Naughty-Nine Tales of Christmas

I KILLED SANTA CLAUS

After Christmas break, everyone in the dorm was talking about what they did over the holidays. People were like, "I watched 22 movies" and "I went to Cancun" and "I smoked a lot of pot, man."

When I got asked what I did, I'd say, "I killed Santa Claus." Which would get a polite ha ha. And then I'd say, "No, really. I'm not kidding." And then I'd tell the story.

Before long, people were coming up to me all over campus saying, "Are you that Santa-killing chick?" I was famous. Or maybe infamous. It was pretty cool-for, like, a week. Then I got sick of telling people about it over and over again. I mean, it's a pretty long story. So after a while when people came up and said, "Did you kill Santa Claus?" I'd say, "Sorry, you've got me confused with someone else. I killed the Easter Bunny."

But I guess I could tell the story one more time. After that, I'm going to retire it. I won't tell it again till I've got kids I need to scare into line. "Don't mess with your mother, Timmy. She offed St. Nick."

My own mom, she believes in the importance of work. For everybody. All the time. So one of the joys of coming home from school is finding out what sucky job she's got lined up for me. During my first summer break, I worked for the dog census. You walk around to people's houses-or, in some of the neighborhoods I went to, trailers-and ask if they have a dog and, if so, does Fido have a license? Tons of fun, let me tell you. There's no better use for a cheery summer afternoon than asking Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel if his mutt is registered with the county. And all for minimum wage. Thanks, Mom!

Christmas two years ago, I wrapped presents at J.C. Penney until my fingers bled. The summer after that, I went back to the dogs. Come the next Christmas, I was a squirter, chasing people around Dillard's with a perfume bottle. Then, for the summer, I worked a cash register at Chuck E. Cheese…an experience I plan to talk to a therapist about, as soon as I can afford one. Hell isn't other people. It's hearing an animatronic ostrich sing "Wind Beneath My Wings" 50 times a day.

So finally I reach the Christmas break of my senior year-my last chance to kick back and truly chill without worrying about finding a job or a place to live or any of that "real world" stuff I'm looking forward to soooooooo much. But does my mom give me a break and let me spend my vacation doing what I want to do-suck candy canes and watch TV? Of course not. Instead, I get The Speech.

"When your father ran off with that woman," it begins, "he left us to fend for ourselves. We don't have it easy. We can't sit around eating bonbons. We've got to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty. That's exactly what I've done. I have worked hard-very hard-to keep this house and put food on the table and send you to college. But I can't do it alone. You've got to take some responsibility and chip in and – "

Yada yada yada, as they say.

After a few minutes of this lecture, all of which I know by heart, I said the only thing that can bring it to an end, which is, "You're absolutely right, Mother. How could I be so selfish? Please tell me what [mind-numbingly tedious minimum wage] job you've found for me."

My mom smiled and said, "This one's going to be fun, Hannah," which sent a chill down my spine. If my mother thinks it's "fun," I figured, it's got to suck big-time.

And I was right.

"You remember Missy Widgitz, Mark Widgitz's mother," Mom said, referring to two people I have absolutely never heard of. "She just became the promotions director over at Olde Towne Mall. She's got a holiday position that would be perfect for you."

I sighed and said, "Great. Gift wrapping. I'll go get the Band-Aids."

Mom laughed-another ominous sign. "No, it's a lot better than that. They lost one of their elves."

There was a long pause, during which my mother stared at me with this big, goofy grin, waiting for me to say something upbeat like, "Wow! Really? What great news, Mom!" But I was confused.

"Lost…an elf?" I said. "What? They want me to help find it?"

Mom laughed again. it's nice to know I can provide her with so much cheap amusement.

"No, no. They need an elf for Santa's Workshop."

I was still thinking I was supposed to be an Elf Wrangler, which doesn't make any sense, when it dawned on me.

You're the elf.

My blood ran cold.

"You start tomorrow," my mother said.

I slit my wrists and threw myself off the roof.

O.K., I didn't. But maybe I should have. Instead, I showed up at Olde Towne Mall the next day and reported for elf duty.

Here's what you need to know about Olde Towne Mall: When they say "Olde," they're not kidding. In fact, "Ye Olde Crappie Mall" would be a better name for the place. It's what used to pass for a shopping mall back in the seventies, before River City got a real mall. It's all gray tile and florescent lighting and fake plants and rednecks. The nicest store they've got is Sears.

