On Being Santa

Skyping Father Christmas? Things have
changed from the days when I was a kid.
 

Perhaps skyping is better than
Macky's "encounter" with Santa
last year. (You can read about that
from a previous blog entry:
A visit with St. Nick)

Now that Thanksgiving has passed, we may now turn our attention to the Christmas Season.

Provided, of course, that everyone adheres to the holiday guidelines established by the Bureau of Holiday Affairs.

I came home and found Macky Rae (my youngest dog) busy with something on the computer.
 

ME: What are you doing?

 

MACKY: Getting my Christmas list ready for Santa.

 

ME: Are you going to send him a letter?

 

MACKY: No, I'm going to email it to him.

Making a list and spellchecking it twice, no doubt.

ME: I suppose you are going to want me to take you to the mall.

 

MACKY: For what?

 

ME: To see Santa.

 

MACKY: We do not need to go to the mall.

 

ME: You don't want to see him?

 

MACKY: I do.

 

ME: Then how are you going to do that if we don't go to the mall?

 

MACKY: I'm going to Skype him.

 

 

 

I don't exactly know what Macky Rae wants for Christmas. His "list" is on the computer, but I don't know his password, so I will need to go in through a backdoor (thanks to administrative functions) and see if I can extract his list. But I do know that he would really (really) like the expansion pack for

ZombieLand™

Regular readers of this blog are aware the Macky Rae likes computer games. His favorite is ZombieLand™ which he has been playing for over two years.

The other dogs are easy. Freedom (my oldest) wants some R&B CDs. Sarah (my female) wants an MP3 player (with dog friendly earphones).

 

When I was a child, I wanted "Red Ryder carbine-action, two hundred shot Range Model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time."

I never got one.

My mother told me I would shoot my eye out.

1881 illustration by Thomas

Nast who, along with Clement

Clarke Moore's poem "A

Visit from St. Nicholas",

helped to create the modern

image of Santa Claus.

Believe it or not, one year I was actually hired to be a mall Santa Claus.

It's true!

The people in charge of Santa in the Mall approached me and offered me a seasonal job as Santa Clause. As it paid better than my day job, I accepted.

Those of you who know me (in person) know that I am nowhere near what anyone would expect St. Nick to look like. Although I am not exactly skinny (I am 6'3" and weight about 170#), my body hardy resembles the traditional depiction of St. Nicholas as a portly gentleman.

But with the assistance of stuffing removed from several pillows, the Head Elf and her assistant (Elf #1) managed to inflate the Santa outfit that I wore on duty, molding the foam into something that closely resembled the traditional visual of Papa Noel.

The first and main rule of being Santa is to remain in character. That meant keeping the fake beard on my face when in view of the public. We (me and the elves) did not want to do anything to dispel the notion that Santa is real. Some disgruntled parent might actually sue us for ruining their Christmas, or inflicting emotional damage to their child. That also meant not using profanity within earshot of young children.

There was a rough Script: Ho Ho Ho and Have you been a good boy/girl? and What do you want for Christmas? After a while the routine of asking if the child if he/she had been good all year seemed lame. After all, what child is dumb enough to confess past indiscretions to Santa?

So I decided to deviate from the script - with interesting results:

Two siblings a brother (age 4) and sister (age 7) came together, and after they had situated themselves on Santa's lap, I ask "So, who is the naughty child and who is the nice child?"

The answer surprised me.

The boy quickly raised his little finger, pointed at his sister, and said "She is! She's naughty. Our mom says she has a bad attitude!"

Bad attitude? This is not a word your typical four year old uses. I wonder where he learned that?

I'd have loved to hear what mom had to say on the subject

The sister tried to remained cool, but you could sense the guilt in her eyes.

The boy, using the logic of a four year old, reasoned that there was only going to be one child receiving a gift in that household, and he was going to make darn sure that Santa knew who did (and who didn't) deserve a Christmas gift - by snitching on his sister.

