Santa's beard

I haven't been feeling very much in the holiday spirit this year. Each year I have less and less tolerance for the Christmas season. Christmas decorations now go up some time in mid-November, and after Black Friday I have no interest in stepping foot in a store. I don't plan to get a tree, or send Christmas cards. I'll buy all my presents either online or in local stores. Part of my Scrooginess stems from the fact that Luis and I won't be spending Christmas together this year. He leaves next weekend for El Salvador to visit his dad, whom he hasn't seen in several years. He also has family obligations that need to be tended to there. I was invited to go along, but honestly, it's easier for him if I don't go.

Last week Luis asked me to go to his company's Christmas party (real estate agents), and although I could invoke our Golden Rule, I decided to accept. Our friend Judith would be there, as would Jenn and Steve, who were leaving the next day to go on safari in Tanzania.

The party was at the home of one of Luis's colleagues in Ditmas Park, six blocks from where I grew up. As I got off the subway and stepped out into what is now a largely Eastern European neighborhood, I recognized buildings from my childhood, and vivid memories came flooding back to me. The Jewish butcher, Harry Kahaner, who gave me little scraps of chuck chopped to nibble on when I picked up my grandmother's meats. Tony and Mary, who had an Italian deli down the block. The soda fountain where my mother bought Coke syrup when I was sick. The card store on the corner, where I spent my allowance buying party snappers to annoy my brothers with. The driving school in the storefront under my grandmother's apartment is now a Latin dance studio. The Bohack supermarket we shopped at is now a Walgreeen's. But even in the dark the Ditmas Park of my boyhood was illuminated before me, if only in my memory.

The party was a catered affair. I knew almost everyone. No more than about 20 people showed up. I immediately asked where the beer was, a tactic I've learned to apply only later in life. Always start off with a drink, and the rest goes down easy.

Each year the agents, most of whom are non-Christian, have a Secret Santa. Someone in the office dresses up as Santa to hand out the presents. The owner of the company was the first Santa; last year it was another agent. Everyone was buzzing about who would be Santa this year. He was scheduled to arrive at about 8:30.

I couldn't stop eating the hors d'oeuvres: mini crab cakes, garlic shrimp, puff pastry with hummus, rare beef skewers. I hadn't eaten much all day, just so I could save room for the party food. But I got a little too early a start on the alcohol, which made me tired and woozy. I lost track of the time. Wasn't Santa supposed to have arrived by now? And where the hell had Luis gone?

Suddenly I heard whooping and laughter. Down the hallway a familiar red and white suit appeared. People started clapping, and then Santa was walking toward me. I noticed people looking at me, and I looked back at them, puzzled. Judith turned to me, I guess knowing that sometimes I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and said, "That's Luis."

Well, deck the halls with boughs of holly. It was Luis.

I was too busy being shocked to get my camera, but finally I got my wits about me and grabbed it as he sat down to hand out presents. He was a bit too lean (and Latino) to be Santa, but he did manage a convincing "ho ho ho."

Luis's co-workers were giddy. They knew he was the perfect choice to spice things up. And what's more subversive than a gay Santa? He distributed gifts with a combination of indifference and smarminess. One present had no tag attached. "Now, Santa specifically asked everyone to write who the gift was from and who the gift was for," he scolded. "So Santa is giving this gift to no one." He played a good bad Santa, which was easy since no kids were around.

Click here for a short holiday video.

The host of the party asked me if we wanted to take the suit home (wink wink). That would have been a little too creepy even for me.

On the way home in the car I asked Luis who knew about his Santa gig beforehand. "No one except the boss," he said. "Most of all, though, I did it for you. I wanted you to be surprised."

"Well," I said, "I was. You were the last person I expected to dress up as Santa." I looked out the window at the sparkling Christmas lights as we pulled away from my old neighborhood and smiled, amazed that after 7 years together, he could still pull off something that completely surprised me.