Once a year, the mall’s all his
Kris Kringle smiles while working his shift at Orland Square Mall. [SouthtownStar photo: Matt Marton
The Orland Square Mall Santa calls it the “three-foot zone of terror,” the area where once-confident youngsters collapse into fear before reaching the guy they’ve been waiting to see all year.
He doesn’t make promises to children about toys because it’s impossible to know the financial shape of the household.
He never obliges requests for pets. Too messy for the sleigh.
A little boy responds with a quick “not really,” when asked if he’s been good, but Santa doesn’t flinch. Instead, he reassures the child that’s probably not true and credits his honesty.
He tries not to erupt into fits of laughter when a little boy responds to the same question with “better than my aunt, she just farted.”
He’s fascinated by the latest trends in toys, like the furry robotic hamsters known as Zhu Zhu pets and marvels that old school toys, such as hula hoops, are on wish lists this year.
He takes random gift requests – “a gumball machine and a laptop” – in stride.
He doesn’t bristle when grown men sit on his lap.
He never breaks character. Never.
Children perched on the mall’s balcony gaze down at him, mesmerized.
Santa knows they’re staring, so he makes it a point to look up and wave.
Teenagers show off to their friends not by mocking him but by giving him big hugs.
His helpers plop on the ground and eat food-court takeout during the first of Santa’s two breaks during an 11-hour shift.
Santa relishes the chance to stand up and walk around.
He walks fast and takes the escalator. The mall provides an escort.
Quietly, he slinks into a utility door positioned between a teen fashion store and a leather shoe boutique.
Behind that door, he’ll eat a ham-and-cheese sandwich before re-emerging in the the whole get up – red pants, black boots, checkered vest, red coat, white gloves, red hat, natural beard, frosted eyebrows.
The bottom of his thigh-length coat swings with each step as he strolls through the mall.
He’s turning heads and waving at his fans, both young and old.
On the way back to his throne, he carries an air of command. Of confidence. Of power.
It’s like he owns the place. And for about a month each holiday season, he kind of does.
Santa takes off his coat, sits back down and pops in a breath mint, ready once again for the long lines.
After tonight, he’s gone.