At the exact center of this dump was the horrifying torture chamber otherwise known as Santa's Workshop. You know the drill: plywood house, plastic candy canes, mechanical reindeer, fake snow, fake everything. And the biggest fake of all sat on a throne lording over it all. Santa Claus. Or, as I came to know him, Big Buck.

Big Buck was not one of those professional Santa types you read about who grow their own beards and love children and act like playing St. Nick is a role worthy of De Niro. Big Buck wore a phony white beard that was always a little bit crooked from being yanked by the screaming kids he obviously loathed. And he didn't smell like peppermint and warm cookies, the way you think Santa should. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. And his deep-fried drawl was all wrong, too: Last time I checked, the North Pole is not south of the Mason-Dixon.

But at least his belly was real. And he laughed really loud. And he liked to sneak into people's homes at night. I didn't learn that last bit till later, though.

Big Buck had a love-hate thing going with me at first. Or I should say a lust-hate thing. I was the only female elf, which would've been bad enough without the costume I had to wear: red tights, a green felt smock and a red stocking cap, all about two sizes too small. I could barely squeeze into any of it. I was like a felt-wrapped sausage.

This led to a lot of ogling from both Big Buck and a disgustingly high percentage of the dads I had to deal with. I was the greeter elf, the one in charge of maintaining order in the line of supplicants to King Claus. When Junior's time came, I'd walk him up the path to the stairs in front of Santa's throne. Then I'd go back to the head of the line to make sure mom and dad didn't spoil this special moment by getting too close. Another elf-Arlo Hettle, a slumming college kid like me-would step up and take a picture of Junior and Big Buck with an instant camera. Then the third and final elf, a rat-faced little troll named Kev Kane, would hustle Junior away while I brought up the next kid. I found it deeply depressing that Kev was as old as me and Arlo put together. If I was still elfing when I hit 40, I'd hang myself with a string of garland.

Still, I've got to say it: I was a natural… at the kid-herding part, if not being holly-jolly. Within an hour, I had the moves down so pat-collect child, step step step, leave child, step step step, repeat-I could've done them with my eyes closed. Which left me free to notice things like the come-hither looks Big Buck kept giving me. The really creepy thing, though, was the way he'd spaz out if I came too hither at the wrong moment.

"Y'see that gingerbread man there?" he snapped at me after I brought up Kid #48 of the day while Kid #47 was still on his lap. "I don't ever wanna see you or anybody else on my side of that while I'm talkin' to a youngster."

"O.K.," I said, thinking, "Youngster"? You look at them like they're cockroaches.

"It throws off my concentration."

"O.K."

"If anyone so much as sets a toe beyond that gingerbread man, there's gonna be trouble."

"O.K."

"I need to give the little ones my full attention. I don't want any distractions."

"O.K. I understand."

He smiled at that. "Good. Now tell me. You a naughty girl or a nice one?"

As you can imagine, keeping my distance from Big Buck was not an issue for me. If that gingerbread man had been in the next county, it still would've been too close.

At the end of my first day, I asked Arlo, the camera kid, about Jolly Old St. Dick as we got ready to bolt for home. Arlo shrugged.

"He's been like that since day one, man." He pushed a big pile of long, wavy hair out of his face-a gesture he had to repeat about once every three seconds. "He's like all, 'Back off or I'll kick your ass.' And that Kev guy is like, 'Don't crowd Big Buck, dude.' And I'm like, 'Oooooooo.K. Whatever. I'm just here to take the pictures, bro.'"

"Big Buck?"

"That's what Kev calls him. I don't call him anything cuz I don't talk to the man, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"So Kev and 'Big Buck' are friends?"

"Sure. Kev got him into the suit after Mr. Haney and Becky got hurt."

I sighed. Arlo was nice but not great with explanations. "Becky and Mr. Haney?"

Arlo nodded. "Yeah."

I sighed again. "And they are…?"

Arlo laughed that zonked, stoner-guy, donkey-bray laugh.

"Oh, right. You didn't know them. Mr. Haney, he was the first Santa-the one before Big Buck. He was pretty nice, except he always used to say things to me like, 'Just say no' and 'Users are losers.' Weird, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "Go figure."

