Blog: Lessons learned: Don’t listen to poolside philosophers and, for the love of Pete, don’t fat-shame Santa

Then, as I crested toward maximum discomfort, Santa Claus appeared. Reindeer-less and looking utterly drained, he slogged through the terminal to a bank of pay phones less than 20 feet from me. Santa picked up a phone, punched in a long number, waited a few seconds and said, “Yeah, collect call from Richard.” A beat. Then: “Hi, I’m on the 7:20.”