Wiretap - Secret Santa

Episode Date: August 31, 2020

After the death of Mrs. Claus, Santa finds himself back in the dating game. Trouble is, there aren't too many eligible bachelorettes in the North Pole... other than Glinda, the good witch of the North, that is. But will they hit it off?

It's not just you. News in Canada and around the world is moving at an incredible pace, which is where we come in. I'm Jamie Poisson and I host Frontburner, Canada's most popular daily news podcast. And what we try to do is hit the breaks on a story that you actually want to know more about. So try us out. Follow Front Burner wherever you get your podcast, Front Burner, stories you want to follow five days a week. You're listening to Wiretap with Jonathan Goldstein on CBC Radio 1. Today's episode, Secret Santa. Each life was a lonely tumble down a cold, dark chimney. Falling, falling, then blackness.

These were Santa's thoughts as he prepared snickerdoodles in the kitchen. In the other room, the elves performed Christmas tunes and doce-doed. Carefully, he carried the tray of sweets into the living room. His wife, Martha, had been dead five years now, and he was alone. Alone in a house full of elves. Jesus had dignity. Apostles. All he had was high blood pressure and a communal toilet the size of a cereal bowl.

He sat down on the couch and watched the elves dance to Felice Nevedad. Christmas Eve was just a few weeks away, and Santa knew he could count on the thrill of an evening of gift-giving to raise his spirits, for one night at least, but by Christmas morning, he'd be back in the dumps. He sighed and shoved a handful of snickerdoodles into his mouth. Jingles broke from the group of dancing elves and approached him. You're killing yourself with the doodles, Jingles said, slamming down his Gin Rickie.

Jingles was the elf who told it like it was, especially after three or four Gin Rickies. Not as jolly as spanky, nor as musical as Twinkleberry, but Jingles knew how to cut through small talk, and lately he'd been on Santa's case, to stop overeating, to get out of the house, and to get himself a girlfriend. Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, lived only a few miles away, and had just been left by her boyfriend, a walrus hunter who looked somewhat like a walrus himself. Glinda's into the Wilford Brimley type, said Jingles, so you've totally got a chance. Glinda, said Santa, but she's so sparkly. Jingles was quick to point out that Santa shouldn't be so fussy. The dating pool at the North Pole was pretty shallow.

There were a few research scientists, but for the most part, scientists didn't believe in Santa, and not being believed in posed a definite problem for dating. There was also the problem of his weight. Used to be if you arrived at a dinner party and couldn't fit through the door, No problemo. You just slid down the chimney and everyone thought you were a bon vivant. Nowadays, though, you were handed the number to a personal trainer. I miss Martha, Santa said quietly. He knew this was true, though not the entire truth.

There was missing, of course, but there was also fear. Aside from Martha, he'd never been with any other woman. There had been that milkmaid shaving her legs he dropped in on in Switzerland, and leave it to the Swiss to build chimneys in their bathroom. But that was just an eye-full, no touching. And there had been a kiss with that veterinarian after Blitzin cracked a hoof. It started off as gratitude, but waddled into something else. That was about it.

Look, I miss Martha, too, said Jingles. But it's time to move on. She was the only gal for me, said Santa. Jingles put his tiny hand on Santa's knee. To be frank, Jingle said, I always thought your relationship a little narcissistic. Mrs. Claus was like your twin, but with bosoms. Did you plan your outfits together? We just had the same taste, Santa sobbed. Jingle Bell Rock started up on the squeeze box, and Santa took that as his cue to head to bed.

He never could stand rock and roll Christmas songs. He liked Christmas songs, and he liked rock and roll. He just didn't like them together. Martha had felt the exact same way. On their first year anniversary, Martha had presented him with a pen, the fancy kind that came in a box. Oh, for the love of St. Nicholas, Santa had said, what good is a pen? I'll just end up losing it.

