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DEKE’S NOTE: I just love the holidays. I feel nostalgic, warm and fuzzy, and all the other clichés at that time of year. A bit silly too, when I wrote this one. It was fun, and earned a few chuckles from my readers. Cheers.
Kris Kringle boarded my bus the other day.
Perhaps he was taking a break from his annual Christmas preparation, took his sleigh out for a test run, and stopped at a brew pub for refreshment. The remnant of a Cuban cigar dangled from
his pouty lips, and I wondered what happened to his pipe. This bedraggled elf also had a herd of flea-infested miniature reindeer with him. They milled about skittishly in the Priority Seating area, acting like they had shared a few brewskies with him.
“These are my service animals,” he told me as he rummaged in his suit for fare. Seems like there’s no dry cleaner at the North Pole, because his outfit was as aromatic as those found discarded under a
bridge. And it didn’t smell like cloves.
“Okay,” I said. “Never seen this many, or this type, of service animal on the bus. Mind telling me what they’re trained to do?”
Kris looked annoyed, and there was an edge in his voice as he answered. “Why, they fly me sleigh around on Christmas, you numb skull!” (Perhaps his ancestry is a bit Irish, or he just slips into the
brogue after a few pints.)
I winced at his breath. By this noontime, he was pretty much in his own bag.
“If that’s so, then where’s your sleigh?”
“Damn Portland Police impounded it,” Kris growled. “Seems I was parked in a delivery zone, but that is what I do for crying out loud!”
“Okay Santa dude, your fare is a buck for two hours. Please keep your, er, service animals, seated on the floor and out of the aisle.”
He paused, sheepishly glancing up at me, and whispered: “I don’t have any money left. Mrs. Claus keeps me on a tight budget, you know.”
I studied his appearance. I see all kinds of people dressed in red suits during the season. None of them, however, come with reindeer. Something about this fellow had me wondering. After all, I am one of the few who still believe. I decided to take a chance.
“Well, if you’re really Santa, do you mind answering a question?” Several passengers at this point audibly sighed, wanting me to roll the wheels. But hey, none of them had even acknowledged me, let alone said hello as they boarded. I had some time to burn anyway. Despite his condition, this fellow was at least semi-polite and interesting.
“How come, when I was 11 and had been a surprisingly good boy all year long, didn’t you give me that Hot Wheels racetrack I asked for?” Santa studied me intently. He frowned, rubbing his impressively rustic beard.
“You’re that Deke kid, aren’t you?” Surprised and open-mouthed, all I could do was nod. “Remember when you tore the head off your buddy’s sister’s Barbie doll, flushed it down the toilet, and their parents had to have Roto Rooter come out at 11 at night? That’s why, you miserable little brat.” He spat out the last sentence, completing it with a rotten belch.
Wiping away the offensive by-products of his hops-inspired intestinal explosion, I shot back. “I was framed! Now pay up, or you can try to find an Uber livestock truck. Your service animals just peed
“Okay,” I said. “Never seen this many, or this type, of service animal on the bus. Mind telling me what they’re trained to do?”
Kris looked annoyed, and there was an edge in his voice as he answered. “Why, they fly me sleigh around on Christmas, you numb skull!” (Perhaps his ancestry is a bit Irish, or he just slips into the
brogue after a few pints.)
I winced at his breath. By this noontime, he was pretty much in his own bag.
“If that’s so, then where’s your sleigh?”
“Damn Portland Police impounded it,” Kris growled. “Seems I was parked in a delivery zone, but that is what I do for crying out loud!”
“Okay Santa dude, your fare is a buck for two hours. Please keep your, er, service animals, seated on the floor and out of the aisle.”
He paused, sheepishly glancing up at me, and whispered: “I don’t have any money left. Mrs. Claus keeps me on a tight budget, you know.”
I studied his appearance. I see all kinds of people dressed in red suits during the season. None of them, however, come with reindeer. Something about this fellow had me wondering. After all, I am one of the few who still believe. I decided to take a chance.
“Well, if you’re really Santa, do you mind answering a question?” Several passengers at this point audibly sighed, wanting me to roll the wheels. But hey, none of them had even acknowledged me, let alone said hello as they boarded. I had some time to burn anyway. Despite his condition, this fellow was at least semi-polite and interesting.
“How come, when I was 11 and had been a surprisingly good boy all year long, didn’t you give me that Hot Wheels racetrack I asked for?” Santa studied me intently. He frowned, rubbing his impressively rustic beard.
“You’re that Deke kid, aren’t you?” Surprised and open-mouthed, all I could do was nod. “Remember when you tore the head off your buddy’s sister’s Barbie doll, flushed it down the toilet, and their parents had to have Roto Rooter come out at 11 at night? That’s why, you miserable little brat.” He spat out the last sentence, completing it with a rotten belch.
Wiping away the offensive by-products of his hops-inspired intestinal explosion, I shot back. “I was framed! Now pay up, or you can try to find an Uber livestock truck. Your service animals just peed
on a whole row of seats.”
After a little more back-and-forth, Santa exited the bus. His language was not what you would expect of a jolly old elf. He probably read the name on my badge. I was not entirely convinced.
Later, after my downtown break, I began the trek back through the transit mall. As I left a stop, I scanned again. Before I could hit the accelerator, I beheld an amazing sight. Zipping through the air, headed straight for my windshield, was a weaving gaggle of reindeer pulling a portable food-cart, with that red-suited freeloader at the reins. A blinding red light bounced in front of this makeshift contraption, and I thought about running it.
At the last moment, it veered off and upward, as it was a reindeer nose. As he rose into the air, I heard the dude exclaim, as his sleigh was a’rockin’: “Merry Christmas to all ye good lil’ Portlanders, but that bus driver gets nothing but a filthy Barbie head and coal in his stocking!”
After a little more back-and-forth, Santa exited the bus. His language was not what you would expect of a jolly old elf. He probably read the name on my badge. I was not entirely convinced.
Later, after my downtown break, I began the trek back through the transit mall. As I left a stop, I scanned again. Before I could hit the accelerator, I beheld an amazing sight. Zipping through the air, headed straight for my windshield, was a weaving gaggle of reindeer pulling a portable food-cart, with that red-suited freeloader at the reins. A blinding red light bounced in front of this makeshift contraption, and I thought about running it.
At the last moment, it veered off and upward, as it was a reindeer nose. As he rose into the air, I heard the dude exclaim, as his sleigh was a’rockin’: “Merry Christmas to all ye good lil’ Portlanders, but that bus driver gets nothing but a filthy Barbie head and coal in his stocking!”
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