It was the first week of December and the holiday season was in full swing, even in sunny California. People were busy shopping, decorating and making plans for Christmas parties. One place where it was swinging was the newly-opened Coconut Hotel and Resort. It was a large, gleaming place situated along the beach shore. A large crowd was inside one its many ballrooms dancing to the beat of a rock quartet called the Monkees. Everybody was having a good time among all the lights, tinsel and Christmas trees decorating the room, not caring that it was sand, not snow, that was just outside the hotel's doors.
The Monkees didn't care either. This week-long gig at the hotel couldn't have come at a better time. The hotel management was surprisingly generous. The Monkees had been given free room and board while performing, and the pay was good too. Finally, they'd be able to make the rent for their beach house on time, AND have enough left over to do some Christmas shopping. They even had been given uniforms to wear too: white shorts with loud Hawaiian shirts and Santa Clause hats.
With all this good luck, the Monkees played their absolute best (not that they didn't play their best other times) and threw themselves into each song. Right now the drummer, a young man with wild brown curly hair named Micky Dolenz, was singing one of his favorite songs:
"When I first met ya girl, you didn't have no shoes, now you're walking 'round like your front-page news. You've been awful careful 'bout the friends you choose, but you won't find my name in your book of who's-who! I.II..I..I'm not your steppin' stone! Not me!"
Silently watching from a table near the back of the ballroom was a rotund man with gray hair and a beard. He was wearing slacks and a loud Hawaiian shirt-tourist all the way. In his mouth was pipe which he puffed on occasionally while nodding in time to the music. Sitting next to him were two much shorter gentlemen, dressed about the same way he was. At first glance, you'd think they were the man's grandchildren, but they were adults. The taller man turned to the men next to him.
"Tic, Toc, I think I have the perfect way to boost everyone's spirits back up at the factory."
"How boss?" Tic asked.
The man pointed with his pipe at the Monkees performing on stage.
"I think I'll ask those fellows to perform for us."
"Them?" Toc replied, scrunching up his face, "You think all that loud music will do any good, boss? I'm starting to get a headache."
The man chuckled to himself, his stomach jiggling like a bowl full of Jell-O.
"You have to stay with the times, Toc. Look how fast things have changed. It was only a mere forty years ago, people were dancing to jazz. Now its rock and roll."
"Remember that Guy Lombardo fellow we had a few years ago, Toc?" Tic asked, "He put everyone to sleep."
"Yeah, yeah I remember." Toc replied, almost falling asleep at the thought of it.
"I think these boys are just what we need to take our minds off our troubles up north for awhile. I sense something special about them." The man said, getting up off his chair, "Wait here."
The Monkees had just finished their last song for the evening and were starting to take down their equipment. It was the last day of their engagement, and they were a little sad, since they had had so much fun over the past week.
"Well guys, I think I can truly say I'm sorry to see this gig over with." Mike Nesmith, the tall leader of the group said, taking off his Santa hat. He put on a green wool hat over his dark hair. He liked to wear that hat, even in hot weather.
"You're right, Mike." The bass guitarist Peter Tork replied sadly, then brightened up, "But now we can get ready for Santa Clause!"
"Oh c'mon Pete. Don't tell me you still believe in that..." He was interrupted by a tap on his arm by the singer and percussionist, Davy Jones. Davy did that partly to prevent another argument between the two about Santa and partly to get Mike's attention on the big man coming towards the bandstand.
"Hey, check out this guy." Davy whispered, "He looks the part of Santa."
"Yeah, right, Davy." Mike muttered.
The man stopped at the edge of the bandstand and looked up at Mike.
"Excuse me, sir, may I have a word with you?" He said politely.
"Sure." Mike replied and jumped off the bandstand.
"My name is Kristopher Kringle, and I really enjoyed your show tonight. I'm pleased to meet you." He held out his hand.
"I'm Mike Nesmith," Mike replied, shaking Kringle's hand. "What can I do for you?"
"I own a toy factory up north. I was wondering if the four of you would be interested in playing at our Christmas party?"
"Well, what day would it be?" Mike asked.
"December 20th." Kringle replied, "I'll arrange transportation to and from my factory."
"Where's your factory located, Mr. Kringle?" Davy asked.
"Its far north of here, In a secret location so my competitors can't spy on me. You fellows would probably have to stay overnight, but I'll take care of that too."
Normally, warning bells would be sounding in Mike's brain at all the secrecy, but the twinkle in Kringle's eyes somehow reassured Mike. Still, he had to be cautious.
Kringle saw the doubt in Mike's eyes. He then told Mike the amount of money he was willing to pay the group. Mike took a step back in shock. The amount Kringle offered was double the amount they had been paid here at the Coconut! Micky dropped his cymbal at that figure. The cymbal rolled across the bandstand and landed with a musical bang on the floor by Kringle's feet. Kringle chuckled and picked up the cymbal and handed it to Mike.
"You don't have to make a decision yet, gentlemen. I realize it's close to Christmas and you may have made other plans." Kringle pulled out a card case out of his pants pocket, picked out a card and handed it also to Mike. "Here's my card. Let me know soon. Do you have a card?"
"Oh yeah, here." Mike said as he fumbled in his short's pockets. Finally he found one and handed it to Kringle.
"Here's where you can get a hold of us." Mike said. "There usually is someone home."
"Good, good." Kringle said smiling, "I hope to hear from you boys soon! Goodbye!" He winked at Peter, who was starring open-mouthed at Kringle.
"Goodbye!" Mike, Davy and Micky said together and watched Kringle walk back to his table.
"What do you think of all that?" Davy asked quietly.
"I don't know." Micky replied, walking over to Peter and closing his open mouth. "Hey, Pete. What's up?"
"That..was..Santa...Clause!" Peter said dumbfounded.
"What?!" Micky, Mike and Davy replied, turning towards Peter.
"It all makes sense, guys!" Peter exclaimed, "The toy factory up north, the secrecy, even his name! Kris Kringle is another name for Santa Clause!!"
Mike, Micky and Davy looked at each other and shook their heads. Peter was an excellent musician and a wonderful friend, but he needed to grow up sometimes.
"Pete, you're being silly." Mike said gently. "So he owns a toy factory and has the name of Kringle, but I'll bet he's just as ordinary as us." Mike looked at the card Kringle gave him. It seemed to softly glow in his hand, but that wasn't that that made Mike gasp in shock. The others noticed this and gathered around to see what the card said. Micky and Davy were shocked too but Peter had a smug smile on his face.
The card read:
Kristopher Kringle
Kringle's Toy Factory
One Christmas Lane
North Pole
Tel: 555-Kris