Save your money and buy yourself something nice, or let me buy for you. that would make me most happy of all. For a man famous for his giving, Santa was terrible at receiving. Martha took the pen back and apologized, and that was the end of the gifts. After she had died and Santa was cleaning out her stuff, in a jewelry box, filled with the old love letters he'd sent during their courtship, he found the pen. He clutched it on the edge of the bed and wept. As much as Santa had trouble accepting gifts, he had even more trouble accepting advice,

which is why Jingles took it upon himself to just go ahead and arrange a date for Santa, unbidden. Glinda's expecting you at eight, said Jingles sidling up to him in the reindeer stable one morning. And do me a favor, trim your whiskers, and put on your spanks. As instructed, Santa appeared at Glinda's doorstep that evening, a paper bag of roasted chestnuts in his hand. Come on in, Mr. Claus, said Glinda with a sweep of her arm. She was dressed all in white, and the house smelled of fresh gingerbread. Santa observed with a smile that there were several magic wands, gold and sparkly, in the umbrella rack. For most of the evening they sat by the hearth and made clumsy conversation. about the loneliness of living at the North Pole mostly.

Unless I absolutely have to, I don't even bother going outside, said Glinda. And when the cable goes out, it is out, said Santa. After a beat of silence, Glinda looked at him, a smile across her face. Is this a good conversation, she asked? Santa laughed and assured her it was. They played cribbage, drank eggnog, and watched the snow outside the window, fall, and in the vestibule before leaving, Glinda placed her hand on Santa's shoulder and kissed him right beneath his eye. As she did, Santa felt as though his chest were a chimney, and inside,

a sleeping dove was stirring awake. They made a date for the following weekend, and just before he left, Glinda gave him a container of cranberry mini-muffins she'd baked. Santa told her he could not accept such a gift, at which point she thrust it into his chest with surprising force. Take it, she said. He was about to protest further, but then figured the elves would probably enjoy them. On the sleigh-ride home, Santa realized with mixed feelings that he'd hardly thought of Martha the whole night. When he showed up the following Saturday, Glinda was all apologies. Change of plans, she said, stomping him in the vestibule.

Sheila's here. Flew in this afternoon from Tampa. Sheila? asked Santa. A.k.a. the wicked witch of the East, she said quickly. My old college roommate. College? For witches? She's always showing up like this, Glinda went on. Every time there's trouble in Tampa, I get a knock at the door.

In the den, Sheila was lying on the couch in a kittenish tangle, all in black and smoking what smelled like European cigarettes. She studied Santa while playing with her hair. Hey, Chubs, she said. I told you to smoke outside, said Glinda with exasperation. She went into the kitchen to get some fruit cake, as Santa made his way over to the couch. Sheila didn't move. So he squeezed into the corner, her black stocking toes touching his thigh. So what do you do, Fatso?

Santa began to stammer. Oh, I... Relax, I know who you are. You're famous, she said, taking the last cookie from the serving tray. So how do you know, Glinda? Oh, we're neighbors, said Santa. Can you buy this good witch bullshit? she asked in a whisper. A downward turn in the black arts and all of a sudden.

sudden she's moved to the North Pole and rebranded herself a good witch. Who ever heard of a good witch, am I right? It's an oxymoron, like baby grand or jolly fat man. Everyone knows fat men are sad. Look at you. Totally depressed. Am I right? I mean, maybe a little, Santa said. My wife recently died. And what's with this Glinda horsesh-h-h-hitted Sheila? Her name's Linda. Often, when Santa didn't know what else to say, he'd break into a jolly-sounding chuckle. He tried it just then, but the chuckle got caught in his throat and came out sounding sweaty and choked. Sheila stared at him. You have this weird crap in your beard, she said.

She reached in to pull it out, and as she did, she brought her face in close enough for Santa to smell her. Whereas Glinda smelled like baby powder and cinnamon, Sheila smelled of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Cigarettes, of course, but something else, too. It set the chimney in his chest ablaze, ashy black doves trying to flap out their flaming wings. As Sheila rummaged through his beard, the look on her face was all little girl concentration.

