Milk and Cookies

So I'm playing Santa at a corporate Christmas party in a gleaming office tower in Tribeca, where even a flying sleigh would have trouble finding a parking space. When I first walk in, they are always worried, since I am slender and not even close to the right jolly old age. All the more impressive when I appear a few minutes later in my costume, which is first rate, and which I wear over a padded parka. (Pillows look pregnant.)

I never used to enjoy being Santa. Elves are more fun. Mischief suits me better. Somewhere along the way, however, I found a way to play Saint Nick that works for me. A voice, a way of walking, a few set jokes that never fail. Now I love it.

At this particular party in the high-powered corporate world condensed into a few blocks in the city at the center of the planet, a little kid gave me a present which was startling in it's specificity. A gift that could only have made sense to me, and would have been discarded without a second thought by the thousands of other otherwise out of work actors sweating beneath layers of padding and character choices.

His present came with a note, saying he was giving it to me so I can be happy. No need to unwrap it to tell it was a matchbox car. Nothing special there. Until I did unwrap it to discover a miniature limo with the Presidential seal printed on the hood.

The kid had a Presidential limo! What are the chances, really? How many kids have that? What are the odds that he would give this to me, without knowing who I am, or what I am working on? The only Kermit this kid knows is the frog. (I took it as a clear sign that I should get moving on my idea for a series on youtube, and posted the first episode on New Year's Eve.)

As I was leaving the party, skinny and young again, one of the employees of the global corporate finance company slipped me a hastily assembled envelope, with a thank you note to Santa scribbled in red on the front. Not expecting a tip, and understanding immediately that it was thrown together quickly by the ladies who were at the nearby desks all morning watching me perform, I put it in my pocket without looking, but with a polite Thank You.

Back at the obscenely over-priced parking garage I was forced to use after driving around for forty-five frustrating minutes that morning, I opened the envelope, hoping the tip would be enough to cover the outrageous parking fee. There were four crisp portraits of President Grant tucked inside. Yes, Kermit, there is a Santa Claus.

Okay, this tale may not be as universally moving as the Christmas Shoes, but that's the whole point. It was moving to me.