Christmas: The Job

(from Story Magazine, Winter 1996)

When my friend Ken was twenty-five, he played in a band for a living. He was looking for extra work at Christmas time -- the market for his type of music being somewhat diminished in December, especially since he refused to play "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" -- and he saw an ad in the Spokane paper from some temporary service that said, BE SANTA! MAKE BIG MONEY! Just like that, in all capital letters. So Ken thought, you know, what a great way to earn money to buy everybody Christmas: He could be Santa.

Turns out nearly anybody could be Santa. All his years learning to play music and ten years of schooling at Bubble Water -- these did little to qualify him for the part of St. Nick. The agency only wanted to know three things.

"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?"

"Um, a felony? No ma'am."

"Are you willing to submit to a drug test?"

"Today? Yes, ma'am"

"Do you have your own transportation?"

"It's my grandfather's Dodge Dart."

This third answer nearly did Ken in, but once the vehicle was examined and proclaimed roadworthy by three of the crack staff -- one a supervisor -- he was admitted to Jolly Old Elf School. That's what they called it. It had a sign over the door and everything. Ken started staying at our cousin Denny's place until after Christmas.

In short, he was hired and Ken made arrangements to stay at our cousin Denny's place on the north hill of Spokane until Christmas when they would follow each other out to Bubble Water for the holiday.

The Elf School gave Ken The Kit: his regulation Santa suit, boots, hat, the patented Santa Pillow -- no kidding, they wouldn't let him pad himself with his own, or rather Denny's pillow. They had a special one that said "Santa Pillow" right on it, so you'd know it was the genuine item. He showed it to everyone on Christmas because no one believed him.

And he had the One Day Santa Seminar, which consisted of only -- and at great length -- these six rules:

a) Don't go around thingking you're really Santa Claus.

b) Don't "Hoo Ho Ho" too loudly; it scares the littler kids.

c) Don't promise 'em anything.

d) Always admit to being Santa's Helper, not Santa himself.

e) No drinking on the job.

f) Bring your own suitcase.

I asked Ken why you had to have a suitcase. You had to do that because you couldn't see Santa arrive at the mall in a Dodge Dart. Then you'd have to explain how the reindeer were sleeping or it was their day off or make up some excuse; you had to arrive in your own clothes and change in the mall offices. You had to bring the Santa costume in a suitcase so nobody would see you traipsing into the mall with the rumpled Santa evidence under your arm.

So there was Ken -- I guess it was about his third week as Santa, the day before Christmas Eve, and he pretty bored with the job about this time. He was at the mall, 10:00 in the morning, a Tuesday; nobody else in sight, and something happened.

Ken had a cup of coffee in one hand and a car magazine in the other. He was cranked way back in the Santa throne, still a little sleep-eyed, when he heard this little voice behind him.

He looked up, and it was this girl, maybe ten, and her little sister, probably around six. So he dropped the magazine, spilled the coffee, and said, "Oh, um, hi. . .ho, I mean, ha ha ha -- uh. . .what'll it be?" Or something like that.

They came over to Ken, looked him up and down. The younger one was very shy, and the older one was too adult to sit on his lap.

She just said, "I was wondering if I might speak to you about something."

So he said, "Yeees." And he smiled real big

"Our dad owns the T-Shirt shop over there. . . ." and she pointed to this store called The T-Shirtery or something like that.

The girl continued: "So we thought we could come and talk to you about something."

"Yes, and what would you want for Christmas."

"No, not that. It's our dad. He's keeping us today? We stay with him at least one week a month. Anyway, he says that our help is disturbing him in the shop. So we thought if it's okay we might come over here and help you."

And the little one said, "We could be Santa's Helpers."

Ken looked over at The T-Shirtery, and it didn' t look busy -- it seemed kind of empty, but I thought maybe the guy was taking inventory or something.

Ken said, "Yeah. Santa can always use a couple good helpers. You're not in the union, are you?"

The older one knew he was kidding, but the younger one was worried for a second, like she'd have to join the union.

