Ghosts of Christmases
Past
Part
3
Jon
Gallagher
My parents always
tried to perpetuate the Santa Claus story as long as they could. I’m not sure when I stopped believing
(although I’d like to say that I never did stop), but I know it was somewhere
after fourth grade, which would have put me in the 10-11 year old range. The reason I know this is because I can
clearly picture myself relating a previous year’s experience to my fourth grade
teacher, Mrs. Margebelle Moore. I
told her of hearing footsteps on my roof and hearing sleighbells just after
midnight on Christmas Eve. She
listened with a wide smile on her face, nodding at each of my excited bits of
evidence that I’d really really had a
close encounter with the elusive fat man.
We didn’t have a real
fireplace at our house. The
chimney led directly to the furnace which was always cause for concern for the
safety of Santa. I didn’t want him
dropping down the chimney into that monstrosity in the basement that roared and
banged and groaned like a wounded Wooly Mammoth. There was no need for concern; a few weeks before Christmas,
a fireplace constructed of cardboard with red bricks printed on it would
magically appear in our front room, and I was told that Santa had visited
during the night preparing for his eventual Christmas Eve visit. This fake fireplace allowed him to use
the outside chimney and still avoid the furnace.
The fireplace itself
was three dimensional, complete with a black mantle that ran across its
width. The chimney rose from the
mantle, all the way to the ceiling and had a clock with Santa’s face stamped on
it halfway up, forever frozen at ten minutes till midnight. In the spot where the fire would have
been was a fake fire, constructed of more corrugated board with red mylar
inserts every once in a while to make it appear that there was a fire. Behind the façade, there was a spot for
a small lightbulb which had an aluminum fan wheel perched on it. The heat from the lightbulb made the
fanwheel spin, helping to create the illusion of a burning fire.
A few years after my
parents told me that Santa was the one who came in and set it up, I found the
folded up fireplace tucked away in a corner of the attic. Mom and Dad, who I now know were a lot
quicker on their feet than I ever game them credit for, feigned surprise at my
discovery, then reasoned that Santa must store these types of fireplaces at
each individual house so he didn’t have to pack it on to his sleigh.
Hey, it made sense to
me.
That may have been
the beginning of me knowing “The Truth,” but I’m not for sure.
In grade school, I
always wondered why Santa was better to some kids than others. Of course I knew that he was watching
us all the time, but I didn’t know why one of my good friends always seemed to haul away a lot more
stuff from the North Pole that I was getting. While I would hang the longest, stretchiest stocking I could
find on our fake fireplace, my buddy and his siblings would set out a clothes
basket by theirs.
My stocking would
have oranges, grapefruit, nuts, a candy cane, and maybe (if I was lucky) a bottle
of bubble. Steve’s basket across
town would be laden with all sorts of toys like racing sets or basketballs, but
nary a fruit or nut in sight. I
spent a better part of my grade school days thinking that doctors’ kids must
get extra points on the good side of the ledger for some unknown reason.
Just before I got
married, my dad took me aside and told me the facts of life. The main fact he told me was that I was
going to have to be Santa’s helper once we had kids. This was a little unnerving at first, but after my wife and
I had kids, it became fun.
Kelly was born in
1984 and Erin followed in 1989 (Caroline showed up in 2004, but that’s a long
story). After Kelly got into
school, it was a little harder to keep her believing in Santa, because not
every parent put in the effort that we did to keep the belief alive. But in 1991 it got real easy. In fact, it was so easy, I’m sure it’s
illegal in at least six states.
I had gone back to
school and was attending Knox College full time in order to get my teaching
degree. I had several part time
jobs during this time, trying to pay my bills while doing a juggling act with
classes and family. One of the
jobs I took was at the Sandburg Mall, helping out with the Santa
concession.
My main job was that
of an elf (who ever heard of an elf that is 6’2 ?!?), guiding the munchkins who
came to see Santa up a ramp, and trying to maintain some sort of order. I also helped to take Polaroid photos
of the kiddies which we then sold to the parents at an obscene profit. We had several guys who donned the red
suit (including one who was the manager of the Adult Bookstore on Henderson
Street – this became a Zephyr article which ended up getting me fired) with
varying degrees of expertise.
