#10) The Size of Things

IT HAS been 3 days since I am allowed back into House #7. I have made three previous attempts to come back, each one punctuated with Santa slamming the door in my face. They went like this.


‘Knock, knock’
“What do you want?”
“Ummm...hi...You told me to come back.”
“Wrong answer.”
SLAM!


‘Knock, knock’
“What do you want?”
“Hi, Santa I brought you ginger snaps?”
He takes the plate, then raises one eyebrow expectantly.
“Ahem...I want all the little children to be happy and I wish for peace and prosperity for all humankind. And I want the bad people to be good and the good people to be gooderer.”
“You're a sarcastic little snot.”
SLAM!


“What do you want?”
“I want to learn the ways of the badger! I want the caribou to be my lover and for the cicada's to teach me their song!"
SLAM!


I Wanta fly jets sir!
SLAM!
I want to teach the world to sing!
SLAM!
 I want to believe in Peter Pan!
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! SLAM SLAM!
 (To make a point, he opens the door to slam it in my face multiple times. )


Today, he merely opens the door and looks at me.
I stand there in my red knickers with the bells on my hat hanging in my face, a pathetic sight.




“I want...I could use...somebody to talk to...please.”


He stands aside and lets me in.
Then he tunrs away from me and goes back to his work bench. Slowly, he begins to turn the handle on a vice that is gripping a long curved piece of wood.


“Oh. Are you making a rocking horse?” I say with a patronizing tone.
And as soon as I do, I wish I didn't.


He stares me down.


“I'm fixing a door, you nitwit.”


He stares more, “You could help.”


I grab the plank of wood to steady it as he tightens the vice.


“So, have you figured it out?” He begins to run the plane up and down the rough length of the lumber.


“That you're some kind of Super-Janitor, you mean?”


“No, Why are you here?”


“...because I'm terrible at directions”, I joke.


Santa gives me a look that says, “I'll throw you out the window.”


Quickly I say, “I don't know, Santa.” My face falls. “I feel like I lost something.”


“Mm,” He grunts sympathetically.


Like hope. I feel like i've lost hope.


I don’t say this.


“I- I-feel kinda 'broken'?”




Santa regards me for a moment, then in a whiny, mocking tone says,  "I feel kinda broken. Waaah!"


"Umm...Santa, I thought you were supposed to be sympathetic and understanding...?"


"I'm whatever you want me to be. I thought you were a big, untouchable, smart ass? “I’m too good to be an Elf!” “My name is Tinsel Dick or Lab Rat or Snow
Goat or–”


“GLOB. SnowGLOB,” I say defensively. “It’s a good name.”


“Right. It is better than...?


“Winky,” I mutter.


“Ooh, yes, Winky sucks. Truth is, most Elf names are impossible to pronounce anyway.” He sits down on a crate, “So...what's bugging ya?”
When he says it, it sounds like "boogin'"


I want to make fun of him sounding like Bono, but the smell of cookies, the warmth, they're paring down my defenses.“I guess I had a hard year, Santa.”


“Mm.” Santa runs his finger along the edge of the door.


“I feel like I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I feel like I’m losing. I've lost work. I've lost ...I...lost...” my voice trails off.


He trains his eyes on me, “...somebody.”


“Yeah, somebody...” I mumble.


" 'A stranger to tears, she did not weep.
I asked her to stay, she smiled sadly,
but no answer came.
Her shoulders lifted upwards, then down in a shrug.
She did not blink.
She did not sigh.
She did not melt.
But I cracked.' "




“Did you just quote Pasto Gallegos?”, I inquire, crinkling my nose in disdain.


“Actually, he quoted me. Mopey little guy used to come visit me all the time.” Santa says, and then as if reading my mind. “Bono did too.”


I sigh. “Well, Pasto hit it on the nose...”


Santa undoes the clamp on the vice and stands the door up on its end. It is a beautiful mahogany door, with ornate carvings of penguins and reindeer.


“Ya gotta just keep moving forward. It doesn't matter how hard you hit, what matters is that you can take a punch and keep on moving.”


“That was from 'Rocky Balboa...you seem to 'borrow' your wisdom from a lot of others.'”


“Izzat so? I don't know, I have a lot of visitors, he probably quoted me...”


“...Sly Stallone?” I interject.


“Yeah! Used to come see me a lot." He pauses, then points enthusiastically to a corner of the room.  "Ya wanna see the ring?”


