5. The Ninth Day Before Christmas
The Ninth Day Before Christmas
Scene I
[Santa’s photo courtyard.]
Viola sits on the throne in Santa attire.
On the ninth day before Christmas, I officially take my seat on the big Santa chair.
The Santa throne. It sits in the middle of Santa’s photo courtyard—a cordoned-off square with an elevated stage to take pictures on and a zig-zagging line that extends out from its base.
The stage is decorated with candy cane-patterned pillars, bedazzled Christmas trees, and large banks of glittering snow.
Silver snowflakes dangle above us from a sparkling sort of pergola that protects me from the constant drizzle of rain.
In the middle of all the magical decor sits the Santa throne—a piece of plywood that has a nice purple covering, but no padding whatsoever.
It’s all dressed up as Christmas whimsy, without any of the substance underneath.
Like me. Still, I take my seat on the hard-ass throne, hoping I can deliver for the kids.
And not get immediately fired when a kiddo rightfully calls me out for being a woman.
Because here’s the truth about Santa pictures: no one is really looking at Santa. It’s really all about the kids. The parents, the photographer, Olivia (the helping elf), all of them are looking at the kid to make sure he or she is happy and smiling.
The only one who looks, really looks, at Santa is the kid.
My first test saunters up to me with hair that’s been plastered to his forehead and patience that’s been tested with an hour-long wait in line. He may be four or five, but there’s an edge in his eye. The ordeal of him waiting in line has changed him, hardened him, stolen his youth.
I gulp. Literally. I gulp at the impending doom I feel, looking at a five-year-old. This is going to be a long nine days.
Whatever. I should be fine as long as he isn’t suspicious of me. I’ll ask about presents, we’ll take a picture, then I’ll be on to the next one.
Of course, the first thing he does when he’s up on my knee is stare me down and ask, “Are you the real Santa?”
He’s looking at me with far more suspicion than I had when I asked Mal about why he recently added a passcode to his phone.
“Can you keep a secret?” I ask the kid.
He shakes his head. “I don’t keep secrets from Mommy and Daddy.”
I nod. Fair enough. Strange adult in a fake beard shouldn’t be asking that of a kid. Lesson learned, Viola.
“I’m not the real Santa,” I whisper.
For a second, the kid looks dejected. Then, he perks up. “I wonder if it’s the one at Santa’s workshop that helps you build toys. I’m going to ask him when I get there.”
I think that’s Duke. “That’s who I’d put my money on.”
The kid frowns. “Are you telling me to gamble?”
Right, Viola. Why don’t I just talk to him about the merits of starting smoking early while I’m at it.
I move on, asking him a bit about his family and what he wants for Christmas. I have him laughing, and he has me laughing. Before I know it, my first kid is done, off my lap and walking away.
Except, he comes back.
He plops back onto my lap and throws his arms around me to pull me into a hug that make his parents melt and whip out their own cameras. What they can’t see is that he’s whispering in my ear when he does this. “Just so you know, I will keep your secret.”
I freeze. I’ve blown it already. The first kiddo has discovered I’m a woman. Fantastic.
“I know you’re the real Santa,” he continues.
I laugh, relieved. “What makes you think that?”
“You’re really nice and you listen.” He gives me one last squeeze and is off running towards his parents. “That’s him!” he yells. “That’s the real Santa!”
So much for keeping my secret.
I laugh, even though there are tears prickling at the back of my eyes. It’s been a while since someone believed in me like that.
“Ho, ho, ho! Who’s next?” I call. I may be using a fake voice and wearing a fake beard, but the Santa jolliness? Well, that’s all real.
The day progresses similarly. I know everyone talks about what little terrors kids are, but that isn’t the case.
Sure, there are some tears as kids are, understandably, wary about sitting on a stranger’s lap; there’s no unkindness though.
Every kid wants to tell me about their Christmas dreams. It’s pretty special to be a part of it.
More and more, as the day goes on, I’m starting to think I might get more out of this job than the hefty bonus at the end of the season.
