Santa lives in Brooklyn

As I get older I can’t help the feeling that the holiday season comes too quickly. At times, I find myself thinking, “Wasn’t it just Christmas?” and struggle to keep myself energized.

As a 24 year old living in Brooklyn, it’s hard to develop my own traditions and hard to put my life on pause for long enough to do the kind of work it takes to make the holidays spectacular.

But all is not lost, for there is one thing I’ve been able to discover for myself. I made this discovery almost one year ago to the day. You may remember it was the subject of a column.

I live next door to Santa Claus.

I met Santa Claus last year in front of my apartment in Brooklyn. He wore a long red jacket, with a matching cap, and he rang a small bell. Christmas carols blasted from a speaker above his head.

As I approached, he smiled warmly, and reached his hand into a small wicker basket, removing a candy cane. He bowed his head slightly and stretched a gloved hand toward me, offering me the candy cane.

My eyes stare into his and suddenly I am a kid again. Memories of Santa’s knees, milk and cookies and coconut-stuffed stockings rush over me. I thank Santa for the gift and wonder which of his two lists I’m on this year.

Santa is actually my neighbor Chris. The costume is convincing, by far the best I’ve seen in a while. His usual silver hair and beard have been dyed snow white. His jacket looks to be velvet, the cap embroidered, fitted gloves on his fingers. He stands outside his house every day for a couple of hours, ringing a bell and giving out candy canes.

“You know, for the kids,” he says cheerfully.

I’m struck with a sentimental twinge. I have recently started my apartment search and will be moving out in the next few weeks. My stay on Humboldt Street is over.

Throughout the year, his is a smile always warm, despite the fact that he is a much better neighbor to me than I am to him. He collects packages for me, and always has kind words and a hello. My stoop is often littered with papers and garbage thrown by passers by. I’m sure he wishes that I cleaned up more, but he never mentions it.

As Santa, there is a newfound sparkle in his eye and a spring in his step.

He is usually outside hanging out on the small patio separated from the street by a stone fence. He stands, leaning forward on his elbows, listening to music and talking to friends, who form a small semi-circle around him. They speak Spanish mostly, especially when I’m around.

I wonder what they say about the way the area is changing.

I wonder if he’d prefer that a family move into our house when my roommates and I leave. The family’s small children would perhaps better appreciate his Santa outfit and decorations. Perhaps, they would believe that they lived next door to the real Santa. Their parents would explain to them that Santa keeps two houses. One in the North Pole and one on Humboldt Street in Brooklyn.

He decorates profusely for every holiday and spares no expense for Christmas. Long strands of blue lights hang down from the roof, more lights line the doorway and still more are intertwined with red ribbon along the stone fence.

The house is visible from blocks away, literally lighting up the street. A large “Happy Holidays” sign shimmers and a small plastic Santa sleigh perches near the roof, stretching toward a large star above it.

It’s interesting to see how my friends who come over react to him. Many times, I open the door to find them in mid-conversation, candy cane in hand, smile on their face.

“Nice guy.” they say. “Is he out there every day?

“Yeah,” I answer. “You know, for the kids.”

I wonder if he knows how much of an effect his presence has had on me this holiday season. I wonder if he could tell that maybe I needed a candy cane and a warm smile from Santa, and had been searching for some sort of distraction from the craziness, something pure, something that isn’t bought or wrapped.

I realize that I don’t know Chris’ last name. It could be Kringle. This could be his second home to the North Pole. He could dye his hair gray in January so no one suspects, counting down the months to December when he can emerge from his hiding place, under the guise of an impersonator.

I hope to find myself on Humboldt Street next year. Paying a visit to the big man himself.