Thomas Bingley and the Mystery of Santa: The Best Christmas Ever!

(A brief Yuletide yarn I wrote a few years back, one demonstrating how sometimes the melting snow dribbling down your underwear can be the warmest of all.  Merry Christmas etc)

“Brothers! Sisters! Neighborhood friends!” began Thomas Bingley, “I have not called you forth this day to our secret tree house fortress, asking you to brave the cold and the snow, to trifle with words, taking time from your precious Christmas break and hot chocolate and snow men and snowballs—

“I saw you throw that snowball at me!” cried Sally Jean from the back, “Don’t pretend you didn’t! I’m telling, I’m telling! Santa’s gonna leave a lump of coal in your stocking.”

“Sally, please!” said Thomas, “Your comments are more pertinent than you realize! For I have called you all here for an emergency meeting, to discuss recent discoveries of mine concerning this Santa Claus; I call you forth to propose to reveal a claim so shocking, that it threatens the very foundations of Christmas itself!”

A collective gasp filled the room. “Madness! Crazy talk!” shouted Joey Banks, standing up, “We’ve all seen Santa Claus! We’ve all sat on his lap at the mall! What, does this Thomas Bingley claim to have ridden in his sleigh? Has Thomas seen the North Pole? Peeped into his magic bag, perhaps? What more could this raver claim to know?”

“Please, Joey, my friend, I do not make my claims lightly!” said Thomas, raising his hands to quiet the crowd, “But my Mom and Dad long ago taught me that if something’s the truth, then the truth must be told—”

(“—like I’ll tell the truth about you hitting me with that snowball!” whined Sally Jean.)

“—And I have researched all this year long,” continued Thomas, ignoring Sally, “And what I’m about to tell you may shock you, may astonish you, may astound and enrage you! You may call me names, pelt me with snowballs, pour cold snow down my underpants—”

(“I’ll pour cold snow down your underpants, Thomas Bingley!” shouted Sally Jean again.)

“But, I beg of you all,” continued Thomas unabated, “to hold your judgment, until you have heard all I have to say, and the evidences I have brought forth!”

“Very well,” said Joey, sitting back down, “Proceed.”

Diplomatically, stoically, Thomas began: “It was last Christmas—morning, to be exact—when I tripped upon a most puzzling curiosity!  It was while I scooted my new toy fire truck across the living room floor, mind.  The wrapping paper wasn’t even off the floor yet, when there, I noticed it.

“Perhaps if I’d played with the toy airplane, instead—I’d have been looking at the ceiling, instead of the floor, and I’d be spared these obsessions, and lived on ignorantly in childlike bliss, but no! I was scooting around the fire truck, making the ‘whoo-whoo!’ with my mouth—”

(“—Get on with it Bingley!” shouted a voice in the back.)

“—When there I saw it; There, amongst the green wrapping papers for the gift from Santa, and the red wrapping paper for the gift from Mom and Dad, laying next to each other.  And even then, I may have though nothing of it, but that the tags were still attached to the ribbons, both reading ‘To Thomas,’ one reading ‘From Mom and Dad,’ and the other ‘From Santa,’ but—” (Here Thomas pulled two frayed tags out of the shoe box he was carrying) “—they were both written in the exact same hand writing!”

Another gasp filled the room.

“I pass these around for your collective consideration,” said Thomas, handing them to Alice Wilcox in the front. “Notice the same slanted ‘T’ on both, the perfectly round ‘Os,’ the same curved ‘S…’”

“Bingley, what the crap are you talking about?” said Billy Hansen, as they passed into his hands.

(“You said a bad word, I’m telling!” said Sally Jean.)

“Don’t you see how similar they look?” replied Thomas, “I even took a ruler and measured them—they’re exactly the same!”

“Bingley! Hello!” said Billy sarcastically, “Santa’s a grown up! Your Mom and Dad are grown-ups! Obviously this is all just grown up writing!”

“And I was of the same mind as yours,” replied Thomas, “And would have continued to push around my new toy red fire truck, but then I came across this!”

Another gasp filled the room, as Thomas pulled out another tag. “From my Aunt May!” declared Thomas, “And if you pay close attention to the flowing calligraphy of the cursive on said tag, you’ll notice that my Aunt May, who is an adult like my Mom and Dad and possibly even as old as Santa Claus himself, has different hand writing!”

