“I prayed so hard to be straight, but I know now that it wasn’t God’s plan for me. But I really do love you, Dorrie,” he declared sweetly and gave me the warmest hug of my life. “You believed in me. No one’s ever believed in me like that!”
I stood there stunned. Like George Bailey realizing that he’d made a difference in the world by giving a part-time elf and unemployed model the strength to come out.
“Here,” he said as he handed me an envelope. “This is for you.”
Inside, was a gift card for a visit and photo with Santa. I guess it was better than cat poo.
“So, I want you to get back in that line, and I will not take ‘no’ for an answer,” he said as he scrambled off.
So I got back in the Santa line. Timmy was a sweet kid. As much as he had driven me crazy over the past few weeks, I’d grown to love him, too. He was a dreamer, like me. I had a feeling we’d be friends for a very long time.
But this Santa visit was another thing. Who were these Santas anyway? A bunch of fat guys with fake beards who got off lying to children and squashing their dreams? As I stood in line, I pulled out my cell phone and went to my Mom’s online site.
There I was. On Santa’s lap. Every year, with a new pretty dress. A fresh hair-do. And a different Santa every year. Not only different. But completely unlike the previous year’s Kris Kringle. And yet, each year, I’d happily hopped onto this strange man’s lap. Whispered in a stranger’s ear my utmost dreams and desires. I’d given him a hug. Probably even a kiss on the cheek. It was so glaringly obvious that it was a different Santa every single year. Different beard. Different suit. How could I have missed something so obvious? What obvious thing was I not seeing now? Dr. Prince said I was a dreamer. But doesn’t even a dreamer have to wake up at some point?
I thought of Jimmy Trumbo. Maybe he wasn’t trying to kill my belief in Santa, as much as he was setting up the first Reality Booth of my life.
The line got closer to the Santas. I say Santas, because at Macy’s, the demand for wish-fulfillment is so great, that one Santa alone cannot meet the demand. At least half a dozen little booths housed miniature versions of the North Pole. I’d heard that there were different ethnic Santas. Black Santas. Asian Santas. Lady Santas. I wondered which Santa I would get to see.
“Over here!” Timmy waved me towards the back of the Santa cubicles. I stood amongst the crying children. The tallest of them all. I began to wonder, as an odd sort of belated thought---what did I want for Christmas?
“Santa, there’s a big girl here to see you. Her name is Dorrie,” Timmy said as he squeezed my hand and pushed me forward.
There he was. Good old St. Nick. Sitting on his red velvet throne. With his beard and red suit. I was about to come face to face with Santa. The first man who encouraged me to dream.
“Dorrie! Ho! Ho! Ho!” he gave his usual laugh. I was wiser now, so I knew he only knew my name because Timmy had just told him. But I’m a nice person. So I sat on Santa’s lap.
“Have you been a good girl this year, Dorrie?” he asked as tried to get comfortable.
“Well…you know… I try.”
“One of my elves told me that you’ve been a very good girl this year.”
“Frankly, Mister Santa, I’ve been a very good girl all my life,” I whimpered.
“So, what do you want for Christmas?”
I couldn’t believe he pulled out that old chestnut.
“Look---I’m sure you’re a nice man, and all. But can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Santa replied.
“These little kids…they sit on your lap…and they ask you for stuff. Big stuff, sometimes. And you and I both know that you can’t really deliver.”
“Well, Santa tries his best.”
“Right,” I laughed a bit. “I know you can’t drop it. I get it. So…let me put it this way. You probably don’t remember this, but when I was a little girl, I always wanted a horse. I asked you for one every year. I came in with photos and Girl Scout badges and charts and graphs and more evidence than a murder trial showing you just how good I’d been that previous year. Every year, you handed me a candy cane and said you’d see what you could do. But I never got a horse. And I know why I didn’t get a horse---because we lived in the suburbs and didn’t have the acreage. It had nothing to do with my being good or not. But how can you do this job? Don’t you feel like you’re deceiving little children? I mean, I’m sure you’re a nice man and this is how you make your Christmas money for
