When I was a junior in college, I was Santa Claus for a few weeks. Seriously.
Back in those days, the biggest and most successful mall in Birmingham was called Century Plaza. If you happened to have your kid’s picture taken with Santa at Century Plaza that year, chances are one-in-four that it was me behind the red suit and fake white beard. (There were four of us who worked in shifts.)
Getting to be Santa Claus was a memorable experience for many reasons. I’ve always loved children and enjoyed working with them even then. Still, it was a harder job than I thought it would be. It’s hot inside the costume, and you’re constantly performing for hours at a time — and children are a very demanding audience. But there was one night on that job that I’ll always remember, and it had nothing to do with anything fun.
As Christmas got closer, more and more people waited in longer and longer lines to see Santa. One Saturday night very close to Christmas, I’d worked my regular four-hour shift and was scheduled to go feed my reindeer — translation: change places with the next guy — at about 6 p.m. The replacement didn’t show up, though, and I had to work the rest of the night.
Around 7:30 or so, I noticed a woman standing beyond the line all by herself. She looked alternately happy and despondent, almost like what you’d expect from someone who’s a manic depressive cycling through quick ups and downs. I didn’t think anything of it, but I was surprised to find about half an hour later that she had waited in line all by herself to see Santa Claus.
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