"Becky was a greeter elf. They both lived on the East Side, so they'd, like, carpool. But one night some drunk ran 'em off the road. They ended up in the hospital."

"So Big Buck replaced Mr. Haney and I replaced Becky."

"No, you replaced Cheryl. She quit two days ago. She replaced… man, what was her name? Michelle. Yeah. Michelle replaced Becky."

"So why did Cheryl and Michelle quit?"

"Man, you're like Oprah or something. What's up with all the questions?"

"I want to know what I'm getting into, alright? Things around here just seem a little… I don't know… off."

"You got that right. I'd quit except my gig is just too easy. Point and click, point and click, all day. I show up stoned half the time and nobody notices."

Sure they don't, I thought.

"So Cheryl and Michelle…?"

"Oh, I think it was a Big Buck thing, y'know what I mean? He's hot for elfettes."

I thanked Arlo for the four-one-one. Perhaps thinking this had been some kind of relational breakthrough, he asked me if I wanted to go "get baked." I politely declined, went home and told my mom about the freaks I had to work with. Her response: "A job's a job." She said it in that Conversation Closed tone of voice that told me she thought I was just looking for an excuse to quit.

And I was. And I kept right at it.

By the end of my first week, I was convinced Kev and Big Buck were pervs. You know-molesters. It fit the facts. You've got these two nasty-looking old lowlifes insisting on complete privacy while they talk to little kids all day? It seemed so obvious. I couldn't understand how those parents could just stand there while their pride and joy sat helpless on Big Buck's nasty old lap. Half these people looked like they'd been on The Jerry Springer Show back in the day, probably throwing chairs at each other during an episode called "My Mom Married a Satan-Worshipping Transsexual!" Yet the idea that something sleazy was going on right under their noses seemed completely beyond them.

Something had to be done, and it looked like I had to do it. I'd either get Big Buck fired or get myself fired in the process. It was a win-win.

Three times a day, we got to put up a sign that said, "FEEDING THE REINDEER-BACK IN 15 MINUTES." Arlo would spend his break getting toasted in his Hyundai. Kev and Big Buck always went off together for "a little pick-me-up" somewhere… or so they said. Sometimes Big Buck would invite me along, but I had better things to do-like find an empty stall in the women's bathroom and read cheesy thrillers, which was my usual routine. But one day while Santa and his other elves were off replenishing their Christmas spirit with various controlled substances, I went to see the woman responsible for the mess at the North Pole-Missy Widgitz, Olde Towne Mall's promotions director.

A quick introduction to Missy: Imagine, if you will, a six-foot two-inch Amazon with kabuki makeup, five-inch stiletto heels and hair teased up so high the Swiss Family Robinson could build a tree house in it. Now imagine that said Amazon fancies herself to be quite the on-the-go career woman. Now imagine me puking every time I had to deal with her.

I poked my head into Missy's office, and of course she was barking into the phone, deep in wheeler-dealer mode.

"Have you been over to River Valley Mall, Charlie? They've got real elves over there! Real elves! Oh, you know what I mean-midgets, dwarves, hobbits, 'wee people,' whatever they're called."

Her mascara-encrusted raccoon eyes caught sight of me in the doorway and went all squinty. She flapped one of her big hands at me, shooing me away.

"How am I supposed to compete with real elves?" she said, still glaring at me and flailing her hand. "Tell me. Huh? How?"

I put up a finger. My index finger, meaning I just needed one minute of her time.

"Hold on, Charlie," Missy growled. She cupped a hand over the receiver. "Are you quitting?"

"No."

"Has somebody been hurt?"

"No."

"Somebody feel you up?"

"Uhhh, no. But I am concerned about something."

Missy pointed at a black plastic tray on her desk. It was overflowing with memos and Post-Its and old newspaper ads.

"Put it in writing."

Then she spun her chair around so she faced the wall.

"Why should people come here when they can go to River Valley and see real elves? I'm telling you, Charlie, I need more money."

End of conversation, obviously. I couldn't count on Missy Widgitz for squat. So I found an empty stall and began plotting.

Now, it just so happens that my roommate's boyfriend is a kleptomaniac. He's in a band, so I think she just sees it as one of the cute little character flaws she has to put up with in order to date a guitar player. I just see it as pathetic. Anyway, whenever I come home from school, I play it safe and pack up everything of value I own. So stashed away in the back of my '84 VW Rabbit was a toaster, a CD player, an almost-empty jewelry box, an Aran sweater, a little TV and the old voice-activated tape recorder I use to record lectures.

