Santa Claus

I am an imposter of Santa Claus. The real Santa Claus does not know this. Rather, he refuses to believe I exist. When I pass by him on the street he doesn’t look at me, stares right through me, past me, because he doesn’t believe in Santa Claus.
Not many people believe in Santa Claus anymore. To most people, he stops existing past the age of ten. When I was in wood-carving class in fifth grade someone tried to deceive me; they succeeded, I lost my faith. But now I know he exists; I see him every day. He tips the homeless as he waddles into the corner store, shoulders slumped, beard bedraggled and unkempt, much like the hair of the homeless he tips. Every day I see him waddle out of the corner store, his pot-belly nearly scraping the ground; he carries a black plastic bag with four twenty-four ounce cans of malt liquor.
I try to reason with him, ask him why he doesn’t feed the needy, evoke a platter stacked with steaming melting chocolate-chip cookies.
“Everyone needs something,” he says.
“But some need more than others. Some have nothing at all.”
“There is always someone who is more needy than others,” he replies. I have cornered him, ambushed him on his way to the one dollar bus ride across the bridge, wherein all the tattered seats have been doodled on by blasé teenagers.
Where does he go—where does he live? I stand vigilant. I wait for him to sneak into the corner store, obfuscating my attention. I catch sight of him every time…but I don’t bother him anymore. I have met the intrinsic demons that oppress him. I know there is nothing he can do to whiplash the reigns, bust out the sleigh, liberate the individuals that are chained to the same grating iron ball he is. I don’t bother to stalk him; I know where he goes. I’ve been there. You don’t live there. There is no cozy Christmas-lit home—it is just somewhere you go, somewhere you never stop going; it is transient to others, yet in itself stationary. I’ve been there. I’ve been there, I’ve been there.

Now I have taken up the duty of Santa Claus. I am the imposter. No matter how many presents I wrap, stockings I fill, they don’t believe me. They don’t believe I exist.
I don’t have the deep timbre that embodies the real Santa Claus’s “ho-ho-ho’s!’. It’s understandable that they don’t believe me. I am skinny; Santa Claus is merely my pseudo-name. I bought twelve reindeer but I don’t know how to train them so that they will fly my store-bought sled. My suit is made of felt, rather than silk, but I persist! I buy the presents, the coal burns, my elves all actually look like real elves—I tell myself they are real elves—they have plastic ears glued to their own. My beard is consummately tacked on.
On Christmas eve…I can only knock on so many doors by sunrise. On my practice runs I can usually cover my own neighborhood and half of another. Some ask me why Christmas has come early this year and when I tell them I’m only practicing for the big day they usually shut the door in my face but practice makes perfect and is therefore perfect. Come the big day, I must cover the whole world!
The actual Santa Claus, on the other hand…jaded, he drinks in a cove by the bridge with the homeless he tips. He has lost his faith. I know that this is only a temporary phase—one day, the true Santa Claus will rise again. I will escort him to his sleigh and he shall take the reigns, he will thank me for being his substitute, the world I know…will believe again, they will believe me and I will forgive those who lost their faith. I know they will. They will all believe me.
All of them.