The first problem that we encountered was the heat. That much foam made the Santa suit warm. Quite warm. In order to not fall over from heat exhaustion, Santa needed a break about once an hour or so. The elves inform the assorted children (and their parents) that Santa needed to go check on his reindeer, but would be back in 5 minutes. Elf #1 would lead me out the side door so I could open up my Santa suit and cool off. Restroom breaks were more problematic. As Santa, I was not allowed to use the public restroom and I understand why. One year, I saw a Rent-a-Santa bell ringer taking a whizz in the restrooms. I knew this wasn't really Santa, but the visual remains with me to this day. So under the guise of feeding the reindeer, we wandered back to the empty room we used as a dressing room, then (after Elf #1 verified the cost was clear) I was allowed to use a small bathroom across the hall in the "Employees Only" part of the mall.

Another "cute" child was a boy, about 5 years old, who had the most angelic smile I had seen. He was nicely (warmly) dressed in a holiday sweater and slacks, and his hair was nicely combed (with dippy-doo hair gel).

So I asked the usual question: "Have you been a good boy?"

He assured me he had.

"All year?" I asked.

Again I was assured of his good behavior

"SO" I asked, "If I were to ask you mother, what would she tell me?"

The smile vanished from his face, and I swear I saw fear in his eyes.

He hadn't figured on this. He turned his face towards his mother (who was chatting with the Head Elf about the different photo packages), no doubt contemplating the information that his mother would reveal upon Santa's request. He hadn't counted on that, and he didn't have a back-up plan. He looked back at me, and I could see it in his eyes.

In his little heart, he knew he was getting coal in his stocking.

Sweat began to form on his forehead.

OK, I'm making that up.

I waited a moment then let him off the hook.

"Have you been mostly good?"

He assured me he had.

I then asked him what he wanted for Christmas, to which he told me several items that he would prefer to find under the family Christmas tree rather than coal.

To this day, I wonder just what "Dennis the Menace" might have done to fear receiving coal.

Growing up, my Santa smoked a pipe. My Uncle Theo said when he was growing up, Santa smoked Lucky Strikes.  One of the problems was smoking. At the time, I smoked and after an hour or so, Santa needed a smoke break. The problem was one of the "rules" was that I could not be seen by the children smoking. Which seems odd, at least to me, because growing up all the depictions of Santa Claus I saw showed him smoking a pipe. But heaven forbid these days if we have a smoking Santa. Like Joe Camel, this might cause children to start smoking - which leads to other drug usage, premarital sex, and listening to devil music. We can't be having this. So what we had to do was go on another "reindeer check." Near Santa's Magic Kingdom was a side hallway (marked employees only) which led outside, behind the mall. Elf #1 would go out first and look around, and if the coast was clear (i.e. no children) Santa would hide behind the dumpster, remove his beard, and smoke a cigarette. And open the suit to cool off. Elf #1 would keep watch (just in case).   After Santa finished smoking, Elf #1 spritzed Santa's mouth with breath spray, so he didn't smell like Marlboros. He smelled like Christmas Mint. And Chanel #5. Elf #1 also spritzed the Santa suit with her perfume so it didn't smell like smoke One of my co-workers from my regular job just happened to be coming to work one time when me and Elf #1 were smoking. He commented later that it looked bad to him, and wondered what Santa and a cute female elf were doing behind the dumpster. "Get your mind out of the gutter" I told him. "Santa doesn't do things like that." Not behind a dumpster, anyhow. This Santa had more class than that.

As a mall Santa, you had to be ready for some clever questions:

One child asked me where were my reindeer.

A good question.

Upon arriving at the mall with her mother, she no doubt noticed that there were no reindeer in the parking lot.

So where were they?

I had to think quickly

"They're on the roof" I told her.

And that made sense to her. After all, if you have flying reindeers, why park in a crowded parking lot, when there was all that space available on the roof.

Another child asked me what makes reindeer fly.

Another good question as deer, rein or other, are not aerodynamic.

Being a child of the 70s, and having listened to Cheech and Chong, my first thought was to say magic dust.

If you were a child of the 70s and/or listened to Cheech and Chong, you will know that reference.

If not, here is a YouTube video of Santa and His Old Lady:

In that his (the child's) parents were within earshot, and the chances were good that either one of them may have also been children of the 70s and/or listened to Cheech and Chong, I thought it wise not to go with my first impulse.

