Santa 2.0
By: V.R. Craft
Tags: Writing, Short Fiction, Short Story, Written Tales, Christmas

The woman in front of me wears a sweatshirt that screams, “Jesus is the reason for the season,” while she screams “How the hell can you be out of the new goddamn Ding-A-Lings toy? Do you know you’re ruining my family’s Christmas?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have limited quantities.” It’s always the biggest assholes you have to call sir or ma’am. You never have to be that polite with people who act like human beings.

“But your ad has only been out since yesterday, and I got here at four PM. Why don’t you still have any?”

“Unfortunately, they sold out yesterday, shortly after we opened. We can try to order one for you, but it’s unlikely it will come in before Christmas.”

“Well, you people need to work on your supply issues. I want you to know you’ve ruined my family’s Christmas.” She crosses her arms over her chest, covering most of Jesus is. “I hope you know I’m going to have to explain to my kids why Santa couldn’t get them everything on their Christmas list.”

So do a lot of people who can’t afford to buy their kids anything for Christmas, like my coworker Heather, who’s over in electronics trying to earn enough commission to pay her rent and keep the lights on. Some guy with gray hair and glasses is yelling at her because he bought a software package online last week, opened it, and used it. Now, because it’s open software, he can’t return it for a refund, even though we have it on sale cheaper. Somehow this is Heather’s fault.

“I’m very sorry we’re sold out,” I say to Jesus is the Reason for the Season. I’m very sorry you waited until the second day of the ad, three days before Christmas, and expected the hot toy of the season to still be here at Toys 4 All, and now feel that the cashier, who has zero control over the store’s supply, is somehow at fault.

“Well, I guess I’ll just take this.” She shoves an overpriced candy bar across the counter. I ring it up and she swipes her credit card, still grumbling about the horrendously bad service in this awful store. She doesn’t know it, but a tiny box under the counter just recorded all the info from her credit card, including her full name. I don’t know what it is right now, but I will later. I glance down and the box blinks green to let me know it successfully snagged her info.

“Thank you, please come again.” I force a fake smile on my face and hand her the receipt.

“I will never shop here again.” She snatches the receipt from my fingers and storms out of the store, ripping into the candy bar. If there was ever someone who needed to eat a Snickers…

As the next customer approaches, I slide my phone out from under the register, swipe it open, and add a hash mark in the left column of the app I have open, which interfaces with my handy device. Then I shove the phone back into the space under the register.

This guy is tall and hides under a mop of dark, curly hair. I’m not anti-social, just shy (you can talk to me), his shirt says.

All I want for Christmas is a shirt that says the exact opposite.

I ring him up for the pile of toys he places on the counter. “Would you like a gift receipt?”

“No, I’m donating them to charity. Well, yeah, I guess the charity might like a gift receipt in case the recipient wants to exchance something. Yeah, that’s be great, thanks.”

He opens his wallet and rifles through the billfold. He has a AAA card, a library card, an American Atheists card, and a pile of receipts he clearly hasn’t had time to sort this year. He pays cash and I hand him a stack of receipts — the main one plus the gift receipt for each item. He thanks me again and leaves the store, stopping to stuff the gift receipts in the bags and drop them in the Toys for Tots box near the door.

The box blinks green again — it works with cash customers too, as long as their wallet is somewhere in the vicinity of the device. I pull out my phone and make a hash mark in the right column.

Ten minutes after closing time, Heather’s angry customer finally storms out, grumbling about our horrible service. As he passes the register, the box blinks and I make a mark in the left column.

Heather yanks down the mall’s garage-style door in a hurry, before anyone else can get in. We spend nearly an hour straightening the store, so customers can make it a disaster area again five minutes after we open in the morning. I dawdle because I know Heather needs the hours, especially since Mr. Asshole didn’t buy anything. I’m glad I have his info as I grab the tiny device from under the credit card pin pad.

When we finally leave, the mall is technically closed but the last stragglers from the get-your-kid’s-picture-taken-with-Santa stand are just leaving. The couple have a very fussy baby who cries as she’s taken out of Santa’s lap. Santa smiles and waves as her parents carry her away. Then he gets up and joins Mrs. Claus, a pink-cheeked woman with long white hair that falls to her shoulders in waves.

One of the dads bounces the crying baby as they walk toward the exit. He nudges his husband in the ribs. “See why we need to invest better? Do you want to be doing a job like that when we’re seventy?”

He nods his head toward Mr. and Mrs. Claus as they shuffle around, closing up “Santa’s Wonderland.”

I join them as they close the wooden gate and Santa fumbles with the lock, nearly catching the end of his long white beard in it.

“So, how did you do today, Ellie?” he asks me as I take the lock and affix it to the gate for him.

“Great, Santa. I got a long list for you to check twice.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” He laughs, clutching his large stomach. “That’s terrific.”

“We’re parked right outside, dear. Why don’t we give you a ride home?” Mrs. Claus says to me.

“Sure, I’d love that.”

I follow them out through the nearest exit, into the alley behind the mall. It doesn’t get used much, except by people hauling trash to the dumpster.

Santa looks around. The alley is clear. He tilts his head up to the sky and whistles.

The sound of bells jingling fills the air, and a bright red light appears, then another, and another. As the reindeer get closer, the red lights on all their collars become visible. Finally they land in the alley, pulling the sleigh right up to where we stand.

I convinced Santa to put the red lights on all the reindeer so Rudolph wouldn’t have to be saddled with leading the team all the time, just because he had the genetic misfortune of being born with a red nose. I also talked him into apologizing for not stopping the other reindeer from bullying Rudolph until they discovered his nose was useful. In fact, he sent out a memo telling them that future bullying was strictly forbidden, and would result in a punishment of no cookies for a week. And Santa bakes very good cookies when he isn’t busy making toys.

We get into the sleigh and I pull off the Santa hat Toys 4 All encourages employees to wear. It’s not required, but it covers my pointy ears nicely.

“Do you have that list now?” Santa asks as we take off, and I pull the device from my pocket.

“I’m emailing you that naughty and nice list now,” I say. “It’s numbered and goes in order. Now you’ll know which adults have been naughty and nice, to go with the list of children you compile yourself.”

“Ho, ho, ho! That’s great. I’m so glad you convinced me to install wifi on this sleigh!”

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