They Call Me Santa Brad

An abridged version of this essay appeared in Salon. https://www.salon.com/2019/12/24/handsy-moms-porsche-demanding-kids-a-santa-for-hires-christmas-in-los-angeles/

You may think Santa doesn’t exist, but he does. I know, because I played him. A couple of years ago, in a moment of panic, I agreed to work as Santa. This was a little over a year after I’d been laid off as a marketing manager as a large studio. I had decided to take the leap and follow my original career path of acting, which turned out to be not so much of a leap and a path as a jump and a steep drop into a cave of fear. Playing Santa for the holidays was not exactly the kind of role I’d imagined, but I needed the money. I had seen an ad on a casting site for a Santa Claus for the holidays, the ones who work parties and private homes. It’s the kind of job you mention and people say, “You’re an actor, that’s perfect!” or “That sounds like fun!”

Although I’ve done it since I was thirteen years old, I have deep ambivalence about acting. I’m not one of those actors who would be a good busker, or enjoys dressing up like a Dickens character and harassing passersby with my rosy cheeks while asking them to “lift a glahss to the mahsster of thee ‘ouse!” I’m not a natural ham. I prefer having lines, working with other people who have lines, preferably in a place where everyone else is in a seat in the dark, unseen, after which I can go home and eat a pizza in shame like a normal person. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and there’s nothing more desperate than an out of work actor at Christmas. Christmas Ham it would be.

As an actor I was doing well; I’d been in two plays, a musical, and four commercials, but still not enough steady work to pay the bills. I’d also made my way through my severance, my retirement funds, and was starting on unemployment. Loath to go back to the nine-to-five jobs I’d been doing for the past two decades that made me contemplate vehicular suicide more than once, I answered the ad.

At 6’4” with red hair that had now morphed into silver blond with a beard to match, I was apparently a great fit.

At least that’s what Samantha, the cheery woman who answered the phone told me. She forwarded several “How to Be a Great Santa” tutorials along with YouTube links and client/Santa guidelines. There were tips as to how to keep the illusion for children, as well as basics like having a sturdy chair and making sure gift labels were clear. Keep a towel in case a child vomits on you. The videos had alluring titles like “How to laugh like Santa,” “How to calm fearful children,” and “How to put on a beard.” Each featured a professional Santa, someone who played the part all-year-round. While I admired his beard and was glad he’d found something he loved, seeing the long tunnel of every fear I’ve ever had about being an actor proved unsettling. Forget the fearful children, I had to calm myself. I tried a weak ho ho ho. It didn’t help.

Samantha told me that it was important to always stay in character, no matter the circumstance. “Never let on you are anything but Santa.” All monetary transactions with Santa should be done out of sight, like a drug deal. My visions of an easy time sitting in a window at a mall while smiling and waving or maybe dropping off a few gifts at a house and sledding away went down the chimney into the flames of a vision of grown children talking to future therapists about how a boring Santa failed to bring the family together and mommy and daddy went through with that divorce. Not only did I have to ho ho ho, I had to ho ho hold a crowd, bring life to a party. I would be interacting with actual children, on the day they most looked forward to in the entire year. Did I mention I don’t like improv?

Fresh out of grad school I did a tour of a children’s show, which earned me my Equity card. I went from performing complex characters in obscure Eastern European dramas to playing Robin Hood in “Where’s Waldo: The Musical.” My cast mates enjoyed performing. They seemingly didn’t care what they were in, as long as they were on stage. Not me. I love creating work with other people, the theater, actors, but I’m not by nature a performer. The kids loved it, which was the point, but I found myself restlessly searching each city for something to do while my cast mates sat in the hotel room watching “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” and satisfied with having done a day’s work.

I Santa was exactly the job I had feared doing. Being a lively, entertaining character in the actual world takes great skill, but not a skill I possessed. Nor did I want to. I had been living with the idea that plays and television shows were right around the corner if I just committed to acting as a job, but the corner kept getting further away. I feared I would fail miserably, and this was the arrival at failure. I’d be a clown, at parties and in my own sense of self.

