Christmas Traditions I'll Never Do Again

six: santa's the worst

 As I stand in the mall with its strange Chinese-food scent wafting through the corridors, I know there's no escape.

Red bows and twinkling lights hang from the glass ceiling, trapping me.

And there, five families away, sits the big man himself.

His beard is too white, too shiny. And I can see the stitching of the fabric all the way from where I'm standing. His suit is about five sizes too big and is that a zit I see on his cheek? How old is this guy?

"Not exactly classy," Aimee mutters above the little ones' heads. She looks at me and says, "Do you remember that time...?"

I know just what she's talking about and laugh despite myself. She's referring to this one Christmas our Mom made us go take pictures with Santa whose suit was stuffed with large bubble wrap to make him look fatter. Aimee leaned against his stomach a little too hard and his belly started popping. Security thought it was gunshots and made everyone evacuate the entire mall. Needless to say, we did not get our Christmas pictures taken that year.

Next thing I know, it's our turn. Dusty and the twins run right up to Santa, while the older kids hang back a little.

I stand off to the side, but then Cassy gestures me forward. "Come on, Beverly! You're even more family than we are!"

I shake my head. "No, no, I--"

"Ho ho ho, I don't have all day," Santa bellows in a bored tone.

I scowl as I make my way down the faded red carpet and take my place beside Aimee.

"...but if you give me two puppies, I want the second one to be as big as a house," Dusty is saying, talking way too close to Santa's face. "So I'll have one puppy that will fit inside my pocket and one that I can ride on--even when I'm a grownup. But if you give me three--"

"Okay," Santa says, "anyone else have a Christmas list?"

The twins speak in unison when they say, "We want a ten-thousand-watt battery pack."

Santa mutters something under his breath and I glare down at him.

An elf waves a bell at the end of a stick, saying, "Alright everyone, look up here! Say Merry Christmas!"

Everyone shouts, "Merry Christmas!" (except for me. I don't like speaking when people tell me to. I'm not a parrot).

I assume we're done, but then the elf looks at the photo, frowns, and makes us do it again.

And again.

Readjusts all of us.

And takes another one.

"Come on," Santa huffs.

Even though I'm on the edge of insanity myself, I whisper, "Cool it, Fatso."

His eyes--how they twinkle--when they glower at me. "Try doin' this for eight hours a day, lady."

"Try putting in a little more effort for the kids," I retort. "Last time I checked, Santa's supposed to be a jolly old elf, not some weirdo dressed like a carpet who hates kids."

"Bev," Aimee hisses. "It's fine."

"Yeah, Bev," Santa mocks.

"Santa," Jemma deadpans, twisting around to look at him. "You're kind of a jerk."

"Jemma!" Aimee gasps. "I'm sorry, Santa, I--'"

"I don't like yeeerrrrr attitude!" Dusty chimes in, quoting a pirate TV show she'd been watching in the car.