I had to think (fast) and then I recalled from a Rankin and Bass stop animation Christmas special (Rudolph) that the deer learned flight at reindeer games. They practice jumping, going higher and higher until finally they are able to remain airborne.

I told this to the boy, who accepted this (he no doubt had also seen the special).

Myself, I still believe the magic dust explanation.

I was also told no flirting. I wasn't flirting with the mothers, but with the woman who ran the gizmo shop near the Winter Wonderland. She was rather cute. I even offered her a candy cane. The Head Elf told me to quit flirting in the Santa Suit, as it was inappropriate.

 
While wearing the Santa suit, you would not immediately recognize me.

So when a young couple to whom I was acquainted showed up with their son, I had a little Christmas magic trick.

"Ho! Ho! Ho!"

Actually, I never Ho! Ho! Ho! when I was Santa.

"Well, look who has come to see me: My little friend Liam"

Liam, smiling, came over and sat on my lap.

His parents looked confused and startled. Nobody had mentioned the child's name, yet Santa called him by his name. His correct name.

This mad perfect sense to Liam. After all Santa know everyone, right? He proceeded to confirmed his goodness for the preceding year, and then tell me what he wanted for Christmas.

The parents were puzzled. Liam isn't that common of a name, so the chance that Santa happened to guess it was unlikely.

To this day, they still don't know just how Santa managed to do that.

Sorry to inform you, but
you are on the naught list.

You are the reason Santa
even has a naught list.

Bill was working at a Christmas kiosk to earn a bit of money during the season. I knew him from here and there.

It was a slow time an Santa's Toyland (there were no children waiting to see Santa) when Bill walked past , on his way out of the Mall for a smoke break. Elf #1 and Elf #2 (who was hired as a part time elf) called to him, flirtingly, inviting him to come visit with Santa. He smile, verbally declined their offer, and continued on his way to the doors.

"Not so fast, William" I boomed out in a Santa voice.

Bill stopped in his tracks, and turned around, and re-approached the North Pole mini-station.

"How does Santa Claus know my name?" he asked

"Santa knows everyone's name, and he also knows what you were doing this weekend."

And I did, because I was at the same party.

His face turned white.

Let's just say that what he did that weekend would not be appropriate in this blog.

For a brief moment in his adult life, Bill believed in Santa (because Santa knew specifically how naught he had been.)

 Santa Claus and the reindeer work the graveyard shift in the middle of winter. You know they be drinking some coffee! Another issue was coffee. I've mentioned a few times that I'm a coffee drinker. Another one of the Santa rules was that I could not patronize any of the stores while in uniform. This (unfortunately) included the mall coffee shop. Ok, I understood about the restrooms, and the smoking, and I realize that it might not look good if Kris Kringle was patronizing a retailer (it might look like an endorsement). But coffee? So, in order to get a Raspberry Mocha, I had to send Elf #1 to the coffee shop. It was OK for the elves to go get coffee, but not Santa. So I gave Elf #1 my debit card and she headed out to the coffee shop. After a few moments, a thought occurred to me: I go to that coffee shop frequently, enough that I am on a first name basis with all the baristas. Knowing me by name, they are going to know that Elf #1 is not me, and (possible) have her detained for theft. So I grabbed my cellphone and called the shop. ME: Hey Debbie, this is Doug... DEB: Hi Doug. ME: I got someone coming over to pick up a coffee for me. DEB: Your usual? ME: Uh, yeah. Raspberry Mocha. I told you they knew me. DEB: I'll get it started. ME: Thanks. She moves away from the phone and tells the crew to start a Raspberry Mocha. In the background, I hear someone ask "Is it for Doug?" I told you they knew me. ME: The reason I called is that the girl will be using my debit card, and I just wanted you to know it was OK to accepted it. DEB: It's Christmas. Do you think we have time to read the names on the debit cards? ME: Probably not. DEB: We'll have you drink ready by the time she.. A sudden pause of silence ME: Are you there? DEB: Uh, yeah. An elf just walked into the shop. ME: That's her. She's got my debit card. And if she wants something, put it on my card.

So this young couple come to Santa's Kingdom, carrying a baby. Now, I knew this would happen eventually and I knew eventually I would be forced to pose with at least one.

Might have been the team captain.

