A Job to Remember

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

 

 

Under the blistering summer sun, I was one of Santa‘s elves.

 

At 16, I was eager to be part of the elite group working at the small

Midwestern theme park. I didn't mind wearing the kelly green tights

and curly-toed slippers, not even the ridiculous felt cap.

 

We sold admission tickets, assisted lost kids, made popcorn. We had respect.

 

We were elves.

 

You usually think of Santa‘s helpers shivering at the North Pole, but this

is a myth. We were under the midday sun, toiling outdoors. Some

elves got really cranky, but not me. Santa had an outdoor workshop so the

young visitors could see the dolls and wooden soldiers on display. You could

imagine old Mr. Claus was sweating under that itchy beard of his. And most

of the time Mrs. Claus looked mean enough to explode.

 

We elves paraded around in shorts that clashed with the tights

because they were so faded from hundreds of washings you could hardly see

the green anymore. But we waved for the parents‘ cameras and were careful

not to step on the choo-choo tracks or to stumble over any kids.

 

We never complained. We worked our way around the park, all smiles, no

matter that it was 98 degrees out there and it hadn't rained for weeks. We were

tired. We were dressed like complete idiots.

 

But we had respect. We were elves.

 

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