TRIED & TRUE : In Santa’s Suit, Appearances Can Be Deceiving--and Pleasing

What becomes a legend most?

Forget that cheesy junk from Blackglama. That’s strictly for people who don’t have a clue about who really runs the show. Gushy, politically incorrect would-be social climbers wear mink. The ultimate power suit is bright red velvet with fuzzy white cuffs, black boots and belt, and white gloves.

Put that little ensemble together with a white beard that cascades off the face like an immense silver fern grotto and you’ve got it: the ultimate Mr. Wonderful, history’s coolest guy, a cultural icon enfolded in such universal love as to be almost religious. Heck, the guy is a saint, after all.

So what on Earth was I doing in a Santa suit?

Sweating, for one. And it wasn’t just that the suit was heavy and hot or that wearing the beard was like having a squirming Lhasa Apso on your face. No, I was having an identity crisis.

I was, I was certain, in over my head. Driving--fully dressed as Santa Claus--from the costume shop to Children’s Hospital of Orange County for a visit with the kids there, I began to realize that as soon as I adjusted that beard into place, I ceased to be my generously flawed, cynical, avaricious, disrespectful self and was supposed to metamorphose into the only person on Earth who can actually give Mother Teresa a run for her money.

I had lain awake the night before, staring at the ceiling and wondering--what’s Santa supposed to be like? Unfailingly kind and gentle, sure. Clairvoyant with kids, definitely. Serene and untroubled by any situation that might arise, absolutely.

But when show time arrived, I began to believe it would be like playing the bagpipes: easy to talk about, nearly impossible to do yourself.

Not that there weren’t a few hopeful indications. I got several smiles and waves as I drove into the CHOC parking structure, and the few people I met casually in the hallway on my way to meet my guides in the recreation therapy office seemed genuinely glad to see me--that is, Santa. I still felt like a bank robber trying to avoid arrest by dressing up like the local parson.

Our first stop was the pediatric oncology unit. Here, dozens of kids, most of them younger than 10, were being treated for cancer, in most cases leukemia. Would Santa be a hard sell to kids undergoing chemotherapy? I tried to remember the standard rules from all those school-for-Santas stories I’d seen over the years: no bellowing “Ho, Ho, Ho!,” no sudden movements, no promises to bring specific presents. Be solicitous, be gentle, don’t push. And, at hospitals, don’t talk medical talk.

I needn’t have worried. The first kids I saw were playing around a table in a small recreation room, and they brightened considerably when I walked in. Two of them, a boy and a girl, were attached by plastic tubes to IV trees, yet they were laughing and happy and tossing a rubber ball around the room. I sat and they gathered around.

I began, I thought, tentatively. Handshakes and wishes of merry Christmas all around, and then the inevitable solicitations of what they all wanted Santa to bring them. The list, as I expected, ran heavily to electronic toys.

But how to deflect a direct promise? The only gambit that occurred to me at the moment was to simply remark on how well-thought-out each child’s list was and how popular certain items were this year. It seemed to work; no one pressed for a notarized contract.

Then came the first fiery trial. During this first visit, another, slightly older boy came in and immediately announced, “You’ve got a beard underneath your beard.”

It was true. Underneath the rented silver rain forest was my own closely barbered beard, in natural gray--which, against the ersatz silver beard, looked like coal when the fake beard slipped slightly.

My mind began to vapor lock. I could ignore it, but this happy-looking kid didn’t look like the type who would let me up. Suddenly, a brainstorm: “Well, sure,” I said as jovially as a could. “Santa needs every layer he can get. It’s cold at the North Pole.”

Incredibly, it worked. The kids dropped their roles as fashion critics and decided to include Santa in a game of catch with the ball. Finally, I made my goodbys and promised to see each one of them on Christmas Eve. It seemed a safe enough promise.

I began to feel better. It was starting to be fun, even though nearly every time I exhaled through my nose, the beard deflected the breath upward and my glasses fogged. I could feel my face becoming prune-like.

But who cared? There were rooms and rooms full of kids, nearly all of whom stared at Santa with large eyes and small smiles. Several were feeling poorly, possibly as a result of the chemotherapy, but nearly all of them rallied for Santa Claus. One small boy named Nigel, bald and bloated from the chemicals, and sleepy and in pain, managed to wave weakly and blow a small kiss my way. I was disappearing further and further into the role.

But what to say to the soft-spoken little boy who said he wanted, in addition to a short list of toys, “a happy family” for Christmas? Feeling lame, I told him that I would certainly visit his family soon, and to be good and help his parents. He agreed.

We made one last stop at the recreation room where I had begun my visit two hours before. Most of the same children were still there, and were glad to see Santa all over again. I said my goodbys, told them I’d visit them at home on Christmas Eve, waved and walked down the hall. I was a couple of doors away when out of the room came one final, “I love you, Santa Claus!”

I was starting to like that costume.

I waved from my car all the way back to the costume shop. The man at the parking garage kiosk smiled and waved me out without even checking my validation. Pedestrians stopped in the middle of crosswalks to smile and wave, and drivers honked and shouted greetings.

I returned the costume, changed into civvies and drove home, unremarkable and anonymous. No one smiled or waved or even glanced my way. I began to miss Santa Claus almost immediately. He was a pretty nice guy while he lasted.

* Children’s Hospital of Orange County is not in need of more volunteer Santas this year. However, Santa suits can still be rented at a number of costume shops throughout the county, including Costumes Galore in Orange, the Costume Trunk in Laguna Niguel, and Theatrical Showcase in Newport Beach. Expect to pay from $32.50 for flannel to about $50 for corduroy and $55 to $70 for velvet.