SANTA'S HELPER : Initiated into the conspiracy.

We took Santa Claus very seriously in my house, and in many ways I still do. This is an odd confession, I admit, coming from a twenty-four-year- old born and raised in New York City. Writers are told to avoid cliches like the plague (there I go again...) and I realize there is no more hackneyed a literary persona than poor Old Saint Nick. But I hope you will indulge me in a peculiar coming-of-age story.

As a young boy, I had an image of Santa Claus pieced together from children's stories, seasonal television shows, and holiday trips to Macy's. At first, the variety of these Santas did not bother me. But as I grew older, I became puzzled by Santa's many manifestations. Why would he whittle away his time at a mall when he clearly ought to be up north getting things done? Why did that short, balding fellow in Miracle on 34th Street look nothing like that obnoxious Santa in A Christmas Story? For some reason, discrepancies between school Christmas pageants at Saint Gabriel School and the gospels didn't bother me as much.

Despite my curious nature, I remained a firm believer in Santa. I began concocting an elaborate schema to accommodate his multiple personalities. Mall Santas, I concluded, were merely ambassadors carrying out orders, Santa-inspired movies the work of some northern PR machine looking to saturate the market, etc.

So when my friend David Fogler gave me the bad news about Saint Nick in sixth grade-his voice echoing off the tile bathroom floors like some schoolyard Grinch-I did not believe him. (Of course, I didn't tell him as much.) But the news shook my faith, and I began looking for the cracks in my system. What if all mail for Santa was just tossed into a backroom at the post office? What if mall Santas were really just, well, mall Santas? My suspicions were finally confirmed that Christmas when I received two presents with the same wrapping paper: one read, "From Grandmother," the other "From Santa."

My parents officially broke the news to me a year later, but not in the manner that I had expected. It was Christmas Eve and my father asked me to stay downstairs while my seven younger siblings went to bed. He cornered me by the Christmas tree, and as he bore down upon me, I smiled slightly, thinking I was one step ahead of him. "Tim, could you help your mother put the presents out tonight?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, waiting for the official announcement of Santa's untimely demise.

But that was it. He turned away and headed toward the kitchen.

Puzzled by my father's elusiveness, I followed my mother into the garage, where-to my amazement-she uncovered dozens of wrapped presents from behind our Chevy station wagon. She handed them to me casually, asking me to bring them to the living room. Then we went to the basement, where she produced twice as many gifts, hidden beneath boxes of old sweaters. If my mother approached her job rather methodically (judging by her demeanor, we could have been taking out the garbage), then I carried out her orders in a state of awe-amazed not so much by the number of presents as by the fact that she had successfully hidden them from so many prying eyes.

As the reality about Santa became clear, I was simultaneously initiated into the vast conspiracy that keeps the truth hidden from the young. I began to realize that my Santa schema, while ultimately flawed, did have its merits. I was pleased by the existence of such conspiracy and my involvement in it. I was helping to perpetrate a fraud on my siblings, and, in spite of the urgings of the season, I was delighted.

These days, I am quite a scrupulous Santa Claus. When my youngest brothers go to bed on Christmas Eve, my mother and I go foraging through the house, retrieving presents. I routinely make sure that Santa's wrapping paper differs from Mom's wrapping paper. (I will not tolerate mistakes like those that shook my faith.) I also always make sure to eat half of the cookies and drink some of the milk left on the dining room table and, when no one is looking, I toss half-eaten carrots in the driveway, and slyly point to them on the way to church on Christmas morning. I suppose I am like that man I heard about somewhere who shovels deer-dung onto his roof every Christmas Eve.

Some may think that such childish pranks are beyond an educated man such as myself. But I find solace in such trickery. The way things are going, it doesn't seem I'll be involved in any sexy, international intrigue anytime soon. The Santa Conspiracy will have to do.

Maurice Timothy Reidy is an editorial assistant at Commonweal.