Being Santa Claus : What I Learned About the True Meaning of Christmas (9781101600528) (15 page)

“Oh, crap!” I heard the woman on the line say to me. Then, slightly muffled as she turned her voice away from the phone, “Honey! Can you come deal with this? That Santa we hired is outside.” I heard some arguing, and then the woman said, “My husband will be right out.”

A few seconds later, a man in a sweater walked over to my car. I got out to introduce myself, but before I could say anything, he started talking. “Look, I’m really sorry you had to come out here. My wife was supposed to cancel you.”

“Cancel me?” I asked, confused. “But it looks like you’re having your party.”

“Yeah, we are,” the husband looked annoyed and clearly wanted to get this over with. “But it’s not a Christmas party. It’s a holiday party. We’ve got some Jewish friends, there’s an atheist boyfriend, I even think a couple of my daughter’s friends are Buddhists—anyway, having Santa Claus just wouldn’t be appropriate this year.”

He offered to pay for my gas, but quickly added that they wouldn’t be paying my fee. I thought about arguing with him, but I respect the red suit, and I firmly believe that Santa Claus wouldn’t ever make a scene. So I got back into my car and started the long return trip back home. Three hours’ round-trip driving on a cold night just to be told they didn’t want Santa Claus at their party after all.

It turns out this exception to the rule suddenly became anything but.

Just a few days later, I had my second last-minute cancellation at the door of a visit. Yet again, a Christmas party had somehow turned into a “holiday” party, and having Santa there would be politically incorrect.

Before that Christmas season had finished, I found myself with nearly a dozen last-minute cancellations, each one due to the shift from Christmas to a more generic holiday party. Santa would not be needed. And no one—not one client—would pay for the visit that they now did not want. The tightening economy had turned Christmas giving into an epidemic of tight frugality, and not even a man dressed as Santa Claus could relieve people of that mind-set.

After so many years of doing business as Santa Claus on little more than a friendly voice and a verbal handshake over the telephone, I sadly realized things needed to change. With a heavy heart, I changed my website to require customers to place a nonrefundable deposit. I’d never required a deposit before. But once I book an appearance, that time slot is reserved and no longer available to others who might also want a visit from Santa. By canceling at the last minute, these people didn’t just inconvenience me—they also hurt other families who weren’t able to have me visit their home.

Being Santa Claus had always seemed simpler and more personal to me than my usual business deals. Santa Claus had held a special place for me, away from the need for contracts and billing procedures. Now, however, it seemed like the business of Santa was indeed becoming something else entirely.

Nevertheless, I went into the Christmas season of 2007 once again filled with excitement. Despite all the
unpleasantness of the prior season and the Santa backlash caused by the surgeon general’s statement, I still felt hopeful that Christmas cheer would prevail for me. Photo Promotions had hired me back for regular shifts at the mall, and I had a full schedule of visits to homes, day care facilities, offices, and recreation centers. But that feeling didn’t last long. As it turned out, I was about to hit my lowest point.

It happened just a few days before Christmas, as I finished up my shift at the mall. I walked to my car and saw shattered glass all over the asphalt next to the driver’s-side window.

It took me a moment to process the scene. And then I realized with a weight sinking into the pit of my stomach: someone had broken into my car. I looked around for my possessions, only to discover that thieves had stolen almost everything inside—including a GPS system, my laptop computer, a video camcorder, a power converter, my cell phone charger…and my spare Santa Claus outfit.

“Who would steal from Santa Claus?!”

The police officer that arrived at the scene tried to assure me that many cars get broken into at the mall, so he doubted mine was specifically targeted. But I knew there was no way the thieves didn’t know they were breaking into Santa’s car. The car had a bobblehead Santa on the dashboard, holly leaves clipped to the rearview mirror, and my Santa suit hung from the clip
in the backseat. Anyone scoping out the parking garage would see the old guy with the beard getting out, figure he was the Santa Claus for the mall, and know they had about four hours clear to break into his car before he came back out.

I naïvely believed that even the worst of crooks would have at least a little respect for Santa Claus and not break into his vehicle. Apparently not. It sickened me to imagine this thief putting on my Santa suit to hand out all those “gifts” he had just stolen from me.

“Oh, Linda, the world’s become an awful, awful place,” I grumbled to my wife that evening. I felt violated, angry, and depressed. Christmas wasn’t fun anymore. It had turned into something awful and ugly for me. This wasn’t the kind of Christmas I wanted to be associated with.

“I’ll tell you this much, Linda,” I said. “This is the last year I work as a mall Santa. I might not even play Santa Claus at all next year.”

“Now, Sal, try not to make any decisions while you’re so angry. Things could be very different next year.”

“I doubt it.” I sighed. “It just seems to get worse and worse. Maybe there’s a certain type of person who’s meant to be Santa Claus, and I’m beginning to wonder if that’s me.”

“Well, why don’t you finish out this last week and we’ll talk about it then,” Linda said, trying to sound positive. “A lot could still happen…”

Linda and I said our good nights, and I went to sleep, praying for some kind of guidance as I closed my eyes.

The next morning, I bundled up and—still feeling miserable—drove to the auto body shop with the heat turned up to try to lessen the impact of the snow blowing in through the missing side window. I picked up a rental car for the day and headed back to the mall, taking what few valuables I had left with me.

As I reached the end of my shift, the mall crowd began thinning out as the stores started to close for the night. I got up from my chair, said good night to my helpers, and headed for my dressing room.

As I closed the gate of the white picket fence behind me, an older woman walked up to me from the side and said, “Excuse me…”

I turned and smiled at her. “Yes, dear, what can I do for you?”

“Do you make personal appearances?” she asked me.

