“Remember when we accidentally got proselytized to at a Trans-Siberian Orchestra show? We thought it was gonna be a normal concert and then they started leading us in prayer,” Mom says as she exits our car. I have no memory of such an event, but I fully believe my family fell for a gentile ploy during the holiday season. We find ourselves under similar conditions tonight. It’s below freezing, so we’ve come prepared to face the cold. Mom is wearing a black fur along with a heavy white coat, and Dad is wrapped in his giant blue jacket which puffs out on each side of his face. We find ourselves in the parking lot of a zoo in West Orange, New Jersey. Jingle Bell Rock greets us at the entrance, announcing the return of the man we’ve come to visit. Their beloved son, my brother Joey, is here working his annual gig as Santa Claus.
My brother has been perfecting his impersonation for over two decades. Growing up, he always volunteered to dawn the red suit at Dad’s office Christmas party. For the past three holiday seasons, he’s fallen deeper into his alter ego as Old Saint Nick. Every time I visit home he’s managed to purchase a new addition to his regalia, this time an enormous belt from a girdler in Romania and a collection of silver belled leashes for his reindeer. He put Rudolph’s collar on our dog, Jimmy, upsetting our Mom as he rocked around our nonexistent Christmas Tree.
“How much do you think he spent on all this shit?” Dad asked me as we watched from the kitchen counter.
“How much did you spend on my college tuition?”
This year, Santa Joey has gone from wigs to growing out authentic facial hair. Based on instructions from a stylist who specializes in Santas in Atlanta, Joey arranged a snow-white dye at a Jersey Supercuts. After three coats of bleach, he left with a head of white looking 50 years older. So convincing he earned a senior citizen discount at a fast food chain one morning. In regards to what he’ll do on December 26 with the new look, he says he’ll be shaving everything off. A young man resurrected with only a razor.
Starting with a position at a local mall, Joey has expanded his repertoire of work to library story times and town-sponsored meet and greets. He also offers hourly rates for families to rent him out. His biggest night is always Christmas Eve. Last year, my twin, Pyre, and I came along for the ride as his comfort elves, remaining in his backseat as he visited children across North Jersey. After one party at a McMansion, Joey reported about the tidings inside with an unmentioned 45 adults.
“Everyone got a cookie, and they labeled them all with a name. So after the fifth person I said ‘alright enough of this. Here you go, here you go, here you go.’ I was running around looking like an idiot.”
As party-goers receive their predetermined gift from Santa Joey, he notices the mother who hired him to bring Christmas cheer.
“So the lady’s wearing black skin-tight leather pants. She bends down in front of me to go pick up her kid, or toy, or whatever it was. And split not the center down. Not the crack. An ass cheek, wide open. I say ‘Mom, there’s a draft in the rear.’”
“No, the window’s closed,” the woman mooning responded.
“THERE’S A DRAFT IN THE REAR.”
“No it’s-
“Mom, you split your pants down.”
“No I didn’t”
“Yeah you did. You just flashed Santa, congraduations,” her husband responded.
On the ride home, Santa Joey called Santa Andrew out in Florida about his sleighride tales.
“Naughty List,” Santa Andrew remarked on Cheek-Gate.
“And then while I’m talking to children they just hand me a $20 bill. They made a big deal about it, saying ‘Santa, we want to tip you. There I am trying to explain to the kids why I’m getting tipped.”
“Yeah, you get that too. I’ve learned the master of dropping it in my glove. Last night I had parents do a raffle, so they had me pick. The aunt that won wanted to give all the kids 20 bucks. All the parents were upset as she ran around giving out the money. The host’s kids gave their dad the money, and he said ‘now give this to Santa.’ I’m like ‘are you sure?’”
Our parents weren’t bothered by our late return after Midnight Mass working the holiday. It’s not ours to celebrate. A Jewish Santa Claus, more common than you think. Of course, not having any holiday obligations frees up time to work. Once his budget allows, Santa Joey is considering investing in a blue suit to start offering Hanukkah Harry impressions.
But tonight is November 29th, meaning the Christmas season has only just begun. In post-Thanksgiving lethargy, we pass an LED sign displaying zoo programming. Advanced technology compared to when my parents first took Santa Joey here in 1999. During the summer, it provides information on my brother’s other job here as a train driver. He’s worked his way up from volunteer conductor to head of the department. Past empty exhibits for the giraffes and orangutans (now on holiday in their indoor enclosures), it provides us information on where to find my brother doing his Photoshot on the Mount.
We walk past children running between a Christmas tree and a giant snake statue, their parents failing to wrestle them in. Over the speakers Michael Buble covers the holiday classic “White Christmas” by Irving Berlin, the Jew who set the benchmark of capitalizing on Christendom’s favorite holiday. Santa Joey is in good company.
As we pass an exhibit of LED creatures, Mom shields her eyes.
“This wasn’t meant for our eyes, I suppose,” I remarked.
“Look at the parrot. We must be in Margaritaville!” Dad jest.
“We’re a little far from there,” comes from a woman who overhears us.
“Well it’s 5:00 o’clock somewhere,” Dad responds.
“Do you think they celebrate happy hour in the North Pole?” I ask.
Dad laughs as we walk through a pavilion made of flashing red and green lights. My parents take each other’s hands, as I hang back to marvel at the sight.
“Makes me feel like a kid again,” Dad notes in regards to the lights.
As we make our way through the zoo, I remark how this is what it must’ve felt like to climb Mount Sinai. Three travelers in search of a man who, in only one night, gives all the world’s children presents and Christmas Magic. In his omniscience he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good forgoodness sake. All Moses saw was a burning bush.