The entire room leaned forward for a better look. Thomas again handed the tag to Alice to pass around the room. (“Thomas keeps giving the tags to Alice first!” yelled Sarah, “He must looove her! Thomas and Alice, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n—”  “Shut your pie hole Sally or I’ll hit you with a snowball, stupid face!” yelled back Billy).

“Wait, just what’s your angle, Bingley?” asked Joey skeptically, “Did you drag us up to your stupid tree fort to brag that your parents have the same hand-writing as Santa Claus?”

“Far from it, my friend,” replied Thomas somberly.

“Wait a minute, I know what you’re getting at, Bingley!” jumped in Billy, “You’re trying to tell us that your parents are Santa Claus, right? Ha! Stupid Bingley! Everyone knows Santa Claus lives at the North Pole, not here on Oak Street! Ha-ha, everyone laugh at stupid Thomas Bingley everyone, he thinks Santa lives on Oak Street!”

The room erupted in peels of laughter, yet Thomas remained standing, erect and quiet. When he failed to hide his face in shame as was requisite in such embarrassing situations, the audience fell quiet once more. When all was as silent as the falling snow outside, Thomas continued:

“Would that you were right, Billy,” continued Thomas, “And if I’d only made a mistaken assumption about Santa’s identity, in a Pepè le Pew-esque case of mistaken understanding, I’d have no reason to call you all here today. But no, my friends, the thought that began to haunt me was not one of questioning Santa’s true identity, but that of his very existence!”

The crowd sat silently, their brows furrowed in confusion. “Wait, Thomas, what are you talking about?” asked Alice.

(“Alice called Bingley by his first name, she must like him!” shouted Sally, “Alice and Thomas sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i—” “Shut your cake hole!” Billy shouted again, “I can’t hear!”)

“Consider!” declared Thomas, now pacing back and forth, “We learned in Mrs. Price’s class—” (“I was in Mrs. Williams class, not Mrs. Price!” shouted Sally.) “—in Mrs. Price’s class last year, we learned that there are nearly 7 billion people on the earth now. How does Santa get to them all?”

“He has a supersonic sled!” sneered Billy, “Duh! They do have supersonic jets, you know! I even saw them on TV.”

“But then how does he carry enough gifts for all of them?”

“He has a magical bag that creates whatever you pull out of it!” chimed in Joey, “We saw that in Ernest Saves Christmas! Besides, he only has to deliver to the kids, not the adults.”

“But we also learned how to use Google Earth in the school computer lab last year!” said Thomas, “Have you ever tried to Google Earth…the North Pole?”

“Duh, you couldn’t!” said Billy, “His workshop is in the dream world! We learned that from Miracle on 34th Street, remember? He-llo!”

“Perhaps,” said Thomas, “But also consider—”

“Per-haps?” came the small voice of Preston, Thomas’ younger brother, “Thomas, you’re not suggesting that…that…”

“Bear with me, just one more minute!” said Thomas, holding his hands up.

“But you seem to be saying…” continued Preston with downcast eyes.

“I do not make these claims lightly, as I’ve said!” said Thomas, “But I must prepare your minds first, or you will never accept for a moment the possibility I am about to suggest!”

“Suggest what, Bingley?” said Billy, “Get on with it!”

“Believe me, I considered all the things you’ve all just told me, countless times over!” continued Thomas, pacing, “And I tried to shake the idea that festered in my head, but I just couldn’t! For awhile I could just ignore it, enjoy my spring and summer breaks. But then came my birthday in October, you were all invited to it—”

They all murmured in assent.

“—And I got another gift from my Mom and Dad, with the exact same hand writing on the tag!” He produced another tag to pass around.

“Bingley, we’ve been over this—” began Joey again.

“The tag tore open afresh my mind like a tag torn from a mattress!” Thomas dramatically waved his arm in the air.

(“That’s illegal!” shouted Sally).

“Desperately, I tried to push it back out of my mind, convinced that though it be far easier for Mom and Dad to eat the cookies and drink the milk themselves, that that had to be surefire physical evidence for his existence, for Mom and Dad would never ever lie to me—”

“Lie?!” asked Alice, disconcerted, “Cookies? Wha—milk? Thomas, what on earth are you talking about?!”

