Just North of Whoville (27 page)

The one thing that Christmas trees all over the world wanted to be would never come true for this little guy.

“
See anything you like?” a man wearing an ear-flap hat and work gloves asked.

“
How much for that tree over there?”

“
This one?” he said as he held up a proud and sturdy pine.

“
No,” I pointed to the fence. “That one over there.”

“
Those are just some old branches, lady.”

“
No. There’s a tree in there.”

He walked over and inspected the pile of the dead. “You mean this old piece of…” he said as he held up the scraggly-looking tree.

“
Please,” I stopped him. “Don’t talk about the tree in front of the tree. It’s just…I know I sound a little crazy, but I have this thing about Christmas trees. They might have feelings. We don’t know,” I said, as if the world were of wonders and new discoveries. “So how much is he?”

“
Well…you can just take it, if you really want it,” he backed off a bit.

“
Oh thank you,” I said as I dug my tree out of the rubbish. “Merry Christmas!” I made sure to add.

I didn’t worry that my little guy would leave a trail of pine needles all the way up the stairs leading right to my apartment door. Any private detective could see that. I may lose everything, but I was going to have Christmas tree, damnit.

I pulled out a box of Christmas decorations from under the bed, frightening Heidi in the process. Poor cat. With all the craziness of the roof and the houseguest, she’d barely even let me pet her the past two months. I knew she probably needed a kitty shrink, but before the Christmas season she used to come out a lot. We’d play together with a rubber mouse on a string. We used to curl up in front of the TV and watch old episodes of PBS shows I picked up at the library. Every so often, I’d open a can of tuna; she’d hear the can pop and start meowing like crazy before I could get the tuna onto a plate.

I missed my cat.

I put on some Christmas music, took my cold medicine, blew my nose, and started to decorate my little tree. I started sniffling as Frank Sinatra promised to be home for Christmas, even if it was only in his dreams. I wouldn’t be going to be home for Christmas. I was stuck in New York City. Sick and alone. Because apparently, I was a dreamer. It felt more like I was suffering from an addiction. Like drugs or alcohol. Only my opiate of choice seemed to be my stupid dreams. A sick, twisted belief in myself. Possibly the deadliest drug on the streets. It was ruining my life. My belief in myself was about to put me out in the cold. I’d hit rock bottom. Where were my family and friends for the intervention? Where was the rehab facility for failed artists? Or at least a big room in the basement of a church where I could stand up and say, “Hi. My name is Dorrie and I’m in theatre.” And a roomful of vacant faces would look up from their coffee and cigarettes and greet me in unison, “Hi, Dorrie.”

But there is no such facility. There really should be, you know. Where are the artist grants to help us get out of this mess? To rehabilitate ourselves. I could learn a trade. I could glue things, maybe. Like that piece of cardboard inside your shoe. I could do that. The shoe comes by the assembly line, you put the glue on, and you stick it in there. I’d probably be really good at that.

I started thinking of the stereotype of Parisian artists in the 19
^th
Century. Living in garrets and riddled with consumption. Only a garret in New York City would probably go for around two-thousand a month. I couldn’t even afford to live in a garret.

I missed my family. As crazy as they were, at least it was home. Safe. Comfortable. No cold illegal sublet with snowflakes occasionally wafting thru the cracks in the plastic tarp. Just warm and cozy---especially since last year when Mom finally took the plastic off the couch. Homemade turkey and lots of gifts under the tree. I wouldn’t get any gifts this year. A few pieces of poo in the cat box were the closest thing I came to a Christmas gift. My poor scared kitty. Even the dangling Christmas bulbs couldn’t lure her out after the collapse. I’d finally managed to sweep most of the debris to one side of the room. But was too depressed to spend Christmas Eve hauling bags of plaster and dry wall down five flights of stairs. Where was Heidi? How many hiding places could there be? It suddenly became an obsession. I had to find her. Call me crazy, but at that moment, I just wanted to pet my cat. As if somehow, it would be like rubbing a magic lantern, making everything all better. While my head was wedged under the bed, the phone rang.

“
Dorrie,” the little voice said. “It’s Timmy.”

It was probably the most pathetic moment of my life. Because I was actually happy to hear his squealy, high-pitched voice.

“
I heard about your job. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”

“
It’s not your fault, Timmy. You didn’t give them any money, did you?”

“
No. I…I’m at work right now so I can’t talk. But it’s super, super important that I see you. Meet me at Macy’s in half an hour. Pretty please?”

What else did I have to do?

“
I’m here to see Timmy,” I said to the elf at the entrance to Santaland.

“
Who?

“
Timmy Tinsel,” I clarified. “He told me to meet him here.”

“
Oh! Tinsel’s friend,” she suddenly perked up. “Okay, just get in that line right there and he’ll be with you shortly.”

“
But,” I said as I looked behind me. “That’s the line for Santa.”

“
Timmy is Santa’s helper today,” she said as she waved me towards the line.

So, I got in the Santa line. I was still the tallest girl there. I looked at the little children around me. I could see the excitement in their eyes. What did kids want these days? In my day, a Barbie Dream House was a pretty big deal. I searched the crowd for a young dreamer like myself. But most of the kids seemed pretty level-headed. They hadn’t fallen prey to the addiction. Hadn’t bought from the playground Santa dealer.

“
Dorrie!” Timmy waved and jingled his bells as he came running up. “Merry Christmas! I’m so happy you made it.”

“
Timmy,” I said as I looked at him all bright and cheery. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. About…you know.”

“
No. No. It’s good. I’m glad you did,” he replied, pulling me away from the kids for a private moment. “I am gay. But I never would have come out if it wasn’t for you.”

