I’m awakened by a ghostly intruder—the spirit of a long-deceased saint—Saint Nicholas, to be precise.
I go to turn on the lamp, but it just flares a soft blue and fizzles out.
“Sorry Simon, but you can’t turn on the light. I really need to get through to you.”
“You need to talk to me? — About what?”
“About me, I guess—and my image. People out there are turning me into a cartoon character—they picture me drinking a bottle of coke or sliding down a chimney—it’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, I can see that—but sorry, Nick—I’m out of the marketing business.”
“Oh yes, I’m well aware of that. I read your last book and I can tell you—it’s a doozy.”
“A doozy, eh? You should tell that to my publisher—he’s afraid Wal-Mart will make a big order and leave him holding the bag—Sorry about the bag reference, Nick—don’t mean to offend you.”
“Ho, ho, ho—that’s what I like about you Simon—you’re witty. That’s why I want you to write a book about me. I figure you could start small—maybe a short story or novella—sort of a cross between A Christmas Carol and A Visit From St. Nick.
“That’s a great plan, Nick—but what’s your marketing strategy? My numbers aren’t so great on Amazon, you know.”
“Maybe you just need to get a break, Simon. Did you ever think it’s not just talent? People have to get to know you and like you, before they’ll buy your books. I think you’re quite a likeable chap—you just need a break.”
“Isn’t that what agents are for?”
“They’re only human, Simon.” He paused and let the meaning of his words sink in. I began to sweat.
“You know, I never thought about this before, but you’re dead, Nick—you’re a bloody ghost!”
He frowned. “Well, I’m not exactly a ghost per se—think of me like Saint Christopher or Saint Anthony—no one calls them ghosts.”
“But they’re dead too.”
“You seem caught up with that detail, Simon.”
“I just thought you were eternal.”
“I’m not God, Simon. Christmas isn’t my birthday.”
My head was whirling.
“You see—that’s what I mean. Nobody uses their noggin any more. They know I was a real person and I died. What do they think—that I became an angel or something?”
“Well, there was that Frank Capra movie about an angel getting his wings.”
“Rubbish—angels and humans are on two different planes. Next thing you know, people will start praying to me.”
“Uh, they just seem to be doing the letter thing right now—the kids anyway.”
“And that’s another thing—I’m not making a list and checking it twice. I can’t be everywhere—I’m not God, or an angel—I’m just a dead person.”
“But what about Saint Anthony—people pray to him when they lose stuff.”
He just glowered at me. “Did you hear what I said? —It’s the same principle—don’t turn us into demi-gods.”
I began to get exasperated. “So, what do you want Nick? You want to war against the commercialism of Christmas or take on the big firms?”
He shook his head very slowly. “No, no, Simon…I just…I guess I just didn’t think this through at all.”
He looked very sad and I began getting misty. I hate misty. I’m no good at handling Meg’s tears and I sure as hell had no idea how to help Santa—or Nick, deal with his angst.
“If you could get across one thing to people, Nick, what would it be?”
He brightened a little. “Why, I’d tell them to forget the tinsel and schmaltzy songs and go to the heart of the matter. Christmas is about love—caritas—it’s an old word that means charity. That’s where peoples’ hearts should be.”
“So, if I understand you right—just ignore all the silliness like we do at Easter with the Easter Bunny and focus on loving one another.”
His eyes twinkled. “That’s it in a nut shell, Simon. Can you write a story about that?”
“I can Nick, but I can’t guarantee people will believe me, or even want to read the story.”
“Don’t you worry about that part, Simon. People know when their hearts are touched—they’ll get quiet and thoughtful when they hear the truth. You do your part and I’ll do mine.”
So, I did do my part. Here’s Nick’s story—let’s see if he’s right about people. I gained a new appreciation of Nick and Christmas—I hope you did too.