Mr. Smith in SantaLand

Mr. Smith in SantaLand





“And I want some Legos, some video games, a new Xbox, a bicycle with a motor, and . . . .” The freckle-faced, redhead rattled on as he lounged on the lap of the Macy’s Department Store Santa. Although only six years old, the young man spouted an expansive list of wants.

The Santa cut him off. “My, my, that’s quite a list. Have you been a good boy this year?”

The question caught the boy off guard, and he gave Santa a confused look. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Santa will try to make your wishes come true.” Then he made eye contact with a thin, brown-haired girl with glasses. “Next! Ho, ho, ho!” Setting the freckled-list-rambler on his feet, he beckoned to the little girl, waiting at the entrance of the "Santa Chamber", with his white-gloved right hand.

Mr. Smith had worked as one of Macy’s Santas for the past four years. Macy’s Herald Square SantaLand filled thirteen-thousand square feet with ten thousand elaborate images: giant candy canes, moving trains, animatronic dancing bears and waddling penguins, marching toy soldiers, ornamented trees – scenes that flooded senses with sights and sounds of Christmas. An enchanted, labyrinthine path wound through various festive areas leading to the sparkling, "magic" tree that dimmed when Santa was ready to greet his next guest. Mr. Smith, dressed in the traditional red and white outfit, sported a full, natural snowy beard and sat enthroned in the center of this organized hurricane of activity. He was the object of every diminutive true-believer.

With no coaxing, the pony-tailed girl strolled to Santa and perched herself upon his knee. Without hesitation she leaned into him and tugged at his beard with the fingers of her right hand.

“Ouch!” exclaimed Santa.

“Oops! Sorry,” the little girl apologized. “You just can’t be too careful these days. There’s so many phony Santas with fake beards.”

“Now, that you know I’m real, what can I bring you for Christmas this year? Er . . . what’s your name?”

“My name is Sally. Sally Dorsey,” she answered matter-of-factly. Sally then leaned into Santa again and whispered into his ear. “Mommy and Daddy haven’t been getting along recently. Can you help?”

“Sorry, but I’m not sure I can, Sally. Santa doesn’t have power to do some things. But maybe I can bring you a nice gift?”

Frowning, the girl concentrated. “Well, my big brother likes Transformers, and so do I. But I can’t bring them to bed ‘cause they’re too hard. Can you bring me a soft, cuddly Transformer?”

“You mean like a stuffed animal?”

“Yeah . . . but a real Transformer you can change into different shapes.”

“Sally, I’m not sure Santa can manage a soft Transformer this year. You might have to wait until next year. But . . . Santa will try,” promised Mr. Smith.

The little girl sighed. “Oh, I know you’ll do your best.” With that, she gave Santa a hug, hopped down, and skipped to her waiting mother.

Interesting idea, thought Mr. Smith. Plush, soft, cuddly Transformers. Hmmm. Her name and address will be on the photo mailer.

He looked at his Seiko wrist watch and realized he was only one child away from lunch.

A young mother hoisted a round-faced, wide-eyed toddler onto Santa’s lap. The three-year-old, with pursed lips, hugged himself, looking back and forth between this bearded stranger and his mother. When his eyes settled on Santa, a sudden intake of air made him resemble a puffer fish. Then, all that air exploded into an ear-splitting, terrified wail. Embarrassed, the mother grabbed the boy, apologized profusely, and hauled him away.

Mr. Smith had grown accustomed to these occasional outbursts. Well, give the lad a year or two.



* * *



In the employee lunchroom Mr. Smith sat without hat, gloves, and tummy padding, examining a turkey and Swiss deli sandwich. Eddie, a sales clerk in Children’s Apparel, grabbed a chair.

“Do ya mind if I sit here, Santa . . . errr, Mr. Smith?” he asked with a playful smirk.

Mr. Smith nodded. Eddie acted a bit negative at times, but he was harmless.

Groping inside his sack lunch, the clerk questioned, “Well, how did your morning go?”

“Oh, just fine. A normal day in the Santa business, you might say.” Mr. Smith smiled patiently.

Eddie shook his head. “I just don’t know how you take it. Your job is like bein’ in a fish bowl full of piranhas.”

