This wasn’t the first time I’d worn a foil dress. It was, however, the first time I’d done so in a family-friendly setting.
Santa’s voice rang out above the mall crowd, and I hurried away from where I’d been corralling a group of Burberry-clad kids. It wasn’t actually Santa Claus calling me, of course. The man sitting in the holly-and-light bedecked gazebo was named Walter something-or-other, but he asked that those of us working as his “elves” refer to him as Santa at all times. Conversely, he had christened all of us with either reindeer or Seven Dwarves names. He took this job very seriously and said the names helped him stay in character. If we questioned that, he’d start regaling us with tales of his extensive career as a Shakespearean actor, one that he claimed had come to an end because of his age. We elves had our own ideas about what might have cut his career short.
“Santa needs another drink,” he told me in a stage whisper, once I reached his side.
“Grumpy won’t get me one.” He inclined his head toward another woman dressed in a green foil dress. She was holding back a squirming boy while Santa and I conducted our conversation. I met her pained expression and then glanced down at my watch.
“Well, Santa,” I said, “that’s because it’s only been an hour since the last one. You know the deal: one shot in your coffee every three hours.”
To continue reading, click HERE