Black Santa and My Momma
He saw mommy...
I crept downstairs and saw a huge man dressed in red. It was Christmas Eve, so it could only be one person. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. For three years, I never stayed awake long enough. I was six, which was old enough to know better but not old enough to stop believing.
The uniform everyone said the big guy wore looked different. He had on a red shirt but no hat or red pants. He did have a giant trash bag with what had to be gifts. Also, Santa was Black, with a little afro. Then my mother peeked from behind his giant frame. There was my momma with her hair wrapped, rocking some house shoes and most crazy of all kissing Black Santa Claus.
They were doing some real smooching too. I never saw Momma kiss Daddy like that. I stood frozen and watched her tickle his belly, as he was breathing heavily.
I overheard him say, “Baby, I love when you do that.”
My momma responded, “Let me hear those magic words.”
“Hey! Hey! Hey!”
This whole time I thought it was Ho, ho, ho.
I didn’t move for a long time.
Like all the Christmas mornings before this one, we sat together to eat breakfast and open presents. Momma had made bacon and eggs. The bacon smelled just like the ones that woke me up the night before. I decided to ask my pop about Santa.
“Pop, is Santa Claus really Black?”
My momma shot me a glance of shock, and my pop proceeded to glare at Momma.
Momma asked me a question before Pops could answer. “Why would you ask such a thing, Mikey?”
My pop snapped back, “Yeah, Helena. Why would Mikey ask such a thing? Please tell me he isn’t back.”
“Momma, I saw you and Santa whispering to each other last night. Were you talking about my presents?”
“Son,” my pop said, “I will answer that for your mother. That was not Santa Claus. Your mother knows exactly who that was, and she knows it wasn’t jolly old St. Nick.”
My momma had tears in her eyes when she told me who it really was. “Mikey, your father is right. Santa Claus was never here. The man you saw was Momma’s friend, Fat Albert.”
“Indeed it is,” my pop said. “That is your mother’s really, really good friend. Her fat and trashy friend. I thought we took him out with the garbage once before, but apparently not.”
“Ed, you know Christmas is a rough time for Fat Albert,” Momma said. “I was just comforting him. Nothing really happened.”
“You do realize you’re out here kissing a man who resides in a junkyard. You should go to the scrap heap with him. In fact, maybe I should and then you’d start kissing me instead of Obesity Al.”
“His name is Fat Albert, and you know he’s just a friend in need.”
“I can’t believe how selfish you’re being. Next week it’ll be Mush Mouth or one of these other knuckleheads.”
“Come on, Ed,” Momma said. “Nobody is out here dating Mush Mouth.”
My father moved out that day. They got a divorce a few months later. I saw Fat Albert around the neighborhood a couple more times that year. We never talked about it.
One thing I regret is my pops never getting the chance to see my gift from Fat Santa Albert. I played that bagpipe accordion made from a funnel, radiator, and airbag almost every day.