2009-11-28
When I was younger, I used to love sitting in
Santa's lap at the shopping mall — and was sad
when I finally outgrew it at age 30.
Last year, I was at a charity holiday theme
party where Santa was scheduled to appear, only,
as it turned out, the theme was "Santa Won't Be
Here Because His Car Was Repossessed." This is
hard to explain to a room full of first-graders
who are already grumpy because they've spent the
afternoon helping to wrap presents for other
"less fortunate" children. (How can they be
"less fortunate" when they're the ones getting
the toys?)
Mommy: I know you want the doll, but won't it
be wonderful when a little girl who is less
fortunate than you opens the box you wrapped and
sees what you've given her?
Child: No!
Only the promise of Santa's imminent arrival
kept a full-scale prison riot at bay. Then we
got the bad news that, although playing Santa is
a hugely lucrative career, it doesn't pay enough
for Santa Claus to make his sleigh payments. The
adults huddled in an anxious knot, quickly
reaching the conclusion that it was time for
martinis. Thus fortified, they were able to
sketch out a couple of different scenarios.
Scenerio No. 1: Tell children Santa can't
make it. Result: Dead parents.
Scenario No. 2: Quietly leave before the
children know we're gone. Result: Arrested
parents. (But we'd be alive!)
Scenerio No. 3: We need a Santa Claus. It's
going to be up to one of me. Result: Wait, what?
Me? I asked, astounded. Why would you
want me to do it — do I look like Santa Claus to
you?
The other adults surrounded me as if they
were sharks and I were a bleeding walrus. I was
perfect, they explained, because the rest of the
men all had professional reputations, whereas as
a columnist I didn't even really have a
profession. Take Larry, as an example — he was
president of a bank. He couldn't play
Santa; he's probably the one who turned Santa's
car into a repo.
We didn't have red pants, but someone came up
with a maroon jacket — I might not look like
Santa Claus, but I'd be a dead ringer for Hugh
Hefner. Cotton balls were affixed to my face and
hair, and a Pittsburgh Steelers stocking cap
went on my head. Apparently, I was playing
Less-Fortunate Santa.
I was led to the mirror. "What do you think?"
they asked me.
I answered, "I think maybe you should let the
kids have some of those martinis."
I had pillows stuffed inside my shirt — I
felt as if I'd eaten an airbag. I was sweating
and itchy, and my pants kept falling down.
"Here comes Santa!" the adults yelled, and
all the children cheered, though when I stumbled
into the living room they fell into a deathly
silence.
"Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!" I bellowed,
wisps of cotton coating my tongue so that I
wound up gagging a little at the end of it. I
staggered over to a large chair and collapsed.
"Who wants to be first to sit in Santa's
lap?" a woman cried gaily. The answer was
written on the children's faces: They were
terrified.
I tried to be Proactive Santa. "You there," I
said, pointing at a little boy. "What do you
want for Christmas?"
He looked at the other kids for guidance, but
they had pulled away from him as if afraid
they'd catch something from him. "Uh," he
muttered. "A drum set?"
"A drum set!" I trumpeted. A look of alarm
flashed across a woman's face.
"Well, not a real drum set," she said
softly.
"A real drum set!" I shouted.
"Daddy gets ... headaches," the woman
explained.
"Real loud drums!" I yelled. "Yes, that's
exactly what you'll get for Christmas, a drum
set with all kinds of drums for you to bang on,
plus an electric amplifier!"
The kids glanced at each other in wonder —
this Santa might look like he had some kind of
disease, but he knew how to give away stuff!
"Who's next?" I cried — and all the children
raised their hands.
►J◄
►J◄
To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at
www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about
Bruce Cameron and read features by other
Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists,
visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at
www.creators.com.
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