I was amazed recently by a story of "dueling Santas." Two guys – one maybe a bit pathological – who identify so intensely with Santa Claus that their very lives are dictated by assorted Kringle-isms.
Both are naturally roly-poly, sport real snowy beards, and make all or part of their respective livings portraying The Jolly Old Elf. A special breed of men who need nothing, save to dawn the red coat and cap, to create the illusion – no extra padding or fake facial hair required.
As well it so happens, though they may brighten the days of the children they encounter, they apparently hate each other's living guts the rest of the time.
"Patho-Santa" is one of those fellas written about or featured on the local news from time to time, who's turned it into a lifestyle. In Santa drag 24/7, living in an ornately festooned house – even his casual-wear is all reds and greens. And his wife rues the day she said her wedding vows unawares that she'd be drafted into "Mrs. Claus" duty, fleshing out the fantasy; powdering her hair, wearing wire-framed specs and baking gingerbread men for the next thirty years.
The other Saint Nick keeps his fetish in check, wearing normalized clothing on weekdays. He keeps a bag of candy treats or trinkish giveaways stashed in his car, however, in case he's, say, out grocery shopping and some kid "recognizes" him – in which case the astute tike wins a prize. Oh yes, this "Real Santa" has also unionized all the other Real Santas; men like himself, who stay fat, grow genuine Santa beards and earn money with it come the holidays.
Fulltime Santa, meanwhile, has come out as verbosely unimpressed by these organized "once-a-year" Bitch-Kringles, has bucked their union, and has so earned their collective ire.
It all brought back to mind a time years ago, when I too earned a little extra holiday cash as Big Red – though technically a minor-leaguer in false whiskers.
Portraying Santa, done long enough, can become a nerve-racking ordeal requiring steely patience and a willingness to turn a blind eye to candid, random evil. Santa is either highly revered, or utterly hated – and no one in either camp is willing to dampen their feelings simply for the sake of social grace. Both forms of attention can get scary. It's astonishing to me that a Mall Santa is a minimum wage gig, considering what they endure, and how strong the urge must be, for some, to go home, shooter an entire bottle of NyQuil, and leave a churlish suicide note written in crimson from a raggedly opened vein.
No wonder they unionized!
One year, working Fisherman's Wharf, dressed in the furry red-n'-whites, with a bag of peppermint candy, I met everyone that most people might assume would avoid hassling poor Santa.
... No, Santa doesn't want to pet your pit bull – especially when dogs aren't allowed on the wharf. If I don't pet him, you'll sic him on me? Fantastic! And if I do pet him, those strolling cops who've just spotted you will cuff me too? Awesome. Thanks for giving me options...
... Oh hi, ho ho ho, you work at the Wharf too? You're the stinky-pored rummy caricature cartoonist? You belong to what union?? No, I'm not a member. My name is SANTA CLAUS, and that's all the I.D. you get. My real name? Kris Kringle – there, happy? Your semi-drunk handshake is turning into a vice-grip. If you don't let go, Santa's free hand will drop the candy sack, become a fist, and make you spit your teeth out – all six of them...
... I mean it, pal. You'll find out why Santa wears RED. The stains don't show. That's right, go draw someone. Goodbye. And next bath, put some actual water in the tub, you smell like ranch dressing on ass...
... Hello. Santa's your "homie?" Is that right? Take a picture with you? And your posse... who all wanna flash their semi-automatics for the camera? You're kidding. No, you aren't. Holy muther of gawd. Quick, snap the damn thing before the coppers walk by – or a rival group who wants a picture too. Sure, hey, Santa loves everyone. I'm glad I'm loved back, at the moment. Red flannel doesn't do diddly-jack against a 9mm...
... Ma'am, will you please NOTICE that your 4-year-old won't leave me alone? Santa's getting really bugged. She wants to hug me continuously, but her head only comes to my waist, and well, yeah... it looks EXACTLY like THAT. Another few minutes and Old St. Nick will have a bunko squad tailing him with a video-cam. Here come those wharf cops again. Guys, I'm aware what this must LOOK like, but really it isn't – and no, I'm not enjoying this underneath the beard. I think her parents are glad Santa apparently has NOTHING ELSE TO DO and is willing to babysit their LITTLE PERVERT while they waddle, windowshop and slurp down fried squid...
