Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

It’s me again, Delbert McGubbin! I hope this letter finds you in jolly spirits this fine December, and I trust that the toy-making is moving along full steam ahead. Believe me when I say that I cannot wait for your visit this month. If the great year that’s passed between last December 25th and the one fast approaching is any indication, I think this holiday is going to be a good one.

First off, I feel that I should thank you for the belated gift you’ve given me for last year. It’s been a blessing beyond measure to meet and marry my beautiful new wife, Rhonda, and I cannot thank you enough. I give that recognition to you, Santa, because, as you probably know, it was two months ago in the soon-to-be-completed Christmas section of our local Costco that I first spotted Rhonda, who had been reaching for an ornament and using a shelf to leverage herself before the entire thing gave way and she fell to the floor, covered in glittery red and silver boxes of decorative balls. I pulled them off of her, helped her up, and we’ve been together ever since.

Unlike previous years, my Christmas wishlist this holiday season is going to be a short one. Well, a short one for myself. This year, I’m hoping for presents for other people, seeing as my heart and home are now full with what I consider to be the most valuable present of all: family. That’s right, Santa, you never thought I’d get it together and settle down from my wily ways of chasing tail and chugging the hooch. But I have. In addition to my beautiful bride’s snaggletoothed smile, she’s brought with her her three teenage children. And let me tell you, Santa, that if the presents under my tree each yuletide are from you, then these gifts are truly from God, each and every one.

Mona, Becca, and Kyle are a sight to see when I come home from a long day at the water treatment plant, and although they haven’t taken to talking to me just yet — besides the usual requests for money, which I swear to God I never thought I myself would ever get to hear — I’m sure that they’ll come around. They make the sweat and the smell of piss something to look forward to, as it means that, finally, I’m working not to feed my ravenous addiction to women, but for a family to whom I can give myself fully.

Though I’m a hard worker, I can’t help but feel the burden that this holiday season is placing upon me to provide not just the name brand turkey Rhonda is insisting I get, but also the manner of Christmases past to which Mona, Becca, and Kyle have become accustomed. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for all of them, but how am I supposed to scrounge up enough money to buy Kyle’s little handheld game, Becca’s two tickets to a concert for some group called Gnashteeth and the Bloody Gums, and Mona’s new winter wardrobe? And all this in addition to the extravagant presents that Rhonda seems to think I can afford. Boy, Santa, women! You can’t live with ‘em, can’t kick ‘em to the curb! Ha ha ha! I’m just horsing around! I still love her like the first day I met her.

Now, even if Shanks McGee, foreman down at the plant, does think of me as a “diamond in the rough,” I’m still just a common laborer with the potential to one day move up to shift supervisor. That’s not going to happen anytime soon, seeing as there are men more qualified there than I am.

I know that you can give me a little help here, Mr. Kringle. I believe in you. Still do after thirty-four years. In previous years, you may or may not know, in addition to my letter, I’d show my holiday spirit by decorating my room with as much red, green, and silver as you can find. Some might say I go a little overboard, but if a life-sized stuffed deer with antlers glued to its head in the front yard is overboard, then so be it.

Now, I hope that you don’t hold Rhonda’s less than enthusiastic attitude towards the holidays against her. She doesn’t go all out on the decorations this time of year. In fact, I was surprised the first time I stepped into her trailer and saw that not one faux wood panel along the wall was threaded with garland. Growing up, she told me, her parents never had money, and so she never really got into decorations. And I guess old habits die hard!

I can’t help but love her so much, you see? Through the good times and the bad, as they say. There are good days where she’ll take a break in her chain smoking to crack a small smile at one of my stupid jokes, and I love her just the same on the days where she yells at me from across the trailer, saying that if I’m not able to provide all the things she and her kids deserve, she’ll move out and move on. Boy, Santa, is it all right to wish for some Xanax pills under the tree? Ha ha ha!

That being said, I’m really hoping that you can lend me a hand again, Santa. I knew I could count on you every year back in my parents’ basement when I couldn’t get enough money together to buy presents for them; I knew that, without fail, you’d be there Christmas Eve to leave a few wrapped boxes tagged “from Santa” (in handwriting that looked pretty close to my mom’s, by the way!) under the tree. So, what do you say, old pal?

Here’s wishing you and yours the best this time of year. Don’t overwork yourself, because I have a strong feeling this is going to be the best Christmas ever.

Merrily Yours,

Delbert McGubbin