Naughty: 9 Tales of Christmas Crime Part 2

She'd been cooking all afternoon, and she was hungry.

I KILLED SANTA CLAUS.

After Christmas break, everyone in the dorm was talking about what they did over the holidays. People were like, "I watched 22 movies" and "I went to Cancun" and "I smoked a lot of pot, man."

When I got asked what I did, I'd say, "I killed Santa Claus." Which would get a polite ha ha. And then I'd say, "No, really. I'm not kidding." And then I'd tell the story.

Before long, people were coming up to me all over campus saying, "Are you that Santa-killing chick?" I was famous. Or maybe infamous. It was pretty cool-for, like, a week. Then I got sick of telling people about it over and over again. I mean, it's a pretty long story. So after a while when people came up and said, "Did you kill Santa Claus?" I'd say, "Sorry, you've got me confused with someone else. I killed the Easter Bunny."

But I guess I could tell the story one more time. After that, I'm going to retire it. I won't tell it again till I've got kids I need to scare into line. "Don't mess with your mother, Timmy. She offed St. Nick."

My own mom, she believes in the importance of work. For everybody. All the time. So one of the joys of coming home from school is finding out what sucky job she's got lined up for me. During my first summer break, I worked for the dog census. You walk around to people's houses-or, in some of the neighborhoods I went to, trailers-and ask if they have a dog and, if so, does Fido have a license? Tons of fun, let me tell you. There's no better use for a cheery summer afternoon than asking Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel if his mutt is registered with the county. And all for minimum wage. Thanks, Mom!

Christmas two years ago, I wrapped presents at J.C. Penney until my fingers bled. The summer after that, I went back to the dogs. Come the next Christmas, I was a squirter, chasing people around Dillard's with a perfume bottle. Then, for the summer, I worked a cash register at Chuck E. Cheese...an experience I plan to talk to a therapist about, as soon as I can afford one. h.e.l.l isn't other people. It's hearing an animatronic ostrich sing "Wind Beneath My Wings" 50 times a day.

So finally I reach the Christmas break of my senior year-my last chance to kick back and truly chill without worrying about finding a job or a place to live or any of that "real world" stuff I'm looking forward to soooooooo much. But does my mom give me a break and let me spend my vacation doing what I want to do-suck candy canes and watch TV? Of course not. Instead, I get The Speech.

"When your father ran off with that woman," it begins, "he left us to fend for ourselves. We don't have it easy. We can't sit around eating bonbons. We've got to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty. That's exactly what I've done. I have worked hard-very hard-to keep this house and put food on the table and send you to college. But I can't do it alone. You've got to take some responsibility and chip in and - "

Yada yada yada, as they say.

After a few minutes of this lecture, all of which I know by heart, I said the only thing that can bring it to an end, which is, "You're absolutely right, Mother. How could I be so selfish? Please tell me what [mind-numbingly tedious minimum wage] job you've found for me."

My mom smiled and said, "This one's going to be fun, Hannah," which sent a chill down my spine. If my mother thinks it's "fun," I figured, it's got to suck big-time.

And I was right.

"You remember Missy Widgitz, Mark Widgitz's mother," Mom said, referring to two people I have absolutely never heard of. "She just became the promotions director over at Olde Towne Mall. She's got a holiday position that would be perfect for you."

I sighed and said, "Great. Gift wrapping. I'll go get the Band-Aids."

Mom laughed-another ominous sign. "No, it's a lot better than that. They lost one of their elves."

There was a long pause, during which my mother stared at me with this big, goofy grin, waiting for me to say something upbeat like, "Wow! Really? What great news, Mom!" But I was confused.

"Lost...an elf?" I said. "What? They want me to help find it?"

Mom laughed again. it's nice to know I can provide her with so much cheap amus.e.m.e.nt.

"No, no. They need an elf for Santa's Workshop."

I was still thinking I was supposed to be an Elf Wrangler, which doesn't make any sense, when it dawned on me.

You're the elf.

My blood ran cold.

"You start tomorrow," my mother said.

I slit my wrists and threw myself off the roof.

O.K., I didn't. But maybe I should have. Instead, I showed up at Olde Towne Mall the next day and reported for elf duty.

Here's what you need to know about Olde Towne Mall: When they say "Olde," they're not kidding. In fact, "Ye Olde c.r.a.ppie Mall" would be a better name for the place. It's what used to pa.s.s for a shopping mall back in the seventies, before River City got a real mall. It's all gray tile and florescent lighting and fake plants and rednecks. The nicest store they've got is Sears.

At the exact center of this dump was the horrifying torture chamber otherwise known as Santa's Workshop. You know the drill: plywood house, plastic candy canes, mechanical reindeer, fake snow, fake everything. And the biggest fake of all sat on a throne lording over it all. Santa Claus. Or, as I came to know him, Big Buck.

Big Buck was not one of those professional Santa types you read about who grow their own beards and love children and act like playing St. Nick is a role worthy of De Niro. Big Buck wore a phony white beard that was always a little bit crooked from being yanked by the screaming kids he obviously loathed. And he didn't smell like peppermint and warm cookies, the way you think Santa should. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. And his deep-fried drawl was all wrong, too: Last time I checked, the North Pole is not south of the Mason-Dixon.

