break into the house outside the back door, Kevin shot Harry in the penis with the BB gun. This was justified as it was after Harry stated his intention to come into the house to commit burglary. Then Marv breached the dog door in an attempt to enter and Kevin shot this bandit in the face with the same BB gun.

This level of force - a shot with a toy gun - is not likely to cause death or great bodily harm, so Kevin was definitely justified at this point. This is true even though Kevin shot Marv in the face. He shot Marv between the eyes with a toy gun. The earlier scene showed how Kevin was an accurate shot, proving that he shot where he intended, not meaning to cause great bodily harm. 

Same goes for the icy stairs. Side note: icy stairs would normally be a liability nightmare for homeowners who could be forced to pay for any resulting slip and fall injuries. However, the Illinois Castle Doctrine specifically releases a homeowner of liability for any force used against an “aggressor.” So Harry and Marv wouldn't be able to sue the McAllisters (or their homeowners’ insurance) from any injuries resulting from those wacky but painful-looking slips 

Then Marv breached the basement door where he was hit in the face with an iron. Again, Kevin did not set this trap randomly. It was specific to the Wet Bandits to protect against the felonies they would commit inside the house. Same goes for the heated door handle, the tar on the stairs, and even the stomach-turning nail that slides into Marv’s bare foot. (I remember laughing at that as a kid, but as an adult, I had to look away. Disgusting!) These traps were all set at the time Kevin was home, intended specifically to protect him from the Wet Bandits who had expressed their intent to enter the home and commit a felony inside.

Yes, even the blowtorch that burned Harry’s head would be justified under the Illinois law. By this point, Harry had burst through the door in a violent manner and expressed his desire not only to commit a felony inside the house, but also his desire to harm or possibly even kill Kevin. In short, he was asking for the torch to the head.

Once the Wet Bandits entered the house, Kevin still had the right to use force against them to “terminate” their unlawful entry of his dwelling. Further solidifying Kevin’s case, as he is running up the stairs, Harry threatens to “snap off” Kevin’s “cojones” and “boil them in motor oil.” Sounds like a threat to me!

The important point to focus on is when Kevin’s force increased from regular force to a more serious level of force likely to cause death or great bodily harm. Kevin increased the level of force only after the Wet Bandits not only breached the house in a violent, riotous, or tumultuous manner, but had also made it clear that they were ready to harm him physically and commit a felony inside.

So, as a reminder, under Illinois law, you can’t just open your front door and shoot at someone who is attempting to breach your house. The factors for use of deadly force must be present: (1) the aggressor must attempt to enter in  a “violent, riotous, or tumultuous manner” and the homeowner has to reasonably believe that the deadly force is necessary to “prevent an assault upon” himself or someone else in the house, OR (2) the homeowner must reasonably believe the deadly force is necessary to prevent the commission of a felony.

Those Wet Bandits were coming in hot, and Kevin did what he had to do to ward off their attacks.

As for how the dad afforded the trip? He didn’t! In an early scene, Kate, played by the living icon/angel/legend Catherine O’Hara says that her brother-in-law was transferred to Paris for work, missed the family, and paid for them all to travel to Paris for the holidays. As for how Mr. McAllister afforded that bad ass house? According to a novelization of the book, he was “a successful businessman” and Kate was a fashion designer, hence the mannequins. 

I also need to point out that John Candy’s lines were the funniest part of the movie, and they were all improvised. He was also totally screwed by the filmmakers, only being paid $414 for those lines of solid gold, despite the movie grossing $477 million at its initial box office run. 

I hope that answers the question. Thanks, LeeAnn!

Got a question? Submit it here. They can be legal what-if questions like the one above, or questions about the legality of actions in TV shows or movies you’ve seen. I never ever want to answer your personal legal questions, so don't send those. Love you, but I don’t do that.

***

This piece first appeared in Sunday Morning Hot Tea. Subscribe so you don’t miss another piece.