I never noticed it before, but in the corner lies a crimson tarp. Santa moves to it and as he pulls it up and away, he reveals a professional size boxing ring that shouldn't have been able to fit into the size of our little Santa house, but somehow does. It has gold and green ropes and a red mat and is lit from above by four rows of incandescent lights. It is awesome.


“Ya wanna go a few rounds?” He grins.


It's an odd proposition and as I turn to address him, I see that he is now standing ready, wearing a robe, gloves and a pair of Apollo Creed like trunks, but instead of stars and stripes, they have snowflakes and candy canes.




“You're possibly the weirdest department store Santa I've ever met.”


He tosses a pair of gloves to me.


“Oh? You mean you don't have a label for me yet? 'Cranky Santa' or 'Fix-It Santa' or–”


“I kindga mphike 'WTF Sphanta' ”, I say as I lace the gloves with my teeth.


I've never boxed before, but I figure “what the hell?” Besides, he's Santa, he's in TERRIBLE shape.
I'm small and wiry, I'll just dance around him the whole time.


Santa gets in the ring and just like the size of the room, the size of him looks different. He's still blocky, but more defined and kind of cut.


“You know, cynics of the world, they think kindness and understanding make you some kind of wussy. I'm here to tell you it takes a badass to be compassionate. The strongest warriors in the world never use their fists, they use their hearts and their minds.”


“So...you're 'Warrior Santa'?”, I make "quotey" fingers with my boxing gloved hands. “You could have more action figures than Batman.”


Santa sighs. “You can be such an idiot. My point is, just because something looks like a 'preposterous, fat man in a red suit' doesn't mean that it lacks power.”


“You mean, maybe I need to look deeper? To see a different more powerful Santa, one that works for me?"


“Now you're getting the idea.” And then he slugs me in the jaw.

#9 The Kid

 #9 The Kid

WE'RE sitting in Au Bon Pan. I'm having
pumpkin soup and turkey sandwiches with
Skittlez and Starcluster.


It's break time and most elves
frequent this deli that's
located right out front of
the Santaland entrance.
Santaland is on the 8th
floor of the building. To
go anywhere outside the
building for lunch is usually a chore because it is so time consuming to get down the elevators or the escalators when the store is teeming with shoppers.


So, most of us grab a sandwich and head back to the dingy elf break room located near the elf lockers behind the maze. But today, the three of us managed to snag a table at the cafe and are enjoying our time out in the open.


“I heard Santa was invented by the Coca Cola company for the sole purpose of selling their crappy soda.” I throw that out there.


Starcluster chuckles. “I heard the same thing.”


Skittelz says, “That's ridiculous. Santa's been around for centuries.”


I like these two. They see irony in Santaland and although, both of them are very positive people, they aren't so in that annoying, fake, sugar-coated way that grates on the nerves. Starcluster is probably 24 or 25 years old, he's funny and is doing his best to make it as an actor. Skittlez is a little younger, 22 or 23 with large walnut eyes, which sparkle when something hoaky or incongruous occurs at Santaland.


Starcluster counters, “Are you sure? I mean, I always see those pictures of him from the 40's and 50's.”

“You're talking about the “advertising” Santas? Yeah, there's those, but how about St. Nicholas? Or all the other traditions-Pere Noel, Babbo Natale? How do you explain Father Christmas in Victorian times?”

“It doesn't matter,” I say, “Weren't they all conceived to manipulate the masses anyway, either culturally or economically.”

“Look, one can always choose to be cynical. But you do have some control over your perspective of it. You do have choice.” Skittelz says.

“How so?”

“You have the choice to believe or not.

It's up to you.”

“Riiiiiight”, I say.

“Yeah.”

My eyes narrow, “DO YOU believe in Santa?”

Starcluster laughs, “Of course, I do, or I'm out of a job!”

Skittelz smiles.

I look at her unflinchingly. “Come on! Do you...? ” I use her real name, “Katie, DO YOU BELIEVE IN SANTA?”

“Yeah, I do. In a weird sort of way, I do.”

I let out a snort of derisive laughter.

With a twinkle, she says, “There is a piece of Santa in all of us.”

“That sounds like a dirty punchline.”

She laughs,“You don't have to be a douchebag. But to answer your question, yes, It's a ...spirit kind of thing.”

“Its a preposterous, fat man in a red suit.”

