A year later, forty-one years old, unemployed, single and living in a one room, barely furnished, studio apartment with more worn and dirty clothing than would fit in the one tiny closet, I was on the verge of ending it all. One rainy autumn afternoon, sitting on the floor in front of the one window I had, looking at the brick wall across the alley contemplating how to end it all with one of the two sharp knives I owned, I changed my mind. I still wasn’t feeling any different. I just didn’t want to end it all with a knife. I imagined the first stab would hurt like hell and not do enough damage that a second and probable third stab would be necessary and not possible. Someone was sure to find me before I died but not before I made a horrible mess.
I needed to do something to make enough money to at least buy a gun and one bullet.
I needed work. Any work would do. The holidays were coming. Retailers would be hiring for the end of year sales staff. I might get lucky. I bundled up and walked to the nearby mall.
Back then, I didn’t have the well proportioned male physique that I have now. I was prematurely gray with a full white beard and underweight. My skin had assumed an unhealthy ruddy complexion probably due to the consumption of cheap, fast food. I wandered the mall, seeking help wanted signs. I filled out several employment applications and spoke to two store managers. Nothing seemed even close to a possibility. Face it, my appearance wasn’t the image most retailers wanted to showcase their establishments.
I was sitting in the food court, nursing a cup of hot coffee, preparing for the walk back to my apartment, when a gentleman in a three-piece suit spoke to me. “Excuse me,” he said.
I looked up from the fascinating surface of my coffee, where I had been watching the coffee consume the last swirl of milk, unsure if the gentleman had been talking to me.
“Excuse me,” he repeated. “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?” he asked.
I motioned to an empty seat at the table. “Sure,” I mumbled.
He sat. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said, “but you look as if you could use a break.”
“That obvious?” I asked.
“I have an inkling of what you must me feeling,” he said. “I was where you are myself once.”
“Hard to believe you’re still alive,” I said morosely.
“I understand,” he said. “At the time, I thought suicide was my only option. My guess is that you’re having similar thoughts.”
“The world does suck,” I commented.
“Can I offer you an alternative?” he asked.
“I have nothing else to do,” I admitted.
“Okay, I’m Simon Davidson,” he said and put out his hand.
“Nickolas Myra,” I responded and shook his outstretched hand.
“Nick,” Mr. Davidson said. “Let me get right to the point. I’m the manager of this mall. I need help and you seem to need work. I think I can solve both of our problems.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“Work for me,” he said.
“Okay. What did you have in mind?” I asked.
“I need a mall Santa for the holidays.
“And you think I resemble Santa Claus? You’re eyesight needs to be checked,” I stated.
“Actually, with some minor adjustments, you’re the perfect Santa Clause,” Mr. Davidson said.
“By ‘minor adjustments’ you mean a full body replacement, like with someone else,” I suggested.
“With a shower, hair and beard trim, new clothes and some Santa-like accessories, I think you’d be almost perfect. Add an attitude adjustment and a smile and you’re more than believable. You’d actually be Santa. What do you say we give it a go?”
“I’d like to be part of your fantasy but I don’t have the funds for the haircut never mind the rest,” I admitted.
“I can manage that part,” Mr. Davidson assured me. “Let’s start with the hair and beard trim. There’s a salon in the west wing of the mall. Come with me. My treat. Then we’ll talk some more.”
Forty minutes later, I was sporting a shorter beard and trimmed hair, both blown dried to a fluffy, Santa-like appearance. I had to admit, in the mirror, with a pair of rimless glasses and a red hat, I resembled Clement Moore’s poetic Santa.
“What do you think?” asked Mr. Davidson.
While I was thinking about it, a child’s voice from the mall aisle in front of the salon cried out, “Look mom. Is that Santa getting a haircut?”
“You may be right,” I admitted.
Great,” expressed Mr. Davidson. “Go home, clean up, put on some nice casual clothing, black shoes and meet me in the mall office at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll fit you for a Santa suit and the rest of the accessories.”
“That’s easier said than done,” I commented.
“Problem?”
“A big one. No funds,” I explained.
Mr. Davidson took five twenties from his wallet and handed them to me. “This should help,” he said.
