Desperately Seeking Santa Read online

  At twenty-one, I thought I’d already discovered all my kinks, but I was wrong. Apparently, really really big guys did it for me.

  Once I thought back, though, I realized it had always been there. On Vikings, it was Rollo that got me going, not Ragnar. I thought Andre the Giant was adorable in Princess Bride. And in Game of Thrones, which was apparently where Mack had gotten his nickname, Jamie seemed like a wimp compared to badass Khal Drogo, the Mountain, or the Hound. In my own past, I’d had a thing for Billy Mayne, a massive football player in my high school. I remember liking how I could always spot him in the halls because he stood a good head above everybody else. And he was small compared to Mack McDonall.

  It was weird. But I guess none of us really understands the internal cues that define attraction. Was it sheer greediness on my part, like wanting the biggest slice of cake? Or maybe it was envy. I, myself, am a pretty average guy at five ten, one hundred forty-five pounds. I always wanted to be bigger, but it wasn’t in my genes. And it wasn’t that I longed to feel weaker or more feminine with a guy or anything like that, at least I didn’t think so. No, I wanted to climb that bad boy.

  Why do you climb the mountain? Because it’s there. I snickered at myself. Idiota.

  Anyway. My little crush on Mack McDonall wouldn’t translate to anything in real life. It wasn’t like I’d ever meet Mack. Yes, I’d already looked up the rest of the Badger’s wrestling schedule and was planning to email Jordan about the next home game. Maybe. Probably. But the fascination would fade after a few more exposures. Besides, you could enjoy ogling someone without ever meeting them. I’d had enough celebrity crushes to be comfortable with the paradigm. Mack would squash me like a bug if I ever flirted with him openly. The probability of him being gay was sadly miniscule, like I would be if I stood next to him.

  For now, it was time to get myself focused on the upcoming interview at the Elks Lodge. I navigated the city, feeling pretty damn important because I was on actual work time, chasing a story in the real world. I’d done stuff for our student Youtube channel and various websites since high school, but this felt different. I was a professional journalist now, being paid actual money. I ran over the questions I’d prepared in my head, hoping that I really could make a mountain out of this molehill of a story.

  Twist. Slam! That large, firm ass and massive hamstrings.

  And, Dios mio, there my brain went again.

  The Elks Lodge in Madison was a few blocks away from the capitol on Lake Monona. It was a two-story white building with huge windows, a beat-up parking lot, and a dock out back. Like a lot of Madison, Wisconsin, it was a mix of an awesome natural setting with a Midwest 70s plain-ass building. It was November 30th, the day was chilly and gray, and that made me all the more aware of how time was slipping away from me this semester, and how close the end of the year was.

  Walter Stickle was the Elk in charge of the charity dinner, and he was about what I expected. He looked to be in his 80s with a bald head, fragile build, plaid shirt, old-man trousers, and too-white tennis shoes. But he was jovial as he shuffled ahead of me into a big hall. The room had rust-colored carpet, wood paneling on one wall, a small raised stage, an American flag on a stand, chairs stacked to the side, and big banquet tables. It was clean but drab and uninspired, a church meeting hall sort of space. The sole redeeming factor was that one whole wall was glass and overlooked the lake. The lapping water was beautiful even on a gray day like today.

  “This is where we have the Christmas dinner every year,” Walter said. “Usually, we sell around three hundred tickets, but only about two hundred folks show up for the dinner and entertainment. Lots of people just like to contribute. It’s for a good cause.”

  I typed that into my phone’s notepad app. “There’s entertainment?”

  “Well, sure! We’re not heathens,” he teased with a smile. “Let’s see. This year we have a string quartet from over to the college. They’ll play before and during dinner. Then carolers come in while dessert is being served. They dressed up in Victorian-like costumes, you know. Once all the plates are cleared, the kids come in and sing a song. Then Santa Claus makes his big appearance.” He gestured broadly. “That’s always the highlight of the evening!”

  Be still my heart. “What kids come in?” My thumbs flew over my phone.

  “Why, the kids from St. Mark’s,” Walter had a killer duh look for an eighty-year-old.

  “Oh. Right.”