“Look, at one time you believed in Santa, right? He was real to you.”

“Yeah?”

“But he was real to you only from a childish perspective. Maybe it's still possible to believe, but in a grown up way?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She takes a deep breath.

  “I stopped believing in Santa when I was 11.

  There was just too much of it that was 

  improbable. When December came, I began to 

  do everything I could to disprove it to my

    family. "Santa's not real", I would say to

    whomever would listen. One day, my 'Pinky' 

    had had enough.

“Wait....your 'Pinky' ?” Starcluster interrupts.

“My Grandpa. He used to bounce me on his knee and go 'Pinky-Ponk! Pinky-Ponk!' and it sorta stuck as a family nickname.”

“Oh.”

“So, Pinky said to me, 'You're wrong! You're looking at it with cynical eyes!' I remember looking at him, an 11 year old skeptic.

He continued his rant, 'I can SHOW you that there is a Santa, I can PROVE to you that Santa exists!'

This was a bold statement.

'BUT, in order to do so, you have got to be able to suspend your cynicism for one moment, open your mind and be willing to put in the work to find the proof of it!'

I think I rolled my eyes at that point and he slammed his fist down on the kitchen table.

'I'M SERIOUS, GODDAMNIT!'

I was shocked because Pinky never got angry.

'THIS is important,” he said, a little calmer.

'The significance of this will hit you much later in life, when you come to understand that it takes a courageous, open mind to FIND a way to create and alter the world in a positive way,” He scratched his chin. ‘As opposed to a closed and destructive mind that tears down and ravages our edifices of hope'

'Okay', I agreed, moved by his conviction.

'Tomorrow, after school. I want you to come by my place of work. And we'll go from there.'

I should note here that Pinky was a retired Mail Carrier and continued to work part time down at the post office. When I popped in after school, he ushered me to the break room in back and emptied a crate of letters onto a card table in the corner. I picked one of them up, and noticed that it was lettered in colorful child's handwriting and addressed to “Santa Claus, the North Pole”.

Pinky pointed to the pile and said, 'These are the one's who need extra care and attention.'

I spent the next 45 minutes reading letters from children, who, like me, have requested gifts for the holidays. But instead of asking Santa for the latest CD or video game, most of their letters were asking for things which I took for granted. 

Coats. Gloves. Underwear. 

As I read through, I learned from Pinky, that he and many of his co-workers had put aside extra money to provide some of these necessities to the children, and in some cases, parents, who had 

written to Santa Claus.

I came across one letter and

recognized the name. It was a

girl in my class at school.

Jenny Heets.

Pinky grabbed his coat, pulled me out the door and

we got into his Dodge Dart and took a drive. 

'This is my old carrier route,” he said

as we drove slowly through a series of streets in a depressed neighborhood. “After a while, you do one of two things, you put blinders on, or you make it your job to notice things. You start letting the world in.' 

The next day at school, 

for the first time, I'm 

 looking around at my fellow

  classmates in a different light. I start letting the world in and I  notice that there's more going on around me than I ever knew. 

I begin to notice little details, like the dark circles under Eric Morris' eyes or that Julie Lavigne has worn the same skirt for three days this week. But nobody seems to be as bad off as Jenny Heets. Jenny Heets just was that kid. The one that always sat by herself at lunch. She had this sort of yellowing, jaundiced complexion. And, even in deepest winter, she always wore the same old frayed pink coat; one that just didn't seem thick enough to keep out the ice and chill. Somebody told me that there was a death in her family recently.

When I got home from school, 

I gave Pinky a full report. He 

rubbed his stubbled chin and said,

'Good. Tomorrow at school, I want you to start keeping track. Making a list, so to speak.'

As I started to protest, he snapped his fingers and said, 'Hey! You promised! Do. The. Work.'

Resignedly, I agreed.

This went on for about a week. In this time, I began to collect copious notes. Things like, Jenny had a fondness for cupcakes and Hello Kitty.

Finally, as we draw nearer to the holiday, Pinky said, 'Come with me'.

We got into his Dart and drove down to the Walmart, where we picked up a number of items including mittens, a Hello Kitty hat and a new and tasteful girls peacoat. We stopped by the Safeway and we loaded up on groceries, including a selection of velvet cupcakes from the deli. Then we wrapped all the items in brightly colored packages and signed each one with Santa's name. 

