‘Tis The
Season
It was George’s
mother who first told him about Santa Claus School.
He’d been working in the warehouse at the hardware store, carrying and
labeling equipment, for a while, maybe a few years in fact.
It was fine, George supposed, he got by fine enough.
He made enough money to live off, but nothing more.
Occasionally, when he got a bonus, he would take himself out for a
special dinner at his favorite restaurant, Applebee’s.
He would choose at least three main courses.
These meals were the highlights of his year.
Yes, George was fine, but sometimes he wished he had a different job.
A little extra money would be nice.
His landlord had been pestering him for the last year or so.
He didn’t have quite enough to pay the full rent—at least he was paying
most of it. Plus, the heavy lifting
at work sometimes made his arms and back ache.
But he continued working in the warehouse, trying not to think too much
of it.
Until he received that email from his mother.
George assumed she sent it by accident—why would she think he had any
interest in pursuing a new career?
He certainly hadn’t told her about any of his concerns.
The email was a forwarded message from Bob Hogan, a man who George had
neither met nor heard of. It read:
Are you in need of a job?
Interested in spreading Christmas cheer?
Ever dream of becoming a professional holiday mascot?
Then come on down to Bob Hogan’s
George was almost never interested this type of thing.
But he’d had an especially rough day at work.
First, he pulled a muscle in his neck carrying a huge box.
Then, he got yelled at by his boss for lagging.
So, George decided to call the Santa Claus School.
What did he have to lose?
Besides, it sounded kind of fun.
Everyone seemed to love the Santa Clause that came by the department stores
every year. He picked up the phone
and pressed each number slowly and deliberately.
***
George was tense the whole hour-long drive up to Santa Claus school. He tried listening to the Yankees game, but even that couldn’t distract him. He hadn’t been in a class since he graduated from high school, which seemed like ages ago. And he’d only worked at one place his entire adult life.
George arrived at the school a few minutes early, and was directed to a small classroom. He sat down next to a scrawny young man with frizzy blond hair.
“Excited to become a Santa?” The man grinned at George.
“Yeah, I guess.” George checked his watch.
“Gosh, I just love Christmas. Can’t get enough of it. I’d do this for free but—can you believe it—we’ll even get paid?”
Before George could respond, in walked Bob Hogan, a fat, balding man.
He had a bushy, white beard that went a few inches below his chin and
reached up to his temples, where it suddenly stopped.
It contrasted with his shiny, hairless head.
Of course, he was dressed in a red and white Santa costume.
“Good morning, everyone. My
name is Mr. Hogan. I can already
tell this is going to be a great batch of students!”
Bob Hogan smiled widely and stared across the room of ten or fifteen men.
George sighed
and rolled his eyes. Who was this
guy and why was he referring to himself “Mr.” Hogan?
It reminded him of high school.
George didn’t really try much in high school.
He was told over and over again by his teachers that he had the
“potential” to do well but “didn’t put in enough effort.”
George didn’t like his teachers for saying stuff like that; it made them
seem condescending and judgmental.
He had been fine with his C- average—he managed to graduate, at least—but he
could tell that his mother hadn’t been.
She still never let him forget it.
But high school was something George tried not to think about too much
since he went to work at the warehouse so many years ago.
Bob Hogan cleared his throat.
“Now, it would be just fantastic if everyone would go around and say
their names, where they’re from, and what inspired them to come here, to my
George swallowed. Why, out of everyone, did Bob Hogan pick him to go first? Did he notice him rolling his eyes? He sincerely hoped not. He looked down at his hands. “Um, my name is George Wilson. I’m from Uttica. And, um, I don’t know why I’m here exactly. I guess I want to try something new. I don’t know.” George scratched his head and stared at the ground. Drops of sweat appeared on his forehead and his face started to feel burning hot. He exhaled when the crowd shifted their attention to the person sitting next to him.
