One of the funniest essays I've ever read.

Six To Eight Black Men
By David Sedaris


A heartwarming tale of Christmas in a foreign land where, if you've
been naughty, Saint Nick and his friends give you an ass-whuppin'.

I've never been much for guidebooks, so when trying to get my 
bearings in a strange American city, I normally start by asking the
cabdriver or hotel clerk some silly question regarding the latest 
census figures. I say silly because I don't really care how many 
people live in Olympia, Washington, or Columbus, Ohio.  They're 
nice enough places, but the numbers mean nothing to me. My second
question might have to do with average annual rainfall, which, 
again, doesn't tell me anything about the people who have chosen 
to call this place home.

What really interests me are the local gun laws. Can I carry a 
concealed weapon, and if so, under what circumstances? What's the
waiting period for a tommy gun? Could I buy a Glock 17 if I were 
recently divorced or fired from my job? I've learned from 
experience that it's best to lead into this subject as delicately
as possible, especially if you and the local citizen are alone and
enclosed in a relatively small space. Bide your time, though, and
you can walk away with some excellent stories. I've heard, for
example, that the blind can legally hunt in both Texas and 
Michigan. They must be accompanied by a sighted companion, but 
still, it seems a bit risky. You wouldn't want a blind person 
driving a car or piloting a plane, so why hand him a rifle? What
sense does that make? I ask about guns not because I want one of 
my own but because the answers vary so widely from state to state.
In a country that's become so homogenous, I'm reassured by these 
last touches of regionalism.

Guns aren't really an issue in Europe, so when I'm traveling 
abroad, my first question usually relates to barnyard animals. 
"What do your roosters say?" is a good icebreaker, as every country
has its own unique interpretation. In Germany, where dogs bark "vow
vow" and both the frog and the duck say "quack," the rooster greets
the dawn with a hearty "kik-a-ricki." Greek roosters crow "kiri-a-
kee," and in France they scream "coco-rico," which sounds like one
of those horrible premixed cocktails with a pirate on the label. 
When told that an American rooster says "cock-a-doodle-doo," my 
hosts look at me with disbelief and pity.

"When do you open your Christmas presents?" is another good 
conversation starter as it explains a lot about national character.
People who traditionally open gifts on Christmas Eve seem a bit 
more pious and family oriented than those who wait until Christmas
morning. They go to mass, open presents, eat a late meal, return 
to church the following morning, and devote the rest of the day to
eating another big meal.  Gifts are generally reserved for 
children, and the parents tend not to go overboard. It's nothing 
I'd want for myself, but I suppose it's fine for those who prefer
food and family to things of real value.

In France and Germany, gifts are exchanged on Christmas Eve, while
in Holland the children receive presents on December 5, in 
celebration of Saint Nicholas Day. It sounded sort of quaint until
I spoke to a man named Oscar, who filled me in on a few of the
details as we walked from my hotel to the Amsterdam train station.

Unlike the jolly, obese American Santa, Saint Nicholas is painfully
thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall
hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is 
a carryover from his former career, when he served as a bishop in 
Turkey.

One doesn't want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this
seemed completely wrong to me. For starters, Santa didn't use to 
do anything.  He's not retired, and, more important, he has 
nothing to do with Turkey. The climate's all wrong, and people
wouldn't appreciate him. When asked how he got from Turkey to the 
North Pole, Oscar told me with complete conviction that Saint 
Nicholas currently resides in Spain, which again is simply not 
true. While he could probably live wherever he wanted, Santa chose
the North Pole specifically because it is harsh and isolated. No 
one can spy on him, and he doesn't have to worry about people 
coming to the door. Anyone can come to the door in Spain, and in
that outfit, he'd most certainly be recognized. On top of that,
aside from a few pleasantries, Santa doesn't speak Spanish. He 
knows enough to get by, but he's not fluent, and he certainly 
doesn't eat tapas.

While our Santa flies on a sled, Saint Nicholas arrives by boat 
and then transfers to a white horse.  The event is televised, and
great crowds gather at the waterfront to greet him. I'm not sure 
if there's a set date, but he generally docks in late November and
spends a few weeks hanging out and asking people what they want.

"Is it just him alone?" I asked. "Or does he come with backup?"

Oscar's English was close to perfect, but he seemed thrown by a 
term normally reserved for police reinforcement.

"Helpers," I said. "Does he have any elves?"

Maybe I'm just overly sensitive, but I couldn't help but feel 
personally insulted when Oscar denounced the very idea as grotesque
and unrealistic. "Elves," he said. "They're just so silly."