We drove out to the neighborhood where Jenny Heets lived and as the evening shadows grew dark and purple, we pulled onto her pock marked street. Her tiny, modest house stood at the end. Just beyond her lonely abode was a series of industrial buildings and warehouses. The small yard was overrun with weeds and plastic siding. Pinky parked down the block in the shadows and got out of the car. He retrieved all the packages from the trunk and handing a chunk of them to me, said, 'You ready?'

I nodded.

We crept down the street to the Heets' front porch, my 75 year old grandfather and I.

We carefully laid the gifts and groceries out around the front door. We placed the tray of brightly colored cupcakes on top, with a note that said, “To the Heets from Santa.”

Pinky winked at me. Then he rang the doorbell and 

we ran.

We hid in the bushes along the North side of the street, where we could still see the Heets' front porch.

Jenny came to the front door and she let out a giggle.

You have to understand that in all my years at school with her, I had NEVER seen her smile, let alone giggle.

And it was a remarkable, joyous and hopeful sound.

She called back into the house with delight and was joined by her father and a little boy.

Pinky turned to me.

'You tell me,' he said intensely, with tears in his eyes. 'You tell me that Santa isn't real.' ”

I looked over at Starcluster and his eyes were glistening with emotion.

Katie grabbed my hand, “We're all part of the Santa equation. Just at some point you have the choice to grow up and take an active part in it. At some point you have to accept your responsibility AS Santa!”

But what the hell does Katie know. 

She's just a 23 year old kid with a 

crazy grandad who goes, “pinky-ponk.”

[*This was inspired by two 

different sources. Operation Santa 

out of the New York City Post Office,

my friend, Maurice's grandpa, Pinky. 

Operation Santa out of the New York City Post Office answers letters sent to them and allows patrons to “be” Santa and fulfill Christmas wishes.  You can check it out by contacting Operation Santa at the James A. Farley Post Office in New York, or visit https://about.usps.com/holidaynews/operation-santa.htm. 
It is one of the coolest things you ever might do.]

#8) It's a LONG way to the top, if ya wanna Rock and Roll!

I am standing at the Train, The Santaland Express,which
serves as an entrance into Santaland.


It is 11:30 in the a.m and
I have been on my feet since
8:30am. Already the line to get in is robust. It snakes around and through the back hallways, divided 4 and 5
times by stanchions and vinyl dividers. The same people herd by us two and three times. In my feeble brain, I judge them and give them names. The Spoon Family. George and George, (an elderly french couple). The OSG, (Obligatory Sorority Girls.)




We are encouraged to engage and amuse the guests in line.


Three of the Elves have formed a makeshift choir and are singing Christmas songs acappella as I join them on the platform.


Sparkles annoyingly chirps, “I'll pick a song and then we'll all take turns picking songs until somebody gets stumped! Eee hee hee!” She laughs in a cloying chipmunk voice that she has cultivated.


None of the patrons laugh.


So Sparkles starts to sing “We wish you a merry Christmas!” and we all try to find a part and join in.


The Spoon Family, decked out in their finery pass by again. 5 year old “Blaine Cassidy, the 3rd” is wailing.




Misteltoe starts us off again with “Jingle Bells! Jingle Bells!” Every song has an exclamation point after it.


George and George, the elderly French couple pass us. George nods and forces a smile. George does not.


Chuzzlewit careens into a version of “Frosty the Snowman” and we all try to follow.
He is interrupted by the shrieking of the sorority girls as they take photos of themselves suggestively licking the candy canes on the walls of the train.

Sparkles looks expec
tantly at me.
“SnowGlobe?” she queries.


“GLOB!”, I say.
“SnowGLOB!”


Three elf faces turn to
  me.

I look at the sea of
  faces, many who have been
in line for over two hours
to get to this point.


“WOH, YOU'RE HALFWAY THERE-HAIR!
WO-HO! SANTA'S UP THE STA-HAIRS!
TAKE MY HAND, WE'LL MAKE IT I SWEA-HAIRS!
WO-HOH! LIV-IN ON A PRAYERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!


Apparently, they have no appreciation for John Francis Bongiovi Jr...I am never asked to sing with them again.

House # 7

House # 7

Today in Santaland, Phil, the scheduling manager, told me to go take over in one of the houses as a Santa Elf. Being a “Santa Elf” is  somewhat prestigious as you get to hang out in the santa house with "the man". The Santa Elf's job is to assist whichever Santa you are assigned and to see to it that guests get in and out of the “house” quickly and smoothly.


