You Better Watch Out

I had just loaded the last Christmas presents into the trunk of our 98 Buick when I saw him—white-haired, old, long beard, glasses, rosy cheeks, heavyset. He was wearing a gray, wool cardigan sweater and khaki pants. He sat on a bench at a busy intersection where a lot of shoppers were coming and going, watching the people as they passed by.

Nothing wrong with that. People watching is one of my favorite pastimes.

But this guy was watching people with a little more than a passing interest. He was staring at them, like he was peering into their souls. And that wasn’t all. It wasn’t just how he was watching but who he was watching that bothered me. He seemed to be paying careful attention to the kids.

I know I am not mistaken. One guy with a blue mohawk and a dog collar around his neck walked right by him, and he didn’t even blink.

But then a woman accompanied by a teenage girl strolled by. The girl’s ears were plugged with little white sticks, and she gazed downward into the glassy pool of her phone, like a twenty-first century Narcissus. The old man squinted at the girl, his puzzled stare following her until she and her mother turned the corner, as if he had never seen anything like this in his entire life. Boy, did he give me the creeps. I closed the trunk of the car and watched him for a minute from where I was standing.

The old man kept staring at children. He was an equal opportunity offender. Any kid who passed by got his attention—babies, school children, teenagers, boys, girls. It didn’t matter. If they were born within the last two decades, he was interested.

If any other old man were doing this, I would have been concerned. Maybe I would have alerted the police. But there was something different about this one. I don’t know how to put it. There was an innocence about him you don’t see much these days.

I kept studying him. He watched the people, I watched him. I was in no danger of getting caught staring at him. He was so wrapped up in his people-watching that he hardly noticed anything else going on around him.

I wasn’t busy, so I decided to talk to him. The man looked harmless enough, so I walked up and said, “How’s it going?”

 “Huh? Oh, how d’you do?”

 “Fine. I just finished my shopping. Don’t you hate Christmas shopping? It’s so stressful. I never know what to get the people on my list. Everybody’s already got more than they need anyway. You know what I mean?”

 The old man appeared to be lost in thought. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose.”

 “Mind if I sit down? My dogs are barking.”

A look of concern darkened the old man’s face, and he glanced around my legs for a moment, looking for something, and then looked back up at me, confused. I waited for an invitation to sit down, but he just kept giving me a spaced-out look. I sat down next to him anyway and introduced myself.

“Sam Jensen.”

“Nick,” he said tersely.

“So, Nick, how do you find time to kick back on a park bench at such a busy time as this?”

“Kick back? Who’s kicking back?” he asked, offended. “I’m working.”

“Working?” I asked. “Does it pay well? I’d like to get in on that racket myself, getting paid for sitting around on benches, watching people all day.”

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” he said defensively. “Do you think I want to be sitting out here? I’d much rather be at home, resting up for the big night, lounging on the couch with a big mug of hot chocolate and one arm around the missus. To tell you the truth, that’s what I’m usually doing this time of the year. It’s only one week until Christmas, you know.”

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” I chimed.

“Yes, well, I decided to try something different this year.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that,” I asked.

Nick looked around and then leaned toward me so that he could speak in a lower voice into my ear. His breath smelled like peppermint candy. “Research,” he said.

“Research? What kind of research?”

“You’ve heard of the naughty list, haven’t you?”

Then it hit me—hot chocolate with the missus, the big night, Nick! This guy thinks he’s Santa Claus!

I had to know more. “Yes,” I prodded, “the naughty list. What about it?”

“Do you want to know a secret?” He leaned even closer, as if he were guarding the most important secret in the world. “There is no naughty list. It’s a myth. Hokum. Complete fiction. I don’t even know where it came from. Somewhere along the way, somebody just made it up.”

“Is that why you’re studying those kids? To see who’s naughty and who’s nice?” I asked.

“Exactly. I think it’s time I do it right for a change. All these centuries, I’ve put presents under trees indiscriminately on Christmas Eve to every living child all over the world, giving who knows how many naughty little children the false impression that they’ve been good all year long!”

“Well, that explains a lot,” I said. “I’ve got a couple of little ingrates back home, two boys, William and Tom, and they never miss a Christmas.”

Nick gave me a nod of familiarity.

