Rudolph Leonhard, mm

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Rudolph • Sam C. Leonhard
Rudolph
C
HRISTMAS
again. Snow outside, mistletoe hanging on the
ceiling, dozens of candles flickering their tiny lights into the
winter night that lingered behind the doors and windows.
Happy, excited children waiting for Santa; smiling, friendly
adults sharing presents, food, and love.
Bah.
To him, Christmas just meant work. Far too much work.
And by no means enough time to sit down for a quiet cup of
tea. Actually,
no
time to sit down at all!
And the kids. Talk about happy and excited?
Hyperactive was more the word he had in mind. The brats
were everywhere, and if he did dare to sit down, they were on
his knees, screaming their wishes into his ears. Although,
nowadays, most of them hopped up and down on his legs
like jacks-in-a-box, causing stabs of pain going down to his
toes and up his spine. Screaming like banshees, the little
monsters did not ask, they ordered, and on top of their lungs
as well. Well-meaning parents, smiling like zombies, nodded
encouragingly rather than stopping them and telling them to
behave nicely. “Let Santa know you want that big fire engine
and the trampoline and the complete Disney DVD collection,
sweetums,” they would shout at their children, completely
ignoring that the child in question most likely would not
hear them, given the tremendous noise around them.
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Rudolph • Sam C. Leonhard
If he was honest with himself, he wished he could
strangle the kids. Or, to remain fair, every fifth one or so.
The really noisy ones. The greedy ones. The ones who put
their candy-sticky fingers into his beard and pulled until
tears welled up in his eyes. But no, he couldn’t. He was
Santa Claus; he had to sit and listen and nod and be
friendlyand damn the whole festive season!
He sighed. “Stupid weather,” he grumbled into his
beard, which was real, even though all the parents and
children surely believed it to be artificial. He couldn’t see
whether it was snowing or not; the candles on the window
sill illuminated the glass and made it impossible to see
anything beyond their glow. But snow or not, he knew it was
dark and cold and unpleasant outside.
He liked it warm; he loved the sun. Living so far up
north was, to him, similar to torture, but the reindeer
demanded an environment with lots of ice and snow.
Taking a sip from his strong, black tea, he closed his
eyes, enjoying the peace and quiet around him. It was late,
just before midnight on December 23rd. He’d taken the day
off; he’d had to, or he would have given in to his urge to
strangle everyone he could get hold of.
For the first time tonight, he smiled. Shop owners and
parents and children would have loved to see him today and
shout their demands at him, but he’d flat out refused. “No
way,” he murmured, taking another sip of tea. “One quiet
evening. Hah! I blackmailed them, didn’t I? Yes, I did. Hell,
everyone deserves a break, even me!”
3
Rudolph • Sam C. Leonhard
Santa. What a joke. He hated his job. If it weren’t for his
stupid father, he would have learned a decent trade, not
that
one out of a gazillion. He could have been a carpenter. A
math teacher. He could have bred crocodiles. Or lamas.
Explore the Amazonas. He could have been a gardener or a
journalist.
Everything, every
one
, but Santa Claus.
Instead… Instead, he was thirty-five and wore a red
coat, a red hat, and black boots solely to amuse children and
their parents. His beard was gray (dyed) and short, his hair
(brown and too long) was hidden under the cap when he was
in the supermarket or mall or wherever-the-hell-else, and
under the coat, he carried a cushion so no child could
complain about him being too bony.
“Stupid weather. Stupid life.”
His name was Rudolph.
Yeah, start laughing
, he thought
bitterly, and hell, even his sister called him Santa.
Carefully, he moved his toes. His feet were cold despite
the heat from the fireplace. They were cold despite wearing
two pairs of socks, and
he
was cold despite the thick pair of
woolen underpants. He was always cold no matter how
much hot tea he drank.
Sigh.
If only….
Well. Yes. If only there had been someone around to
warm his feet as well as the rest of him. But in his position,
he didn’t meet many people. At least not many that were
older than eight.
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Rudolph • Sam C. Leonhard
Another sip.
His eyelids were heavy, but he knew if he went to sleep
now, he would wake in an hour’s time with his back aching
like hell. So he forced them open, just a bit, and upon
blinking at the candlelight that seemed to flood the room, for
the first time noticed that in the corner stood a Christmas
tree, hidden behind a chair and a few cardboard boxes.
Damn! Who had dared to put that thing up in here?
Didn’t they know he hated Christmas trees? The baubles,
the tinsel, the tiny fairy lights, the needles, the cheeriness
his sister knew damn well he was allergic to the whole thing!
“If only she gave a flying reindeer about my wishes.”
Older than him and running the household, she did what
she wanted and when she wanted to do it and unfortunately,
she was a fan of this time of the year.
“Hank!” he called, hearing the pitch in his voice. “Hank,
come on in here pronto!”
Hank, his assistant, would know where the problem
was. He always did. He wasn’t the only one working for
himgiven the size of his business that would have been
impossiblebut he was the one Rudolph relied on. Hank
always knew how to deal with a crisis or his boss. He was
small and slender, for some strange reason he loved to wear
tunics, and without him, the business Rudolph had
inherited from his father would have failed years ago. Hank
ran it, basically, while Rudolph was the one who was ordered
around. “Today, High Street,” Hank would say, or, “You’ve
got to visit three supermarkets and one mall until Friday.”
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Rudolph Leonhard, mm

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