April 6, 2012 scottcjones 0Comment

Gerta began ushering applicants one by one through an office door where she and an Ichabod Crane-like man in a pinstriped suit would determine if these individuals were Santa Squad material or not. Five minutes after the door would close, the door would open again, the applicant would emerge, and Gerta would usher in the next person.

I was sitting with the Elves, even though, in my heart, I still felt certain that I was a Santa. The Elves were predominantly short men and women, several of whom smelled strongly of alcohol despite the early hour. One of the Elf applicants juggled silently in the corner. On the opposite side of the room sat the Santas. What a pious and self-satisfied lot they appeared to be. One Santa in particular looked so majestic that in my mind I began referring to him as Majestic Santa. Majestic Santa had so many of the qualities of Santa—the twinkle in the eye, the sturdy knee to sit upon—that I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I couldn’t have been the only person in the room who, at least for a couple of seconds, entertained the notion that Majestic Santa might actually be the real Santa.

When I reached the section of the paperwork that required me to check a box for my desired Santa Squad position—Helper Elf, Photographer Elf, or Santa—I hesitated, my pen hovering above the page.

“Check ‘Santa,’ ” the juggling Elf applicant advised. He introduced himself as Terry, then said, “Aren’t you a little tall to be an Elf anyway?”

Before I had a chance to answer, a woman across the table from us put down her crochet hooks and said, “Ignore him. Terry’s just trying to get in your head. Terry, we discussed this in the car.”

“We’re not here to make friends, Carla,” Terry said to the woman. “We’re here to get jobs.”

The door opened. Majestic Santa was ushered inside. We could hear the man in the pinstriped suit ask Majestic Santa if he’d parked his sleigh in the mall’s underground garage. Majestic Santa let out a jovial ho-ho-ho at this question. The door closed again. Well, there goes the Santa position, I thought.

Terry and Carla, I learned, were local actors who also were husband and wife. Though they weren’t dwarves or midgets—both must have been around five feet tall—they’d had prominent roles as lead Munchkins in a recent Syracuse Stage production of The Wizard of Oz. Terry and Carla were called in next. They were interviewing as a team. “I’m Tinsel the Elf!” Terry said. “And this is my lovely wife, Mrs. Tinsel!” The door closed behind them.

When Terry and Carla emerged, Terry mouthed the words “You’re a Santa” at me one last time before leaving. Or maybe he said, “You’re an asshole.” I couldn’t be sure which.

Finally, it was my turn to enter the room and find out if I was Santa Squad material or not. The man in the pinstriped suit introduced himself as Mr. Thomas. He was the Regional Coordinator for Santa Squads for all shopping malls in Central and Western New York State. “I notice here that you haven’t checked off a box on your application forms,” he said. “What is it that you want to be?”

Though my chances were obviously nil, considering all the magnificent Santas they had to choose from out in the waiting room, I explained to him that I very much wanted to be a Santa.

Mr. Thomas looked at Gerta. The two of them smiled at each other. “Well, we’re both extremely happy to hear you say that,” he said, to my complete surprise. Then he lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “Those guys out there? They’re—how can I put this politely?—not young anymore. They think they want to do this job, but 45 minutes into their first shift, and they’re sound asleep inside the costume.”

“It’s true,” Gerta added. “Or else they lose their patience with the children. We had one Santa in Pennsylvania last year who was the most beautiful Santa I had ever seen. Zeus would have be jealous of the beard this man had. But by noon on his first day, he’d thrown his hat on the ground and walked out.”

“Blossom Hills learned from that moment,” Mr. Thomas said. “We learned that we need younger men to take on the burden of being Santa.”

They asked me, on the spot, if I’d accept the burden of being their Santa for the holiday season. “Of course I will,” I said, shaking Mr. Thomas’ hand.

On my way out, I looked a little more closely at the remaining Santas. Mr. Thomas and Gerta were right—these men were already fading. More than half of them had nodded off. One Santa candidate was snoring loudly, his false teeth hanging loose in his open mouth.

I noticed the seat where Majestic Santa had been sitting. There, in the fabric, was a large round dark spot that could only have been a pee stain.

Time for stage 9-5. This is what we’re dealing with today, folks: Donkey Kong is at the top, Mario at the bottom, and in between the two mortal enemies is a digression of crooked platforms all attached to one another via ladders. D.K. rolls barrels from his stage-top perch, and Mario, as he journeys up the crooked platforms, must avoid them. Sound familiar? It should. This is a super-sized version—it sprawls over two full screens of gameplay—of the very first level in the game.

Without rogue birds, or quick-footed steer skulls, or seed-spitting plants to concern yourself with, this revised original stage—which is downright spare when compared to some of the more recent overly busy stages we’ve endured—shouldn’t give you too much trouble. The key here is knowing when to press forward and take the barrels head on and knowing when to hang back and let the barrels run their natural course.

Pro Tip: Only jump the barrels if you absolutely have no other choice. Confession: I did lose a Mario in today’s stage, only because I was impatient and pressed forward when all of my Donkey Kong instincts were telling me to hang back. (A pair of barrels traveling in close succession—too close for fat little Mario to jump—steamrolled him.)

As in the first stage of the game, just as Mario gets close enough to catch a whiff of Pauline’s seductive perfumes, D.K. grabs her and climbs away. Four more stages to go, people.

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