Christmas Eve. Parents stuff dollar bills and loose coins in the red kettle before rushing into the department store to make last-minute purchases. I ring the bell and offer my jolliest, "Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas." Most don't bother to acknowledge me. I'm just another guy in a Santa suit.
They're not wrong; my glory days are behind me. The North Pole Association has a mandatory retirement age of 75. My birthday was last August.
Billy Powell—I gave him his first bicycle—drops a few quarters in the bucket.
"Merry Christmas, Billy."
He never looks up from his iPhone.
They're not wrong; my glory days are behind me. The North Pole Association has a mandatory retirement age of 75. My birthday was last August.
Billy Powell—I gave him his first bicycle—drops a few quarters in the bucket.
"Merry Christmas, Billy."
He never looks up from his iPhone.
