I, Santa

By Bob Wire, 12-22-08

The call came late Tuesday afternoon: “Hey, Bob, I’m in kind of a spot here. We don’t have a Santa for the party tomorrow, and we’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel, so your name came to mind. Can you help us out, man?”

Well, with sweet talk like that, how could I say no? I’ve always harbored a secret desire to play Santa Claus, but never got the chance. It’s not something I’d wanted to seek out, because I’m the kind of person whose motives are constantly questioned.

My buddy Ron works with young parents and single moms, and their organization has a little holiday party where they like to have Santa give out a few gifts to the kids. I dig hanging with kids in general, because we tend to think alike in a lot of ways. So I told Ron I’d be happy to do it, and he gave me the specifics. Oddly, he didn’t ask whom to make out the check to.

I brought Speaker along to lend moral support, and to take some photos in case of a lawsuit. Ron took me into his office and gave me the Santa suit. “Here’s a couple of pillows for padding,” he said, “but I don’t think you’ll need ‘em.” Funny. Very funny.

I pulled on the pants, zipped up the jacket, and pulled up the fur-trimmed boot tops. The black boots effect was not very convincing, since I was wearing running shoes. Note to self for next time: wear Doc Martins. I attached the beard and mustache rig, and Ron pulled the big white wig onto my head. Between the unruly mustache and the wild curls falling down in my eyes, I felt like I was squinting out of a pill box. I jammed the hat on over the wig, and I picked up my bag of goodies and headed for the party room, shaking my jingle bells.

“Ho ho ho, Meeeeeerry Christmas!” I boomed, strutting into the party room. I played it up with everything I had, trying to fulfill the kids’ vision of what Santa Claus should be. It’s a big responsibility, and I didn’t want any of these kids complaining to their parents that Santa mumbled a lot and smelled like Tanqueray.

I sat in my rocking chair in the corner and handed my bag o’ toys to Speaker, who was decked out in a red Christmas dress and a snazzy elf hat. “So who’s Santa’s first victim, I mean, customer?” I asked, looking around. I noticed that only a couple of the kids were even old enough to talk. Young crowd. Most of the parents were still teenagers. This was going to have to be played a bit more delicately than I’d planned.

“Here you go, Santa, Nina wants to sit on your lap.” A young mother handed her daughter to me, and the girl started crying and holding her hands out to her mother. Her mom tried to encourage her to calm down while Ron snapped a couple of Polaroids of me trying to contain the squirming, terrified girl. She couldn’t have been a year old.

“So, Nina, what do you want for Christmas?” I said. “I think you’re on my good list, so I’ve already got a couple of things for you in here.” Speaker gave me a little book, which Nina batted out of my hand. Then I offered Nina a tiny stuffed bear, which immediately quieted her crying. She held the bear close, and her mom took her away. My entire right side was soaked with who-knows-what, and I was already sweating like a pig underneath the costume and its wig and beard.

“Santa, did you bring your reindeer?” asked a little boy as he climbed willingly onto my knee.

I gave him a hearty ho-ho-ho. “No, little fella, Santa had to leave the reindeer at the North Pole for now. Lots of problems with permits and such. NAFTA. And I think Blitzen has worms! Ho ho holy parasites!” The boy gave me a deadpan look.

“Then how did you get here?”

“Oh, Santa’s little helper here pulled my sleigh,” I said, nodding toward Speaker, who looked at me like I was crazy. Some of the parents started giving each other looks that said “I told you we should have just had the kids watch ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas.’”

The boy left with his presents, and was replaced by an infant in swaddling clothes. “So, how about this weather,” I said in a conversational voice. “Boy, it’s not really helping the local economy if people can’t get out to the stores, don’t you think?” No answer from the baby.

“She’s four days old, Santa,” said the mother.

“Precious cargo!” added Ron, who’s seen me drop many things.

“Hey, all right, don’t panic. Santa’s just having a little fun, that’s all. Here ya go.” I returned the baby to her relieved mother. “Hey, Elf Speaker, why don’t you just hand out the rest of the stuff to the kids. Santa has to go take a squirt.”

By the time I returned from the bathroom, the place had pretty much emptied out. I went into Ron’s office and peeled off the outfit. My mouth was full of polyester silver hair, my t-shirt was soaked with sweat, and I smelled vaguely of Cheerios. But Ron seemed pleased, and said that it had gone great.

“Listen, I’ll give you a call in April,” he said, clapping me on the back. “We’re gonna need an Easter bunny…”

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