This afternoon I sat in the eighth-floor SantaLand office and was told, 'Congratulations, Mr. Sedaris. You are an elf.'
In order to become an elf I filled out ten pages' worth of forms, took a multiple choice personality test, underwent two interviews, and submitted urine for a drug test. The first inter-view was general, designed to eliminate the obvious sociopaths. During the second interview we were asked why we wanted to be elves. This is always a problem question. I listened as the woman ahead of me, a former waitress, answered the question, saying, 'I really want to be an elf? Because I think it's about acting? And before this I worked in a restaurant? Which was run by this really wonderful woman who had a dream to open a restaurant? And it made me realize that it's really really. . important to have a. . dream?'
Everything this woman said, every phrase and sentence, was punctuated with a question mark and the interviewer never raised an eyebrow.
When it was my turn I explained that I wanted to be an elf be-cause it was one of the most frightening career opportunities I had ever come across. The interviewer raised her face from my application and said, 'And. .'
I'm certain that I failed my drug test. My urine had roaches and stems floating in it, but still they hired me because I am short, five feet five inches. Almost everyone they hired is short. One is a dwarf. After the second interview I was brought to the manager's office, where I was shown a floor plan. On a busy day twenty-two thousand people come to visit Santa, and I was told that it is an elf's lot to remain merry in the face of torment and adversity. I promised to keep that in mind.
I spent my eight-hour day with fifty elves and one perky, well-meaning instructor in an enormous Macy's classroom, the walls of which were lined with NCR 2152's. A 2152, I have come to understand, is a cash register. The class was broken up into study groups and given assignments. My group included several returning elves and a few experienced cashiers who tried helping me by saying things like, 'Don't you even know your personal ID code? Jesus, I had mine memorized by ten o'clock.'
Everything about the cash register intimidates me. Each procedure involves a series of codes: separate numbers for cash, checks, and each type of credit card. The termVoid has gained prominence as the filthiest four- letter word in my vocabulary. Voids are a nightmare of paperwork and coded numbers, every-thing produced in triplicate and initialed by the employee and his supervisor.
Leaving the building tonight I could not shake the mental picture of myself being stoned to death by restless, angry customers, their nerves shattered by my complete lack of skill. I tell myself that I will simply pry open my register and accept anything they want to give me beads, cash, watches, whatever. I'll negotiate and swap. I'll stomp their credit cards through the masher, write 'Nice Knowing You!' along the bottom of the slip and leave it at that.
All we sell in SantaLand are photos. People sit upon Santa's lap and pose for a picture. The Photo Elf hands them a slip of paper with a number printed along the top. The form is filled out by another elf and the picture arrives by mail weeks later. So really, all we sell is the idea of a picture. One idea costs nine dollars, three ideas cost eighteen.
My worst nightmare involves twenty-two thousand people a day standing before my register. I won't always be a cashier, just once in a while. The worst part is that after I have accumulated three hundred dollars I have to remove two hundred, fill out half a dozen forms, and run the envelope of cash to the drop in the China Department or to the vault on the balcony above the first floor. I am not allowed to change my clothes beforehand. I have to go dressed as an elf. An elf in SantaLand is one thing, an elf in Sportswear is something else altogether.
This afternoon we were given presentations and speeches in a windowless conference room crowded with desks and plastic chairs. We were told that during the second week of December, SantaLand is host to 'Operation Special Children,' at which time poor children receive free gifts donated by the store. There is another morning set aside for terribly sick and deformed children. On that day it is an elf's job to greet the child at the Magic Tree and jog back to the house to brace our Santa.
'The next one is missing a nose,' or 'Crystal has third-degree burns covering 90 percent of her body.'
Missing a nose. With these children Santa has to be careful not to ask, 'And what wouldyou like for Christmas?'
We were given a lecture by the chief of security, who told us that Macy's Herald Square suffers millions of dollars' worth of employee theft per year. As a result the store treats its employees the way one might treat a felon with a long criminal record. Cash rewards are offered for turning people in and our bags are searched every time we leave the store. We were shown videotapes in which supposed former employees hang their heads and rue the day they ever thought to steal that leather jacket. The actors faced the camera to explain how their arrests had ruined their friendships, family life, and, ultimately, their future.