But at least his belly was real. And he laughed really loud. And he liked to sneak into people's homes at night. I didn't learn that last bit till later, though.

Big Buck had a love-hate thing going with me at first. Or I should say a l.u.s.t-hate thing. I was the only female elf, which would've been bad enough without the costume I had to wear: red tights, a green felt smock and a red stocking cap, all about two sizes too small. I could barely squeeze into any of it. I was like a felt-wrapped sausage.

This led to a lot of ogling from both Big Buck and a disgustingly high percentage of the dads I had to deal with. I was the greeter elf, the one in charge of maintaining order in the line of supplicants to King Claus. When Junior's time came, I'd walk him up the path to the stairs in front of Santa's throne. Then I'd go back to the head of the line to make sure mom and dad didn't spoil this special moment by getting too close. Another elf-Arlo Hettle, a slumming college kid like me-would step up and take a picture of Junior and Big Buck with an instant camera. Then the third and final elf, a rat-faced little troll named Kev Kane, would hustle Junior away while I brought up the next kid. I found it deeply depressing that Kev was as old as me and Arlo put together. If I was still elfing when I hit 40, I'd hang myself with a string of garland.

Still, I've got to say it: I was a natural . . . at the kid-herding part, if not being holly-jolly. Within an hour, I had the moves down so pat-collect child, step step step, leave child, step step step, repeat-I could've done them with my eyes closed. Which left me free to notice things like the come-hither looks Big Buck kept giving me. The really creepy thing, though, was the way he'd spaz out if I came too hither at the wrong moment.

"Y'see that gingerbread man there?" he snapped at me after I brought up Kid #48 of the day while Kid #47 was still on his lap. "I don't ever wanna see you or anybody else on my side of that while I'm talkin' to a youngster."

"O.K.," I said, thinking, "Youngster"? You look at them like they're c.o.c.kroaches.

"It throws off my concentration."

"O.K.".

"If anyone so much as sets a toe beyond that gingerbread man, there's gonna be trouble."

"O.K.".

"I need to give the little ones my full attention. I don't want any distractions."

"O.K. I understand."

He smiled at that. "Good. Now tell me. You a naughty girl or a nice one?"

As you can imagine, keeping my distance from Big Buck was not an issue for me. If that gingerbread man had been in the next county, it still would've been too close.

At the end of my first day, I asked Arlo, the camera kid, about Jolly Old St. d.i.c.k as we got ready to bolt for home. Arlo shrugged.

"He's been like that since day one, man." He pushed a big pile of long, wavy hair out of his face-a gesture he had to repeat about once every three seconds. "He's like all, 'Back off or I'll kick your a.s.s.' And that Kev guy is like, 'Don't crowd Big Buck, dude.' And I'm like, 'Oooooooo.K. Whatever. I'm just here to take the pictures, bro.'"

"Big Buck?"

"That's what Kev calls him. I don't call him anything cuz I don't talk to the man, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"So Kev and 'Big Buck' are friends?"

"Sure. Kev got him into the suit after Mr. Haney and Becky got hurt."

I sighed. Arlo was nice but not great with explanations. "Becky and Mr. Haney?"

Arlo nodded. "Yeah."

I sighed again. "And they are . . .?"

Arlo laughed that zonked, stoner-guy, donkey-bray laugh.

"Oh, right. You didn't know them. Mr. Haney, he was the first Santa-the one before Big Buck. He was pretty nice, except he always used to say things to me like, 'Just say no' and 'Users are losers.' Weird, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "Go figure."

"Becky was a greeter elf. They both lived on the East Side, so they'd, like, carpool. But one night some drunk ran 'em off the road. They ended up in the hospital."

"So Big Buck replaced Mr. Haney and I replaced Becky."

"No, you replaced Cheryl. She quit two days ago. She replaced . . . man, what was her name? Mich.e.l.le. Yeah. Mich.e.l.le replaced Becky."

"So why did Cheryl and Mich.e.l.le quit?"

"Man, you're like Oprah or something. What's up with all the questions?"

"I want to know what I'm getting into, alright? Things around here just seem a little . . . I don't know . . . off."

"You got that right. I'd quit except my gig is just too easy. Point and click, point and click, all day. I show up stoned half the time and n.o.body notices."

Sure they don't, I thought.

"So Cheryl and Mich.e.l.le . . .?"

"Oh, I think it was a Big Buck thing, y'know what I mean? He's hot for elfettes."

I thanked Arlo for the four-one-one. Perhaps thinking this had been some kind of relational breakthrough, he asked me if I wanted to go "get baked." I politely declined, went home and told my mom about the freaks I had to work with. Her response: "A job's a job." She said it in that Conversation Closed tone of voice that told me she thought I was just looking for an excuse to quit.

And I was. And I kept right at it.

