Letters from Santa

This is Part One of a Two Part Story; see the December 2008 photo for the Conclusion, Santa Takes Action

It was a typical day at Station 51 for the Los Angeles Fire Department crew. It began with roll call and then Captain Stanley distributed the assignments for the day. Retrieving the log book, Hank Stanley hunched over the kitchen table, adjusting the pages to reflect the newest mandates from Headquarters. He ignored Paramedic John Gage as he tidied and mopped the dayroom. But when the fireman plunked a stack of books in front of him, it startled him but he quickly returned to the grindstone.

Johnny, focused on his mission, retrieved a white legal tablet and flipped through a volume. As the others wandered into the room, they attempted to solve the mystery of the tomes open to random pages. John stretched and perched on the edge of the table as Marco Lopez read a few scribbled notes.

Mike Stoker, the resident engineer, grimaced at the laborious columns in front of the captain, “Is a promotion really worth it, Cap?”

“Huh? Mike, what was that?” The leader’s concentration faded as he spied his crew in the room. Then his brows furrowed as he took in the collection of materials on the table, snagging one, he cited the title, Polish Your Secretarial Skills.

“Sorry, Cap, I didn’t mean to take over the entire table,” Johnny placed the book under a paper in front of him.

He rose as Chet Kelly, the resident prankster, entered the room. After depositing a cleaning cloth under the sink, he pivoted and observed the chaos on the table. “Working on taxes, Gage?”

“No, I imagine he wants to moonlight as a secretary.” Marco recited terms on the pad, “Greeting, body, salutation. What gives?”

“No, Chet, I’m not working on my taxes,” The A-Shift’s Romeo admitted, “But, I kinda made a promise to Bobbie.”

“Yeah, Bobbie, the woman who walks on water,” Johnny’s work partner, Paramedic Roy DeSoto, carried a bowl of fruit to the table. “You keep telling me she’s the best thing that came into your life since the department started using the halligan tool.”

“In other words, he won’t stop talking about her?” Chet snickered, gaping with delight at the love struck paramedic. “Do tell, Gage.”

“She’s great. I mean she bowls a 210 and she lets me be myself.” Johnny sank into an empty chair, and gave a sigh of contentment.

Captain Stanley brought up the original topic, “So, what did you promise Bobbie?”

“You know she’s a first grade teacher at Broadacres Avenue School?” Not waiting for acknowledgment he continued, “Well, the other night…”

“She asked you to write a letter for her?” Chet cut in, unable to help himself.

Johnny selected a rosy apple and polished it on his shirt, “Sort of. She was saying she asked her kids to write a letter to Santa.”

“Got it,” Chet sniped, “she wants you to pen a postcard to Santa.”

“No, Kelly,” Johnny emphasized his crewmate’s last name, indicating his waning patience,”She wanted to know if I’d be willing to answer her students’ as Santa. I never was good at stuff like that in school so I thought I’d borrow some books to help me out.”

“Okay, I gotta ask, “Where’d you meet Bobbie?”

“’Member the cafeteria fire at Broadacres Avenue School? Oh, that’s right, Chet, you were off that day,” Johnny paused to chomp the fruit, savoring the tanginess, “The call came in just before the kids went to lunch. Their cook, Miss Jean, used a towel to remove some rolls from the oven and it caught fire. Next thing she knew flames were coming out of the stove, and she couldn’t control them.”

“Several people were overcome with smoke, right?” Marco Lopez, the Latino firefighter, fingered a green banana and returned it to the bowl.

Roy snagged a stem of grapes, “Yup, one kid, the cook, and Miss Johnson.”

“Miss Bobbie Johnson,” Johnny paced in front of the kitchen cabinets. “She dashed into the kitchen with a fire extinguisher and helped Miss Jean out of the area.”

“And you got the teacher’s number,” Chet nodded knowingly.

Roy chuckled, “He had me get it for him.”

“Back to the letters, Gage,” The captain leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles.

Johnny wiped a trickle of apple juice off his chin, “You can imagine the cafeteria wasn’t very usable after the smoke and water damage. Well, Bobbie said it was just another disappointment for the kids, some of ‘em have had it tough. And, with Christmas coming, it made it hard for them to believe in Santa.”

“You do realize Santa doesn’t exist?” Chet poked the paramedic, causing him to step back.

“Of course I do, but I’m not six years old!”

“So,” the captain put aside the logbook, “she shared what the kids were doing and she asked you to draft replies?”

“Uh…m,” Johnny hung his head and mumbled, “I kinda volunteered to do it. But, it got out of hand. Bobbie thought it was such a fantastic idea she told the other first grade teacher and suddenly fifty-four kids need letters from Santa. You guys are willing to help, right?” He paused to calculate the number, “That would mean each of us would bang out nine. Please?” He pleaded. He vanished from the room, went to his locker, and returned with a stack of primary writing papers. They all had large blue lines to guide small hands into forming the alphabet between large spaces. Most had erasure marks.

Chet snatched the one on top and read,

RUBY

He shook his head, “how are we supposed to answer that?”

“Well,” Johnny slid a book closer to the fireman. “I hoped these books would help.”

“Lemme see,” Roy skimmed the one offered to Chet. “Junior, this book gives examples for secretaries to type for their boss. Like this one: ‘To Whom It May Concern: We received an order of twenty desk lamps. Our order was for ten and you invoiced us for twenty-five. Please advise on your intentions to rectify this error.’ Blah, blah, blah.”

“C’mon, guys, I can’t write to fifty-four kids and I promised I’d get them to Bobbie by Thursday.”

“John,” Hank Stanley sympathized, but was firm, “this is Monday. We didn’t promise to help you.”

