Conducting job interviews at the gym was a mistake.
Some of the candidates turned up in sweats and sneakers, some in business attire, one or two in jeans. Most of them believed, quite reasonably, that ‘Head of Operations’ had something to do with physical fitness – managing a gym maybe. No matter what their résumés said, they’d try to steer the conversation around to the neighborhood basketball league they’d started or how many times a week they worked out.
The guy sitting on the other side of the table was white. He had brown hair cut in the bland conservative style favored by white businessmen in the second half of the twentieth century. He wore an anxious expression that held a hint of suppressed belligerence and a t-shirt that had a pressed-in crease at the top of the sleeves, like a little roof on each shoulder. Malachi had barely begun the interview when the candidate asked abruptly, ‘Can you do a hundred pushups?’
‘Me? Yes.’ He was about to assure the guy that the job did not require pushups, but was interrupted.
‘I can do a hundred and ten. How much do you bench press? You look like you could compete.’
‘Mr. Zass, this is not about me.’
‘Come on, how much? I can press my own weight plus twenty.’
‘That’s great,’ said Malachi.
‘Do you want to see?’ Before Malachi could answer the guy stood up and pulled the ironed t-shirt over his head. The muscles on his arms and torso protruded like hard knobs and tough fibrous bands. ‘Let’s go in there and have us a little contest.’
Malachi stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr. Zass, but there’s no need. You’ll hear from us by the end of the week. Thank you,’ he repeated, grasping the guy’s hand and steering him toward the door.
The next candidate was also white and had exactly the same haircut as the previous one. He had a BS in geography from Indiana University, was named Peter, and was currently working as a systems manager for a large trucking company. He didn’t ask any inappropriate questions or take his shirt off. He asked where the job was based.
Malachi said, ‘Headquarters are in Canada, production and transportation operations are global. The person holding this job can live pretty much anywhere.’
‘The ad said travel is involved.’
‘Yes. Once a year there’s a big international trip, and there are also periodic visits to the warehouses.’
‘The once-a-year trip – is it for a conference?’
‘No, it’s spearheading the delivery program.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘This position has a hands-on role,’ said Malachi.
‘Seriously? The head of operations participates in deliveries?’
‘Yes. There’s a lot to get done in a limited amount of time, in a lot of different countries. It’s the biggest product distribution of the entire year.’
‘Wow,’ said Peter. ‘I would have thought you’d be supervising everything from headquarters.’
Malachi shook his head. ‘Nope. That’s one part of the job that doesn’t change.’
‘If you don’t mind my asking, how often does this job vacancy come up?’
‘Ideally, it’s a long-term commitment.’
‘Okay, how long have you – ‘
‘Twenty-five years.’
‘That’s impressive.’
‘The guy before me did it for forty-five. Tell me a little bit about your work history.’
Peter told some stories to show that he kept up with new technology, was good at keeping track of things, and knew how to delegate. Nothing special. Maybe he doesn’t need to be special, just competent, thought Malachi. He asked Peter if he had any questions.
‘It’s a supervisory role, right? What’s the workforce like?’
‘There aren’t very many actual employees,’ said Malachi. ‘Almost all of the factory work has been outsourced. We handle the packing, some assembly, all of the transport. Most of the workers are independent contractors. We also have contracts with all of the big software and toy companies. They make it, we distribute it.’
‘That’s the way.’
It wasn’t clear to Malachi whether Peter was making an observation or expressing approval. ‘Pardon?’
‘Contracting out gives you massive savings. As you’ll have found.’
‘Personally, I haven’t seen any major benefits,’ said Malachi.
‘Okay,’ said Peter, surprised.
‘It’s supposed to be efficient, but we’ve had some quality issues.’
‘So the contractors don’t actually answer to you?’
‘They do, but I’m their boss for only one part of the process. For the manufacturing part, most of them answer to the toy companies,’ said Malachi. ‘I don’t like it much, but I don’t have a say in organizational structure.’
‘What do they think?’
‘Unfortunately, a lot of them are fine with individual contracts.’
‘Better pay, right?’