On the day of the interview, I arrived a squat 1950’s ranch house hidden on the west side of the 5 freeway. Beyond a leaning chain link fence was a handwritten sign with SANTA AUDITIONS and an arrow pointing through a gate. I warily pulled open the gate, and was met by a friendly yellow Labrador retriever. No one was in sight, so I wondered in a bit toward the back house. A voice came from what looked like an old wooden garage in front of me. The glorified shed had been converted into a makeshift office, with a desk, laptop, and wardrobe racks. I stepped up into the workspace.

“Hi, I’m here for the auditions.”

The lab bounded over and rubbed himself against my leg.

“Hold on, just a second,” the cheery blonde woman said from behind her laptop. “I just have to finish this up.”

I pet the dog while I took in the room. Wardrobe racks were laden with Santa outfits of various sizes, and a few green elf costumes.

Another chipper blonde woman came into the shed, dressed in a pink hoodie and Ugg boots, holding an old school landline battery phone.

“Sorry, I was on a call. Benji, come here! He always does that. Just shoo him away if he bothers you. I’m Samantha. And this is my assistant, Hannah.”

Hannah got up from the desk and reached out her hand, “I just had to send an email, sorry about that. Great to meet you!”

Samantha pulled a costume from the rack that had my name on it, and a bag from under the table.

“Do I need to do anything?” I asked, thinking I would have to laugh merrily or speak as Santa.

“Oh, yeah. It’s fine. Your resume looks great. You’ll be fine. Be sure to watch those tutorials.”

She set me up with my costume — your standard Santa habiliments; red fake velvet suit, fake fur, and black rubber boots that affixed with Velcro. The most impressive part was the wig of long white hair, elaborately curled, accompanied by a beard attached with elastic that fit over the head beneath the wig. In a separate plastic bag was a large white twirled mustache. The costume and hair were my responsibility for the season.

“Watch the wig,” Hannah said. “It can look really sad if you’re not careful. Make sure it’s either on your head, or the wig head.”

Samantha told me that I’d get paid once the client paid, but tips were my own. Just like waiting tables. “Get ready,” she said. “The gigs are flowing in. You’re going to be busy, Santa Brad. We are so busy!”

Hannah nodded in assent. “Great to meet you! One of us will send you an email, and you’ll be good to go!”

I left the shed with a bag of clothes, a wig, and boots roomy enough to be shaking in.

I wasn’t sure of my ability to actually do this. I decided to trust their trust in me, and was sure it couldn’t be as bad as anything I could imagine. Give presents to some kids. I did a one-man version of War and Peace. I’d done outdoor Shakespeare. How hard could this be?

A few weeks later, I headed to my first gig, an hour’s drive away near Orange County: behind the Orange Curtain, Southern California’s bastion of wealth, conservatism and born-again Christians. Because being a Santa requires getting into costume without people noticing, I’d hit upon the time time-saving measure of driving the hour south with the enormous moustache affixed to my face. I would slip into my suit when I arrived. Luckily, I’d left any sense of modesty back in acting class where I’d learned that the theater is a free zone where self-consciousness is dropped in service to the larger cause. My backstage would now be a residential street in an Orange County beach community. If caught, my story would be an explanation about where my reindeer were. Luckily, it was dark.

As I drove, I’d catch other drivers catching sight of me and pointing or laughing. I was already spreading joy, down the freeway. When I arrived, I managed to take off my pants and quickly don my gay apparel without any dog walkers or late night strollers passing by. The boots were large, and forced me to walk with my legs apart, like I had gotten off a horse or had jock itch. Neither very festive.

I took a breath, knocked on the door. Suddenly Santa! My first surprise was the lack of children. This was an adult party. Suburbanites in middle age. The living room was full of women, and a large kitchen led out to a porch where most of the men were watching a game on the mounted screens. The hostess was warming up hors d’ouevres in the kitchen. The men were dressed casually, while most of the women had on more form fitting dresses and blouses. The party was in full swing.

I was led over near the tree, where I was to participate in the gift exchange. As soon as I entered, everyone rushed to have a picture taken with Santa. The women were much eager than the men. First the wives dragged their husbands to take a picture, then the women posed in various combinations. They all wanted to sit on my lap, with a few pushing their holiday décolletage as close to my face as possible and laughing. I started to wonder if they were looking for a different Santa. I remembered the Santa How-To Tips. No lap dances. I had laughed that off as ridiculous, but now I wasn’t so sure. I grew up with women like this, suburban women who became flirty when they drank. My mother would do this often at holiday parties. My gut reaction was to freeze, but as Santa that wasn’t possible. Instead, I laughed along, careful to not encourage anything while not discouraging anyone from having fun, which was a balancing act I had hoped was successful.

