Book Trailer For Madam President

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Chapter 13 Real Santa 49 Days To XMAS

 
 
“THIS BROAD DOESN’T know where she’s going!”

“It’s a computer, Dad, hooked into Global Positioning Satellites.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s hooked into a donkey’s ass, it still

doesn’t know where the hell it’s going! Only a moron would follow

this English lady into the middle of nowhere.” He gestured to the

GPS box on the dashboard. “She has no goddamn idea where she is

going, and she won’t admit it!”

George looked at his father in his floppy hat. The last comment

belonged to when his mother would be driving and his dad would
turn to him. She has no goddamn idea where’s she going, and she

won’t admit it.
“Dad, it is Global Positioning Satellite technology. The woman

has nothing to do with it.”

“Then why are you listening to her?”

“Because she—”
Turn Right on McGruff Road.

George looked at the little blue car on the screen mounted on

his dashboard as McGruff Road swung into view.
 
YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE RIGHT.
“There, you see, Dad. We aren’t lost.”

“Ah, she lucked out,” he muttered.

George started to slow down and saw a driveway peeking out of

frosted pines. He turned into the trees and entered Santa’s village.
Reindeer antlers poked out from tree trunks with flashing Christmas

trees and large red and green ornaments shining on Austrian firs.

George continued on to a house that looked like a place Santa Claus

might reside—a Swiss chalet made from logs with snow piled up on

the porch. A big F-150 truck was parked in the drive with RENDEER

plates.

“This must be the place,” George murmured.

His father frowned. “What is he, some kind of Mountain Man?”
MAKE A U-TURN.

“See, she still doesn’t know what in hell she is talking about!”

George silenced his GPS.

“Well, I better go see about some reindeer.”

His father slouched down in the car.

“Leave the engine on.”

“You aren’t coming?”

“I’m going to get a little nap in,” his father murmured. “You handle

the reindeer.”

George emerged into the winter quiet of a Midwestern snowstorm.

“Reindeer should be coming around the side of the cabin any

minute,” he said to himself.

He trudged to the porch and stared at the antlers mounted to the

railing. A barrel of Jack Daniels had a Christmas wreath around the

top. George looked for a doorbell but settled for the knocker in the

shape of a German beer mug. Heavy footsteps pounded toward him

as the door pulled back to a roaring fire and a man with a large bear

on his head. That’s what his furry black hat looked like to George.

His beard mixed with the buffalo robe, that spread out like a king.

“You George?”

“Ah yes, you must be Big Bill McGruff.”

He spat off the porch and nodded.

“That I am. You be wanting to see the reindeer.”

“Yes.”

He charged out of the cabin and plunged into the snow in kneehigh

boots with woolly mammoth fur. George followed the large man

through the heavy snow around to the back of the cabin. A clump of

brown reindeer turned and stared at the two men approaching the

slatted fence.
 
“Well, here they are! You’ll find Bill McGruff’s reindeer are top of

the line and will fit any need yer have. My reindeer have been used

all over the country for movies and such. They are a fine breed of

reindeer ilk, and I put them against anyone anywhere.”

George felt his face numb from the wind squalling through the

pines. “Are there nine there?”

McGruff poked a large finger to the reindeer that seemed larger

than the ones George had seen in the movies and television. One of

the reindeer relieved himself with a sizzling steam and another one

defecated cannonballs. This was something that had not occurred
to him. What if the reindeer crap all over the roof? But wouldn’t that

make it more realistic? Didn’t Santa have to deal with the same thing?
"Yep. Nine on the button,” McGruff said, nodding.

“Good. I’ll take them all.”

McGruff motioned to the cabin. “Let’s go parley around the fire.”

They tramped back through the heavy snow and onto the porch.

McGruff walked into the cabin with snow falling off his leggings in

a trail of slushy ice. George stomped his own hiking boots on the

porch then walked in. The fireplace staged the room with antlers

on either side like totem poles. A large reindeer head was mounted

over the mantel.

“Pull up a chair and warm yer bones there, pilgrim.”

George pulled an old recliner up to the fire and sat down. The

cabin was plain and simple, except for a plasma television mounted

to the stacked logs that reminded George of Lincoln Logs from his

childhood. He looked around the room and felt the coziness of the

shelter against the flurrying storm.

