Christmas With Kris Kringle

Chapter 2

“So how long have you been with Pavilion Grand?” I asked, as I tried my best to keep up with Belen, who was practically power walking through the empty mall.

“This is my third year.”

“How do you like it?”

“Well enough, people are nice. What about you? How long have you been dressing up as the big guy?”

“This is my first time, actually.”

Belen stopped in her tracks, her eyes narrowing to a glare. I sensed she was none too thrilled with my response. Clearly, she was hoping for someone older and plumper, but she was stuck with me.

“I mean … I dressed up as Santa for an office Christmas party once.”

“Oh yeah, how did that go?”

I scratched at my thick beard. “Uhm … a lot of intoxicated women confessing they wanted me under their Christmas tree. And someone threw up in my shoe.”

“In your shoe?” Belen asked, resuming her Olympic lap around the mall.

“Basically, I took off my shoes and someone barfed in it.”

“Well here at Pavilion Grand, we ask that you keep your shoes on at all times.”

“Got it, the Grand doesn’t support bohemian lifestyles.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why a mall Santa? Doesn’t that contribute to the bastardization of the holiday season?”

“No not at all. Santa is synonymous with Christmas. Dating all the way back to what we now consider Turkey. We’re talking fourth century. And believe it or not some scientists think he looked more like me than the chubby-cheeked dude we are familiar with today.”

“Why do you know that?” Her brows knitted together.

“I have a lot of free time and I like to read.”

“So the concept of Santa, whose only purpose is consumerism, you’re okay with?”

“That’s a popular misconception. Santa made homemade toys for the children in the village out of wood and burlap.”

“Well we’re a long way off from that. You’ll find most kids will request the latest electronic gadget or whozeewhatzit. And when they do, our elves will direct them to Toytopia, our toy store. Your job as Santa is to make the kids happy, listen as they beg for the hottest new toy, and get them to face the camera so we can capture the moment.”

“Understood, Santa’s my name and bringing joy and happiness to kids’ faces is my game.”

Belen slowed her steps, stopping once again, this time in front of an Orange Julius. “Speaking of names. What kind of name is Kris Kringle?”

“It’s the kind of name that is given to you when your parents lack consideration of the real-world implications.” I shrugged. Of course I was used to getting questions about my unusual moniker. My surname was Kringle and my mother loved Christmas, so she was determined to name her firstborn something that shortened to Kris. Christina Kringle if they had a girl and Kristoff for a boy. Maybe my parents were slightly sadistic thinking it would be funny for me to eternally be the butt of everyone’s jokes. At the big age of thirty-six, I let the jokes roll off my back, having heard them all.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah a younger brother and sister, but my parents named them Matthew and Rayna. I think after years of people questioning their name choice and me getting into fights after being teased, they decided to rebrand, go in a different direction.”

Belen raised an arched eyebrow. “Well then I will leave my jokes in the drafts.”

She motioned to resume walking, but I reached for her arm, stalling all movement. “Wait a minute now, you had jokes.”

“One or two.”

“I want to hear them.”

“Really?” She flashed a disbelieving smile, which caused me to do a double take only now noticing how attractive she was. Belen was short and the snow boots she’d swapped out for heels weren’t doing much to conceal her height deficit. Her mahogany skin was flawless with full lips painted red. And her nails were colored iridescent white with candy canes framing the length. Her features were animated and she used her entire body when she spoke. With big brown eyes that blinked rapidly and hands flaying about accentuating every spoken word. Belen had the opposite of a poker face, which constantly betrayed her, emoting her disposition.

“Yeah, consider this your Def Comedy Jam audition.”

It took Belen several false starts before she could tell the joke because she kept cracking herself up. “Okay, sorry.” She closed her eyes and when they reopened, she appeared to have regained her composure. “What do you call Santa after coming down a lit chimney?”

“What?”

Belen’s round nose crinkled as she tried to suppress her laughter. “Krisp Kringle.” She doubled over, holding her stomach as she dissolved into a fit of laughter.

When I said I’d heard all the jokes, I meant it. The chimney joke was no exception. This woman was lucky she was pretty because comedy was not in her future. Despite myself, Belen’s snorting fit of laughter caused the corners of my mouth to curl upward.

“Did you get it?”

“Oh yeah, I got it alright.”

“Comedy gold,” she said, tucking a rascal strand of hair behind her ear. “Anyway, you’ll see we like to have fun here at Pavilion Grand. We don’t take ourselves too seriously.” As we rounded the corner, we were assaulted with the enormously obnoxious Christmas display. It was as if Santa’s workshop exploded with ribbons and fake snow everywhere. The festive red and green colors intermixed with pinks, blues and silvers. “So here we are once again where all the magic happens. At least for the next thirty or so days.”

“Thanks for the tour.”