“
Then why were you doing…all of that?” was the only way I could describe it.

“
I grew up in a very…religious town. My family, too---they’re pretty religious. I used to get picked on in school, so they sent me to this camp every year and we prayed to have these feeling go away. I prayed SO hard and I read the Bible and did just every little thing! When I was fifteen, I told my pastor that I really believed I was straight. So he took me into his office…to test me,” he lowered his eyes. “But I stopped him because I thought what he was doing was wrong. He was a grown-up and I was just a kid. So I knew I was straight. But I wasn’t. I was just protecting myself from…a predator,” he whispered. “My dad still has…problems with it. We don’t really talk. My Mom knew it was going to be tough for me there, so she gave me the college money they’d saved up, and told me to go wherever I wanted to go to be happy. So I came to New York!” he declared happily, leaving the past behind.

“
I prayed so hard to be straight, but I know now that it wasn’t God’s plan for me. But I really do love you, Dorrie,” he declared sweetly and gave me the warmest hug of my life. “You believed in me. No one’s ever believed in me like that!”

I stood there stunned. Like George Bailey realizing that he’d made a difference in the world by giving a part-time elf and unemployed model the strength to come out.

“
Here,” he said as he handed me an envelope. “This is for you.”

Inside, was a gift card for a visit and photo with Santa. I guess it was better than cat poo.

“
So, I want you to get back in that line, and I will not take ‘no’ for an answer,” he said as he scrambled off.

So I got back in the Santa line. Timmy was a sweet kid. As much as he had driven me crazy over the past few weeks, I’d grown to love him, too. He was a dreamer, like me. I had a feeling we’d be friends for a very long time.

But this Santa visit was another thing. Who were these Santas anyway? A bunch of fat guys with fake beards who got off lying to children and squashing their dreams? As I stood in line, I pulled out my cell phone and went to my Mom’s online site.

There I was. On Santa’s lap. Every year, with a new pretty dress. A fresh hair-do. And a different Santa every year. Not only different. But completely unlike the previous year’s Kris Kringle. And yet, each year, I’d happily hopped onto this strange man’s lap. Whispered in a stranger’s ear my utmost dreams and desires. I’d given him a hug. Probably even a kiss on the cheek. It was so glaringly obvious that it was a different Santa every single year. Different beard. Different suit. How could I have missed something so obvious? What obvious thing was I not seeing now? Dr. Prince said I was a dreamer. But doesn’t even a dreamer have to wake up at some point?

I thought of Jimmy Trumbo. Maybe he wasn’t trying to kill my belief in Santa, as much as he was setting up the first Reality Booth of my life.

The line got closer to the Santas. I say Santas, because at Macy’s, the demand for wish-fulfillment is so great, that one Santa alone cannot meet the demand. At least half a dozen little booths housed miniature versions of the North Pole. I’d heard that there were different ethnic Santas. Black Santas. Asian Santas. Lady Santas. I wondered which Santa I would get to see.

“
Over here!” Timmy waved me towards the back of the Santa cubicles. I stood amongst the crying children. The tallest of them all. I began to wonder, as an odd sort of belated thought---what did I want for Christmas?

“
Santa, there’s a big girl here to see you. Her name is Dorrie,” Timmy said as he squeezed my hand and pushed me forward.

There he was. Good old St. Nick. Sitting on his red velvet throne. With his beard and red suit. I was about to come face to face with Santa. The first man who encouraged me to dream.

“
Dorrie! Ho! Ho! Ho!” he gave his usual laugh. I was wiser now, so I knew he only knew my name because Timmy had just told him. But I’m a nice person. So I sat on Santa’s lap.

“
Have you been a good girl this year, Dorrie?” he asked as tried to get comfortable.

“
Well…you know… I try.”

“
One of my elves told me that you’ve been a very good girl this year.”

“
Frankly, Mister Santa, I’ve been a very good girl all my life,” I whimpered.

“
So, what do you want for Christmas?”

I couldn’t believe he pulled out that old chestnut.

“
Look---I’m sure you’re a nice man, and all. But can I ask you something?”

“
Of course,” Santa replied.

“
These little kids…they sit on your lap…and they ask you for stuff. Big stuff, sometimes. And you and I both know that you can’t really deliver.”

“
Well, Santa tries his best.”

“
Right,” I laughed a bit. “I know you can’t drop it. I get it. So…let me put it this way. You probably don’t remember this, but when I was a little girl, I always wanted a horse. I asked you for one every year. I came in with photos and Girl Scout badges and charts and graphs and more evidence than a murder trial showing you just how good I’d been that previous year. Every year, you handed me a candy cane and said you’d see what you could do. But I never got a horse. And I know why I didn’t get a horse---because we lived in the suburbs and didn’t have the acreage. It had nothing to do with my being good or not. But how can you do this job? Don’t you feel like you’re deceiving little children? I mean, I’m sure you’re a nice man and this is how you make your Christmas money for your family and Mrs. Claus…”

“
There is no Mrs. Claus,” he admitted.

“
Then how do you sleep at night!?!?“ I railed. “You’re setting little children up for a lifetime of disappointment. Some things are just impossible. And you need to tell them that. Like getting a horse. Or moving to New York and being successful…” I trailed off.

“
What would you like for Christmas this year?” he asked. Like I was falling for that old hat trick again.

“
I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, Santa. But can’t give me what I want. I want to see my family. I want my best friend to forgive me for not being honest about her sniveling boyfriend. I want a job. And a place to live. And I want a really great guy to not lose his job and to not hate me because I fucked up. Sorry about the language, Santa.”