Ersatz Santa : You’re like Michael Jackson. No need to win them over. All you have to do is remember the words to your greatest hits.

‘Twas four shopping days before Christmas, and all through your brain, you’re wondering where you get the audacity to pose as a shopping mall Santa Claus.

How can you pass yourself off as the jolly old saint, spreading cheer and taking orders from wide-eyed wee ones? But somebody’s gotta do it, as the saying goes, and the Reluctant Novice forges ahead, bold of purpose and padded of stomach.

In a way, the role is not a difficult one: Everybody loves Santa, even those who don’t believe. As theatrical gigs go, this one would seem cushy; the lines are minimal and the critics few.

The shopping mall Santa’s task, then, is mainly to live up to a built-in reputation--to be a merry old soul in shades of black, white and red.

You wave and move in slow motion. You speak low and slowly, as if pumped up on years--if not centuries--of goodwill and wisdom, and are always on the verge of a jolly chuckle.

On the other hand, your responsibility is fairly weighty. Modernist or ironic approaches to Santa are never welcome. In this of all roles, suspension of disbelief takes on huge importance. You’re working in the field of dreams.

With all of this in mind, you proceed to the mother of all shopping malls in the county, The Oaks in Thousand Oaks, where the Santa hot seat is sure to draw a sweat.

There sits old man Kringle, and he looks like the real McCoy. The belly is real, the tuft of white beard is real. The aura of wise old merriment is, it seems, also real.

One of your fears is confirmed: He’s a hard act to follow.

Santa takes a break to go feed his reindeer stationed on the roof (what are their names again?).

Backstage, so to speak, you meet the man behind the saint, Craig Trudeau, who coaches you on your goodwill mission. Jodie Colangelo, the harried but kindly elf who coordinates the flow of Santas at The Oaks, eggs you on.

You’re outfitted for the occasion, donning the bright red fabric, the institutional pillow for a tummy, the geriatric Jerry Garcia hair configuration. Voila! You’re transformed.

Walking out into the public space of the mall, you instantly feel that all eyes are on your saintly countenance. You approach what is now a long line of eager subjects. Your first audience is an adoring one, full of bright eyes. The Santa is in.

Your jittery nerves are suddenly calmed by the realization that while the audience is large and amorphous, they’re bubbling with affection. You’re like Michael Jackson in concert. You don’t have to win them over. All you have to do is remember the words to your greatest hits.

“Well, hello there and merry Christmas,” you say, giving an extra heft to the merry part. “What’s your name?”

“Sean,” comes a timid voice.

“Nice to meet you, John.”

“ Sean ,” comes a less timid voice.

“Sorry. Santa doesn’t always hear so well. Have you thought about what you want for Christmas?”

“Super Nintendo and, um, a bike.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that. Are you going to leave Santa cookies on Christmas Eve? Santa loves cookies, you know.”

Sean nods, looks at your bulging midsection. “Looks like you’ve eaten a lot of ‘em.”

“Oh ho ho,” Santa says, with a saintly chuckle from the general belly area.

On and on it goes in this interactive theater ritual. This is a sequential audience, where each new member brings his or her own approach to the game.

Eleven-year-old Bill gets up with his 5-year-old sister, Annie. A good sport, Santa wants to let Bill know that Santa knows that Bill knows what’s what. But he has to bite his tongue in the presence of Annie.

“And what do you want for Christmas, Bill?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, when you decide, you come back, or just drop a postcard to the North Pole.” Santa has to stop himself from adding “or just send me a fax.” No one likes a wise-guy Santa Claus.

There are the little faces, full of awe, belonging to youngsters who look as though they’ve been granted an audience with the Pope, or Bono. There are those teetering on the brink of disbelief who peer into your eyes, hunting for truth.

“You’re Santa’s helper, aren’t you,” comes a smart young voice, obviously trying to rationalize the bounty of Santas running around at this time of year. You harrumph. “Well, uh, this is a busy time of year. Santa can’t be everywhere, you know. Let’s smile for the camera now. . . .”

There are blissful babies, too young to be scared of this frightful image. Then there are the slightly older ones who shriek in terror as their mothers try to get them to pose long enough for a picture with this horrific package of blubber and fleece.

But, ahhhh, to be Santa. You feel like you’re in the business of mirth distribution.

That is, until the sweat starts and the cheer seems to have completely leaked out of your pores. You imagine that the white eyebrow pencil is creating perspirant rivulets down your eyelids. You have a creeping sense of dread that the kids will know, that the bubble will burst, another innocent myth down the tubes.

These are not Santa-esque thoughts. A Grinch has infiltrated your mind, but before he can assume control, your shift is over. You switch with the more seasoned Santa.

As the tourist returning home from the North Pole, you have a glow of satisfaction. You know that while you haven’t necessarily improved Santa’s reputation in the eyes of those young-uns, you haven’t tarnished it too badly, either.

You have a feeling that you’ve done your share in ensuring there will be cookies set out all over Ventura County come Christmas Eve. It’s all in a day’s work for a perennial saint.

THE PREMISE

There are plenty of things you have never tried. Fun things, dangerous things, character-building things. The Reluctant Novice tries them for you and reports the results. After all, the Novice gets paid to do them--and has no choice in the matter. If you want to tell the Novice where to go, please call us at 658-5547. If we use your idea, we’ll send you a present.