The Most Interesting Man in the World -- Chapter Two

Chapter II. – In which Byron Warren Makes the Discovery that Virginia was Lied to.

Byron Merrill Warren, the most interesting man in the world, was a boy before he was a man. To point this out seems needless, but in truth the subtleties of this fact run deeper than one may think. You see, some people acquainted with the amazingly interesting life of this man assume – with almost no basis for their assumption – that Byron Warren was doing incredibly interesting things from the time of his birth, twenty-four hours a day all seven days of the week. They assume, without doing any real thinking of their own, that he changed his own diapers, never cried, never complained, and never disobeyed his parents, and that he was conversing with his father at exactly eight months of age. To state such things would be a monstrous act of literary dishonesty, and I simply won’t do it – and I won’t lend any credence to the apocryphal stories that are gaining traction in some quarters concerning this man’s earliest days.
To say that Byron Warren was the most interesting man in the world is not to imply that he was the most interesting infant in the world. In fact, he was a rather normal baby, and no more interesting at first glance than any other. He learned to walk and talk at roughly the same time that most babies do, give or take three months. During this period, the most interesting part of Byron’s life was going on above his shoulders, in his capacious mind. Only his parents knew that he was getting the hang of infants’ educational games far more quickly than his peers. His mother was for a very long time the only one to note how closely young Byron observed everything in his path. However, he never did anything unusually interesting in those days – at least nothing worth your while to read about.
But I return to my original statement that Byron Merrill Warren was a boy before he was a man, and I state emphatically that he was the most interesting boy in the world once he emerged from his infanthood. And the first story I shall tell you from this period is a Christmas story.
Indeed it was that most wonderful time of the year. The stockings were hung (with care, as they should be) in the Warren household, one for each family member. The tree was trimmed and glowing. Mrs. Warren was similarly aglow as she went about her household work singing Christmas carols. Even Mr. Warren had a readier smile upon his face than he was wont to have. Young Master Warren, a spry lad of five, was busy soaking up the sights and sounds of Christmas.
The particular evening I now have in mind was just two days before Christmas Eve. Byron was sitting on his father’s lap as the latter finished reading a colorful Christmas picture book about Santa Claus. He looked inquisitively back up into his father’s face as the tall thin man bestowed a kindly smile upon his son and said as he closed the book,
“You know, son – Santa Claus is going to visit you very soon!”
Byron’s look became even more inquisitive than at first. “He is?”
“You can count on it!” said Mr. Warren most seriously. “In fact, Santa Claus comes to the house of every good boy and girl in the world! And by my count, you’ve been a very good boy indeed all year long! Isn’t that right, Leona?”
Mrs. Warren herself had just been ushered into the room upon a stanza of “Deck the Halls”, and as she good-naturedly dusted a vase (more good-naturedly, indeed, than she dusted it all the other eleven months!) on the mantle, she smiled cheerily at her husband and offspring without stopping her singing, which was as good in the minds of both those persons as if she had written a five-page dissertation on the subject.
“Yes, son, you have been a very good boy!” repeated Mr. Warren with twice the vigor as before. “And Santa Claus knows it, because he’s going to give you lots of very nice things for Christmas!”
“Like what?” inquired the boy.
“Well, you’ll have to wait until Christmas Day to find out! I certainly can’t tell you!”
“Is Santa coming here on Christmas?”
“Well,” began Mr. Warren thoughtfully, “He’s coming right before Christmas – on Christmas Eve! He’ll deliver all the nice presents here by midnight, while we’re all in bed.”
“How will he get here? Will he knock on the door?”
“No, no! You won’t hear him at all! All the good boys and girls are supposed to be in bed asleep when Santa comes – he doesn’t like it if they’re awake. He wants it to be a surprise!”
“Then how will we know he came, and how will he give us all the nice things?” By now the boy’s brow was furrowed with deep bewilderment.
“Santa travels all around the world on Christmas Eve night in his sleigh, which is pulled through the air by many flying reindeer! Just like in the book, remember?”
“Rudolph? And Prancer and Vixen?”
“Yes, those are the ones! And when Santa gets to our house, he will land right on top of the roof and come down the chimney! Just like in the book!”
Byron was now staring intently at the fireplace, furrowed brow and all.
“What if he gets stuck? Won’t he get dirty? And what if it’s cold and we have a fire in the fireplace?”
“Well, we’ll make sure there’s no fire!” replied Mr. Warren. “We don’t want Santa to hurt himself, do we? And I’ll tell you another thing – Santa gets very hungry on his journey, so I’ll bet if you ask your mother, she will help you put out a plate of cookies and a glass of root beer on Christmas Eve night before you go to bed!”
“For Santa to have?”
“You bet!”
“What kind of cookies does Santa like?” asked Byron, his eyes lighting up with newfound interest.
It was the father’s turn to furrow his brow. “Oatmeal raisin or macadamia nut – your mother will know just what to put out!”