... Whadda ya know, the fat kid who wants 17 peppermints is also a junior conspiracy buff – he's shouting that I'm NOT REALLY SANTA! Of course he waited until he got both sticky paws full of candies before he commenced tattling. That's right, tell everyone I'm punking them. What's wrong, can't cram your cheeks full fast enough and still yell? Spewing wet peppermint rubble every time you exhale? Right, move in closer, thinking you can snag another mit full – while I aim for your chubby little sausage toes with my size 13 boot. You'll tell your parents? But you ditched your parents back at The Lobster Mill stuffing their own gullets to bursting, so you could wolf free candy off of Santa...
Sometimes, you either have what it takes to be Santa, or you find out the hard way that you're ill-equipped emotionally. I had one of those, too.
One holiday, the company I worked for at the time, "adopted" an impoverished family for a surprise visit from Santa, along with a cadre of company elves, delivering a Christmas bounty of clothing, necessities, toys for ten children (all born a year apart in their parents' ten-year marriage), and a holiday feast with enough food to make leftovers until well past New Year's. I had Santa duty.
They were working-poor, in a house with no heat. Some windows had wooden planks to replace broken glass.
We were on a tight schedule, because we couldn't start until Dad left. According to Mom, he was yet still a man of overruling pride who would not have allowed us entrance. It would be easiest if everything were already in place, and we were gone, before he returned – thereby sidestepping any proud, knee-jerk anger – making rejection pointless. Yes, she was pulling one over on her husband, for his own good, and the good of her children. The oldest child of the ten would not come out of his room, overcome by a like sense of self-induced humiliation. Their mother told us not to worry, that he'd eventually get in the spirit and come out.
As Santa, I determined to play it to the hilt – go the extra mile. I set about to memorize all ten names, and what was on each of their wish-lists (Mom had secretly spilled the beans beforehand) so when I met each child in turn, I'd seem to "know" them, just like Santa Claus would – and that would clinch the deal for these kids to hang on to hope somehow, that the joy of the holidays was theirs as much as anyone else's. Yes, I was so darn noble!
Full of myself. Stupid. Still believing I made a difference by putting on a fake beard. Miracle on 34th Street! Tch.
Well, there's nothing that'll melt your heart and numb your senses quicker than kids who've spent their entire young lives in a state of "without" – who suddenly see SANTA CLAUS paying a personal visit to their run-down little shack of a house.
My "Santa voice" turned into a cross between Julia Child, and... Julia Child. The next-to-next-to littlest (3-years old?) hugged my knees and wouldn't let go. The 9 and 8-year old daughters were as smart as 20-somethings, and helped hand out toys. Mom never had to raise her voice once. Angels all. Little angels, I tell ya, every one of 'em. I'm misting up just writing about it, two decades later.
The oldest peaked through an ajar door. I saw it, and motioned for him to come out and join us. The door drew closed. I whispered to a company "elf" that they needed to get me out of there, because I was maybe two heartbeats away from dropping character – becoming very worthless very quickly. The kids didn't want me to go, but I had to. And Dad was due home soon, so we all had to scram anyway. It was too much. Back at work, I got out of that red get-up as quickly as I could – before I turned into a quivering lump.
In stark contrast, there were times I worked as a Renta Claus for various corporate holiday events, in the ritzy Carmel/Pebble Beach country club zip codes. Able to buy Santa's workshop a thousand times over, some of these well-off folks wouldn't be so pitiful in spite of themselves were they not such walking clichés.
How many 80-year old men really NEED perfectly quaffed hair? And gleaming mani-pedis. Trust me, the ONLY reason that old men this rich wear sandals, is to show off pedicures. Yes, at that mere notion, the back of Santa's beard nearly became drenched with vomit.
Some of the women were no doubt sizzling mamasitas once, with their big bling and holiday-red cowboy booties. When Eisenhower was in office. Ma'am, Santa doesn't intentionally harbor rude thoughts, but what you've got below-neckline no longer qualifies as "cleavage," and should be covered up.
There was that time I waited for my entrance cue in utter darkness, in a parking garage, at the wheel of an idling tool cart draped with a ton of holiday lights, wreathery and other yuletide objects. Upon hearing my official introduction out on the event grounds, I gunned it and burned rubber around a long swoopy corner, from behind a giant hedge, and into triumphant view of a hundred cheering children.
