Steal My Stuff: May 2010

Richard sat on a cold, wooden bench. Hunched over, hands clasped, and shaking slenderly, he turned his head to face down the long corridor to a T-junction at its end. The clip-clop sound of high heels echoed down the hard floors, getting louder and louder until the source, a five year-old receptionist, swept by in a flash, the sounds of her shoes quickly fading like a siren.

He was back to being alone.

His gaze ran along the cold, dull walls, its smooth sparseness occasionally interrupted by large pictures. His eyes stopped at one of the pictures: a large head-shot of, he assumed, a past broadcaster. The face looked old - at least nine or nine and a quarter – and had almost a faint dark patch above its lip.

Richard didn't recognise the person. An audio medium should reward its personalities with sound bites, he thought, not pictures.

'Mr Hitchens?'

The shrill voice broke him out of his thoughts. He looked up into the thick make-up which hid the face of an assistant.

'You can come into the studio now,' said the bright red lipstick.

Richard nodded his head, blinking quickly, as he began to rise. He quietly followed the stockings of the assistant into the control room and looked out through the large glass that separated him from his nerves.

'Are they on air?' he whispered.

'Yes,' responded the assistant, her voice booming in the relative quiet of the control room. 'And you don't have to whisper.'

'Oh,' said Richard. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the small room, its specks of coloured light only enough to make out the vague movement of a bobbing head at a console.

'Stay tuned after the break for more of the Jolly Merry Show,' said a tinny voice from a tiny speaker. Before the little jingle was over the voice's owner crashed into the control room, looking immediately to Richard. 'Mr Hitchens?'

'Uh, yes', said Richard.

'Oh, it's great to meet you, great to meet you. Alan Laws.' He shook Richard's hand. 'Thanks for coming on the show, I honestly appreciate it.' His smile hit Richard like a beam of white light, almost blinding him in the darkness of the control room. 'Interesting book, interesting. Go through to the studio. Be with you in a mo'.'

Richard hesitantly made his way to one of the large seats and sat down. The seat fell back unexpectedly before rocking forward. Richard, arms outstretched, took a moment to regain his composure.

It was just as cold in the studio as in the hallway. He wasn't sure if his shaking was to do with a lack of body fat or nerves.

He poked the microphone, tapping it in time to his heavy heart-beat.

'Uh, we'll need you to stop doing that, sir,' said the bobbing head from the control room.

'Sorry,' said Richard, leaning in too close to the microphone.

He sat back and swivelled in the chair, letting it spin completely around. Out of boredom and nervousness he looked around the room, across the large desk at two cushy and well-worn seats, each with an accompanying microphone. Between the seats, against the wall, sat a giant red 'A', slightly slanted on one side.

Richard looked up at the ceiling: the down-lights twinkled in the same way trees do during the festive season.

Muffled sounds were faintly audible from the control room. Peering into the darkened window, Richard made out Alan Laws slapping another man on the back, giving him a hearty welcome. They looked like old buddies. Their voices got louder until they entered the studio.

Richard sat up quickly, trying to look professional and in control. Alan motioned to take his seat before stopping himself. 'Oh, have you two been introduced?' he asked neither of them.

'No,' said Richard.

'Oh, how terrible of me,' said Alan. 'Father, this is Richard Hitchens. Richard, Father Nick.'

Richard stood up and held out his hand to the large man, feeling his lips utter 'Father'. He immediately chastised himself for using that term – he'd written a whole chapter about the power of words. His politeness was greeted with a grunt, forcing the withdrawal of Richard's unshaken hand.

Father Nick sat down abruptly. The bright red coat, hung with care around his ample waistline, seemed to glow in the studio lighting. He raised an almost man-sized white-gloved hand to his face, fixing a drooped, and obviously fake, white beard.

The sound of an advert seemed to get louder, motivating Richard to take his seat quickly.

'And welcome back to the Jolly Merry Show. I'm Alan Laws and with me today is a regular on the show. I've got a lot of respect for him, a great man, Father Nick.'

'Thanks Alan, it's always a pleasure to be on your great show, spreading the word of our Father, Ho ho ho,' said Father Nick, his belly jiggling with the ho's.

'And our special guest today is the controversial author of a book which is number one on the Barossa Herald's Best-Seller List, non-fiction category...'

'Hmph,' interjected Father Nick.

'...Richard Hitchens,' continued Alan. 'Thanks for coming down for the show, Richard.'

'No problem,' said Richard.

'Now, the book is called Ho Ho Holy Fraud, and it details the theory that there is no Santa Claus. Can you tell us why you chose such a strong title?'

'Yes, well,' said Richard, giving a little nervous chuckle, 'the title was actually chosen by my publisher. They felt there'd be more publicity by naming it something more provocative.'

'There certainly is!' said Alan.

