Miller Nash dodged into JCPenny’s surprised on two counts – that it hadn’t gone out of business and that it was still open late on Christmas Eve. Pushing his way in, rushed as he might be, he still couldn’t resist the urge to pause and harumph. There were holiday decorations, to be sure, tinsel and bows, lights and even the occasional elf, but there was nothing that said “Christmas” – no nativity, no star or wise men underneath it. Not even a real tree, for Christ’s sake. It was exactly the kind of secular version of Christmas that he spent his on-air time raging about.
Normally, he would have had words with the manager or snapped a few photos for a snide post. Or, better yet, he could get a video of him forcefully saying, “Merry Christmas,” to employees while in front of the “Happy Holidays” sign. Watching all of these little Eichmanns squirm would certainly get a lot of traction on his social feed.
He had to shake off the budding outrage that this neutered version of Christmas always caused in him, though. Plowing through aisles bordered by fake snow and rock’n’roll holiday songs, he immediately found the closest floor attendant. He was pleased to see it was a young lady dressed as a young lady, tasteful makeup and a skirt that was to the knees but tight enough to pinch. He stopped her with a, “Excuse me, miss. Can you tell me where the girls’ section is?”
The attendant smiled and said, “Yes sir, the children’s section is right over –”
“Miss,” Nash raised himself up to his full height, “I’m in a hurry. I don’t have time for this. Where are the girl’s things?”
The young woman, predictably, tilted her head like a dog hearing a whistle. “Sir, we have an adult and a children’s section, so you can find it –”
Three hours till midnight, rushing home from a Christmas special, only needing something to placate his little girl, Nash snapped, “Young lady, I have a daughter and I’m late. I don’t have time to search through a bunch of things she’ll have no interest in –”
“Sir, can I help you?” The voice that pierced Nash’s building displeasure was so calm that smacked of condescension. He spun, intent putting whatever white knight had shown up in his proper place.
The speaker’s red suit and white beard stopped Nash. Finally, at last, here was a Santa Claus, and a real one no less – a man with a white beard and big belly, cheek’s pale enough to have a rosy tint, nose red with what might be a bit of cheer. He tilted his head forward and looked over a pair of granny glasses, the smallest sparkle of mischief in his eyes. Nash actually stuttered for a moment, something he hadn’t done in decades, and the young lady wisely took advantage of the moment to disappear.
When the Santa repeated himself, Nash said, “Yes, I was asking about the girl’s section.”
Santa smiled impishly. “As the attendant said, the children’s section is right over there.” He obligingly pointed in the same direction.
“I know what she said,” Nash began, the appearance of this fat elf no longer sidelining his indignation. “But I was asking about toys and clothes specifically for girls.”
“Well, girls are children. So it would follow that the toys girls would enjoy would be there, along with everything else.” As if directing traffic, the old man waved his white-gloved hands, turning Nash in the direction of the children’s section. “Now what types of things does your daughter like?”
A tiny flicker of shame joined Nash’s umbrage, causing it to burn a little brighter. “You know, the usual girl things, dresses and dolls. Look, I don’t have time to go pawing through a bunch of asexual nonsense –”
Nash found himself cut short by the elderly man’s laughter. It was a rich, deep laugh that came all the way from his belly and tilted his head backward when it came out. Last minute shoppers throughout the store perked up at the sound, their harried moments brought relief by honest joy.
Nash, on the other hand, felt his neck begin to bulge against his necktie as his skin reddened. This only increased when the Santa’s laughter finished with an exclamation that sounded as if he were pronouncing the punchline of a joke. “You don’t know!”
“Excuse me? Who in the Hell do you think you are? I’ve been working –”
“Now, now. Don’t be upset,” the Santa made a patting motion. “I was laughing with you. Every parent has been in your shoes. Why, I’ve worked every Christmas Eve since I can remember and all year round besides. I’m sure your work is very important.”
“What I do is very important!” Nash gnashed. “I tell Americans about places like this!”
That paused the old man, who shifted his gaze around the store. “Places like what?”
“Unamerican corporate greed holes that refuse to acknowledge Christmas!”
The Santa dropped his eyes to his red suit and let them run all the way down to his shiny black boots before raising them back to Nash. “I’d say they’re doing a pretty good job.”
“Please,” Nash scoffed, “there’s not a thing that says Christmas in here. They won’t even say ‘Merry Christmas.’ Just ‘Happy Holidays!’
The Santa smiled that stupid condescending smile again. “Last I checked, Christmas is a holiday.”
