BY JEFF LAGRECA I finally get to be a Santa Elf. After a week of assignments ranging from Welcome Elf to Train Elf to Crossroads Elf, I get to be in the actual house with the big, red-suited man himself! The house itself is a small wood-paneled room about 10 feet by 10 feet and has a bench or throne upon which Santa sits. There are colorful carvings on the wall and snow-frosted windows. The Santa Elf (me) stands at the door and ushers people into the room. The Camera Elf stands opposite Santa and snaps a photo. And when the visit is complete, we usher the visitors out the back door behind Santa and into the exit hallway. I am told by all the other elves that this is where the magic happens. But, what I’m about to tell you is going to blow your Christmas brain and probably get me in trouble with the Secret Society of Santassassins.” What most people don’t know is that there are six different Santa houses hidden in Santaland, populated by six different actors playing Santa all at the same time. After spending time in different houses with different Santas, I begin to identify them by certain characteristics. There’s “Catskill Comedian Santa,” who squints a lot and has a rapid-fire delivery. There’s “I Can’t Believe They Picked Me Santa,” a scrawny wide-eyed 20-something who is probably a 100 pounds shy of the traditional Santa target weight. As luck would have it, I am stationed in House No. 3 with a fellow that I refer to as “Don’t-Touch-Me-I’m-Comatose-Santa.” I’ve been in here with him for 10 minutes as we wait to open and so far, he hasn’t moved once. He is either deep asleep or deep dead. I stifle the urge to put a mirror up to his nose. Finally, as the hour strikes, he begins to stir in his chair and sighs to himself for the next five minutes. He shakes his head back and forth, letting out several ponderous grunts and I wonder if he’s coming out of hibernation? That’s it. He’s coming out of hibernation! At any moment, “Don’t-Touch-Me-I’m-Comatose-Santa” is going to give me a sly wink as he shakily gets to his feet. Then he’ll take one feeble step forward, plunging into a pratfall that turns into a graceful somersault where he triumphantly springs to his feet smiling with all the grace of a World Class Willy Wonka cosplayer. He will take a bow and everyone in the tiny Santa house will applaud magnificently. But this doesn’t happen. He moves with all the vigor and agility of a sloth on 25 milligrams of cyclobenzaprine. Perhaps he’ll spark to life once the visits start … but nope. The first visit feels like slow motion, he’s moving at 60 frames per second and the rest of us are at 24. The next visit moves as fast as my grandma’s internet connection. All of his visits with the families continue in this subdued manner. Perhaps he’s hungover, I wonder. Perhaps he’s Zen, I rationalize. Finally, there is a slight break in the visitor traffic, and “Don’t-TouchMe-I’m-Comatose-Santa” turns to me drowsily and says, “I have three jobs.” Ah ha! Now, I get it. He’s just TIRED! I nod my head knowingly and say something like, “Yeah, tough times.” He continues, “Most nights, I wait tables at Juniors, but I also sell merchandise for two Broadway shows and I work part-time in a law office.” “Four!” I say. “What?” “Four. You work four jobs. Don’t forget this … Santaland?" “This isn’t a job. This is my vocation, my calling,” He says with NO IRONY WHATSOEVER and languidly shifts in his perch. “I try to make every visit special,” he says. ”Every visit is always such an emotional journey for me and my guests.” I give him a patronizing pat on the shoulder. “You’re an inspiration to all,” I manage, as I stifle a yawn and a sob at the same time. CHECK OUT MORE INSTALLS OF THE ELFLAND STORIES: JEFFLAGRECA.SUBSTACK.COM
21 Publizr Home