Playing Santa

What's it like to play Santa in a mall? Let Brett Lamb explain. My favourite bit:

Santa vs. Teenagers

Santa has only one natural enemy: the common North American teenager. Santa symbolizes all of their adolescent frustrations and when they see the big, red coat, they react like raging bulls.

For this reason, Santa must be escorted to and from the set by elves or risk a mallrat confrontation. Walking alone is dangerous; one time when I was left on my own at Fairview, some teens shoved me around and yanked my beard down to my ankles. As punishment, the elf who abandoned me has been cursed to work Santa sets for the rest of eternity and I see her just about every year (update: saw her working the Eaton Centre in 2003), working the camera and saying "Baby! Baby! Baby!", to try and get some dribbling infant's attention.

But most teens aren't that brave. Long-distance verbal assaults were more common. Typically, older teenage males would shout down from the second level of the mall, "YOU'RE NOT REAL!" The anger in their voices never seemed to match the pettiness of their cause. Some kids take on globalization or some other issue, the mallrats took on some poor dude working a shit job in a mall.

When angry young teens decided to take on this Santa head-to-head, it became advantage: Santa. The teens thought they were dealing with some sad old guy in a suit, but it was a trap! This Santa wasn't much older than they were; my first year I was 23, my last year I was 27. And I was plenty pissed-off too, packed in that uncomfortable suit, sweating, sucking in strands of my beard and sitting on a deflated cushion on a piece of plywood. Some days my ass would get really sore and I'd become one angry, young Santa.

One evening, a teeny-bopper rocker chick and her entourage came to visit. She sat on my lap while her tough-looking friends stood and watched, knowing that she was about to "shock" Santa and ready to witness the old man's reaction. Here's what went down:

SANTA: So, what would you like this year?

TEEN CHICK: Santa, I want Kurt Cobain's body.

SANTA: Well, I feel a little guilty about that ...

TEEN CHICK: Do you even know who Kurt Cobain is?

SANTA: Well yeah, I do, and I feel bad because I'm the one who gave him the gun!

TEEN CHICK: [leans away] Huh?

SANTA: That was his present!

TEEN CHICK: [long pause] Oh my god, Santa. You're sick!