The Night I Met Santa
The REAL Santa. He was at a mall.
When we were little, my sister, Shannon, told me that she knew Santa was real. She had seen Rudolph in real life, so it stood to reason that if Rudolph was real then Santa was, too. I believed her, of course. I was only about five, which would make her about ten. That meant she was the authority on everything in life. Our parents could tell us one thing, but if Shannon contradicted it, I went with her version, no question.
She hadn’t seen Rudolph at our house. The chance encounter occurred at our Aunt Bari and Uncle John’s house, the relatives who hosted our extended family’s annual Christmas Eve celebration. She swore one year she saw the glowing red light of Rudolph’s nose down the hall. There was no way it was an electronic device or the reflection of Christmas lights in a mirror or anything. It was Rudolph, plain and simple. And if Rudolph was there, you know Santa was somewhere nearby.
Since it was Christmas Eve, it was believable that Santa would have made an appearance, though I never questioned why he showed up mid-celebration when everyone was awake and the chips and dip hadn’t yet been depleted.
Or maybe that’s exactly why he showed up. If you’re used to creeping in late at night after everyone is asleep and only ever getting dessert, maybe once in a while you’d like to join the festivities and show up in time for appetizers.
Based on this secondhand experience, I was sure Santa was real. That belief persisted up until I was around ten or eleven when I was forced to confront the logistics of traveling around the world and making all those stops all in one night and at so many houses, especially ones like ours that didn’t even have a chimney. Still, our mom warned us if we didn’t believe in Santa, he would stop coming. This was a fun way to bribe us into keeping up the Christmas spirit, and I loved it.
Now, grown and nearing the years where I’ll play Santa to kids of my own some day, I have been forced to accept that Santa isn’t real. Or at least, I use to accept that. Then I met him. In real life. The real Santa. This week. At a mall.
It shouldn’t surprise you to learn I met Santa at a mall. That is where he is most often spotted, probably even more often than on rooftops. It happened at an outdoor mall in Garland, Texas called Firewheel. I had plans to meet my sister for dinner at 6:30, but I arrived fifteen minutes early, like I do for most every event in my life.
I browsed a jewelry store before spotting a sparsely decorated storefront with its doors open across the way. A sign sat on the sidewalk out front, beckoning me: COME MEET SANTA.
Inside, there were two sets of stanchions, one for the incoming line leading you to meet Santa and the other meant to herd you back toward the register and out the door. On this Wednesday evening in early December, there was no need for line management or crowd control. There were no lines. There was no crowd.
Behind the counter at the front was a man in his late thirties. He had a close cropped red beard and wore a fitted Titleist baseball cap, topping off his sporty polo shirt. He looked like he would rather be playing a round or two of golf instead of guarding the King of Elves, but here he was.
“Can I meet Santa?” I asked. I skipped asking whether Santa was busy because I could see he was not. I maybe should have asked if he was conscious as he was slumped over on his jolly throne, not quite comatose, about fifteen feet behind the counter.
Santa’s Gatekeeper was on the defensive.
“We don’t do singles or cell phones,” he said. “Packages only.”
I had no idea the world of mall Santas was chock full of such jargon. Based on the various sizes of sample photos printed and mounted beside the register, I took this to mean I was about to be on the hook for some serious cash.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m happy to pay. I just want to meet Santa.”
The gatekeeper seemed irritated.
“It’s FORTY dollars,” he said then paused, waiting for me to slink away.
I was more resolute than before. It offended me that he thought a mere price gouge would keep me out.
“That’s fine.” I said. He turned on his heel and began walking toward Santa. I took my cue and followed him. Santa seemed to power on at the sight of us.
I received neither a HO HO HO nor a MERRY CHRISTMAS. Instead, I was greeted only with questions.
“Just you?” Santa asked. “No kids?”
In this moment, I had an opportunity. I could lie and tell Santa I did have kids. That I was taking this photo for them. That I had to leave them at home for some heart wrenching reason. Then Santa would be at ease thinking I had a rational reason for being there.
But then I looked at him, and I knew he would know if I lied. Plus, there was something delicious about freaking out Santa and his golf buddy.
“Nope. Just me,” I said, advancing on him.
Santa began shifting to one side of his green velvet throne.
“Beside me or on the knee?” he asked. I couldn’t help but think if I were a kid he may have kept up the pretenses a little more.
“I would say knee, but I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Santa said as he repositioned himself back in the center of the seat and patted his knee.
