A Billionaire for Christmas

I look down. Yep—headlight escaped, pointed right at the security guard by the service desk, who starts to stroke his billy club suggestively.

“Thanks,” I mutter, because one good turn deserves—

“Manager,” she snaps. “You’re useless. And slow.” Her face softens a little. “Are you—do you have a helper? An aide who works with you? I think it’s great you have a job and all. Is there a program manager I can—STOP IT, TYCHO! DO NOT SIT ON THAT BENCH! CREASE! CREASE!”

A cold rage replaces the scent of peppermint and pine that the mall is piping through the heat registers. I’m breathing ice and frost and I wish I had Elsa’s power, because I could freeze a bitch right now. Turn her into a mall Han Solo.

“I am not developmentally disabled,” I say, searching for Santa, er…Greg. He’s gone, and the line of moms, a few dads, and tons of kids is getting longer.

“Then you’re just stupid and useless. Why is there a wait? We paid the exclusive premium for Santa’s Special Delivery, and—”

“Ho, ho, ho!” Greg busts out, materializing from the direction of the bathrooms. Either he’s pretending to be Santa or he’s reading my breasts.

In full Santa costume, he’s pretty amazing. Breathtaking, really. His belly fills out the costume perfectly, his eyes twinkle in a warm, inviting way with the skin wrinkling around them in a calm, compassionate manner, and his beard is fake but so realistic I want to tug it, just to make sure he didn’t magically grow it overnight.

“Your elf is ruining Christmas!” Mommy Masochist announces in a voice loud enough to make several children, and one dad, start to cry. I suspect the dad is her husband, Daddy Doormat, because Tycho runs over to him and buries his face in the man’s knees.

“Crease, Thomas! Crease!” Thomas the Daddy Doormat is wearing white jeans (those are a thing? For men?) and a white turtleneck, with a red wool sweater the exact color of Mommy Masochist’s shoes.

“I’ve never had an elf ruin Christmas,” Greg booms, his voice so Santa-like that shoppers slow down from their fast clip through the mall, pull phones away from ears to gawk, and come to complete halts at the baritone that fuels old dreams tucked away long ago.

He’s kind of magical.

“In fact, Shannon the Elf here has come to our rescue to help make sure every good little boy and girl gets their turn.” It’s working—she’s thawing and smiling now, her eyes a bit frozen in place as she realizes she’s the center of attention but not in control of it. All those years of Greg playing Santa at the community center are paying off.

“Thank you,” she says softly, giving him a look that says she could just as soon hug him as sever his limbs and hide them in the Verizon kiosk. “But the app says we’re supposed to be here on time.”

“App, Santa?” I ask helplessly.

Greg pulls me aside. “There’s this new app the owners rolled out. For $79 you can sign up in advance and come at your appointed time and jump the line. No waiting.”

“So the rich get to buy their way to no lines but the people who can’t afford it have to wait for eternity? How is that fair?”

“Is it fair that when I was a kid Santa brought one toy and my neighbors all got five? Santa’s an unfair bastard.”

“What?” Mommy Masochist asks, eavesdropping. “Please keep your voice down!” she snaps at Greg. “I can’t have Tycho tormented by nightmares about hearing Santa talk about…Santa, and calling him a bastard!” She throws her hands up and then reaches into her purse for her phone, muttering something about getting a refund and how nothing works properly these days because employees don’t know how to do their jobs.

I look at the enormous sea of wiggly children, tired parents, and crabby mall workers.

“What now, Santa?” I ask.

“Off we go,” Greg says, walking past Mommy Masochist and letting out a loud “ho ho ho,” to the children’s delight. The throne has a place for Santa to sit, and I’m there to hand out candy canes, keep people in orderly lines, and encourage the kids to look at the photographer, who charges $39 for a blurry photo of your kid sitting on the lap of a man who hasn’t gone through a CORI background check.

(Actually, Greg has, but not the average mall Santa).

Tycho is first in line. He looks at my chest and points, shouting, “I want nanas!”

Doormat Daddy gives my breasts a nervous grin and says, “Tycho, we’re all done with nanas. Remember? We had your weaning party—”

Greg turns the color of his beard and I turn the color of my elf suit as we both realize what “nanas” are.

“Want nanas! Want nanas!” Tycho screams. Visions of a three-year-old vampire-diving into my overflowing nanas and drinking direct from the tap—a decidedly dry tap—make me cross my arms and push back my breeding date by, well, never. How does never sound? Sorry, Mom. No billionaire grandkids. I’m too traumatized by being turned into an unsuspecting wet nurse while wearing a naughty elf costume.