I don't like to hold babies. It's not that I don't like babies, its just that I am afraid that I might break them. I'm told that this is an irrational fear, that babies are (despite appearance) quite durable and about the only way to break them is to slam them against a brick wall or drop then from a third story balcony - although you should never do this.

But I don't want to chance it.

What I'm afraid of, is some years later going my high school alma mater to watch the homecoming game (Go Bombers!) with some parents. As we watch the game, some kid with a bad leg is limping around and passing out sport drinks to the player.

"Look" my friend says. "There's my son, the waterboy. He would have been the quarterback except somebody broke him when he was a baby!"

That's more guilt than I want to carry through my life.

So this young couple come to Santa's Kingdom, carrying a baby. Now, I knew this would happen eventually.

And it was about to happen.

I braced my self, and readied myself to hold (and not break) the small child. The proud parents trustingly placed their progeny into my arms. I looked down at the baby, a girl (judging by the pink clothing) and intoned the traditional mantra of "My, what a lovely baby" that is often spoke upon examining a small, human infant.

But wait. There was something wrong. This was a small baby - my dogs are bigger than this baby was.

"How old is she?" I asked.

"She was born 10pm Saturday night."

It was now 11:38am on a Wednesday, which meant the baby wasn't even four days old yet. You could still faintly smell womb on the child.

OK, I am exaggerating here. I know that you can't smell the scent of female reproductive organ on a newborn infant. Please, nobody e-mail me about this.

I froze and did not move out of fear that the slightest movement on my part would break the child (and forever deny the child the opportunity to become a cheerleader). The proud parents, both wearing matching holiday sweaters that were (in my humble opinion) tacky, knelt on either side of me, and smiled their Christmas smile as the Head Elf took the picture.

Somewhere out there, there is a photo in someone's family album (labeled Baby's First Christmas) in which, years later, people looking at it are puzzled by how stiff Santa looks, and the nervous expression on his face.

According to Macky Rae: On Christmas Eve, people can easily track Santa as he makes his journey all around the globe. Norad Tracks Santa Macky Rae is planning to utilize this.

And it wasn't just the young that came to see Santa. One afternoon, a resident of a local assisted living facility were brought to Santa's Toyland to have her pictures taken, perhaps to be given to family members or possibly used as a picture Christmas card.

And that was OK. I like old people.

The woman was old, and I mean old (She later mentioned she was 93). She was confined to a wheel chair, and the caregiver wheeled her up to me (in order to pose for the camera).

I was not fond of her caregiver.

The caregiver, who was a young woman no older than 25, was talking to the older woman like she was a child.

"Now Claire, tell Santa what you want for Christmas."

Claire rolled her eyes.

In my family, disrespecting the elderly was not allowed.

So with this woman treating Claire (who was obviously still in complete possession of all her mental faculties) disrespectfully, Santa was not pleased.

Let's just say the Santa wanted to give the caregiver a peppermint enema, and let it go at that.

But I digress

I turned my attention to Claire.

ME: So, what do you want for Christmas?

CLAIRE: I'm ninety-three years old. What would you suggest?

ME: I don't know. You're probably to old for a Barbie doll.

That got a pleasant smile out of her.

CLAIRE: How about a twenty year old Frenchman?

ME: Do you think you can handle him?

The mischievous smile of a twenty-three year old Claire appeared on her lips.

ME: I'll see what I can do.

My time as Santa was some years ago, so I am almost certain that Claire is no longer with us (if she is, she is now over 100 years old). She made my Christmas Season brighter with her attitude. Physically, she couldn't handle a young lover, French or otherwise.

But she wanted to at least try.

I want to be the ornery when I'm that old.





---

In memory of
Amanda Marie Stueckle

When I decided on this entry, and began writing it (about two month ago), I meant for it only to be a simple Christmas story.

Sadly, it has become a bit more.

Amanda, who was the Elf #1 mentioned repeatedly in this story, died November 24, along with her life partner Jason McCready and their dog Buddy, the result of carbon monoxide poisoning.

Both of them left children, family, and friends who will miss them.

She was preceded in death by her Mother, Juanita, who was the Head Elf (also mentioned in the story)

Merry Christmas to both of you, wherever you are.

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