The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy entered the restaurant together. They figured the Big Guy was already seated at their reserved table, digging into a pile of Toll House cookies, a gallon jug of ice cold milk at the ready.
This was a meeting that probably should have happened centuries ago. These three timeless characters found themselves the objects of both adulation and scorn, year after year, while children around the world continued to have all sorts of cockamamie expectations about the fantastic feats each one could perform.
EB had never had much luck explaining to eight year-olds who have just had a science class how a mammal like him went about laying eggs. Little Johnny was confused by the long-eared hopster’s gender and his species. A little book knowledge plays hell with a guy’s credibility.
The Molar Pixie was plagued by her tendency to have lapses in memory. Try as she might, every night she was bound to forget to nab a fallen tooth or two and replace it with whatever the going rate for that decade was without waking the little snaggle-toothed darling.
Santa’s problems were becoming monumental. Literally. His legendary girth was the kind of problem even accomplished liars like parents had trouble explaining away. While his belly expanded by inches each century, modern chimney flues were getting narrower, not wider, and way too many of them had blue-flamed furnaces at the bottom, not hearths. Add to all that the recent collapse of the world’s economies, and Santa was having a tough time getting the investors he needed to keep his operation, er, flying.
This summit meeting of the world’s three most cherished pipe dreams was being held in the North Pole, hosted by Nick himself at the new Igloo Grill. A haughty elf dressed in an emerald green tuxedo led the two shivering visitors to their seats.
“Ah, you made it,” boomed Nick. “Forgive me for not standing. I seem to be stuck between the table and the back of my chair. Please…sit.”
As several waiters bustled about, tending to the wants and needs of EB and Pixie, Nick collected his thoughts. He wasn’t feeling his jolly old self.
“I asked you both here because I have serious concerns about the children in America,” he began.
“Yeah, I know,” said the bunny. “Things have gotten so tough in the States, people are starting to burst their children’s bubbles at every turn.”
Pixie shook her tiny head in agreement. “I can’t tell you how many kids I had crying just last night because their parents couldn’t afford the dollar I needed from them to put under their little heads. In desperation, their mommy’s or dad’s broke down and told them I wasn’t real.” Nick thought he heard a little sniffle come from Pixie’s direction.
“Last Easter I had to spend about a month going through landfills searching for those old-fashioned L'eggs pantyhose containers to color because nobody could afford to buy the eggs and dye them for me,” EB concurred.
Even though the entire world was struggling, the trio worried most about America’s children, because they believed in the damn-near miracles they performed more than any other kids on Earth. Over the centuries, these were the children who were taught by their parents to expect to receive more gifts, more treats and more money than all their friends. These were the ones whose families went to incredible lengths to prolong the belief in impossible dreams. And now their dreams were vaporizing as quickly as the bubbles that were blown by the electric machines at their latest, lavish birthday parties.
“So, what should we do?” asked Nick. “Unlike the two of you, I have a huge business to run here, with many little mouths to feed. Without the investment of the parents of the earth, I cannot continue to keep the reindeer alive and fueled for the annual flight. I cannot get the materials I need to create the toys. And Mrs. Claus is not getting any younger, so who knows how long she’ll be able to help?”
Just then, the maître d’ walked up and whispered something in Nick’s ear. As he listened, his cheeks began to pink up and that legendary twinkle started dancing in his beautiful eyes.
“Well, well, well,” Nick said to his companions. “It seems the Americans had something called a Black Friday last week. It’s hard to understand, quite frankly, because some 14 million of their people remain unemployed, but apparently those parents found a way to drop nearly 18% more money for holiday gifts on that one day than they did a year ago. As a result, their stock market soared 300 points on Monday and from what I can understand, people are practically dancing in the streets.”
EB looked confused. “But wait a minute. How many people went back to work since this time last year? It must have been a lot to make that big a change.”
“On the way up here I read the October 2011 unemployment rate is still at 9,0 percent. That doesn’t sound like that much of a change,” said Pixie.
“There was a .7 percent change since October 2010,” Nick told them.
They sat in silence for a few moments, each staring at the contents of their plates. How did this happen? Have the American parents learned nothing from these last several years of decline? Have they who have been lucky enough to either keep a job or secure a new one gone right back to their old habits?
Nick slammed his meaty hand against the tabletop and struggled to his feet.
“ ‘Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.’ Or something like that. I don’t know about you two, but I’ve got to get to work. Christmas is coming!”
Alfred Lord Tennyson was heard spinning in his grave.
I was once believed that Santa Claus was true, but right now what I believe and see chimney cleaners.
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