Disclaimer is the same as every time ... I make nothing but have a good time.

A/N: I don't know if anyone else does NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) or not. 50K words in the 30 days of November. Toward the end, I lost track of my story, such as it was. In the last hours, I decided to play with Lester. Had it not been for Les, I don't know that I could have finished.

The Not so Secret Santa
or
The Annual Santos Family Reunion and Christmas Fiesta
by Alfonsina

"Lester, it isn't that I don't want to see you and Noel, but I have an emergency order to get filled in two days. As it is, I'm already too tired to have much fun at the annual Santos Christmas Fiesta. I was kind of hoping the three of us could get together alone, no hassles, no drama, and no hangovers," I said. "Hey, hand me that rack of cupcakes, will you? I need to get them frosted and ready for pick up in thirty minutes."

"Bro, please. Christmas is a season of tradition, peace on earth, good will toward women," Lester put the tray down on the stainless steel island and grinned. "This is a time honored Santos Family tradition. You don't want to be the first one to break tradition do you?"

Time honored? The party has only been in existence for six years. Friday's part counts as lucky seven. Lester and Noel both planned to have a special seven year itch scratched.

Me? I'd rather we celebrated Ground Hog Day. Not as many orders for cakes, cookies, cupcakes, and the like. Ground Hog Day is actually my favorite holiday right next to Arbor Day; the under appreciated holidays get special recognition at the bakery.

"It's just once a year," he said. "It isn't like it costs you anything. Besides, I have coordinating t-shirts for all of us."

"I don't want to play wingman again. I'd rather spend time with the two of you sometime after New Year's but before the Valentine's Day rush." I picked up a piping bag full of chocolate whipped creme frosting and aimed it at some dark chocolate cupcakes. Why do people want maraschino cherries and candied fruit on these things? I had about six dozen cupcakes to decorate for the next day and about four dozen chocolate, chocolate chip cookies to bake off before I went home. It was already five o'clock and I had at least two more hours of work until I could knock off for the day. The next day's bread baking was scheduled to start no later than three a.m. in order to get a start on the rest of the special orders "One of us has a job. A demanding one."

"I work. I just make sure I have enough time to play. I work hard. I play harder." If I wasn't his brother, he'd wiggle his eyebrows at me. It is sad when you can pretty much predict a pick up artist's moves and patterns. He turned toward the convection ovens, double checked his reflection, distorted and blurry though it may be, flexed, and blew himself a kiss. He turned back toward me, caught my eye and winked. Tradition. What's not to love?

Me? I never play, not like my brothers. I work, go home, sleep, rinse and repeat, six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. When you own your own business, no matter how big it is, it consumes you all of the time. Even when I'm with friends or family, my focus is on evertything else: the next seasonal fruit, why pumpkin bars didn't seel as well this year as last, and whether the trade school had a good student who needed an internship for his or her resume. Even when I'm there, I'm never really there. I'm never really with the rest of the group. You know?

"What do the t-shirts say this year?" I asked. Last year there was a picture of Betty Boop bedecked in a Santa's Elf outfit. The caption said, "Naughty is the new nice." He hadn't ordered them in time and mine was too tight. It untucked itself each time I had to stretch or lean. I was self conscious the whole night.

"You're gonna love it," he said. He opened the bag he had under his jacket, withdrew a bag, and shook out the shirt for display. The forest green shirt had a fancy script and the silhouette of a sleigh and some reindeer. Instead of the XXL I need, he brought an XXXL. Better too loose than too tight, I guess. And this time it wasn't the four stages of Santa shirt he had two, or was it three, years ago? (You know the four stages, right? First stage, you believe in Santa. Second stage, you don't believe in Santa Claus. Third stage, you play Santa. Fourth stage, you look like Santa.)

"What does it say? I don't want to get too close to it and get flour all over it." I strained my eyes trying to make out the lettering, but it just wouldn't come into focus.

"You'd know if you ever wore your glasses," he said. "Fine. It says, 'Be naughty. Save Santa the trip.' Pretty great, huh?"

"Sure. Naughty. Christmas. Great.

"Don't hate the player. Hate the game." He reverted back to the stupid grin he used whenever he thought it would get him what he wanted. Girls always fell for it. I knew it for what it was, an attempt at manipulation I'd seen way too many times.

Actually right now I wanted to hate our sainted mother. The late Hortencia Maria Santos had a lot to answer for. She gave birth to three sons all with different fathers, not that that's a crime. She knew how important it would be for us to know them, she named us for them. Sort of, she did the best she could. Mom's sophomore year of college she spent as an exchange student in France. She hooked up a guy in a Père Noël suit; she came home when she found out she was pregnant. The worst of it was Mom can't spell, never has been able to. She was unable to spell père and so she went with phonics and my eldest brother was christened Pear Noel Santos. Little wonder he preferred the name Noel to Pear.

