At the crowded country club Christmas party, where I am dressed as Santa Claus, I sit on a chair nestled beside the towering Christmas tree, watching the celebration all around me. My fake snow-white beard begins to itch. I adjust my oversized red suit and fake belly. Beads of sweat trail down my back. A little girl about seven tugs at my sleeve. She wants a picture. I smile and pose until my jaws ache. I give her a candy cane from the sack, which the club manager gave me. Her face lights up. She says thanks and disappears into the crowd dressed in ugly sweaters, elegant gowns, and furry jackets—shades of red, white, and green swarm me. The manager, a man in his fifties with a receding hairline and gray eyes, taps my shoulder.
“Great job, Sam, just what we need for holiday spirit,” he remarks.
I force a smile again, not wanting this night to end. I accept drinks I can’t afford. I accept eggnog, turkey, ham, and bread pudding—a feast compared to the meager, lukewarm pumpkin soup I drank last night. I pose with families and more children, who expect me to slide down their chimneys on Christmas Eve and leave exotic presents in their warm stockings. I answer innocent questions about what it’s like to live at the magical North Pole and ride my reindeer across the dazzling black sky.
A little boy tugs at my beard. I don’t know how to describe life after this beard is gone—that I’m just a thirty-year-old guy without a chimney or a roof over my head. That I don’t fly across the night sky but drive in dark California streets in my car, hoping I won’t get cops tapping on my foggy window, instructing me not to sleep here. That I don’t have reindeer but raccoons or skunks wandering near me. That I sometimes rest my head on a friend’s couch for a day or even a week if I’m lucky. That I got this stint because of my friend who works here as kitchen staff.
After a while, parents lead their yawning children out, thank me, and wish me a Merry Christmas. Adults without kids keep their lively conversation and toast with their wine glasses. It’s time for me to go, too. I quietly leave. The Christmas tree continues to gleam on its pedestal. In their intoxicated states, no one will notice the empty chair beside the tree. I feel a strange sense of hollowness as I slip out of the heavy Santa suit, fake belly, and beard. I collect my money.
“More eggnog?’ the manager asks.
I shake my head and walk back to my car in the parking lot. I look up and wonder what it would be like to ride reindeer across the starry night sky. The evening of resplendence, merriment, and laughter fades into a blur. I feel everything spinning around me as I sink into the depths of wistfulness.