Obviously, the toaster wasn't going to do me much good in this situation. Same with the CD player, the jewelry, the TV and the sweater. But the tape recorder-that I could use.

The next morning, I did the unthinkable: I showed up for work early. I needed time to find the best place in Santa's Workshop to hide a tape recorder. It had to be close enough to Santa's throne to pick up what Big Buck was saying, but not so close that Big Buck or Kev would see it or hear it when it clicked off. I thought about hiding it with the fake presents under a Christmas tree, but that was too far away. Same with the fake stockings hung over the fake fireplace and the fake toys on the fake worktable.

Fake fake fake. Which made me think. What about Santa's "throne"? It looked big and boxy and, you know, solid. But if it was as bogus as everything else in the Workshop, wouldn't it be hollow?

I tipped the throne over-it was surprisingly light-and found that I was right. So I reached under and left the tape recorder there with the voice-activation thingy turned on. I'd be pulling a Patriot Act on Big Buck right under his nose… or butt, to be more accurate.

The rest of the day passed like every other work day-slowly. Two things broke the monotony: my fear that Kev or Big Buck would find the tape recorder and put two and two together (though, knowing them, they might get five) and a surprise visitor.

Right before our first break, I noticed that someone had parked a mummy in a wheelchair not far from Santa's Workshop. Though its entire body was covered in bandages and plaster, it had a human head-one belonging to a girl about my age. She was watching us with a strange, blank expression on her face, almost like she'd been hypnotized. When it was finally time to "feed the reindeer," Arlo went up and started talking to her. I wasn't going to enjoy my serial killer thriller that day-I was too nervous about Big Buck to worry about fictional psychos-so I decided to introduce myself to the human statue.

"So what are you on? Codeine?" Arlo was saying as I walked up.

"Nuh. Vicodin… and thome other thtuff," Mummy Girl mumbled. She looked even more glassy-eyed close up. "It helpth."

"Got some you could spare?"

Mummy Girl stared at him a moment, then turned her hollow eyes toward me.

"Oh, hey, Hannah," Arlo said. "Becky, this is Hannah, the new elf."

"Hi, Becky."

"Huh," Becky said. I think that was as close as she could get to "Hi."

"Becky just got out of the hospital," Arlo said.

No duh, I thought. I figured she just came from the gym.

What I said was, "Really?"

"Yeah. She was in a really bad car wreck. Some nut cut her off and forced her into a telephone pole. Right, Becky?"

Becky tried to nod, but ended up just wincing.

"Umm-hmmm," she hummed.

And finally, it dawned on me. This was the Becky-the first greeter elf of the year, the one who'd been in an accident with Santa Claus. Arlo had probably forgotten he'd already told me about her. (His long-term memory, like his short-term memory and his everything-in-between-memory, wasn't too good.) So I played dumb.

"Was there anybody else in the car with you?" I asked.

"Umm-hmmm." Becky moved her dazed eyes to Arlo again. "That'th why I'm heah. I wanted to tell you in perthon, Ahlo. Mistah Haney ith dead. He nevah came ou' of hith coma."

"No way," Arlo said.

"Yeth. I'm thorry. I know you two wuh clothe."

"We were what?"

"Clothe."

"Huh?"

"Close," I snapped at Arlo, barely resisting the urge to smack him upside the back of the head. Sure, Becky sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger on 'ludes, but still-context, dude! "You two were close."

"Oh. Right. Sure." Arlo frowned. "We were?"

"Mr. Haney cahed about you, Ahlo," Becky spoke-moaned. "He wuh even planning an intuhven- – "

"Well, ho ho ho!" someone bellowed.

We all jumped-even Becky, who paid for it with another wince.

Big Buck came swaggering up with Kev not far behind.

"If it isn't my favorite little elf!" Big Buck boomed.

"You two know each other?" I asked Becky.

"Oh, we're old friends," Big Buck answered for her. "I dropped by to see Kev a couple times before they asked me to strap on the beard myself. I had to see the elf princess my buddy here kept jabberin' about. Man, he made Santa's Workshop sound better'n Hooters!" He leered at Becky as if her bandages were something from Victoria's Secret. "So… how ya' doin', Betty?"

