I had my heart set on a Daily News byline. Instead, I wind up in a Daily News photo, in a ridiculous bright red outfit. There I am, dressed as Santa, part of a
two-page spread. How could this possibly happen?
Well. . . . Twenty-six hours earlier, just before dawn, I reported to Radio City with over a hundred other misfits and mopes. I can’t take credit for nabbing this gig promoting Radio City’s annual Christmas show. A friend, Leif, a model with striking Viking looks, found the opportunity. As far as getting hired, looks matter.
Photo courtesy Madison Square Garden
After our motley crew had waited around for a bit on Radio City’s sprawling carpeted staircase, staff members shuttled a few of us at a time behind makeshift partitions, where they provided each of us with a costume and a fake beard.
I place the red suit over my street clothes, and a costume person makes some minor adjustments before giving me the thumbs-up. We—a hundred-plus Santas—line up outside Radio City, where we stand in line so the press can photograph us. We’re then directed to the lobby and asked to loiter as a few Rockettes are interviewed.
We’re merely background. I can handle this, but I want to kvetch. On this early fall day, it’s quite humid, and the suits have no ventilation, and the beards are itchy. Also, I feel awful for the emaciated Rockettes. It doesn’t look like they’ve eaten in a while. I’m not sure how they can stand, much less perform line kicks.
After the Rockettes get their moment, we board double-decker buses and are whisked around the block a few times—no destination. Radio City wants us to be photographed by the media. They get their shots. I know. I was in at least one. It’s a good one: a Santa mob on the second floor of a bus. You don’t see that all too often.
After the bus trip to nowhere, it’s back to Radio City’s staircase, where we remove our hats, beards, and scarves and scarf on some catered sandwiches. It’s a nice perk, but it’s also a necessity. Radio City doesn’t want a herd of dubious Santas, who haven’t been background checked, doing an impromptu Santa Con in Midtown.
Courtesy NewYork.co.uk
No, the Rockettes don’t chow down with us.
As I indulge, I keep to myself. Leif, however, feels the need to mingle. Repeatedly, I ask Leif to leave me out of his banter. Repeatedly, he ignores these requests. There’s one very angry Santa, who’s outspoken about a lawsuit he intends to bring against a well-known broadcaster. I want to stay completely clear of this lunatic.
Leif, inexplicably, engages—and inserts me into his repartee. “My friend’s a journalist,” Leif tells him. “He might be able to help you.” When Lawsuit Lunatic hears this, his eyes light up, and he turns to me. I cringe. “He’s just teasing,” I say, glaring at Leif. “I’m no journalist!” A moment later, I excuse myself to use the facilities. Eventually, Leif tracks me down, and I scold him.
After waiting for too long, we’re broken up into groups of a dozen or so. My group is assigned to Union Square, where we pass out Christmas show flyers. I have plenty of experience approaching strangers and handing them unwanted materials. “Merry Christmas!” I tell pedestrians. “Ho ho ho!” “Happy Kwanzaa!” a few Santas tell Black pedestrians.
Some can’t do a simple gig.
As the day nears its conclusion, some of the Santas jest about robbing a bank in costume. Everyone laughs, but one or two seem as though they might actually do it.
No, you wouldn’t want this crew over. Just before the sun goes down, with no more flyers, the gig ends. We’re allowed to keep our Santa suits, but I won’t wear mine again.
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available illustrated by Coverkitchen
