Just North of Whoville (7 page)

Photos will be printed onto a special holiday comp card proven to get the attention of casting agents, art directors and anyone else looking for that special child this holiday season.

As an added bonus, special holiday envelopes will be provided so you can share your child’s modeling talents with friends and family this holiday season.

Don’t delay! ABC Their Eyes All Aglow Photo Shoot will fill up soon!”

The day they handed me the brochure, I asked Deb what the lesson titled “Gift Opening” entailed.

“
Well, basically we teach kids the three different ways to open a present. Rip the wrapping off, peel the tape off slowly, or if it’s in a wrapped box, you just open the lid. Kids aren’t too smart. Sometimes they block their face with the lid. It’s a whole thing we do.”

To be honest, by the time parents booked the session, did the shoot, got the photos back, chose the photos, and the comp cards came back from the printer… The holiday season was over. They could certainly use the comp cards as last-minute Christmas cards to send to family and friends. But the holiday ads were already in the can. Not that we got any calls, anyway.

Oh god. I had to get out of this job.

As a child, I loved Christmas. I couldn’t wait to decorate the tree, bake Christmas cookies, sing Christmas carols, and, of course, make my annual visit to Santa at Kendall’s Department Store.

I never questioned why Santa chose to spend the holiday season every year in Milwaukee. I completely believed the signs at Kendall’s justifying Santa’s lunchtime absence with the explanation that he was “Feeding the Reindeer.” So much so that one year, while my mother was busy looking at the latest holiday sweaters, I squeezed myself between the clothes racks and snuck away. I had a secret plan. To go to the roof. That’s where the reindeer were undoubtedly parked.

I went up the escalator until I reached the top floor of the store, which specialized in home furnishings, prescription eyeglasses, customer service and gift wrapping. I remember getting distracted playing in the hanging oriental rugs for a few minutes, before I remembered my task. I was determined to meet Rudolph. After all, reindeer were practically horses. Only they had antlers and could fly. I would show Santa how good I was with the reindeer. How well we got along. The reindeer would like me. I was sure of that. I was a nice person, and had watched the TV show about Rudolph several times. I knew all their names. If I was lucky, I might even be allowed to play their reindeer games.

I managed to find a hidden elevator with a sign that read “Staff Only”----this was my ticket. I pushed the button and up I went to the secret ninth floor. The door opened, and there I was---with the eyes of about a dozen grown-ups all trained on me as I stepped out of the elevator. I decided to just try to blend in. Pretend like I worked there. I had just turned six, so it could happen.

As I strolled past cubicles and office doors, I knew this was the place. I just knew it. Within seconds, I would be nose to red-nose with Rudolph. We would quickly become best friends. In fact, as leader of the team of reindeers, and Santa’s right-hand man, it was likely that Rudolph had a certain pull with Santa. Of course, not that I didn’t like Rudolph simply for who he was, but it never hurt to have a friend in high places when it came to getting a horse. After all, not every child was good enough to get a horse. But I knew I was. I felt it in my bones.

Cindy Robinson had gotten a puppy the year before from Santa---and everyone knew that she hadn’t been that good. In fact, it created a bit of a scandal when Cindy came to school after Christmas break with pictures of her new puppy, Kibbles. After all, the memory of Cindy’s violent outburst at the Halloween party when she tore the crown off of Melinda Harmon’s head, stomped it to the ground and proclaimed herself to be the Prettiest Princess Of Them All was still fresh in our minds. How did Cindy manage to convince Santa she deserved a puppy? That was something we all wanted to know and heatedly discussed over fish sticks that day.

After much debate, we came to the conclusion that it was most likely a clerical error. Not only that, but Melinda herself remembered that Cindy’s father just happened to be a manager at Kendall’s. Hmmm. How convenient. Though none of us would ever suspect Santa of taking a bribe, we did consider the possibility that Mr. Harmon could somehow have gotten his hands on Santa’s List. Perhaps Mr. Harmon, with a father’s blind love for his spoiled brat of a daughter, could have snatched Santa’s List while he was busy feeding the reindeer and then simply moved Cindy’s name from the list of bad children and added her to the list of good children. Most likely, Santa, busy with the holiday preparations, as well as spending so much time away at his winter home in Milwaukee, didn’t notice, and had simply mailed his list to the elves, who, as we all knew, took over from there. Next thing you know, Kibbles is under the tree.

A conspiracy of the highest order.

However, I felt secure in the knowledge that I didn’t need this sort of evil plot to obtain my prize. I would succeed by hard-work, obedience, good deeds and the kind word put in for me by Rudolph himself. As I made my way down the hallway, I spotted a door, which clearly read, “Roof Access”. Now was my chance.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door as hard as I could. At that very second, I felt the most overwhelming feeling of joy I’d ever known.

And then, the security alarm went off.

The siren blared all thru the ninth floor, causing a flood of adults to suddenly appear behind me. I stood paralyzed in the doorway and looked down at my patent leather shoes.

Oh no. Santa would be sure to hear about this.

One of the grown-ups, a thin lady with short, brown hair that smelled of a new permanent wave, came over and took my hand.

“
Sweetheart, are you lost?”

I nodded my head. I could barely speak, knowing the police would soon be on their way. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d done, but I knew it was bad. After all, I’d set off an alarm. When a security guard appeared, I knew I was about to be handcuffed and sent to the slammer. I did the only thing a six year-old child could do at that point---I cried.

