asking for anything.
There are so many kids; more, it seems, than usual – and a former Santa’s Helper like me should know!
The time for the first break comes and goes but the line is so long I know I’ll never get to all of them before the night is over if I stop now.
Mr. Bridges approaches and I hold him off with a hand; “I’m fine, Phil,” I say, forgetting my place.
His eyes get big, and then he smiles, nods and hands a bottle of water from his pocket to the next little girl in line.
She brings it to me gently, offering it up almost… reverently.
I say, “Thank you, little girl. What’s your name?”
“April,” she says, looking at the water bottle in my oversized white glove. “I feel bad.”
“Why honey?”
“Because in all these years I’ve been coming to see you, I’ve never thought to bring you anything!”
The gifts start coming shortly after.
One little girl brings a candy bar, another a gingerbread cookie – still warm – from the food court, one boy brings one of those giant, round all-day suckers!
I make a big show out of biting into everything they give me, if only to spit it out into the bottom layers of my beard and remove it between visitors.
(Hey, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t need padding next year!)
And still the kids come, and come and come and come.
Usually by our second break, which is fast approaching, the crowds die down, even this close to Christmas.
But from the look on Roberta’s frazzled face as the line continues stretching toward the food court and beyond, the crowd seems to be growing rather than thinning.
So is the pile of gifts by my side.
Soon it’s teetering over and threatening to topple, a giant mass of bubble gum packs and girl-sized barrettes and tiny Christmas ornaments and fuzzy white snowmen socks.
At one point I look up to see a tiny girl bringing me a Mrs. Santa Barbie doll!
I go to flick my eyes at Roberta, to give her a little girl-to-girl “Wtf” face, but instead I see a giant looming in front of the velvet ropes; Blake!
He looks positively, but adorably, ridiculous in an elf costume, possibly even Roberta’s old costume, since she’s suddenly nowhere to be seen; the green tights hugging his long, hairy legs, the shade darker green shorts too short, the green jacket too tight, the pointy green hat with the jaunty red feather resting high atop his fluffy blonde curls.
I snort and the little boy on my lap thinks it’s about something he’s said, which is fine because he’s been reeling off all these complicated monster movie toys for the last three minutes and I have NO idea what he’s talking about.
I give him the old, “But which super monster alien invader toy would you want the most?” line and he’s still debating it when I gently shoo him off to his mother and Blake saunters over, limping slightly while little jingle bells jingle at the tips of his pointy red toes.
“Blake,” I gush, never so happy to see him in my life. “You made it. What happened to your leg?”
“I sprained my ankle playing softball,” he says in that southern twang of his I love so much. “Darndest thing. I’ll be fine tomorrow, but tonight… hey, Lily, I really appreciate you stepping in for me. I know how much you hate all this.”
He has a knowing grin as I stammer, “N-n-no, I never said I hate all this, it was just a little… uncomfortable… at first.”
“Uncomfortable, huh?” he asks, nodding. “But you’re okay to finish out the shift?”
I have to force myself to temper my enthusiasm and say, softly, “If I have to.”
“No, no,” he assures me, already limping away. “I’ll just go tell the kids the first-ever female Santa Claus to come to Snowflake is bailing and we can switch outfits and…”
I look at the smiling faces milling about anxiously on the other side of the velvet rope, each eagerly clutching gifts, smiling, antsy on shuffling feet.
“I’m already in it,” I bluff. “Besides, why rob myself of the chance to see you squeezed into those tights for the rest of the night?”
Blake winks and my heart grows another size too big.
“Where’d Roberta go?” I wonder out loud.
He shrugs and says, “She bolted the minute I showed up. I’m kinda glad, though; this way I get you all to myself!”
While I’m busy trying to see through my suddenly foggy glasses – compliments from hunky man elves do that to me – Blake Elf unleashes the next little girl, who’s so eager to see me that she trips and stumbles on the steps at my feet.
I stand, breaking about three dozen protocol for Santa, and help her up.