The moustache was so large I had to open my mouth to look as if I was smiling, otherwise I was too stern a Santa. Unfortunately, if I actually smiled, the combination of perspiration on my upper lip and the spirit gum cracking would cause the moustache to peel. Being Santa was precarious in so many ways.

After the various picture combinations, I followed the hostess into her open concept kitchen. Near the fireplace, there was a dog staring at a mop. I knelt beside the dog, but it ignored me.

Her husband passed by. “That dog is crazy and in love with that mop.”

He moved the mop into a closet. The dog followed, whining. He sat outside and butted his head against the closet door until my host opened it again and he could see the object of his affection.

“See?” he said. “Just crazy. You want a beer or something?”

“No, thanks! Have to drive the sleigh!”

Oh, no. They were not interacting with me as Santa. I passed back toward the kitchen. The hostess was coaxing triangles of spanakopita from a baking tray to a serving plate.

“You sure you don’t want a beer or something”

“Ho ho ho,” I laughed in response. “Not while I’m on the job.”

“White wine? Anything?” She countered.

“Oh, no, I’m great, thanks! I get lots of milk and cookies on the road!”

She continued to make small talk. “Are you married?”

“Ho, ho, yes! Mrs. Claus is back at the north pole.”

“Are you gay? You can tell me.”

I chose not to answer that one. Me, yes: Santa, no. Was there a tell? Perhaps my refusal to flirt earlier hadn’t been as successful as I had thought? Was it simply that I wouldn’t have a beer and flirt with the ladies on my lap? I envied the dog, lightly banging its head against a wall. That seemed the correct reaction. Self-soothing Santa.

Frankly, I wasn’t sure how which elf I ended up with made any difference, but it pointed out to me how I didn’t fit in. I had stopped acting for fear that my sexuality would stop me from being cast, and my first Santa job seemed to be reinforcing that same sense of difference. Ironically, I’ve been told I don’t read “gay” enough to play gay roles, but now I thought I must sound like silly Sally, the sibilant Santa. Had I slipped up and complimented someone’s shoes? There were a lot of sparkly shoes. It was a hazard. I was here to do a job, though, and hell if I was going to drop character.

The gift exchange went off without a hitch. The women got bath and shower packages, fragrances, tchotchkes, while the men got shaving equipment, bourbon, and golf paraphernalia. One woman loudly protested her disinterest in spa products, which amounted to heresy. The hostess grumbled, but there was a gift found for her as well. I sat by the tree, handed out gifts, and laughed jollily, trying not to look too much like the Rudolph in the headlights I felt like.

The end of the gift exchange coincided with the end of my time on the clock. I whispered to my host that the reindeer were on the roof and it was time for them to fly. He yelled out for everyone to say goodbye to Santa and walked me to the door. He slipped a tip in my hand — one hundred dollars. Perhaps this would be a good gig after all. The partygoers had fun, got pictures with Santa, and I got a little taste of how the other half with specific other halves lived. Much the same as my parents, actually.

The next day my gig was at a Long Beach recreation center. Because of the mid-day call, I figured there would be families and kids. I had forgotten the surprise vomit towel, but other than that I felt prepared. By 1 pm, it was a balmy 80 degrees, standard for a Christmas in Southern California. I pulled on to a side street and donned my Santa garb. I had pre-dressed the velour pants and moustache, so this involved strapping on the pillows, affixing the beard, and putting on the wig, belt and gloves. There were kids that saw me, but they weren’t the client. What can I say? It’s not a perfect system. I got back in the car twice as large, blasting the air conditioner while looking for a parking space. Nothing ruins the Christmas spirit like sweaty Santa getting out of his Honda Accord.

The recreation center was one of those seventies concrete monoliths where the recreation of choice would be Soviet folk dance. Paula, a small, energetic Filipino woman, met me at the door with her family. She was the organizer of the event, and the owner of the company. This was a party for an organization that provided home care for disabled children. This party was to celebrate the caretakers. There were lots of kids. Each would receive the same gift from Santa and a picture. I was whisked into the main room, where the families were finishing their meals. Kids in wheelchairs, some in mobile beds, sat with large families. The little kids ran around in their Christmas best between the tables, excited for Santa. En route to Santa’s corner near the fireplace I stopped at tables and greeted the families. Some of the kids were talkative and excited, while others were clearly confused and/or terrified.