One Sunday afternoon,
the Santa on duty wasn’t doing well.
I wasn’t sure if it was something he’d drank the night before, or just a
good old case of the flu. He had
been complaining since he put on the suit, and finally, he gave up the ghost
and told us that if he had to stay much longer, he was going to barf all over
some poor kid.
A decision was
made. The guy in the Santa suit
and I went back to feed his reindeer, and I got in the suit. He took off for home (or at least
that’s what he told us). Let’s
call him Dave for lack of a better name (and because this memory is now 17
years old).
I was a bit tall for
the suit, but in a seated position, no one could really tell. My main concern was my weight. At 180 pounds, I was a little light for
the job. None of our other Santas
needed extra padding but fortunately, they had some extra stuffing in the
dressing room which rounded out my tummy.
The beard, I found out, was a complex device, complete with a mouthpiece
that when clamped between the teeth, kept little ones from yanking it off the face.
And yes, everyone had
their own disposable mouthpiece, or else no one would have used it.
The costume was
topped off by a wig and hat that covered up my own long hair, and produced
about a gallon of sweat per hour.
I was led back to
Santa’s throne by some of the other elves and I took the seat of honor for the
next few hours. I think I did
pretty well, remembering not to promise anything, but rather, telling the kids
that Santa would “do his best.”
An hour or so into my
shift, I looked up and stiffened in horror. My wife was in line with my two kids. She was looking all over the place,
trying to figure out where the heck I was when I told her that I was working that
day. My kids, ages seven and almost
two, were just anxious to be able to talk to Santa.
They were also at the
age where if they recognized me, and called me “Dad,” then the illusion would
be shattered for them as well as anyone within listening range. I know my kids well enough to know that
meant almost to Monmouth.
Finally, it was show
time. Kelly and Erin were
next. I greeted them with a hearty
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” as they ran to my knees.
Meanwhile, my wife was standing there, looking all over the place,
wondering where I was, and probably contemplating a form of punishment that
would involve extreme pain.
Then I called each
girl by name.
Their jaws dropped.
Then my wife looked
me in the eye.
Then her jaw
dropped. Then she started
laughing,
She had the good
sense to leave, or else I’d probably have busted a gut (albeit a fake gut) too.
I thanked Kelly and
Erin for leaving me cookies and Pepsi the previous year (Santa gets tired of
all that milk, doncha know). I
asked them how they liked what I had brought them (and I was very specific). I named their cat by name and told them
to make sure he was locked up this year so he didn’t shred my suit, reminded
them that I really liked the sugar cookies, and that I’d try not to get so many
crumbs all over their rug.
Erin was really too
young not to believe yet, but her older sister was convinced that she’d just
met the real Santa, not some
department store or Mall Santa-wannabe.
When I got home from work that day, Kelly was a little chatterbox,
telling me of her personal close encounter with the real Santa.
I didn’t even half to
use my story I’d prepared about not seeing them because I was outside feeding
the reindeer.
For the next few
years, any time the girls doubted the existence of Santa, all the had to do was
think back on that day at the Sandburg Mall when Santa knew them by name, and
they believed.
Just before the end
of my shift that day, we found out what had made the original Santa’s helper
sick. One of my last customers was
a nice looking young lady, probably in her early 20s or so. She came up, sat on my knee, put her
mouth close to my ear, and whispered, not what she wanted for Christmas, but
rather what she was planning to do to me.
I blushed.
I couldn’t figure out
whether to put her on the naughty or nice list. While it sure sounded naughty, it sounded nice too.
One of her hands
sneaked down to a rather personal part of my costume, and she whispered, “I’ll
see you tonight, Dave.”
As she got up to
leave, I caught her sleeve and pulled her back. “I’m not Dave!” I whispered.
Her eyebrows knitted
together and she looked me straight in the eye. A look of terror washed over her face and it turned
alternating shades of white, pink, and red. All she could say was some form of “Omigod!” as she nearly
broke her neck trying to get down the ramp and somewhere she wouldn’t be
recognized.
Meanwhile, at least
we had diagnosed the sudden disease that Dave had contracted earlier in the
day.
In most medical
circles it’s known technically as “Hot Date.”
Merry Christmas
Everyone!
12/25/08