Christmas comes to FEMA
by David Benjamin

The weary old man, who had visited disaster agencies all across the northern hemisphere, finally arrived in Washington D.C. and staggered into the office of Craig Fugate, head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA).

Fugate was clearly surprised at the sight of his visitor, a portly senior citizen in a smudged and soggy red suit, his white mane filthy, his long beard tangled with bits of flotsam and jetsam, a strand of seaweed clinging to his neck. The oldtimer carried an immense bag that reeked of decomposition.

“Whew,” said the old man. “My dogs are barkin’! Mind if I sit down?”

Fugate quickly gestured his exhausted, bedraggled guest to a chair and asked what had brought him — obviously a long way — to FEMA.

“You don’t recognize me?” said the visitor. “Damn, I must really be a mess!”

Fugate confessed that he didn’t know the stranger, who replied, “Well, dammit, boy. I’m Santa Claus. Father Christmas. Jolly old Saint frigging Nick!”

At this, the FEMA director stared with disbelief and said, “Mister, I haven’t believed in Santa Claus since I was seven years old. And even if I did, I don’t see any reason why Santa would show up here. This is FEMA, old man. Not the toy department at Macy’s.”

The stranger leaped to his feet, wroth with indignation. “Don’t see any reason why I’m here?” he sputtered. “Where do you think I came from, kid?”

“All right, mister,” said Fugate. “If you really were Santa Claus — which I doubt — you’d be from, well, the North Pole.”

“Damn straight, kid,” said the visitor. “Now tell me. Have you ever heard of global warming? Do you know what happened to the North Pole this summer?”

Fugate paused to think for a moment. Then it hit him. “It melted?”

“No flies on you, kid,” said the sarcastic stranger. “Now, lemme show you something.

Suddenly, with a burst of strength that belied his age, the oldtimer lifted his sack and dumped a great stinking heap onto the director’s desk. It seemed to consist mostly of blood-stained animal hide and antlers.

“My God. What is this?”

The stranger sighed bitterly, his eyes filling with tears. “It’s Blitzen!”

“Blitzen?”

“Yeah,” said the visitor. “This is all I have left of my eight tiny reindeer. The Big Meltdown wiped out everything, kid. Mrs. Claus? She sank like a stone.”

Fugate looked perplexed. “Well, I guess I understand. But the reindeer,” said the FEMA chief. “I thought reindeer could swim.”

“Swim?” said the old man. “Swim?! When suddenly, the whole polar ice cap disappears and all you got is ice-cold water, for a hundred miles in every direction? And the only boat in the whole North Pole is a leaky sleigh? Yeah, kid, we did swim. We swam our asses off, after the damn sleigh went down. And some of us made it to land, kid. But you know what was waiting for us on the beach?”

Fugate made a guess. “Polar bears?”

“Hey, you’re sharper than you look, kid,” said the visitor. “So, you probably know what polar bears’ favorite snack is.”

“Reindeer?”

In response, the stranger grabbed the carcass off the desk and shook it in Fugate’s face. “This is all I could salvage, friend. And I had to fight off two polar bears, a pack of wolves and a flock of sea gulls just to save this much of Blitzen’s hide,” said the stranger. “And please! Don’t even ask what happened to Rudolph.”

Fugate didn’t ask. The stranger told him anyway: “Ripped to shreds by a pod of killer whales.”

“Oh my God.”

The FEMA chief realized he was starting to believe this far-fetched story. He said, “Wait a minute. This can’t be true. Who are you, really?”

The old man sighed. “Santa Claus, dammit. I’m Kris frigging Kringle, kid!”

Fugate insisted on some sort of ID, to prove this unlikely claim. The stranger patted his pockets until he finally found a waterlogged wallet. From it, he pulled a limp, wet Social Security card. It read, “Edmund Gwenn.”

Craig Fugate, a student of the history of Christmas, realized the implications. “Holy smokes,” he exclaimed. “You really are Santa Claus.”

“Well,” said Santa, “I’m glad that’s finally settled. Now, what are you people gonna do to help me out. I’m a hell of a lot more important to the U.S. economy than the goddamn Jersey shore.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that, Santa,” said Fugate. “What do you need?”

“First of all, pontoons,” said Santa. “About ten acres of ‘em. If this is gonna happen every summer, I’m not gonna keep goin’ down with the stinking ship. And then, you gotta help me get my elves back. They’re going to want a lot more money than I was payin’ ‘em before.”

“Why more money?”

“Look, kid. My elves used to think the whole world was the North Pole. They were ignorant and happy as long as I kept renewing their Playboy subscriptions. But with this disaster, they’re spread all over the place. And you know how the old song goes: ‘How you gonna keep ‘em up on the Pole/ After they’ve seen Toronto?’”

“There’s a song?” said Fugate.

“Listen, kid, you just get things rolling. Send me a few million bucks, a whole lot of pontoons and the Army Corps of Engineers. If your boys come through, I guarantee a merry Christmas for all the kids in the world in 2013.”

“Wait a minute! 2013?” said the FEMA chief. “What about this Christmas?"

“This Christmas, forget about it. Look, kid. I’m only Saint Nick. My biggest miracle is getting eight reindeer to fly in formation one night a year.”

Fugate felt a wave of panic. Wasn’t there any way to save the impending holiday?

“Well, I offered the job to a few of my fellow saints. Christopher, Peter, Augustine, Francis of Assisi, Ignatius of Loyola, Joan of Arc — you know, the usual suspects,” said Santa. “But we’re talkin’ a huge job at the last minute. I got no takers until…”

“Until?”

“Well, good old St. Patrick. He said he’d try,” said Santa. “Typical Irishman. Loaded to the gills with good intentions but, well… also loaded to the gills.”

The FEMA director considered the dilemma: “OK. So, Santa’s toyshop is at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean, the reindeer have all been eaten by whales and bears, and St. Patrick — not Santa Claus — is the one who’ll be crawling down chimneys all over the world?”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Santa as he stuffed pieces of Blitzen back into his bag. “Not to mention, the only Santa-suit Paddy has is green. My God, what if some poor insomniac six-year-old sees him?”

“But Santa, without you on the job, what are all the children going to find under the tree?”

“Under the tree?” said Santa. “Oy!… Don’t ask.”

“Please, I gotta know,” said Fugate. “What are my grandchildren going to get for Christmas this year?”

“Your grandchildren? For Christmas?” Santa shook his head, setting loose a brief cascade of dirt and seaweed. A small crab crawled out of his beard.

“What else?” he said. “Potatoes.”