'But if you read what's inside the book, the content itself, you can see I'm not suggesting that the vast majority of people are perpetrating actual fraud, deliberately misleading followers - although some are and we can talk about that later - but what I'm really trying to say is that the evidence for Santa really doesn't exist. More so, that the evidence against Santa is so large that it honestly astounds me that any reasonably-minded kid can ignore the facts.'

'Father?' said Alan, motioning for Father Nick to weigh in on the conversation.

'That's simply untrue,' said Father Nick. 'There's so much we know for a fact. We know there really was a Saint Nicholas. We know that he really did give out gifts. We know for a fact that if you truly believe, and you've been good all year, you'll get presents. These are indisputable facts!'

'And what about the orphans? I've met many who have never received any kind of present, despite living a good and moral life.'

'Ahh, but good and moral by who's standards?' continued Father Nick. 'That's what happens when we think we can generate our own moral code instead of following that of our Father.' Father Nick immediately looked up above him, arms wide as if about to embrace someone, and said: 'Ho ho ho.' Returning to his original position, he continued: 'We can't second-guess The List. We simply have to lead the best life we can and, most importantly, have a belief in Him.'

'Okay guys, okay. I can see this is going to be quite a heated conversation.' Alan gave what he thought was a jovial laugh, but which dripped disgustedly over Richard with its condescension. 'Richard, I'd like for you to read this section of your book I've highlighted. Just...that bit there.'

Richard stood up and took the book, knocking his microphone. He sat down and started to quickly read over what he was about to read. Alan looked on with an air of impatience.

Covering up the silence, Alan said: 'It's okay Richard, we're not setting you up.' Another of his laughs.

Without rushing himself, and showing a calm belying his true emotions, Richard waited until he had read the passage before speaking. '“This group believes that there is a literal Santa's workshop in the North Pole. They believe that he really does stand by in a factory, like a foreman, giving instructions for this elf to make a barbie, and for that elf to make a transformer. When they could simply go to the shop and buy them all in one fell swoop. All this happens while Mrs Claus, presumably, boils them up some nice hot cocoa.”'

'Comments, Father?' said Alan.

'Yeah, deniers always like to bring this one up, but if you read the true translation from the Greek, as in the Snotty Simon version, it only says that he lives to the north. Now, we have more of an understanding of the world than we did in the past...'

'And the word north, that was simply a way for the people - centuries ago – to mean up,' interrupted Alan.

'Exactly. He is above us. He comes from above, down our chimneys. No one thinks it means a literal north.'

'With all due respect, they do believe that,' said Richard. 'You've kind of made me quote that out of context, but that section was specifically about those who do believe in Santa residing in the north pole. It's about those who believe in burning their letters to Santa in the hope that the wind will blow northwards and that the ashes will reach the actual, real workshop. These people exist!'

'Sure, and there are some denominations that think the Santa Clauses in department stores are the real thing. We know they aren't. They are just representations of the Ho-Holy one, there to spread the word and provide hope for all the kids who weren't necessarily good all year.'

'Yeah, that's the basic tenant of Yardenism, that kind of absolution once a year,' said Alan.

'Hang on, you can't just pick and choose which parts...' started Richard.

'Sorry Richard, I don't mean to cut you off but if we don't take a commercial right now my bosses will be down here asking all sorts of questions,' laughed Alan. 'But we'll be back shortly with some callers.'

The jingle from the first advert drowned the studio before dying down. It was all going a bit too fast for Richard.

'This is good stuff Richard, good stuff,' said Alan, as his assistant came in with a big cream doughnut, laying it out for Father Nick. 'I think we're really getting to the meat of some of these issues.'

'Sixty seconds!' came a cry from the control room.

'To be honest, I don't feel I'm really putting across everything I need to say. I haven't even mentioned how parents are inextricably linked to not only the present-giving, but also the apparent consumption of the mince pies and the sherry or brandy. Or even the...'

'Whoa whoa, save it for when we're on air. Just jump right in when you have something to say, mate. I love energetic debates. Good for the soul. And for the ratings.' Alan gave another bright smile, this time with a bonus wink.

Wet munching sounds assaulted Richard's ear. He looked over at Father Nick who was scoffing down the doughnut, half the cream missing his mouth and blending in with his fake beard. Alan had chosen this one time to not fill the space with his own voice.

'In five, four, three...'

'Welcome back to an action-packed Jolly Merry Show. With us are controversial and, may I say rather strident, author of Ho Ho Holy Fraud, Richard Hitchens. And, of course, Father Nick. We'll take some calls. Hello...Wendy?'

'Oh, it's me. Hi Alan, hi Father Nick.'

'Hello Wendy,' said Father Nick.

'How can we help you, Wendy?' said Alan, deadpan.

'Oh, umm, I just wanted to say that you're so funny! I always listen to you every day!'

'Thanks Wendy, do you have anything to ask Richard?'

'Well, not really.'

'Okay, and next up we have James.'

'Hi Alan,' said James.

'Hello,' said Alan.

'What's wrong with giving people hope? Even if it isn't true, who cares?'