Several adults sat around one table with Harry, an adolescent boy of twelve or thirteen. He was in a contraption resembling something between a chair and a bed, in which he clearly spent most of his time. He could move the chair by means of an electronic joystick, but otherwise was paralyzed but for his neck and head. Harry was laughing at one his Dad’s jokes. Dad, a middle aged man with glasses and a broad smile, clearly delighted in making horrible Dad jokes for his son. I kept in character, and asked what he wanted for Christmas. He couldn’t think of anything.

My father was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis when I was five and was in a wheelchair by the time I was eleven. I grew up with a parent who needed a lift and controls to drive, an angry, unhappy parent, who took out his frustration on his kids. With a mother who drank too much and a father in a wheelchair, it felt like these first two jobs were pushing my own history back in my face. The only way I was going to perform was to see what the differences were. My family history was what it was, but my job was to give these kids a great experience of Santa. A neurotic Santa having traumatic childhood flashbacks wouldn’t be the best Christmas gift.

Families approached and each kid got a gift and a picture. Some of the families had five or six children, one of whom was affected by a disability. These were kids that would be termed “profoundly” affected, as they required around-the-clock care. Some were like Harry, physically affected but otherwise a typical kid of their age, while others had various levels of ability to respond. The brothers and sisters who accompanied them were excited for their gifts as well. One little girl flirted mercilessly; it was clear she wanted to be Santa’s favorite. Some didn’t speak English. Some saw me and wailed, no matter how much their parents tried to convince them I wasn’t scary. The caretakers continued working, calming them, wiping their mouths, rubbing their arms. After the round of gifts, Santa took a break. I walked out back to check my phone and get some air, as well as press my moustache down and see if I could salvage Santa’s sartorial rep. With the heat I’d spent much of the time pressing my moustache back on and leaning my head to the right in hopes it wouldn’t peel off and droop forward.

Back inside, it was kid dance party time. The flirty girl came up to ask me questions about me, but mostly tell me what she wanted for Christmas. She hugged me violently and grinned like her head was going to explode. Several five to six year old boys dive bomb hugged me, appearing from out of nowhere and disappearing just as fast. They were all excited for Christmas, but it was clear Santa meant more to them. It was like they were hugging the Christmas spirit itself.

Harry had come over and positioned himself next to the large fireplace, near the area where the dancing was happening. He couldn’t join, but was independent enough to move on his own, his head lolling slightly. I took a dancing break and sat down next to him.

“What kind of things do you do for fun, Harry?” I asked him.

“Movies, videogames,” he said.

We watched the little kids run around. He leaned his head over slightly.

“Santa, looks like you’re having a little trouble with your moustache.”

I reached up my gloved hand and felt half of my moustache hanging forward off of my face. I blushed a true Santa red.

“Ho ho ho! It’s hard to be a Santa in this heat. You should see what it’s doing to Rudolph and the reindeer on the roof!”

He laughed. He knew who I was, but he called me Santa and he wanted to chat, make a friend.

I looked over at his father, the jokester. He was sitting alone at the table, his face fallen, staring into the distance. It was clear how much he loved his son, and also what that entailed. His son was a special kid, with a great sense of humor and an obvious kindness. It can’t have been easy for him to be so comfortable in himself. He must have had great role models.

I know how much that affects a family. Unlike my father, Harry had never played football or been an active ambulatory person. He was born into that chair and had parents who made him feel loved. Seeing that love was my gift for Christmas.

The shifts Samantha promised didn’t materialize. These were my only two Santa jobs. Frankly, I was relieved. I was grateful for the experience, even treasuring my experience with the kids, but I wasn’t eager to don the red suit any time soon again.

A year passed. I worked my many different jobs, random acting gigs. I was happy to have had the Santa experience, but glad to leave it behind. I skidded along the poverty line, getting by sometimes with help from friends and family. We don’t realize the support structures we have until we have to rely on them. I thought of the kids I’d met, and the difficulties they faced throughout the year. I don’t like to take gratitude from the misfortune of others, but it did put my struggles in perspective. I also thought it would be a cold day in hell before I’d do that again.

