Bitter arguments flared over who I most resembled: a Keebler elf or David Spade. And these were significant matters to consider as I walked through the Auburn Mall with my tights and tassels, bells and curly-toed shoes.

Young ladies snickered and men sneered as I moved through the throngs, light in my shoes and jingling all the way. I was vividly aware of the rose-pink makeup on my cheeks and the painted eyelashes shooting up toward my forehead.

There are times, no matter how confident you are in your masculinity, that you just can’t fake machismo. This was one of those times. I felt like a cross-dresser with hideously bad fashion sense and I was on display among my peers.

In the end, though, I put it behind me. I left all of these concerns back in the changing room with the civilian clothes and the last of my self-respect. Today, I was expected to be Santa’s helper and by God, I take that seriously.

As seriously as you can take anything when you’re wearing curly-toed shoes.

All my life I’ve wondered in an abstract way exactly what Santa’s helper really does. Does he get the Big Man coffee when he’s losing steam? Does he score pain medication on the street if the Jolly One has sore knees from accommodating skinny children with bony hips? Does the designated helper do anything at all?

Turns out that, no. No he doesn’t.

There was a long line snaking around Santa’s area when I walked up to him and introduced myself. Nobody, but nobody introduces himself to His Jolliness in a calm manner.

“Hello, Santa,” I uttered in a tiny voice, with all the confidence of a small child addressing a menacing school teacher.

“Hello, miss,” said Santa. “You sure look pretty today.”

His voice lacked the hardened basso I expect from a man who has circumnavigated the globe a few thousand times by airborne sled. Instead, he sounded like a younger man, one who is as comfortable talking about iPods and blogs as he is about hand-carved toys from olden days.

But no matter. My job at the mall consisted of nothing more than standing next to His Jolliness, smiling and nodding a lot. How hard can that be?

Pretty hard. For one thing, kids don’t just come along, take position on the big man’s knee and then go away. Oh, no. They writhe and scream. They yank on Santa’s beard or bounce painfully up and down.

Meanwhile, the parents are running around in circles, going to great lengths to get their children settled so they can get that perfect photo, fit for framing. They are so desperate for that photo opportunity, these parents stop just short of doling out narcotics to their wee ones.

But it’s a matter of perspective. While I found it a struggle to just nod and smile a lot, Santa had the more pressing chore of granting wishes. The little girl who wants a guitar and nothing else. The boy who wants one of everything and a little bit extra to boot. The child who can’t decide and so just holds his finger in the air and points to something only he can see.

Santa deals with each child specifically and never gives generic answers. He soothes the frightened child and settles the hyperactive. He assures uptight parents and he never sweats. He never ever sweats.

So the elf is mere window dressing for the larger work at hand. He is no more than a magician’s assistant minus the cleavage. The elf seems to amuse old Saint Nick and I’m quite all right with that. It was an honor and privilege to work closely with the man, even if I had to dress like a Rocky Horror reject to do it.

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