Belen leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Could you refrain from any slanderous tree talk?” My nostrils extended at the scent of her; peppery and warm with a hint of sweet citrus. She reminded me of my mother’s kitchen, familiar and comforting. My gaze bounced from her eyes to her red, full lips that were puckered, waiting for me to respond.

“I should start getting ready.”

“I’ll show you where you can change.”

In less than an hour, this mall would be a madhouse with people hoping to get a jump on their holiday shopping. I realized I would be smack dab in the middle of it. We hadn’t even celebrated Thanksgiving and all anyone seemed to care about was rushing to the mall to buy things they hoped would make them happy. I’d signed up to be a mall Santa on a whim, coming across a job posting while scrolling on my phone one night. When I applied for the job, I was thinking about cute kids all hopped up on sugar, excited to meet the man they loved and feared. Because let’s be real, the concept of Santa Claus was kind of terrifying. An old man living in a remote location who kept tabs on you. Knowing whether you’d been naughty or nice had to come from some type of extensive surveillance system. The elves weren’t cheerful toy makers, they were more like spies.

In spite of all the covert ops, I thought it would be fun to listen to families’ wishes and maybe I’d be able to grant a few wishes of my own. I believed life was filled with endless possibilities and I’d made it my mission this past year to experience them all. If nothing else, this would make for a great talking point at a future office meeting during awkward icebreakers in which employees are encouraged to share something interesting about themselves.

After changing into my used Santa outfit, which before having it dry cleaned smelled like mothballs and death, I made my way back to the Christmas wonderland that would be my workspace for the next few weeks, and was greeted by the critical eye of Belen Goodwin. Her gaze started at my boots, which I’d polished to a shine the night before. Next, she scanned my pomegranate-red pants with white fur cuffs. The visual examination came to rest on my torso. With a tilt of her head, she advanced.

“Do you mind?” she asked, pointing at the pillow that was acting as my belly.

“Sure.” This woman has carte blanche to touch me whenever the mood strikes her.

Belen jostled the pillow strapped securely to my abdomen. Fluffing it to her liking until it took on the shape of a belly filled with cookies and hot cocoa. Her eyes finally landed on my face, her delicate hand gave my beard a gentle tug. My eyes telegraphed my surprise, at both the tug of my beard and the slight jump of my dick from her touch. I rested my hand on her waist as my pulse skittered at an alarming rate.

“Sorry I couldn’t resist.” Her perfect nose wrinkled a smidge as she talked. “You powdered your beard?”

“Yes. People tend to like their Santas old and wizened. I’m just trying to fulfill the fantasy.” I’d dusted my black beard to ashen gray to complete the look of the jolly man from the North Pole.

“It looks good,” Belen breathed out. “But I would imagine most things look good on you.”

I was out of practice but it felt like her compliment was interwoven with a bit of flirting. “I’m glad you approve.”

Her mouth creased in the corners before she stepped back. And as if a switch was thrown, I was now aware of the other staff bustling all around us. The four Christmas elves with curled shoes that jingled when they walked, the man and woman dressed like a toy soldier, and a painted doll with ringlets respectively, both dancing to an upbeat Christmas tune.

“Ten minutes until show time people,” Belen yelled, her focus no longer solely on me. Clipboard in hand, she ticked off items on her list.

I stood in awe watching as Belen commanded Santa’s toy shop flittering between stoic nutcracker figures standing ten feet tall. The skirt of her dress appeared to dance as she circled the face painting station. She’d answer a staffer in need of direction between rearranging Christmas candy too large to be real. Belen was hands on, leaving no detail unattended.

Making my way to Santa’s chair, I ran my hand across the oversized red velvet tufted throne with gold details. Taking a seat, I adjusted my coat so it fell just right over my pillowy belly. “Ho, ho, ho,” I mumbled under my breath, practicing different inflections. “Ho, ho , ho.”

A line was already forming of children dressed in their Sunday best, all waiting for an audience with Saint Nick. Bright smiles and waves greeted me as the young faces craned their necks and stood on tiptoes in hopes of catching a glimpse. Stretching my face into a wide smile, I waved back, billowing out a boisterous, “HO, HO, HO.”

My shout caused Belen to spin on her heels with awe in her eyes as she clutched the clipboard against her chest, mouth agape. Her approval made my heart go haywire in an erratic beat pattern. I was hopeful this wouldn’t be the only time I took her breath away.

One of the elves with the jingling shoes, which I knew would grate on my nerves by the end of the day, unclasped the velvet rope, letting the first child in with his parents close behind. Like I was taught in the one hour how to be a Santa training I received a week prior, I smiled bright, ready for the young lad to hop on my lap.

The boy, who appeared to be six or seven, stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of me. “Man, you ain’t Santa, you’re Black.”