Based on that logic, Mom could have named Lester Handsome Stranger Santos, because one night with a handsome stranger begot my brother. My grandfather suggested the use of his father's name Lester, because they looked the same: bald, fat, drooling. Mom did pity Les and she gave him Lester Guapo. Guapo the Spanish for gorgeous or handsome.

My name? Let's just say Mom followed tradition with all of us.

"I don't like to play. I like to work and relax a little on the side with you guys." Noel made some awesome eggnog drinks year round and it's a weakness of mine.

"Right. You do just fine. You'd be happier if you'd just let it all hang out once in a while." He looked me up and down. "Sorry. But you know this is the time of year the chubby chasers come out en mass. You might get mobbed at the party. Come on, man, you've got the beard, the belly, and you always smell like sugar cookies and gingersnaps. You know you'll have a good time at the party. I've got a spare room I'll let you go to bed early. I'll wake you up when I go to bed. If you play your cards right you won't get a lot of sleep."

"I'll go to your party just to see Noel and I'm only gonna stay for about an hour, eat, and leave." I wasn't going to add that I like my own bed, the flannel sheets, and pillows everywhere.

"Fine. Just promise you'll come. Noel sent an email announcing you'd be there for pictures. I'm bringing a printer for the pictures so everyone has a keepsake."

Perfect.

"Leave the shirt so I can wash it before I wear it. And don't let the door hit you on the ass when you leave," I said.

"See you at seven. I owe you, bro." He grabbed a handful of Cajun cookies, lightly blackened and not for resale, off the counter. He didn't turn around to wave good-bye, just raised his hand as he walked out of the shop.

No shit he owed me. He has owed me ever since he was a kid and I stopped the school bullies from taking his lunch money. I don't even know what he did to piss them off, but one black eye was all it took for me to do what the playground attendants refused to do - stand and look intimidating. I never even said a word. Three years is a big difference when you're in grammar school. Funny that he's the elder brother.

Noel owns a little bar, the First Noel. He wanted to trade on his name and it gave him a way to break the ice with customers. Once he decorated in his theme, he never had to update for any other holiday. His toddies are amazing; butter and rum are perfect partners and you can improve almost any recipe if you add one or the other. I make gingersnap cookie dough in bulk. He cooks a few off every day to keep the smell of the season alive.

Lester thought the North Pole with strippers would have made a lot more money. He claimed he had a connection who could get Noel a discount on some good, used, stripper poles that had been painted to resemble candy canes. Lester thought it would add a touch of class to Noel's joint. Les had all kinds of slogans lined up. Noel is still considering expanding the business, so to speak.

Strippers, Lucite heels, and Jingle Bells. The combination just spells class, doesn't it? It spells peace on earth and good will toward men to me.

I think Noel bought one of the poles and had it installed in his bedroom, but I don't wander past the living room or the backyard when I'm there so I have no idea.

I arrived a little after seven, fresh from the shower, dressed in the requested t-shirt, fresh jeans, and boots. Next year, I want the shirts to have long sleeves. The short sleeves were a huge improvement over the year he bought wife beaters; because I work back with the ovens, I get cold easily. Winter in Trenton doesn't always mean snow, but it can be cold enough. Not only do I live in long sleeves, I grow a beard before there is frost on the pumpkins. It's full but not long too long. If I let myself go, the beard would need its own hairnet at for work and I'm just not into the look or feel of it. Been there, done that, trimmed the beard as a result.

After the second, or was it the third party, Lester wanted to narrow down his dating pool by recording the women's naughty lists to see if there was anyone was a match. Noel had agreed and wanted access to the information; he fronted the money for the equipment. This was the fourth consecutive year I've done it. Does it make me a heel? Yeah, it does. But the women at the party all know Lester and Noel and so they know something is up. If they didn't know, they'd learn fairly quickly.

"Dude, are you wired for sound?" Noel asked.

"Sure. Reading for the sound check when you guys are."

Noel handed me the red, velveteen, goodie bag and escorted me to my throne for the night. "Ladies, the man of the hour is here. The only real and true Santa to ever live in Trenton, New Jersey. He's available to hear about just how naughty you've been this year."

I smiled on cue because I had to. I also cursed my mother under my breath because my father was a department store Santa Claus who was nice to her until the season was over. Department of Children and Family Services had a hard time tracking down the middle aged, white, overweight man who had an infectious laugh. So she gave me the only name she thought she could, Santa.

My middle name? Dangerous. Mom thought he had a dangerous wink, it caught her quickly enough."

"You can't really be Santa," a Hooters wanna be said. "You aren't old enough and you don't have enough wrinkles."