“I get it, Cap, “but we can’t let kids down,” Johnny implored. “And, if we start right now…”

The klaxons pealed. Squad 51, woman down, West Coast Supermall. Park on the north side of the mall.

The paramedics scurried out to their shiny, red vehicle and, as Roy activated the lights and sirens, Johnny notified dispatch they were on their way. He patted his left pocket, confirming that his pen and small journal were at the ready. They pulled into the fire lane by the entrance and quickly unlatched the compartments housing their medical equipment.

The mall was a buzz of activity as an officer escorted them toward a lengthy line of parents and their offspring, waiting for their turn to speak with the famous North Pole resident. “Did a mom go into labor or what?” Johnny babbled. Roy, preceding him, stopped abruptly, causing Johnny to dodge right to evade a collision.

A petite elf in her late teens knelt near a woman with permed pale blue hair. She looked like she’d been cast as a grandmother for a role in a television series. “Her name is Melanie. She’s taking photos of the kids with Santa so she can buy her grandchildren presents. Someone bumped her and she fell, and landed funny on her foot.”

The victim moaned, “Just help me up. I’ll be all right.”

“My name’s Johnny, my partner Roy and I will take good care of you.”

“I need to get back to work,” Melanie ignored the men, attempting to rise.

Johnny put a hand on her shoulder, “Now, you wouldn’t want to make your injury worse.”

“Melanie taught me how to take pictures. I’ll take over.” The elf took the camera, which had fallen beside the injured woman and coaxed a scared infant into a slobbery grin.

An impatient mother leaned over the red velvet rope, “We’ve been waiting forever and I have a busy schedule today.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Johnny applied a splint and overheard Roy relaying information to Rampart General Hospital. “Right now we have to take care of this woman,” and where’s your Christmas spirit, he thought.

“I’ve got this,” a man in his mid-thirties, wearing a power suit and red tie approached, “Broadway Department Store is proud to sponsor Santa.” He reached into his pocket and presented a coupon for a free pound of bridge mix to the irritated customer.

Johnny assisted Roy in readying Melanie for transport, and began to gather their equipment as Roy tagged after the ambulance attendants. “She going to be okay?” The manager cut short Johnny’s actions. “I’m Terence Roskins.”

“John Gage, Paramedic. Rampart will take some x-rays and take good care of her.” He grabbed the drugbox.

Mr. Roskins placed a business card in his hand, “I appreciate what you did. Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay, thanks,” Johnny, preoccupied with following the ambulance, slipped the card into his shirt pocket.

A short time later Station 51 was at full capacity. Hank Stanley took a draw of his tepid coffee as the paramedics trickled in. “How was the run?”

“Woman working at the Santa booth broke her ankle. She should be okay,” Roy leaned against the counter, certain the captain had more to say. Johnny scooted paperwork aside so he could gobble a cheese and bologna sandwich he’d slapped together.

“John,” the station leader proclaimed, “While you were out we had a powwow. We’ll help answer the letters.” It was then Johnny noticed six stacks, and the others perusing theirs. “Guys, thanks for helping out.”

“We’re doing it for the kids, not for you, Gage,” Captain Stanley stressed. “Next time check with us first.”

“Sure, Cap,” Johnny reread Ruby’s entreaty, and then looked up, “It just kinda snowballed.”

“You gonna provide Santa notepaper, Johnny?” Chet’s tone said he wasn’t kidding around.

Mike Stoker supplied a suggestion as he reached for a pen. “I think we should use regular notebook paper and tell the kids Santa’s out of the office and used the paper available to him.”

“That works for me,” Marco began to scribe sentences.

When Johnny agreed to this task he anticipated the children would ask for things in that song about a housetop, whatever it was: dolls, hammers, whistles, yo-yos, maybe even a fire truck, but these first graders went deep. He decided he better make a list. He reread Ruby’s.

Ruby: blanket for brother, how old is he?

He inhaled sharply with Sam’s.

Sam’s name went below Ruby’s with a large question mark. Picking up the next page he absorbed Susie’s words:

Johnny tapped his pencil on the tablet in front of him, drawing the others’ attention. “Sorry.” He repeated the word Rumper several times? Could that mean Rampart? He better look into that. After printing Susie’s name he penned, nurse at Rampart, works nights.

With a heavy heart, he read through the next one, which was from Ted.

Despite himself, Johnny chuckled. This response would be easier. With bold strokes Johnny wrote Ted: Christmas record.

Almost halfway through, what was next? Duke’s scribble was hard to decipher:

Dr Senta,

I wand a pupy. I ned a frend.

Johnny added onto his listing. Duke: dog and friend

Only four to go. As he paused, he realized everyone else in the room was silent, concentrating on the six year olds’ appeals. The next was badly wrinkled; it crinkled as John flattened it.

At last, one with no strings attached!

Stacy: chocolate, 8 pieces

This was getting easier. ‘Dear Ralph.’ The name was crossed out, replaced by Santa.

Ralph’s name went next: Christmas dinner, ready to eat

Two remained. The next one was rolled like a scroll with a rubber band around it; Santa’s ‘helper’ uncurled it.

Impressed by the spelling, Johnny took note of her desire. Annie: Purple dress

Pleased that only one remained, Johnny scanned the contents:

This item was more concrete than some of the others. Wyatt’s name completed the row: police car

Now for the hard part, acting the part of Santa on paper, the paramedic snatched a piece of notebook paper and inked:

One down. Johnny’s stomach rumbled. “Sorry, I’ll get a glass of milk.” As he opened the fridge, the station was toned out. The calls came back to back, and Johnny stuffed the paperwork into his locker at sunup. After he donned his civvies, he gathered the children’s petitions, and carried them out to his trusty Land Rover.

~~~~

At breakfast the next day, he slopped an overcooked fried egg onto his plate and then he plucked Annie’s note and located a writing utensil.