You have nice bone structure, she said. You should try wearing black. It would have a slimming effect. Withdrawing a tiny shriveled raisin from Santa's beard, Sheila crinkled up her face and flicked it onto the carpet. Ew, gross, she said. Glinda walked back into the room with drinks, and when Santa reached for one, he realized his hand was shaking. He excused himself to use the bathroom, where he thought he might hum a few carols to calm himself down. Everything inside the bathroom was glittery and white, white glittery soaps, shampoos, curtains.

But there, hanging from the white shower curtain rod, was something black. Stung there for all the world to see were a pair of silky black stockings, Sheila's black stockings. For years, Santa had dealt intimately with stockings, stuffing them with cool or presents, and never thought about it twice. But just then, seeing those black stockings of hers, being alone with them, something came over him, and suddenly he was on his toes biting the tips like a playful pup, like a fat old playful pup.

Returning to the living room, Santa sat back down on the couch and listened, enraptured, as Sheila encouraged him to revise his policy on naughtiness. Santa nodded his head, as though giving her suggestion some thought. So we finally found a podcast that speaks to you. Pure bliss. It's so good that when you finish the final episode, it leaves a hole in your heart and your schedule. What now?

Personally, is here for you. It's a collection of true stories that explore what it means to be, well, human. The best part, there are six incredible seasons to dive into, with more on the way. Personally, get lost in someone else's life. Available now, wherever you personally get your podcasts. In bed that night, Santa replayed each of Sheila's words and gestures. Sheila said whatever she felt like, touching and smelling everything like an animal.

She was not afraid to take, avail herself of the world, drinks, cigarettes, hospitality. Without so much as asking, she'd even play. plunged her hand into Santa's Shirley Temple, plucking the Maraschino cherry right out and using his hat to wipe her hands. For Santa, one so in love with giving, he could not help it see before him a kind of black hole, a sexy and sublime black hole, into which he could deliver forth his greatest gifts. In Sheila, he saw an insatiable hunger for life. With such a woman to give to, to give himself to, it would feel as though every day was Christmas. When they had made plans for the following weekend, Glinda had asked if Santa could bring

along a friend for Sheila, and so he showed up with Jingles. Anything to help a brother out, Jingles had said. Strolling into Glinda's living room, Jingles did that thing where he jumped onto the couch while crossing his legs in midair. He landed right beside Sheila. You are just too cute for words, exclaimed Sheila. Try anyways, said Jingles, snipping the tip of his cigar. It was the length of his forearm. I'd prefer to keep the house smoke free, said Glinda. More like fun free, said Sheila. Say, what do you call people who live around here anyway? North Polacks? We call ourselves cold poles, said Jingles. Ever put your tongue on a cold pool, honey? Tends to get stuck there. Sheila slapped him on the head. Dork, she said laughing. Sheila and Jingles had a million things to

talk about. All the while, Glinda and Santa just sort of sat there, smiling awkwardly and watching the snowfall. It's an uninhabitable wasteland, Santa heard Sheila say. Tampa sounds awesome, said Jingles. If only I could convince El Hefe over there to move the operation south. Jingles looked over at Santa, and seeing his bro struggling with his date, decided to kick things into gear. Come on, y'all, said the elf, addressing the group. Gather around for a little spin, oh, the bottle. I've got just the one, said Sheila, downing the last of the red wine, straight from the bottle. Spin the what? asked Linda. Sheila rolled her eyes, placed the bottle down on the carpet and spun. Santa watched the bottle spin with an anxiety that

bordered on mania. What if the bottle dictated that he was to kiss Sheila? He would almost certainly die. But he did not have to ponder such a kiss for very long, for soon the bottle slowed to a halt, pointing directly at Jingles. And when Sheila licked her lips and leaned her face downward, Jingles grabbed her head in his small hands and planted his tiny mouth on hers. Santa felt the chimney fire in his chest, snuff out. He and Glinda watched them kiss. Then, after a while, they watched the snowfall. Then they went back to watching them kiss. Eventually, Jingles led Sheila into the vestibule, where he said he wanted to show her the secret to getting the tips of his shoes so curly.

