Downtown Diary

[this is satire]

I lay snug in my bed late Christmas Eve (or perhaps I should write Christmas morning, as it was about 3 a.m.), surrounded by a few furry members of the Feline Front, a long winter bed-cap on my head, my dreams filled with visions of my childhood Christmases in Haughville, in the small worker’s house with the oil stove that had a window through which I could observe the dancing flame, the snowy holidays of my youth, the excitement of getting Harlem Globetrotters tube socks or even a new pair of tennis shoes as a present — these memories occupied my dreams as I lay there soundly asleep.

I was awakened from my slumber by a noise on the roof. What could it be — a burglar? Maybe old St. Nick himself? I lazily got out of bed, put on my felt slippers and housecoat, and began my investigations.

How surprised I was to discover that a miniature — indeed, a very miniature — Santa Claus had made his way down my chimney and had landed in the unlit fireplace. He was only 2 or 3 feet tall, bedecked in the traditional red-and-white suit and had a long beard, though his appearance was, if truth be told, obscured by a coating of soot he had collected on his trip down the chimney.

Tears began welling in my eyes. There really is a Santa Claus! I thought to myself. My heart filled with joy as I went to the kitchen to retrieve a whisk-broom to dust off the visitor from the North Pole.

I returned to the living room and approached Santa Claus. “Oh Santa!” I exclaimed. “I always believed deep, deep in my heart that you really existed, and you do!”

“You imbecile!” a familiar voice intoned. “It’s me, Rocky the Diabolical Cat™! I was at a holiday costume party and lost my house keys, so I had to climb onto the roof and go down the chimney to get back in the house!”