Sunday Morning Hot Tea - No. 2
In this edition:
Topic of the Week – Going Home
Legal Question – Enforceability of the Santa Clause
TOPIC THIS WEEK: Going Home
I went home to visit my mom for her birthday last weekend. As I drove down the street toward my childhood home, I noticed how different the neighborhood looked. None of the houses have been torn down. No buildings have been put up in their place. It was different because all the cars have changed. The neighbors I remember in the snapshot of my mind from all the years I spent growing up there have moved on, and new cars have now been parked in their driveways.
The vehicle that stuck out the most was a red truck parked in front of my parents’ house. Even though my father died in 2017, I still think of it as their house, our family home. I was lucky enough to spend birth through age 18 inside the same four walls. That means I have incredibly vivid memories of growing up there. It’s pretty easy to remember things when the setting is always the same.
At the same time, it’s also so strange going inside the house now because, while everything is the same, it’s all much smaller. The house hasn’t actually changed. But, as a kid, everything seemed so huge and grown-up sized. Now as a grown-up, I feel like Gulliver in Lilliput, stomping around with my giant shoes, turning tiny doorknobs, plopping my wide, destructive behind on a miniature toilet seat.
I should clarify that this is only my perspective. In reality, it is a regular size toilet. They are regular size doorknobs. I'm pretty sure I have average sized feet. But the way that they’ve been burned into my brain is completely different than reality. It makes me wonder if all the things I remember about growing up there truly happened the way I thought they did, or if they’ve been warped by perspective. Shrank or blown up, burned in or forgotten.
That’s the hard thing about trying to go back to a place. Even if the walls still stand, the place is necessarily different because of time. Things get worn out. You grow. Things seem smaller. Or, maybe they really do shrink. (It's entirely possible my mom is subtly miniaturizing things in her home year-by-year in order to mess with my head.)
So even though I can go home in theory, I can’t really go home. Walking the halls, everything is exactly the same but totally different.
Take the living room for example. The spot where our Christmas tree used to stand every year is now filled by my grandmother’s cedar chest. There’s a slot machine on top of it, the result of my and my brother-in-law Aaron’s impulsivity as we shopped for a casino party that got a little out of hand. Next to that is my mom's mini trampoline where she does her aerobics. It is also a convenient plaything for my four-year-old niece. But those things won't be moved aside this year for the placement of a tree.
Even though the tree no longer has a space, I can still see the silhouette of where it would stand. I can imagine how the lights would bounce off the walls. The way we would spread our gifts out on that old thick brown carpet we grew up with, replaced long ago with a light pink medium pile.
The brown wooden shutters where we used to hang our stockings are still there. We could still hang our stockings, I guess. But it wouldn't be the same. The years passing means that the definition of home changes. If I hung my stocking back in that house in Mesquite, I wouldn’t get any candy. Santa doesn’t stop there for me anymore.
Anyway, the red truck caught my eye that day because, for decades, my dad's work van stayed parked in that spot. No one else parked there, ever. It was a known fact of the neighborhood. When he switched jobs several decades ago and sold the van, long after I'd moved out, I guess the spot came up for grabs.
As I pulled up last weekend, the red truck in that spot was a punch to the gut, a sharp reminder of something that’s impossible to forget. The years have passed, and he’s gone.
But just because something is lost doesn’t mean it’s over. Walking down that hallway beside the generations of faces framed and hanging on the walls, sitting in the living room imagining the tree in its old space, standing in the backyard where I spent year after year running and falling and playing pretend: there is still a buzz. The energy of a joyful life that, although it has moved on, never really left.
Speaking of visits from Santa Claus...
QUESTIONS FROM YOU
This question comes from Jamie via the submission form.
"Is the Santa Clause legally enforceable? What steps could Tim Allen's character have taken if he wanted to contest the spirit of Christmas?"
Great question, Jamie. First, I want you to know I love you very much because I re-watched The Santa Clause in preparation of your question. That being said, I only love you to a certain extent because I refused to watch parts 2 or 3. Yes, we all live in a world where there are 3 Santa Clauses.
For those of you unfamiliar with the movie franchise, the premise of the first film is that Scott Calvin (Tim Allen), divorced father and toy executive, discovers Santa on his roof on Christmas Eve. Calvin screams at Kris Kringle, which causes him to fall off the roof and slam on the ground. A grim inciting incident for a children's movie for sure. As he is rifling inside Santa's pocket, Calvin finds a card that, on first glance, reads, "If something should happen to me, put on my suit. The reindeer will know what to do." He puts on the suit and (SPOILER ALERT) transforms into Santa throughout the movie.
I'll address each part of Jamie's question in turn. But first - this thought experiment requires us to assume that Santa's magic comports with the American common law system. So let's just assume for a minute that it does.
Is the Santa Clause legally enforceable?
The language of the "contract" appears to read "If something should happen to me, put on my suit. The reindeer will know what to do." But the ultra-super-small fine print reads:
"In putting on this suit and entering the sleigh, the wearer waives any and all rights to any previous identity, real or implied, and fully accepts the duties and responsibilities of Santa Claus in perpetuity until such time that that wearer becomes unable to do so by either accident or design."
