Western Walkabout: Santa I'm Not
...The job interview, with a stern, humorless woman, started badly.
“Where’s your gut?” she asked. “You’re not fat enough to be Santa.”...
Despite the bad beginning Richard Harris became a Santa - but never again!
After I was made redundant at the age of 60, I found myself with time on my hands and applied for a temporary job as Santa Claus.
The job interview, with a stern, humorless woman, started badly.
“Where’s your gut?” she asked. “You’re not fat enough to be Santa.”
I told her I was a long distance runner and was capable of getting round to all the children, a proper Santa, not an old fatty that got stuck in chimneys. Also, there’d be more room for toys in the sleigh.
“You don’t have red cheeks,” she said.
I told her I assumed she was referring to the angina flash, typical of most postcard Santas. No, I didn’t have angina and wouldn’t be having a heart attack on the job.
“You don’t have the white eyebrows,” she said.
What about grease paint? I asked. I explained white eyebrows were a marker of a vitamin B12 deficiency, whereas I was a fit and well Santa.
“I don’t like your attitude,” she said. “There’s to be no kissing of children and I want a police clearance. Also, you’ll have to go to Santa School.”
I got the job. The kids didn’t mind the absence of a large stomach, or red cheeks. Some of the gifts I was asked to supply included bringing Mummy and Daddy back together again. A lot of the kids wanted to kiss me while the parents took a photograph.
A small Chinese girl spoke to me tearfully in Chinglish – I couldn’t understand a word of it through all the tears. An older Asian woman standing nearby said “She’s from a small village in Malaysia and they don’t have Santa there. She wants to know what she should do.”
I told the child, with the woman interpreting, that Santa loved children everywhere. If she really wanted to be helpful, please leave something out for my reindeer on Christmas Eve – sliced carrot and a piece of iceberg lettuce but not brandy or cake. The child nodded solemnly and went away smiling, hand in hand with her aunt, who called back at me “Thank you, Santa. That was very well done.”
The only person I scared was a woman I ran with. I recognized her among the patrons at the shopping centre where I was based, and tapped her on the shoulder from behind, asking “Hi Joan, what would you like for Christmas?”
She turned round, saw me and screamed, “Who the bloody hell are you?”
You can’t step out of the Santa role. I never played Santa again, even for $15 an hour.
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To read more of Richard's brilliant stories aand columns please click on http://www.openwriting.com/archives/western_walkabout/