‘It depends. Overall, not really,’ said Malachi.
‘Well, on the bright side, there’s no union involved, right?’
Malachi said something noncommittal and concluded the interview swiftly. Then he decamped to the weight room and did a monster set of squats. It felt good. Yeah, it’s definitely time to go, he thought. At 57, he was way too young to retire. Time to try something else. Maybe go back to college.
The aviation company was being difficult about the pilot arrangements. He had a pilot’s license and in the past he’d flown one of the planes, but the new operator was reluctant to let him. ‘It’s not a term of the contract,’ the liaison officer kept repeating. ‘Our planes, our pilots.’ Her name was Sarah, according to her badge.
‘I thought I was a part owner of that 787,’ said Malachi.
‘You are, but it’s a different part. It’s not the part that you partly owned under the previous contract.’
‘A different part … of the airplane?’
‘Yes. One of the parts that’s not involved in the flying.’
Malachi gave up. ‘Okay, whatever. Everything else is still the same though, right?’
Sarah’s eyes flicked back to her computer screen. ‘Yes, I think so. Whoa, that’s a lot of planes,’ she blurted. ‘That’s a boatload of planes.’
‘Yeah.’ Malachi wasn’t even sure how many. Thousands. It takes a lot of planes to get to every city, town and dinky little village in every time zone in the world in 24 hours, staying ahead of the sun. It also takes a lot of trucks, helicopters, and in a couple of places, dogsleds. The dogsleds were always given a head start. Malachi had gone with one of the sled teams once, early in his career. It felt closer to the way things were done in earlier years, before propellers and engines.
Malachi signed some insurance forms, handed them back to Sarah and agreed to provide her with a final itinerary by the first of December. ‘Just a heads-up. There are a few more stops this year,’ he told her.
‘Where?’
‘Mostly in the Middle East and Asia.’
‘Aren’t they all Muslim or Hindu or something?’
‘No, there’s a few Jews too.’
Sarah blushed. She handed him his copies of the forms he’d signed. ‘I’ve never been able to see what this whole thing has to do with Christianity, anyway.’
‘This whole thing’ was in the business of converting people, but it didn’t have much to do with religion. The medium was ads and the message was that if you buy stylish clothes, homewares, gadgetry, scrumptious food and festive decorations, you can have a perfect holiday with your gorgeous spouse, sprightly elders, adorable children and mischievous pets. And Santa Claus can help.
It was time for a new Santa Claus who wasn’t tired of this whole thing, thought Malachi.
On the computer monitor, the videocall icon was blinking next to the Philippines Warehouse ID. He clicked on it.
‘Hello Ellis. I was just about to e-mail you. How’s it going? Are we on track?’
‘Yeah, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about.’
Ellis looked worried, harried, and hairy. His frizzy gray beard stuck out from his chin in lush, defiant profusion and he kept running his fingers through it as if combing it. This had no discernible effect on it.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s not good news.’
‘Is it about the international work permits?’ said Malachi. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s been taken care of.’
‘No, it’s worse than that,’ said Ellis. ‘It’s an industrial issue.’
‘You can tell me about it in a minute, but could we double check the schedule real quick first? Thanks. Handcrafted toys. Done by the first of December?’
‘Check.’
‘Electronics ready to start loading by the fifteenth?’
‘Check.’
‘Manufactured non-electronic toys?’
‘Check, also fifteenth.’
‘Books?’
‘Check. Probably ready now,’ said Ellis.
‘It’s not even October yet.’
‘E-books not included. They’re classified with software.’
‘We don’t physically deliver software any more,’ said Malachi. ‘It’s sent electronically.’
‘I know, but we still have to place the orders and make sure they’re filled no sooner and no later than the 25th. That takes time.’
‘Okay, but why would the books be ready now?’
‘Because there aren’t likely to be very many. How many kids ask for books for Christmas?’
Malachi said he didn’t know right off the top of his head; he’d have to check the other list.
‘It was a rhetorical question,’ said Ellis. ‘Though the world would be disappointed to know you’re not actually omniscient.’
‘Is that all then?’
