A Different Drummer: The inevitable showdown

Santa Claus walked into Amazon headquarters one day and rang the service bell. “Where’s Jeff?” he yelled.
“Mr. Bezos is in a meeting, eh, sir, and cannot be bothered,” said Rehnquist, the wide-eyed, nearly speechless, young, thin, clean-shaved, hairless look-alike assistant from behind a cluttered desk where he was filling out a requisition form for SP19 ¼ staples.
“What are you guys trying to pull around here?” asked Santa, feeling a tad huffy and a lot agitated. “You trying to horn in on my business model? Taking all my customers? Now I see why my mail bags and inboxes are almost empty. Everyone’s shopping on your Prime.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” quipped the youth. “We are proud to have cornered the market on global shopping and free delivery of all things.”
Other employees began gathering around the two. People inched closer, some to believe, some to get an autograph, and some with lists. “Perhaps we could step into my office for privacy.” Rehnquist gestured toward a glass door. Santa whisked around the counter like a figure skater and slid on through.
Rehnquist pushed the door closed slowly and quietly behind him while Santa took a seat. Rehnquist turned, his palms pressed, and faced the usually jolly old man in the chair. Rehnquist had no problem believing he was confronting the real Santa Claus. His grandmother had told him on many occasions to never stop believing. He loved his grammy. “What precisely is your concern, Mr. Claus?” Rehnquist asked with sweet sincerity.
Santa leaned back in the chair. He peered out at Rehnquist through his tiny round glasses. His fluffy white hair surrounded his eyes and nose. With a grunt, Santa pulled one booted foot up over one red-felted knee, rested his left arm on the table, and slapped the table with his open palm in a pent-up rhythm.
“Here’s my gripe. You guys have stolen my business model,” he said. “You lifted it lock, stock, and barrel, and you haven’t given me so much as credit on a billboard, a few thousand shares, or big Santa-sized check. I’m here to claim what’s rightfully mine.”
Rehnquist was sweating, but only into his socks. The rest of him appeared calm. “Well, no disrespect, Santa, but’s that’s absurd.”
“Oh, is it,” asked Santa, who sat up and put both feet on the floor. He gestured for Rehnquist to take a seat at the head of the table. “You have Prime to keep your customers loyal and fund extra services. I use a Naughty and Nice List. My believers sign a long-term contract with me as well. If they promise to behave all year, they get free delivery. They write to me and place their orders. You took that from me.”
“Just a moment,” said Rehnquist. He pulled out his cell phone, covered his mouth, and called the Founder’s private hotline. “Bzzz bzzz bzzz,” he whispered, detailing the whole situation to Jeff with a few buzz words.
He looked up at Santa. “Mr. Bezos says, ‘Oh, yeah, but we fill orders in two days, and we deliver all year around, not just on Christmas night.’”
“Yes, so? All my presents are free. Beat that.”
“Bzzz bzzz bzzz.” Pause. “Um hm. Mr. Bezos says, ‘We give millions to charity and we buy up other large companies and make them better.’ So there.”
Santa stood. He could tell by how the sunlight hit the picture frame on the back wall and reflected against Rehnquist’s head that it was 2:47 p.m. and he had somewhere else he needed to be.
“You tell Mr. Bezos from me,” said Santa, wagging a white-gloved finger at the doppelganger, “that I don’t want anything for myself. I don’t want charity. I am charity.”
Instead of asking for extrapolation, which is what Santa was expecting, Rehnquist tried to close the conversation. “Well, if that concludes –“ Abruptly Santa harrumphed and spun on his heels. Rehnquist was startled. “I’m sorry. Where are you going?”
“I’m headed over to Walmart.”
“Walmart!” gasped Rehnquist. “Bzzz bzzz bzzz. Yes. OK. Hold on there, Mr. Claus. We may be able to work something out.” Rehnquist directed Santa back to his seat. “What is it you’re thinking? Please extrapolate.”
“It goes like this. And by the way, I know your name is not really Rehnquist. It’s Geoffrey, and you wanted a green fire truck when you were five. You were a weird kid. Here’s what I want. I want Amazon to start an annual Santa Claus Project. Poor kids get to write to Jeff and tell him what they want and cannot afford for Christmas. Delivery people, and a few Amazon employees, and maybe even Jeff himself participate in a National Santa Delivery Day. They put on the costumes. They knock on doors. They hand out presents.
“Make that happen, Geoff, and your secret is safe with me.” Santa rose once again. He gave Geoff a friendly reassuring pat on the back, and because he couldn’t help himself, he rubbed Geoff’s bald head with his soft white glove.” Geoff grinned like a five-year-old.
“I’ll see what I can do, Santa” he said. Santa winked and disappeared up the conduit.