Now, being as this is my first year in Santaland, I still sometimes get confused and lost in the maze. The maze is a just that. A series of intertwining passages in a glittery and sparkly forest of cardboard trees and polystyrene snow that leads to 6 different Santa houses, each one containing a different Santa. On a crowded and crazy Saturday afternoon there are as many as 6 actors playing Santa in 6  different, but well hidden houses.


And it was that. A crazy Saturday afternoon.
“Snowglob(e), go replace Skittlez in house # 6!”


“Right-o, Phillipe!”


I'm not really sure that I remember where House #6 is to be truthful, but I really want to get out of the stuffy scheduling office and be on my own. I figure I'll find it along the way.
I stop and ask Dash, a small Goth elf from the far-off borough of Brooklyn.


“Go that way, it's easier!”, she says, “Past the Wishing Well and then go around the back of the house to avoid the other lines.”


I only catch half of what she says, because there is “parent drama” going on as a very aggressive mom argues with Winterland about stepping out of line to go to the bathroom.




I'm in a decent mood for once today. I move quickly past the Wishing Well and as I do so, I stop and place my head in the darkened hole. “Reeeeeeleeeeeeease the angelssssss!” , I say in a silly soprano voice, hoping for an echo. It's made of plastic and no echo comes.
I laugh and pull my head out of the dark, and ...I'm not really sure where I am.


The glittery lights are still illuminating the route from the direction I just came, but I don't see any of the other elves. I stare down three diverging paths.


“Holy shit, I'm lost in Santaland,” I muse.


The unmistakable smell of Evergreen plays in my nostrils, which is a nice touch that I didn't notice before.


“Okay, where's the last house?” I pick the middle path and start to walk down it, then stop.


“Walt Whitman.”, I say to no one in particular and reverse direction and head down the path that I determine to be the one less traveled.
The polystyrene snow crunches under my red Chucks.


I notice that the store has changed the soundtrack. Normally, tried and true orchestral versions of traditional Christmas Carols are piped through the carefully hidden speakers above. But the tunes have changed. Wind-chimes and ...wind.


Nice.


Finally, I come to a large oak door marked
“House #7.”


I'm pretty sure I'm in the wrong place, but what the hell. I jiggle the iron door handle and it releases.

As I push the door slowly, it opens into a room that I've not seen before. Most Santa houses have slatted beadboard floors with painted-on “Welcome” mats and fake moldings. There is always a “throne” with green and red pillows in the corner. This is where the “man in red” sits and waits for his visitors.

This room is nothing like that. There's sawdust on the cracked floor and a certain mustiness. It's brightly lit and what I first thought to be a pretty convincing fake fire in the hearth, looks to be real. And there is the smell of chocolate chip cookies...

What I don't notice is the large man working at a bench in the far corner, until he bellows,

“ROBERT FROST, you jackass!”

I jump.

“I-I beg your pardon?”

He turns and looks me up and down. He's rather large and commanding. And although he has a full white beard and wire glasses, he isn't wearing a Santa suit. 

He's in some sort of white long underwear, with burgundy pants and some very sturdy looking steel toed boots.

“Frost. It was Frost. Not Whitman.”

I stare at him dumbly.

He sighs.

  “TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

  And sorry I could not travel both

  And be one traveler, long I stood

  And looked down one as far as I could

  To where it bent in the undergrowth”

“Uh...thanks.”

I must admit I'm confused at this point, but also kind of amused.

“Well, ” he sets down his woodworking plane. “What do you want?”

“Um...I think I'm your Santa Elf,” I stammer out.

“No. 

What do you want? Why are you here?” 

He takes a step toward me, it's not threatening, but I still unwittingly take a step backwards over the threshold.

“I-I don't know.”

“Okay,” he says ushering me out, “Come back tomorrow then.”

And with that he closes the large wooden door in my face.

I let out a breath. "Double-Yew. Tee. Eff?"

I shrug my shoulders and somehow manage to find my way back to the scheduling office and Phil.

“Sorry, got a little lost - I was over in House #7.”

Phil blinks at me like I'm an idiot. 

“We've only got 6 houses."

Then dismissively, he turns back to his paperwork and says,

"There is no House #7.”



#6) Please Don't Touch Me While I'm Sleeping

I’m stationed in House #3 with a guy I like to call, "Don't-Touch-Me-I'm-Comatose-Santa."