Left alone and at somewhat of a loss, Linda got up and fished around in a cabinet drawer beside the couch. Santa thought she might be looking for a game of some sort. But then she said, I have something for you. She held out a glistening package. No way, Jose, Santa said, I'm the gift giver around here, and it's not even Christmas yet. Santa was about to really kick up a fuss, but then, as a downright witchy look fell across

Glinda's face, he trailed off. It's nothing that big, she insisted, thrusting the present at his chest. Besides, it was fun trying to find the perfect something for you, and then to actually find it, there's no greater feeling in the world. But now, look who I'm telling this to. Hearing her words and seeing the look of excitement on her face, Santa had a puzzling thought. Perhaps he'd somehow misjudge things. Perhaps he'd somehow gotten it wrong. By refusing the gifts people wished to bestow on him, he'd consistently failed to give the experience of giving. He'd hogged that particular pleasure all to himself. And so, he took the package. It was flat and square. Tearing the wrapping paper open, he saw it. He saw it. He saw it.

it was a record. Rockin' Christmas Party Songs, Volume 1. He absolutely hated it. Not just because the thought of listening to it made him feel like one of those old white-haired hippies who had to make everything, from getting their prostate check to celebrating Christmas, not just a good time, but a rockin' good time.

But it was also one of those gifts that said something about the recipient, something that was hard to swallow. Like the gift of a backscratcher that says you're alone in this world and must fend for yourself, or the gift of a warm housecoat that says your days of party dresses are over. The gift of a perfectly awful Christmas album, being handed to you by a woman who liked you, said loud and clear,

you must learn to compromise. For after all his years of giving, sent in new better than anyone, that we don't always receive what we want, nor even what we deserve. We receive what life for you. brings us, and when it comes to life, we haven't a choice but to open our arms. I love it, said Santa, with a half smile. Unpealing the plastic, they placed the album on the

record player. Santa held out his arms, and Glinda entered his embrace, and together they danced about the room as Chuck Berry belted out Run Rudolph Run, and it was almost enough to drown out the sounds in the vestibule. In the early 90s, I was about five or six. I had an older brother. He's about two and a half years older than me. And we were newcomers to Canada. We were born in Egypt, and we never celebrated,

Christmas, but our parents had suggested putting out milk and cookies for Santa, this so-called Santa, this huge legend here that all the kids kind of talked about. And I think I mean my brother were a bit too smart for our own good in those days because we're like, this Santa thing is kind of fishy. Like, we don't really think this guy exists, so we're going to show them and beat them in their own game. So our parents put out milk and cookies for Santa, and I'm tempted to put the blame on my brother, but one of us kind of suggested, why don't we poison this guy? We're going to, let's put some rat poison or something. And Santa's milk, we would leave it by the fireplace in the basement with some Oreos, I think we'd left out,

and we would then get to the bottom of this. So wait, let me get this straight. In order to prove whether or not Santa existed, you decided to try to poison him. Yeah, it's crazy. It's crazy, but we just thought if he didn't exist, then no harm done, because Santa didn't exist and wouldn't have gotten hurt. And if he did exist, we would still win by having kind of proven it through this. By murdering him. So in my mind, it would just be like a short kind of break for him. I was like, you know, he's just going to sleep for a little bit. Santa's going to have some sleep time.

We're going to wake him up and say, we got you. We're on to you. Look us in the eyes and tell us who you are. and maybe we'd get like really good presents out of it like maybe he could bribe us into silence by being like look you guys got me now you guys are on like the nice list every year and we'll get you whatever you want even though you don't celebrate Christmas so he would just basically serve us for the rest of his life of course after having tried to kill him with rat poison he would definitely want to shower you with presents yeah totally so what ended up happening you guys didn't end up following through right no no no thank god like no one in ingested rat poison in this household that Christmas. Well, that's always, that's, I mean, that's like a happy end to a Christmas story. Yeah, so. Hello. Hello, John Goldstein.

