It could only be a fire or gunshot wound, I assumed.
Around 7:00 the other night, I heard bloodcurdling screams coming from the outside hall. Recognizing the voice, I rushed out expecting to find either flames or red splattered Helter Skelter fashion, but instead found a bevy kids had Santa pinned to the wall.
In a perfectly synchronized moment, Savannah opened the door just as the jolly fellow was exiting the apartment down the hall. Rumor has it he danced and sang with the kids. All Savannah got was a call from the North Pole.
Once Santa got untangled and jumped in the elevator, Savannah and her friend rushed to the window, anxiously staring into the starry night sky waiting for a sleigh to pass.
“Maybe he decided to grab a bite to eat at the diner,” I suggested, hoping to pry them from the window.
It worked. Two minutes later I hear: “Excuse me, but is Santa Claus there?”
Last time we ate at the diner, the waiter confided that Santa occasionally stopped in, so the repeated questions of “what?” and “who is this?” seemed unnecessary. Does the cashier not realize the seriousness of the situation?
“Yes, Santa Claus!?” Savannah said, sounding exasperated.
I heard some rumblings from the other end and then a sound I remember from the days my girlfriend and I cranked call our 7th grade teacher and the local Playboy Club: click.