Santa opened his front door. The North Pole wind was howling a holiday symphony and a cloud of snowflakes swooshed onto the hardwood floor. One of the elves, standing just behind Santa, was blown off his feet so hard he bounced over a pile of gifts and crashed into the stone hearth.

Santa was surprised—not by the ferocity of the wind, but by something flapping next to the door handle. Posted just below the wreath and mistletoe was a large piece of paper. Ordinarily, Santa would have simply torn it off and thrown it in the fire, but its official look caused him to reconsider.

He used his fingernail to pop off the single thumbtack, pushed his spectacles a little bit higher up his nose and started to read. It took only the first line before his rosy cheeks turned to a fiery red. The rubber bands that held his beard in place stretched for a moment, then broke with an audible snap. The white pom-pom on his hat flew off, bouncing across the floor, and the workshop chatter dissolved to a hush.

What followed was a thundering expletive that caused all the elves and animals to blush. The guttural, top-of-his-lungs "F—K!" echoed off the trees and the mountains beyond, and actually peeled off some paint.

"What!" he blurted, "An eviction notice?"

I guess we've always assumed that the Jolly Fat Man either owned the North Pole home and workshop, or lived there on some kind of permanent rent-free grant. The reality is that no one in the world has ever given Santa's living arrangements even a passing thought—until now.

When he got the eviction notice, he was—hard as it is to imagine—not so jolly. He went outside, kicked Rudolph and dumped the contents of his sleigh all over the frozen ground. Brrrr. Even for a fellow with a generous layer of fat, the outside cold was too much to handle.

He slammed the door shut, threw his jingly black belt at one of the elves and barked at Mrs. Claus—without any pretense of good manners: "Get me a beer, woman!" Despite his rudeness, she complied. "I know it's been a hard year, and you're pretty much exhausted, but please don't take it out on me."

The anger on Santa's face dissipated, just a bit, and he uttered a soft apology. "I'm sorry, dear," he practically whispered, "but I guess we'll be skipping Christmas this year." Incredulous, Mrs. Claus stammered, "You have to be kidding." It was obvious—she assumed her husband was only making a silly joke. Her mouth bent into a tentative smile as she said it, but Santa put an end to any happy expectations: "We're now homeless," he explained, "so we're going to have to fire all the elves, put the reindeer out to pasture and cancel our contract with FedEx."

Mrs. Claus's expression was now one of sheer defeat. "How long do we have?" she lamented, then added, "we need to get all our photos together—they're priceless—and let's pack up all the booze we can carry. I hate to ask, dear, but our rent was current, wasn't it?"

Santa had a sheepish look on his face. "I should have been forthcoming about it," he acknowledged. "I hawked everything and put it all into Evergrande stock—should have chosen Pfizer instead."

Mrs. Claus showed surprising understanding. This was a free-pass moment. "Everyone makes mistakes," she said, and she immediately dropped the subject. "What are we going to do?" Where will we go?" she asked. "With our parents dead now for hundreds of years, there's no one to turn to. We're pretty much S.O.L."

Then Santa's face lit up. "Jimmy and Johnnie Jones sent me a letter, asking for camping gear; we'll just raid their package and take what we need. A couple of nice tents, down sleeping bags and a Coleman stove will pretty much do the job, and those kids'll just have to wait until next year. We'll just do what all the rest of the homeless do—find ourselves a nice spot in the park and hunker down for the winter. I've always thought camping-out was a great adventure."

Sure enough, there were plenty of camping gear presents in the workshop and, in a flash, Mr. and Mrs. Claus were well-equipped for their homeless winter. They strode confidently to the park and set up camp, joining hundreds of others.

When evening came, the mercury dipped into the teens. The wind was relentless. Santa's new—and more-experienced neighbors—buried themselves under piles of newspapers, discarded M.A.G.A. flags and garbage bags. A curtain of cold draped over Santa and his wife. "It's gonna be a hell of a long winter," Santa fretted.

Despite the sad circumstance, Santa tried his best to be jolly. He gathered himself together, temporarily forgetting their predicament. "Ho, ho, ho," he bellowed, and then another "Ho, ho, ho." Though most of his new neighbors understood it as a holiday greeting, half a dozen working girls came running. "Sorry," Santa responded, blushing, "that wasn't exactly what I meant."

Grabbing a bottle of his best whiskey, he passed it around. "Merry Christmas, girls," he chortled.

Then it happened—there was the jingle of sleigh bells, a single reindeer and one merry Eddie-the-Elf with a bundle of gifts. The tents, sleeping bags, and Colemans were plentiful, and hundreds of homeless, displaced human beings got their holiday gifts.

"All these years," Santa reflected, "I've been looking for chimneys when I should have been here. Merry Christmas!"—he winked as he said it—"and, to all, a good night."

The author is a retired businessman, novelist, columnist, and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and the beloved ashes of their mongrel dog.