Whereas, Extremely Fabulous Santa is vibrant and demonstrative, "Don't-Touch-Me-I'm-Comatose-Santa" is the complete opposite.


He sits in the corner on his throne and sighs to himself in the first 5 minutes of our session.
He shakes his head back and forth and I wonder, "Is "Don't-Touch-Me-I'm-Comatose-Santa" depressed?"




because he is managing to majorly bring me down.


All of his visits with the families continue in this subdued manner.


"Perhaps he's hungover", I wonder.


"Perhaps he's Zen", I rationalize.




Finally, there is a slight break in the visitor
traffic and "Don't-Touch-Me-I'm-Comatose-Santa"
turns to me and drowsily says, "I have three jobs."


I nod my head knowingly and say something like, "Yeah, tough times."


He continues, "I wait tables at some restaurant at night. I sell merchandise for two crappy Broadway shows and I work part time in a law office."




"Four!", I say.


"What?"




"Four. You work four jobs. Don't forget this...Santaland?"


"This isn't a job, this is my calling," he says with no irony whatsoever, as he languidly shifts in his perch.


"You're an inspiration to us all," I manage, as I stifle a yawn and a sob at the same time.

#5) Chief Elf of Homeland Security

Today I am stationed at the Welcome Center Kiosk. I am the Welcome Center elf. On busy days, there is a huge line of guests that show up to visit Santa. Sometimes, the line can be a 2-3 hour wait, snaking all the way through the rest of the store and even into the dreary back hallways of Human Resources.


The Welcome Center is the spot where the guests first enter into the magical splendor that is Santaland.
Usually, the first thing they see is an over-caffeinated elf bouncing behind a visitor's facade, saying “Welcome to the North Pole! Welcome to the North Pole!”


But today, I’m bored, so I begin asking people for their passports. They have two reactions; amused or confused. Most people have the latter reaction, so to alleviate their anxiety, I stamp their hands with an invisible stamp and tell them to move along.


I begin informing people that due to recent Yeti activity, we’ve had to establish the Department for Elfland Security, of which I am the newly and self appointed Chief Elf.


“Please declare all fruits, vegetables, and goats upon departing your transport,” I deadpan, as I fashion a cardboard sign that reads,


 “Smuggling Candy Canes is a Felony!”


I think this premise to be quite clever and witty. High-larious, even. Oh, the joy.


Per my duties as Chief of Elfland Security, I inform visitors that:




1) They may have to submit to
a full body candy cane scan.


2) We will be setting up racial
 profiles for all puffins and
penguins.


3) We are planning to build a
fence between the North Pole
and Narnia.
(Mr. Tumnus may be an excellent
gardener, but he still needs
his green card.)




Again, I'm sure you can appreciate how High-larious it was.


Markus, the night manager, did not find this funny.


Markus is no fun in a mousy, ratsy sort of way. Markus is like Frank Burns from MASH except “ratsier”.


He has no sense of humor and he commands about as much respect as the Kuiper Belt at the Hayden Planetarium. (Yay, Astronomy joke!)


Needless to say, I was soon relegated to Exit Elf, demoted and devalued, just like the planet Pluto.
I was “plutoed”.


Standing out at the end of the massive line, by home furnishings, on the outer stretches of the department store galaxy, I feebly raised my fist, stripped my sleeve and muttered, “These wounds had I on Crispian's Day!”


*****

#4) Mime and Mime Alone

I lost my voice.


I don't know if it was from
a virus or too much screaming
 "SANTA LOVES YOU!
       HA HA HA HA HA HAHAHA!"


Anyway, I decided to not speak,
and to communicate to the crowds using
only my deft mime skills and a toy hobby
horse as a puppet.




            When people came by, I would touch the
            plush horse to the tops of their heads
             and make "kissing" sounds.
             They would laugh and laugh.




But really I was having the horse
spit on their  heads.

#3) Releeeeeassse the Angeeelllllsssssss!

I had a very long morning with a Santa that I refer to as Somewhat Fabulous Santa.


What most people don't know, (and I'm probably going to have a fatwah placed upon my head by the secret society of Elves), is that at this famous department store that shall remain unnamed, there are as many as 6 actors at a time playing Santa in 6 different, but well hidden Santa houses. This is how the store manages so many people.


