Winter Wonderland
Part 1 of 3
Our saga begins on a snowy November
Sunday in a nondescript mall in the hamlet of Anytown USA. After a
cursory interview, drug test, and background check our intrepid hero is
given a floppy hat and a baggy green costume. He is told he has the job
and to return the next day. A journal was kept of the subsequent month
for no readily apparent reason, and it was left unloved and forgotten
on a misplaced floppy disk. Until now...
Monday, December 1 2003:
I'm
an elf. Technically, I think I'm supposed to be the head elf or
something, but no one really gave me instructions on what the bloody
hell I'm supposed to be doing. I take my orders from a smarmy fat man
who looks like he should be running either a poorly run carnival or a
poorly run strip club. One of the two. Anyway, he shows up every night
and takes the sweet, sweet holiday cash, and I don't see him again
until the next night.
I'm fairly certain I'm a manager of some
sort or something, but everyone else has been here since before
Thanksgiving. The other guy bailed. My co-workers, underlings really,
already know the routine, and I'm reduced to herding children and
soothing over angry adults (which is a lot like herding children). Also
resolving schedules and money and shit. The crew includes a gaggle of
sixteen-year-old girls, a rotating slate of three or so photographers,
and of course Santa. The whole place is decked out like the Candy Cane
forest meets the Blizzard of '77. Not much else to mention right now,
except maybe the Cottage. It looks like a little prop thing with
whitened-out windows, but it has two benches along the walls and a
bunch of cupboards on the wall opposite the door. Pretty sturdy.
Yes, I'm forced to wear a costume.
Tuesday, December 2 2003:
If I have to hear "Jingle Bell Rock" one more time someone's going to die.
Saturday, December 6 2003:
I
think I've finally figured out what's been bothering me about Santa:
The man never leaves to take a piss. Over the week I've seen him down a
metric fuckliter of liquids, but he never goes to the bathroom. The way
I see it, he either has the bladder capacity of an ubercamel (the type
of camel other camels immortalize in their sacred camel folktales) or
he built a convoluted catheter system. If it's the latter I certainly
hope he's taken precautions against perforation. I don't think they'll
let us operate if Santa reeks of urine. The suit already smells like
urine, but that's to be expected. In fact, the whole place smells like
a daycare. I think I remember seeing some sort of industrial peppermint
aerosol when I was going through the cupboards, so I should probably
look back into that. All in all, this job would've been a walk in the
park if it weren't for the customers and their damn progeny.
Tuesday, December 9 2003:
I'm
beginning to be able to pick out the people who will cause a fucking
scene. It's always the same type of person, and the liberal inside of
me is really concerned about that. What if I'm causing these people's
negative reactions simply by expecting problems from them? Then the
McNamara inside of me tells the liberal to shut the hell up and stop
being a bleeding-heart pussy. Warning signs include morbid obesity,
cheap tee-shirts with crying eagles and the world trade center on them,
a bag full of NASCAR commemorative plates. Basically, if they look like
they should be shopping at Wal-Mart I'm going to be arguing with them
within five minutes or so. I'm sorry little Cletus was crying for the
picture, but I don't think you understand that we already have your
money.
Friday, December 12 2003:
Santa's Workshop
Basic Operating Procedures - Christmas is supposed to be a happy time,
and, goddammit, our job is to eliminate cognitive dissonance. "Of
course our child had a happy Christmas, just look at the picture."
However, it seems to me infants have an intrinsic fear of Santa. No
matter how we try to work it they'll freak when they see the bulky red
bastard. And when they freak I'm going to be dealing with some pissed
off Holstein simply because the picture makes it look like their child
is having a horrible time of it (which they are, but that's beside the
point). That's why the first change to the procedure I've made so far
is "all infants are to be backed into Santa's lap". I don't really care
who does it, be it Parent or Elf, however I do have an Elf running
interference at the head of the line. That gives us about two or three
seconds to snap a picture before the baby realizes Mommy is over there
and it's sitting on this scary-ass red guy's lap. Sometimes if the
going gets really tough we break out the puppet.
Sunday, December 14 2003:
I've
lost two of our photographers. Normally this would be an
operation-crippling thing, but the last one is more than willing to
pick up the slack for the other two since it means about three times
more of the scratch when we get our checks on Fridays. I should be
looking for replacement photographers, but I haven't been authorized to
hire people. I tried to talk it over with Fatman, but he just balked at
the idea, by which I mean the very idea of talking instead of just
picking up money and leaving. This sucks. I know it's only a temporary
thing, but this entire operation is in danger of going to pot overnight.
Monday, December 15 2003:
So
much for the background checks. You know they have entire companies
devoted to hooking malls up with white bearded gentlemen who aren't
pedophiles or don't smoke or drink or other un-Santa like behaviors?
They apparently don't work all that well. I caught Santa drinking in
the Cottage during his break. But here's the kicker: I joined him. I'm
actually planning on bringing some of my own tomorrow. It just doesn't
matter anymore. I've actually had suspicions that our only remaining
cameraman (henceforth Photo Joe) has also been hitting something during
the breaks, but you walk in on Santa swigging down cheap fuck-you-up
wino style red wine and it just doesn't matter any more. Earlier I
tried to go above Fatman on the chain of command to try to solve our
tenuous stance in regards to the cameramen (or lack there of), but
there is no chain of command here. The mall hierarchy reorganized a
while ago and right now Fatman is the only person who even gives a fuck
about our operation. The whole mall is in an extremely well organized
state of total Chaos. The individual stores maintain some semblance of
order on their own, as do the security and janitorial departments. But
us? Ha! Make a long story short: as long as my crew stays below the
radar and has a cashbox full of money when Fatman comes we can pretty
much do whatever the fuck we want. I am Capt. Benjamin L. Willard.
"Who's the commanding officer here?"
"Ain't you?"