The only sour note is Olivia, the helping elf.
Like everyone else who works here, aside from me, she’s absolutely gorgeous.
With her long blond hair and dazzling smile, she’s magazine-cover beautiful.
She also plays the part of elf so well because of her petiteness and grace.
She’s exactly the kind of girl Mal was always bugging me to try to be more like.
As if buying the right sort of eyeliner could make me lose six inches of height.
The loveliness, however, does not translate to her personality.
While she’s all smiles and sunshine for the kids, she’s a viper to me.
Any conversation at all is instantly rebuked if it’s not about sending the next kid up.
In fact, most of the time, she just looks at me like I’m not even there. Like I don’t exist.
Which, at the risk of sounding vain, I’m pretty darn hard to miss at the moment.
Whatever. By lunch, I give up trying. Olivia and I work together without any semblance of the word ‘together’. We do this song and dance of avoiding each other until the park closes and the early twilight creeps in.
Now that the kids are gone, the awkwardness between us is all the more palpable. An awkwardness that I really don’t get. I think back, trying to remember if I said something that might have offended her, but I’m drawing a blank.
“You can go now,” Olivia says, dismissing me as she pulls out tongs from the Santa shed that has an emergency Santa outfit (in case of pee), cleaning supplies (in case of puke), and candy to pass out to the kids (in case of spontaneous child-led riots due to wait times).
She waves me away with her free hand. “Go get changed with the other Santas and get your beers together.”
No, thank you. Those are two of the things that pretty much guarantee my cover getting blown and me getting arrested for fraud or something.
Instead, I pull out a second pair of tongs from the shed to pick up some of the litter.
“You don’t have to do this,” Olivia says, still not deigning to look at me. “It’s not part of the Santa duties .”
“But it’s a part of the elf duties?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says, popping the p at the end of the word. “Elves are responsible for making sure the park is in tip-top shape for tomorrow.”
“And are all the elves female?”
Olivia sighs. “Also yes.”
I look around our little plaza. There is a good amount of garbage here and we aren’t even one of the hands-on stations. I can only imagine what the toy or candy making cottages look like. “That’s some patriarchal bullshit.”
Olivia laughs so hard, she snorts. “Sorry. Just strange to hear that in, like, a Santa voice.”
“Fuck the patriarchy,” I say, still full-Santa. Always full-Santa.
She snorts another laugh. “You don’t have to keep using that voice, you know.”
“I’m worried it will mess me up if I use my regular voice. Too confusing.” Technically, true. Everyone would be confused to hear a woman’s voice.
Olivia stops cleaning, leans on her trash tongs, and looks at me. “So, you’re just going to keep using that Santa voice all night? Even though it makes you sound like an idiot.”
“Would we use the word ‘idiot’ to describe what I sound like?”
Olivia giggles, showing more friendliness now than during our whole ten-hour shift together combined. “Yes, yes we would.”
This is… weird. Earlier, when she hated me for no apparent reason, that was weird. This is weird in a different way. Hard to put my finger on what it is, though…
“Hey Olivia,” comes a cocky voice. It’s Curio.
Swaggering like they’re a boyband filming their music video in an airplane hangar, the Santas come walking in a pack of handsomeness from the path behind the trees. They stop in front of us. I can’t be certain, but it kind of looks like they’re in a rehearsed pose.
Duke nudges Curio with his elbow. “Also, hey Sebastian,” he adds, after-thoughtedly.
Olivia mutters something under her breath and starts to gather the trash bag that we’ve been using.
“Don’t go, Olivia!” Captain calls. “I have something I need to ask you first.”
She pauses, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms across her chest. “If it’s asking me out on a date again, I’m going to cut off your balls and replace the bells on my elf shoes with them.”
Captain blanches. “Actually, it was Curio who wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah, do you wanna go on a date?” He shrugs. “Worth the risk.”
Olivia aggressively knots the trash bag. “See you, Sebastian.”