She smiles gratefully, offering up a tiny snowflake lapel pin from the dollar store on the other side of the food court.
It’s bent now and she looks sad but I hoist her onto my knee and tell her, “This way I’ll always remember who gave it to me.”
She smiles and tells me her name, and that she wants to be Santa when she grows up, too!
It’s a long, but also a quick night after that.
The lines swell to bursting just around dinner time, then swell once more an hour before closing.
I’m fed and watered all night, and only leave for five minutes to use the nearest restroom, Blake Elf and Mr. Bridges running interference while a smattering of girls try to follow me in.
After that it’s a mad dash to closing time, with announcements running every five minutes.
There are still dozens of little girls in line, and Mr. Bridges confers with mall security – aided by the loud, shrilling voices of dozens of those little girls’ mothers – to remain open until they’ve all been seen.
Finally the line is down to one more little girl, who wanders up in mismatched socks and a stuffed bunny under her arm.
She looks about seven years old, and sleepy.
I say, “Ho, Ho, Ho” in my best Santa voice and she frowns.
I wink and say it again, this time in my real voice.
“I’m Pearl,” she says when I ask her name.
“What can I bring you this year, Pearl?”
“I knew it,” she gushes, ignoring me and climbing onto my lap without any assistance. “When my Mom came home and said there was a lady Santa at the mall, I couldn’t believe it. She even agreed to drive me here, even though it’s way past my bedtime.”
“I’m glad she did, Pearl. Now, what can Santa bring you?”
She looks at me and says, “Oh, I already told the man Santa last week. I just wanted to come and say ‘hi’ to the girl Santa!”
I grin and sniffle and help her off my knee.
Her mother is wearing a trench coat over a robe over pajama bottoms, conferring with Blake Elf as I stand to escort Pearl over to the other side of the velvet ropes personally.
“She just had to come and see you,” says Pearl’s mother, turning around and smiling from a familiar face.
“Roberta?” I gush, reaching out and hugging my former Santa’s Helper.
(So that’s where she went!)
“I would have never let her stay up this late,” Roberta explains, patting little Pearl’s head. “But… this is history in the making, right?”
“Mommy?” Pearl asks as they begin sauntering away. “How does Girl Santa know your name?”
And I hear Roberta whisper, “Because Girl Santas listen better than Boy Santas!”
I wave them goodbye and turn, seeing the waiting pen at Santa’s Snowflake Village empty for the first time all night.
Blake limps up behind me, curled toes still jingling as his crooked smile puts the Christmas lights surrounding us to shame.
“Bravo, Mrs. Santa,” he says, touching my shoulder gently.
I flinch with intense pleasure and say, “Yeah, well, just don’t ever do that again!”
He turns me around to face him and says, “Really? Never again? Ever?”
I snicker and say, “Okay, well, maybe I’ll do a repeat
performance next year. But we’ve got to advertise better. I’d like all the little girls in Snowflake to be able to come next time, not just…”
Blake smiles and slings an arm around me as we walk toward the employee entrance that will take us to our lockers.
Halfway down the hall, listening as Blake hums his favorite Christmas song, I notice something.
“Your limp seems to come and go,” I mention knowingly. “And it’s plainly come and gone!”
I slug him in the non-padded stomach, feeling the familiar curves of his six-pack abs.
“Hey,” he grins, finally doffing his ridiculous elf cap and giving me his famous smile. “Someone had to get you over this ridiculous Santa Phobia of yours, Lily. Who better than… your husband?”
“For now,” I say, patting his firm rear as we change into our civilian duds. “Try that trick again, and I might just be ‘Miss Claus’ by next year!”
* * * * *
About the Author:
Rusty Fischer
Rusty Fischer is a full-time freelance writer and the author of several published novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry (Medallion Press) and A Town Called Snowflake (Musa Publishing). For more FREE romantic holiday stories, visit him at www.storiesoftheseason.com.
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