“I don’t think it’s quite that bad.” Mr. Smith bit into his sandwich.

“Don’t tell me you enjoy those wet laps and shocked screams from scruffy rug rats.”

“Well, I must admit I don’t enjoy that part of the job.” Mr. Smith wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

“And those spoiled, little brats,” the clerk continued. “It’s a wonder more folks don’t go bankrupt this time of year.”

“I agree there’s entirely too much selfishness in the world.” Mr. Smith took a sip of his Starbuck’s cappuccino.

“Say, I got a question for ya. Why do you keep comin’ back year after year for the Santa routine? Is it for the paycheck at the end of the week, or are you one of those bleedin’ hearts that really believe in the Christmas spirit and the ‘magic of Macy’s’?”

Mr. Smith rolled his eyes, then pinned the clerk with his stare. “Eddie, this job means much more to me than a weekly paycheck or Christmas spirit.”

Eddie shrugged, as he wiped the grease off his hands from a piece of cold, fried chicken. He pushed his chair away from the table to leave. “I guess I’ll never figure you out. Four years at Macy’s doin’ Santa duty. But I know one thing for sure.”

“What’s that?”

“You got nerves of steel. Have a good afternoon playin’ Santa, Mr. Smith.

“And a good afternoon to you, Eddie.”



* * *



After completing his afternoon shift, Mr. Smith strolled through Macy’s Broadway exit into the brisk, chill air and the hubbub of traffic and street vendors. He cut a striking figure in his Alpaca topcoat with fox fur trim around the collar and lapel. His black, kid-leather, fleece-lined gloves and Cossack style hat held the cold at bay. His white, flowing beard provided contrast to his dark outfit.

As he waited for his ride, he listened to a group of street musicians perform “Deck the Halls”. A tuba, trumpet, baritone horn and a trio of singers harmonized the holiday favorite with gusto. With the final “Fa, la, la, la, laa”, he extracted a twenty from his inside coat pocket and dropped it into the open tuba case. Wishing the group a "Merry Christmas", he heard the beep that signaled the arrival of his car.



* * *



The remote-controlled, steel gate clanged shut behind the black limousine as it braked to a stop in front of the Scarsdale mansion. Mr. Smith stepped from the car, greeted by the view of his white, two- level, neoclassical style home. A portico with six, stone pillars framed the entrance. Before he reached for the door, it swung open.

“Good evening, sir,” voiced a gray-haired man in a charcoal suit. “Did you have a good day?”

“Oh, yes. Maybe better than usual. Thanks for asking, Carl.”

The butler nodded. “Dinner will be served in thirty minutes, sir.”

“Very good. That will give me time to take care of some business.” The butler took his hat, gloves, and coat.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Mr. Smith opened the first door on his left. His high-ceilinged office was furnished with walnut bookshelves, a custom made rosewood desk with a keyboard and monitor. Multicolored Persian carpets accented the Brazilian cherry wood floor.

Taking a seat in his oversized, leather office chair, he grabbed the phone and punched in a number. “Engineering,” he intoned with an air of authority. “Oh, hello, Neil. . . . . My research went well today. Tell me, are we capable of constructing a Transformer toy of soft, plush material? . . . . Yes? And build it to change shapes like the plastic type? . . . . So, you don’t think that would present a problem. How soon could we prepare a hand made, trial version? I mean, could you have it ready before Christmas? . . . . Good. I know a little girl named Sally who would love to try it out. . . . . Uh, huh. Thanks, Neil.”

Mr. Smith, glowing with contentment, leaned back in his chair to take pride in a job well done. He recalled his conversation with Eddie during lunch. Every word he told the clerk was true – his Santa job meant much more than a paycheck at the end of the week. As CEO of the world’s largest toy maker, what he learned as a Macy’s Santa couldn't be duplicated by any company think tank, focus group, or marketing whiz. He grinned as he imagined Sally opening that special present on Christmas morning. His demanding, holiday work helped profit his company, . . but children like Sally helped bring the magical joy of Christmas to Mr. Smith. That, he thought, made everything worthwhile.





1500 words