“Yes, I do,” I told her. “But this close to Christmas, my schedule is pretty booked. I don’t have a lot of openings left.”

She looked disappointed. But with a flash of hope, she said, “Well, I don’t think it will take very long…”

“Is it some kind of house visit?” I asked.

She chuckled. “Well, yes, I suppose it is. God’s house, actually. It’s for my church.”

I had made a few church appearances in the past. I’d handed out Christmas presents to children after services
back in South Carolina. “Well, ma’am,” I said as kindly as I could, “if it’s at a church, there will probably be a lot of children wanting to sit on my lap and take pictures with me. I’m not sure it’ll be that brief of an appearance.”

“Oh, you won’t need to do any of that,” she said.

“I won’t?”

“I have this gift,” she said, holding out a wrapped present. “It’s for the church. I just want you to come in after services begin on Christmas Eve and place it on the altar. You don’t have to stay or say anything. Just leave the present and you can walk back out again.”

I thought about this unusual request. I felt a little unsure about Santa Claus walking into the middle of a religious service. I didn’t want to seem disrespectful or make anyone feel awkward. And to be honest, I’d scheduled a full night of pajama visits and wasn’t entirely certain I’d be able to squeeze in even a brief appearance at her church.

As I started to regretfully apologize and say no, I looked into this woman’s hopeful eyes and couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her. I asked for the address of the church and, coincidentally enough, it was located rather close to a few of my scheduled visits for Christmas Eve. As it happened, I would easily be able to make an appearance at the beginning of their 9:00
P.M
. service.

“Okay, I’ll be there,” I said.

“Oh, thank you so very much!” she said, and she handed me the present and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

I arrived at the small church a few minutes early on a snowy and frigid Christmas Eve. As I sat there in the back of the parking lot, dressed in full Santa garb and waiting for everyone to enter the church, I still felt a little nervous. But when the clock on my dashboard turned to 9:01, I reminded myself that I had made a promise, and so I reached over to grab the woman’s gift from the passenger seat and got out of my car.

My boots crunched in the snow with every stride as I walked up to the doors of the church. I could hear the organ music from inside getting louder, and I could see the flickering light of the candles through the stained glass windows.

I opened one of the doors and stepped inside. The church felt warm compared to the blustery night outside, and as I stood there quietly looking at the backs of the seated congregation, I wondered when would be a good time to walk up the aisle. Should I wait for the music to stop? I worried I might inadvertently interrupt a prayer, so I decided to head up while the organist still played.

As I began silently walking up the center aisle, I realized that no one had seen me standing in the back. But with each step, more and more people noticed me. And of course, it’s hard to miss the bright crimson coat of Santa Claus in the middle of a church.

Heads began turning and craning to look at me. More and more voices started to whisper to each other. When I was about halfway to the altar, the organ music stopped playing and the voices dropped to a hush. As I took my last few steps, all I could hear were the echoes of my boots on the floor, filling the chamber.

And then silence. Absolute silence as two hundred people stared at me from every corner of that huge room. I felt rather self-conscious in a way I seldom do when wearing the red suit. But as I looked up to see the statue of a blessed man on a cross above me, I suddenly felt a strange and wonderful peace. All the sadness, anger, and disillusionment instantaneously melted away. I knelt down before the altar, bowed my head, and placed the woman’s present gently on the floor.

My task complete, I stood up, turned around, and quietly began walking out of the church the way I had come in. As I moved up the aisle, I glanced around through the congregation, seeing if I could spot the face of the woman who had hired me. I couldn’t find her, but as I walked past row after row of churchgoers, I noticed many of the women and even some of the men had started to cry. Somehow I knew these were tears of joy, of hope and faith and reassurance.

I can’t know for certain what all of these people thought and felt that night, and yet a part of me did know as I looked into all of those faces. These people had seen the news reports of the surgeon general’s
Santa Claus warning (the story had permeated the headlines all over New England). Like me, they all knew that saying “Merry Christmas” had become unfashionable. Like me, these believers in Christmas had begun to wonder if the meaning of this special holiday was somehow slipping away, getting lost among growing greed and paranoia and everything that Christmas shouldn’t represent.

And then Santa Claus had appeared in their church. He didn’t say “Ho, ho, ho.” He didn’t try to sell a product or charge for a photo or even ask for a donation to some charity. He simply did what Santa always does: he gave a present. He put it at the feet of someone very special. And for a brief moment, Santa reminded the people in that church of what Christmas had always been about.

Yes, the world had gone a little crazy. Many people of all faiths had lost their way. But as I walked up that aisle, I felt a wave of love and goodwill moving through me from everyone in that congregation. In that instant, we all found the faith to know in our hearts that the temporary insanity of the world would somehow pass.

By the time I got back into my car, I realized that I had tears in my eyes, too. I knew that the world would start believing in the goodness of Santa Claus again. Santa wasn’t a villain. “Merry Christmas” wasn’t a forbidden phrase never to be uttered out of fear of political incorrectness. Christmas was more than just a religious
holiday or an excuse to eat too many candy canes. Christmas was a state of mind.

I finished my remaining pajama visits that night. And as I drove back home, I knew deep down that I could never give up being Santa Claus, no matter what the world might throw at me. The celebration of Christmas itself had become too much a part of my being to ever walk away.

SO THESE DAYS, WHENEVER I HEAR SOMEONE
grumble or complain about the commercialization of Christmas, I encourage them to focus on the real reason for the season. Whether you’re Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, or anything else, the essential element is faith. Faith in families, faith that we can create peace on earth, faith in love. To me, whatever we believe in and cherish is what we want to make Christmas about. The true meaning of the holiday can never get lost if we keep that spirit of Christmas alive in our hearts.