A Laguna Christmas 2025

         From my window seat in Laguna Coffee, I watch a hefty man in a white-cuffed, crimson jacket extract himself from a tiny Toyota parked along Coast Highway. By the time he’s entered the coffee shop, he’s shed the jacket and yanked away the mass of white fluff under his nose and chin. He tears off one white fur-brow, leaving the other dangling, then throws the mound of fabric onto a nearby table and approaches the counter.

         “Gimme a cold one,” he says.

         The barista, tanned and handsome, graying curls tamed beneath a bandana, flicks the cap off a Kombucha and slides it to him. “On the house, Santa, my man,” he says. “Things rockin’ at the Pole?”

         Santa grunts, still stripping, now onto the black sweatpants revealing floral swim trunks underneath. His aged pectorals flaunt an elaborate surfer tattoo. “Dude, it’s gonna be so-o-o a pricey year,” he says. “These young kids -- we’re talking kindergarten --  are asking for e-bikes. E-bikes! And a load of fancy phones and gadgets and shit that I didn’t even know was out there.” 

         Santa tips the Kombucha to his lips and swig-gulps the bottle dry. “Bet they get everything they ask for, too,” he says, wagging his head. The remaining fur-brow unglues and drops to the counter like a dazed caterpillar. “Wonder what they’d say if they knew I was sweating this gig,” he presses the chilled bottle to his forehead,  “...all for my girl. To have the cash to, like, take her out nice once a year.”

         “Probably,” the barista says, his expression sympathetic to the cause, “they’d think you were crazy.” 

         Santa tickles the fallen brow absently with the bottle. “Yeah.” He grabs the pile of clothes under one arm and turns for the exit. He stops when he sees me. 

         “Merry Christmas,” I say. 

         “That’s my line.” A weary smile flashes three metal crowns. “Got kids?”

         “Two,” I say. But “kids” is pushing it: my daughter is 35, my son 33. Both recently married.

         “And what would you like for Christmas this year?” he says, now in an impressive baritone.           

         The question throws me. I know what the “kids” want—sinfully priced items that not even I can provide: larger homes, success in their entrepreneurial ventures, a chunk of extra cash to spend a month away. And the man in my life?  His want is also out of my reach: to become, after years of half-hour lessons, a guitar god.

         And me? A new president! Sanity back in government! But this being Orange County, chances are that Santa thinks otherwise. And really, this doesn’t feel like a moment for politics.

         I look out at the still palms, the clear light, the gulls easing along the horizon. A whiff of sea air swims in. The afternoon’s serenity feels eerily surreal, almost too complete. “How about world peace,” I say.

         “Good one.” An extended sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.” He winks, then winces as his arms slide a return into the thick jacket which he buckles over his swim trunks. A wave of a red cap, and Santa flip-flops into the warm December sun.