“They’re always fighting. I swear sometimes I’m afraid they’re going to tear the whole house down. We’ve spoiled them, I know. It’s our fault. We just can’t say no. Their rooms are full of junk. They’ve got every new thing that comes out, and they don’t have to wait until Christmas. No sir, if they want it, we buy it, right then and there! Then when Christmas comes, we don’t have any idea what to get them. What does it matter anyway? All they really want to do is veg out in front of the PS5.”

“Do you think they might have benefitted from being on the naughty list?” asked Nick.

“What do I know? Maybe. Hey, listen to this—my wife used to do this thing when the little devils were small and out of control. She’d pick up the phone and tell them, ‘If you don’t behave, I’m calling Santa and telling him not to bring any Christmas presents this year.’ If that didn’t get their attention, she’d make the call, you know what I mean? She had this whole act: ‘Hello, Santa? Yes, this is Marcy Jensen from Jonestown, William and Tom’s mommy? Yes, that’s right. Well, I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you not to come this year. The boys have not been very good this year.’” I laughed hysterically and slapped my knee. “Boy, I wish you could have seen the looks on their faces.”

“I don’t remember getting a call like that from Marcy.”

“No, of course you didn’t. It was a trick, you see? She didn’t actually make a call. She was just pretending to call Santa…er, you.”

Nick was starting to catch on. “Oh, I see! So what did you do Christmas morning? Did you hide the presents I put under the tree? A little coal in their stockings, maybe?”

“Well, no,” I admitted. “The fake call was in early fall, or something like that, and by Christmas we had forgotten about the whole thing. We weren’t really going to take their Christmas away. It was a bluff.”

“Did it work?”

“Um, no. It didn’t.”

“You see!” said Nick, “I’m too soft. The threat of the naughty list isn’t enough. If I don’t actually make a list, check it twice, and pass over a few houses on Christmas Eve, the children will never learn.”

“Look, Nick, I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” I said.

“Too hard on myself?” he repeated, getting flustered. “Do you realize how much responsibility rests upon my shoulders? For hundreds of years, people have counted on me to sort out the naughty children from the nice ones, so that the world can be a good and peaceful place. But I don’t have a list. I’m a fake! Not only that, I may be responsible for a lot of heartache, betrayal, lawbreaking, and evil happening all over the world! Half the world’s prison population might have turned their lives around if I had only been firmer!” Big tears welled up in Nick’s eyes. He looked like he was about to have a nervous breakdown.

“Now, don’t say that.” I put my arm around him, trying to comfort him.

“It’s true!” he cried. “Have you heard of Jack the Ripper? Adolf Hitler? Joseph Stalin? Jeffrey Dahmer? Bernie Madoff? All of them had presents under the tree!” Nick started weeping. Tears rolled down his red cheeks. His bottom lip stuck out. He looked a lot different than the jolly old St. Nick in the Coca Cola ads.

“You mustn’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “You were only doing what you thought was best.”

“It’s those stupid songs!” he said, suddenly angry. “I never endorsed any Christmas music! They’re all so biographical, trying to flesh out what I’m doing all year long at the North Pole.” He began singing in a bitter, mocking tone:

You better watch out, you better not cry,
You better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.

He had worked himself into a froth, and people were starting to notice. Embarrassed, I tried to calm him down, but he kept singing in a nasally, mocking tone.

He knows when you are sleeping.
He knows when you’re awake.
He knows if you’ve been bad or good,
So be good for goodness sake.

 Big, bitter tears rolled down his cheeks and burrowed into the downy curls of his beard. He looked absurd, sitting there with his arms crossed, pouting like that.

“Listen, you’ve got to calm down,” I said. “People are staring at you. Aren’t you supposed to keep a low profile?”

“Oh, I don’t think we have to worry about anyone recognizing me” he sniffed. “How can people spot Santa when he’s not the Santa they grew up believing in?” He sobbed.

I tried to change the subject. “Let me see what you’ve got there.” He had some sheets of brown, brittle paper inscribed with curly lettering in his lap. I read what he had written:

BILLY WATKINS: NAUGHTY NICE?
SUSIE HOLLAND: NICE
JENNIFER COLLINS: NAUGHTY (PULLED HER BROTHER’S HAIR)
MICHAEL COLLINS: NAUGHTY (PROVOKED HIS SISTER, RESULTING IN HER PULLING HIS HAIR)

“That’s quite a dubious list,” I said. “You don’t seem too certain about which side of the column the names should fall on. Is this all you’ve got?”