‘Apart from unusual or inappropriate requests requiring followup with the parent or parents, step-parent, grandparent, or older sibling … yes, that’s all. And speaking of which, do you have the surveillance reports yet?’
‘Due the day after Thanksgiving. The end-of-summer reports indicate no substantial change from last year for “naughty to nice,” but a total increase of about twenty thousand for “nice to naughty.’’’
‘That’s all? I would have thought more,’ said Ellis.
‘Ellis, you know the criteria are generous.’
‘Yeah, okay. Now can we discuss industrial issues?’
‘Hit me with it.’
‘Of the companies we do business with, the three biggest ones want to freeze contractor fees for three years, starting in January.’
‘They told you this? When were they planning to tell me?’
‘You weren’t mentioned in the e-mail,’ said Ellis.
‘Who should I contact, then?’
Ellis read him the names and contact details of some senior executives.
‘Anything else I should know about?’
‘I’ll send you the e-mail. There’s something about easing the transition to full automation of the Kuala Lumpur and Hangzhou assembly lines.’
‘How many people are working there?’ said Malachi.
‘Approximately three thousand at each.’
‘Including elves?’
‘Including elves, of course. By the way, not all of us are elves. We’re all workers.’
‘I know,’ said Malachi.
‘Some of us identify as elves even though we aren’t short and weren’t born with pointy ears.’
Ellis was four foot five and no one had seen his ears in years.
‘Okay. Leave it with me,’ said Malachi.
‘Good luck.’
‘It’s not about luck.’
‘Right,’ said Ellis dryly. ‘You’re Santa.’
Being Santa carried little weight with transnational corporations.
The response to Malachi’s e-mail bore the names of all three of the CEOs to whom he’d written. It informed him that contractors and workers supplied by labor-hire companies were neither irreplaceable nor in a position to complain about changes made in the interest of efficiency.
He sent another e-mail, more strongly worded, with copies to senior managers at all of the assembly and distribution sites. A few days later he received a letter, printed on paper and addressed to ‘Mr. Malachi Jones, Santa Claus.’
Having been mailed a week earlier, it made no mention of the e-mail correspondence. Instead it stated that discussions were in progress regarding ‘rationalization’ of all distribution centers within the next three years, and the introduction of a 3D printing facility where the elves who had previously made handcrafted toys could bid for short-term contracts, provided they could demonstrate the requisite technical skills.
‘You can’t stop Christmas, Mr. Jones.’
Malachi was sitting in the modest office that he rented, facing two executives who had flown there that morning. They were both young and white and were wearing expensive suits. Malachi was wearing a suit too. He’d considered putting on the Santa suit to emphasize his central role in the enterprise, but it was too hot outside and a red suit with fuzzy white trim did not exactly project elegance and sophistication. Privately, he liked the way he looked in the Santa suit. The jacket was nipped in at the waist to accentuate his broad shoulders and chest, and the slim-cut trousers were intended to be tucked into boots just above the ankles. But it was still a red Santa suit with fuzzy white trim.
‘No one is trying to stop Christmas, Mr. Bergoff,’ said Malachi. ‘People will still observe the holiday.’
‘But without gifts, if your people strike.’
‘They’re not my employees, and they don’t want to strike. They just want to keep their jobs.’
‘They’re not our employees either,’ said Bergoff. ‘As such, we are not legally obligated to negotiate their contract with the union. Is there a union?’
‘There is now,’ said Malachi.
The executives exchanged glances.
Malachi said, ‘The best thing to do might be to just leave things as they are.’
‘We’re not legally obligated to do that either,’ said Bergoff. ‘We can get a completely new workforce in a matter of days.’
‘Do you really want the publicity?’
‘What publicity?’ said the other executive, whose name was Ms. Wapping.
‘If I send this text—’ Malachi held up his phone. ‘—my colleague will immediately send this—’ He held up a sheet of paper in his other hand. ‘—to the major media outlets.’
‘Anybody can send a press release,’ said Wapping.
‘He’s not just anybody,’ said Bergoff. ‘Go ahead then. Read it to us.’