One problem. Someone at the event wasn't aware that Santa was scheduled to appear that night. Tight on my butt around the swoop, honking horn, flashing highbeams, was some drunken James Bond wannabe, late for an orgy, aboard a thundering Hummer SUV. And in no patient mood for some guy in a Santa suit driving a tool cart between his Hummer's front grill and the exit gate he was aiming for.
Even pedal-to-metal, a weighed-down, maybe 12-horsepower tool cart can only – just barely – break a meager parking-lot speed limit. But, believe me – I know – it increases speed if rammed from behind by a Hummer. Enough "oomph" anyway to get THE DAMN THING CORNERING ON TWO WHEELS; wholly Mother Teresa on rubber crutches munchin' Snickers bars!!
Santa made quite an entrance that night, to be perfectly damned sure.
Another occasion, out on the walkway to the club, past the putting green, Santa gets ready for his entrance. Nearby, within shouting distance: Tub o' Lard. Super Golf McDude. $800 cowboy hat. $300 sunglasses. Rolex. Stuffing a silvery polished golf iron into a huge leather quiver already crammed solid with an arsenal of similar Back-9 Warrior's weaponry. "Hey Sanna," he burps! "You BLEW IT last year, I din't get anytheen I even wanned! You better shape up THIS YEAR, you (slurred, trailing-off) sonuvabitch."
And pray tell, what is it you possibly wanted last Christmas, that you don't already have, buddy? Another layer of blubber? A fatter head? 70 more golfclubs? 24-karat gold wheelrims for your SUV? A slobbery blowjob from Carrot Top? (Before he hit the gym and got all way-too manly, of course?)
How about if Santa uses his special Facebook status with God, to have your dead father claw himself out of the grave and sucker-punch some manners into you, like he should have in life, but obviously forgot? Santa's big red mitten shields your eyes from a stiffly-burdened middle finger, sir. Happy Holidays.
One thing I learned while doing country club Santa gigs, is that not all the traditional assumptions about moneyed-peeps are accurate, or at least not universal.
At the Pebble Beach Lodge (yes, I'll name names) I had one of the most gratifying experiences of my Santa career. A huge easychair by a fireplace, on the end of a long plush green carpet, and nearly 200 kids lined up to meet and greet – all well-mannered, all delightful – and those just old enough to know, were willing to play along that I was "really him" for the sake of the tiniest in line. I got kid-scribbled wish-lists, and warm, bright-eyed smiles. We sang a carol or two together. I found myself becoming genuinely jolly and merry, my Ho-Ho-Ho's increasingly heartfelt. And I was ushered away at the conclusion of the event by employee "helpers" who knew Santa had a schedule to keep, and needed to have the all-day crotch-huggers gently pried off – for the sake of their parents' – and Santa's – mental unease, embarrassment, and reputation.
A quick golfcart ride away, waited the Inn at Spanish Bay. Which rhymes with "night and day." What a different story.
It was there that I encountered Mr. Lardass Ingrate of the Fairways, mentioned above. What followed, I imagine, would cause even a soul as forgiving as St. Nicholas to pound his forehead against the nearest wall in a spontaneous meltdown of blazing Torrettes.
Here Santa was hired help, nothing more. I had to do what is known in the "Rentertainment" biz as a walk-around. You go from table to table attempting to grab someone's attention away from something else they'd rather be doing, and inflict your shtick on them. It is utterly degrading for the performer, annoying to the customer, and leaves everyone in general with a disturbed awkwardness which colors the memory of the evening for all involved, ever after.
Once is painful enough. But then those paying for your services insist you revisit the same tables twice, three and even four times – feeling not just uncomfortable, but like an enormous idiot-whore – plus royally pissing off the patrons you are now technically "stalking;" well, it's enough to make one quit the racket for good, no matter what the money is. Which is exactly what I did.
It went down thus...
First, the tables were crowded not with adults, but their self-distracted, snot-nosed blueblood spawn, who cared about as much for Santa's presence as they did for their own untied shoelaces. They already had everything at home that a crassly wealthy set of parents could dump on them. The fuzzy old man in red was probably an abstract concept, amid all the holiday indulgences lavished in their greedy little honor.
That year's toy-to-top was called the American Heritage Forever Doll. An assuredly expensive, life-size plastic neo-mannequin, customized to look exactly like the child who would own it. Imagine for Christmas receiving a mirror-image replica of your privileged self, for you and your parents to build an altar to. Even the janitor emptying the wastebaskets of a Psyche 101 class would spot the raging dysfunction at work there.