Next thing I knew, they were asking questions. Where was my mother? What was my name? What was my mother’s name? Did I know my phone number? What was I doing up there? It was only after Permanent Wave offered me some juice and a candy cane, that I finally calmed down enough to answer their questions. I knew what was coming next, the moment every child in a department store dreads.

The intercom.

“
Will Mrs. Helena Krakowski please come to the ninth floor reception desk. We’ve found your daughter. Mrs. Helena Krakowski please come to the ninth floor reception desk
.
”

Moments later, my mother stepped out of the elevator with a look of both relief and annoyance. After thanking the permanent wave lady about fifteen times, she took me on her lap and asked why I had run off to the ninth floor?

I wanted to see Santa. I wanted to see the reindeer. They were on the roof.

Permanent Wave leaned in and explained, “Sweetheart, the reindeer aren’t on the roof. They’re in the park.”

A bit of information Kendall’s Department Store might have shared.

“
That’s right, honey,” my Mom agreed. “Santa keeps them in the park.”

I wiped the tears from my face and thought for a moment about this news flash.

“
Is that so they can play reindeer games?”

Of course!---everyone agreed. Even the security guard, who’d obviously been intent on taking me away to the Big House, was sure of the location of the reindeer games. Within moments, I was sprung. I wasn’t sure what sort of bail money was paid, or how many lawyers it took to clear things up, but I’d learned a valuable lesson that day.

The reindeer were in the park.

As a child, I was ready to believe pretty much anything I was told about Santa, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy---despite what a few bad kids at school seemed to say. In fact, not long after that, Jimmy Trumbo, who was certainly the worst boy in school, kept saying that there was no Santa Claus. That it was your parents who were Santa. It was your parents who brought all the toys.

Well, I had a mountain of evidence to support my side of the case. Hadn’t he seen the television shows documenting the life of Santa and his elves? Hadn’t he heard the songs written in praise of Santa’s wondrous deeds? The pictures of Santa on Christmas cards? The famous poem written about The Night Before Christmas? Hadn’t he himself seen Santa at Kendall’s Department Store? And, the most damning piece of evidence of all---If there was no Santa then who’s getting his letters at the North Pole? Hmmm?

Before Jimmy could even attempt to answer any of my penetrating questions, I ended my argument with best closing statement every made:

“
You’re just a jerk! Santa’s not going to bring you anything!”

I believe I also added something about Jimmy pooping his pants in Kindergarten, an incident Jimmy had just recently stopped getting teased about. Looking back, perhaps Jimmy had been a mean kid because he pooped his pants. After all, once you poop your pants, you’ve got to come up with some line of defense. But I felt no guilt over declaring Jimmy a jerk, or for reminding the rest of the class that he had indeed pooped his pants. A young man who had pooped his pants was not to be trusted. After all, if he didn’t know when he had to poop, how could he possibly know anything?

I rest my case.

Jimmy grew up to become a Public Defender for the city of Milwaukee. I ran into him a few years ago when I flew back home to visit my family for the holidays. He was tall, well-groomed and handsome with a very pregnant wife who was due any day. It was their second child. The first, a little girl named Megan, was almost five years old and was dressed up like a little Christmas doll in preparation for her visit to see Santa at the local mall. He was so nice.

“
We’re taking her to see Santa today. She’s so excited.”

I hesitated to remind him that it was his words to me years earlier that had tried to steer me away from my belief in Santa. In fact, I have to admit to a sick temptation to bending down and telling the adorable little tot that there was no Santa. It was all just Mommy and Daddy.

But I knew she wouldn’t believe me; any more than I had believed Jimmy’s blasphemous ranting. But the oddest part of the meeting was when the tall, dark and now extremely handsome Jimmy Trumbo introduced me to his pregnant wife with the words, “This is Dorrie Krakowski. I had a huge crush on her in grade school.”

What? This came completely out of left field.

“
I would do anything to get her attention. I was such a dumb kid. I used to pull her pigtails. Anything.”

“
Don’t feel bad,” his wife chimed in, “when we first met, he pulled my pigtails, too. Just kidding,” she added, as if the joke needed pointing out.

This was certainly a shock. I suddenly saw myself in his wife’s shoes. That could have been me. Standing there in a designer maternity dress, with my adorable little tyke and my blazingly handsome lawyer husband. That could have been me taking my daughter to see Santa while patiently waiting for the next miracle of life to shoot out of my vagina.

But there I was: my hair all greasy and my eyes burning red from the lack of sleep the night before due to the late-night flight and (due to lost luggage) wearing my mother’s sweatpants and a sweatshirt that said “Golden Girls Mall Walkers”.

This was a fork in the road of life I wasn’t even aware I’d screwed up.

Until now.

I took solace the only way I could. At least I wasn’t married to a man who’d pooped his pants.

Thankfully, I was now on my way to see a psychiatrist.

But first, I needed coffee.

For some reason, I’d forgotten that while there was a warm November rainstorm outside----they were rockin’ around the Christmas tree inside.

I folded up my umbrella as Little Miss Sunshine stepped up to the counter.

“
Would you like to try our special Christmas Blend?”

“
No. Just coffee.”

“
How about one of our Cranberry Sleigh Ride Bars?”

“
No. Just regular coffee.”

In line behind me, a fifty year-old woman wearing a snowflake sweatshirt waited her turn. I guess I looked too closely, because she gave me that typical New York “What are you looking at?” look.

“
I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I was just noticing your shirt,” I tried to laugh it off. “On a day like today, it should be raindrops.”