He's climbing in your windows,
he's snatching your milk and cookies up...
I've always been creeped out by the 'he knows if you are sleeping, he knows if you're awake' business. Nowadays maybe not so much. But back then, without modern technology, Santa had to be little more than a glorified Peeping Tom.
My parents said that adults everywhere have access to a top secret phone line to the North pole and that when you are naughty they rat you out.
Its a 24/7/363 call center manned by high strung, morally pristine elves who lack any real world perspective on the great grey divide between actual naughty and truly nice. Some otherwise well meaning adult tells on you for not eating your green beans and the easily shocked elf on the line translates that as tantamount to kicking cats and robbing banks. Instant bad kid list.
But how about when no one is watching? How does Santa find out then? There has to be a supernatural element to Santa Claus, an omniscience that can be explained no other way. Santa just knows stuff. He reads your thoughts.
When attempting the annual seat on Santa's lap it is important to clear your mind. Naughty thoughts and greedy thoughts must be stuffed way down deep; your mind must be a blank slate. It is like passing through the sphinx gates to the southern oracle in The Neverending Story.
One impure thought and the reindeer eyes open and you are TOAST!
I usually cannot completely clear my thoughts, instead I would think things like:
"I hope my little brother Dwight gets better, more fun toys than I do."
"I'd be satisfied with even the smallest of Transformers, there are starving children in Africa."
"World peace. No toys, just peace, I'll get by."
After a few beard tugging incidents my parents explained that Santa Claus has to work through surrogates at the malls and office parties. He simply cannot personally attend each event. Santa is a busy man.
Pop was a steel welder at a factory. The surrogate Santa at his office party looked like he was in a motorcycle gang and the elves all had overly long arms.
I didn't want to get within snatching distance of those freakishly long arms so I asked the old man if I could skip the lap bit. Why bother with the surrogates? If Santa knows whether I behave or not, then he also knows exactly what I want for Christmas. I was assured that it was merely a symbolic gesture and that Mom wanted a picture and if she didn't get one see might telephone the elves.
I tried to duck under the twig-like fingers of the lanky elf but he caught me anyway and placed me on surrogate Santa's lap. The man had a voice like a bear roaring down a tunnel made of sandpaper. He asked what I wanted for Christmas and I froze up. This had to be some mistake. I looked out at the old man and shook my head. He wasn't supposed to ask. I'm just here for the photo.
Surrogate Santa frowned and asked again. Mortified, I rapid fire rattled off the names of every toy I could think of. When I ran out of breath I gasped in terror. What had I done? No one asks for EVERYTHING.
This was bad. I was practically begging for coal. My tiny mind whirled. I tried to strike up a conversation about school. I asked about the magical snowmen. I even tried asking what he wanted for Christmas.
As the elf pulled me away I squirmed around and in desperation shouted one last thing. I told the surrogate Santa my name was Dwight.
Now all I had to do was find a certain telephone number...
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