Santa Pause
By marandina
- 297 reads
Santa Pause
John Jones hated his name, its mundanity matched only by the inane notion of Christmas. In truth, it hadn’t always been this way. A gradual descent into cynicism post adolescence had led to a total anathema of anything that called for unqualified belief. No that simply wouldn’t do. Only tangible, concrete notions fused by science had any place in the modern world.
Despite this sliver of self-loathing, the fact was that he was a doctor, a therapist, a psychiatrist. Tangential talent. He was all of these things. Dickensian moneylenders would have been proud of his cold-hearted stoicism. Notwithstanding, why on earth was he working another Christmas Day? None of his counterparts opened their doors during the holiday. It felt like he wasn’t in control over this particular happenstance. The reason was the lure of making money, of course.
Dealing with a wide spectrum of neuroses was a daunting challenge and (yet) a rare privilege. Doctor Jones pushed his bifocals back up onto the bridge of his nose, a subconscious habit he had when reading. This particular set of patient notes was more intriguing than most. Shafts of lingering light filtered through partially closed blinds as though dusty slats were trying to keep the silver day at bay. An ornate table lamp illuminated his wooden desk, a penumbra spilling onto a leather chair opposite.
The door to the consultancy room clicked open bang on time, a tall man entering, shuffling across the room to stand ceremoniously behind a seat.
“Please do take a seat Mr Kringle.” A flat palm gestured for the visitor to sit.
Taut white-gloved hands released the back of the chair, the entrant circling cautiously before lowering into its embrace. Eyes met across the desk. The therapist tried to recall their last meeting. Notes on screen indicated that they had got together on 25th December; exactly a year ago.
“How are you Kris? May I call you Kris?”
The man opposite simply smiled an acceptance.
The question bought thinking time. Previous investigation suggested a tendency towards personality disorder. Possibly even schizophrenia. This patient genuinely seem to think of themselves as Santa Claus. The address shown on the personal section of his record indicated an address at:
Joulupukin kylän pohjoisnapa
Jones hadn’t given this much more thought other than this man was from oversees (probably Scandinavia) and, accordingly, would be paying the full fee. He could only imagine that anyone called Kris Kringle was living in a fantasy world full of baubles and Yuletide elves but as long as they paid their bill he really didn’t care.
Nervous fidgeting in the leather chair.
“I see it’s been a year since our last session. How have things been?”
Awkward silence.
For what may have been a minute, both men said nothing. Thoughts vied in the therapist’s head. Could this simply be a department store Santa who had got carried away with an ephemeral vocation?
Before either could speak again, a hollow clopping noise emanated from the corridor drawing two sets of eyes.
Jones pressed an intercom and chirped:
“Magda, there’s an odd commotion coming from outside. Could you investigate, please?”
Leaning forward, the doctor asked:
“Would you care for tea or coffee, Kris?”
The man in the bright red suit shook his head.
“That will be all, Magda. Thank you.”
As the button on the intercom was released, the doctor looked up to see his patient fumbling in an inner pocket. Out came a pipe which was slipped into a waiting mouth.
“Do you have a light, doctor?”
This was getting more curious by the second. Reaching inside a drawer, Jones pulled out a plastic lighter and half-stood to offer a flame. Sitting back again, the doctor’s eyes refocused on the notes on screen. The patient had complained about being burnt out, of being underappreciated despite his monumental workload. Above all, he lamented the fact that fewer people believed in him each year.
The pipe-bowl crackled an amber colour, a tobacco smell wafting upwards.
“Forgive me, I am a little tired after recent exertions.”
There was a suppressed boom to the patient’s voice; apologetic, understated and weary. And yet…bordering on…retracted jollity
“What have you been up to then?”
“Oh…ho…ho. The usual, of course. Delivering gifts to the denizens of this wonderful world.”
Jones subconsciously fiddled with an elegant pen, another habit he had, a tell indicating he was cogitating.
“Didn’t you do that last year?”
“Indeed, I did. And the year before that. And the year before that one ad infinitum. Ho ho ho…I’ve been doing this too long really.”