Sometime in mid-November hell must have gotten a Nor’easter, because I got a voicemail: “Hi, Santa Brad! It’s Samantha! I was calling to find out if you’d like to join us again this year.”

The short answer was no. The long answer was that I couldn’t turn down any work, even if that “work” was smiling for photos and reinforcing boundaries with a few revelers who’d over-wassailed it. Looks like I’d be donning the red suit again.

Samantha told me she was going through some challenging times herself. Her Dad had been taken ill, and she’d left the house and moved in with him. But she loved, loved Christmas, and she was excited for Christmas, her favorite holiday. There was a little edge in her voice, a little more cheerful desperation, but I couldn’t turn down the job opportunity, or say no to someone going through a hard time. “You’ll get an email from me. Or I mean, Tabitha, my new assistant. Hannah isn’t with me anymore.”

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Yeah, well. Hard to find good people,” she said.

Through texts and email exchanges, some from her and some from Tabitha, she said I’d have to drive up the 5 north of Los Angeles to pick up the suit in a storage space.

I wasn’t too jazzed about it, but what would Santa do? He’d probably delegate to an elf, but I drove up the freeway myself on my appointed round and picked up the familiar suit, boots, hair and all.

My first job was at a park in East Los Angeles. A couple of exits off the 10 and 5 freeway interchange, the area has a reputation for being rough. The community center was hosting a holiday lunch and a gift giveaway. I was supposed to hand out bags of candy and goodies, one per child.

The women who were organizing the day had put out a big wooden chair in the courtyard. It was a multi-purpose “throne,” useful for Santa, Shakespeare, or a community theater production of Camelot. Luckily, the day was mostly cool and I was in the shade. Within a few minutes a line of children waited for candy and a photo. The kids were mostly shy, goaded on by their parents. First the gift with a picture, then tell Santa what you want. Most of the boys wanted a specific pair of Nikes or Nintendo game, and the girls wanted a particular pair of shoes as well. Every once in a while a Barbie or a doll was requested. Every group had similar requests. I’d heard about the hot toy of the moment, and here it was in action.

One boy wanted to see his Dad for Christmas. His mother stood by, smiling placidly. I didn’t know what to say without giving him an empty promise.

“I think that might just be possible!”

Many of the kids had stainless steel crowns on their teeth. I was told it’s not uncommon for kids in the neighborhood to have teeth rotted out from neglect, lack of dental care or bad diet. Since they don’t have their adult teeth yet, their teeth are replaced with stainless steel caps until they grow. I looked around at the parents, who were covered in tattoos, and also had silver and gold capped teeth.

There are many things you don’t think about because you have them. I’m no fan of the dentist, but having visits to the dentist as a kid was taken for granted. I’d never had a cavity because the water in the town I grew up in was fluoridated. In school, we were given red tablets in health class to chew to show us where we might have plaque on our teeth. The parents in my LA neighborhood had tattoos as well, but most were for fashion, designed by an artist. They picked their kids up from school in Volvos and Audis, and lived in million dollar homes. Like a real Santa, I was seeing parts of the city I wouldn’t otherwise. I was also seeing the privilege I lived with. Sometimes we don’t see the gifts we have because we don’t have to ask for them.

The line dwindled down, and I sat on my throne watching a couple of the kids play around near their parents. One of the Dads, probably the fiercest looking guy I’d seen that day, covered in tattoos over his skull and neck, played with his giggling daughter. He was enamored.

My own parents were impatient and angry. At times, my brother and I felt like inconveniences. We were raised to be independent. Even in our house, though, Christmas was the time for the family to get together. Everyone worked to make the day enjoyable. My mother, who is Jewish, even told me she converted out of Judaism when she married my father in part because she wanted to celebrate Christmas. I can’t say I ever trusted Christmas cheer, though, as usually by the end of Christmas dinner everyone would be back to their normal selves. My stepfather loved Christmas, and tried to make it fun for everyone, but by the time he entered my life I was a sullen teen, and the template was set. Christmas, even as an adult, felt lonely and was a day to dread. I didn’t believe in the religion it celebrated, and the most apt song for the holidays was the Charlie Brown Christmas dirge.