Becky looked as though she wanted to shrink into her body cast like a turtle into its shell.

"Fine," she whispered.

Big Buck leaned over and stroked her leg cast.

"Good. You just keep healin' up, Betty. Then come see ol' St. Nick again when you're feelin' more limber." He winked at her, then turned and gave me a wink, too. "Maybe we'll make us a Santa sandwich with two slices of elf!"

He let out a wheezy laugh-a hoarse, course, phlegmy sound that made me want to rip off his beard and stuff it down his fat throat.

"Mr. Haney's dead," I said instead. I guess I was trying to embarrass him. I should've known that was impossible. You have to be capable of shame to be embarrassed.

He stopped laughing, but his eyes still twinkled with cruel glee.

"Oh, that's too bad. You hear that, Kev?"

Big Buck's little sidekick nodded silently, suddenly looking shifty and nervous. The news actually seemed to shake him, which surprised me. Before that, I'd never seen anything on his ferret face but sneers and leers.

"Well, this Santa's gonna be a lot more careful who he hitches a ride from," Big Buck said, giving Becky one last pat. "Bye now. Break-time's over."

He walked away singing "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," Kev trailing him like a broken-spirited dog.

Something about the conversation bothered me-something beyond the fact that Big Buck was a repulsive old letch. It wasn't a suspicion, really. Just an uneasy tingle, like the vague feeling of dread I get when I'm taking a test and I know I just wrote down the wrong answer… without knowing what the right answer is. The clue phone's ringing, but I can't find the phone, let alone pick it up.

"So, Becky," I said, "did they ever catch the guy who ran you off the road?"

"Nuh. The copth think it wath thome joy-riding kidth. They found the car not far from where we crashed. It had been thtolen."

I put in a little more strained chit-chat out of the spirit of Christmas charity, then said goodbye to Becky and let Arlo get back to wheedling for prescription medication. A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman appeared carrying a bunch of boxes and bags. She piled them up on top of Becky and wheeled her away.

"That Becky's mom?" I asked Arlo as he trudged back towards Santa's Workshop, obviously unsuccessful in his mission and not too happy about it.

"Yeah. I was this close to scoring some Demerol and then whoosh, here comes momma."

"Demerol? Geez, Arlo, can't you just say no?"

"Man, I can't even say 'maybe.'"

A goofy grin creased his droopy-eyed face, and my heart sank. I'd been thinking about telling him what I was up to, trying to enlist him as a partner, a sidekick. But could a guy like Arlo be trusted? He'd be like Tonto with a bong, a brain-damaged Dr. Watson, Robin the Boy Wonder with Attention Deficit Disorder.

No thanks. This elf was on her own.

The last seconds of our break melted away, and the usual assortment of squirmy, mouthy kids and testy parents lined up again. Big Buck assumed the throne and gave me a nod-and another disgusting wink-and I began leading the little lambs to the slaughter.

"Just go up the stairs and tell Santa what you want," I told the first victim when we reached the gingerbread man. She stumbled up the steps shyly. As I turned to go, I heard Big Buck let out a "Ho ho ho" and ask, "What's your name, little girl?"

And then brrrrrring, there it was again-the clue phone. And this time I actually picked up.

Names. A few minutes before, Big Buck couldn't get poor Becky's name right, and her he'd met. But when I had told him "Mr. Haney's dead," he didn't bat an eye. He knew exactly who I was talking about. Why should he remember the name-or even know it in the first place? All his pal Kev had to tell him was the last Santa got hurt and he'd better get his résumé ready stat… assuming Missy Widgitz would have even bothered with résumés when she had a red suit to fill fast. I'm guessing all you'd have needed to land the job would be a big gut and low standards.

Sure, the "Mr. Haney" thing was pretty thin, I knew that. There's Becky/Betty in a wheelchair, and we tell Big Buck somebody's died-who else would we be talking about? Context, right? But, still, it ate at me.

I couldn't wait to get my hands on that tape.

But I had to wait. Hours and hours, each one crawling by like the week before spring break. Finally we roped off the entrance, hustled the last few kids through and called it quits for the day.

