My parents didn’t have much at Christmas when they were kids. My mum remembers one year she got an orange, and it was a big deal. For our first few years in Canada, money was tight. Somehow, they still gave us ridiculous Christmases. I mean, Santa helped. But still.

My brother, my sister, and I would get up early, run downstairs, see our piles of presents, wake up my parents—who always seemed strangely tired to me—and then take turns opening gift after gift. I remember an Atari 2600. A GI Joe hovercraft. A Norco Spitfire BMX. Awesome.

Anyway, as we grew up, my parents took to hiding our gifts off-site, because my brother was a snoopy bastard. One year, they hid everything at our neighbours, the Browns. We lived in the country, so they were pretty far away. Christmas Eve, there was a massive ice storm.

My dad—we call him Dodo—couldn’t get the station wagon out to fetch the gifts. So he walked, on the ice, back and forth, all night long. Of course, that was the year my brother got a set of barbells. Christmas Day, Dodo fell asleep facedown on the floor. I thought he was drunk.

Another year, my parents hid the presents at their work: By then, they both taught at Sir Sandford Fleming College in Peterborough, Ontario. The college never closed. Late on Christmas Eve, Dodo drives to school and—the doors are locked. All the doors are locked.

Disaster. He’s pulling and pushing and clattering to no avail. Finally, he sees a light down the side of the main building, spilling from the faculty lounge. This was back when we still got heaps of snow, and soon Dodo’s up to his goolies in snow, trudging toward the light.

He reaches the window, and—sure enough, the night watchman is inside the lounge. More specifically, he’s inside his girlfriend, on top of the couch, inside the lounge. Dodo stands in the dark like a murderer and watches this guy stuffing her stocking. What to do?

He draws some uncomfortable decision trees in the snow. He has to get the presents. That’s not a debate. Does he wait for them to finish and then make his presence known somehow? Does he sit in the car and assume the guy will unlock the door when he’s done?

Dodo chooses to do none of those things. Instead, he POUNDS on the window. BANG BANG BANG BANG. The guy levitates out of his girlfriend. The way Dodo tells it, the dude was hanging in the air like Michael Jordan. The poor girl, meanwhile, screams and turns inside out.

Whenever I imagine the scene, which is surprisingly often, I picture a cat jumping because it’s just been scared within an inch of its life. I mean, who’s going to show up on Christmas Eve? Oh that’s right. Dodo. Dodo’s gonna show up and absolutely ruin your shit.

Let’s pause to reflect for a moment: The guard doesn’t know Dodo works at the college. All he knows is that a crazed man who looks like Bob Hoskins is banging on the glass on Christmas Eve, gesticulating toward the front doors. Do you let him in? I don’t think I do.

But after getting dressed, the night watchman meets my dad at the doors. They both apologize profusely to each other. “I have to get my children’s presents,” Dodo says, pushing past the stricken man toward his office. The guy ends up helping him load the wagon. So to speak.

“Merry Christmas,” Dodo says, and he drives away. We woke up none the wiser. But every Christmas, I think about that guy and his seasonal PTSD. BANG BANG BANG BANG. He must hear that shit in his sleep. I wouldn’t be surprised if he lives in a house without windows.

“Merry Christmas,” someone says, and the man jumps out of his skin. So hey, Mr. Night Watchman who worked at Fleming in the mid-80s. I’m proud of your Christmas Eve seductive powers, and I’m sorry you’ve been unable to maintain an erection since. Merry Christmas.