The following is the first of three unauthorized copies of columns written by John Coit. This material is copyrighted by the Rocky Mountain News. You should probably read this entry first.

The man in the suit is a fantasy creature

Dec. 2, 1984

WHENEVER it is time to deal with The Great Claus - the man, the myth, the message - I find myself thinking of C.S. Blount, God rest him, who let me in on the real story.

He was, as far as I'm concerned, Santa Claus, and how I know that is a longer story than I can tell here. What's important is that after a few days with that old, gentle man, I was convinced that everything I knew about The Mysteries as a child was true.

Now Blount never said that he was Santa Claus. He did Santa gigs in the Crabtree Valley Mall in Raleigh, N.C.

The evidence, however, showed that his hair was white and long, as was his beard, and that his eyes were 2,000 years old, and he never had a child upon his knee who didn't look up at him with the utmost respect and absolute knowledge that this was The Very One.

Blount, in street clothes, talked like a redneck from Butner because in street clothes that's what he was.

On the throne of The Great Claus, though, he had no accent.

Weird.

I asked him about it.

In his tobacco flats accent he would say: "I cain't tell you why thet is. Jus' is. When'er I git to be him, wall, I jus' am him. See?"

So that came to mind last week, standing in a horse stall at 16th and Wazee streets, changing into a Santa suit. The stall belonged to the carriage people who were going to tow me to the Central Bank so that I could help those boys light their Christmas tree and give out candy to the nippers.

When'er I git to be him, wall, I jus' am him.

The Kid was hanging around, looking at me in that way that he does when he thinks I've stepped over the line. I came out on the street and started smoking a cigarette, waiting for the carriage guys to get it together.

"Daddy, cross the street."

He never calls me Daddy unless he wants undivided attention.

I looked across the street, and there was this little kid waving like crazy.

The Kid knew a believer when he saw one. I spit out the cigarette and fixed the beard.

"Ho, Ho, Ho. Merry Christmas, darlin'," I said as I waved.

This called to mind a bit of advice from Jimmy James, the producing clown of the Clyde Beatty Circus, where I worked for a while.

James gave me a face and taught me the ways of the mime. He was as wise a man as I ever knew.

"Never," said James, "walk off clown alley with a cigarette in your mouth or a curse on your lips or a black thought in your heart. Children don't see a man dressed in a costume and wearing a painted face. They see a creature of fantasy, and to them it's real. If you're going to be a clown, then you must never violate their trust."

Night had come by the time we headed up 17th Street.

The Kid took off with some PR lady from the bank, and I was alone, sitting in the back of the carriage, listening to the clipping hooves against the pavement.

Downtown Denver is beautiful this time of year. The Christmas decorations are up, and there is that Alpine nip in the night air, and people are in what I like to think is a special, focused hurry.

We passed sidewalks full of people who waved almost compulsively....

There was more of a mob at the Central Bank than I expected. Thousands of kids.

Oh, well. I'm not me anymore anyway. I'm him.

It doesn't matter, as Blount used to say, how old you are, what race, what gender. When you put on the suit, you are him...

So, Santa got up on this little stage in front of the bank, across from the big Christmas tree, and waved.

Somebody announced that old Santa was going to give out candy.

They came like Dublin urchins, hands extended.

The Kid, assisting, started to laugh.

"Santa, you better pull up your pants," he said.

Ho, ho. Old Santa's pants were down around his knees, revealing a pair of 501s underneath.

The kids never noticed as they pressed closer, hundreds of them.

In a flash of panic, Santa decided to throw the candy into the crowd.

A minor children's riot ensued. They ran willy-nilly, trying to get the candy. A small tower with a speaker on top teetered and swayed, finally going over into the hands of a technician.

The chorus doing Christmas carols sang on, little ones scampering between their legs, looking for candy, which was now filling the air like rain, all from Santa's white-gloved hand, his other one holding up the red britches.

Never have a curse on your lips or a black thought in your heart.

"We better get outta here," said the Kid.

Santa waved, faded through the crowd and into the night.

The next week I went back to Santa school. This time I paid more attention.

After all, the transformation will happen again, at 6 p.m. Sunday in front of the Denver Center for the Performing Arts, with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.

Perhaps, as Blount suggested, experience will make a mere, costumed helper more like him.

We'll see. It is, after all, a magical season.

Stay tuned.