I reached into my back pocket and withdrew my wallet and offered to show anyone who wanted to see it that my name was indeed Santa Dangerous Santos. After all of the oohing and ahhing over the validity of my license, I finally got it back into my pants.

The most dangerous thing I do all day is make sure the plumbing is working and that no one who works the counters gives away too many samples. Other than that, I live life on the mild side.

I unzipped my jacket to display the theme shirt. I rolled my head from side to side in a vain attempt to crack it, rotated my shoulders a couple of times in each direction, and hoped that no one would pass the unspoken five minute rule. If you can't tell me everything about you that you want me to know in under five minutes, I don't need to know. No major secrets, please. I've never had a thing about Secrets from Santa.

My list of must know items:

Married or boyfriend
Sexually transmittable diseases
Children
Employed
Criminal record
Allergies to flour or sugar

When Lester first approached me about his Christmas party featuring me as Santa, I called him on it.

"Why can't I just bake for you?" I asked. "I can either do something custom or you can have the day old stuff from work."

"Bro, look at you. You look just like the man. You don't have enough grey hair yet, but I can either take you for some highlights or we can spray some glitter in until you get older."

"You do know what a jack ass you are, don't you?" Les was incredibly lucky I wasn't rolling out cookies. I keep a marble rolling pin in the freezer for special orders and special occasions.

"I'm just looking to spread Christmas cheer, and want you to help me do it."

"As long as you don't spread Christmas STDs."

He put his hand in front of his crotch and hopped from foot to foot. "Don't even say anything like that. Do you have some salt I can throw over my shoulder for luck?"

"Or any Christmas bab-"

"No. You can't even joke about a holey condom. That's how each of us got here."

He searched my cupboards for a salt shaker. I placed a ramekin of the kosher stuff in his hand. "Use as much as you want. I'll sweep it up later."

"Which shoulder?"

"I don't know. Toss a little over each one. Maybe you should find an alter and do a ritual to keep the fertility goddess away."

"Good idea. I'll get right on that. Got any broken cookies I can eat?"

"Careful, don't eat too many of those," I said. "You'll look like me if you do." I patted my stomach. I'm not as heavy as I was when I first opened the bakery, but my abs aren't flat and I don't have the time to go to the gym.

He looked at me and said, "You really think I'll ever let that happen? Sorry. Just shooting my mouth off."

According to Mom there was a ritual and she'd used it but did something backward each time. Then again, Mom had a boyfriend who was cheap and would use a condom, turn it inside out and use the other side. Brilliance wasn't something Mom looked for in her boyfriends.

"Whatever, Les. Look I need to get back to work. When's the party."

And so was born the Annual Santos Family Reunion and Christmas Fiesta. Noel provided the location and liquor. I provided the baked goods and played Santa to any of the party goers. Les was in charge of the guest list. Blonds were at the top of the list, but Les doesn't discriminate, unless you are male. This party only has three male attendees and an overabundance of mistletoe.

In under an hour and a half, I interviewed no less than twenty-three girls. Some of the girls had just one naughty thing to confess to Santa and got ejected by Lester pretty quickly. The ones who had extensive lists full of any number of naughty tricks were taken to the back room by Noel for further interrogation.

After the last brunette climbed down and got her complimentary eggnog flavored condoms and peppermint dental dams, I headed to the buffet and so I could eat before I went home.

A short blond with spiky hair recommended the bagel bites. What says Christmas party like catering from the Costco frozen food department. At least they weren't serving corn dogs this year. There's something disconcerting about watching a bunch of women prove any number of talents using nothing but a hotdog on a long stick. I haven't been able to look any kind of sausage in the eye for years.

"So, Santa, what do you want for Christmas?" she asked.

"Someone to rub my feet when I get home," I said. I put three of the mini bagel wonders on my paper plate. The egg rolls were already gone. There were only about six pot stickers left. The sliders were lukewarm and just didn't appeal much to my delicate palate.

"That's all?" she asked.

"Pretty much. I don't need anything. Nice of you to ask, Shelly." I patted her forearm and scouted for a place to sit and eat.

"How did you know my name?" she asked.

I raised an eyebrow at her. "You were just on my lap. I'm good with names and faces."

"Wow. I feel like a fool." She looked down and blushed. "So if I give you a foot rub, will that put me on the naughty list or the nice one?"

"Right now, the nice list."

"If I rub anything else? Maybe something a little dangerous?"

I didn't say anything, just smiled. "Want to find out?"

"Absolutely," she said. "Hey there's mistletoe." She dropped a very sweet kiss on my jaw.

"Do you always kiss under the mistletoe?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

Oh boy. Just wait til she sees my boxers. "Only the truly naughty."

Thanks as always for allowing me to twist the Legend known as Santos, Lester Santos. Feliz Navidad and all the jazz. ~ Alf.

PS Thanks for reading and reviewing.