The four guys make a chorus of objecting sounds. “Why does he get a goodbye?” Valentine asks.
She’s so over this that she’s practically snarling. Even still (and holding garbage to boot), she looks beautiful. The kind of natural beauty I could never hope to attain. No wonder the guys are drooling over her.
“ Sebastian gets a goodbye from me because he didn’t hit on me even once during the whole shift. He offered to help me clean up, with zero ulterior motive. He actually treated me like I had value, aside from my looks and being the boss’s granddaughter.”
Boss’s granddaughter?
That’s not good.
“Oh, come on,” Valentine pleads. “You know we like you as a friend, too.”
“Yeah? Name one interaction that we’ve had where you didn’t ask me out. Any of you.”
The guys mumble awkward excuses while a smug, sad smile plays on Olivia’s lips.
“Really, guys?” I ask, my normal voice seeping in. “That’s awful.”
“Thank you,” Olivia says quietly before walking off with the trash bag.
I watch her, shaking my head. No wonder she was so cold to me earlier. When I turn around, four pairs of eyes are watching me.
“Dude,” they say.
“What?”
“She likes you,” Captain says in awe.
“She was talking to you,” says Duke.
“And laughing,” adds Curio.
“ With you. Not at you,” finishes Valentine.
“You have to teach us your tricks,” Captain says reverently.
I eye them over. They’re staring at me like I know the secrets to the universe. “There aren’t any tricks. You can’t trick someone into liking you. You just treat someone nicely if you like them.”
Even as I say that, I think about how Mal acted when we first started dating—he called me beautiful, he didn’t let me pay on dates, he listened to my interests. Maybe what I should’ve said is that you shouldn’t trick someone into liking you.
They exchange a look. “That’s a good strategy,” Captain says.
I stare them down as best as I can in my Santa beard and hat. They’re all actors/models with beautiful faces and lickable bodies. “Are you trying to tell me you have trouble getting girls?”
“We do alright,” admits Valentine.
“Not with a girl like Olivia,” corrects Curio.
I narrow my eyes. “And what do you mean by that?”
Curio shrugs. “Olivia is rich and hot as hell. She isn’t charmed by the fact that we’re actors—she thinks it makes us a bunch of broke losers.”
“Which we are,” interrupts Duke.
“We’ve tried everything and nothing works on her. She’s more than just a rando at a bar, desperate for a date,” Curio finishes.
“Dude,” Duke hisses, hitting him. Curio bristles. It’s probably something he’s said a hundred times before. Probably something they’ve all said— that all guys have said.
“No, no. It’s cool,” I say. “I get it. There are girls like Olivia”—I raise my hand above my head. Then, I lower it to below my shoulder—“and then there are the other girls. The poor ones, the ugly ones, the freakishly tall and mannish ones.”
Curio fidgets. “Yeah, but like, don’t be a dick about it. They’re people, too.”
I bark a laugh. “Doesn’t seem like they are.
And it also doesn’t seem like Olivia is to you either.
” My heart races, and my chest heaves. Usually, I’d be mortified with how emotional I’m being.
I’m letting myself get carried away for no reason.
It was just a comment, after all. They didn’t mean anything by it.
They’re probably sorry that I took it that way.
Maybe it’s the beard or boots made for stomping, but I don’t feel like I’m being emotional.
And I don’t give a fuck if I hurt their feelings.
“You know what, I won’t be coming out for beers.
Not now, not ever. If this is how you guys talk about women, I want no part of it.
And Olivia’s right not to want any part of you. ”
I walk away, turning quickly and ignoring them as they call out for me. I’m sure I’m over-reacting, that I’m taking things too personally because of the damage I’m now starting to realize Mal did to me over the years.
But maybe I’m not.
All my life, I’ve feared that this is what guys talk about when they’re alone. I’ve feared that this is what they think about girls like me. After one day of being one of them, I’ve discovered I was right.
Exit Viola, leaving everyone speechless as she storms off, even Olivia, who watches from a little ways away.