Ho ho ho! Lessons I learned as an elf at the mall

By Angeline Olschewski

November 27, 2007 | Two years ago I thought it might be fun to be an elf at the Santa village in the mall. The job paid $7 an hour and I didn't have to wear pointy-toed shoes, just black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a shiny red vest. I thought it would be breezy.

I have never been so wrong.

I even suspected the Christmas spirit might sink to the center of my heart for the first time since Mom dispelled how Santa knew the exact name of the Cabbage Patch preemie I wanted. But that didn't happen either.

Instead, I spent seven-hour shifts lifting chubby kids onto Santa's lap so they could spiel off their greed. "I want the new Xbox 360, plus this game and that game, and oh by the way a new TV so I can play it in my room."

Is that all? What about world peace while we're at it? I'm not sure how Santa knew that all I wanted for Christmas was back problems, but he delivered.

Still, there were precious moments to be had, like the time 2-year-old twin girls came in and screamed and cried in unison. It was incredibly moving. Or how about when Santa's van, I mean sleigh, broke down and I lied to a line of anxious children and their angry parents by telling them Santa was late because of a storm over Alaska. There weren't enough candy canes in the world to quell that crowd.

If the fat, greedy kids weren't spirit-stealing enough, our second Santa was barely 20 years old and still sporting acne and skater shoes, which poked out from beneath the Naugahyde, boot-like wrap-arounds. He couldn't get his voice to drop low enough for Santa's ho-ho-ho to sound anything but puberty-burdened. But he was jolly.

As an elf, my job was to take photos of the kids on Santa's lap, and then convince the parents to buy a plethora of copies, more than anyone could ever give away. And I got a bonus if I sold them the cheap snow globe with photo insert. I managed to sell my share of keychain upgrades. No, really! It's cuter when they look panicked with arms outstretched.

Truthfully, there were cute moments; moments where children squeezed Santa's neck like he was better than any bear or doll; moments when 1-year-olds looked up quizzically at the massive, white beard; moments of whispered wishes followed by magical smiles. But those were as frequent as Aggie football wins.

As Christmas neared, the commercial emphasis overwhelmed me and I began to hope for my own new, shiny TV, or maybe shoes, or clothes. When the day came, and my family surrounded me with love instead of packages, all that vanished.

Maybe Christmas, I thought, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas . . . perhaps . . . means a little bit more. Wait, did I steal that? Seuss who?

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