“Tanihata-sensei? Hello. I am Santa.”
With this confident proclamation I began a bizarre journey into the surreal world of the jolly fat man. I was on the phone with the Nagao Jidoukan children’s centre.
“Ah, Santa!” the lady at the other end – who may have been but probably wasn’t my contact, Mr Tanihata – replied before launching into a rapid-fire Japanese monologue. This was a problem.
From observation I have learned that one half of a Japanese phone conversation consists of the word ‘hai’ repeated at regular intervals for the duration.
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| Which is why many Japanese people feel safe allowing their dogs to take their calls. |
I decided this was the side of the conversation I needed to be on.
But three hais in, the lady on the other end of the line lapsed into an awkward silence. Dammit, she was on to me! In a panic I thrust the phone into the hands of my school’s secretary, leaving it to her to explain how I had inexplicably morphed into a fluent Japanese-speaking woman.
Ten minutes and an A4 page of notes later, the game was afoot. Santa Claus was, indeed, coming to town and he was coming on the 9:53 train from Hanayama.
The 9:53 train arrived at Yokoyama, Santa’s destination, at 10:23. A very nice lady met me at the station and drove me the kilometer or so to the jidoukan. I was ushered into the large, two-storey building with utmost secrecy. After all, it would not do to find a large white man who speaks no Japanese in a centre for Japanese children. The kids I was there to transport to an astounding dreamworld of Christmas magic were two to four years old, which made them small but not retarded.
Like the ninja I am, I made it to the changing room undetected, where I quickly squirmed into the suit, boots and beard. Looking at the end result, I was amused to note that this was the first time in my life that I had ever thought it would have been nice if I was a bit chubbier.
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| I'll keep working on it with the help of Coke(tm)! Fuelling Santa since 1928. |
I had a flashback to my briefing. I knew it was a flashback because it was black and white and also it had just happened to me five minutes ago. The plan had been explained to me in the front office before I got changed. The combination of maps and hand signals made it seem two thirds covert military ops and one third joyful spreading of Christmas cheer.
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| Lock and load. Remember: nobody moves without my say-so. We are gonna Christmas these savages back to the stone age! |
I decided I needed a codename. ‘Eagle’ was taken, so I went with ‘Mukade Foxtrot Hotel’. Yeah.
I looked at my expensive solar-powered wristwatch. It was almost mission commencement time. It was time to get into character.
I once read that Daniel Day-Lewis worked in a butcher shop, constantly sharpening knives and picking fights with complete strangers as part of his preparation for Gangs of New York. I didn’t have time for that bullshit, but even if I did, what was I going to do? Begin a short-lived flying deer breeding program? Go around offering midgets jobs?
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| Is there even a word for people who are compelled to employ only midgets? Seek help, Claus. |
Nonetheless, I needed to be Santa. I needed to get in his head. Would Santa wear a solar-powered watch? He lived at the North Pole. I took off the watch.
Santa is a man who spends about 92% of his year preparing for the 8% of the year when anyone gives a damn about him. That’s got to take a psychological toll. It’s long, tiring, thankless work, but with the potential for a big payoff. It stands to reason that he is emotionally fragile, pinning his self-esteem on his ability to make children happy. By mid-December he would be flying partially on a magical sleigh pulled my reindeer and partially on a cocktail of anti-depressants and the manic side of a bi-polar disorder.
I looked in the mirror again and no longer recognised the man looking back at me.
With two fingers against the back of my ear I rasped the words, "Mukade Foxtrot Hotel: moving out," to no one in particular.
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| Eye of the Tiger, Santa. Eye of the Tiger. |
I poked my head furtively out of the changing room door and whichever trickster god is in charge of this sort of thing made sure this was the moment a kid was standing in the hallway staring in that direction. In my agitated mental state, I wondered if I should choke him into unconsciousness. But after the eternity of a moment I decided that would be inappropriate. In that same moment, the child had made up his mind about what he was going to do too. I watched his face crumple; it was like watching a car crash in slow motion. Then he began to cry.
I did the sensible thing: said “hello, little boy” then whipped my head back into the changing room until the crying ceased.
5-10 minutes later, I mutter, “okay, that little bugger is out of the way, now it’s definitely go time,” tapping into Santa’s darker emotional spectrum.
Sneaking up the stairs, any worries I had melted away as I heard a chorus of tiny voices calling out for ‘Santa-san’. The heavy sack full of gifts was no burden. By the time one of the staff members began ringing their sleigh bells and the double doors were flung open the transformation was complete.
“Merry Christmas!” I boomed in a jolly cadence that I never knew I possessed.
And I wish all my readers the same. You don’t get the suit, or any presents. But still, Yay! Christmas! Stay safe and well. See you in the New Year ^_^
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