One of the unexpected benefits I had as Santa was witnessing parents interact with their children. It never fails to touch me to see kids only lightly corralled by their parents, who still give them space to be kids. Nowhere is a kid is more a kid than around Santa. No matter the neighborhood, Santa was a catalyst for joy. By seeing that bit of Christmas cheer, I was letting go of my own pain and celebrating the joy of others. The day was changing for me.

An email from Samantha’s new assistant, Tabitha, detailed a new gig at an exclusive country club northwest of Los Angeles the next day for two brunch seatings. I drove around a while searching of the golf club. McMansions dotted the landscape over rolling hills around a man made lake.

I pulled up next to haystacks covered with fake snow. The club had built a sledding ramp for the kids to get the real winter experience. It was in the mid-sixties temperature wise, but the lawn looked like the filming of a Christmas special: A Very Wealthy Christmas. I stepped inside the golf club, which was fully decked out in holiday finery, with garlands, lights and a spectacular twelve-foot tree. Next to it was a big, overstuffed red chair straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting in front of a grand staircase. I opted to change in the back office of the shop rather than the locker room. Besides the possibility of children, I didn’t want to run into any aging golfers walking around in a towel. If you keep the illusion, you keep the illusion.

Once dressed, I headed to my chair for photo ops. My feet clomped in the oversize galoshes. I had developed an ambling, “aw, shucks” that my normally quick pace did not have. Eventually, this morphed into a full on elbows-out, Gomer Pyle cum Popeye swagger that looked like the only thought in my head was a good-natured, sing-song “doo-de-doo.” If Santa had feet to fit these they would have been paws. I was enjoying that I’d developed a Santa “character.”

These kids were as rambunctious and outgoing as the kids I’d met the day before were reticent. One boy even told as he breezed by me that he knew what he was getting and it was everything he asked for so he didn’t need anything. His parents coaxed him into getting his picture taken. On my lap for photos he pointed to his grandfather.

“He’s got a yellow Porsche. I don’t have that. I want one of those.”

Sure kid, we’ll work it out. With or without the mistress?

During the break, I joined the carolers in the well-appointed private dining room with our plates piled high with the holiday feast. These singers made a good chunk of change caroling during the holidays. Christmas is big business. I had two helpings of ham and waffles. Would Santa say no to a waffle? Never.

More kids came in during the second seating, including one singular girl who was Pippi Longstocking, or Ramona — all energy, completely herself with her amused, slightly exhausted, parents. All of these kids knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to tell you. I wish I’d had that kind of confidence at that age. Or frankly, at my age.

When I was working at a large investment bank in New York (the big one, with the initials Goldman, Sachs), I hosted a group of eleven-year-old girls for Take Your Daughter to Work Day while their parents worked. The girls sat on either side of a table separated by their parent’s job; the white girls from the burbs and the upper east and west side whose fathers were bankers, and the black and brown girls from the boroughs whose mothers were secretaries and support staff. The bankers’ daughters were outgoing, eager to answer questions and volunteer what fantastic destination they were visiting on their holidays — skiing in Switzerland, Christmas on the Cape, etc. The daughters of the secretaries were much more reluctant to talk. They idolized their mothers, and were going to be spending Christmas in the Bronx.

That day flashed through my mind as I thought about these two Santa days back to back. As always, the boys were more outgoing than the girls if they were together. I once had a professor who taught at the state school I attended who had taught at Princeton. She said the only difference between the students was that when asked to do something, the state school students would ask if they could, while the Princeton students marched ahead. From my big red chair, the differences were encoded already. It’s sociology, Santa.

I said goodbye to the supervisor once I had finished. She said I could take food to go. I took a box of ham and turkey.

On the way to my car, I stopped at the sledding area to remind a family that had gotten distracted by the sledding that they had wanted a picture with Santa. We squinted in the California sun with the snow and hay bales in the background.

“They didn’t tip you?!?” Samantha said when I called in to report.

“No, but they gave me food. She’s an employee as well. I guess the food was the tip.”

“Jerks. Not the same,” she said. “Did you get the email I sent about Christmas Eve? I mean, the one Tabitha sent?”

I was starting to question if “Tabitha” existed. The emails lapsed in subject as well, referring to “I” and then to “Samantha,” as if it had been written by one person, or sloppily cobbled together. Running a business is hard, but still, you shouldn’t lie to Santa. Something in my large pillow was telling me something was off.