“I think that’s it,” Mom says, as she almost leads us astray to the carousel. Sure, there’s Prancer and Dancer, Donner and Blitzen, all going round and round in their merry way, but the most famous reindeer of all remains elusive. There’s a possibility Rudolph’s gotten swept up in the pony-rides, but I’m certain he’s joined his master.
Our destination is indicated by the queue of families standing close together to keep warm. We almost lose Dad, who gets distracted by the new animal care center, but we manage to reign him back in. Because it’s early in the season, the line isn’t too bad. Mom immediately starts waving to Santa Joey, who’s too distracted with children’s wishes to notice.
Two blonde boys sit on my brother’s lap. I notice their great posture. Seated upright with cheesy smiles, both put on their best behavior in hopes to win a spot on the Nice List. Santa Joey better check it twice, or I’ll vouch for their approval.
“Look how nice he is with the kids,” Mom gushes.
“Ironic considering he was so mean to me growing up,” I reflect. Joey is a self-admitted ‘jackass of all trades,’ a title he earned in high school for carrying the entire theatre department on his back and being a dick about it. I’ve seen Santa’s smile turn into a bitter snarl. He’s always kept a distance from his twin siblings, both mentally and physically. Pyre and I would attack our older brother with hugs, and he’d always push back. Instead of siblings we’re more like annoying people he happens to be related to. His nicknames for us are, appropriately, Frik and Frak.
Come to think of it, that’s the same kind of behavior I face every December. It’s all holly and jolly from those of Christ’s flock until ‘happy holidays’ is taken as an act of warfare on their precious Christmas. When I was a senior in high school, I dared to suggest we turn off the Christmas carols that were scoring a December study session. The next day a rumor spread that I was, in fact, the Grinch who stole Christmas. You’re gonna sit here and act like you’re not fa-la-losing your mind hearing the same 10 songs over and over again for 25 fucking days! Try working in retail, and then I’d like to see that Christmas Cheer. Ba Humbug!
Don’t tell me about miracles until you’ve lit all eight candles. Don’t talk to me about Seasons Greetings until you’ve had a chopstick full of General Tso’s chicken after a movie premiere. Every one of G-d’s chosen people is in that Chinese restaurant on Christmas Day. Hebrew school classmates, friends of your parents from shul you don’t remember, and even the rabbi all sharing the kosher options. But how many can say they’ve laughed with the man in red himself, just the night before? Over their egg drop soup I’ll remind them Jesus was a Jew, and Santa is too.
Consumed with taking photos of his adult child, Dad has backed up the line of gentiles waiting for the opportunity to meet Santa.
“C’mon, Father Christmas is waiting for us,” I call as it’s our turn to take photos.
“Does that make me Grandfather Christmas?” Dad questions as we approach his son.
As we near my brother, Mom keeps repeating ‘hold Joey’. It’s a reference to a home movie from the turn of the century depicting a toddler version of my brother sobbing as my mom placed him on Santa’s lap. He starts grabbing her neck, scared to death of the man he would one day become. Hearing the line all grown up, Joey is clearly upset. His mother has broken the first rule of Santa Claus Impersonation: don’t call Santa by any other name. The risk of shattering a child’s wonder is too great, their innocence too precious to compromise.
Up close I get a good look at Santa Joey. He’s sitting in a red upholstered chair with golden embellishments. His beard is snow white and cheeks rosy from the cold. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder what time the zoo ships him back to his nursing home. Oh my brother, when did you get so old?
As we line up around my parent’s chosen son, his fiance, Becky, joins us. The future Mrs. Claus is working at the printing station tonight, though next week she’ll be joining Santa Joey as his elderly wife in a costume of her own. She stands behind me as we prepare bright smiles for our non-existent Christmas card. The only person missing is Pyre, who headed back to Massachusetts the day after Thanksgiving to celebrate with their partner’s family. On the count of three, we take two shots. First I grab onto the arm of my brother’s chair. Second, I copy his signature pose that has flooded my Facebook feed since the beginning of November. Open arms, twinkling fingers, and a smile that inspires children to believe that Santa Joey will come down their chimney on a silent night.
“Merry Christmas, and a happier Hanukah” I whisper to my brother as we walk towards the printer. Although it could only be the false hope of a Yuletide Jewess, upon my delivery I see a genuine smile form between his rosy cheeks. There’s no time to dwell as a little girl runs up to Santa Joey screaming ‘Santa, Santa’ and climbs into his lap. To think, I’ve been calling the same guy ‘asshole’ all these years.
One of the perks of being VIE (Very Important Elves) is a free photo with Santa. Becky prints out two copies, one for Mom to hang on her bulletin board, and another for me to take back home to Philly. Dad took down his hood to show all his admiration for his son. Mom is still holding on tight to her baby boy.
“I’m so proud of Joey, but I’m also fucking cold. Let’s get outta here,” Dad admits. We thank Becky for the photos and make our way back to the car. Down the mountain, I place myself between my parents, holding their hands tight. There’s so much merriment in the air we could lose ourselves in the dreams of gentiles. We almost forget we are but Jews.
And so, we will fry latkes and spin dreidels when carolers knock on our door. We will stand in our pajamas and listen to a mediocre rendition of “Deck the Halls” before refusing any offerings of fruit cake. Our bellies are far too stuffed with (the vastly superior) sufganiyot, you see. But when I walk around anywhere this holiday season, you will follow me. On billboards and Hallmark cards your likeness appears. They’re singing your name on a loop between supermarket aisles and they’ve plastered your face on bags of candycanes. Sex shops even sell your garb in the most untraditional manner. There you’ll stand, decorating houses in plush, plastic, or inflatable form. When I look at the lights now, no longer do I see a world I cannot be a part of.
In tinsel and holly, in red and white, there you are, my annoying brother, who I love very much.
So during the most wonderful time of the year, let us pray and remember: just because something’s goyishe doesn’t mean it can’t bring you joy.