Other toys were present, sure. There were large stuffed animals, one of which each and every child in the official "holiday playroom," was given. The left-over stuffed animals – about ten of 'em – were locked back up securely in a metal cabinet, in plain view of three children who happened to be standing in an open doorway. Gazing longingly. Apparently not allowed in. Denied even toy left-overs, which were in such abundance, that three would hardly be missed.
Who were these poor kids?
Exactly. They were the poor kids. The kids of the custodial help. A cook's two. A busboy's one. Their parents weren't clubmembers.
Now Santa was getting pissed.
If that weren't enough, one of the other Rentertainers, a juggling, balloon-twisting elf, decided that he hated Santa, and made no attempt to hide it. I was informed, under his breath, that I could go "find a chimney to stuff myself into." Great. A merry'n to you too, freak.
In the years since, I've surmised that Bad Elf must've been up for the Santa job, and lost it to me. Well, they didn't invite me back the following year (and you're about to read why) – so I'll bet Chuckles eventually got his wish.
Then came the coup de grâce.
For what follows to make sense, I must first explain one of the foremost rules of Santa Clausing. When you are fully in Kringle gear, red fur, boots, beard and cap in place, and emerge from the dressing area with toy sack in tow, you are required to ASSUME CHARACTER. The very first set of eyes that witness your arrival, even if it's the coat-checker, must get a HO-HO-HO, and not in nasally practice mode.
If you give anyone an impression that you're just a hired Shmuck-In-A-Santa-Suit, it's over. Any pro-wrestler worth his paycheck knows exactly what I'm talking about; if you're billed as Santa Claus, or Chainsaw McGuirk, bro, that's who you BETTER BE when you hit the entrance to the gig. Even fellow performers who know it's just you, must see a transformation as soon as that beard is cinched. It's just a long-held rule of Santa School.
So you can imagine my utter, soul-crushing angst, as I finally encountered one of the world's rudest, most ill-informed event planners, mid-gig.
Two of the waiter staff, a man and young woman, brought Santa a small cup of cold water to sip. They then assured Santa that they knew his big fur coat might be a tad too warm in the climate-controlled environment, so they had adjusted the A/C just a tad. Santa thanked them in his cherubic, traditionally jolly fashion, and gave them a ho-ho-ho of approval. Enter Clipboard Bitch.
Clipboard Bitch, in perfect hair, nails, gold accessories and smart concierge's color-coordinated jacket and skirt, took Santa by the arm, led him aside and announced loudly, "Alright? Santaaaaa? I need you to FOCUS ON THE CHILDRENNNNN."
Need I spell out how woefully uncool this was?
You don't SCOLD SANTA. You especially don't SCOLD SANTA in front of kids, even hyper, mis-parented, over-indulged ones. Santa decided at that moment, that he didn't need the gig fee that bad.
I was doubly insulted, because as far as outward presentation goes, I approached these jobs as a pro. I knew exactly why I was there wearing that big red fur coat. I knew exactly who the "clients" were, and was still willing to turn the aforementioned blind eye to what they'd apparently felt comfortable revealing to a "nobody" in their world, like Santa Claus.
If this individual-of-importance accomplished anything meaningful in her – hopefully – very short career, it was to mark this indelible image into my memory. I still got paid. But if I could have done it to their faces, I'd have torn up their check into paper snowflakes. Instead I was shown the door, which slammed immediately after I exited through it. So I rode Rudolph to the bank. Again, that was The Inn at Spanish Bay, in case you'd like to take note for future reference.
No, not very Santa-like of me, either. One more testimony to my being done, to closure, with the Jolly Fatman. Just for the record, I never took issue with whether a parent allowed a Santa Claus to exist in a child's mind, or never at all. I refuse to call Santa a myth, because Saint Nicholas was indeed a real historical figure – the watered-down commercialized trappings that repackaged him in early America are hardly fodder for indignation. Santa is one way, in the past we provided, and in some ways still provide, children with a few joyous seasons of innocence before the real world's coldly calculated manipulation colors their lives – much faster now than when I was a kid – and technology jades them all too soon away from the wonders of their own imaginations. My opinion.
I'm past him now, anyway. Years later, I'm trimmed down, and greatly resemble Vincent Price. I'm looking for an agent.
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