Karen Pulfer Focht
Santa shops at A. Schwab in Memphis, Tennessee. (Photo by Karen Pulfer Focht ©)
The little girl whispered into Santa's ear. He chuckled, because 2020 wasn't a year to bellow "Ho, Ho, Ho!" And he whispered back to her, "Of course you want a vaccine! So many of the children do!"
It's rare for the world's children to want to get a shot for Christmas. The very good ones were also asking for vaccinations for all the old people around them, from teen siblings to great-grandma. "Don't be surprised if you find a dose in your stocking this year," Santa told her, "along with an organic apple and some festive socks and a video game controller. My elves have a very merry deal with Big Pharma and everyone in the world will get the cure. Except for anti-vaxxers, who will get copies of The Age of Reason."
This is how the fantasy goes in the era of Covid-19. Of course the little girl isn't actually on Santa's lap, good heavens no. It's a Zoom teleconference because until that vaccine is developed, distributed, and taken, the insidious coronavirus continues to force us to observe plague protocols.
The Santa industry — and you wouldn't believe how organized (and often disorganized) it is — continues to rethink just how to keep the man, the myth, the legend, and the magic alive and well this year. Most professional Santas rely on a heavy schedule of personal appearances in November and December, making visits to corporate events, nonprofit celebrations, kids' parties, and the like. Some get those choice gigs at shopping malls (will there even be any come winter?) or at Bass Pro. It all involves close contact and you can expect to see variations on the theme of Santa behind plexiglass, or drive-bys — any compromise to hold onto the delight of Christmas while staying safe.
That's not been my gig the last few years. I'm more of a Santa Tribute Artist who performs in “Broadway on a Train” as we like to say, and can do a really good St. Nick, from the beard to the twinkle in the eye, to the "Ho, Ho, Ho!" (Pardon me for reviewing myself — I'm doing that rather than risk lumps of coal from critics). When I perform on the Polar Express Train Ride, I am in a rolling theater packed with kids and their families. On each show, I go through four rail cars, fully enclosed, windows shut. That's up to around 500 people per show, six shows a day for most of the month of December.
That, shall we say, is risky, even in non-plague circumstances. The cast and crew of the show can retreat to a converted baggage car — our backstage — where we have the tech equipment, dressing rooms, and wobbly chairs. There's also a table jammed full of remedies, from aspirin to cough drops, to vitamin C compounds. Every year, some of the cast and crew are felled by some version of the crud that they inevitably pick up in those close quarters filled with beaming faces and runny noses.
So imagine what it would be like in 2020? Well, the big productions of Polar Express shows around the country are canceled. Smaller ones may chug along and there may be alternative entertainments. But of necessity, they won’t have those glorious moments of chatting up the children, looking into their perfect eyes, and giving each a jingle bell.
I don't know what other Santas around the world are going to do, but I suppose many will do what I’m planning to do. There will be personal recorded videos, perhaps some FaceTime or Zoom moments. The parents provide names and other salient details and I respond with a cheery message and exhortations to be nice and not naughty. Santa Claus will become an influencer on Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube and make a business of it. Elves must be paid; reindeer must be fed.
But there won't be an eye-to-twinkling-eye moment, I won't get a carefully scrawled list pressed into my white-gloved hand, I won't be asked if I'm real, I won't get the beard tugged. But if I can keep some of that magic alive until the vaccine comes down the chimney, it'll have to do.
