Ho Ho Oh No
M.A. Wardell
CHAPTER ONE THE WORST SANTA IN RECORDED HISTORY
I should not be here.
That’s the first, clearest thought I have as I stare at myself in the narrow mirror propped against a stack of folding chairs in the back room of Day’s Bookstore.
The glass is warped just enough to make me appear wider than I already am, the red suit stretching tight across my shoulders, mocking me.
I shake my head, and the beard, itchy as hell, rubs even more against my skin.
This is not my department.
This is not my skill set.
This is not—under any circumstances—me.
Martin Howard is Santa.
Martin Howard, who works in HR. Martin Howard, who sends reminder emails about benefits enrollment and brings a slow cooker of something aggressively bland to every potluck.
Martin Howard, who has played Santa at the Little Falls Christmas Eve Festival for the last nine years without incident.
Martin Howard, who enjoys being perceived.
I do not.
I work in the Little Falls logistics department. I track inventory. Manage permits and timelines. I create contingency plans.
I’m not Santa.
If I were meant to play anyone it would be the Grinch, but I don’t even have the spirit for that.
I prefer holidays alone. My sister and her family live in California, which means a very long plane ride, only to deal with my niece and nephew crawling all over me and asking me what presents I’ve brought them. No thank you.
I never expected to need a contingency plan that involves being Santa.
But Martin Howard “had to do something silly,” which is how Trina Darlow from the licenses department phrased it when she called me, in a whisper that suggested both scandal and delight.
Something involving a selfie, hanging decorations on a ladder, and a very unfortunate angle.
He’s currently stuck at home with a broken wrist and a town-wide text chain filled with offers of sympathy casseroles. Lucky bastard.
And now I’m Santa.
The worst part? I volunteered. No one forced me. No one cornered me or assigned me or even officially asked. I did this to myself because I made the mistake of walking past Brad Lee Levi’s office at the wrong moment.
Brad Lee Levi, who has three first names.
Maybe four—I’ve never asked his middle name.
Brad Lee Levi, who makes my breath hitch every time he glides by my cubicle with a smile plastered on his face.
Brad Lee Levi, the town events and community programs coordinator, who is effortlessly likable and way out of my league—always joyful, everyone’s friend, and his title literally has the word community in it—while I haunt the town hall offices like the ghost of Christmas present.
Brad Lee Levi was on the verge of tears.
Not actually crying, but his eyes were glassy, lower lip pressed tight, shoulders squared a little too carefully—like if he relaxed for even a second, the tears might spill over. The man was trying desperately to be fine. He absolutely was not.
“I don’t have a Santa,” he said through a sniffle, when he noticed me standing there like a reindeer in headlights. “Phillip, I don’t have a Santa.”
I should have kept walking. I should have offered to help find a replacement. I could have pulled up the town’s volunteer list, flagged the risk, documented the failure point, and gone home.
But then Brad Lee looked at me with those big brown eyes—wide and earnest. It was the same look he’d had at last year’s festival, when we’d both had a little too much punch and he’d admitted he wished he had someone to kiss under the mistletoe.
“The kids are looking forward to seeing Santa,” he said.
“I can’t cancel, Phillip. I can’t.” He glanced at the suit draped over the back of his chair.
The one Martin always used. The one that smelled faintly of peppermint and old storage.
“I guess I could do it,” he said, voice wobbling.
“I mean, I know I’m not really…” He paused, staring at his beanpole body with a surprised expression, as though he was noticing his size for the first time.
He’s too small. Too thin to play Santa. All elbows and enthusiasm.
Clearly someone whose metabolism never caught up to adulthood.
Brad Lee Levi is a certified twink. “Plus, I’m Jewish,” he added, as if it was the final nail in the coffin.
“No offense,” I said. “But you won’t work.”
He exhaled a laugh, equal parts embarrassment and relief.
After a beat, I glanced down at my decidedly un-twink stomach. In July, when I hit forty, my metabolism took a vacation, and my body seemed to agree. My stomach is round. Soft. I’m what you’d call a certified bear.
Brad Lee looked up with those puppy-dog eyes again, and the words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.
“I can do it.”
So now here I am.
In the back room of Day’s Bookstore, which has been repurposed into a makeshift dressing room with a folding screen, empty boxes that look to have held ornaments, and exactly one chair that looks like it might collapse out of spite.
