Something I wrote that was presented by my friend Jim Sullivan on his yearly Public Radio Show in Northern Illinois. Yes, Northern Illinois (oh, the thrills). Hope anyone reading this enjoys it.
I was what you might call a typical teenage drama nerd. I found brothers and sisters sharing the same passion for Broadway cast albums backstage at my high school’s drama club. I had risen to be president of my high school drama club, so you might say I was the biggest drama nerd in my Midwest town.
Somehow my local high school had allowed a recruiter from the shopping mall’s annual Christmas display to come and speak to our drama club. They were looking for helpers for the mall Christmas spectacular. The recruiter was not more than a year or two our senior, but his JC Penny three-piece suit and wispy moustache allowed him an air of self- importance:
“Okay kids, Santa, sure, sure, you all know Santa. Well, that spot is filled. None of you kids would fit in the suit if you know what I mean. Well, maybe you chubby. Just kiddin', just kiddin’. But we’ve got great positions for all you drama-rama types. We need costumed characters, elfin helpers and talking reindeers to make the mall experience spectacular for the Christmas shoppers. We’re offering great salaries starting at $3 an hour, and anyone who signs up with me today will get a coupon for five free sodas at the mall Food Court.”
Miffed that this rube had wagged his finger at me when he used the term “chubby”, I quickly dismissed his recruitment tactic knowing there must be some better way for me to nab a few free cokes. And I was facing the facts. I was a real actor, not some slockmeister specializing in tawdry character charades. I watched as my friends herded themselves in line and started filling out employment applications. “When will they learn?” I thought, reminding myself it was I who had told them all that “The Phantom Of The Opera” was no flash in the pan British import to the Great White Way. I started to pack up my school bags and leave this Svengali, but two words kept ringing in my ears over and over again: talking reindeer.
I pushed myself to the front of the line, an entitlement I felt was fair to take as the drama club president and demanded an immediate chance to show that I was a talking reindeer. “Sir,” I clearly intoned, “I am your talking reindeer.”
“Well, that’s good kid, the reindeers don’t wear costumes, so we wouldn’t need to special order a larger size for you,” chuckled the recruiter, handing me an application and my coupon for free sodas. I sucked in my gut, pocketed my coupon and promptly filed my application with the mall’s lame answer to Don Rickles. I would show him and the rest of the world. There would be no finer talking reindeer than me. And I had five free sodas to help me realize my potential.
A day or two later, I got a call from the mall asking me to come in and interview for a talking reindeer position. I got my mother to drive me to the mall and bid her a fond farwell. “Mom” I said, “take one last look at your eldest son—I’m coming back a reindeer.” She winced, shoved me out of the car and sped away.
I approached the employment office and was greeted by one of our high school’s more notoriously obnoxious upperclassmen, a young woman named Maureen. Maureen, it seems, was in charge of talking reindeer and was happy to have me on board. Maureen flashed her big tinny braced grin letting me know she had eaten broccoli sometime in the last 24 hours, and told me I could start right away.
We arrived at the check in room and I was instructed to fill out a punch card and zip it into the time clock. I did so and stood in a line of other kids from my high school who also had eagerly signed up for holiday shifts. The recruiter who had talked to our class walked by the line, now dressed from head to toe on a red and green ensemble that made him look like a chili pepper. I believe he was supposed to be one off Santa’s helpers, but I couldn’t help but think he looked spicy every time I laid my eyes on him. The room was filled with kids from my high school and other older teens. It seems the mall had entrusted the entire Christmas holiday to an eager group of teenagers. That or the management was cheap and thought they could save a few bucks by hiring all the drama nerds in town to wear costumes and act like Christmas fools.
Maureen took my arm and led me to the center mall to what would be my work site for the next few weeks. We jogged past Santa’s site, a massive acre of wintry delight to a spot on the fringes of the mall. If the mall had been a city, the site of the talking reindeers was a bit like the ghetto.
I had been to the mall before during the holidays but I had never really gazed upon the reindeer shack. The shack was a log cabin type dwelling with two windows. Out of each window poked a full-sized deer head. A buck named Donner and a doe named Blitzen adorned with nothing more than a few twigs of holly. Its hard to imagine how the mall procured these deer heads. I still wonder if upper management one day summoned a mall security guard, and told him, “Stanley, we think we’ve come up with a way for you to use your gun.”