Malachi took his time unfolding his reading glasses. ‘It’s well known that to make consumer goods, corporations have utilized the cheap labor of women, men, and even children in the developing world – people who have a choice between a very small income and no income.’
‘No we don’t,’ said Wapping. ‘We don’t use child labor.’
‘The company previously based at the North Pole and run by a philanthropist has changed over the years. It is now almost entirely at the mercy of market forces, although some individuals and groups do their best to keep the spirit of Saint Nicholas alive. But while the enterprise continues, its staff must negotiate their own contracts.’ He looked over his glasses. Wapping and Bergoff were expressionless and tight-lipped. ‘The erosion of protections for pay and job security has reached a point that calls for pushback on the part of the workers. Unless the plan to reduce the workforce is formally abandoned and repudiated, all operations of Santa Claus a.k.a. Father Christmas a.k.a. Saint Nicholas will be terminated.’ He laid the piece of paper on the desk.
‘You’re seriously going on strike at Christmas time,’ said Wapping. ‘Do you know what that will do to the retail sector of the economy?’
‘People can still buy presents for their children,’ said Malachi. ‘They just won’t have any help from Santa Claus.’
‘So it’s okay for them to lie to their children and pretend it was Santa, not them, who brought all those presents,’ said Bergoff.
‘They could tell them the truth. Anyway, some kids don’t get “all those presents”. Some only get one. Or none at all.’
‘You mean you don’t—’ Wapping began indignantly.
‘Believe me, Ms. Wapping, if I could cure poverty all by myself, I would,’ said Malachi. ‘I’m sure you would too.’
‘All right,’ Bergoff said crisply. ‘We need to talk to boards of directors, et cetera. Someone will get back to you.’
Someone got back to him by videocall sooner than he expected. Viola Benton was white and her accent was from the American South. She said she represented the interests of the corporations that had a contract with Santa Claus for the distribution of Christmas presents, but she would nevertheless take the time to explain to him the conditions for legal termination of a contract. She asked him whether he believed the companies had breached or announced their intention to breach any term of the contract, and whether he would suffer damage as a result.
Malachi said he himself was not likely to suffer, but the workers who would lose their jobs would.
‘The workers are not parties to the contract,’ said Benton. ‘Nor are they employees of you or of the company trading as “Santa Claus”. Nor are you a party to any of the contracts between toy companies and workers.’
‘Then I guess I’d better find myself a lawyer who can help me get out of this contract without getting sued.’
‘Good luck with that. I expect we’ll be hearing from you.’
‘Hey, you don’t really want to make someone stay in a relationship when they’re not happy, do you?’ said Malachi, smiling. ‘An unhappy Santa Claus is bad publicity.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not asking for changes to the labor contracts. I’m just saying, don’t lay people off.’
‘Or you’ll use your public position to make things difficult.’
‘Yes.’
Benton sat there looking at him, saying nothing. Then she said, ‘You know, Mr. Jones, you may not be the most credible Santa Claus.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What does Santa look like?’
‘Who knows? No one ever sees Santa on Christmas Eve.’
‘Ha ha. Everyone knows what he looks like. Jolly old Saint Nick. White hair, white beard, carrying a few extra pounds.’
‘Hasn’t changed in a hundred and fifty years,’ said Malachi, trying to keep the light conversational tone but feeling a little sick.
‘Right.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Now look at you. Not a hint of a gray hair. No beard either. I suspect you don’t have an ounce of surplus fat. And—’ She feigned surprise. ‘You’re black!’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘People won’t believe you’re Santa Claus.’
‘It’s never been an issue.’
‘I guarantee it’ll be an issue if you try to create a workplace relations issue.’
It wasn’t hard to find an agency that was willing to put together a campaign at short notice and at a deep discount, given the public profile of the client. Malachi’s photo ID and a tax return were sufficient evidence that they really were talking to Santa Claus, and the ad rep who’d been given the project was tremendously excited. Gary was white, appeared to be in his early twenties, and couldn’t stop chattering. ‘Santa Claus exists! And he’s African American! Freakin’ awesome.’ He pinched his own arm. ‘How do you do it all in one night?’