Anyway, for the rest of the day, they were, in fact, his helpers. When the crowds got going, they kept everybody in line, they answered questions, they talked to the smaller kids and pointed at Ken and said things like, "There' s Santa, he's real nice, don't be nervous, he dresses that way all the time, he's our friend."

And, I guess because they were so little themselves, a kind of Christmas miracle happened. Not a single kid in line cried when they came and sat on Ken's lap. This is practically unheard-of in the Santa game.

At noon, they went and got lunch, a Chick-Fil-A. This really seemed to fascinate them -- Santa having the same thing for lunch that they did. They watched Ken eat like the were watching the Wise Men ride by.

And in the slow moments, they talked to him about . . .you know . . .life: which Crayola color was the best, how did he get along with Mrs. Claus, which were his reindeer -- always objects of complete fascination for all kids -- who was prettier, Malibu Barbie or Original . . .Recipe Barbie, or whatever they call her.

And on toward the end of the day, when the lines were gone, and it was about dinner time, the little one finally came and sat on Ken's lap and told him what she wanted for Christmas.

She said, "If it's not too much trouble, I would like to come and live with you and the reindeer at the North Pole -- for a while."

And he had to admit, he didn't know what to say.

Luckily, the minute she said it her older sister came over and said, "Dorra, that's not a very polite thing to say. I mean, every kid wants to live with Santa, but Santa has children of his own. Don't you?"

Well there was something not covered in the One Day Santa Seminar: Does Santa have kids?

So Ken said, "Um, no, actually, Mrs. Claus and I never got around to having kids, but I always wanted to have two little girls just like you, and so did Mrs. Claus. But the problem is . . . um . . . where I live is a magic place that disappears after Christmas day . . . you know, kind of like Brigadoon? Anyway, real girls and boys can't live there."

He shrugged, and the older one nodded wisely, completely understanding.

The younger one said, "Ohhhh, well that explains it. Too bad."

And she wasn't crushed or anything. I mean, she gave it a shot, you know -- live with Santa, could be great, but it's a magic thing, what can you do? That was that.

And that, in fact, was that for the whole day, really. A minute or two later their dad came out of his shop. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He called to the kids, and Ken waved at him. Both the little girls hugged me real hard when they said good-bye. The three of them headed off for last-minute Christmas shopping at Woolworth's, and Ken went into the mall office to change into his street clothes.

Then about, oh, twenty minutes later, out in the parking lot -- it was real cold and getting dark -- when he was about to get into his Dodge Dart, this other thing happened.

He saw, running toward him, the two kids. He froze. He didn't know what to do. Ken was afraid that two realities were going to collide. It's strictly against Santa rules to let the kids know who you are.

Ken was about to panic and do something stupid when he saw they were just parked next to me. They had no idea who in the world he was. ken was invisible to them. They were only going home with their dad.

He started fumbling with his keys, trying to leave without making a scene, and the older girl came right up next to him. Man.

Ken looked at her, said a quick, "Hi."

Then he tried to get in his car as fast as he could, but she looked at him - - - and then she looked at him again . . . and then she gave him such a look. I mean, Ken could tell she had him nailed. She took in a deep breath and opened her eyes even wider and I mean, she had Ken.

He started to haul out speech about how Santa's Helpers were everywhere, and we were just working for the old guy, and the real Santa was busy making toys, and he was lucky to get to know the two of them in the name of all that is Santa and Christmas and all that, but she shushed him right away before he could say anything, and she looked nervously over at her little sister and her father.

Then she said, "Come here."

So Ken leaned over, and she whispered in his ear, "I won' t tell anybody, Santa."

Then she jumped in the car.

And as the car was backing up, Ken swears she looked at him so funny, that it took him a second but he finally realized -- she thought that his old jacket and his flannel shirt and his crummy blue jeans were just a clever disguise, that Ken really was Santa, the real Santa, and that these street clothes were, you know, his alter ego, his Clark Kent.

And as they drove away, she gave Ken a smile so rare, so enigmatic, so Mona Lisa/Botticelli/mystically- understanding-of-all-the-Cosmos, that for one split second, Ken actually was . . . Santa Claus.