Hey, Howard. How are you doing? I'm doing, you know, how can I not be doing good as the holiday season? I just wanted to call to wish you Happy holidays Oh, thank you Tight greetings All the best to you and yours I have no yours

But thanks I should probably get back to work Yeah, I should let you go Yeah I think I heard a ding From your microwave in the background You get your meals ready Would you buy yourself

The Lonely Man special For the holidays There was no ding I'm at work I know your microwave ding All right Howard Well listen Happy holiday

The reason I was calling you actually As per my holiday tradition. I'm going to go down to the mall and go see Santa. What are you bringing your nephew or something like that? My nephew's 33. I'm going down to see Santa Claus myself. When you say I'm going to go see Santa Claus. I wonder

if you want to, I do it every year. You're going to see. I don't get what you're so surprised about here. I do this every year. Every year, I go down. Every year, as a full-grown man, you go to see Santa. I don't even know. Every Christmas I go down to the mall, see Santa. Sit on his lap. You sit on his lap. What is one doing to go see Santa?

I've never heard of this tradition of yours This is the first I'm hearing of this Maybe I was loath to bring it up You always neg on all my fun and traditions That isn't true Anyway, I just I wonder if you just want to come with me And sharing this yearly check with tradition

I've seen the same guy for about 18 years now He's a really good listener Santa I mean I guess he's made to listen That's why he's there You know And I'll talk about You know I have some eating issues And I've been feeling a bit lonely

These days and he says that maybe I'm trying to fill a void Maybe it's love Howard, it tells as though you're treating this man as your therapist. In the old days, in like Viking days, that was Santa's role. He would listen to the Vikings' problems. They would come back from a terrible battle, and they lost loved ones, or they didn't know what they were doing, why they were killing.

And they went to see Santa. They would sit on Santa's lap. They didn't have therapists back then. It was all Santa. He's very good. He's very good. For once a year, he members everything. He's a department store Santa Claus, Howard.

I mean, for children. He's part of an order with strong traditions. So what do you tell this guy? I just speak from the heart, because he can tell when you're lying. He can tell when you're naughty, he can tell when you're nice. He knows the naughty stuff I do. He knows some of the bad stuff I do, but he thinks it's all kind of charming and impish. The naughty things that you do, on the other hand, I kind of tell him about some of the stuff that you do.

And that he's not so charmed by. Oh, is that so? I think you have some serious problems. The Santa Claus at the mall thinks I have some serious problems. You know, I was there last year, and he remembered me talking about me talking about. about you before from the years past, and he thought maybe it would be a good idea of this year if you came along with me. He said maybe we can have kind of a joint session. He has two knees, we're two guys. Did he? He loved to meet you, and I would like if you didn't embarrass me.

If I didn't embarrass you. Just show up sober. I embarrass you. Yeah. And what exactly have you been telling this guy about me anyway? Just, you know, your general kind of negativity, and you put people down, and you're kind of like a soul murderer, and he thinks maybe if we get it all out there, you know, when we do us a world of good. Going for couple counseling with Santa Claus. You're sitting on a big husky man's leg, plus you get a candy cane for free. And once you realize how wrongly you treat me, I think it could be very cathartic. Uh-huh.

And we can finally have some closure after all these years, and then we can move on. So this is why you want me to come down to see Santa Claus with you. I think it would be good for us. So you can ambush me? It's not about that, but healing. Well, I mean, the things this person must think about me. He's Santa. Who's more forgiving? Well, I don't know.

It's a safe place, John. Santa's lap is safe. I mean, that's the whole idea of it. There's nothing safer. I mean, maybe the one thing would be the elves. That might be a little more of a problem. Oh, you've also been trash-talking me to the elves, huh? The worst thing was last Christmas, I slipped on ice, and I gave myself a shiner, and I told him it was you.

Why would you say that? I was just milking it. I wanted better gifts. I thought if they thought things were really bad at home, Santa would get me something better. Some of those elves, you know, they work on the docks, and they're kind of tough guys, union guys. They're going to want a PC. On Wiretap today, you heard Pasent Matar and Howard Chakowitz. Wiretap is produced by Mirabird Wintonic, Crystal Duhame, and me, Jonathan Goldstein.

For more CBC podcasts, go to cBC.ca.ca.com.