Chapter 2
Chapter Two
SAM
“San-ta! San-ta! San-ta!” The rhythmic chant echoed through the community center as dozens of children bounced impatiently around the makeshift North Pole setup.
Brenda Jenkins, the director of the center, materialized beside me like a Christmas-themed hurricane in her red Rudolf sweater adorned with blinking lights.
“Showtime!” she beamed, squeezing my arm with enough enthusiasm to almost cut off circulation. “Are you ready to go?”
“Ready,” I said with a grin. “The kids look happy.”
“So do the parents,” Brenda said. “And just so you know, there are more than a few single moms in attendance, and some of them have got you in the crosshairs.”
I nodded and used every ounce of energy to not roll my eyes. “You mentioned that last week. Twice, actually.”
I found it slightly disturbing that women were giving me flirtatious glances despite my bright red suit, fake beer gut, and facial hair so dense it could house a family of sparrows.
“You can’t blame me for trying to play Cupid during the holidays,” Brenda said with a shrug. “Anyway, they’re all here because of you. I swear, ever since you started volunteering here, it’s like magic follows you around.”
“I’m always happy to help, but I think you’re giving me way too much credit,” I said, while behind her a child was systematically dismantling one of the table-top Christmas trees with the determination of a tiny, festive demolition expert.
“Nonsense—you’re our good luck charm!” Brenda replied, then her eyes got that conspiratorial gleam.
“Our shuttle bus was dying a slow mechanical death, and just yesterday, the sales manager from the Seattle Ford dealership delivered a brand new fourteen-passenger shuttle bus with a wheelchair lift, all paid for by some mysterious anonymous donor! Do you have any idea what those things cost?”
$129,900.00, plus tax, title, and license fees.
“Between you and me, I think we have our very own Christmas angel,” Brenda added. “Or maybe it’s that mysterious Good Sam character everyone’s been buzzing about. It’s so funny he has the same name as you.”
I’m not laughing.
“He could be here right now …” Brenda glanced around the center, inspecting the guests. “Can you imagine that?”
More than you know.
Of all the statistical possibilities for internet nicknames—with millions of potential combinations in the English language—the collective hive mind had to settle on “Good Sam.” It made perfect linguistic sense to shorten it from “Good Samaritan,” but when your actual name was Sam and you were the one doing the work, the irony reached levels that would make a statistician weep.
One thing was for sure, I needed to wrap up this whole operation fast and deliver as many Christmas miracles as possible. After that, I would vanish back into digital anonymity before someone connected the very obvious dots.
“Anyway, I am babbling again,” Brenda said with a knowing smile. “I will let you get to work.”
“Wait—I thought you said you were going to find me an elf substitute,” I said. “It’s pure chaos without one.”
My usual elf volunteer, Jaqueline, was glowing and showing, and apparently, pregnancy wasn’t the ideal image the community center board of directors wanted their Christmas elf to have.
My backup elf had called in with the flu, leaving me in desperate need of someone to manage the pandemonium that was about to unfold.
“He’s coming right now!” Brenda said, gesturing behind me with barely contained glee.
I turned around and froze, immediately understanding why she looked so amused.
Harold Simmons, the seventy-five-year-old senior program director, was approaching in what could only be described as the most tragic elf costume in holiday history.
The green tights were simultaneously too tight in some places and too loose in others, creating a sight so disturbing it should have come with its own viewer discretion warning and a toll-free counseling hotline.
“You owe me for this,” Harold muttered, tugging desperately at his tunic in a futile attempt to achieve coverage that the laws of physics had already determined was impossible.
I shook my head, trying not to laugh. “You owe me, because this image is going to be permanently burned into my retinas. I may need therapy.”
“Well, I think you look adorable, Harold!” Brenda chirped with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly didn’t know she needed glasses. “By the way, make sure each family fills out the contact form, so we know where to send the photos.”
“Of course,” Harold said.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I said, making my way to the oversized, red-velvet throne on the stage and taking a seat.
A harried-looking father at the front of the line wrestled a child who was eyeing me with the deep suspicion usually reserved for people who were trying to sell life insurance for ten dollars.
“Come on, Tyler,” the dad coaxed. “Say hello to Santa.”