The words silly and unrealistic were redefined when I learned that
Saint Nicholas travels with what was consistently described as "six
to eight black men." I asked several Dutch people to narrow it 
down, but none of them could give me an exact number. It was always
"six to eight," which seems strange, seeing as they've had hundreds
of years to get a decent count.

The six to eight black men were characterized as personal slaves 
until the mid-fifties, when the political climate changed and it 
was decided that instead of being slaves they were just good 
friends. I think history has proven that something usually comes
between slavery and friendship, a period of time marked not by 
cookies and quiet times beside the fire but by bloodshed and 
mutual hostility. They have such violence in Holland, but rather
than duking it out among themselves, Santa and his former slaves
decided to take it out on the public. In the early years, if a
child was naughty, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men
would beat him with what Oscar described as "the small branch of
a tree."

"A switch?"

"Yes," he said. "That's it. They'd kick him and beat him with a 
switch. Then, if the youngster was really bad, they'd put him in 
a sack and take him back to Spain."

"Saint Nicholas would kick you?"

"Well, not anymore," Oscar said. "Now he just pretends to kick 
you."

"And the six to eight black men?"

"Them, too."

He considered this to be progressive, but in a way I think it's 
almost more perverse than the original punishment. "I'm going to 
hurt you, but not really."  How many times have we fallen for that
line? The fake slap invariably makes contact, adding the elements
of shock and betrayal to what had previously been plain, old-
fashioned fear. What kind of Santa spends his time pretending to 
kick people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then, of 
course, you've got the six to eight former slaves who could 
potentially go off at any moment. This, I think, is the greatest
difference between us and the Dutch. While a certain segment of 
our population might be perfectly happy with the arrangement, if
you told the average white American that six to eight nameless 
black men would be sneaking into his house in the middle of the
night, he would barricade the doors and arm himself with whatever
he could get his hands on.

"Six to eight, did you say?"

In the years before central heating, Dutch children would leave 
their shoes by the fireplace, the promise being that unless they
planned to beat you, kick you, or stuff you into a sack, Saint 
Nicholas and the six to eight black men would fill your clogs 
with presents. Aside from the threats of violence and kidnapping,
it's not much different from hanging your stockings from the 
mantel. Now that so few people have a working fireplace, Dutch 
children are instructed to leave their shoes beside the radiator,
furnace, or space heater. Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black
men arrive on horses, which jump from the yard onto the roof. At 
this point, I guess, they either jump back down and use the door, 
or they stay put and vaporize through the pipes and electrical 
wires. Oscar wasn't too clear about the particulars, but, really,
who can blame him? We have the same problem with our Santa. He's 
supposed to use the chimney, but if you don't have one, he still 
manages to come through. It's best not to think about it too hard.

While eight flying reindeer are a hard pill to swallow, our 
Christmas story remains relatively simple. Santa lives with his 
wife in a remote polar village and spends one night a year 
traveling around the world. If you're bad, he leaves you coal. If
you're good and live in America, he'll give you just about anything
you want. We tell our children to be good and send them off to bed,
where they lie awake, anticipating their great bounty. A Dutch 
parent has a decidedly hairier story to relate, telling his 
children, "Listen, you might want to pack a few of your things 
together before you go to bed. The former bishop from Turkey will 
be coming along with six to eight black men. They might put some 
candy in your shoes, they might stuff you in a sack and take you 
to Spain, or they might just pretend to kick you. We don't know 
for sure, but we want you to be prepared."

This is the reward for living in Holland. As a child you get to 
hear this story, and as an adult you get to turn around and repeat
it. As an added bonus, the government has thrown in legalized drugs
and prostitution-so what's not to love about being Dutch?

Oscar finished his story just as we arrived at the station. He was
a polite and interesting guy-very good company-but when he offered
to wait until my train arrived, I begged off, saying I had some 
calls to make. Sitting alone in the vast terminal, surrounded by 
other polite, seemingly interesting Dutch people, I couldn't help
but feel second-rate. Yes, it was a small country, but it had six
to eight black men and a really good bedtime story. Being a fairly
competitive person, I felt jealous, then bitter, and was edging
toward hostile when I remembered the blind hunter tramping off 
into the Michigan forest. He might bag a deer, or he might happily
shoot his sighted companion in the stomach. He may find his way 
back to the car, or he may wander around for a week or two before
stumbling through your front door. We don't know for sure, but in
pinning that license to his chest, he inspires the sort of 
narrative that ultimately makes me proud to be an American.