Santa was tired. Christmas had been lousy with the wife sick and the elves and reindeer drinking excessively. Mrs. Claus had undergone a hysterectomy in early December and the doctors feared that she might have other female problems.
The alcoholism among the elves and the reindeer had exceeded all bounds, particularly Rudolph whose red nose Santa suspected resulted from too many debauched evenings with the elves.
Santa needed a vacation. During his trip he found a brochure on a coffee table, next to the milk and cookies, which had fascinated him. It was entitled "Puerto Vallarta--And Sometimes You Even Sleep." It read:
"You awake under a clear, blue sky and breakfast at the sun-splashed doors of a cafe. After a walk along the shore you return for a light lunch of shrimp and beer before enjoying a siesta in a hammock. In the afternoon you promenade along the shaded, cobblestone streets.
"After a shower and a change of clothes it's time for a dinner of delicious fish and a bottle of wine. From a breeze-swept balcony you contemplate the ocean, a perfect ending to an untroubled and tranquil day.
"But suddenly everything changes. The night is born, exciting, sensual, loco. It's as if you've been transported astrally (Santa could relate) to Rio in the middle of carnival.
Bars swarm with exotic people. Beautiful bodies search for delight. Discos fill with revelers disguised as angels and devils and Egyptian queens, dressed, half-dressed, nude, fun, frenzy...and besides...and also...
"You awake at noon to another day of fun. But those sandals at your bedside, whose are they?"
The promotion sold Santa and soon after the New Year he embarked on a two-week vacation. Traveling under his baptismal name, Nicolaus Claus, he booked a direct flight to Puerto Vallarta. He turned heads at immigration.
His long beard and flowing white hair raised the suspicions of custom officers who viewed him as an aging hippie.
Santa was flattered when he arrived at the resort and a tourist, mistaking him for Walt Whitman, asked for his autograph.
After settling into one of the city's finest hotels, Santa--attired in a bikini bathing suit and a pair of huaraches--waddled to the beach. His eyes twinkled when he saw the parachute skis.
The owner of the boat tried to dissuade Santa from the ride, but his son, who had convinced the gringo to pay twice the regular price, convinced his father to the contrary.
Santa slipped into the skis and fastened the life preserver. The son started the engine and the boat moaned and groaned under its titanic load. Then disaster struck. Just as Santa was gaining altitude the line snapped. Santa plunged into the ocean headfirst and gulped gallons of salt water before the preserver brought him to the surface.
The father steered his craft next to the human buoy. After 15 minutes of straining and cursing, the father and son managed to pull Santa into the boat. They returned him to the beach and deposited Santa on the shore. Santa staggered a few steps and collapsed.
He had passed out from exhaustion. Indians selling blankets, opals and other trinkets gathered around Santa and talked excitedly. For once a story of their village priest had come true: The ocean had coughed up "Jonah the Whale."
Santa lay without stirring. The only sound which some passerby mistook for German was a raucous snoring. Santa's plunge into the ocean had continued straight into hell.
The sun's pitchfork melted his snow-white skin leaving a burn brighter than his Christmas suit. He struggled to his feet and ploughed through the sand. He felt like a meteor moving slowly through the sky with a flame in his wake.
When he reached his room, he crashed on his bed. The box springs slammed to the floor. He didn't move for a week. The maid took pity on him and rubbed his back with cream. The pain forced him to rest on his belly as day after day he sipped soft drinks out of cups. Santa refused to drink the water under any circumstances.
At the end of the first week Santa was back on his feet. The Hawaiian shirts and white slacks he had purchased for the trip hung loosely on him. Santa was of a generation that believed a man's girth reflected his prosperity. He feasted on tacos, enchiladas and chile rellenos and these he washed down with buckets of Tecate.
Santa became enamoured with the Mexican beer and thought of ordering cases for the return trip, but he didn't want to exacerbate the alcohol problems among his helpers.
Again disaster struck: Moctezuma's Revenge. Avoiding the water and restricting his meals to the hotel hadn't been enough. For three days he suffered from vomiting and diarrhea. The maid, a woman named Magdalena whom Santa insisted on calling Maria, nursed him.
Santa regained his health, but his spirits had sunk to a new low. He couldn't remember when he had felt so desperate except the night he went against his better judgement and allowed an inebriated Rudolph to guide his team through the fog.
The memory evoked home. He pictured Mrs. Claus sewing near the fireplace. Their marriage had not been exciting. It had been one of convenience.
Mrs. Claus, whose maiden name was Weitz, was Jewish. Her father, a toy manufacturer, had been willing to go to any extreme to unload his daughter and had essentially set Santa up in business.
Against his wife Santa harbored much animosity. Besides lacking the Christmas spirit, she was prudish and had never given him any children. Before he returned to the cold forge of the North Pole, Santa knew one thing: He needed the hot blood of a Latin woman.
He had never cheated on his wife. He had kissed mothers on Christmas Eve, but that was the most he could accomplish on his short schedule. But where could he find a woman now? There was a knock at the door. It was Magdalena.
She was a stout woman in her fifties who had worked all her life and raised many children. Santa saw a doe-eyed fawn.
"Como esta, Ud.?" asked Magdalena.
"Muy mal, Maria. Muy mal."
He rolled over on his stomach and using his hand convinced Magdalena to peel the skin off his back. She peeled and Santa shivered. His body shook like an earthquake. When she reached over his shoulder to tear off another swathe, he grabbed her hand and blubbered, "Maria! Maria! I love you! Je t'aime."
Magdalena pulled back and looked at him. His mass covered the bed like jelly dripping off the sides of bread. She had been in this predicament on previous occasions, often chased around rooms and pinched on the ass. She had surrendered but for the right price.
"One hundred dollars," she mustered in her best English.
For the next two days Santa was in the earthly paradise he had recalled in the brochure. It wasn't until he had been home a week that he discovered his newest ailment: He had gonorrhea.
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