Santa.

When I was around 8 or 9, my brother and I spent the night at a friend’s house down the street. Our friend’s father was what we used to call “strict” back then. We were all in sleeping bags in the basement, not sleeping, it was very late. Our friend’s father yelled from upstairs to “Go to sleep!” We stopped talking and laughing for a few minutes and then started again. He yelled again. After a few rounds of this, he appeared at the top of the stairs in his pajamas and yelled “Get up here!” Our friend slid out of his sleeping bag and slowly climbed the stairs. When he got to the top, his father grabbed him by the arm, took off his leather house slipper, and beat the crap out of him. For some reason, I associate finding out that Santa Claus is not real with that night. The memory of any specific connection is lost, but any time anyone brings up the subject of whether or not parents should perpetuate the Santa Claus thing, I’m right back in that basement with my brother and our friend and his father and the leather slipper.