Letter to Santa by Charles Musser (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) December 26th Dear Santa, I know this letter is late, but these are desperate times. Uncle Billy's missing his left butt-cheek; Pa’s Gremlin is somewhere at the bottom of the Boca Louis Swamp; Ned Bergland, our minister, is coolin’ his heels in the Oshkosh County jail; and that famous ol’ bear, Rousseau, got shot dead. I blame you and your damn Christmas. You’d think that if ever there was a time to believe in something, now would be it. My name’s Johnny Earle, and I never believed in you. Serves you right, I’m thinkin’. Three months ago, they closed down the Flatt River Lumber Yard, the only work for 50 miles. A big corporation from Green Bay bought it out, and now they’re hauling off the last decent hardwood and writing off the rest as a tax loss. The bottom line is everybody hereabouts is out of work, and we can’t pay our bills. Lots of people got bad teeth or are sick; they can’t afford to go to the clinic; and the church addition is nothing but a half-finished frame. As if there was any proof needed that our town deserves everything it gets, Pa and Uncle Billy got together over a few cases of Miller Lite, and decided it would be their job to confiscate enough of the tax-write-off lumber from the Flatt River Co. to finish the church community room in time for our town’s annual Christmas dinner. That wood was gonna rot in the yards anyways, and the company had used the pension funds earmarked for employees to pay owners and management a fat bonus before closing the doors. So everyone in town kinda figured they owed it to us, know what I mean? If it wasn’t for you and your Christmas spirit crap, we woulda just closed our doors and walked out of here into the winter gloom. That would have been sad, but would have made sense. Instead, we’re on some wild and foolish mission to finish the church, which is just gonna grow cobwebs, since nobody around here can afford to live anymore, let alone go to church. You’re worse than God. You make everybody act like that old fart, Don Quixote. I’m just happy to be Sancho. On Christmas Eve, the four of us—me, Pa, Uncle Billy, and Reverend Ned—got in Pa’s Gremlin. We hooked up a trailer and headed through heavy snow for the lumber yards to pick up the last batch of cedar shingles for the church roof. We loaded up okay, except Uncle Billy hooched an extra portion of Cap’n Morgan’s rum, and wandered off to pee on the Flatt River Lumber Company’s giant sign. If that wasn’t bad enough, he started singing I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, but changed the lyrics to “I Saw Santa Kicking Joe Boone’s Ass.” (Joe Boone was the former owner who sold us down the sawdust river and moved to L.A.) I knew it was a bad omen. Now, I don’t know how, but the new owners must have gotten wise to the goings on up here and sent some goons to keep an eye on things. Next thing I know, shotguns start blasting. Uncle Billy’s chuffing like a locomotive toward us fast as his stumpy legs can carry him, holding his butt with one hand. I notice there are two fat security guards and a couple German Shepherds not too far behind. Me, Pa, and the Reverend started to pile in the car. But the Reverend changed his mind, crossed himself, and headed up the path toward the stampede. I guess he was gonna bless them? Suddenly, Rousseau the bear, like some Roman war-machine, spitting fury and thunder, exploded from the woods and careened down upon the dogs and guards. Rousseau is a legend in this town. Some say he’s 100 years old and a re-incarnated Indian. Some say he’s just a ghost. I saw him, and I know he’s real. Whatever the case, Billy made it to the car and we headed off, sans Padre. I found out later they shot ol’ Rousseau, and arrested Reverend Bergland. Nobody knows what riled up Rousseau like that, but folks speculate he was sad to see the town die, and tried to commit suicide. Me? I think he was senile, just like most old folks around here. Pa got scared and drove us right into the bottomless mud of the Boca Louis. We managed to get out, but we lost the car and shingles. Uncle Billy lost half his shredded ass to buckshot. The last small patch of roof never got shingled on the church. And we ate Christmas dinner, provided by the Ladies Auxiliary, under a light snowfall. Reverend Bergland won’t talk; he faces charges of trespass and theft. And Rousseau the bear, the spirit of Belle de Nuit, lies dead as a smith’s stone behind a pile of rotting lumber, deep in the yards. Or so they told us... We had a nice Christmas dinner, but didn’t see hide nor hair of you, you old fakir. Uncle Billy and Pa are planning a guerrilla raid on the county jail to spring the Reverend, and they want me to drive the getaway pickup (my pride and joy). Something will go wrong. So I’m planning to be absent, likely hanging out with my buddies down behind the Dollar Store, smoking a joint. But who knows? Perhaps, one of these days, instead of your crappy “Christmas spirit,” I’ll find my Dulcinea and put on my armor. Stranger legends have proven to be true. After all, I just saw Rousseau lumber by outside my window in the moonlight. If I didn’t know it was the high-quality ganja in my lungs, I’d swear he winked at me. Very Truly Yours, Johnny Earle Resident of the former proud town of Belle de Nuit, Est. 1889 - Died 2009 (maybe)
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