In order to have a binding contract, parties need offer, acceptance, meeting of the minds, and consideration (aka an exchange of value). The parties also have to be of age and in their right minds, also known as having "capacity." The contract also cannot before something illegal, like the sale of drugs.
All the language on the card could be considered an offer, capable of being accepted. Bernard the elf even says, "In putting on the suit, you accepted the contract." It sure sounds like Scott Calvin made an acceptance. Even so, if Scott Calvin still wants out of the contract, he can try to do so by going to court.
Before you sue someone, you have to decide in what court you're going to do it. Sometimes parties decide this in advance by including in their contracts via a "forum selection" clause. They can also decide what law will govern via a "choice of law" clause.
The Santa Clause card is silent as to both. There is no indication whether Illinois or North Pole law would govern or in what court the parties would bring their grievances.
For ease of reference, let's assume Scott Calvin would sue in federal court, applying Illinois law. You sue in federal court when there is “diversity of parties,” meaning the parties are from different places - for instance, a toy executive from Illinois suing a beloved figure from the North Pole. (Note: There's a lot more to federal diversity jurisdiction than this, but it's boring and outside the scope of this and anyway doesn't apply because we're talking magic so don't @ me with any Erie doctrine stuff.)
Once he's decided to sue, Scott Calvin would attack the contract on two levels, both having to do with the incredibly small font size.
The Clause is procedurally unconscionable, so a court should refuse to enforce it under Illinois Commercial Code §-302, and
There was no meeting of the minds because Calvin didn't know, and could not have known at the time of acceptance, what the card said.
Illinois courts use the facts and circumstances around a contract to determine whether a contract is unconscionable. One fact courts in Illinois consider is the size of the font and whether a party had the opportunity to see language before entering into the contract. Arguably, the Santa Clause is unconscionable because the tiny font meant Scott Calvin had no way of seeing the language before putting on the suit. He should ask the court not to enforce the contract.
Similarly, because he was unable to read the language, he could argue there was no meeting of the minds. It required a super duper magical magnifying glass at the North Pole for him to read the tiny font. How could he properly accept a contract whose terms he could not read? He could argue the parties failed to come to an agreement, and therefore, there was no contract.
I think that brings us to the second half of Jamie's question:
What steps could Tim Allen's character have taken if he wanted to contest the spirit of Christmas?
All that analysis is great, but who would Scott Calvin sue? The Santa whose death he caused had long since disappeared. Plus, the Santa Clause was not between Scott Calvin and the now-dead-former Santa, but was instead between Calvin and the general Santa entity. What entity is that? Who knows. Maybe the Spirit of Christmas itself?
When filing suit, Scott Calvin would need to specify the person he is suing aka the defendant. He would also have to serve the defendant with the lawsuit, and therefore would need to specify where they live so that they may be served. Scott Calvin has been to the North Pole, but I'm not so sure he could articulate the address. Plus, once he or a very costly process server got to The North Pole, who is the person to be served? Santa, who is now Scott himself?
He could serve the lawsuit on Bernard the elf as a representative of The Spirit of Christmas/Santa, Inc. since in the course of his employment, Bernard seems to have an understanding of the logistical inner workings of the place and familiarity with the contract. But Bernard is merely an agent working on behalf of Santa entity, in whatever form it may be.
All that to say: deciding on who to name as the counter-party and then determining who properly acts as representative of that counter-party would be a pretty big obstacle for Scott Calvin.
In the end of the film, Scott Calvin embraces his role and seems happy in his new life as Santa. That would mean the lawsuit is moot. A court will dismiss a claim as "moot" when there has been a change of the parties involved that make the underlying action pointless.
In this case, there has been a change with Scott Calvin. First of all, he seems to no longer exist as a separate individual person - contractually (and magically) he relinquished his previous identity. Secondly, he's happy! His kid finally respects him. His ex-wife is no longer mad at him. Ex-wife's new husband is intimidated by Scott in his role. He no longer has to go to work with his terribly rude fatphobic coworkers. Why would he try and get out of that deal?
Finally, his transformation has put him into a tough spot because Scott himself is now the very person/representative of the entity he would be suing. As to whether you can sue yourself, that's a question for another day.
Short answer - the Clause itself is some bullshit. Font's too tiny. But even so, Calvin is hosed since there's really no one to sue. That's what happens when you mess with magic. Tim Allen should have stayed in bed and kept his eyes closed, then he would never have killed Santa and started this mess in the first place. Let that be a lesson to us all this Christmas! Stay your ass in bed.
I hope that answers the question. Thanks, Jamie!
Got a question? Submit it here. They can be legal what-if questions, or questions about the legality of actions in TV shows or movies you’ve seen. I never ever want to answer your personal legal questions, so don't send those. Love you, but I don’t do that.
Until next week, good day and good tea. (Is this one any better?)
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