The suit does not fit. The pants are too short.
The jacket is too tight. The belt digs into my stomach like it’s teasing me.
The beard itches. The hat itches. Everything itches.
Was I supposed to pop a Benadryl before this?
If I had any hair on my head, it might provide a buffer.
Something between my scalp and the relentless scratch of polyester cheer.
I adjust the beard for the fifth time and immediately regret it when glitter comes off on my hands. This is how the holiday spirit spreads. This is how they get you.
I take a breath. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Systems. Processes. Steps.
Put on suit. Walk out. Sit down. Say hello. Ask what they want for Christmas.
How hard can that be?
The bell above the bookstore door jingles as I lumber out into the town square, and the noise hits me all at once. Laughter. Music. The hum of conversation layered over the tinny sound of a recorded carol looping from somewhere near the tree.
Twinkle lights are strung everywhere—across storefronts, around lampposts, zigzagging overhead.
Clearly, Hugh from the parks department got overly ambitious.
The tree stands in the center of the square, hauled in from Anderson’s Farm like it is every year.
It’s a little skimpy on one side, branches sparse enough to notice if you’re looking for it.
Basic tree.
Basic Santa.
Kids are everywhere. Bundled up in coats two sizes too big, hats pulled down over their ears, mittens dangling from strings. They clutch candy canes and cups of cocoa like lifelines.
Lord help me. There’s a line.
A long one.
I swallow.
I sit and the makeshift throne creaks ominously.
Trina approaches, all smiles and sparkles, in an elf costume that suggests she has been waiting all year for this. Her cheeks are flushed, her ears pointy, and there are bells on her shoes. She looks ridiculous.
And then I realize, so do I.
“Santa!” she says, like she hasn’t known me for twelve years. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
That makes one of us.
She escorts the first child up—a little girl in a purple coat, her face mostly hidden behind her scarf. She takes one look at me and freezes. Her eyes widen. And then she bursts into tears.
I don’t know if it’s the suit or my face or the fact that I forgot to smile, but the sound hits me like a punch to the stomach.
“Oh,” I say brilliantly. “It’s okay.”
It’s most certainly not.
Trina swoops in, murmuring reassurances, and whisks the girl away before I can make it worse. The next child steps forward. Then the next. And the next.
I forget names. I say the wrong thing. I call one boy by his sister’s name and don’t realize until she corrects me, arms crossed, insulted for life.
After that, it’s a blur of names all starting with N—Nathan, Nolan, Noah, Nora, Nick, Naomi, the festive Noelle, and possibly a Nevaeh—and I lose the thread entirely.
At some point, I call a child champ with so much enthusiasm I cringe.
I nod so much my neck starts to get tired, but nodding seems to soothe them. At least a little.
One child breaks down sobbing when I accidentally tell him he’s on the nice list without checking the clipboard Trina hands me. Apparently, that matters.
By the time the ninth kid cries, I’m sweating under the suit and considering faking a medical emergency. I’m about to weep myself when Brad Lee appears at my side.
He’s dressed as an elf—green tunic, striped tights, the whole shebang—and seeing him in this getup, it hits me. He was made for this. Unlike me, he belongs here.
“Hey,” he says softly, crouching down to the kid’s level. “What’s wrong, friend?”
His voice is gentle. Steady. The kind of voice that makes you want to listen.
Of course he’d be good at this. Of course he’d kneel down and make a weepy child feel like the only person in the square.
He’s good with everyone. I don’t know why I ever thought I might be an exception.
Last year, under the same twinkling lights, when he mentioned longing for a festive kiss, I thought maybe it was a hint. Turns out, he wasn’t interested in locking lips. He only wanted to ask if I had any nieces or nephews.
The kid sniffles. Brad Lee listens. Nods. Smiles. Offers a tissue and a candy cane. Fixes everything in about thirty seconds.
Then he leans in close to me.
He smells like cocoa and peppermint and his lips shine with some balm that sparkles under the lights.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Let’s try something different.”
And just like that, Brad Lee assigns himself as Santa’s Helper.
He stays right next to me, whispering prompts.
“Okay,” he murmurs, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his sweet breath. “Ask her how old she is. Then say that sounds like a very important age.”
“Try his name again,” Brad Lee hints. “Slowly. You’ve got this.”
“Maybe don’t promise a pony,” he says under his breath. “We don’t have the paperwork for that.”