It took me forty- ve minutes to get to the front of the line. Kids were whipping out lists and cookies and digital cameras, while I just had Vile Bodies. Finally, it was my turn. I saw the girl in front of me wrapping up, and I started to move forward.
“One second!” a dictatorial rasp commanded.
I looked down to find the least satisfying cliché in Christmas history: a power-mad elf.
“HOW OLD ARE YOU?” he barked.
“Thirteen,” I lied.
His eyes were as pointy as his stupid green hat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice not sorry at all, “but twelve is the limit.”
“I promise I won’t take long,” I said.
“TWELVE IS THE LIMIT!”
The girl had finished her stint with Santa. It was my turn. By all rights, it was my turn.
“I just have to ask Santa one thing,” I said. “That’s all.”
The elf body-blocked me. “Get out of the line now,” he demanded.
“Make me,” I replied.
The whole line was paying at ention now. Kids’ eyes were wide with fear. Most of the dads and some of the moms were get ing ready to jump me if I tried anything.
“I need security,” the elf said, but I couldn’t tell who he was talking to.
“I need security,” the elf said, but I couldn’t tell who he was talking to.
I walked forward, knocking his shoulder with my thigh. I was almost at Santa when I felt a tug on my ass—the elf had grabbed the back pocket of my jeans and was trying to pull me back.
“Get. Of . Of. Me,” I said, kicking back.
“You’re NAUGHTY!” the elf screamed. “Very NAUGHTY!”
We’d caught Santa’s at ention. He gave me the once-over, then chuckled out, “Ho ho ho! What seems to be the problem?”
“Lily sent me,” I said.
From somewhere behind the beard, he figured it out. Meanwhile, the elf was about to pull down my pants.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Get of of him, Desmond!”
The elf let go.
“I’m calling security,” he insisted.
“If you do,” Santa murmured, “you’ll be back to folding hand towels so fast you won’t even have time to take the bells o your boots or your balls out of your elfy boxer briefs.”
It was a very good thing that the elf wasn’t packing any of his toy-carving tools at that point, because it might have been a very di erent day at Macy’s if he had.
“Well, well, well,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, lit le boy.” This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t f**king around.
“I’m not really a lit le boy,” I pointed out.
“Get on my lap, then, big boy.”
I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his belly. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjusted his crotch.
“Ho ho ho!” he chortled.
I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it.
“Have you been a good lit le boy this year?” he asked.
I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes.
He actually wobbled with joy.
“Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?”
I thought it was obvious.
“A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.”
“So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a lit le something for you”—he shifted a lit le in his seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’ll have to rub Santa’s belly.”
“What?” I asked.
He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.”
I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat.
“You know you want it,” he whispered.
The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was.
Fuck of , Lily. You can’t intimidate me.
I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, eshy, hairy … and his belly was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole time having Santa laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hell!” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa. And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked it out, pulling some of his white belly hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped o his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed. The let er was in my hand, damp but intact. “He touched Santa!” a young child squealed.
I ran. I bobbed. I weaved. I propelled myself through the tourists until I was safe in menswear, sheltered in a changing room. I dried my hand and the envelope on a purple velour tracksuit that someone had left behind, then opened it to reveal Lily’s next words.
8. That’s the spirit!
Now, all I want for Christmas
(or December 22nd)
is your best Christmas memory.
I also want my red notebook back,
so leave it, with your memory included,
in my stocking on the second floor.