The interaction had taken on a bizarre tone. To be fair, it started with a bizarre tone but here we were. Grown woman in jeans and business-casual top, wearing nice leather shoes, a deranged smile on her face. A grown man in a velvet suit that had been worn more than a few years in a row, sitting on a throne, surrounded by tinsel and candy canes, maintaining character.
What were we doing?
I sat on his knee and planted my feet, one on each side of his leg.
“No, no,” said Santa. “Swing them over. Put both legs on one side.”
I tried complying with his commands, but the position caused me to lose balance. No matter. Santa, unfazed, wrapped his white gloves around my waist.
I turned toward the camera and smiled. Santa’s helper snapped the photo.
“How does it look?” I asked.
The helper hesitated.
“You can come over here and look for yourself,” he said. I hopped off Santa’s knee.
“Looks awesome. I can’t wait to show my fiancé,” I said, still looking at the screen.
“Oh,” Santa said. “Am I supposed to be making your fiancé jealous?”
“No, I think he’ll laugh,” I said. Santa’s face fell.
The gatekeeper and I walked back over to the register, leaving Santa to slump back over in his chair. I heard the whir of the printer as it shot out my photos. The gatekeeper and I stood in silence.
Santa got up and started toward us. He had forgotten to ask whether I had been good or bad and what I wanted this year. Surely he was headed back to right this wrong.
Wrong.
Santa made a beeline, not toward me, but to an enormous styrofoam cup from Sonic, America’s Drive-In. He reached out his gloved hand and drew the straw up to his mouth.
I knew if I didn’t ask, I would regret it forever.
“Hey, Santa — what is your go-to Sonic drink?”
The jolly old elf didn’t hesitate. “Diet cherry limeade.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Got hooked on these about fifteen years ago,” he continued as he walked past the counter toward the front door. “I don’t get them so much anymore.”
“Did you get tired of them?” I asked.
“No, there’s just no Sonic near my house.”
“I guess Sonic needs to add a North Pole location,” I said with a grin.
Santa grunted and walked out the open door.
The printer finally stopped. It had spit out the four photos I had committed purchasing to as part of my $40 package. But there was also a fifth photo. A much larger one. An 8x10.
“This is part of the upgrade package,” Santa’s helper said.
I knew this grift. We did it when I worked at the tourist boat company and when I worked at the theme restaurant. Printing the photos costs pennies, and if it’s already there, people are more likely to buy it. Maybe this worked on sucker parents and their snot-nosed kids, but not me. Throw my photo in the trash. I don’t care, I thought.
“I’m good,” I said. Rather than the trash, I noticed he slipped the photo under the countertop, down where the paperwork was stacked up.
Hey, that’s not the trash.
I paid for my photos and headed out the door where Santa stood motionless, staring into the night sky.
“Bye, Santa,” I said. “Thank you.”
Santa broke his gaze, coming back to the present.
“Yes, yes. Merry Christmas,” he said.
Walking toward the restaurant, I caught up with my sister who was heading over from her car.
“Guess who I just met,” I said.
“Who?” she asked, looking at the envelope in my hand. I told her I had just met Santa.
“Was it the good Santa?” she asked. Having never met any other Santas up there, I had no frame of reference. Still, I knew the answer.
“No.”
I pulled out the photo.
“Oh,” she said, recognizing the face. “That’s the one we call Sloppy Santa.”
“The word ‘bedraggled’ came to mind, but ‘sloppy’ has more of a pop to it.”
Once we were both so sure she had seen the real thing. Now we were faced with the reality that there are many Santas, and they come in varying qualities.
We walked in the restaurant and enjoyed dinner, but the whole night, there was one thought I couldn’t shake.
What if — and stick with me on this — but what if this so-called Sloppy Santa was actually the real deal?
You have to admit the clues all add up.
EXHIBIT A: Wouldn’t the real Santa be sick of North Pole jokes (no matter how clever they were)?
EXHIBIT B: Far away from Mrs. Claus left back at home, wouldn’t the real Santa be thrilled at the opportunity to make a fiancé jealous?
EXHIBIT C: After centuries on the job, working 24 hours a day during his busiest season, wouldn’t he look a little “sloppy” especially if he was just sitting around in a mall in Garland, Texas?
When I got home from dinner that night, I showed Paris the photos. He was not at all jealous and did indeed laugh.
“I think it was the real Santa,” I told him.
“I’m sure it was, babe,” he said.
That’s all it takes. Just a little bit of faith.
***
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