'Richard?' prompted Alan.

Richard paused for a moment: at first taken aback by the abrasiveness of the questioner, and then in contemplating a reply. He felt the others grinning at him, or maybe it was just his imagination. 'There is certainly a train of thought which would suggest the ends justify the means; what's the harm in a little lie if it means we all live a just and happy life? There are two problems with this. One is that it's a non sequitur. It suggests one can't be happy and benefit society unless one believes in Santa. This is clearly not true and, if you read my book, you'll see enumerated a number of reasons why.'

Richard shuffled into his chair, finally warming up.

'The second reason why I believe that truth does matter,' he continued, 'is the sheer beauty of it. If you accept, even for a moment, that it really is your parents giving you these presents and not Santa; how amazing is that? How much love must your mum and dad have for you if they want to give you gifts every year? How much better is that than some make-believe, heavy-set, fairy?'

'Now, come on!' bounded Father Nick. 'That's the problem with you lot. You do nothing but sprout your dangerous, antithetical speech. There's no need to discriminate and shout down belief. We should respect the views of every single child. Every one of us has a right to our own faith. We should follow the words of Santa Claus himself and live our life as He would want.'

'See, you've just been hypocriti...'

'Sorry Richard,' said Alan, 'we'll have to go to another call. There's plenty of people wanting to get in on this. Chris?'

'Ah, hi gentlemen, hi Richard. Look, Richard, I'd like to give you a little story. Last year I really wanted an Optimus Prime transformer. I wanted it so much but every single shop I went to, we couldn't find it. Then, guess who came by during the night and left a brand new Optimus Prime in my stocking?'

'He certainly is amazing, isn't He, Chris?' said Father Nick.

'How do you explain that, Richard?' said Chris hurriedly, with a sense of superiority.

'When you said every shop you went to, did you mean every shop your parents took you to?' said Richard.

'Well, of course. I'm too young to go out on my own.'

'Do you think it's possible your parents only took you to places which they knew didn't have the transformer?'

'That seems like a lot of work,' said Chris. 'I can't imagine them doing all that just for a small present. It could only have come from Santa!'

'That brings us to an interesting point,' said Alan. 'Why would parents continue this? Why would they lie to us? My parents never lie to me, and I never lie to them!' His voice had started to break. His words hung in the air. A true emotion had slipped through the Alan Laws persona.

'It can be hard to accept something like that,' said Richard, honestly. 'Did you parents ever tell you about the tooth fairy? Did they ever plant chocolate eggs out in the garden at Easter time?'

'Well, sure they did, but that was just a white lie. Deep down, me and me brothers knew it weren't no serious thing.' Alan's language had devolved. His control had slipped. For once, letting his mouth run in front of his brain had caused a problem. He took a short breath – imperceptible to most listeners, but an eternity for him – before recovering. 'But hey, we got some chocolate out of it so we didn't really care,' he lied.

'I think we've got another caller, Alan,' said Father Nick, helping his associate out and avoiding the potential rebuttal from Richard.

'Uh, yeah, thanks for your call, Chris. Now we have Julia on the line. What would you like to say, Julia?'

'Hi, Richard! I came to your book signing today! I just want to thank you. I've spent the last twenty weeks without believing in Santa and it can be tough dealing with other kids who do believe. But your book has really helped me in not only feeling good about that choice, but also it's given me ways to talk to other people.'

'Thank you, Julia,' said Richard. 'I'm glad it has helped. There are more of us than you might think and one of my hopes in writing this book was to let people know they weren't alone.'

'All right, unfortunately that's all the time we have,' said Alan. 'I'd like to thank my guests, Richard Hitchens, author of the controversial new book Ho Ho Holy Fraud.'

'Thank you,' said Richard.

'And of course our regular on the show, Father Nick.'

'Thanks, Alan.'

'Thank you, Father,' said Alan.

Richard walked slowly along the corridor, hoping to retrace his steps and find the exit. Had it gone well? He wasn't sure. He didn't want to think about it for now. It was over. He could head to the comfort of home.

He passed by a door, slightly ajar, and stopped. He could hear a kid playing with some toy, making shooting and flying noises. Stepping up to the door quietly, Richard peered in and saw Alan seated on the floor, all alone, with legs crossed and transformers in hand.

'Pew pew pew,' Alan managed to let out, his eyes downcast and lips in a frown; his fake smile nowhere to be seen.

Richard watched for a while, wondering whether he should say something. He thought back to the moment he discovered his parents had lied to him. He had felt let down, scared, alone. But once through that initial stage it felt liberating. The world became clearer, more real. Anything was possible!

But it was a long journey.

Richard turned away and faced the labyrinth of corridors. It was a strange little building, filled with surprises, twists and turns. Sometimes you'd go down the wrong way, only to backtrack and find a whole new section or a whole new floor with new people, new rules, new adventures.

He walked off contentedly, with confidence and a renewed sense of hope. He was not truly alone.