Banning Santa

Chapter One

Representative Camilla Guzman

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. That isn’t unexpected on Black Friday. Unfortunately, it’s looked like Christmas in this mall since early October. Retailers looking to get a jump on the holidays seem to start earlier and earlier. It’s a shame. By the time shoppers get to December 25th, they’re already tired of being merry. All the joy of the holiday has been sucked out.

Camilla strolls past the storefronts and reads the signs promising massive deals ahead of the holiday. This mall is a great place to find anything you need outside of the lumber needed to build a deck. For that, there is a pair of big box building supply stores a half mile away. Here, you get trendy boutiques, gourmet ice cream, Frappuccinos, and acres of walkable area in a climate-controlled environment. There are nearby malls for a good day of retail therapy throughout Los Angeles County. She prefers the ones in her district for obvious reasons.

The first-term congresswoman isn’t shopping for Christmas yet. She isn’t much of a gift-giver and always waits until a couple of weeks before the twenty-fifth to begin. The holiday was a big thing in the Guzman house while she was growing up, but gift-giving wasn’t. Her parents were not anti-Christmas by any stretch of the imagination. It’s that they couldn’t afford it.

Camilla isn’t sure how modern families manage without maxing out credit cards. With inflation rising and the costs of housing, gasoline, and medical treatments hitting all-time highs because of money-grubbing corporations, there’s not much room left for buying gifts. No wonder people are miserable during the holidays. It’s an unnecessary burden and unwanted pressure.

And then there’s the nauseating commercialization. America has already had to deal with decorations since well before Halloween. Some stores kicked off their holiday promotions back in mid-September. There is an eagerness to celebrate, and then there is this. Businesses turning a special holiday meant for families and faith into a vehicle for financial gain makes her want to vomit.

Case in point, Santa’s Village has been set up in the center mall area for a month. It’s another venture that’s designed to get parents to open their wallets and purses. Families pay almost fifty bucks to get a shot of their children mugging for the camera with Santa. The concept is almost as ridiculous as the long line queuing at the entrance. Santa is absent from his red velvet chair, likely getting coffee during his break. Camilla recognizes the need to do the same.

She gets her pumpkin spice latte with extra whip and mills around the mall’s center court area. How anyone can stomach drinking black coffee is a mystery to her. The caffeine content of espresso makes it a glorious drink, but the taste is unbearable without added ingredients.

Camilla hoped window shopping would take her mind off things. It hasn’t. It isn’t an election year, but talk about next year’s midterms has already begun in political circles. As a first-term congresswoman, she has no name recognition. Washed-up D-list celebrities get more written about them than she does. That dynamic has to change if she doesn’t want to spend only two years in Washington.

Nothing of note is happening in any of her committees. The subcommittee she chairs was given to her as a political favor and has no real responsibilities or worthwhile mission. She is getting no recognition for the dozens of bills she has co-sponsored. Not that Americans pay any attention to that. They like drama and intrigue, which is why political scandals get so much airtime. The more a politician acts like a reality television star, the more name recognition they have. It doesn’t usually matter whether it’s good or bad. That’s the nature of the game.

She needs to make a splash. For months, Camilla and her chief of staff have been chewing on what to do. Marcia Konstantinos has a brilliant strategic mind and is an idea factory, but it shouldn’t fall solely on her to figure out a plan.

The loop of the center court area is complete, and Camilla spots Santa returning to the village to the sound of cheering children. All the kids point as they ohh and ah. The parents are pointing as well for a far different reason. Santa is staggering a little, and his iconic “ho-ho-ho” sounds a little slurred.

Camilla pulls out her phone, points it at the debacle, and presses record. Several parents do the same. It’s the Internet Age, and this will be all over social media in under an hour. It looks like Santa has been hitting the bottle.

“Hey, Santa! What happened? Did you swap milk and cookies for beer and Cheetos?” a teenager sings out. “Look! Santa’s hammered!”

“I’m Santa Claus!” the man slurs, staggering two steps to his right when he almost loses his balance. It sounded more like “I-ym Shanta Clos.”

“Santa’s an alcoholic!” the kid shouts, laughing with his friends.

Concerned parents begin to look warily at each other. It’s not so much that they care, but the kids do. A couple of parents grip their children a little tighter. One father puts his daughter on his shoulders and bolts from the line. A mother does the same with a firm grasp on her toddler’s hand. They’re the smart ones.

“You! You’re on my naughty list,” Santa counters, pointing a gloved finger at the teen.

“Oh, yeah? What’s my name? Could you even write it down in your condition?”

Santa has had enough. He staggers over to the teenager, pulls up, and punches the insolent kid in the face. It is an impressively well-aimed punch, considering his inebriation. The boy staggers, but drunken Santa is a far cry from Mike Tyson in his prime. His second swing misses by a country mile, causing the jolly old fat man to twist his legs into a pretzel and collapse.