“That is it.” Nash found the cold anger that he often felt under the warm studio lights and pulled out his mobile. He began began recording by saying, “Welcome to the Nash Nation. If you’re like me and are tired of seeing the leftist corporate overlords neuter Christmas, then hear this – I’ve found a Santa Claus who won’t say, ‘Merry Christmas!’ Is there anything more representative of the stupidity of modern Amer –”
Nash stopped talking as the Santa let out a booming, honest to goodness, “HO HO HO,” loud enough that it shook his camera and the room. Vibrating with his own laughter, the old man filled the space with a joyful, “Merry Christmas!”
When that echoed away, the exclamation left behind a perfect crispness, like the moment before a good snow. The mobile nearly slipped from Nash’s hand when the old man leaned forward with, “Is that what you had in mind?”
Nash tried to come up with a response wasn’t a, “Yes,” when the old man added, “It’s not a weapon, young man. It’s a holiday. Telling your friends,” Santa waved at Nash’s mobile, “to be as angry as you are won’t change that.”
Nash felt his neck strain against his collar further. “They’re not my friends! They’re my audience!”
The old man raised a frosty eyebrow. “You talk for a living?”
“I’m a broadcaster! I ask questions of places like this! I demand answers!”
“You tell people to be angry? I thought you said you did something important?”
“It is important! And who are you to tell us not to be angry? We are angry!”
“Whatever for?”
Nash raised himself up again and tried to make himself taller than the Santa. He found that he couldn’t. Instead, he reached out to a nearby Christmas tree and shook it as if strangling it with one hand. “We’re tired of being robbed of our Christian heritage!” He flung his other hand in the direction of the “children’s” section. “We’re tired of having gender politics shoved down our throat with crypto-liberal labels in stores and unisex bathrooms!” Losing himself in the moment, Nash raised both hands to the sky, just as he would at the climax of one his shows. “We’re tired of working hard just to have our money given to those who don’t deserve it!”
Santa stood across from Nash and watched him puff, letting several long moments go by before saying, “Ah, I see.” He pointed, wagging his finger as an understanding teacher might. “Things have changed, without your consent (which is how things do) but you don’t care for it. Now you’re rushed, late, performing a task you consider beneath you – after all, in a different time, wouldn’t this be taken care of by your wife or one of her servants?”
Having the truth of his inner thoughts exposed only rekindled Nash’s anger. This was only added to by a sagely nod from the Santa, who added, “You know, I never gave coal to children because anyone was bad. Some just needed to heat their homes. It was the best that I could do for them.”
Sensing an impending sermon about giving Nash raised his voice. “I don’t have time for this virtue signaling. You don’t know –“
“But I know how to help you.”
Curiosity and doubt stopped Nash short. He tailored his next words carefully, cutting out the expletives his mind wanted to add. “What are you talking about?”
The old man pointed to a door that Nash hadn’t seen before, a wooden frame sitting between two full-length mirrors, positioned to provide the best view of whoever stood between them. “Just step through that door and you’ll find what you need.”
Nash darted his eyes between the door and the old man. “You mean the girls’ section?”
A spark of that mischievousness was back in the old man’s eye. “There is certainly a girls’ section through there, yes.”
Prepared for some kind of trick, Nash thumbed on his mobile to start recording again. “Apparently, viewers, there is a girls’ section here.” He swung the phone from Santa to the wooden door it indicated. “And, apparently, it’s in hidden in the same place as Narnia. We’ll see why any store would hide –”
Before he realized it, Nash was through the door and, for a moment, he found himself in the dark surrounded by that perfect, crystalline silence. But then the old incandescent lights flickered on and he saw that he was in a small, wood-paneled room. It was only big enough to stand in front of its mirror, with a small sitting bench, and coat hooks on the wall.
Nash felt his neck bulge with rage again. “This is a God damn changing room.” Mobile in hand, he spun to push out of the room. “Viewers, this complete hogwash –” was as far as he got before stepping out onto the floor.
The enormity of the change beyond the door silenced Nash. Everything was different. The light was no longer the white of LEDs, but almost a yellow, that shone down on thousands of square feet of tiled floor, every inch taken up by some kind of merchandise, but none of it familiar. All the shelves were metal and glass, not a piece of plastic in sight. The sweaters he spotted somehow seemed bulkier and fuzzier, the mannequins they sat on strange and child-like. An entire section of the store was dedicated to huge, boxy televisions with small screens. And walking through the aisles were dozens of normal looking Americans, dressed as if out for Sunday church, skirts and dresses or suits and hats.
Above it all a massive sign read “Merry Christmas.” Below it, and dotted throughout the store, other smaller signs that read, “March of Values.”
No one paid Nash much mind while he stared at the change in stunned awe. When he realized he was still holding his mobile, he began to say, “Viewers, I don’t know what’s going on here –”
Nash stopped when he noticed the phone only reflected him in its dark glass. The mobile was a dead brick. No one was listening.
See the author’s published work here.
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