It is a very curious time. I must admit that when I was a kid I was caught up in the whole Santa craze, but I never lost my shit or passed out at his very sight. I did not have his poster hanging on my wall, nor did I write I heart Santa on my school notebook, nor sing along with Christmas carols (thinking every word was directed at me), but come Christmas time, I wanted to talk to the big guy. I admired the man from a distance and my mother made certain that that is all I did.
We would walk through the mall and the flashing of the cameras set up by santa's entourage would catch my eye. I would see the fat guy in a red suit sitting in a green velvet chair surrounded by the magic that was Christmas.
"Mom, can we go see Santa?"
"Maybe next time. We'll see. "
These words had often passed my mother's lips without hestitation or thought given to the notion. It was not something she had discussed openly at the dinner table, but I believed she had moonlighted as a gypsy and could see the future. In my mind, when I heard "we'll see", I expected my mother to stow away into her room, pull out a crystal ball, and check the future. I guess the future looked pretty drab for that little boy who waited anxiously year after year, for the time never came. It never happened and we never saw.
The flash of money exchanged at the Santa counter had a odd effect on my mother. With a tight grip on her purse under her arm, my mother's pace would hasten, and I would be pushed along. When Santa was in the mall, even when we had nothing better to do, we always seemed to be in a hurry or avoid that section of the mall completely.
The flash of money exchanged at the Santa counter had a odd effect on my mother. With a tight grip on her purse under her arm, my mother's pace would hasten, and I would be pushed along. When Santa was in the mall, even when we had nothing better to do, we always seemed to be in a hurry or avoid that section of the mall completely.
Though Santa was never given the chance to become part of my yuletide nightmares, there was another personality to fill his slot; her name was The Talking Christmas Tree. Her eyes bugged like a gerbil when a child applies too much pressure to the gerbil's midsection and she had an unsightly under-bite. She looked as though Santa had punched her in the mouth for trying to take his lime light. My guess was that she once greeted children of all ages dead center of the mall, but as Santa's notoriety grew, Santa became violent, territorial, and gave her a offer she could not refuse. He warned her with pimp hand in the air, "This is my turf, my holiday. Step off bitch!" Black and blue he left her. It was a lesson lived and learned, for she now worked the front corner of ZCMI.
When you throw a rock at a trash can, a cat reacts the same way as a child when encounters The Talking Christmas Tree. Claws dig deep. There is a slight hesitation, a freezing moment in time, as the subject stares down the offender. Fight or flight are only options. With much hissing and screaming, the child usually ends up running away. If perchance the child can endure the torture of her presence, she will reward them with a coloring page and a repeat appearances in upcoming nightmares for years to come.