“This is quite a place you have here.”

McGruff picked up his pipe and regarded him with cold grey

eyes. He flamed a small jet engine and puffed smoke. George noticed

a laptop on the kitchen table and an iPhone.

“It fits me needs.” He leaned back, motioning with the pipe. “Now,

what do yer want nine reindeer for?”

“I am going to be Santa for my daughter on Christmas, and I

obviously need reindeer if I’m going to be Santa.”

McGruff puffed away, watching him closely.

“Yer going to put the reindeer in yer backyard?”
 
“Well,” George sat back in his recliner, “not exactly. Actually, I’m

going to put the reindeer on the roof of my house.”

McGruff’s furry eyebrows drew together. He took the pipe from

his mouth. “No yer aren’t. Not my reindeer!”

George took out the folded diagram from his pocket.

“I would say the same thing, but I can assure you my father and

I are engineers and we know what we are doing. Dad is asleep in

the car or I would have him explain it to you.” He handed McGruff

the diagram. “As you can see, we are going to have two large ramps

going up to the roof. One for the reindeer to go up and one for them

to go down. In between these two points they will be harnessed to

a sled with me as Santa. They will pull the sled a short distance and

stop. They will wait for me while I go up the chimney and down and

deliver the presents. Then I will come back and take them down the

ramp on the other side.”

McGruff puffed and studied the diagram with the fire crackling.

His phone rang, and he didn’t move. He finally looked up and gestured

with the pipe. “Why?”

“I have a nine-year-old daughter who is questioning Santa. She

has friends and teachers telling her that Santa isn’t real, and I want

her to still believe in the magic of Christmas. So I am going to be the

Real Santa for her.”

McGruff closed one eye. “Mister, it is no business of mine, but

yer liable to kill yourself on that roof.”

“I can assure you every safety precaution will be taken for animals

and humans.”

“It’s going to cost you a pretty penny. I don’t even know if I can

get anyone to handle the reindeer on Christmas Eve.”

“I am willing to pay.”

“They have to be transported to the site. I need at least three

handlers for all these animals, then clean up, working on a holiday.

Aye, this will be an expensive venture for you.”

George crossed his arms. “How much?”

“I can’t charge you an hourly rate. There is too many of them.

Most people rent two or three at most, and they aren’t putting them

up on a roof. I’d say four thousand dollars at the minimum for the

night, and if you need them longer—”
 
“Fine.”

McGruff teethed his pipe then shook his head.

“I don’t know. The whole thing sounds crazy. I don’t know if I can

risk me reindeer. What if they fall off the roof, then what?”

“I would pay you for them.”

He breathed heavily. “Aye, you say that now but I will be the one

with dead reindeer. Hmm. I am sorry, mister, but I think the risk is

too great.”

George stared down at the hearth. “Five thousand.”

“I would have to handle them myself and that is me Christmas,”

McGruff mused, puffing away.

“Six thousand.”

McGruff shook his head again.

“Hmm, I am sorry. The risk is too much.”

George breathed heavy. If he had no reindeer, then there really

could be no Real Santa. He stared at the large man.

“I know it sounds crazy, and I understand your concern, but I

want to keep my daughter’s belief in magic. I want her to believe there

is something good in this world as long as I can.”

McGruff puffed on his pipe and didn’t move.

George waited then stood up. “Well, thank you for your time.”

He began to walk toward the door of the cabin.

“What is your daughter’s name?”

George stopped and turned around. “I’m sorry.”

“Her name. I said, what is your daughter’s name?”

“Megan,” he answered.

McGruff stared at the fire, his woolly boots steaming from the

heat. “I had a daughter once.”

George paused. “Oh … what was her name?”

“Julie … She died of cancer.”

George stood with his hands in his coat.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Aye,” he said tiredly.

The fire crackled in the silence. George didn’t know if he should

stay or go. McGruff didn’t move, but sat with the pipe in his mouth,

his eyes on the fire.

“Well, thank you for your time again.” George turned to the door.
 
“I’ll do it for five.”

He turned and saw McGruff still hadn’t moved. George rolled

his shoulders.

“I’ll pay six if that will make it any easier.”

McGruff turned and pinned him with his good eye.

“I’m not doing it for the money, pilgrim.”

Real Santa
 
 


Books by William Hazelgrove