Usually, Kev and Big Buck would blast out of there so fast you'd think they'd been shot out of a cannon. Not tonight, of course. They were hanging out next to the throne-next to the tape recorder-talking and throwing ominous looks my way. It was like they weren't just ogling me anymore. They were sizing me up. I killed a little time chatting with Arlo, but he had a big Christmas party to go to and couldn't stay long. It was actually sort of a relief when he left: Keeping a conversation going with Arlo's kind of like trying to play chess with a cat. You end up getting a lot of blank stares.

Once Arlo took off, I didn't have any excuse to hang around, so I went to the restroom and used my regular stall-I felt like I could start having mail delivered there-and changed out of my elfwear. I tried to polish off another chapter of my book, but Big Buck's evil grin kept muscling the words out of my head. After rereading the same paragraph for the fifth time, I threw the paperback into my shoulder bag and stood up. It was Mission: Impossible time.

When I got back to Santa's Workshop, Kev and Big Buck were finally gone. There were still plenty of shoppers around-the mall would be open for another hour-so I did a slow circuit around the Workshop, pretending to window shop at some of the crapeterias nearby: Big Lots and Lady Bug and Monkeyberry Toys. Once I was sure no one was watching me, I hopped over the faux-velvet rope, hurried up the path to Santa's throne and fished around underneath for the tape recorder.

It was still there. I quickly stuffed it in my bag and motored, congratulating myself on my nerve as I scurried to the nearest exit and headed out to the parking lot.

But then I heard something that knocked the nerve (and scared the bejesus) right out of me.

"Well, hello there."

Yeah, I know. It's not exactly "Caught you, you sneaky bitch" or "Die! Die! Die!" followed by the sound of gunfire. But hey-it was Big Buck's voice, and that was bloodcurdling enough.

I turned to find a burly, fifty-ish man in a green parka lurking in the shadows just beyond the doors. His beard was gone, replaced by a stubby cigarette that jutted from his curled lips, and he wasn't wearing his red and white suit. But there was no mistaking that smarmy voice and those bright, smirking eyes.

I stopped and caught my breath. The cold air stung my lungs.

"Geez, Buck. You scared me."

"Scared you?" He seemed to like that. "You ain't frightened of ol' Buck, are you?"

I chirped out a little chuckle as fake as a plastic snowman.

"No, no, of course not. But, you know, some guy's behind you in the dark…? It's creepy."

Big Buck nodded.

"Sure, I understand. That's why I'm here, actually. I thought somebody oughta walk you to your car."

I tried to do a quick look around without being too obvious about it. It was late, but there were still shoppers coming and going. Big Buck wouldn't try something in public… would he?

"Oh, you don't have to worry about me," I said. "I know ka-rah-tay."

I put up my hands and did a little hiii-yah!.

Big Buck laughed and copied the gesture.

"Really? That's great. Cuz I know karate, too. Maybe you and I should go at it sometime."

Forget scary. Now things were getting gross.

I couldn't handle it anymore. I turned and stalked off.

"Yeah, well, gotta go, bye."

"Hey, hold on!" Big Buck called after me. He sounded genuinely surprised.

I didn't stop.

"Hold on!"

Chubby, clutching fingers grabbed hold of my upper arm.

I whirled around, tearing myself out of Big Buck's grip.

"Do you want me to scream? Cuz I will, I swear to God!"

Big Buck took a step back, hands up.

"O.K., O.K., don't touch the merchandise. I get it."

His thick lips bent into a sneering grin that pushed his cigarette up so high I almost thought it was going to set his nose hair on fire.

"I won't follow you if you don't want my protection. I'll just watch you from right here."

"Fine," I said, though of course, it wasn't. It was really, really freaky.

I looked back once when I was half-way to my car, and Big Buck was still there, watching me. I checked again in the rear-view mirror as I drove away, and there he was. Waving. I was a couple blocks away when it hit me.

Now he knows what my car looks like.

Or maybe he'd known already. He'd been waiting for me at the right exit. Had he been spying on me? Or was it all just a coincidence? Maybe he was having a smoke and out I came and he decided to have a little fun.

Or maybe the fun was going to come later…

I watched the cars behind me, wondering if I was being followed. I didn't see anything suspicious, but then again, how would I know what "suspicious" driving looks like? Who am I, Jane Bond?

