Holidays on Ice

by David Sedaris

Genres: Satire

Synopsis

David Sedaris's beloved holiday collection is new again with six more pieces, including a never before published story. Along with such favorites as the diaries of a Macy's elf and the annals of two very competitive families, are Sedaris's tales of tardy trick-or-treaters ("Us and Them"); the difficulties of explaining the Easter Bunny to the French ("Jesus Shaves"); what to do when you've been locked out in a snowstorm ("Let It Snow"); the puzzling Christmas traditions of other nations ("Six to Eight Black Men"); what Halloween at the medical examiner's looks like ("The Monster Mash"); and a barnyard secret Santa scheme gone awry ("Cow and Turkey").

No matter what your favorite holiday, you won't want to miss celebrating it with the author who has been called "one of the funniest writers alive" (Economist).

Release date: October 20, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 128

Sample

I was in a coffee shop looking through the want ads when I read, “Macy’s Herald Square, the largest store in the world, has
big opportunities for outgoing, fun-loving people of all shapes and sizes who want more than just a holiday job! Working as
an elf in Macy’s SantaLand means being at the center of the excitement.…”


I circled the ad and then I laughed out loud at the thought of it. The man seated next to me turned on his stool, checking
to see if I was a lunatic. I continued to laugh, quietly. Yesterday I applied for a job at UPS. They are hiring drivers’ helpers
for the upcoming Christmas season and I went to their headquarters filled with hope. In line with three hundred other men
and women my hope diminished. During the brief interview I was asked why I wanted to work for UPS and I answered that I wanted
to work for UPS because I like the brown uniforms. What did they expect me to say?


“I’d like to work for UPS because, in my opinion, it’s an opportunity to showcase my substantial leadership skills in one
of the finest private delivery companies this country has seen since the Pony Express!”


I said I liked the uniforms and the UPS interviewer turned my application facedown on his desk and said, “Give me a break.”

I came home this afternoon and checked the machine for a message from UPS but the only message I got was from the company
that holds my student loan, Sallie Mae. Sallie Mae sounds like a naive and barefoot hillbilly girl but in fact they are a
ruthless and aggressive conglomeration of bullies located in a tall brick building somewhere in Kansas. I picture it to be
the tallest building in that state and I have decided they hire their employees straight out of prison. It scares me.


The woman at Macy’s asked, “Would you be interested in full-time elf or evening and weekend elf?”

I said, “Full-time elf.”

I have an appointment next Wednesday at noon.

I am a thirty-three-year-old man applying for a job as an elf.

I often see people on the streets dressed as objects and handing out leaflets. I tend to avoid leaflets but it breaks my heart
to see a grown man dressed as a taco. So, if there is a costume involved, I tend not only to accept the leaflet, but to accept
it graciously, saying, “Thank you so much,” and thinking, You poor, pathetic son of a bitch. I don’t know what you have but I hope I never catch it. This afternoon on Lexington Avenue I accepted a leaflet from a man dressed as a camcorder. Hot dogs, peanuts, tacos, video
cameras, these things make me sad because they don’t fit in on the streets. In a parade, maybe, but not on the streets. I
figure that at least as an elf I will have a place; I’ll be in Santa’s Village with all the other elves. We will reside in
a fluffy wonderland surrounded by candy canes and gingerbread shacks. It won’t be quite as sad as standing on some street
corner dressed as a french fry.


I am trying to look on the bright side. I arrived in New York three weeks ago with high hopes, hopes that have been challenged.
In my imagination I’d go straight from Penn Station to the offices of “One Life to Live,” where I would drop off my bags and
spruce up before heading off for drinks with Cord Roberts and Victoria Buchannon, the show’s greatest stars. We’d sit in a
plush booth at a tony cocktail lounge where my new celebrity friends would lift their frosty glasses in my direction and say,
“A toast to David Sedaris, the best writer this show has ever had!!!”


I’d say, “You guys, cut it out.” It was my plan to act modest.

People at surrounding tables would stare at us, whispering, “Isn’t that…? Isn’t that…?”

I might be distracted by their enthusiasm and Victoria Buchannon would lay her hand over mine and tell me that I’d better
get used to being the center of attention.


But instead I am applying for a job as an elf. Even worse than applying is the very real possibility that I will not be hired,
that I couldn’t even find work as an elf. That’s when you know you’re a failure.


This afternoon I sat in the eighth-floor SantaLand office and was told, “Congratulations, Mr. Sedaris. You are an elf.”

In order to become an elf I filled out ten pages’ worth of forms, took a multiple choice personality test, underwent two interviews,
and submitted urine for a drug test. The first interview was general, designed to eliminate the obvious sociopaths. During
the second interview we were asked why we wanted to be elves. This is always a problem question. I listened as the woman ahead
of me, a former waitress, answered the question, saying, “I really want to be an elf? Because I think it’s about acting? And
before this I worked in a restaurant? Which was run by this really wonderful woman who had a dream to open a restaurant? And
it made me realize that it’s really really… important to have a… dream?”


Everything this woman said, every phrase and sentence, was punctuated with a question mark and the interviewer never raised
an eyebrow.


When it was my turn I explained that I wanted to be an elf because it was one of the most frightening career opportunities
I had ever come across. The interviewer raised her face from my application and said, “And…?”