Next up for me was another adult party. Dang it. A night avoiding drunks with questionable boundaries reminded me of too many Christmases past, but a job is a job. I made sure my mustache adhesive was secure.

“This one is last minute,” Samantha told me. “I hate that. I want to quote them some crazy number and fuck them if they can’t commit.”

Merry Christmas!!

The “kids” at this party were all in college, except for the housekeeper’s three-year old, who was delighted to see me. Most kids are fascinated and delighted by Santa, which never fails to make you happy you showed up. Walking around a party after everyone has taken a photo and you have nothing to do but make small talk as Santa while people who actually know each other talk in little groups does not. After walking around for nearly an hour, there was nothing left to do. The Santa novelty had worn off, and I tried trying to blend into the furniture, which sadly was not red polyester trimmed with fur. I thought of how many parties I’ve spent ducking into a room to read the titles on the bookcase, or cornering someone to have a long, deep talk. Those spaces are comfortable. Walking around in a costume personifying cheer and keeping it light are not. There was nowhere to hide.

The woman had hired me plopped down next to me, a little toasted. She had a Beverly Hills housewife vibe.

“How old are you? We have a bet.”

“Ho ho ho, Santa is ageless.”

“No, I mean you. Like I think you’re like thirty?”

Then she pulled at my beard. I thought only children pulled at the beard.

“Just a peek.”

“Ho ho ho! You’re being naughty!”
I hauled myself up like a pregnant tomato and headed outside to the yard. If I could’ve stood in the dark next to a tree for the next forty-five minutes, I would have. That might look creepy. It’s just a little dim lighting and the wrong expression and you’ve gone from looking like Santa to Ted Kazinsky. I thought of the cocker spaniel banging her head against a wall.

I walked over the hors d’ouevre table. There was a lot of cheese. I am lactose intolerant and happened to be wearing gloves. I decided against it. I took a cracker and ate it in the semi-darkness. I wasn’t supposed to eat with the beard on, but I made sure I popped the whole thing in my mouth.

The one thing this costume was supposed to do was give me license to be someone else, to bring joy and fun to a party and take off. Standing around in discomfort with no one to talk to was not part of the bargain. Not only was I as uncomfortable as I would have been in real life, now I was wearing a red suit and a beard. I felt uncomfortable and useless, like a toy whose novelty had worn off. The mask was there, but behind it I was aware that I took this discomfort wherever I went, even in fat suit and a beard.

My time was finally ending, and I found the hostess, who asked again how old I was, and then went to get my payment. In the mean time, everyone gathered for a group photo with Santa. Somehow this was delayed until the last moment of my two- hour stint. The hostess father sat next to me on the bench while a party of drunk people tried to get organized to take a photo, which I’m sure was hilarious for anyone not in a fur suit, dripping with sweat, and more than ready to leave.

“Ho Ho Ho! It’s about time to get on my sleigh!”

The hostess father grabbed my arm.

“Just sit the fuck down. This is what I’m paying you for.”

I sat silently and smiled. There are two people you don’t want to piss off, drunks and employers. This man was both. It was over when they said it was over.

I noted that the drunkest people at the party were the family who lived there. I guess that made sense. They didn’t have to drive. Dodging drunks. I definitely don’t remember that YouTube video, but I do remember many holiday parties as a kid doing just that. My answer then was to freeze, laugh it off, and escape. Here, I had to ho ho ho and sit with it. I waited, and finally they got family photo they wanted.

The hostess gave $150 in cash, once more asking how old I was. I put my finger aside my nose and dashed away. Samantha said I could keep the cash as my payment for this particular job, so I had immediate payment.

Christmas Eve was the last day I had said I was available. I had two houses to visit, each with small children. The first, in the flats of Beverly Hills, was a large modern rental with large glass windows, making Santa’s secret a little harder to keep. Luckily no one was on the grand staircase looking out over the fence. I parked, put on my outer coat, wig hat, and gloves, and picked up my bag.

A housekeeper answered the door, and ushered me in. In the living room, in front of the roaring fireplace, were two adorable blond children. They were three and five, from Scandinavia. They were adorable, Christmas poster children, the kind you imagine speak several languages and excel at math and engineering.

