Photograph by Genaro Molina

James Zyla died yesterday. The people who knew him called this man by a different name: Santa James.

That’s because he wore a white beard and dressed like Santa Claus. He was legally-blind, a homeless man who lived on the streets of Kingman, Az. and pushed an overloaded cart along congested Stockton Hill Road, his companion toy rabbit riding shotgun as he trundled unsteadily between his haunts at supermarkets, fast-food joints and coffeehouses.

Motorists came to recognize him — who could they not? Some honked, others stopped to offer him money and food. And then one passersby’s generosity turned this town’s response from a trickle to a community river. People offered him gift certificates to Starbucks and McDonald’s, handed him a cup of coffee or bottle of water, bought him new Santa-themed clothing, including a stylish red hat with sparkly sequins. 

When residents learned he was nearly blind, they kept watch when he negotiated four-lane roads by sound and memory, vehicles whizzing past merely a blur.

“Watch out, Santa James!” they’d say.

I came to Kingman a few years ago to write about what would make a community rally around such an eccentric man, a tumbleweed among so many other homeless drifters who roll off Interstate 40.

Each told their own story of empathy and kindness.

Who is this character, this man in scarlet, they’d asked. Is he homeless? Does he have substance or emotional issues? He seemed harmless, because not once did anyone see him stick out his hand to beg, bother or steal.

Santa James, it turned out, was different, a polite man who greeted them in a charming British accent uncommon to rural Arizona. His last name, he said, rhymed with sarsaparilla, a lovely word he’d once used in a poem and decided to imitate. 

He was a musician who always carried a keyboard on which he could play anything, from rock and blues to country and Broadway tunes. He wrote songs influenced by music he heard on the radio growing up in England.

And no, he didn’t need a handout. He lived a shelterless life, avoiding checking accounts, rent payments and what he called the hassle of collecting Social Security checks. He hadn’t taken a drink in a decade.

The police even checked up on him, officers offering him him cold bottles of water on hot days. Community members raised money to buy him a new keyboard and find a hotel room so he could get off the streets. The police chief called him the community’s grandfather.

Eventually, Santa James’ Facebook page, which he updated on his iPad and filled with recollections and fiction, had more than 4,000 followers, many from Kingman, who cheerfully called out when they spot him around town.

“Who’s there?” he’d ask, raising his bushy eyebrows. “Do I know you?”

“It’s me, Santa James,” they’d say. And once they gave their names, he always placed them. His mind might wander a bit as he recited poems or recounted — for long stretches, non sequiturs galore — stories from the road. But tell him your name once, and he’d remember you.

I wrote a piece that pointed out a strange occurrence: In an era when American cities struggle with their homeless populations, Santa James was in fact celebrated, embraced like a long-lost friend.

My colleague, Genaro Molina, who came to town from Los Angeles to photograph Santa James, took the picture included with this post. It shows the man’s larger-than-life grandeur, how celebrity comes in all shapes and sizes and bank accounts.

Genaro later wrote about taking the photo that so captured an artful, evasive man:

“I was still searching for that one image that would go beyond the outfit we associate with Christmas when a strange thing happened. It was my third day accompanying him as he wandered the streets of Old Town Kingman. All of a sudden I realized I was so caught up in our conversation that I had forgotten how odd the situation was.

It was the passing stare of a stranger that reminded me I was walking with a guy dressed as Santa. The question in the back of my mind returned, “Have I made the image that defines this man?”

My answer came as we arrived back at his hotel. The sun was about to set and spears of amber light were slicing the desert landscape. I asked Santa James whether he would be up for one last portrait. He nodded his approval.

I lowered myself to capitalize on the deep blue sky as he stepped out of the shadows into a single shaft of light.

There was no mistaking this Santa for the one who resides in a polar landscape. He stood like a finished sculpture — formidable, proud and stoic. This was the definitive Santa James on the eastern edge of the Mojave Desert.”

The story about Santa James turned out not to be about a singular, whimsical man, but about what makes up a sense of community in America. While in Kingman, I met people who, for their own personal, often strange, reasons, came to care about Santa James.

They became Santa James’s friends. And two of them became my friends.

Pat Barry and his wife, Judy, had moved to this city six years before after selling their two gas stations in the San Fernando Valley. The combination of Kingman’s neighborly vibe and Santa James’ exuberance made their relationship work.

“There’s something about James,” Pat told me. “It’s his intelligence and his stories. There’s no negativity. He never asks for anything, but he always gives you something.”

With others, Pat became Santa James’ chauffeur, driving him to Las Vegas on shopping trips and to piano gigs he eventually got in a casino in the next town.

On those rides, Santa James would recite his poetry, mischievous verses about love and life:

“I was looking for a woman of  means and ended with with a mean woman

The woman of my dreams ended up being Freddy Krueger’s sister, Lorena

Another lady offered to do my laundry, and took me to the cleaners.”

Pat is himself a walker and soon after meeting Santa James, learned that the homeless man walked the streets at night. So he parked a van in a Safeway parking lot on the James’ route so he’d have a place to sleep. 

At first, Pat retrieved the vehicle each morning. Eventually, he left it there for more than a year, and gave Santa James the keys. He also took him to a truck stop for an occasional shower while Judy dutifully washed his clothes.

Santa James soon became a regular dinner guest. I remember this scene that took place as I reported the story, how much the couple cared for this man.

“Here, James,” Judy said lovingly as she placed a plate in front of him. “Do you want some more bread?” And then, “Pat, put some more quiche on his plate.”

“Thank you both very much,” Santa James replied with his proper British manners.

The story gave Santa James a splash of renown he’d missed for many years. Kingman officials awarded him the key to the city and pronounced a Santa James Day. He met a woman named Cathi Bent, who loved him like a mother and devoted fan, who took him into her home in California and promoted his health and sanity and career.

I stayed in touch with Judy and Pat. We had breakfast now and then and our regular calls always included updates on our favorite red-hatted Santa.

Pat and Judy have a huge family of successful children and grandkids, but they also kept a spot at the table and in their thoughts for Santa James.

The other day, Judy heard from Cathi that James was failing. Pat was upset; I could har it in his voice. He’s a religious man who bonded with James from the beginning, he told me, because he, too, had been an altar boy.

On a trip to Italy, Judy and Pat bought James a rosary at the Vatican. Cathi reported that   he had that rosary in this hands when he died.

James Zyla, thanks to people like Judy and Pat and Cathi, died what we have come to know as the good death — at home, in bed, surrounded by those who love you.

It was a gift to this man they called Santa.