‘Helpers,’ said Malachi. ‘There’s about 530 million kids in the world under 14 who celebrate Christmas. If we have only 24 hours to make the deliveries, that’s more than 220 million kids per hour, or 416,000 kids per minute. Even taking into account the households that have more than one kid, that’s still a lot of chimneys.’
‘Yeah, wow! Are you saying there’s more than one Santa Claus?’
‘No, helpers. Thousands of them. The problem is they’re not my employees. They’re cheap labor. That’s the whole point of the campaign – to get public support so that they’re not just fired and replaced.’ He gave Gary a brief summary of the situation.
‘Do they all dress like you?’ said Gary. ‘The Santa suit?’
‘I don’t know. They can wear one if they like.’
‘Remember all those Santas in the stores before Christmas? When you were a little kid?’
‘Helpers,’ said Malachi.
‘That’s not what I thought. Two men say they’re Santa, one of them must be wrong. Three men say they’re Santa, all of them must be wrong.’
‘So there was no Santa.’
‘There was no Santa. I was seven.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ Gary straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. ‘I have an idea. Suppose we start the video with Santa—’
‘Me? Sure.’
‘Uh, I think we’d want to use an actor.’
Malachi sighed. ‘A white guy, right?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Gary, but he looked embarrassed.
Malachi wanted to say ‘Freakin’ awesome’ but instead he just said okay.
‘Santa says, “Some people work very hard at Christmas,’’ and then the camera cuts to a warehouse. It’s busy, there’s people loading things, using forklifts, putting stuff on conveyor belts. Then back to Santa. He says, “But their pay isn’t keeping up with the cost of living. They may not even have a job next year. This is not what Christmas is about.” Then he takes off his hat and says “I stand with them.’’’ Gary scribbled a messy picture of Santa on a notepad. ‘Then we split the screen in two and there’s another Santa, a person who looks completely different, maybe a woman … I don’t know, let’s say a Chinese or an Indian woman, also wearing a Santa hat, and she says “I stand with them.’ We keep splitting the screen and all these Santas, male and female, different ages, different races, et cetera, one at a time, say “I stand with them.’’’ He drew three or four more Santas on the pad. ‘What do you think?’
‘So there are all these Santas—’
‘Right. But they’re actually workers. Helpers. Without them there’d be no Christmas presents. So in a way, they’re all Santa.’
‘Sure. But will the TV audience be like, “Which one’s Santa? Is Santa, like, Indian or something?’’’
‘You think they might not get it?’ said Gary. ‘It’s pretty important that they get it.’
‘That’s right. Because if they don’t get it, and if we go on strike before Christmas, they’re going to be screaming about corrupt trade unions and lazy elves.’
The ad aired a week later. They got around the issue of ‘which one’s Santa?’ by having all of the actors in the warehouse scene wear Santa hats. After the individual Santas’ declarations, the screen went black and viewers were urged to stand with Santa. Then a short web address containing the word SANTA appeared. On the web page there were contact details for the toy companies and a list of actions that people could take: call, e-mail, protest, and as a last resort, boycott.
The response of the toy companies wasn’t slow in coming. The first phone call came from Ms. Wapping.
‘You realize that your symbolic solidarity will not make the slightest bit of difference in places with a small number of jobs and large numbers of people.’
‘I thought you were worried about what a strike would do to the economy,’ said Malachi.
‘Your website tells people to boycott, so yes, it is a concern.’
Malachi thought: What they’re worried about is the possibility that people may care about something besides being able to buy stuff. ‘I don’t know what to tell you.’
‘Tell me there are no plans to disrupt operations,’ said Wapping.
‘Tell me the plans to downsize the workforce are off the table and there will be no pay cuts.’
Ms. Wapping said she couldn’t do that.
Malachi reminded her that even if production continued as usual, 530 million Christmas presents weren’t going to get delivered as long as Santa Claus had the contract for their transport. That wasn’t going to go down well with the aviation company either, he thought. But Wapping didn’t point this out and they concluded the conversation.