The shock of watching a belligerent Santa accost a kid is wearing off. A couple of parents intervene, getting between St. Nick and his foe. That only gives the intoxicated Santa more targets. He climbs back to his feet and shoves one of the parents. His arms flail in bad karate maneuvers as two more move in.

The police rush in from both sides to assess the situation. It doesn’t take them long to respond once they see what’s happening. One of the cops charges from behind and tackles Santa to the ground. He jumps on the big man’s back and wrenches his arms behind him. Then the cuffs come out.

The teen seems okay. He’s only suffering from a red mark on his cheek and a bruised ego from being decked by an inebriated Kris Kringle. Santa doesn’t appear to have any physical injuries, either. The public shaming will do him in when this incident hits news broadcasts nationwide. The lasting damage will be from the trauma the children in line experienced. Santa Claus is revered, and the spectacle of him being handcuffed and quickly led away will leave scars that may never fully heal.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” a harried mall manager says, arriving at the scene to reassure the crying children. “That wasn’t the real Santa Claus. He was an imposter pretending to be Santa. I promise the real one is in his sleigh and on his way down from the North Pole. He should be here soon.”

How the mall is planning to make that happen is anyone’s guess. Maybe Santa’s relief is already getting suited up. Maybe they have one on standby. Who knows? But that’s hardly the problem.

Children are naïve, but they aren’t stupid. They know what they saw. One of the police officers is talking to the children, confirming the manager’s story and stating that they’re certain that the real Santa would not approve of people behaving in this way. The real Santa will still be delivering their gifts on Christmas Day.

Lies, upon lies, all to support a lie. Maybe that’s the tragedy here as Camilla ends the recording and tucks her phone into her pocket. The other problem is the one thing that isn’t happening; nobody is approaching her. Not one adult has stormed over to appeal to their elected representative in Congress to take action. Nobody knows who she is. Despite all her campaigning, interviews, and press conferences, she’s anonymous in her own district. That’s about to change.

Camilla pulls out her cell phone and selects a number from a list of contacts. She waits as it rings once, twice, three times. Then, the call connects.

“Hello?” the frantic voice on the other end of the line asks.

“Hey, Marcia. It’s me. I’m sorry to interrupt your family time.”

“It’s okay. We just finished dinner, and I’m trying to compel my children to do the dishes. I didn’t hear the phone ringing until the last second. What can I do for you, Congresswoman?”

“I know you memorized my upcoming calendar. Please tell me we don’t have any important agenda items on the subcommittee schedule.”

“It’s the holidays, ma’am. You know better than I that Congress isn’t doing anything important for the next month. That includes your subcommittee. We don’t even have a meeting scheduled.”

She does know that. Americans have exceptionally short attention spans over the holidays. It’s why Congress uses lame-duck sessions to pass controversial bills after their biannual elections. Few people outside the Beltway media are paying attention.

The slow news coming out of the nation’s capital creates an opportunity. They will cover any story that captures attention and has a gripping storyline. Camilla thinks she has the perfect thing.

“That’s about to change. I just saw something…I think I know how we can become the talk of the country. We’ll discuss it when we return to D.C.”

“Okay,” Marcia says in an upbeat tone. “Can you at least give me a preview?”

Camilla grins. “We’re going to create a Christmas miracle that guarantees my reelection.”

“How?”

Camilla watches the distraught parents, police, confused mall employees, an anxious manager, and crying children huddled around Center Court. It’s the perfect moment to illustrate Christmas in modern America.

“We’re going to ban Santa Claus.”

Chapter Two

Wyatt Huffman

Wyatt slows to a trot from his canter and then brings the horse to a stop. This is his favorite part of their expansive ranch. Northcentral Montana is where high plains meet the mountains, and this part of his family’s property provides a beautiful view with the sun only now peeking over the trees in the east.

The morning temperature is brisk but not frigid, at least not by Big Sky standards. Despite Montana’s enormous size, November is cold everywhere in the state. The average is about forty-three degrees, and it’s expected only to be a shade north of that today. He’s dressed for the temperature. Cold air makes him feel alive.

This is what he misses most about not being home – on a horse in the middle of a wide-open field with no one around. He can feel the horse’s strength and sheer power in its movement. There is something liberating about galloping at nearly thirty miles per hour while mounted on a twelve-hundred-pound animal. Horses feel what a person feels, creating a real connection that words fail to adequately describe. For Wyatt, riding is like spending time with a best friend.

After watching the sunrise, he returns the horse to the stable, removes his saddle, and cleans him up. He earned his breakfast this morning. So did Wyatt. His stomach rumbles as he enters the two-story home he grew up in with his older brother and sister. It’s already been mostly decorated for Christmas. His mama doesn’t waste time.