Harold took over, taking the boy’s hand and leading him up the stage and onto my lap. “Santa, this is Tyler.”
“Ho ho ho!” I boomed with practiced enthusiasm. “Welcome, welcome …”
Tyler stared at me for a long moment, then poked my fake stomach with the scientific curiosity of a miniature medical examiner. “Your belly is bigger than my mom’s. She has my baby sister inside. Who do you have inside yours?”
“Tyler,” his father warned in that universal parental tone that translated to “please don’t embarrass me.”
“That’s the result of too many Christmas cookies,” I explained. “It’s an occupational hazard. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Tyler. Have you been good this year?”
He glanced at his dad, then shrugged with the honesty that only children possessed. “My grandma is the only one who thinks so.”
“Grandmas are excellent judges of character,” I said with a grin. “Do you have any special requests this year for Christmas?”
The kid’s eyes transformed into dollar signs. “I want a new PlayStation, the Spider-Man collector’s edition, a fifty-inch TV for my room, a gaming desk and chair, and—”
“Wow,” I interrupted gently before he could name everything in the Best Buy catalog. “That’s quite an ambitious list. I’ll have to check with my elves about production capacity and shipping logistics.”
“Why don’t you use Prime?” the father asked with a smirk. “Everybody will get their presents in two days.”
It didn’t matter that I wasn’t really Santa or that his idea was preposterous—my brain couldn’t help running the calculations …
Christmas Eve meant delivering to roughly 526 million children across 195 countries in a 31-hour window, accounting for time zone rotations.
That worked out to approximately 16.9 million deliveries per hour, using over 10,000 Boeing 747s.
The physics were laughably impossible, but having a conversation with the father about orbital mechanics and logistics optimization seemed like overkill.
Instead, I opted for, “Not a bad idea. Thanks for the tip!”
After Tyler was photographed with me, Harold led him off the stage and then approached with my next visitor.
“Ho, ho, ho!” I said. “Who do we have here?”
This child was unique. I noticed it the moment I saw him standing in the line by himself. A boy around seven, with serious brown eyes that seemed older than his years and clothes that were clearly loved but had definitely seen better days.
“This is Carter,” Harold said with unusual gentleness.
“Hello there, Carter,” I said, my Santa voice automatically softening. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Hi, Santa,” he said.
Carter settled onto my lap with movements so careful it tugged at my heart—a protective instinct I hadn’t expected. Something was going on with this kid, no doubt about it.
“Have you been good this year?” I asked.
He nodded solemnly. “I try, but it’s not always easy when kids tease me about my shoes. Mom says being good is important, especially when everything’s … hard.”
“Your mom sounds wise,” I said gently, taking a quick peek at his worn shoes when he broke eye contact with me. “Is she here with you today?”
Carter shook his head. “No. She has two jobs. My big sister brought me here. She’s by the cookies talking to a boy.” He pointed toward the refreshment table, then leaned closer like he was sharing privileged information. “She said she likes him, but it’s a secret.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I won’t say a word. Are you looking forward to Christmas?”
“Yeah …” Carter was quiet for a moment, picking at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve before shrugging.
“I know Christmas costs a lot of money, so maybe I can have a book this year. But …” He looked up at me with those too-somber eyes.
“Could you help my mom instead of giving me a book? She complains about the bills sometimes. And our heater is broken, so we can’t sleep at our house right now because it’s too cold. ”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Where are you staying?”
“With Grandma and Grandpa. They’re fun, but their house is tiny, and Grandpa farts when he walks.
” Carter’s voice got even smaller. “My dad died, so I have to be the man of the house now. But sometimes when I hear Mom crying in the bathroom, I don’t know what to do because she thinks I can’t hear her. ”
His story hit me harder than I’d expected since it was a reminder of my own past, and the reason I’d started this whole digital operation.
This brave little boy was shouldering burdens that would flatten grown men, and his first instinct was to ask Santa to help his mom instead of himself.
The protective urge that surged through me was so strong I had to grip the chair arms to keep from wrapping him in a bear hug that would probably violate several Santa-child interaction protocols.
“Carter, your mom is incredibly lucky to have such a thoughtful son,” I said. “And I’m so glad I met you.”