Maureen walked me around the back of the shack and opened a small door that allowed us access to the inner workings of the reindeer shack. A byznatine system of cranks and handles allowed an operator to manipulate Donner or Blitzen’s eyes, ears and mouth. We could move the deer’s heads from side to side or up and down. It was not possible to rotate the heads because Maureen explained, “They could fall off into the artificial snow below and that would freak out all the little kids.”
There were also two microphones hanging on large necklaces that looked like they had been lifted from a Vegas floorshow. These could be hung around your neck and used to talk to the kiddies who would come by wanting to talk to a reindeer. It all seemed simple to operate so Maureen and I took or seats on stools and readied ourselves for the onslaught of mall shoppers looking to speak with Donner and Blitzen.
There I was sitting in a musty shack behind the hollowed out remains of a once prancing doe or buck, making $3 an hour and sharing small talk with the freaky Maureen. “Did you know that my grandfather was an ambassador,” Maureen asked. “Here she goes,” I thought. Maureen’s favorite obsession was the fact that her grandfather had once been a U.S. Ambassdor. I can’t now recall the country, but I do remember thinking at the time that his appointment had been more a way to offer a graceful retirement than to protect American citizens abroad.
The stifling heat of the shack and the ear splitting drone of Maureen’s jabbering were almost too much for me to bear. As these thoughts swirled in my head, a group of kids and parents approached the reindeer shack. I was about to make my debut.
Maureen nudged me and said, “Work off the script to get going.” I had been instructed that each animal had a script that offered choice holiday questions that reindeers might ask. Things like, “Do you like joining in reindeer games?” Or, “Rudolph isn’t here because he has to rest his nose for the big night.” I decided to ignore Maureen and the script and punt.
The group of kids and their parents looked a little wary. I could understand their concern. Outside of the fake snow and a few wreaths of garland, the reindeer shack looked like nothing more than a hunter’s trophy display. They gazed at the reindeer trying to figure out what one should do with a taxidermy display in the middle of a shopping mall. Pulling out a camera and having everyone huddle together for an entry in the family album seemed out of place.
“Hey, does anybody have an apple? I love apples!” I had spoken. Donner’s lips had moved. The deer had come to life.
One of the kids hide behind an adult and everyone had jumped. Now, in my life as a high school thespian I had turned some heads as a guy carrying a board across a stage, a fat kid dancing in a gold spandex suit, and by doing my fatally flawed Bob Hope impression. But never before had my words caused people to leap, cringe and stagger. I had just tasted power, and nothing, not even my five free cokes at the Mall Food Court, would ever taste sweeter.
I bantered on for the next few minutes about apples. “Green ones. I love those. You know, not many kids do, but man I can’t get enough of them.” The kids were transfixed and the adults were relieved that no profanities were being slipped into the conversation.
Maureen looked on horrified, paging through the reindeer script. No mention of apples appeared in any of the prepared remarks. I winked at Maureen as if to say, “Ah, so, now the teacher must learn from the student.”
I continued to dominate the conversation as mall shoppers passed by our shack with questions like, “Can you guess how many donuts Santa had for breaksfast today?” and commentary like, “Hey, can someone help me convince Blitzen its time to think about using dental floss?” Maureen and I ended our shift and we slipped out of the shack welcoming the next round of reindeer talkers. I was triumphant; Maureen was speechless. I hurried to the mall food court and availed myself of two of my free sodas and a couple of cheeseburgers. Victory had been mine, and I fed my hunger with the sum of the wages I had just earned during my two-hour shift.
For this teenage drama nerd, the role of a lifetime had just been realized. A career in the performing arts no longer seemed important. I could die peaceful knowing I had once gazed through a set of deer eyes and been paid to say, “Remember kids, keep your hoof out of your mouth and you’ll have a Merrier Christmas!”
I felt that it was time to profit from my brother's celebrity. So now, sports fans, an explanation of the images you see scattered throughout this post. I have set up an on-line store to sell apparel and promotional items promoting my, yours and now the entire world's favorite third rate expert on high school and college basketball. You can now buy The Chris West Basketball Journal merchandise at my on-line store The Bialystock & Bloom On-Line Store.