“And then in early November I sat on Santa’s lap and he said ho-ho-ho, and I tugged at his beard and it didn’t come off and it eased my mind, I even got the picture taken with him, at the mall—” He produced the photo, passed it around starting with Alice.

“Yeah, yeah, we all got the same photo, Bingley,” said Billy, “What’s your—”

“Note well the date on it!” shouted Thomas, pointing.

“November 15th, yeah, I was with you that day,” said Joey.

“Well, one week later, we got the Christmas card from Uncle Matt in Springfield, with photos of his kids on Santa’s lap!” He likewise produced the photo.

“Oh, there’s where it went!” noted Preston, “Mom and Dad were wondering where that—”

“Notice the date on it!”

Billy let out a gasp. “It’s the same date!” he whispered.

“The same date!” enunciated Thomas. “Two Santas, two towns, two states apart, yet the same day giving photos!”

“So maybe there’s just some actors in a Santa suit!” remarked Joey, “I’m sure he’s too busy at the North Pole to visit every single mall in—”

“Believe me, my friend, I argued the same things to myself!” continued Thomas, “And I decided that if there was nothing to hide, than there was no harm of me searching, every last bit of the house, just to know…to know for sure…”

“Know for sure, what?” shouted Alice, “Thomas, you’re just not making any sense!”

Thomas gazed at her longingly a moment, then slowly reached into his shoebox, while saying, “One day Mom and Dad were out grocery shopping, and I went searching through the house, and at the top of Mom and Dad’s closet…”

“You’re not supposed to go in there!” shouted Preston.

“Well,” whispered Thomas, “I suppose I might as well show you!”

He whipped out a Polaroid photograph. (“You’re not supposed to have the camera!” said Preston.) The crowd leaned forward.

“Behold!” declared Thomas, “Presents! Not yet under the tree! And if you peer close enough, you’ll see one of them tagged ‘To: Thomas, from…Santa Claus!”

Abruptly Joey stood up, pointing an accusatory finger at Thomas. “This proves nothing, Bingley!” Joey shouted, “Maybe Santa FedEx’d them down early to save time! Maybe Santa delivered them early, if your parents promised not to give them early! Who are we to question the workings of Santa Claus, a man who lives at the top of the world? Maybe your parents knew you’d been such a bad boy they bought you presents themselves, and marked them from Santa, to save you the embarrassment! You always were a trouble-maker, Thomas Bingley! You’re probably right at the top of his naughty list! Indeed, how do we know you didn’t plant those presents yourself! Indeed, how—”

“The senses can indeed be fooled!” shouted Thomas, “The ventriloquist and the magician who did the school assembly last week taught us that! And certainly I doubted mine own eyes when I saw those presents on the top shelf! I considered that perhaps so much had this obsession burned in my brain that perchance it had warped my senses! And even when the Polaroid printed I believed it not! But the tags, the photos, the coincidences—it’s all too much, my friends and neighbors!”

(“I’m not your friend!” shouted Sally Jean.  “He didn’t say you were, moron!” shouted back Billy).

“But you’re right, Joey!” continued Thomas, “This all proves precisely nothing! Anything and everything you’ve suggested so far could plausibly negate my own theories! But, my friend, I have to know for certain, or I can never rest on Christmas Eve! Hence, I have devised a sure fire fool proof test, an experiment, whereby I can confirm, once and for all, either one way or the other, the existence of Santa Claus!”

“You’re playing with fire, Bingley!” shouted Joey, “You’re playing with fire! Santa gives to whom he wants! He alone decides! Beware, my friend, your very Christmas gifts be on the line!”

“I would be willing to wage even my very Christmas gifts to know the truth!” shouted back Thomas. Joey faltered backwards in shock; the audience gasped, wide-eyed at this blasphemy.

“Behold!” shouted Thomas, pulling an envelope from his shoe box, “I have mailed to the North Pole a second letter to Santa Claus!”

“A second?!” said Preston, “Why, he must be mad…”

“Identical to the first!” continued Thomas, “Save that this one has one extra item on it, revealed to neither Mom, Dad, nor the mall Santa! Only Santa, if he exists, and myself, know what this extra item be! If indeed Santa exists, then said item shall appear miraculously appear beneath the tree Christmas morning, as all of Santa’s presents do, and Santa Claus’s existence will be confirmed once and for all!”

