December 26, 1998 – Albuquerque, NM, the airport
Another holiday and another day in an airport. Waiting. Half of my life before and after I started my job has been a game of waiting and seeing what happens next. So I wait. I’m waiting for a
Connector flight to D.C. which has been delayed due to a huge storm in the Midwest. I am alone in the terminal, which is in shades of adobe. That is a thing after all. Having spent several weeks at San Felipe, and wandering all around New Mexico and part of Arizona, I have seen more adobe than I cared to ever see. Going with my sometimes girlfriend Georgia in this part of the world has opened my eyes in many ways. I know yesterday was a beautiful experience in the lodge with my people here. What I saw in the lodge was
I was just writing and I looked up and saw Santa. A man dressed up like Santa. Probably not really Santa, but someone dressed up like Santa. He was an average looking man, clean shaven with no beard fake or not, thin, wearing a Santa suit that hung over a red and white gingham shirt and blue jeans with blue-black cowboy boots and red Santa hat on top of his head. Santa, or whoever he was, carried a red rucksack that matched his Santa suit. He walked along, past me, and sat a few seats away staring off into the distance. For some reason I felt compelled to talk to the man. I stood up, put my journal and pen on the grey vinyl seat, and turned to him.
“Hello. How are you doing tonight?”
He looked at Santa and smiled at him, gently, my arms loose at my sides.
Santa, turned his head away from a thousand miles of nothing, and nodded. “I’m okay tonight. How ‘bout you?” Santa spoke with a clear, slow Southern drawl. I noticed he had bloodshot blue eyes that looked like he had been crying.
“I’m fine. I’m just waiting for a red eye flight to Washington.” I sat back down, taking my pen and notebook inmy lap.
Santa chuckled at me. “That flight doesn’t even leave for another three hours. And there’s the snow storm over Kansas. You won’t be leaving soon.”
“You look like you missed your sleigh, Santa. You need a flight back to the North Pole?” Santa laughed and smiled at me and my joke.
“Nup. I need to get back to St. Pete’s. No idea how long that will take…my flight is from here to St. Louis to St. Pete…” Santa took off his red hat and threw it to the floor. I noticed it was dirty and stained. Santa’s hair was dirty-blond brown, his face ruddy from being out in the sun.
“Probably as long as it will for me to get back to D.C….” I walked over to Santa, bent over and picked up his hat. I noticed that it was a real fur hat, carefully made and well dyed. It was
unlike any Santa hat I had ever seen before. I handed it back to Santa with a
smile. “Maybe you want to get a drink while we wait? Why don’t you tell me about your hat, Santa?”
Santa took his hat and smiled at me. “Sure. I may even let you wear my hat.” Santa stood up and laughed. “The name’s not Santa though, it’s Pete. From St. Pete…”
“Okay Pete, why the get up then?” We both stood up and began to walk away from the airplane gates toward one of the few open restaurants.
“It’s not as long or interesting a story as you’d think.” Pete shrugged and smiled. “It was the warmest clothes I had. My wife and I are splitting up. We sold the house, I packed what I could, boxed up the rest, put that in storage, and got a ticket to see my sister and kids back home. It’s fitting, although it doesn’t fit. Especially the hat.”
I shrugged. “It’s just a Santa hat. Nothing else.” I pointed to a New Mexican style cantina that seemed to be the only place open at 10 pm in the Albuquerque Airport. “Let’s go there.”
“Sure. I’ll be obliged.” Pete pointed at the white fur that lined the bottom of the hat. “The whole suit was my pop’s. I wanted to make sure it was safe, so I wore it here. He worked as a Santa all around New Mexico and Florida. He’d always correct me and say ‘This is a Pileus hat not a Santa hat.’”
“Pileus? Where’s that come from?” We walked to the bar at the cantina, it was just the bartender and us. We waved to her and pointed at a draft beer as we sat down. She started pouring the beer.
