Bruce Cameron - Dec. 3, 2009

Dec 03, 20090

Here Comes Santa!

When I was younger, I used to love sitting in Santa’s lap at the shopping mall — and was sad when I finally outgrew it at age 30.

Last year, I was at a charity holiday theme party where Santa was scheduled to appear, only, as it turned out, the theme was “Santa Won’t Be Here Because His Car Was Repossessed.” This is hard to explain to a room full of first-graders who are already grumpy because they’ve spent the afternoon helping to wrap presents for other “less fortunate” children. (How can they be “less fortunate” when they’re the ones getting the toys?)

Mommy: I know you want the doll, but won’t it be wonderful when a little girl who is less fortunate than you opens the box you wrapped and sees what you’ve given her?

Child: No!

Only the promise of Santa’s imminent arrival kept a full-scale prison riot at bay. Then we got the bad news that, although playing Santa is a hugely lucrative career, it doesn’t pay enough for Santa Claus to make his sleigh payments. The adults huddled in an anxious knot, quickly reaching the conclusion that it was time for martinis. Thus fortified, they were able to sketch out a couple of different scenarios.

Scenerio No. 1: Tell children Santa can’t make it. Result: Dead parents.

Scenario No. 2: Quietly leave before the children know we’re gone. Result: Arrested parents. (But we’d be alive!)

Scenerio No. 3: We need a Santa Claus. It’s going to be up to one of me. Result: Wait, what?

Me, I asked, astounded. Why would you want me to do it — do I look like Santa Claus to you?

The other adults surrounded me as if they were sharks and I were a bleeding walrus. I was perfect, they explained, because the rest of the men all had professional reputations, whereas as a columnist I didn’t even really have a profession. Take Larry, as an example — he was president of a bank. He couldn’t play Santa; he’s probably the one who turned Santa’s car into a repo.

We didn’t have red pants, but someone came up with a maroon jacket — I might not look like Santa Claus, but I’d be a dead ringer for Hugh Hefner. Cotton balls were affixed to my face and hair, and a Pittsburgh Steelers stocking cap went on my head. Apparently, I was playing Less-Fortunate Santa.

I was led to the mirror. “What do you think?” they asked me.

I answered, “I think maybe you should let the kids have some of those martinis.”

I had pillows stuffed inside my shirt — I felt as if I’d eaten an airbag. I was sweating and itchy, and my pants kept falling down.

“Here comes Santa!” the adults yelled, and all the children cheered, though when I stumbled into the living room they fell into a deathly silence.

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!” I bellowed, wisps of cotton coating my tongue so that I wound up gagging a little at the end of it. I staggered over to a large chair and collapsed.

“Who wants to be first to sit in Santa’s lap?” a woman cried gaily. The answer was written on the children’s faces: They were terrified.

I tried to be Proactive Santa. “You there,” I said, pointing at a little boy. “What do you want for Christmas?”

He looked at the other kids for guidance, but they had pulled away from him as if afraid they’d catch something from him. “Uh,” he muttered. “A drum set?”

“A drum set!” I trumpeted. A look of alarm flashed across a woman’s face.

“Well, not a real drum set,” she said softly.

“A real drum set!” I shouted.

“Daddy gets ... headaches,” the woman explained.

“Real loud drums!” I yelled. “Yes, that’s exactly what you’ll get for Christmas, a drum set with all kinds of drums for you to bang on, plus an electric amplifier!”

The kids glanced at each other in wonder — this Santa might look like he had some kind of disease, but he knew how to give away stuff!

“Who’s next?” I cried — and all the children raised their hands.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at http://www.wbrucecameron.com