(San
Francisco, Dec. '85 – prior to leaving for Army Basic, having
failed to snag a job as Jumbo Jolly in any dept. store in The City –
but also prior to “The Suit,“
where
I did – and one
better)
Amid
the flashing, multi-colored chaos, the hustling and bargain-grabbing,
the floor-walker bells popping off and the humming buzzing tide of
parents and children drawn into this jungle of commercial mayhem,
Tuesday afternoon's Santa Claus composes himself . . . and waits it
out.
He
is not bored or disgruntled with his job, pressed as he is by
sticky-fingered, runny-nosed, often howling toddlers, not to mention
the ones that are getting a little bit big for this. He is actually
not watching the clock, in fact he is waiting for something else, he
is sniffing out the crowd, this department store package-promiser,
the brat-appeaser, stuffed elf. Ho Ho Ho . . .
One
whining child gets to popone to the Wiz and receive a striped cane;
then a quiet shy one, who mouths a big Thank You (for Mommy); then a
ram-bunctious one who tinkles a little and hops off before he
remembers his token candy (so he can drive his frazzled mother over
the brink, since she'd agreed to drive him to see Santa). And on it
goes, and the queue grows and diminishes, and then . . .
A
girl of about five years, perhaps six and small, edges forward with
her mother, a few yards down yet. He takes note. What is unusual
about her, this girl, is not
the precocity which movies are about, nor
any visible confidence, poise, grace, ésprit which set her so
adorably apart from the rest. What is unusual in her only he
knows, what is rare in her only he
will see.
He
patiently takes each child on, he does his gig, he relishes the
spontaneity when it's there, reassures nervous mothers with a gesture
of his hand, waves each family on, then looks at the next bundle of
1980s mess squirming on his lap; he looks down into its face with a
benign, casual indifference, reserved and pleasant, and sees hundreds
of voices, all desiring for its future . . .
They
are clutching the tiny hands rather more snugly this year, these
mothers; they are aware, grotesquely aware of the growing number of
posted facials reminding them to sharpen their radar against thsoe
who covet small children. They are chilled, this bunch, as they give
themselves cautiously over to this warm ritual of handing the tots to
the old man in the red suit.
His
eyes are moist and twinkling, occasionally he has a private word or
two with the mother or guardian, as the case may be, listening like
some country family doctor to the fractured twittering of trivial
concerns. The photographer stands ever ready for those who need the
souvenir. She does not look particularly nervous, this girl's mother,
and the child is reasonably well-behaved. Yet even at this distance
the clutch she holds her in is evident. The line is dwindling, he
takes his own time, he is not rushed by all this nonsense, theirs or
the store's. The photographer is having a cigarette.
He
shifts his position while the next customer is coaxed to the
jelly-bellied counter to place her order, brushing off cellophane
candy-cane wrappers to make a fresh place for her. Her forehead is
wrinkled with the weight of the responsibility she is entrusting to his
care, as she'd put a lot of time into this beforehand. He nods and
shares her seriousness for a minute and then lightly raises her off
his lap to hear the confession of He-Man, or whatever this kid is.
Power of the Universe. That's it, that's what he wants. OK, kid –
you got it. … Then: she
arrives.
There
is a pause, a fraction of a pause, not a delay in proceedings but that
pause which occurs when you open the door and there stands the guest
you'd been expecting anyway, but you have that little pause, because
that brief second is frankly timeless, and it is to be savored.
In
one fleeting glance his earlier recognition of her is confirmed; not
from her,
you
see, not consciously by any means – but she is natural, guileless,
and their eyes lock as his gaze penetrates into her skull and sets
atoms into motion creating new orbits . . .
He
leans forward ignoring the girl now, but rather motioning her mother
over with a friendly but sober flick of his fingers. She checks the
position of her daughter, and the Santa shrugs away her awkwardness
with a simple gesture – no one's walking off with the child, who
now sits at the step where Santa's great boots are planted. Santa
motions the mother closer, still closer, and looks into her face. He
says nothing.
Though
his breathing is nearly undetected underneath that pasted beard, she
is somehow aware that she stands within his breath, engulfed in a
most sovereign atmosphere quite independent of the whole department
store. And she is oddly comfortable standing with her face so close
to that of this calm, sober-looking stranger – Santa or not – who
has mesmerized her while taking no possession of her. Something,
something now – gently opens in her and Santa speaks . . .
"I
want you to listen carefully to each word I use, each thing I say,
because it is going to matter to you greatly. As I share this with
you, you must drop every untoward reference from your mind, suspend in
other words, every innuendo and conditioned impulse to react, so that
you can just get what I am telling you. Can you do that?" She
nods and poises herself to listen; his voice is kind and it projects
gently, his cadence is natural, steady, and his manner direct. He
continues without breaking the rhythm of this brief interlude . . .
"I
have already plugged in to this child. As your daughter sits with me
I am going to open her subtle bodies up and enter her most sacred
core, and I will place a seed within her; I am going to stimulate and
activate her inner growth. And this seed will blossom in her at a
later time, and she will experience her true and sacred Womanhood in
a very beautiful and natural way, you may mark my words. And then at
some future time, she will find her way to me and I will guide her
through an intensity of training which will prepare her for the role
she is to play on this planet, for the very hope and salvation of
Humankind..." He pauses to let it sink in, scanning the aisle
quickly to scope the growing new line, never turning his head from the
woman, whose eyes are becoming moist with awe. "Are you getting
this?" he asks, gently bringing her into the present.
She
brushes a tear with her ring finger, draws back into place a blonde
strand of hair. His eyes are incredible, but not threatening or
vulgar. They are auspicious to her, and she nods with the movement of
a young intelligent woman who doesn't require speech to cut through
the confusion and the flood of chatter and claptrap she feels during
this new pause, to say Yes,
yes I do, strangely, painfully, poignantly, somehow definitely know
you. "This is her destiny . . ." he concludes, and the contact breaks
and dissipates back into the crowd, all subtly reabsorbed into the
commercial onslaught.
He
sits, Santa-like, playfully unconcerned, as this young mother
thoughtfully raises her yawning daughter and with unpretentious
reverence places her squarely into the hands of the Master.