“Thomas Bingley, would you listen to yourself?” said Alice, standing indignantly, “Doubting Santa’s existence? Testing Santa Claus? You’re like all those doubters all the Christmas movies warned us about! Where does it end, huh, Thomas Bingley? What else about Christmas will you doubt? Is there no caroling either, Thomas? Are there no gingerbread houses, Thomas, no candy canes, no lights, no trees, no snow outside, no sledding? Will you doubt the cookies half eaten, the milk half drunken? Will you begin to doubt your very senses, Thomas? Is there no hot chocolate, no nativity scenes? Is there no Christ child now then, Thomas? No angels appearing to the Shepherds? Is the Bible false Thomas? Is there no God now, Thomas, will you doubt the very existence of God?!”

“Enough of this heresy!” shouted Billy, rising to his feet, pulling at his hair, “Away with this Bingley! Pelt him with snowballs, shove ice and snow down his underpants!”

“UN-DER-PANTS! UN-DER-PANTS!” began the chant of the crowd.

“Hold off till Christmas morn!” pleaded Thomas, “Christmas morn, we shall see the truth! The truth, I say! Then, if I be proven wrong, you may ice mine undies to your hearts’ content!”

This placated the mob somewhat. “I hope, for your sake, Bingley, that it’s worth it,” said Joey, as they all quietly exited the tree fort, murmuring. None would look Thomas in the eye, not even Alice, though Sally stuck her tongue at him. Thomas stayed behind, to gather his tags and photos.
___
Christmas morning, Thomas Bingley moved quickly, methodically, quietly, through his gifts, tearing off the wrapping paper with a tenacity that belied his cold desperation. Each new box from Santa, either to him and his siblings, indeed matched the Polaroid he’d taken, for he’d stayed up studying it the night before till he passed out from sheer exhaustion. And indeed each box contained some gift that either he or his siblings had previously enumerated in his first Christmas gift.

It was with a mixture of elation and despair that Christmas morning that he opened his boxes, for any other Christmas he’d have been overjoyed to receive all the gifts on his list; but each new gift only confirmed his darkest suspicions. Deep down he’d hoped he was wrong, terribly wrong, that all of these boxes would be filled with only coal to punish his insolence (besides, he could at least cover those in snow and throw ‘em at Sally Jean). But no, he got exactly everything he asked for, which was the worst thing in the world for him.

Surrounded by all his new toys, Thomas Bingley sat in the corner, empty, despondent. While his younger siblings laughed in glee, he only chuckled with the despairing cackle of a man proven terribly right. He was a broken boy. He heaved a dejected sigh.

Yet, as he watched his younger siblings laugh in glee midst the flying wrapping paper, he considered that even if Santa was maybe not real in person, he was at least real in their hearts. “I must look at the bright side,” Thomas mused philosophically, “The presents are real, their happiness is real, and Mom and Dad’s love is real…maybe that’s all that matters, really, in the end…”

“Well, wait a sec there, son!” Dad suddenly boomed, “If mine eyes don’t deceive me, and I believe they don’t, methinks I spy just one extra Christmas gift Santa’s left for you, one that wasn’t on your list!”

“Huh—what?” Thomas’ eyes widened.

Opening up the closet door, Thomas’ Dad revealed a bike! And not just any bike, a 12’’ blue-and-silver Huffy Pro Thunder with training wheels and a bucket and streamers on the handle bars—just like the one he described in the second letter!

And sitting on the seat, a tag, reading simply, “To: Thomas. From…

“Santa Claus!”

“I knew it, I knew it!” said Preston, happily.

“I…I don’t believe…it…” soothed Thomas Bingley, as he slowly approached the bike like it was a sacred altar.
“What, my son, don’t you believe the evidence before your very eyes?” asked Thomas’ Dad jovially.

Later that morning, true to his word, Thomas Bingley allowed ice and snow to be shoved down his underpants by the neighborhood kids. But though the slush was freezing as it dribbled down his leg, his heart had never been warmer. It was the best Christmas ever!
THE END