***
“As a Santa Claus you’ll be interacting with children almost constantly. Now, at first this might seem a little intimidating. But there are a few tricks to make all the more easier for you, and more enjoyable for the kiddies,” said Bob Hogan, glancing around the classroom. “Always remember to smile a lot.” He demonstrated, contorting his face into a rosy grin, barely visible under his bushy beard. “Make sure you never promise a child a specific present—something they might not get. And, most important of all, make sure to say ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ in a loud, cheery voice.” As Bob Hogan said this, George felt the ground vibrate beneath his ragged sneakers.
“Now, I’d like everyone to split into pairs. One of you can be Santa, and the other one can pretend to be a child. Then switch. See if you can get a feel for what it’s like to really be Santa Claus,” said Bob Hogan.
Immediately, the young man who had spoken to George earlier turned to face him. “Partners, then?”
George looked around the room discreetly. Across the room, George spotted a sickly looking man with greasy black hair, apparently sleeping. Everyone else was already paired up. He sighed. “Sure.”
“Great! This is going to be so much fun!” The man roughly patted George on the shoulder. “My name’s Randall Jenkins, but everyone calls me Randy.” He extended his wiry arm.
“George Wilson,” he muttered. George quickly shook Randy’s hand, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“So, who do you want to be first, Santa or a kid?” asked Randy, staring up at George.
“I don’t really care either way,” he said.
“Really? Are you sure you don’t care?”
“Just be whoever you want to.” George was getting irritated. Randy was a little too energetic for his taste. Still, he hoped his annoyance didn’t come off too much in his voice. He didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
“Well, if you really don’t mind, can I be Santa first? I’m just so excited, I can hardly bear it!” Randy beamed at George and drummed his fingers on the side of his chair.
“Go for it.”
Randy closed his eyes for a moment, mentally preparing for what was to come. Suddenly, he opened his eyes. He twisted his thin lips into an enormous smile, baring his teeth. In a surprisingly deep voice, he bellowed, “HO, HO, HO!” George was taken aback.
Randy had gotten Bob Hogan’s attention, too. He walked over to Randy and George from across the room. “That’s excellent, Randy. Truly excellent. You clearly listened to my suggestions. Well done,” said Bob Hogan. George sighed loudly. All Randy had done was yell.
Bob Hogan abruptly turned to face George. “Why don’t you give George a turn, Randy?” he said forcefully.
“But, I just started my—”started Randy.
“No, no—I insist.” Bob Hogan stared down at George and folded his meaty arms across his chest. He had a strange, half-smile on his face. “Please, George. Let’s see your Santa Claus.”
George gulped. “Look, Randy was in the middle of his turn. He should finish, at least—”
Bob Hogan stiffened. “I’m not some sort of idiot, son. I can see that you aren’t as enthusiastic about being a Santa as most of the other students. If you aren’t serious about this, I think it’s best if you would leave my school.”
George looked up at Bob for a moment, then looked over to Randy, who was impatiently tapping his foot. Suddenly, he declared, “Oh, for God’s sake, this is Santa Claus school! What am I even doing here?” He paused for a moment, considering what he had just said. Should he have? Too late now, he figured. He stood up. “I have to go.”
George angrily stomped out of the classroom. He got into his car, slammed the door behind him, and drove off. He needed to go back to his meager apartment, to his monotonous job, to the same town he’d grown up in, to his mother, to the security of the life he knew. He needed to go to Applebee’s. Yes, that sounded good. Applebee’s. He’d had a hard day—he deserved it.
The sixty mile drive back seemed to take hours, days even. George pulled up to the restaurant parking lot. He stopped his car, about to get out. Then, he closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head on the back of his seat. Santa Claus school had taught him something, he supposed. He was dissatisfied with his life. He was not happy. Becoming a Santa had pushed him over the edge, made him realize that there was something he could do. He wasn’t powerless to leading a boring, planned life. He could change his own fate.
George sat up abruptly. He turned the car key, backed out of the parking lot, and drove—away from town, away from Santa Claus school, away from everything he knew. He sped off into the darkness, ready to embrace the unknown.