One fellow stared at his hands and sighed, 'There's no way I'm going to be admitted into law school. Not now. Not after what I've done. Nope, no way.' He paused and shook his head of the unpleasant memory. 'Oh, man, not after this. No way.'
A lonely, reflective girl sat in a coffee shop, considered her empty cup, and moaned, 'I remember going out after work with all my Macy's friends. God, those were good times. I loved those people.' She stared off into space for a few moments before continuing, 'Well, needless to say, those friends aren't calling any-more. This time I've really messed up. Why did I do it? Why?'
Macy's has two jail cells on the balcony floor and it apprehends three thousand shoplifters a year. We were told to keep an eye out for pickpockets in SantaLand.
Interpreters for the deaf came and taught us to sign 'MERRY CHRISTMAS! I AM SANTA'S HELPER.' They told us to speak as we sign and to use bold, clear voices and bright facial expressions. They taught us to say 'YOU ARE A VERY PRETTY BOY/GIRL! I LOVE YOU! DO YOU WANT A SURPRISE?'
My sister Amy lives above a deaf girl and has learned quite a bit of sign language. She taught some to me and so now I am able to say, 'SANTA HAS A TUMOR IN HIS HEAD THE SIZE OF AN OLIVE. MAYBE IT WILL GO AWAY TO-MORROW BUT I DON'T THINK SO.'
This morning we were lectured by the SantaLand managers and presented with a Xeroxed booklet of regulations titled 'The Elfin Guide.' Most of the managers are former elves who have worked their way up the candy-cane ladder but retain vivid memories of their days in uniform. They closed the meeting say-ing, 'I want you to remember that even if you are assigned Photo Elf on a busy weekend, YOU ARE NOT SANTA'S SLAVE.'
In the afternoon we were given a tour of SantaLand, which really is something. It's beautiful, a real wonderland, with ten thousand sparkling lights, false snow, train sets, bridges, deco-rated trees, mechanical penguins and bears, and really tall candy canes. One enters and travels through a maze, a path which takes you from one festive environment to another. The path ends at the Magic Tree. The Tree is supposed to resemble a complex system of roots, but looks instead like a scale model of the human intestinal tract. Once you pass the Magic Tree, the light dims and an elf guides you to Santa's house. The houses are cozy and intimate, laden with toys. You exit Santa's house and are met with a line of cash registers.
We traveled the path a second time and were given the code names for various posts, such as 'The Vomit Corner,' a mirrored wall near the Magic Tree, where nauseous children tend to surrender the contents of their stomachs. When someone vomits, the nearest elf is supposed to yell 'VAMOOSE,' which is the name of the janitorial product used by the store. We were taken to the 'Oh, My God, Corner' a position near the escalator. People arriving see the long line and say 'Oh, my God!' and it is an elf's job to calm them down and explain that it will take no longer than an hour to see Santa.
On any given day you can be an Entrance Elf, a Water Cooler Elf, a Bridge Elf, Train Elf, Maze Elf, Island Elf, Magic Window Elf, Emergency Exit Elf, Counter Elf, Magic Tree Elf, Pointer Elf, Santa Elf, Photo Elf, Usher Elf, Cash Register Elf, Runner Elf, or Exit Elf. We were given a demonstration of the various positions in action, performed by returning elves who were so animated and relentlessly cheerful that it embarrassed me to walk past them. I don't know that I could look someone in the eye and exclaim, 'Oh, my goodness, I think I see Santa!' or 'Can you close your eyes and make a very special Christmas wish!' Everything these elves said had an exclamation point at the end of it!!! It makes one's mouth hurt to speak with such forced merriment. I feel cornered when someone talks to me this way. Doesn't everyone? I prefer being frank with children. I'm more likely to say, 'You must be exhausted,' or 'I know a lot of people who would kill for that little waistline of yours.'
I am afraid I won't be able to provide the grinding enthusiasm Santa is asking for. I think I'll be a low-key sort of an elf.
