"A 'Dick Tracy' Christmas, or the Year I Found Out Santa Wasn't Real"
By Tristan Tapscott
I miss believing in Santa Claus.
I really do.
I fondly remember the excitement I used to feel on the days leading up to Christmas Eve. I would swear to myself that I would be in bed by like 4 p.m. (because everyone knows that time goes by much faster when you're sleeping) only to have so much energize that I would fly around my house. Not literally, of course, as I was not Peter Pan (but still wish to be someday). That's a whole other story.
But Santa… I miss believing, etc… yes…
A typical Christmas Eve experience in the Tapscott house (pre-divorce, of course) was a VERY cool deal. We would have dinner, and then talk our parents into letting us open one present. (It is to be noted that as child we were given masses of presents. We were poor back in the day but man did we have presents.) Then we would proceed to play with that toy (for me, it was often some really kick ass Hotwheels or Matchbox collector sets. - they rule) until my parents would put on some classic Christmas movie. Regulars in our house were the likes of "It's a Wonderful Life," "White Christmas," or one of the many classic from what I call the early clay-mation series or many of the traditional cartoons. And always, and I mean ALWAYS, "The Grinch who Stole Christmas." I am talking pre-Howard and Carrey here; the classic film narrated by Karlof. Brilliance, indeed…
Following that my brothers and I would be off to bed. Though we had our own rooms, we would often build a triumphant blanket fort with bunk beds in one of our rooms. It was a truly spectacular event. For about the first hour, we would desperately try to fall asleep. Of course, this never worked because my brothers and I have an unbelievable ability to make each other laugh. And I mean, laugh like no holds bar, arms flailing, knee slapping laughter. It was insane. (We still do this today and oddly enough, usually around Christmas time.) We would then quietly and carefully retreat to the top bunk of my brother's bed and peer out the window at the moon, which I awkwardly remember always being full on Christmas Eve. We would sit for hours and wait for Santa to fly over the moon. My brothers would inevitably fall asleep around 4 a.m. Not me: I wanted to see that sleigh glide across the sky. There were moments when I would drift off, but I would always wake up and wait anxiously for the big fat man and the eighty tiny reindeer to fly through the sky. I wanted to see that silhouette in the moon's glow. Sadly, I never did.
Year after year, until I was maybe 7 or 8, I was convinced that I had missed in those few moments of shut-eye. I think part of me did not want to admit to the fact that maybe Santa did not exist. Many things challenged my belief in him (or her to completely PC here - I don't want any scary feminist on my back about this one) but I remained a faithful believer in the 'Ole St. Nick.
I held onto because I had really never seen anything that could prove the idea otherwise. I always compared it to religion and this Jesus character. In the church, we are told that this person existed and this thing happened, but nobody can really prove it. Yet we still believe. I took that same approach with Santa. No one really had any proof of it yet as children we all still believe. The odd thing is we all stop believing in Santa yet still believe most of what we're told in church. But you have to ask yourself, is there really much difference? They are both referenced heavily in books, movies, songs…
Only major difference? Santa is celebrated once a year. Jesus and all the religion stuff is celebrated year round. It's because Santa is fat isn't? And Jesus is a fox. It's a fat issue. Ok. Anyway, moving along…
So, I remained a firm believer in Santa until I stumbled upon something that really changed my view. Until now, my parents had been amazingly successful in hiding the "Santa" gifts that would magically appear on Christmas morning. This year, however, they were rather sloppy. I found them. I found all of the classic Dick Tracy stuff I had asked for that year while rifling in the back of their closet. My dad kept his Playboys there and every now and then I would like to take a peek (yes, I was an early bloomer). I went in turned on and ready to see some naked girls, but I came out limp with shattered dreams. I didn't even take a look at any girls in cute college cardigans. That's how devastated I was. I quickly told myself that maybe Santa dropped the toys off early this year or maybe he was punishing me because I looked at nudey women. I couldn't help the fact, however, that maybe my… big gulp… parents were, in fact, Santa.
I kept this to myself. I didn't tell anyone. Not my friends at school. Not my dogs (who I would tell things to occasionally). And especially not my brothers. Christmas Eve came and while I still had the same amount of energy and excitement, it had been lessened by the afore mentioned occurrences. This is what I believe to my first big acting gig. I had to act like nothing was wrong and it was Oscar worthy. I did everything the same. Everything. I was bound and determined to find the truth.
My brothers and I were watching the moon as always when they fell asleep. Lucky for me, it was a little earlier than usual. That's when I heard a sound I'll never forget. My parents were up. Had they always done this? Obviously, but I had never heard them before. It was rather odd. I waited until they were both in the living room and rummaging around. This was my shot to see if what I felt was actually true. I crept off the bed and to the door. Luckily, the bed room was at the end of hallway that led to the living room and if I positioned myself just right I could see what was happening. I did. I saw everything. My mother setting out my collectible Dick Tracy sleeping bag, my Father setting out some random Police stuff for brother Jared, and other random toddler things for Ethan. My heart started racing. I began to sweat. I must have let out an audible groan because my mother stopped and stared my way. She made a weird face. I just stood there stunned. Did she see me? I quickly backed away and shut the door quietly. To this day, I don't know if she saw me.
I then closed the curtain, got back into bed, and just stared at the ceiling. I felt a sudden relief come over me. I giggled. It was oddly reminiscent of that scene in Jim Carrey's "Man on the Moon" when he finally realizes that the "cure" was a hoax. I had cracked the code, but did I really want to?
No. I don't think so. I enjoyed believing in that aspect of Christmas. I always believed in the whole family togetherness, giving and sharing thing but this was a very cool thing.
I am still convinced that my Grandpa is the real Santa Claus. "Miracle on 34th Street" my ass… this guy is it. I think? Maybe…
And, really, who is to say that Santa doesn't exist? A man flying around the world in one night with 8 reindeer is not any crazier than that whole Noah and his Ark business.
Happy Holidays!
