It was a peaceful Sunday morning. I had just put the tea kettle on the stove, and the sleeping bodies strewn about the living room were just beginning to move. Suddenly, loud sirens came screeching down the road. From the window, I could see flashing lights, police cars, and a firetruck – all stopping at the end of my driveway. For a brief moment, I thought – oh, damn, is our house on fire?
But then I looked out see that it was just Santa Claus, terrorizing the neighborhood with loud noise and candy canes. The teenagers and kids, mostly half-dressed, rushed out to grab the free candy. The young man riding with Santa came down off the truck to talk to Blonde Niece and Drama Niece. The young cops in the patrol cars were playing with the sirens the way little kids would. One of the young men said to me, curiously, "How many kids do you have, anyhow?"
The fire department Santa never misses our house, despite the fact that we live on a deadend country road well outside Train Track Village. And despite the fact that we don't really have any little kids here either. I don't want to start rumors about Santa but I am beginning to think that he favors houses that feature teenage girls running outside in their sleepwear.