“My pop taught me when I was learning to be a Santa. I filled in for him from time to time. It’s an old hat. A hat made of felt, fur, and truth. The freedom hat that slaves were given in Ancient Rome when they were free. A hat that the old Persians wore. The hat King Midas of Lydia wore. The hat that Mithra wore. The hat of gods and kings…Mithra was born on December 25 after all. From a virgin, in a cave. It’s where Christmas all came from.” Pete seemed to be remembering a speech he said many times. “The Pileus hat. The hat of freedom and truth.”
“Mithra? You mean the god that the Romans worshipped? The bull guy?” The bartender put the beer glasses in front of us and we took them.
Pete raised his glass for a toast. “Yes, to Mithra, and the reason for the season! Cheers!” We clinked glasses, took a sip of beer, and set our glasses down. “The Bull was the Cosmic Bull of creation. To create the universe, Mithra had to sacrifice The Bull for everything to begin. And that’s no bull. Want to hear some bull?”
I smiled and nodded, taking another sip of beer. “Sure, I’d like to hear some bull.”
Pete took another long sip of beer and smiled to himself. “I was working as a Santa one year in Bernalillo, just north of Albuquerque here. At the mall there, a tiny place. In the middle of my shift a kid walks up to me, holding some cream. I hesitated, I knew this would be something.
“So the kid is put on my lap by his mom and pop, who smile at me and say. ‘We have to ask something of you. We will pay for it.’ The pop pulls out a $50 bill, nodding at me.
“’So what’s up?’ The other guys and gals around me are all watching this couple and the kid. He seems normal enough, smiling, and quiet. His defining feature was coke bottle glasses that covered up most of his face.
“’Can you do something for our son? He can ask what…’ At that moment, their son jumped off of my lap and started to shake and wiggle his butt, dancing, and laughing. It seemed to be an entire routine. The kid started to sing to himself…
“’Santa give it to me! Santa give it to me!’ the kid jumped back up on my lap smiling. ‘Santa, can you give it to me? Can you tell me if I’m a good dancer?’
“I nodded at smiled at the kid. ‘Yes, you are a great dancer little boy. What do you want for Christmas?’
“’I want a CD player so I can dance!’
“I nodded to him. “I’m sure me and the elves can do that. Be a good boy, keep dancing. Merry Christmas!’
“’Yeah! Give it to me Santa…give it to me Santa…’ the boy jumped off my lap and started to dance and sing again as he walked away from me. The pop smiled at him then me, trying to give me the $50 bill.
“I shook my head no. ‘You get at CD player for your boy. Merry Christmas.’
“The man smiled and nodded. He walked away, and as soon as he caught up with his son and wife, he started dancing with his son. It made me so happy and I had to hold back tears…the boy was so cute and real. He wanted to dance and be.” Pete took another sip of beer. “I hope he’s okay and still dancing.”
“I’m sure he is. I know you’ll be okay too, Pete.” I nodded and smiled at him.
We finished our beer and walked back to the terminal. Pete’s flight to St. Louis was ready and starting to board. Pete and I talked a while longer, then said our goodbyes. He got in the line for the flight, humming a little song to himself, which I think was the Give It to Me Santa song.
My flight came a bit later and I flew to D.C., to get ready for my next assignment in St. Petersburg, Russia…
TATIANA TZARA
A poet, artist, and art criminal. Born in South Philly, USA, she is the grand-niece of the infamous Dadaist artist, Tristan Tzara. As soon as she could, she went to Paris to go to the Cabaret Voltaire and the Surrealist Collective, only to find it didn’t exist anymore. Instead, she studied English Literature at Gothenburg University in Sweden, between liberating art, manuscripts, and incunabula from people who didn’t appreciate them. After further training in Greece and Cyprus, Tatiana traveled throughout Europe, the Middle East, and Asia in the Peace Corps as a Cultural Ambassador. Now, she lives somewhere in the Western United States, with plans to return to Europe. She has extensively studied many ancient and modern magical systems, both Eastern and Western. Tatiana’s articles, short stories, and poems have appeared in many places and you have probably already read something by her.
