Santa’s Weakest Link
Santa checked his list. He checked it twice. As much as he
hated this part of the job, a botched season five years ago had forced his hand
and he’d instituted changes to his operation. Performance reviews.
He stepped up to the reindeer paddock and cleared his
throat. From the two hundred strong herd, his team of nine separated themselves.
While they approached him at the fence, the others maintained a curious watch
from a discreet distance.
“Well, it’s been another good season,” Santa said, dusting
snow off his sleeves as he opened with the perfunctory good news. “All
deliveries made and no incidents. Always room for improvement, of course.”
The reindeer shuffled, dark eyes flickering back and forth.
Donner, the biggest of the team, snorted a puff of vapor.
“Okay, let’s get on with this. Rudolph, we’ll start with
you.”
Rudolph’s expression behind that shining red nose was
challenging, proud.
“Decent outing last night,” Santa said. “And you were a
beacon for the rest when we hit that rough patch over the Ohio River Valley.
Can’t say I was too pleased with your off-season work ethic, though. Lack of
focus, half-hearted effort at times. Not the sort of example I expect from my
team lead. Just because you’re the most famous of the bunch doesn’t mean you’re
immune to criticism. I ran with a team of eight for centuries before you were
born and I could do it again.”
Rudolph bowed his head, his nose dimming slightly.
“Donner, Blitzen,” Santa said, turning his attention their
way. “Again, good job all around. I know I can always count on you two to pull
your load. Don’t think I didn’t overhear you two second-guessing my call to hit
Italy before Switzerland this year, though. Remember, I see you when you’re
sleeping and when you’re awake.”
The two reindeer shared a quick glance before looking back
at the ground.
Santa turned back to his list. “Right, Dasher. Excellent
off-season, but a little too exuberant when it came to the big night. Take your
pace from those ahead of you. Don’t need to keep pulling to the left because
you’re in such a hurry.
“And Dancer. Unremarkable all around. No real sore spots,
but nothing to set yourself apart, either. Might want to show some initiative
and push harder next season. Just getting by isn’t good enough for my team.”
Dancer nodded her head and took half a step back.
“Prancer,” Santa said, pausing to look up and make sure he
had the reindeer’s full attention. “Gotta say, I was pretty disappointed last
night. Getting your harness tangled up, not once but twice? I don’t know where
your head was, but I know where it wasn’t.”
Prancer trembled. Santa didn’t know what was going on behind
the scenes, in spite of his claims otherwise, but she’d been losing focus in
recent years.
“Slider,” Santa said. “I know you’re the rookie on the team,
so I can let a bit of over-enthusiasm slide. Good energy and stamina, but
you’ll have to reign it in next season.
“Comet, last year we talked about your tendency to lose
altitude on longer hops. This year, didn’t happen once. Thanks for taking that
to heart. Good, solid year all around.”
Comet shook her head.
“Ares, gotta say I’m disappointed. Still up to those
reindeer games. I let it slide during your rookie season, but I fear I may have
been too soft on you. I know Rudolph, Donner, and Blitzen were warning you as
well. You never know when you might run out of second chances.”
The young buck looked properly chagrined under Santa’s
withering glare.
“Look behind you,” Santa said, waving his black-gloved hand
toward the herd. “There’s over a hundred others chomping at the bit for the
chance, the honor, the responsibility of becoming a member of this team. It’s
not a one-night-a-year job. You have to live it, every minute of every day.
We’re a team, and we’ll only ever be as strong as our weakest link.
“Prancer, I’m sorry, but this year that was you.”
#
“Have I mentioned how I hate this time of year?” Santa said.
He settled his bulk into a creaking chair at the dining room
table. The crackling of fire in the hearth and heady intermingling scents of
pine, cinnamon, and baking bread, aspects of home that always made him feel
relaxed after a long season, did little to soothe him today. He poured a glass
of milk and sighed.
“I know, dear,” Missus said, poking her head out of the
kitchen. “You work too hard, sometimes.”
“What? Oh, no, it’s not the work. It’s having to play manager,
boss. Performance debriefs. End of year evaluations.”
“Oh, right. That. Well, it was your idea.”
“And it has improved team performance. Maybe even morale, a
bit, I suppose. At least among those who were pulling their weight.”
Missus vanished back into the kitchen, but carried on the
conversation. “At the cost of adding stress.”
“Stress.” There was stress, and then there’d been the stress
of five years ago.
“What dear?” Missus came out of the kitchen, carrying a
heavily laden plate that she set before her husband. It smelled divine.
“Just talking to myself,” he said, tucking a napkin into his
shirt collar.
“A week from now, we’ll be soaking up sun in Tahiti and
you’ll have forgotten all about this.” She gripped his shoulder and gave him a
kiss on his rosy cheek.
“Thanks, dear,” he said.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your dinner.
You know how I feel about tonight.” Missus gave him a look and he nodded
knowingly.
Once Missus had retreated to the kitchen, Santa picked up
his fork and knife and assaulted the reindeer tenderloin in lingonberry sauce.
A guilty pleasure, to be sure.
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