“But won’t Santa wake all of us up when he comes?” asked the boy.
“No, no – Santa is very quiet. None of us will know he’s here, but when we get up on Christmas morning, there will be lots of nice presents under the tree!” Mr. Warren smiled as his son’s eyes danced with excitement. He patted him on the head and let him down off his lap.
“But remember – you have to be asleep on Christmas Eve night, or Santa might never come! You have to be a good boy all the way until Christmas Day! And now it’s almost your bedtime – you get upstairs to bed and I’ll tuck you in, okay?”
I am almost sure that little Byron got very little sleep that night, or the next night for that matter. In fact, his brow remained furrowed much of the next couple of days as he was no doubt pondering in his young mind what these stories might mean.
Finally evening came on Christmas Eve. With the help of his mother, Byron put out a plate of cookies (four of them – two macadamia nut and two oatmeal raisin) and a glass of root beer on the table near the fireplace, and went to bed as usual. But he didn’t go to sleep as usual.
Now, as observant as young Byron Warren was, he had not yet learned to tell time; all he knew how to do was to count each chime of the clock on his fingers and get a rough estimate of the hour – and this he loved to do. He wasn’t quite sure when midnight was, but he knew it had to be sometime that night, and he was no more tired than you and I were when we were his age on December 24. So he waited.
And not only did Byron wait – he thought. It seemed perfectly realistic in his mind that if a grown man was to hurl himself down the chimney and enter their house; and if he was to do this after landing a team of reindeer and a sleigh on top of the roof; and if this man was in the habit of frequently shouting “Ho, ho, ho!” with great mirth; if all this were true, then it seemed perfectly realistic to Byron that he would be able to hear him, despite what his father said about the great quietness of this famous personage called Santa. Why, not even an Indian would be able to muffle all of that racket!
And so he waited. The space between each sounding of the clock seemed to grow each time, but such a trial is no match for the patience of a boy who has determined to find something out for himself. He counted off two whole hands’ worth of fingers (which is impressive since his bedtime was eight), and figured that when the next hour came he would just have to start on the first hand all over again, since he didn’t have three hands and his feet were hidden under the covers. He wasn’t sure when midnight would come, but his ears were as perked as a watchdog’s. Not even the rustling of a mouse (the one who was not supposed to be stirring on this night of all nights) would have escaped his observation.
I will spare you any further description of Byron’s vigil, except to say that it was very long. But he had scarcely counted off a brand-new hour when his ear caught something that was definitely not the creaking of the house, or the wind, or a mouse, or anything incidental like that. It was a heavy footstep upon the stairs not far outside Byron’s room – a footstep, I tell you, that was determined to make itself unheard but had failed.
Being by now convinced that he was not going to catch Santa from the safety of his bed, Byron arose. He stepped gingerly toward his door and peeked out. He saw nothing, but he sensed a distinct stirring in the house that he had not sensed before. He then left the safety, not only of his bed, but of his room and approached the head of the stairs. He didn’t care one iota whether or not Santa saw him. In fact, Byron was determined not only to see Santa in the flesh, but to talk to him if he could. There was no harm in that, was there? After all, if he could have a conversation with Santa, the jolly old man would see that he was a good boy, despite his being up after-hours.
Byron crept slowly, carefully, soundlessly down the first few stair-steps. He could peek down through the railing of the staircase down into the living-room, and he saw nothing – but just then he heard the shuffle of socked feet and the sound of fingers fumbling for something in the dark. After that came a thump that was made all the louder by the quiet night air – then a very muffled groan followed a few seconds after by a “click”. That click produced a light – it was the lamp in the living room turned on. Byron decided not to keep descending the stairs just yet, but to keep looking a little longer until he could see who it was. However, the current extent of his strategic advance did not afford him a complete view of the living room, so he slowly, cautiously, painstakingly reconsidered his decision to stop and began to move down the stairs once more, stopping each second or so to look and listen.
There was a “crunch” and then a “clink”. Byron couldn’t tell time, but he could put two and two together. Someone was eating the small meal put out for Santa – Santa himself must have arrived! Byron nearly skipped down the three remaining stair-steps.
However, Byron did not skip down those steps as quietly as he believed he did. He got to the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner to see who the intruder was; the intruder in turn turned around to see the source of this surprise attack. The looks on the faces of both hunter and hunted could not have been more twisted and frozen with shock.
“Dad?” asked Byron with simple wonder. As for Mr. Horatio Warren, he could not speak. His face was contorted with such pain and absolute horror that one would have thought his son had pulled a shotgun on him.
“Dad, is Santa here?” asked Byron excitedly as he looked around. “Is he here?”
Mr. Warren still could not speak, although it sounded as if a slight gurgle escaped from his throat. His face remained contorted, but a very strange look came into his eyes as he stared at his small son.
