Faux-Ho-Ho

I never meant to impersonate Santa, but the situation escalated.

This happened to me. A few years ago. In a MonstroMart or Allthings Depot or one of those stores where you need a goodbye hug before entering. Here’s how I remember things developing.

Picture yourself starting your holiday shopping early. That was me. Out of character. Feeling pretty proud of myself, I turned the corner just past the “Home Goods and Mild Regrets” department, and, what to my eyes did appear? About forty kids of varying ages and sizes, with looks of anger and of fear.

Then I went around the corner and stopped. A cluster of kids, maybe forty of them, stood in a loose circle, restless and fuming. The parents appeared. And right in the middle of it all sat the enormous red Santa chair.

Empty.

Saint Nicholas. No booming laugh. No candy-cane juggling. Just an abandoned suit draped over the top of the faux chimney like whoever wore it had evaporated mid-shift.

An overwhelmed elf paced around, muttering, as if trying to conjure the missing big guy by sheer panic.

That was the moment I should have kept walking. I said as much to myself. More than once.

For a moment I froze, trying to convince myself to move along. I even whispered, “Don’t get involved,” like a personal mantra. As if they could summon one by pointing hard enough, two kids in the front then spotted me and began chanting, “Santa, Santa.” A parent nearby gave me a look, the kind that starts as hope and ends as guilt. For a full minute I stood there weighing my options, knowing how bad they were. Each second of pause was like sinking further into mint-scented quicksand. I realized then that I would not get out of this. Not gracefully. Not at all.

I whispered to myself, “Stay out of it.” In a burst of misguided confidence, I threw on the suit and strode into place. The crowd cheered. Or at least most of them did. And then it hit me. There’s now no graceful way to undo this.

These kids had already been tested. A painful holding pattern. Like when they had to wait for the next Squishie to hit the market.

All but the youngest of my “customers” were of a generation that expected immediate gratification. “Considering Rudolph’s new diet, perhaps I should tell them Santa’s sleigh failed the emissions test?” I thought.

The first kid in line wasted no more time and climbed up my costumed legs like they were pine trees. My clothes were stuck to me by his sticky hands. “For Christmas, I want you to make Grandma stop talking about her new boyfriend.”

The crowd of adults and children both seemed to grasp the request’s unusual nature.

Now, I wanted to start my impromptu Santa stint with something cracked wise to the kid. Instead, I told the kid and the crowd that Santa encourages holiday kindness. I then pivoted the dialog to toys. The precocious youngster asked for an air horn.

As another kid side-eyed me like he wanted a refund, I reminded myself that nobody expects perfection from a stand-in Santa. Good thing, because I was already on mistake number three.

The next five kids were crying, upset, or suspicious. For the kids, the no-show Santa would perform and juggle giant candy canes. I had no canes. I didn’t juggle. The kids treated me like some kind of Santa Lite.

These special situations must be included in official Santa training. I was merely trying to do a good deed. After two hours of serving my fellow man and kid, I was ready for a break. But first, a very intense small boy wiggled his way onto my lap. His parents kept insisting that he ask for “something nice.” His priority, however, was to “do something urgent.”

The little boy was doing a frantic two-step, knees knocking together like he was tapping out Morse code for “Help.” His parents kept urging him to ask for “something nice,” pushing the idea of a microscope with the determination reserved for college applications. The kid wasn’t having it. He clung to my velvet sleeve and whispered that he needed to “do something” right now. I could feel a bead of dread roll down my spine. The Santa suit, festive as it was, offered zero protection against incoming liquids. No waterproof barrier. No emergency flap. Nothing. The moment he stopped dancing, I knew I was out of time. And out of luck.

Never underestimate the tactical value of bathroom breaks.

I barely had a moment to breathe before three teenagers marched up to test Santa. They had the audacity to ask me about their request from last year.

The teens asked me many more questions about the previous year. I wasn’t even here last year. I told myself people forget things all the time and still turn out fine. Maybe Santa got the same grace.

“Of course. Your requests were… bold,” I remarked.

Their scream carried an air of smugness aimed at a boomer.

At that moment, I decided teenagers should come with warning labels.

I was about to give up hope of the next generation making it to adults. Then I found restored hope. A shy young boy whispered to me, “Santa… what if someone on the Nice List messes up?” Do they get one mistake?”

After a day of antics, this inquiry hit me harder than I expected.

The kid’s parents looked at me with hope. They sought a suitable answer.

This tested my Santa intuition. I took a breath and replied, “Nice people mess up all the time. Being good is about trying again.”

That moment of brilliance earned me an earnest hug from the lad. The question threw me off for a moment. This was unexpected.

What else wasn’t part of the plan? The official store Santa showed up late.

Mr. Kringle swept in like he’d been shot out of a glitter cannon. He launched straight into a booming routine, tossing candy canes with circus timing and delivering lines that felt slick enough to have been tested in front of focus groups. The people loved it. Watching him, all perfect posture and rehearsed charm, I felt like a person who’d just spent the day patching leaks with duct tape while the professional plumber arrived spotless and smiling.

A funny thing took place as I stood off to the side. I caught a momentary flicker behind his painted-on cheer, a tiny strain that hinted he’d had his own share of slipups behind the beard. Maybe even today. Maybe every year. It made me realize that even the polished pros must rely on second chances more than anyone admits. Feeling like an imposter vanished for the first time that afternoon.

I made my way to the changing rooms near the jet ski display. Walking back to the front of the store, I was thanked by the elf as though I had saved Christmas. The smoothie bar provided me with a free drink.

Thinking about the kid’s question about mistakes occurred to me as I walked toward the doors with my smoothie and what little dignity I had left. I make a few goofs every year. Some big, most small. Forgetting birthdays. Burning the turkey. Promising I wouldn’t wait until the last minute and still doing it anyway.

If Santa keeps a tally, mine must look like a grocery receipt. But maybe that’s the point. You own the mistakes, try again, and hope you end up on the correct side of the list. Funny how a five-year-old reminded me of that.

I smiled.

I never meant to impersonate Santa, but the situation escalated.