I’m certain that I failed my drug test. My urine had roaches and stems floating in it, but still they hired me because I am
short, five feet five inches. Almost everyone they hired is short. One is a dwarf. After the second interview I was brought
to the manager’s office, where I was shown a floor plan. On a busy day twenty-two thousand people come to visit Santa, and
I was told that it is an elf’s lot to remain merry in the face of torment and adversity. I promised to keep that in mind.


I spent my eight-hour day with fifty elves and one perky, well-meaning instructor in an enormous Macy’s classroom, the walls
of which were lined with NCR 2152’s. A 2152, I have come to understand, is a cash register. The class was broken up into study
groups and given assignments. My group included several returning elves and a few experienced cashiers who tried helping me
by saying things like, “Don’t you even know your personal ID code? Jesus, I had mine memorized by ten o’clock.”


Everything about the cash register intimidates me. Each procedure involves a series of codes: separate numbers for cash, checks,
and each type of credit card. The term Void has gained prominence as the filthiest four-letter word in my vocabulary. Voids are a nightmare of paperwork and coded numbers,
everything produced in triplicate and initialed by the employee and his supervisor.


Leaving the building tonight I could not shake the mental picture of myself being stoned to death by restless, angry customers,
their nerves shattered by my complete lack of skill. I tell myself that I will simply pry open my register and accept anything
they want to give me — beads, cash, watches, whatever. I’ll negotiate and swap. I’ll stomp their credit cards through the
masher, write “Nice Knowing You!” along the bottom of the slip, and leave it at that.


All we sell in SantaLand are photos. People sit upon Santa’s lap and pose for a picture. The Photo Elf hands them a slip of
paper with a number printed along the top. The form is filled out by another elf and the picture arrives by mail weeks later.
So really, all we sell is the idea of a picture. One idea costs nine dollars, three ideas cost eighteen.


My worst nightmare involves twenty-two thousand people a day standing before my register. I won’t always be a cashier, just
once in a while. The worst part is that after I have accumulated three hundred dollars I have to remove two hundred, fill
out half a dozen forms, and run the envelope of cash to the drop in the China Department or to the vault on the balcony above
the first floor. I am not allowed to change my clothes beforehand. I have to go dressed as an elf. An elf in SantaLand is
one thing, an elf in Sportswear is something else altogether.


This afternoon we were given presentations and speeches in a windowless conference room crowded with desks and plastic chairs.
We were told that during the second week of December, SantaLand is host to “Operation Special Children,” at which time poor
children receive free gifts donated by the store. There is another morning set aside for terribly sick and deformed children.
On that day it is an elf’s job to greet the child at the Magic Tree and jog back to the house to brace our Santa.


“The next one is missing a nose,” or “Crystal has third-degree burns covering 90 percent of her body.”

Missing a nose. With these children Santa has to be careful not to ask, “And what would you like for Christmas?”


We were given a lecture by the chief of security, who told us that Macy’s Herald Square suffers millions of dollars’ worth
of employee theft per year. As a result the store treats its employees the way one might treat a felon with a long criminal
record. Cash rewards are offered for turning people in and our bags are searched every time we leave the store. We were shown
videotapes in which supposed former employees hang their head and rue the day they ever thought to steal that leather jacket.
The actors faced the camera to explain how their arrests had ruined their friendships, family life, and, ultimately, their
future.


One fellow stared at his hands and sighed, “There’s no way I’m going to be admitted into law school. Not now. Not after what
I’ve done. Nope, no way.” He paused and shook his head of the unpleasant memory. “Oh, man, not after this. No way.”


A lonely, reflective girl sat in a coffee shop, considered her empty cup, and moaned, “I remember going out after work with
all my Macy’s friends. God, those were good times. I loved those people.” She stared off into space for a few moments before
continuing, “Well, needless to say, those friends aren’t calling anymore. This time I’ve really messed up. Why did I do it? Why?”


Macy’s has two jail cells on the balcony floor and it apprehends three thousand shoplifters a year. We were told to keep an
eye out for pickpockets in SantaLand.


Interpreters for the deaf came and taught us to sign, “MERRY CHRISTMAS! I AM SANTA’S HELPER.” They told us to speak as we sign and to use bold, clear voices and bright facial expressions. They taught us to say, “YOU ARE A VERY PRETTY BOY/GIRL! I LOVE YOU! DO YOU WANT A SURPRISE?”


My sister Amy lives above a deaf girl and has learned quite a bit of sign language. She taught some to me and so now I am
able to say, “SANTA HAS A TUMOR IN HIS HEAD THE SIZE OF AN OLIVE. MAYBE IT WILL GO AWAY TOMORROW BUT I DON’T THINK SO.”


This morning we were lectured by the SantaLand managers and presented with a Xeroxed booklet of regulations titled “The Elfin
Guide.” Most of the managers are former elves who have worked their way up the candy-cane ladder but retain vivid memories
of their days in uniform. They closed the meeting saying, “I want you to remember that even if you are assigned Photo Elf
on a busy weekend, YOU ARE NOT SANTA’S SLAVE.”


In the afternoon we were given a tour of SantaLand, which really is something. It’s beautiful, a real wonderland, with ten
thousand sparkling lights, false snow, train sets, bridges, decorated trees, mec. . .