Santa Claus stopped by my house yesterday in the late afternoon. He’d lost his way.
“This is Pago Pago,” I told him. “You took a wrong turn.”
He jerked his chin hopefully at one of the wicker chairs set in the shade of my veranda, while peering at me over his wire rim glasses. I nodded and poured him a martini out of the shaker I’d brought out. He sat down heavily and unbuttoned his heavy red suit. “Do you mind?” he asked as he peeled off the thick jacket, revealing a tee shirt that read, “I can see Russia from my kitchen.” He kicked off his big black boots. I looked away as he pulled off his red pants, but luckily he had some very reasonable exercise shorts on underneath so all I saw was a big gut, short hairy legs, and white sox.
We both stared out at the ocean. The tide was going out. “Can your roof hold eight tiny reindeer?” he asked after a sip and a long sigh. “And an empty sleigh?” he added, not quite looking at me.
“No problemo.” I tried to act relaxed, as if this sort of thing happened every day. “It’s tile.” I sipped my martini and watched him out of the corner of my eye.