He called Ellis. ‘We have to go ahead with this. Is everybody still on board?’
‘Ready, willing and able.’
‘Okay. All work sites will down tools in the morning.’
‘Tools, wrapping paper and Scotch tape. Right-o.’
‘So where do you think I should be?’ said Malachi. ‘I don’t think I can get to the Philippines in time, but maybe the distribution center in West Virginia?’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Do you think I’d talk you guys into this and then sit here and watch it all online?’
‘It could get dangerous if they bring in strikebreakers.’
‘That’s why I should be there,’ said Malachi. ‘Who would have the nerve to bash Santa Claus on international TV?’
In the end he decided to stay put. He flicked back and forth between the different warehouses and distribution centers, scanning faces for any signs that it would all end early and ignobly.
For three days, nothing happened. The industrial action consisted of groups of people standing around outside buildings. Some of the workers were wearing Santa hats. News coverage was patchy, with journalists for the major outlets excited at first, then losing interest.
On the fourth day the broadcast from the Canadian worksite reported the arrival of a group of men and women wearing Santa hats and one individual clad in full Santa Claus attire. They didn’t attempt to cross the picket line, just strolled around chatting with the strikers. The guy in the Santa suit handed out treats from a sack and said ‘Ho ho ho.’
Malachi was riveted. ‘What the …’ The Santa Claus character was big and fat and had a white beard and a ruddy face. The reporter asked him what he thought of the industrial action.
‘I just ho-ho-hope it will be resolved peacefully, with everyone back at work before the holidays.’ He put his finger next to his nose and winked at the camera, ho-ho-hoed again and gave the reporter a Christmas cracker. ‘Merry Christmas everybody,’ he bawled, then left with his gang. The picketers looked slightly deflated.
‘Striking workers at the Brampton, Ontario distribution center had a surprise visit today from the real Santa Claus,’ said the reporter. ‘Santa’s wish is that we can all work together to make Christmas happen.’ She beamed, handed her mic to an onlooker and pulled her Christmas cracker with a loud pop.
‘The real Santa Claus,’ Malachi repeated. He wasn’t surprised that the toy companies would send someone dressed like Santa Claus and get the media to believe it. But did the workers think that was him? He tried to meet as many people as possible during his warehouse visits, but it was impossible to chat face-to-face with all of them.
It was nighttime in the Philippines and it took several rings before Ellis answered. ‘Someone’s impersonating you?’
‘Impersonating Santa. We need to get the word out to the sites: beware of fat guys in red suits.’
‘I’m on it.’
‘Thanks. Now what do we do about the public?’
‘What about them?’
‘They’ll think Santa wants to halt the strike.’
‘No they won’t,’ said Ellis. ‘Some guy in a red suit tells the strikers to go back to work. They’ll stay right where they are because they know he’s not Santa.’
‘Maybe they know that, but the public doesn’t.’
‘That’s what your public service ad was for,’ said Ellis.
‘Santa is a fat white guy in the ad.’
‘And also black, and Asian, and—’
‘The first Santa,’ said Malachi. ‘The one everybody thinks is the real Santa. The white guy who now seems to be telling them to accept whatever crap terms they’re offered.’
‘I don’t think—’ Ellis began.
‘I’ll bet people don’t even know what the strike is about or who it’s against. They’ll think a bunch of ratbag trade unionists are picketing Santa Claus. Should I hold a press conference?’
Ellis said he didn’t think it was a good idea to force the world to decide whether Malachi or some fat white guy was the real Santa.
‘Maybe I should get some fat white guy to hold a press conference, then,’ said Malachi.
But instead he consulted an attorney.
The next day someone leaked to the media that Santa Claus was taking early retirement, effective immediately.
‘Is this the end of a centuries-old tradition?’
The hapless PR person facing the first barrage of questions was wearing sunglasses indoors and sweating profusely. He said it wasn’t an end but an opportunity, and under further interrogation admitted that this could mean replacing Santa.
‘Was Santa Claus an employee of your company?’ The question came from a reporter for a major American newspaper.