  I’d checked out the Elks’ website and downloaded the PDF flyer about the charity dinner. It was the thirtieth year they’d had it, and the dinner benefited St. Mark’s Children’s Home in Madison.

  “Do all the kids from the children’s home come here for that?” I had no idea what difference it made, but I asked the question anyway.

  “Oh, yes! They wouldn’t miss it. They get dinner too, but theirs is served over in the lounge. Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, mac and cheese. Kid-friendly foods, you know. I can show you the lounge if you want.”

  “Sure. In a minute.”

  I looked over my notes with a sinking feeling. This interview and tour were as dreary as I’d imagined. I’d made a list of questions last night, and I scrolled through them now. Some of them were things that, standing there, I could not bring myself to ask Walter, like about the relevancy of the Elks today, why their membership was declining, and if they thought millennials were responsible for the death of fraternal organizations. I’d tried to think of something, anything, with a hint of real substance and controversy.

  Desperate, I picked one of my favorites. “So… the tickets are a hundred dollars a person. Exactly how much of that goes to the kids?”

  Walter put his hands in his pockets and nodded. “Good question. All of it. We get the food and drinks donated from local businesses. I have a list I can give you. It’d be nice to acknowledge them; everyone’s so generous. And of course we don’t charge anything for the use of the lodge. The cooks and servers are Elks and we donate our time. So, you see, every cent we raise in ticket sales goes to the kids.”

  I noted it down. Not exactly an expose in the making there.

  “What’s the history of the event? Why did the Elks start raising money for St. Mark’s specifically?” I asked. Maybe there was something interesting and gossipy in the backstory. An out-of-wedlock baby given up for adoption? A young Elk in love with a perky orphanage matron?

  “Oh, the Elks have always raised funds for charity, especially when it comes to children. We raise money for over ten local organizations. I can’t say exactly why we started with St. Mark’s, ‘cept that it’s a children’s home here in Madison. It’d be odder if the Elks didn’t do something for ’em.”

  “Oh.” Dead ends. Dead ends everywhere! I was sure Will Ripley never had to make something out of a story like this one.

  “You don’t look too happy, son,” Walter said. “Maybe you can tell me what you’re looking for, and I can help you out.”

  I was ashamed to have been caught pouting. I smiled. “Oh, no! It’s fine.”

  He regarded me with sharp eyes. “Uh-huh. I suppose this is a pretty boring story, year after year. But we do appreciate the publicity. Helps us sell tickets, and usually St Mark’s sees an uptick in direct donations when the article comes out too. So I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah, of course, I’m glad we can help.”

  I scanned my list again. Over consumption of alcohol? Yeah, no doubt it was a wild and crazy night. No, there was nothing here. And I felt like a shit for wanting drama and scandal. Poor Walter. He was such a nice guy.

  “I suppose you’re new to the paper?” he asked.

  Resigned, I nodded and dropped my phone into a pocket. “Yeah. I’m a journalism student at UW.”

  Walter nodded knowingly. “Believe it or not, I remember how it feels, trying to make your mark. I enlisted in the Navy at eighteen. They couldn’t make a hurdle high enough for me. Had to prove myself, you see.”

  I smiled. It was hard to picture Walt
er as a young man, but for a brief second, I managed, seeing him scrambling over some boot camp wall. Bet he was cute.

  Jesus, getting old sucked.

  “So let’s see…” Walter pondered. “What would make this a more interesting article for you…?”

  “Oh, that’s really not necessary.” Dios. I felt like a tool.

  Walter waved me off. “No, no. There’s got to be something. Let’s see.” He tapped his chin. “There was the year a candidate for mayor came and introduced a pretty blonde around as his wife. Came to find out later, it wasn’t his wife at all.” Walter winked. “Though I don’t suppose that sort of scandal matters much these days, and this was years ago. Oh—I know! There is one mystery around the Christmas dinner.”

  I was about to protest again, but his words hooked me. I blinked. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  He smiled deviously and leaned in as if to impart a secret. “Our Santa Claus is a mystery man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, no one knows who he is. He contacts us every year on the phone in early December to confirm that he’s coming. He shows up the night of the dinner in costume, hands out gifts, greets everyone, ho-ho-hos, takes pictures with the kids, and leaves, still in costume.” Walter shrugged. “He’s never told us his name.”

