SANTA CLAUS WAS A MAN NAMED PERRY WASHINGTON

When I was little kid we always went to Schaumberg to do our shopping. Something about Evans Furs being located there.

Well, they also had really big modern stores. Nothing like Marshall Fields or Carson's. Those were STORES! Big and dramatic. The type of place that had windows that made you take a special trip downtown to see.

A Future homo of America's training ground.

As it were.

We also did all of our grocery shopping in the suburbs. Mind you we lived at 70th place and South Shore drive. Right across the street from the whites only country club where if you looked over the wall you could see blond girls riding their horses on the beach.

In the middle of a black hood.

Sorta South Africaesque.

The revolution didn't need to be televised, it was in my front yard.

Really.

I swear.

Of course, the reason we went to the suburbs is that after all week of dealing with my people, my mother, Babs, was tired of Negroes and needed to get into her Thunderbird and deal with people with some sense. Plus, as I found out later, the products in the suburbs were newer and the food was fresher and cheaper. I will never forget the first time we went to a store in the neighborhood (middle class mind you) and saw what passed for vegetables. Blech.

Well, that first time we went to the ghetto we were shopping for my fathers families Christmas gifts. "Those people, the Washington's", according to Babs when she was being nice.

When she wasn't being nice, well, you would understand where I get my demure yet make a sailor put his dick back in his pants at a Turkish whorehouse potty mouth from.

"It's not your cousins Cricket and Nods fault they have the mothers' that they do, so we have to go to the West Side and buy them SOMETHING though I know they aren't getting you anything", said Babs through clenched teeth.

They never did. I was always "Barbara's son".

A McClanahan.

Not a Washington.

"Get out of my car now! We're going to see Santa while we're here!" Mom barked in her low soothing yet "oh fuck you knew you better move it" dulcet tones.

WELL! There he was!

Surrounded by pickaninnies with poor clothing choices and those little black girl balls in their unpressed hair was.....

A skinny old Colored man in a stolen Santa suit.

"Stay here in line, I'll be back", mom took off in a sea of poor dark people all Evans fur and leather looking way too cute for the room.

Needless to say there was no way I was going to get in that mans lap and have him fuck up my Christmas order. My order at Harold's Fried Chicken never came with the ketchup already on the fries so I knew this fool was not getting me the Hot Wheels set with the Pace Car Camaro and the double looped track.

And the other children said things like "I seen" and "La Q'Shwan I'm gonna fuck you up if you don't stop it!" while they wiped snot from their noses with their cheap coats and then chased each other with it.

Aw, hells to the no.

I waited to the side and tried to hold my breath.

That night, my sainted father (step but the best father ever!FUCK I'M CRYING!RIP dad.)Perry Washington who was the lightest black man you ever did see, asked me how it went with Santa.

I told him how they had all of these nasty children and some old Colored man who had stolen Santa's suit and I never got my chicken right at Harold's and besides, Santa was white.....

That night I found out there was no Santa.

He wasn't white.

Black people were every bit as good as white people.

Poor kids had poor parents and I should be thankful that my parents had good jobs and cared enough about me to see that I was well dressed and lived in a nice home.

AND SANTA CLAUS WAS A MAN NAMED PERRY WARREN WASHINGTON.

And that is how I found out that Santa Claus didn't exist.

I had something way better.

My dad.