I should’ve known that a place where the locals think anything off their metropolitan island is “upstate” isn’t the place for me.
But at first, I’d thought it was. I’d wanted to escape the small town life, to make a name for myself. If I ever came back to North Pole, I wanted to do it hung with college degrees, awards, and achievements.
Instead, I’m back here with my tail between my legs, hung only with this hot, itchy Santa costume that’s too big for my slim frame.
But I’ve got one thing I didn’t have before I left — an appreciation for everything that North Pole is, instead of derision for everything it isn’t.
Yeah, it’s a small town, but it’s not backward. The people are kind and look out for each other, no matter how different they may be. They’re sharp and won’t hesitate to call you on your bullshit. But they will be the first to lend a helping hand to anyone who needs it, no questions asked.
That’s how I got this Santa gig. Frank, my brother from another mother since childhood, is a manager at the theme park and went to bat for me with his boss.
And strangely, I’m enjoying myself more in my jolly suit — the management’s attempt at a more politically correct term for fat suit, with dubious results — than I ever did at Columbia University.
The school was not only too big and overly attended by students who are positive they’re better than everyone else, but I stopped being able to afford it.
After taking a handful of years off from education following high school graduation, I’d enrolled in Columbia at twenty-five, my first two years paid for by a mosaic of scholarships that I’d spent uncountable hours applying for.
And then, two years in, financial terms changed. My scholarships no longer covered most of the tuition. No job that I was qualified for would come even close to covering the rest — if I had time to work enough hours between classes and homework.
So, loathe to saddle myself with student loans, I’d left.
Now, instead of continuing to pursue a business degree, I’m listening to Santa’s Workshop park patrons of all ages whisper their hopes and dreams in my ear.
And I kind of love it.
Like, a lot.
Except for one thing, an unwelcome souvenir of my time in the city. You know, besides the jolly suit.
I’m having a damned hard time trusting anyone. After years of a brutal — for me, anyway — city life of competition, one-upmanship, and fending off all of my classmates and neighbors to barely scrape by, it’s hard for me to not feel the same here.
Even though North Pole isn’t at all like that. The generous holiday spirit that the town embraces year-round isn’t just an act — it’s the heart and soul of this town and all the people in it.
Having grown up here, I know that full well.
But, as my parents tried to gently warn me, life in the big city can change a man.
It made me harder, more skeptical.
Living there made it hard for me to trust that the people I’m surrounded by won’t stab me in the back once it’s turned.
Until the elf from the photo shop takes a tumble before my eyes. And she sees me, beneath the makeup and padded suit and synthetic beard. Or tries to.
And that changes everything.
When I leave the elf and her friend — also an elf, of course — I find myself walking lighter in spite of the jolly suit. The two women are following in my wake, and every nerve in my body is attuned to their presence.
To her presence.
I want to learn everything about her, to know why she looked at me the way she did and what she saw.
I don’t recognize her from my years growing up in North Pole, so she must be new. Which means that she chose to move here.
Or I have really bad memory.
But no, I tell myself as I settle back into Santa’s red-velveted chair at the photo shop. I’d remember a girl like that. No question.
The elf takes her place at the door, welcoming children and their adults to the shop. Her friend positions herself behind the camera. Soon my lap is warm from being sat on, my cheeks sore from smiling.
All the while, though, the elf’s presence shines from the front of the shop like a crackling fireplace on a cold winter’s night.
Before the day is through, I promise myself, I’m going to learn her name.
And maybe more.
Bethany
As soon as the park is closed and we’re all cleaned up for the day, Tansy loops her arm through mine and tugs me out the door of the photo shop.
“I’ve got a plan,” she says, leaning in close.
“A plan for what?”
She rolls her eyes. “To get you talking to Sexton, of course.”
My stomach clenches. I want to wave my friend off, but I’d promised her that I’d try.
And honestly, I’d kind of promised myself too.
“Okay,” I say, unable to keep my voice from sounding grim. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s easy. Just say that you’re planning a work party. Everyone’s invited, you just need his cell number. Then he’ll give it to you and you’ll be in.” Her smile twinkles like the fairy lights strung from practically every surface of North Pole.
I wrinkle my nose. “Uh, in what?”
“Into his DMs, duh.”
“Yeah, but I still won’t have, you know, professed my love for him or anything.”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s not what you’re doing tonight. Tonight we just get you access. Then, once you have his number, you can slowly work your way around to that.” She flashes a sly grin. “Or maybe not so slowly.”
I fix my friend with a skeptical glare. “You really think that’ll work? Because I’m not planning a party.”
She shrugs. “Can’t hurt, right? And we can organize a staff party if you really need that.”
“Fine,” I say, “but you’re in charge of that.”
We join the rest of Santa’s Workshop’s staff inside the large meeting room adjacent to the park’s front gate. The place is packed, humming with tired employees. Everybody’s standing because no one feels like hauling out all the chairs only to put them away again in a few minutes.
As the boss starts droning on the usual meeting topics — monthly targets, adjusted safety measures, stuff we’ve all heard a thousand times — I quietly follow Tansy. We sidle around the perimeter until I’m standing next to — I swallow hard — Sexton Kail.
Tansy pretends to bump into me, forcing me to stumble into Sexton.
“Uh, sorry,” I mutter.
He glances at me, shrugging.
Tansy elbows me. When I glare at her, she raises her eyebrows meaningfully. Do it, she mouths.
I draw in a trembling breath and, stomach in knots, I do it.
“Um,” I murmur in Sexton’s general direction, “I’m having a party. Like, for Santa’s Workshop people. Employees, I mean.”
I look up at him. He’s nodding along, but absently. I take that as a positive sign and stumble on. “Maybe not a party. Maybe more like a gathering. At a bar or something.”
I pause. He flicks another glance at me and inclines his chin. Another sign. “So, um, you’re invited of course.” My hands flutter around my face like distracted birds. “Everyone is, I mean. So, can I get your number?”