On The Couch, A Christmas Tale

One time on Christmas Eve when I was around 11 or 12, I decided I’d sleep downstairs on the couch and wait for Santa to come. I’d lie in wait and then while he was distributing the gifts I’d sneak a peek and figure out once and for all if he was indeed real or a fake and maybe even jump up and surprise him or something.

For a few years my friends had been telling me that he wasn’t real. But I still held out hope. And besides, even if he wasn’t real, I figured that “pretending” he was real around my parents would at least get me a few more years of extra presents from him. So really, I had nothing to lose.

But also, deep down, I wanted to believe in miracles and magic and fairies and the Easter bunny and stuff like that for as long as I could. The world just seemed like a better place with Santa looking out for me. So my plan made perfect sense. Sleeping down on the couch would either prove that life was as magical as I’d wished for it to be or it would confirm what my friends had been telling me for years – and secure the dread of broken secrets that I’d been feeling of late, growing up as a 12 year old girl in suburbia.



A few weeks prior to Christmas I spent some time sneaking around upstairs in my mom’s closets, finding secret presents not yet wrapped, but neatly stashed away. I figured I could also prove my theory of his existence by whether or not Santa or my parents gave me these presents. It was a good back up plan. Either way, I would find out the ultimate truth that year.

On Christmas Eve, my parents left the three of us alone in the house for a few hours while they went next door for a cocktail party. We spent some time on the couch watching festive movies and around 10pm or so set out the milk and cookies and went upstairs to go to sleep. We were all anxious for Santa to come.

The plan was to lie in bed for a while and wait for my parents to come home and go to sleep and then I’d sneak downstairs and wait.

But of course, I fell right to sleep.

I woke up a few hours later to some loud noises downstairs and decided I’d sneak down and catch Santa in the act right then. All that noise must have been him tying to get into the house. And so I snuck, ever so quietly and slowly, down the stairs.



I could see some sort of mayhem as I rounded the corner – stuff was laying everywhere. Wrapping was strewn about, a guinea pig in a cage, a big wheel half built, a bike on its side, skates without laces, hula-hoops and ribbon flung everywhere. But worst of all was that the glass of milk we'd put out for Santa was tipped over with all the milk spilled next to it. And his cookies were half eaten. And nothing at all was wrapped yet. It was a mess.

Over towards the fireplace there were various pieces of clothing items that looked to be similar to my mom’s in a few piles on the floor. As I eased closer, I saw some empty beer bottles, a wine glass tipped over on the floor and an ash tray and some dirty socks flung on the bottom branches of the tree. What the hell had happened? I thought. Was Santa drunk or something? And why were my mom’s clothes everywhere?

And then I saw them.

On the couch.

Naked parents on the couch moving around a lot making their grunting noises.

Jesus Christ, I moaned to myself. Here I am, trying to keep the magic alive for myself and figure out life and Santa and what do I find but my drunken ass parents, screwing on our living room couch.

And so I backed up and shuffled back upstairs into my room and slunk back into my bed. And I lay there, grumbling to myself about how they’d messed up everything and how I wouldn’t be able to see the real Santa again for at least another year, if indeed he even WAS real.

The next morning, after spending about half an hour jumping on my mom and dad’s bed trying to wake them from their Christmas Eve splendor we finally all made our way downstairs. And to my surprise everything was neatly wrapped and organized and the beer bottles and cigarettes and wine glasses and underwears and socks from the previous night were nowhere in sight.

And the first gift I opened that year was from Santa and it was the red shiny cassette player I’d seen up in my mom’s closet just the week before. It had been tucked behind the light bright that my brother had just finished opening.



Happy New Year everyone, love from Ms. mystery blogger, Meatloaf.