Somewhat Fabulous Santa has a flair for the dramatic and theatrical, which can get annoying. Somewhat Fabulous Santa REALLY wants to be on the stage. Somewhat Fabulous Santa loves to perform. I noticed this when I realized he has a set "routine" that tends to be directed more to the parents than it is to the  bobbing toddlers placed upon his knee.


When the children come into the Santa house, he has a habit of reaching out to them, twirling his white gloved hands in the air as if to say "Look at me! Look at me!" and in a cooey high pitched counter-tenor saying, "Release the little angels!"




Maybe it's the over sustained sing songy "Reeeeeeleeeease" that does it, but it's enough to make any castrati wince and hold onto his missing barnacles.


His routine consists of an opening joke about not being able to spell X-box. Then he proceeds to talk about fashion, jewelry and American Girl dolls. All of this is fine, except that he does it to the tune of the "Lonely Goat Herd" from The Sound of Music. I admit, I was impressed by his yodeling prowess.


I found it to be quite captivating the first 36 times I heard it. After that I upgraded him to Extremely Fabulous Santa...which is a good thing.


Finally, 103 visits later,  I was reassigned to Weather Map Elf, where I    was able to draw pictures of sharks eating     seals in   the Adriatic Sea.


*****

#2) Skates, Trains and Blood on the Snow

In Santa land today, I worked the train set.


The trains were derailed and in the tinytrain 
village, the only thing moving was an electronic toy blonde ice skater.


Lying on the fake ice next to her was a tiny toy brunette skater.


Every so often, an electric current would run through the brunette skater's mechanism, causing her to twitch.


I told the patrons they were named Tonya and Nancy and that if you looked very closely, you could see a toy crowbar and toy blood on the tiny toy snow.


*Admittedly, this reference to the infamous US Figure Skating scandal is so 1994. It should be noted, however, that I did get a threatening letter from an Elf named Gilooly.
(No worries, he was fired shortly thereafter for making an Elf Sex Tape.)

*1* The Naming of Elves

*1*  The Naming of Elves

I have decided on the name, Snowglὄb.

There's no “e” on the end and an umlaut above the “o.”
It's my joke and my tiny rebellion.


Today is my first day working as a department store Elf in Santaland. Today we get to choose our Elf names, although I find that to be somewhat suspect as every suggestion I have is immediately shot down by Eduardo, one of the numerous managers of Santaland.
Eduardo is one of the slightly less lame managers; he’s a cross between one of the Goonies and Horatio Sanz with a glandular problem. He's normally very creative, a part time magician (please don't judge), with a  subtle sense of humor, but when it comes to Elf names, he's a bit stringent and uptight.


“Shark Attack?”
“No.”
“Come on, Shark Attack is a great name for an Elf?”


Of course, it doesn't help that my suggestions are ridiculous and I'm being an asshole.



his becomes a game. Everyday for the next two weeks, I am a nameless Elf, and I pester Eduardo with the most worthless, inappropriate suggestions possible. Most of the Elf names on his list are so sacharinne-y, that I have to crinkle up my nose in disgust at his suggestions.


“You can be Winky?” He says.
I crinkle up my nose.
“How about Snowtard?”, I counter.
“No.
“Phetalketanurics? ”
He stares me down.


“ 'Dances with Penguins'? 'He-Who-Walks-Behind-The-Toys'? 'Speedbump'? ”


Eduardo shakes his head.
“Why not? I could be a Traffic Elf, directing Reindeer traffic?”


“It's not Christmasy!”


“But you let Katie be Skittelz...and Skittelz isn't Christmasy?”
“Keep trying,” he says.
“How about TBD?”, I mumble as he waddles off.


My plan is to pitch him the worst names possible and then sneak one in that's kind of cool, but doesn't seem as threatening. My pitches kind of go like this.


“Elf Ron Hubbard?!”
“No”
“Elfis Costello?”
“No”
“ProElf or ProChoice?”


He stares at me. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Sheepishly, I shrug my shoulders, 
"I'm seeking balance?"


"How about...Felix Navidad...?” 
I say this carefully, slyly, knowing that this is an awesome elf name and he will have to pick the lesser of all evils to appease me.




And he never does.



So I became Snowglὄb, by default. 


SnowGLOBE is on Eduardo's list.


I took the “e” off the end and added an umlaut.


It is the 
tiny, 
tiny, 
tiniest of rebellions... but it is mine.