It’s 6:05 on a Sunday. With the exception of a few dog walkers and myself, the Upper East Side is deserted. Toss in it’s still in Thanksgiving mode and it looks like Dodge, just with a Duane Reade on every corner.
So to encounter Santa in my lobby in his red suit, sportin Nikes carrying his boots and beard that looked rather medieval, was a bit shocking even for New York.
Who knew Santa lived in the building, apparently on 4 with a woman who isn’t Mrs Claus, according to Felix the doorman.
Always polite I said,”Hi Santa, how’s it goin?” He looked at me with great irritation before saying, “How do you think it’s going? There are four weeks till Xmas and I’m already in demand.”
Hmm…so my instincts are right, Santa’s crazy. But figuring I’ll get an essay out of this say, “where exactly do you have to be so early…the North Pole?”
No, he did not laugh.
“Albany. At a dinner for some rich ass who thought Santa would be amusing.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, don’t you think a little Xmas cheer is in order?”
“No, I don’t. I’m being exploited once again by my agent who knows I need the money.”
Whoa, if there was ever a time not to believe in Santa Claus, or representation, it was now.
“Well, try to think of all the kids you’ll make happy, forgetting about money.” This suggestion did not sit well, as he shook his head, his eyes rolling back like a slot machine before marching out the door.
Felix and I looked at each other, then Felix said, “Do you know he’s Jewish?”
Who knew Santa’s real name was Greenberg.