The boy’s eyes got wide. “What did you see?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I continued, “and never want to see anything like it again. We’d hit a whole bunch of deer. Seven or eight at least. There were steaming piles of deer guts all over the tracks. Broken antlers stuck into the front of the train. And in the middle of it all was this old fat guy with a white beard. He was screaming and moaning in pain.”

His little jaw dropped in horror. “Was it Santa?”

“Hard to tell,” I said. “He could have been wearing a red suit, or it just might’ve been all that blood. Didn’t you hear all those police and ambulance sirens about an hour ago?”

He nodded his head rapidly.

“But here’s the incredible part: Over in the woods by the side of the tracks, I saw these big bags of gifts. When I looked inside, there was a whole bunch with your name on them. They were pretty banged up. But while the paramedics were working on the fat guy, I grabbed as many of your presents as I could, called a cab, and brought them all here for you. It’s a Christmas miracle!”

A huge smile slowly spread across his face. He suddenly laughed as if being tickled and gave me a hard punch in the chest. “You’re such a jerk!” he howled delightedly, then ran off to share the tale of yuletide carnage with his parents. They were not pleased. I did not care. I’d always been an outsider there, too. Yet if it weren’t for the unique bond between the boy and I, I know I would have been made officially unwelcome years earlier. And if it weren’t for the outsider’s influence I knew he needed, I never would have made the trip.

As he became older, the story would become an annual Christmas custom between the two of us. Together we’d concoct grand embellishments, like the sight of Rudolph’s glowing red nose dimming in blood-soaked snow or Santa’s myriad of compound fractures. It was our own annual reciting of ‘The Night Before Christmas’ by way of ‘Faces Of Death’. And while the years would bring additional traditions to our holiday – like randomly screaming “YOU RUINED CHRISTMAS!” at each other, giving elaborately boxed gifts of cheap white tube socks, or Uncle Miles’ announcement that he would be heading down to the local church’s outdoor nativity scene at midnight to have sex with the live sheep – the story of Santa vs. New Jersey Transit would remain our own Cruel Yule touchstone, a singular shared connection to the holiday and each other. More than 15 years later, it still is.

When you get right down to it, most religious holidays amount to elaborate pathological explanations of monumentally manufactured events. But remove all the cargo-cult trappings and moral spankings, and what’s left might just be a simple series of inventory days for what makes us human. Call it what you want and ascribe any denominational tall tale you need, but closing out the year by choosing to summon whatever joy you can and sharing it with whomever you want seems to be a pretty good deal. Ultimately it remains the responsibility of each of us to find our own way inside. It’s what I think about every Christmas when I see the smiling face of a child. Or a railroad crossing.

Miles Afuera lives and works in New York City. He belongs there.

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