“So what’s the issue?”
The question instantly felt too direct and posed much too soon. It was unclear where the shift in momentum had come from or why. Puffs of acrid smoke drifted towards the ceiling, the patient now had a crooked arm pointing horizontally to one side in anticipation of another drawer on the briar pipe.
“Maybe it’s about feeling valued.”
Jones steepled fingers under his chin whilst emitting a quiet sigh. This felt a very long way from Freudian analysis or the reflections of Carl Jung. Not that the work of such eminent pioneers was considered cutting edge these days. On a painted wall, a circular clock with roman numerals for numbers ticked conspicuously, a sound pregnant with possibilities. It had a dialogue of its own, a metronome quality that was hypnotic.
“Did you know that I have to travel at 4,705,882 kilometres per hour to deliver presents to children around the Globe? Do you think that would be possible if it wasn’t for having a magic sleigh?”
Raised eyebrows.
“And just imagine the work involved in co-ordinating all those elves? It’s not like Buddy the Elf and co in the movies, you know.”
Cinematic images were conjured in the patient’s head: memories of letting off steam and keeping seasonal minions entertained in a frozen bar somewhere north of Finland. Mariah Carey on repeat. Where did that traffic cone always come from the following morning?
The psychiatrist considered this and wondered where the conversation was going. He shifted uncomfortably keeping the patient in his eye line. His gaze drifted towards a couch a few feet away and pondered whether to go down the route of deep psychoanalysis. Prostrate clients revealed more.
“Why do you think of yourself as Santa Claus?”
The man in the red suit tapped his pipe on a knee now folded across his lap.
“Have you ever been anyone else?”
“Hmmmmm….that’s a good question. Questions. In Santa Claus the Movie, Tim Allen falls off a roof and becomes the next Santa doesn’t he? I can see where you are coming from.”
Jones said nothing hoping more would be added along the lines of a previous identity, suggestion of family or something to shake this delusion. ‘Santa’ merely smiled back, his expression almost ignominious.
“Letters.”
The word created another pause in the conversation.
“Letters?”
“Yes, letters. Still relevant in this electronic universe of ours. I try to keep up with technology as difficult as that may be but letters still hold sway. Which is reassuringly innocent in an increasingly sophisticated world.”
“Tell me more”
“How about a scotch first?”
Eyes fell on a crystal decanter filled with whiskey.
“I didn’t know Father Christmas was a drinker.” (Inside his head drinker read lush).
“Oh a tipple at this time of year can be forgiven. You wouldn’t believe the volume of wine I go through on Christmas Eve. It’s as well the police don’t patrol the skies in airborne panda cars.”
Another glance across at the couch.
Two drinks were poured.
“Letters, well I get so many as you can imagine. Like the one from Ruby, age six. Lives in Sutton, Surrey.”
The therapist stirred. Thoughts raced in his head. His daughter was called Ruby and they lived in Sutton! Was this man a stalker? This was a dark turn. He really wasn’t comfortable with his family being brought into the conversation when it was the patient’s he was hoping to hear about. Before ensuing panic could develop, further explanation was offered:
“She left me a note to say how thankful she was for her presents this year. Said she had forgotten to send me a letter outlining what she wanted and to apologise again that the chimney was bricked up and hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience. I encounter that issue more and more these days. The number of times I have nearly been arrested for burglary after going in through a window…”
Jones thought about this. He hadn’t considered it in many years but now he recalled the time he had stopped believing. Micky Hennessy in the playground, mocking him, poking him in the chest. That greasy black hair and scar above his lip. Father Christmas isn’t real…grow up you shrimp. He was six, his aggressor older. He had cried all the way home. It was that Christmas Eve that he had sneaked downstairs after midnight. Presents around the base of the Christmas tree. As he had turned to slope back to bed, a flash of red had caught the corner of his eye. Something moving away? It had gone by the time he had spun round. It had been easy to lose faith.
“Belief is important isn’t it?”