Two inevitable things happen in the house once the Thanksgiving dishes are washed. The Huffman Ranch gets decked out in lights and garland, and his father begins his semiannual crusade against Wyatt’s career choice. He doesn’t look up this time as his youngest son enters the kitchen.

“I can’t believe you remember how to ride,” his father grumbles from the breakfast table.

“You’ve had me riding since the time I could walk. What makes you think I would forget?”

“They don’t have no horses in Washington. Only horses’ asses.”

“No argument from me there,” Wyatt says, pouring a cup of fresh-brewed coffee before kissing his mother on the cheek. “Good morning, Mama.”

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“Famished.”

Wyatt takes a sip of the coffee. He likes it black as tar. Sugar and cream are almost anti-American. They’re definitely anti-Montanan. Here, if you can’t drink black coffee, you shouldn’t be drinking coffee at all.

“I don’t know how you deal with it, Wyatt. You ran off, got a fancy degree, and moved to Washington to hobnob with the rich and powerful. I didn’t think I raised my son that way.”

“Bill, stop it,” his mother snaps.

“Stop what? He should be married, here working the ranch, and I should already have grandchildren. It’s bad enough that his brother and sister are taking their sweet time, but at least they have real responsibilities.”

Wyatt takes another long sip from his mug. This chess match has been played since he left for college. This is the now famous “grandchildren” opening. It’s easy enough to defend against but dangerous in the midgame.

“Bill, you can’t force your son to fall in love.”

“No, I can’t force him to do anything, apparently. I’m just sayin’ that I’d like to see one grandchild before I die. Instead, he’s in Washington pretending he’s a big shot while he ruins people’s lives.”

The grace period Wyatt established to avoid unnecessary confrontation with his father expires. “Do you really want to do this now, Dad?”

“Nope,” he says, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “I have to go into town. There’s nothing I’m going to say that’s gonna change your mind. You’ve made that clear enough.”

His father doesn’t quite storm out, but the gruff exit didn’t lack drama either. It’s just another stormy chapter being written about their relationship. The two men have never seen eye-to-eye and probably never will. Wyatt has seen Democrats and Republicans on the hill with warmer relationships than he shares with his father.

“He didn’t mean that, Wyatt.”

“You say that every time I’m home. Mama. You’ve been our referee since I was ten. He meant every word of it, and you know it.”

She sighs. “Your father is a simple man. Montanan values.”

“I’m well aware. He reminds me of it whenever we’re in the same room.”

“He does have a point,” Wyatt’s mother sings out as she clears the table.

“Please, tell me you aren’t taking his side.”

“Wyatt Huffman! You know better. I’m not taking anyone’s side. It’s just I would like to see you find a nice ladyfriend. You’re not getting any younger. I was married and had you, your brother, and your sister by the time I was your age. Your brother and sister have already married and settled down. I’m just sayin’.”

Twenty-six may not be old for marriage by modern standards, but in this household, it’s ancient. Wyatt’s older brother married last year, and his sister the prior year. Both were considered late bloomers. Bill Huffman married Bridget Kenneth when they were only nineteen. High school sweethearts getting married is not just commonplace in central Montana, but it’s part of the region’s DNA. Or, at least, it used to be.

“It’s not like going to the market for milk, Mama. Having a meaningful relationship is easier said than done these days.”

“Oh, not so hard. Boy meets girl…boy likes girl…boy dates girl….boy marries girl.”

Wyatt scoffs. “It’s a lot different than that. Women have changed. Relationships have changed. Everything has changed.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

Wyatt raises an eyebrow as he brings the mug of java to his lips. “Trust me. It is.”

“Well, I’ll let it go. For now. I’m glad you made it home for Thanksgiving. I wish we could see you more often.”

He wishes the same. His work is on Capitol Hill, and the cross-country flight takes around six hours, depending on the layover. And there is always a layover. Nobody flies directly to Montana from the other side of the country. Besides, the more often he’s home, the more snarky comments he hears from his father. So, there’s that.

“Me, too, Mom. I’ll be back home for Christmas. Promise.”

“I know how much you love the holidays. That hasn’t changed, has it?”

“That will never change,” Wyatt says as he hugs her. “At least, not for me.”

His mother is a saint. She also knows how to give a proper hug. It ranks somewhere between being suffocated by a bear and squeezed by a boa constrictor. What it really means is that she loves him and will miss him when he goes.

“When do you leave?”

“In a couple of hours. I need to get back before Congress comes back into session on Tuesday.”

“Make sure you catch up with your brother and sister before you leave. They should be back at any time.”

“I will.”

Wyatt heads upstairs to pack his things. Thanksgiving wasn’t as dramatic as he feared. He is looking forward to returning to work, though. At this point in the year, there isn’t much going on. Despite how Americans think about them, politicians are people, too. They want time off to enjoy the holidays. Wyatt is looking forward to a few drama-free weeks before he needs to go another five rounds with his father.