‘Santa Claus is a contractor. We can contract with anyone we like, for the same services.’
There was just one difficulty with that, and the journalist had done her homework.
‘You can contract with anyone you like, but that person or business can’t legally use the name Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Sinterklaas, Kris Kringle, or any other name historically or currently used by or in reference to the registered proprietor of the enterprise, who holds the intellectual property in those names,’ said the reporter, reading from her tablet. ‘Is that correct?’
‘Well, yes, technically. The role would be filled by a different entity with a different name.’
‘So instead of Santa, children would be getting presents from the Great Parrot, the Christmas Fairy, or some other made-up character?’
‘It would be no more a made-up character than Santa Claus is,’ the spokesperson retorted.
‘But won’t it be difficult to replace him with a different character and create a story to go with it?’
The spokesperson said that’s what marketing teams are for.
‘What is “Santa Claus,” exactly? Is it a limited liability company, a sole proprietorship, or a nonprofit organization?’
‘No, it’s a special type of enterprise.’
‘But also a person?’
‘A position,’ the spokesperson corrected.
‘What happens when Santa Claus the person retires or resigns from the position?’
‘You’ll have to ask Santa Claus the person.’
The answer, of course, was that Santa chooses his successor, but the answer provided by Malachi’s newly hired personal assistant/press secretary was that internal procedures are confidential. As the weeks dragged on with no new Santa, speculation supplied the correct inference: that Santa may retire without appointing anyone to succeed him. In other words, it was possible for the position to be phased out by the person occupying it.
Malachi was not enjoying his retirement. He felt like a coward for concealing his identity, and he was worried about the message sent by his strategically timed exit. ‘It looks like an independent contractor has more power than an employee,’ he told the lawyer.
The lawyer said that was true only if the contractor is indispensable to the enterprise.
‘The people who do the packing and loading are also indispensable.’
The lawyer said that unlike Santa Claus, they could all be easily replaced.
That was the other thing he was worried about. But so far, they hadn’t been replaced. It appeared that without a Santa, Christmas deliveries were on hold.
This came as a surprise to Malachi. ‘I would have thought they’d have found a temp.’
‘It’s not just about you,’ said Ellis. ‘Don’t forget about the elves still making real toys, and don’t forget about the warehouse managers who happen to be elves.’ He raised a fist and said ‘Elf power!’ before ending the videocall.
There were tentative efforts on the part of the corporations to gauge receptiveness to a Santa substitute. Reactions were tepid in Asia and most of the southern hemisphere, and ranged from suspicious to hostile elsewhere. One survey revealed that a significant number of English-speaking consumers believed Santa’s legitimacy derived from something like the divine right of kings.
‘The companies are gonna cave,’ Ellis told Malachi. ‘Any day now. Are you coming back?’
Malachi said he hadn’t decided.
‘’Cause if you’re not, I can send you my résumé.’
As he was just about to leave the office, someone rang the bell. Malachi opened the door to a middle-aged white guy with a receding hairline, sagging jeans and a faded black t-shirt bearing the logo of a well-known Tennessee whiskey. ‘Is this the office of Santa Claus?’
‘How can I help you?’ said Malachi.
‘Is he here?’ He craned his neck, trying to peer behind Malachi. Malachi came out and shut the door behind him. ‘No. I was just leaving.’
There was no sign on the building, but it wouldn’t have been too hard to find Santa’s local office if you knew where to start. Malachi followed his predecessor’s example, not advertising his whereabouts but not taking extraordinary steps to keep it a secret. It hadn’t been an issue, as most people still believed Santa Claus had his headquarters at the North Pole.
‘Do you work for him?’ the man persisted.
Before Malachi could answer, another white guy approached. They grabbed Malachi’s arms, folded them behind his back, frog-marched him to a car and bundled him into the back seat.
The second guy was wearing a ‘Make America Great Again’ baseball cap. He looked younger than the first guy but had a fully mature pot belly the size of a cantaloupe. I could have taken either one of them, Malachi thought. Maybe both if they hadn’t surprised me. ‘May I ask what this is about?’ Neither one answered. Malachi was glad they hadn’t blindfolded him or tied him up. He was even more glad that they didn’t appear to be armed.