  “But… don’t you have to write him a check or something?”

  Walter waved his hand like he smelled something bad. “Oh, no, we don’t pay him! He does it for free.”

  That seemed weird to me. I wasn’t grasping it. “So… your Santa is not an Elk?”

  “Oh, definitely not an Elk.” Walter shook his head, chuckling as if it was a dumb question. “Believe me, there’s no one like him in our group!”

  “Well… how did he start doing it then? He must have interviewed, talked to someone about the job at some point.” My voice sounded a little overeager. Something about this was sparking a flame deep in my little reporter’s heart.

  “Now that’s an interesting story,” Walter said philosophically. “See, for about twenty years, we had the same Santa, a guy named George. Very nice man. But then poor George got cancer. And one year—guess it was about four years ago now—he called me up and said he didn’t think he was up to it. He insisted on sending someone around to replace him. That night, a new Santa showed up. And he was great. Really good with the kids, you know. Made a big impression.” Walter chuckled. “So I told him he was welcome to come back again, and he said he would, and he’s been coming ever since! But I’ve never seen his face without the white wig and beard. Why, he could be the real Santa Claus for all I know!”

  Walter’s eyes sparkled with mischief. Was he pulling my leg? Well, duh, about the guy really being Santa, he definitely was.

  “Curious,” I said slowly. “Yeah. That’s… sort of curious.”

  “Told ya I’d think of something! Now come on, let me show you the lounge.”

  The lounge where the kids got their dinner was a big room with a bar at one end and a mounted TV. Walter also showed me the dock out back.

  When the tour was over, I sat out in the parking lot in my car. I was intrigued by the idea of a mystery Santa Claus. Could he be a celebrity? A secret philanthropist? A homeless person? Someone with buried secrets? The idea reminded me of the movie Miracle on 34th Street, my favorite Christmas movie of all time and one of my guilty pleasures.

  Okay, so the Elks’ Santa wouldn’t turn out to be the real Kris Kringle. All my journalistic wishing in the world wouldn’t bring that story to my door. But I might be able to spin some of that wistful feeling into the Elks story? Maybe?

  Yeah. Yeah, definitely. There was something there, a story that could get people engaged and talking. I could feel it.

  Hell, I was engaged. That was a good sign, right?

  Also, investigative journalism was digging out the hidden truth and reporting it. So if I could make enough out of this mystery-Santa angle, I could use it for my class project too.

  Por favor, Santa, all I want for Christmas is a brilliant story. One that will knock their socks off. Sincerely, su pequeño Gabriel.

  On Friday night, I went over to Jordan and Owen’s place for dinner. Jordan had been unusually pushy about it, bugging me by email and text. He said he had something he wanted to discuss with me. I didn’t have any other hot plans except working on my article, so I went. Hey, if Jordan wanted to talk, I was prepared to be there for him, like a bro.

  When Jordan let me in, he was wearing a screaming pink T-shirt with Japanese writing on it. The pink brought out his dark hair and eyes, but, man, only an artsy guy like Jordan could get away with that color. Then again, I’d seen him sport neon yellow Diesel underwear that peeked out an inch above his low rider jeans, so this was hardly his most daring look. He had a strange expression on his face tonight, though. He looked nervous.

  “Oh, h-hey, Gabe.” He sounded nervous.

  I was immediately wary. My gaze flickered to look behind him. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing! Why?” Jordan took my wrist and pulled me into the apartment. The door shutting behind me felt a little ominous.

  “Um… because you look like you’ve been caught with your hand down your pants?” I said. “Oh. Right. Did I come at a bad time? Were you and Owen, like….” I made an obscene gesture with my hand.

  “Ha-ha, don’t be silly.” Jordan’s laugh was fake. “Just come into the kitchen. Dinner’s still in the oven.”

  “You mean you haven’t unboxed the pizza yet?” I snickered.

  “I could pretend I slaved all day, but it’s frozen lasagna, actually.”