“I’d rather not take your charity,” I said.
“No charity,” he said. “A salary advance.”
“It would take forever to pay you back.”
“Quicker than you think. You’ll play Santa from noon to eight in the evening, seven days a week and receive five hundred dollars a day from the Friday after Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve. That’s a $14,000 payday,” outlined my new boss.
I showed up the next morning in clean freshly pressed slacks and shirt courtesy of my elderly landlady, Peggy Mitchell’s washer, dryer and iron and new, shiny black shoes. Mr. Davidson met me in the mall office with a gentleman who measured me and specified alterations to a Santa costume he had with him.
“You’ll be working with four elves who will handle the lines, sales and photos. All you have to do is listen to the children tell you what they want for Christmas and respond appropriately. Never make promises. You don’t know the financial realities of their parents. One of the elves will take notes and give them to the parents to handle,” explained Mr. Davidson.
“If a child wants to sit on your lap, that’s fine. Just don’t make any child do something they’re uncomfortable with. Let the elves and parents handle problems with the children,” further instructed Mr. Davidson.
“By the way, how are you with children?”
“In general, I like children and they usually relate well to me,” I answered.
“That’s all it takes,” agreed Mr. Davidson. “And, you can call me Simon in the future.
“Thanks, Simon,” I said. “I really appreciate your confidence in me.”
“I flatter myself with my ability to read people and I think you’re going to be fine,” Simon told me.
Thanksgiving was the next Thursday. My landlady, Peggy, and I shared turkey sandwiches and a cheap bottle of red wine. I arrived at the mall at eleven in the morning the next day. I left enough time to change into the Santa costume and meet my elves.
Simon’s taste in elves was as good as his ability to judge people. They were young college coeds wearing short red and white outfits that showed off their obvious attributes. Eye candy for the fathers bringing their children to see Santa and they were overjoyed to be working with Santa.
It would have been an understatement to say that I was nervous that first day. Fortunately, the day started slowly and by the time the lines began to form, I had the butterflies in my stomach flying in formation. All the kids were anxious to see Santa. Most wanted to sit on my lap when they listed their wants for Christmas. Only one little guy had a boisterous breakdown at the concept of meeting Santa. His mother was pushing him to sit on my lap without success. Fortunately, the elves were helpful in calming him down and, when I sat on the floor to talk to him, he stood calmly in front of me and told me his dreams of gifts for Christmas.
On Monday, Simon handed me an envelope. He told me it was an advance against my pay. Later, when I checked the contents, I found fourteen hundred dollars, pay for my first three days less the hundred he had loaned me earlier. I shared my windfall with my landlady. I handed her two hundred for her kindness in helping me get ready for my first meeting with Simon. She responded and I soon had a larger domicile, with a separate bedroom and a larger closet. “You clean up really nice,” she commented.
Payday was Thursday. I got the remainder of my first week’s pay.
The elves and I shared a dressing room to get into our costumes. It was a mostly bare room with several chairs, lockers for our costumes and street clothes and dressing tables for the elves to check their makeup. We were all uneasy the first couple of days, changing into our costumes in front of each other. By midweek, the comfort level was vastly improved and the elves were frequently topless in front of me changing into their elf costumes that didn’t require a bra and I was comfortable in my Fruit of the Looms changing into my Santa Suit. It didn’t seem sexual although several of the elves had breasts I’d love to explore and I had to turn my back several times when my man parts responded inappropriately.
We settled into a comfortable pattern, Santa and his elves greeting wide-eyed children and their proud parents. Tuesday of the second week provided a sudden, welcome change in the routine. Early in the afternoon, I noticed three young women hanging around the North Pole area. They gave me the impression that they were coeds at the local university. They were dishing with each other and seemed to be daring each other to see Santa. After about an hour, one of the coeds, the one with the largest breasts, got into the line behind several five to eight year olds. Her companions laughed and pointed to her and she gave them a sly middle finger salute when she thought no one was looking.
She paid for a picture and eventually stood in front of me. I looked at her, confused by her presence. “Can I sit on your lap?” she asked.
“Of course,” I told her. I’d have been a fool to refuse.