It was as though the man with the white beard could read his mind. Now he thought more about it, details of previous sessions were scant. Bare bones. Beyond the first few lines, notes trailed off; came to a dead halt. He dredged his brain trying to recall what had happened previously.
“You are everyone and everyone is you, John Jones. Your capacity to be average, the mean of humankind, a standard deviation of nil is woven into your DNA. Every year I come to remind you and every year, in turn, you come to realise the meaning of Christmas.”
“So are you the meaning? On behalf of everyone.”
As the last syllable sounded, the door opened. Standing there was a procession of truculent reindeer behind a sled. Bizarrely, there was snow falling indoors, the corridor knee-deep in white drifts. Bells tinkled. Feeding the animal at the front was none other than the doctor’s secretary Magda. She looked gleeful, childlike.
Jones watched the man rise nimbly and glide over to his waiting transport.
“Until we meet again, John Jones. Wishing you a Merry Christmas.”
With that the door closed, his question left hanging. Rhetorical.
Striding across the carpet, a startled Jones threw open the door and looked out. Everything was at it should be – a painting of a seascape hanging on the wall, teak sideboards with clay vases and decorative pottery flanking the floor. At the end, a studious Magda was beavering away behind a desk.
He shook his head and went back inside.
A memory stirring: creeping down the stairs as a young boy. Gifts wrapped in multitudinous colours. A tree alive with blinking fairy lights. Turning to go back upstairs. Something at the edge of his vision. A man….a big man….wearing a scarlet suit with white edging, sable boots. Sack slung over shoulder. He had seen him. He had.
Jones sat inert for a while and then starting typing up his account of events. It would only constitute a few lines before, once more, he would forget and see his next patient.
Christmas would continue to exist in his heart after all. Belief was fleeting but it only needed to be brought to bear for one day. The rest would take care of itself.
*Joulupukin kylän pohjoisnapa = Santa’s Village, North Pole
Image free to use via WikiCommons at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jonathan_G_Meath_portrays_Santa_...
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Comments
So he has to 'believe' in
So he has to 'believe' in something, some feeling of joy and warmth towards fellow-creatures, with a vague hope of memory!
How many realise that Christmas actually tells of concrete physical evidence to believe in. Not a philosophical notion but a real historically recorded baby and historically recorded words and miracles and death and resurrection to be the real knowable Saviour, supernatural and physical. And of course there is the physical evidence of creation, more and more clearly impossibly expained away by any evolutionary theory. True joy celebrated.
I hope you enjoy a very happy Christmas! Rhiannon
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As the magical night of
As the magical night of Christmas Eve approaches, this is such an apt story to read Paul.
Thank you for sharing. I hope you have a truely Wonderful Christmas and a Happy, Healthy, Prosperous New Year.
Jenny.
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belief is important. innocene
belief is important. innocene more so. bloody santa...I know...I know...I know.
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Much to ponder in this well
Much to ponder in this well written piece Marandina. Have you asked your adult children about believing in Father Christmas? I did once, and they told me they knew from when they were quite young, but loved the idea, so we all sort of participated in a family delusion - delightful as it was!
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Thank you - and you too!
Thank you - and you too!
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An engaging read
Playful and gently thought provoking.
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John Jones's client threw all
John Jones's client threw all of his academic credentials and belief systems into question. I imagined Kris, tall and skinny rather than the round figure of the archetypal Santa, overworked and relying on stimulants rather than good food. Maybe John Jones is the one overworked and in need of a long holiday. (Inside his head drinker read lush) I loved this bit.
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My colleague Alfred Muggins
My colleague Alfred Muggins is pleased to have found another writer who also believes in Santa Claus! He knows that I am a bit of a sceptic myself, but he is proposing to do an ongoing investigation (when he finds the time!) to determine, once and for all, who the real Santa Claus is and find out where he operates from, as he thinks there are a number of pretenders to the 'throne' out there, but he knows at least one of them (maybe more?) is real! He might have met him, or one of them, before, but as you say the general disbelief tends to make us forget so he can't remember for sure.
An imaginative and thought provoking piece! Alfred says you are definitely getting closer to the truth!
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