By the end of my first week, I was convinced Kev and Big Buck were pervs. You know-molesters. It fit the facts. You've got these two nasty-looking old lowlifes insisting on complete privacy while they talk to little kids all day? It seemed so obvious. I couldn't understand how those parents could just stand there while their pride and joy sat helpless on Big Buck's nasty old lap. Half these people looked like they'd been on The Jerry Springer Show back in the day, probably throwing chairs at each other during an episode called "My Mom Married a Satan-Worshipping Transs.e.xual!" Yet the idea that something sleazy was going on right under their noses seemed completely beyond them.

Something had to be done, and it looked like I had to do it. I'd either get Big Buck fired or get myself fired in the process. It was a win-win.

Three times a day, we got to put up a sign that said, "FEEDING THE REINDEER-BACK IN 15 MINUTES." Arlo would spend his break getting toasted in his Hyundai. Kev and Big Buck always went off together for "a little pick-me-up" somewhere . . . or so they said. Sometimes Big Buck would invite me along, but I had better things to do-like find an empty stall in the women's bathroom and read cheesy thrillers, which was my usual routine. But one day while Santa and his other elves were off replenishing their Christmas spirit with various controlled substances, I went to see the woman responsible for the mess at the North Pole-Missy Widgitz, Olde Towne Mall's promotions director.

A quick introduction to Missy: Imagine, if you will, a six-foot two-inch Amazon with kabuki makeup, five-inch stiletto heels and hair teased up so high the Swiss Family Robinson could build a tree house in it. Now imagine that said Amazon fancies herself to be quite the on-the-go career woman. Now imagine me puking every time I had to deal with her.

I poked my head into Missy's office, and of course she was barking into the phone, deep in wheeler-dealer mode.

"Have you been over to River Valley Mall, Charlie? They've got real elves over there! Real elves! Oh, you know what I mean-midgets, dwarves, hobbits, 'wee people,' whatever they're called."

Her mascara-encrusted racc.o.o.n eyes caught sight of me in the doorway and went all squinty. She flapped one of her big hands at me, shooing me away.

"How am I supposed to compete with real elves?" she said, still glaring at me and flailing her hand. "Tell me. Huh? How?"

I put up a finger. My index finger, meaning I just needed one minute of her time.

"Hold on, Charlie," Missy growled. She cupped a hand over the receiver. "Are you quitting?"

"No."

"Has somebody been hurt?"

"No."

"Somebody feel you up?"

"Uhhh, no. But I am concerned about something."

Missy pointed at a black plastic tray on her desk. It was overflowing with memos and Post-Its and old newspaper ads.

"Put it in writing."

Then she spun her chair around so she faced the wall.

"Why should people come here when they can go to River Valley and see real elves? I'm telling you, Charlie, I need more money."

End of conversation, obviously. I couldn't count on Missy Widgitz for squat. So I found an empty stall and began plotting.

Now, it just so happens that my roommate's boyfriend is a kleptomaniac. He's in a band, so I think she just sees it as one of the cute little character flaws she has to put up with in order to date a guitar player. I just see it as pathetic. Anyway, whenever I come home from school, I play it safe and pack up everything of value I own. So stashed away in the back of my '84 VW Rabbit was a toaster, a CD player, an almost-empty jewelry box, an Aran sweater, a little TV and the old voice-activated tape recorder I use to record lectures.

Obviously, the toaster wasn't going to do me much good in this situation. Same with the CD player, the jewelry, the TV and the sweater. But the tape recorder-that I could use.

The next morning, I did the unthinkable: I showed up for work early. I needed time to find the best place in Santa's Workshop to hide a tape recorder. It had to be close enough to Santa's throne to pick up what Big Buck was saying, but not so close that Big Buck or Kev would see it or hear it when it clicked off. I thought about hiding it with the fake presents under a Christmas tree, but that was too far away. Same with the fake stockings hung over the fake fireplace and the fake toys on the fake worktable.

Fake fake fake. Which made me think. What about Santa's "throne"? It looked big and boxy and, you know, solid. But if it was as bogus as everything else in the Workshop, wouldn't it be hollow?

I tipped the throne over-it was surprisingly light-and found that I was right. So I reached under and left the tape recorder there with the voice-activation thingy turned on. I'd be pulling a Patriot Act on Big Buck right under his nose . . . or b.u.t.t, to be more accurate.

The rest of the day pa.s.sed like every other work day-slowly. Two things broke the monotony: my fear that Kev or Big Buck would find the tape recorder and put two and two together (though, knowing them, they might get five) and a surprise visitor.

Right before our first break, I noticed that someone had parked a mummy in a wheelchair not far from Santa's Workshop. Though its entire body was covered in bandages and plaster, it had a human head-one belonging to a girl about my age. She was watching us with a strange, blank expression on her face, almost like she'd been hypnotized. When it was finally time to "feed the reindeer," Arlo went up and started talking to her. I wasn't going to enjoy my serial killer thriller that day-I was too nervous about Big Buck to worry about fictional psychos-so I decided to introduce myself to the human statue.

"So what are you on? Codeine?" Arlo was saying as I walked up.

"Nuh. Vicodin . . . and thome other thtuff," Mummy Girl mumbled. She looked even more gla.s.sy-eyed close up. "It helpth."