I was Photo Elf tonight for the oldest Santa. Usually their names are written on the water cups they keep hidden away on the toy shelf. Every now and then a Santa will call out for water and an elf will hold the cup while his master drinks through a straw. I looked on the cup and saw no name. We were busy tonight and I had no time for an introduction. This was an outstanding Santa, wild but warm. The moment a family leaves, this Santa, sensing another group huddled upon his doorstep, will begin to sing.
He sings, "A pretty girl . . .is like a melody."
The parents and children enter the room, and if there is a girl in the party, Santa will take a look at her, hold his gloved hands to his chest, and fake a massive heart attack — falling back against the cushion and moaning with a combination of pleasure and pain. Then he slowly comes out of it and says, "Elf, Elf . . . are you there?"
"Yes, Santa, I’m here."
"Elf, I just had a dream that I was standing before the most beautiful girl in the world. She was right here, in my house."
Then I say, "It wasn’t a dream, Santa. Open your eyes, my friend. She’s standing before you."
Santa rubs his eyes and shakes his head as if he were a parish priest, visited by Christ, "Oh, heavenly day," he says, addressing the child. "You are the most beautiful girl I have seen in six hundred and seventeen years."
Then he scoops her into his lap and flatters every aspect of her character. The child is delirious. Santa gestures toward the girl’s mother, asking, "Is that your sister I see standing there in the corner?"
"No, that’s my mother."
Santa calls the woman over close and asks if she has been a good mother. "Do you tell your daughter that you love her? Do you tell her every day?"
The mothers always blush and say, "I try, Santa."
Santa asks the child to give her mother a kiss. Then he addresses the father, again requesting that he tell the child how much he loves her.
Santa ends the visit, saying, "Remember that the most important thing is to try and love other people as much as they love you."
The parents choke up and often cry. They grab Santa’s hand and, on the way out, my hand. They say it was worth the wait. The most severe cases open their wallets and hand Santa a few bucks. We’re not supposed to accept tips, but most Santas take the money and wink, tucking it into their boot. This Santa looked at the money as if it were a filthy Kleenex. He closed his eyes and prepared for the next family.
With boys, this Santa plays on their brains: each one is the smartest boy in the world.
The great thing about this Santa is that he never even asks what the children want. Most times he involves the parents to the point where they surrender their urge for documentation. They lay down their video recorders and gather round for the festival of love.
I was the Pointer Elf again this afternoon, one of my favorite jobs. The Pointer stands inside the Magic Tree and appoints available Santa Elves to lead parties of visitors to the houses. First-time visitors are enthusiastic, eager that they are moments away from Santa. Some of the others, having been here before, have decided to leave nothing to chance.
Out of all the Santas, two are black and both are so light-skinned that, with the beard and makeup, you would be hard-pressed to determine their race.
Last week, a black woman became upset when, having re-quested a "Santa of color," she was sent to Jerome.
After she was led to the house, the woman returned to the Pointer and demanded to speak with a manager.
"He’s not black," the woman complained.
Bridget assured this woman that Jerome was indeed black.
The woman said, "Well, he isn’t black enough."
Jerome is a difficult Santa, moody and unpredictable. He spends a lot of time staring off into space and tallying up his paycheck for the hours he has worked so far. When a manager ducks in encouraging him to speed things up, Jerome says, "Listen up, I’m playing a role here. Do you understand? A dramatic role that takes a great deal of preparation, so don’t hassle me about 'Time.'"
Jerome seems to have his own bizarre agenda. When the children arrive, he looks down at his boots and lectures them, suggesting a career in entomology.
"Entomology, do you know what that is?"
He tells them that the defensive spray of the stink bug may contain medicinal powers that can one day cure mankind of communicable diseases.
"Do you know about holistic medicine?" he asks.
The Photo Elf takes a picture of yawning children.
The other black Santa works during weeknights and I have never met him but hear he is a real entertainer, popular with Photo Elves and children.
The last time I was the Pointer Elf, a woman approached me and whispered, "We would like a traditional Santa. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about."
I sent her to Jerome.
Yesterday Snowball was the Pointer and a woman pulled him aside, saying, "Last year we had a chocolate Santa. Make sure it doesn’t happen again."
I saw it all today. I was Pointer Elf for all of five minutes before a man whispered, "Make sure we get a white one this year. Last year we were stuck with a black."
A woman touched my arm and mouthed, "White — white like us."
I address a Santa Elf, the first in line, and hand these people over. Who knows where they will wind up? The children are antsy, excited — they want to see Santa. The children are sweet. The parents are manipulative and should be directed toward the A&S Plaza, two blocks away. A&S has only two Santas working at the same time — a white Santa and a black Santa, and it’s very clear-cut: whites in one line and blacks in another.
I’ve had requests from both sides. White Santa, black Santa, a Pointer Elf is instructed to shrug his shoulders and feign ignorance, saying, "There’s only one Santa."
Today I experienced my cash register nightmare. The actual financial transactions weren’t so bad — I’ve gotten the hang of that. The trouble are the voids. A customer will offer to pay in cash and then, after I have arranged it, they examine their wallets and say, "You know what, I think I’ll put that on my card instead."
This involves voids and signatures from the management.
I take care of the paperwork, accept their photo form and staple it to the receipt. Then it is my job to say, "The pictures taken today will be mailed January twelfth."
The best part of the job is watching their faces fall. These pictures are sent to a lab to be processed; it takes time, all these pictures so late in the season. If they wanted their pictures to arrive before Christmas, they should have come during the first week we were open. Lots of people want their money back after learning the pictures will arrive after Christmas, in January, when Christmas is forgotten. Void.
We were very crowded today and I got a kick out of completing the transaction, handing the customer a receipt, and saying, "Your photos will be mailed on August tenth."
August is much funnier than January. I just love to see that look on someone’s face, the mouth a perfect O.
This was my last day of work. We had been told that Christmas Eve is a slow day, but this was the day a week of training was meant to prepare us for. It was a day of nonstop action, a day when the managers spent a great deal of time with their walkie-talkies.
I witnessed a fist-fight between two mothers and watched while a woman experienced a severe, crowd-related anxiety attack: falling to the floor and groping for breath, her arms moving as though she were fighting off bats. A Long Island father called Santa a faggot because he couldn’t take the time to recite "The Night Before Christmas" to his child. Parents in long lines left disposable diapers at the door to Santa’s house. It was the rowdiest crowd I have ever seen, and we were short on elves, many of whom simply did not show up or called in sick. As a result we had our lunch hours cut in half and had to go without our afternoon breaks. Many elves complained bitterly, but the rest of us found ourselves in the moment we had all been waiting for. It was us against them. It was time to b
e a trouper, and I surrendered completely. My Santa and I had them on the lap, off the lap in forty-five seconds flat. We were an efficient machine surrounded by chaos. Quitting time came and went for the both of us and we paid it no mind. My plane was due to leave at eight o’clock, and I stayed until the last moment, figuring the time it would take to get to the airport. It was with reservation that I reported to the manager, telling her I had to leave. She was at a cash register, screaming at a customer. She was, in fact, calling this customer a bitch. I touched her arm and said, "I have to go now." She laid her hand on my shoulder, squeezed it gently, and continued her conversation, saying, "Don’t tell the store president I called you a bitch. Tell him I called you a fucking bitch, because that’s exactly what you are. Now get out of my sight before I do something we both regret."
Barrel Fever Page 19
