Season’s Greetings From Mocko the Elf

Now I realize that some of you, discerning folks that you most certainly are, do not believe in the whole Santa Claus thing: the letters to Santa from piously desirous young boys and girls, the Naughty/Nice List, the magical presents under the tree. But I’m here to tell you, dear readers, that Santa Claus does exist. I have it from the highest sources.

So, naturally, when I learned that communities like the city of Bellingham were rapidly running out of space to site industry with its family-wage paying jobs and concomitant benefits, I felt compelled to petition the Merry Old Elf himself on behalf of our over-worked, under-paid, over-mortgaged, under-insured fellow citizens.

Hence my recent trip to the Schnapps Alps, North Pole (a red-eye flight taken just this Halloween). Whereupon I came across a strange little fellow who met me at the De Kuyper airport and proceeded to ferry my bags to a nearby hotel. As near as I can recall, the following, well, followed…

“I say, young man,” I protested, “Who might you be and where are you taking my bags?”

“Neither young nor a man, you silly twit,” snarled the diminutive being. “And I’m taking your sorry ass to the Outside Inn, where you have reservations.”

“Well, of course I’d have reservations about a place with that name,” I wryly remarked. “And what might yours be?”

“They call me Mocko. Mocko the Elf.”

“An elf! Oh golly,” I giggled, “That must mean I’ve really reached the pinnacle of the Schnapps Alps, the North Pole…where Santa Claus His Jolly Old Self resides! Please, my good yet vertically challenged valet, take me to Mr. Claus forthwith! I must petition him for a boon of an economic nature.”

“I ain’t your friggin’ valet,” glared Mocko, “And Santa Friggin’ Claus don’t live here no more. If you want, and if you got the dough, you can buy yourself a tour of Old Pole, where the Clauses used to live. There’s a replica of the Workshop and all that fairy tale crap.”

And with that, our sleigh arrived at the Outside Inn, where a smiling faerie processed my credit card, debited my account $257.99 for the night’s stay, invited me to work out in the machine-laden Exorcise Room and go for a swim in the tropically heated C’ess Pool. I never imagined such sumptuous amenities in this place of my dreams! A bit pricey, though.

“Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’,” moaned Mocko as he toted my bags up to my room. “But things ain’t what they seem. Luanda there,” he said, pointing his gnarled thumb back toward the desk faerie who was currently being badgered by her overbearing boss, “She’s got cancer of the wing. Couple of years after they started puttin’ up all these resort hotels, condos, office complexes and strip malls here at the Pole, the snow got kinda gray. Wasn’t fit to breathe, much less be out in it. Folks started gettin’sick. Good elf-payin’ jobs got scarce on accounta the new buildings crowding out the space for Santa’s Workshop. Santa couldn’t compete with the new mega-shops like Pole-Mart and the Big X(mas), which is where most of your toys come from these days, and which is where most of your elves work. Faeries, too.”

“But geez, Mocko,” I marveled as I gazed out at the North Pole landscape from our glass-enclosed elevator on the way to my 17th floor crackerbox, “Look at all those twinkling lights! This is surely a Winter Wonderland.”

“Maybe for them that owns the buildings and runs the lights,” sneered Mocko. “The rest of us, once the construction work dried up, shlub around like peons just to pay the bills. Never knew we had it so good under Santa. We used to be cared for, well fed, happy. Now? I couldn’t tell you who my next-door elf is, can’t afford to buy new runners for my sleigh, and couldn’t dream of having health insurance, much less bringin’ home the odd sugar plum for the kiddies.”

Stunned, I stammered, “Well at least Santa will be flying this Christmas, delivering goodies to all the nice children of the…”

“Come off it, mister,” growled Mocko. “The Naughty and Nice List was scrapped five years ago when the whole state of Florida was writ down to get lumps of coal. Too many damn Naughties and the Nices don’t seem to count no more. ‘Cept maybe in a tiny place called Whatcom County; they still seem to get it. Besides, Santa ain’t cleared to fly these days. Reindeer have been grounded by Northland Security. Too much of a terrorist risk. What with all them fundamentalist gnomes tryin’ to hop aboard with box cutters, nail clippers and such. And who knows what’s really in Rudolph’s red nose?”

“Well,” I sulked, “If there really is no North Pole left, at least you take me to see Santa.”

“Sorry, buddy,” smirked Mocko. “That Jolly Old Elf has relocated. Retired and gone south. Way south. Hangs out with the penguins now. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. And don’t forget to lock your door. Chances are them ain’t carolers prowlin’ the halls of our friendly Outside Inn.” §

To contact Matthew, to add spice to this casserole, or to order his new book, “Original Recipes” (it’s a “best-of” collection of columns from 1985 to 1995, not, thank heavens, a cookbook!), please write to P.O. Box 28983, Bellingham, WA 98228; or email mdthuney@email.msn.com.