“It’s just this morning’s work,” he said.

“It’s 1 PM,” I said.

“Well, how am I supposed to judge a child’s character from a snapshot of one day out shopping, when I’m unable to evaluate them the rest of the year?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “I guess I thought it was magic, like coming down the chimney or driving a flying sled led by eight reindeer.”

“Poppycock!” he shouted. “Fiction! It’s those songs. They’ve got me peering into children’s windows like a Peeping Tom while they’re sleeping and keeping my eye on all the children in the world at once. I can’t do that!”

“To be honest with you, I’m a little relieved to hear that,” I said. “I always thought that was kinda creepy.”

“It’s just impossible to make a fair evaluation. I can’t be everywhere at once.” Nick hung his head in resignation and stared at his black, shiny boots.

“And then there are the extenuating circumstances,” I said sympathetically. “I’m sure you have thought about that.”

“What do you mean?” He looked bewildered.

“You know, extenuating circumstances, like some kids just aren’t responsible for their behavior. Special needs. They’ve got problems they can’t help.”

Nick looked confused.

“You know, problems, like ADHD.”

“Eighty how many?”

“No, it’s not a number. ADHD.”

“Spell it.”

“Spell it? I can’t. It’s an acronym. Look, never mind. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve got enough on your hands delivering presents to the whole world without also having to fill out an annual report on the moral character of every boy and girl.”

Something I said struck a chord somewhere deep inside that troubled old man. He smiled for the first time since I met him and put his fat, woolen tube of an arm around my shoulder. A surprising musk confronted my nostrils, like the odor of an average, heavyset man wearing clothes too warm for the occasion on a park bench on a sunny day. “Thank you, Sam,” he said. “It’s nice to feel appreciated.”

“Dad?” A woman’s voice interrupted the moment we were having. She sounded frantic. “We’ve been looking all over for you!” A man and a woman in their mid-forties came in front of us and crouched in front of Nick, completely ignoring me. They were carrying a bundle of shopping bags. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been right here, doing my work,” said Nick.

The man gave the woman a look. “Let’s go home, Dad.” Without saying a word to me, they led him away like a disruptive child being led to the principal’s office.

“Nice to meet you!” I called. Nick cast a docile look over his shoulder. A lamb to the slaughter.

By the time I got home, it was getting late. The smell of Marcy’s vegetable soup lured me into the kitchen. She was ladling it into bowls and setting the table.

“Hi honey,” she said. “Did you get the shopping done?”

“All done,” I said.

“Do me a favor and call the boys to the table,” she said. “I know you’re tired, but we promised the Parkers we’d go Christmas caroling with them tonight. We’d better hurry if we’re going to be on time.”

I went to the boys’ room and found them right where I expected to find them – sitting in front of the TV, playing Fortnite. “Time for supper,” I said.

No response.

“Boys!” I shouted. “Time for supper, now!”

“We heard ya, dad,” said Tom. Then he and William tackled me. I used to be able to take them, but they’ve gotten big enough to pin me down when they’re working together. We wrestled around a little bit and then joined Marcy in the kitchen to wolf down our supper so we wouldn’t be late.

After supper, we met up with the Parkers to go caroling. The first house we came to was Mrs. Farley’s. Her husband died from cancer three years earlier, and she lived alone. Her children wanted her to move in with them, but she didn’t want to leave the house she had lived in for the last thirty-eight years. Her health was okay, so they allowed her to stay for the time being. We met her at church, and from time to time, we’d go by the house and check on her.

I took a deep breath and tried to ground myself there on Mrs. Farley’s front porch. Soak it all in. I looked at my boys. Were they naughty? Of course they were. And they were nice too, really nice. And Marcy was nice. Christmas was nice. And life was nice too.

“Let’s sing, ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,’” suggested Tom.

“No,” I said, “let’s not sing that one. Not this time.”

“Then what, Dad?” asked William.

“Anything,” I said, “as long as it’s nice.”