“Son! What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded. Then his eyes actually looked angry. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
“I-I wanted to see Santa Claus,” said the boy meekly. “Is he here yet?”
“Go back to your room, son, and go to sleep!” shouted Mr. Warren. “Now!”
“But I only wanted to see if Santa was here – will you tell me when he gets here?”
“I told you!” sputtered his father. “Santa doesn’t like it when little boys are awake on Christmas Eve! You’ve been a bad boy, son – now Santa may not even come!”
Byron just stood there, frowning with confusion. “Dad, why are you eating those cookies? They’re for Santa!”
Mr. Warren looked down at the oatmeal raisin cookie in his left hand, then back at Byron. “Go to bed, son!”
“But you’re stealing Santa’s cookies!” insisted Byron, stamping his foot. If he had anything at his young age, he had a strong sense of justice – and this was simply not just.
“I’m not going to tell you again!”
“Mom always tells me it’s wrong to steal! Those are Santa’s cookies. If he’s not here yet, why are you eating his cookies?” Byron’s voice was growing louder now.
“If you don’t go to bed – why, you won’t get any cookies for a week!”
Byron didn’t bat an eye. “I’m going to tell Mom!” he shouted, and turned to go back up the stairs.
“No! Don’t – she’s asleep! Don’t wake up your mother!”
Byron stopped and turned. “But you’re stealing Santa’s cookies!”
“I am not stealing – will you go to bed like I told you?”
“I’m telling Mom!” Now Byron raced up the stairs at full tilt – only to run straight into his mother at the top. Mrs. Leona Warren was awake and not very happy at all.
“What – is – all – this – noise!” she demanded in a loud, indignant voice.
“Dad is stealing Santa’s cookies, and I tried to stop him, but he just yelled at me!” explained Byron in an even louder and more indignant voice.
Mrs. Warren closed her eyes and sighed. “I thought you were supposed to be asleep, Byron,” she said.
“I couldn’t – I wanted to see Santa when he comes. But Dad is stealing his cookies, and he won’t be able to eat anything when he gets here. And what if Santa’s hungry?”
“I’m sure the neighbors gave him plenty of cookies,” offered Mr. Warren weakly.
“That’s a fine how-do-you-do, Horatio!” Now the wife was addressing the husband. “Just go and spoil it all, why don’t you?”
“Leona!”
“I’ve always said you can’t do anything quietly! You don’t have a quiet bone in your body! And now you’ve spoiled it all for the child!”
“I have not! He was supposed to be in bed!”
“I couldn’t even sleep with all your noise, Horatio! First you were snoring, and then when the alarm rang, you would have thought you were a buffalo on the stampede!”
“Leona!”
“You explain it all to the boy, Horatio – because I’m going to bed!”
Byron watched his mother walk away and then came back down the stairs to his father, who still stood there in a daze, holding his cookie.
“Does that mean Santa isn’t coming tonight, Dad?”
“Well, no, he’s still coming, but…”
“But what?”
“But he asked me to put the presents under the tree this year. He was in a hurry, so he left the bag of presents on the front porch.”
The sentence was no sooner said than Byron raced to the front door, unlocked it, opened it, and peered out into the night.
“I don’t see a bag, Dad!”
“Well, maybe he left it in the yard…” There was a long pause as the boy went out of the house. When he came back in, he had his hands on his hips.
“You were just telling stories, weren’t you?” he asked sternly.
“What stories?”
“About Santa Claus! He doesn’t really come at Christmas, does he? He hasn’t come here yet, and you’re eating his cookies! There really isn’t a Santa, is there?”
“Now, son,” Mr. Warren began – only his son would not let him continue.
“You lied about Santa Claus, and now you’re stealing his cookies! Shame on you!” Byron shook his small finger at his father the same way his mother shook hers at both of them on occasion. “Now there won’t be any of the nice things you said I would get!”
“Now, son, that was true – you will get some nice things in the morning. If you’ll just go to bed now…”
“But what about Santa Claus? If he doesn’t come, how can he bring the presents?”
“Believe me, son, they’ll get here!”
“How?”
Mr. Warren sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you sometime anyway. Son – there really isn’t a Santa Claus. That was just a nice Christmas story that parents like me tell their children like you. He isn’t real, but the presents are real. Parents buy them for their children because they love them. And love is real.”
“Then why did you tell me if it wasn’t true?” Now Byron’s arms were folded.
“Well, because I thought it’d be fun. And Christmas is fun – from the tree to the lights to the presents to the music. But Santa Claus isn’t real – he’s just imaginary, like the bedtime story we read last night. Now – how about a cookie?”
Byron was only slightly appeased by the macadamia-nut cookie, but he had obtained his goal, however unpleasant the outcome. He had satisfied himself that there really was no Santa Claus to see. And ever afterward, when his young friends would talk about what Santa would bring them this year, Byron Warren just smiled and shook his head, knowing that they would never believe his little story even if he told them. They would just have to find out for themselves, like he did.