When I got the call last week I immediately thought of a small girl tinkling onto my lap.
The Source
When I got the call last week I immediately thought of a small girl tinkling onto my lap. I’ve done my share of playing Santa Claus over the years and have now officially retired. I think my first gig was when I was a cash-deprived student at Illinois College. Some city father called and asked if I’d be Santa on the Jacksonville Square during the Christmas season. Heck, it sounded easy. “Ho-ho-ho …Well, I’ll see what I can do. Next!” Not. With no disrespect at all to the city employees of 1970, that little Santa’s house was a cottage from hell. The weather was hovering around zero so they brought in an oil-fed space heater that literally turned Santa into steamy gym sock every five minutes, then the door would open, another blast of reindeer-numbing air would flow in, and the heater would kick on again. My fur was emitting a tiny fog of goo that hung in the air. Think “wet chicken feathers.” When the excited little girl actually peed on my lap then the moisture and aroma combined with the fuel oil smell, the night lost much of its magic. For the rest of the night each little tyke entering Santa’s Jacksonville cottage thought they’d just stepped into a Skid Row halfway house on a bad night. For those of you who’ve never played Saint Nick, let me give you a quick education. The suits are made for skinny men. The pants are tailored for elves with regular waistlines and until recently I’ve been denied one of those. In most cases you actually need a skinny person to play Santa Claus. The padding hangs over the belt but the hip-line is all yours…and in my case, more. There’s nothing more embarrassing than to tell a PTA or a 4-H club that you won’t be able to play the fattest character in American fiction because the suit is too small. Good beards are made from human hair. Cheap beards are made from shreds of packing materials. I’ve only worn cheap beards. Good beards lay neatly where you’d combed them. Cheap beards end up in your mouth and taste vaguely like a reindeer’s bottom. And of course any costume that’s only worn two weeks a year must by necessity hang out somewhere else during the other 50 months. By the smell I’d say mine hung out in bars. And then there’s the mental angst. I’m not sure who conceived the notion that putting a two-year old onto the lap of a complete stranger with packing material hair plus reeking of sweat and Lysol would be a welcoming experience. Shouting “Ho! Ho! Ho!” into the little darling’s face is usually the finishing touch that shoves them over the terrorized edge and into the arms of a mama whom they no longer trust. Perhaps the strangest yuletide engagement was a “Santa Plays the Piano” gig for a local school. I played an especially awful electric organ while the little ones enjoyed games and refreshments, then the climax of the evening was the entrance of Santa Claus. Another Santa Claus. Unless you’re in the Vatican, having two saints in the room at the same time is vaguely confusing and I’d not anticipated the looks I got. Santa II came lumbering through the stage curtains, ho-ho-ing and carrying his sack of goodies as I played “Here Comes Santa Claus.” It was shock and awe…then genuine resentment as they turned their chocolate-smeared faces to me as if to say, “You big fake!” So last week I got the call. “Would you come play Santa tomorrow?” Wizened by years ugly experience, my answer was simple: “No.” This was a cable TV company whom I’ve worked for on many occasions and I assumed they were having their Christmas party. “You’ve never told us no before.” “You’ve never asked me to play Santa.” “This is for a commercial. You’ll be paid.” “I’ll be there.” Ho, ho, ho.