They took him to a house in an unremarkable 1970s-era neighborhood. ‘Come on in,’ said MAGA man, opening the door for him.
‘I’d rather not,’ said Malachi, but they didn’t move until he got out of the car and went into the house with them. ‘What do you want?’
‘What we want,’ said the guy in the Jack Daniels shirt, ‘is the same thing everybody else wants. A nice Christmas for our kids.’
‘Your boss is being a dick,’ said MAGA man.
‘A Scrooge,’ said Jack Daniels.
‘My boss?’ said Malachi. Then he remembered they didn’t know who he was.
‘Because he feels sorry for the Chinese,’ said Jack Daniels.
‘They take our jobs and now they want to take our tax money,’ said MAGA man.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ said Malachi.
‘Who do you think pays their salaries?’
‘Uh, the companies they’re working for,’ said Malachi.
Jack Daniels and MAGA man exchanged an eye roll. ‘They’re working for the same boss you are,’ said Jack Daniels. ‘In case you didn’t know, bro, that’s a public sector job. That means working for the gover’ment. Union scum, always whining for more money.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Malachi stared at the floor and chewed the inside of his cheek. He wanted to laugh, but he also had an intense urge to punch the guy for calling him ‘bro.’
‘So what we want, bro,’ said Jack Daniels, ‘is for you to call your boss and tell him to come and get you. Then we want to talk to him. We don’t want to hurt anybody.’
Malachi thought: In the movies, when they say ‘We don’t want to hurt anybody,’ somebody usually gets hurt. He was fed up with the ‘bro’ thing and the ‘boss’ thing, but if they didn’t believe him, he might get hurt. ‘Did you know Santa Claus recently retired?’
‘Yeah, I heard that on the news,’ said Jack Daniels. MAGA man didn’t say anything.
‘Did you know that if he doesn’t pick someone to take over, there’s no more Santa Claus? No more Santa Claus, no more presents.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jack Daniels.
‘No,’ said MAGA man, confused. ‘How does that work?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Malachi. Right on cue, his smartphone chimed to notify him of incoming e-mail. As he was putting his hand in his pocket, he was very glad, again, that they didn’t have guns. ‘You mind if I take this?’
‘Go ahead.’
He read it quickly, then read it again. There was to be no pay freeze and no reduction in the number of distribution centers. Automation would be postponed until a plan for job transitions could be devised, and 3D printing would be introduced only on the condition that a majority of elves voted in favor of it. ‘Yes!’ he blurted in relief and elation.
‘What,’ said Jack Daniels suspiciously.
He showed them the e-mail, holding on to the phone while each of them read it. MAGA man’s lips moved as he read.
‘Mal-a-chi Jones,’ said Jack Daniels when he had finished. ‘Thanks for sharing, Mal-a-chi Jones. Bro. Now tell me what all that means.’
‘It means Santa Claus goes back to work.’
‘Well, that’s good news, Mal-a-chi Jones. But you know, I’d really like to hear it from Santa Claus himself.’ He sat back and crossed his arms.
‘You just did.’
They stared at him, slack-jawed. He tried again. ‘You’re talking to Santa Claus.’ Still no response. ‘You’ve kidnapped Santa Claus. That’s me.’
They looked at each other and said ‘Shit’ and some nastier things. They didn’t seem to know what to do after that.
Malachi said, ‘You want Christmas presents, I have to go back to work. I’ll make sure all the kids get their Christmas presents. Okay?’
Jack Daniels stared at him. Then he got to his feet and said, ‘Let’s go.’
‘Black Santa Claus,’ MAGA man muttered. ‘What’s next, Chinese Santa Claus?’
Possibly an elf Santa Claus, Malachi thought. But later.
Photo credit
Photo by Dan LeFebvre on Unsplash
Citation
Please cite as: Miller, L. Elaine, ‘You better not pout’, It Could Be Words (blog), 24 December 2020, https://it-could-be-words.com/you-better-not-pout