  “Hey, that stuff’s not cheap.” Lasagna sounded great to me. Mi mama made a killer one with chicken and enchilada sauce and olives. But I liked the regular Italian kind too. As long as it had cheese, I was happy.

  When I walked into the kitchen, I saw the source of Jordan’s guilty look. It was impossible to miss. Owen was at the sink rinsing something, and standing at the counter, cutting up veggies, was an absolute giant.

  Mack “the Mountain” McDonall. Was standing. In Jordan and Owen’s kitchen. Madre de Dios. His head was just a few inches from the ceiling. He dwarfed the entire room.

  I stood there in shock, catching flies in my open mouth. Jordan was behind me, and he gave me a determined shove to get me through the doorway. I stumbled into the room.

  “Oh hey, Mack,” Jordan said, all casual. “I don’t think you’ve met our friend Gabriel Martin. Gabe, this is Mack McDonall. He’s a teammate of Owen’s.”

  I managed not to choke on my own tongue, and my brain cells were firing well enough to go along with Jordan’s fake nonchalance. I stepped forward as if I had no idea who Mack was.

  “Hey there, Mack. Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand but…” I nodded at the huge butcher knife in Mack’s hand and gave him a cheeky eyebrow waggle.

  He looked down at it, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Yo, Jordan. You might warn me someone’s coming so I don’t give them a heart attack.” He put the knife down and turned, reaching his hand out to me for an old-fashioned shake, not a fist bump. I hoped I wasn’t sweating as I took his hand. Gah, his paw was so much larger than mine. And very warm. And gentle, like he was being careful not to hurt me.

  “Good to meet you, Mack.” My stupid voice came out as a whisper. Dammit, Gabriel, get it together.

  “Yeah. You too,” Mack said, but he pulled back with a wary look, as though he thought maybe I was acting weird because I was afraid of him. With a blank face, he picked up the knife and returned to cutting carrots.

  Huh. I bet he got that reaction a lot—fear. But that was not my problem. Not even close.

  I wasn’t exactly knocking it out of the park so far. But Jordan had really surprised the fuck out of me. I turned to him. “Hey, you were going to show me that new drawing you’ve been working on.” I signaled him with wide eyes.

  Jordan didn’t skip a beat. “It’s in my portfolio. Come on.”

&n
bsp; He led the way from the kitchen and down the short hall to their bedroom. Jordan and Owen were seniors like me, and they lived in campus housing reserved for couples. The building they were in had four units, one in each corner, and theirs had a single bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and small living room. It was much nicer than most dorms on campus. I had no idea how hard it was for an unmarried gay couple to get a room in couples’ housing, but then, Owen was one of UW’s wrestling stars, so maybe he got whatever he wanted.

  As soon as we were alone in the bedroom, I turned on Jordan. “What the hell?” I demanded in a whisper.

  Jordan looked far too pleased with himself. “You know you’re interested, Gabe. You should be thanking me.”

  “Who said I was interested?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was the puddle of drool I slipped in when we left the wrestling match.”

  Had I been that obvious? Yeah. I probably had. “Maybe I drooled a little,” I admitted. “But a blind date? So blind I didn’t even know about it? Way to cut my balls off, bro!”

  Jordan folded his arms over his chest, his face stubborn. “If I’d told you, you never would have shown up. Much less Mack.”

  “So he’s a victim in all this too?”

  Jordan waved me off. “I prefer the term ‘beneficiary.’ And it’s just dinner with a couple of our bestest friends.” He gave me puppy-dog eyes. “Can’t we invite a few of our nearest and dearest to dinner? Hmmm?”

  My heart was pounding loudly. “But why would you… I mean…” My voice lowered further. I was terrified of being overheard. “Is Mack gay?”

  Jordan looked at me sadly and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Gabe, do you really think I’d try to set you up if he wasn’t? Because that would be cruel. To both of you. God, what do you take me for?”

  “Are you sure, though? How do you know?” My nerves were getting the best of me.

  Jordan rolled his eyes and dropped his hand, losing patience with my drama. “I told you, Owen and Mack have roomed together at away games. And Owen is openly bi. So yeah, Mack discussed it with him. But it’s on the down low, so don’t tell anyone.”