On a recent trip to Florida, I was having breakfast at a local coffee shop. It was a beastly warm summer morning and the last person I expected to bump into was Santa Claus. But there he was at the next table, scarfing down a serious pile of pancakes while Mrs. Claus daintily dabbled with her eggs. I immediately feared the chef put the wrong kind of mushrooms into my omelet, but that thought quickly passed.
This guy had the jolly old St. Nick look down cold. His familiar red suit must have been out for dry cleaning, because Santa was dressed in a red T-shirt, Santa pants with red suspenders and a red ball cap. Of course, he sported a fluffy white Santa beard, through which the pancakes somehow magically disappeared. Why he wasn’t cooling off at the North Pole instead of visiting blowtorch-hot Florida remains a mystery.
When he caught me staring at him, Santa arose with such a clatter and arrived at my table with a business card that had his picture on it. As he approached, I could read what was written on his red cap: “Yes, I am.” And so he was.
As I left the coffee shop, I looked for a sleigh or team of reindeer atop the building. Not seeing either, I figured the sleigh must be in the shop for new runners. Then I saw a red trailer parked off to the side of the parking lot and thought perhaps the reindeer were scrunched together inside it. Moving closer, I listened for noises and heard none. That’s a good thing, as I have no idea what kind of noise a reindeer makes.
Driving down Highway 41 the next day, I spotted a funeral home immediately adjacent to a mobile home park for seniors. “How very convenient,” I thought. When old Howard’s time is up, just leave him in that wheeled patio chair, roll him next door, sign a few papers and get back to your doublewide before the noodles boil over.
Visiting with my nephew one evening, he asked if I’d like to accompany him to the mailbox. He and his wife live in a new subdivision and the mailboxes are in a clump two blocks away. As I stood to go join him, he said he needed to get his pistol.
“What? Wait!” I managed to garble. “Why do you need firepower?”
He told me alligators and wild pigs often frequent the mailboxes and one needs to protect oneself. I told him a better idea would be to drive to the mailbox in the daytime when you could actually see what was going to eat you. He agreed and put his pistol away.
I think the next time we get together, it’ll be at my Santa Claus coffee shop. You never hear about reindeer attacks there.
For over two decades, Jim was creative director at two top U.S. advertising agencies. During these years, he created marketing/communications for a number of familiar products and brands. He’s now enjoying life as a freelance writer and frequent pickleball player.