After reading the children The Night Before Christmaswhile trying to avoid combustion near the fire, I left the picture-perfect family to enjoy their Christmas Eve while I wiped sweat from my brow. Christmas is hard work.

Next up was an apartment at a high rise in Santa Monica. A super energized Dad excitedly answered the door. He gave me gifts for his children, and I entered the apartment to surprise them. I’m not sure this is the best thing for kids with all the stranger danger schooling we have. I entered the apartment to find two terrified children. They did not scream or cry, but it was clear their father was enjoying this much more than they were. Their mother was on her phone, and chatted to her brother in Japanese. The older girl and the younger boy took their gifts as their excited father took pictures. The boy was happy to get gifts, but the girl stared straight ahead in terror and would not look directly at me. Their father was very excited about Santa, but I think the home invader aspect was clearly not working for the kids.

On the way home, I stopped by a couple of Christmas parties of people I knew. One was full of muscled gay men, many of whom didn’t acknowledge Santa aside from a sidelong glance, though it made the host and the few people I knew there happy and laugh. I won’t lie; it felt empowering to show up to a party with a lot of weight and appearance conscious men in a fat suit. There was one seven-year old boy there, and it was clear I made his night. He was beyond thrilled to see me. His mother thanked me.

Immediately following, I swung by the gift exchange of a married couple of women who had invited me to join but I had to pass because of work. This was a much smaller party who were thrilled to see Santa and couldn’t wait to take a large group photo. Coincidentally it was the hosts’ last Christmas in Los Angeles, and they thanked me for making it special. Lastly, I stopped by my best friend’s house, and she, her husband and kids guffawed at how large I was. A drive across Los Angeles visiting several homes in various neighborhoods was a fitting way to hang up my red polyester velvet hat. I went home, took off the clothes and wig, put them in a box, and went to bed for my long winter’s nap.

That night, I felt like a true Santa. I had started on the west side of the city and made my way east. I went from house to house, seeing people of different backgrounds, bringing joy and smiles. Though single, I was spending Christmas satisfied and warm, feeling I had family all across the city; I felt connected.

In the end, Samantha disappeared like smoke up a chimney. There was a story about her father being ill and having to take care of him, and then she was in the hospital herself. We spoke when she got out in late January. She said she was working on paying me and would send me a check. I followed up a few times, but never heard from her. Sometime in April I got a call from her cousin from somewhere in the Midwest, who said that she was in a bad place. The business was in shambles, she owed many people money, and they were hoping to sell it off and pay people back what they owed. I spoke with him once more, but after that never heard back.

The following October, I called another number I had in my phone attached to her business. I got a call back from Emily, the original assistant. She told me that Samantha owed her money, and she eventually had to quit for a job that paid on time.

“You seemed like a nice guy,” she said to me. “But I couldn’t say ‘No, don’t do it — you won’t get paid.’ There was no way to warn you.’”

Like much in Hollywood, the whole enterprise was as real as a plastic tree. It didn’t make me cynical, though. Quite the opposite.

Acting had always been about giving people something, creating a character and living a life to show people who we are. In my judgment, I had thought playing Santa was some cheesy exercise in performance, entertaining rather than giving. I liked to hide when I acted. Paradoxically, playing this character turned out to give people more than I could have imagined, and allowed me to discover a new part of myself as well.

Christmas had always made me lonely. I felt there was some fantasy holiday that other people were having that I wasn’t. There was some happy family out there, warmed by cookies and presents, who didn’t feel alienated from each other, failing at making this holiday create love. I had been doing that in most of my life, looking at my past and my present from the vantage of an outsider, failing at what seemed easy to everyone else. Being Santa put me in the center of the action, reminding me that it’s called the spirit of Christmas. It’s not a person, a place or a thing; it’s an action of connection. I can choose what I see. Dressed as Santa, I saw what people really want for Christmas is to experience joy, and give it to the people they love. Even Samantha wanted that. Everyone who hired a Santa, from a parent to an organization, wanted to give that spirit to the people they cared about. The people they cared about, from the suburbanites in Orange County to the kids at the community center, from Harry in his chair to the house full of gay men, did receive it. Even Samantha, somehow trying to keep her business going, held on to that idea. Embodying that spirit turned out to be a lesson, and an honor. I’m sure I received more than I gave.

But that four hundred seventy five dollars sure would be nice.