I started to feel silly, stupid, nuts. Could be I'd gone crazy from boredom. Could be I was imagining everything. Most definitely I needed to stop reading books with names like Malicious Intent and Evil Is as Evil Does.

And then I remembered the tape. That would settle everything.

Yeah. Right.

The second I got home, I rushed upstairs to my room, ignoring Mom's "Dinner's in the fridge!" from the living room. When I pulled the tape recorder out of my bag, I could see that the tape had stopped about a quarter of the way through the first side. It had recorded something!

I pushed the rewind button. The tape started to wind back just fine, but the little wheels quickly slowed to a lurchy crawl, and the red power light began to flicker and fade.

Great. The batteries were dying.

I pushed play and heard what sounded like the moans of a depressed cow.

"… mmmmmmmmeeeeelllllllllllooooooooooodeeee…"

I took the tape out and put it in the cassette deck of the old stereo I'd appropriated from my parents when I was in fifth grade. When I pushed play, ear-piercing squeaks and squonks blasted from the speakers. It was like Alvin and the Chipmunks after they've sucked in a tank of helium. The tape had recorded so slowly, the voices were being sped up and distorted when played back at normal speed.

I rewound the tape to the beginning, hoping the recorder had captured something incriminating before it ran out of juice.

I pushed play.

"Your elf is lookin' nice today," someone said with a nasal, whiny twang. It sounded like Kev.

"She looks nice every day. Heh heh."

Big Buck.

"I don't know how she squeezes into those tights."

"I'm gonna squeeze in there with her onea these days."

Laughter.

I wanted to barf.

Kev: "That's what you say about all of 'em. Alright, here come the brats. Whadaya think of these first two?"

Big Buck: "Ahhhhh, I don't know. Look kinda trailer trash to me."

Kev: "Some of those trailer trash types don't believe in banks, if you know what I mean."

Big Buck: "Yeah, but a lot of them believe in shotguns, if you know what I mean. O.K. Here we go. Excuse me while I get into character."

A fart erupted from my speakers. In stereo.

The urge to hurl got worse.

Then another voice could be heard, very quiet, saying, "… up and tell Santa what you want." It was a quavering yet still oddly flat and toneless and insincere sort of voice. A voice I really hated.

My own.

Big Buck: "Ho ho ho! And how are you doin', little fella?"

The words were starting to sound sped-up, distorted. The tape recorder hadn't made it far before it started slowing down.

Little Boy: "O.K."

Big Buck: "Why don't you come up here and sit on Santa's lap?"

Little Boy: "O.K."

Big Buck: "Therethat'sbetternowwhy don'tyoutellSantayourname?"

The distortion was getting worse and worse.

Little Boy: "Paul."

Big Buck: "What'syourlastname,Paul? There'salotofPaulsonmylist."

Little Boy: "Rodes."

Big Buck: "Andwheredoyoulive,PaulRodes?"

Little Boy: "Melodyhills."

Big Buck: "Andareyougonnabehomefor Christmassqueaksqueaksqueak…?"

The squeaking went on for another 15 seconds or so, then click. I was listening to an Introduction to Medieval Narrative lecture from three weeks before.

So that was all I got on tape-a vaguely sinister exchange about "trailer trash," a few comments about my booty and the sound of Big Buck cutting the cheese.

As the testy bureaucrat always says to the unorthodox-but-brilliant profiler in my favorite paperbacks (no matter who wrote them): "It wouldn't stand up in a court of law." It wouldn't even stand up in the food court at the mall. It wouldn't do anything. It was useless.

So I did the only thing I could, being kind of stubborn and kind of mad and kind of bored and maybe a little bit insane. I bought new batteries on my way to work the next morning. The tape recorder went back under Santa's throne.

The rest of the day passed even more slowly than the day before. It was indescribably creepy seeing Big Buck and Kev up there eyeing me and knowing that, no, I wasn't being paranoid-they were talking about me. And looking at my butt. Eww!

I tried to put all that out of my mind by focusing on my elfing, making sure the "youngsters" had a good time while they were with me, anyway. You know. Doing a good job.

That lasted about a ten minutes. Then an eight-year-old called me a "biyatch" because I wouldn't let him and his buddy have a lightsaber duel with our plastic candy canes. After that, I was back to not giving a crap.

The only thing that broke the day's routine for a few seconds, other than the Biyatch Incident, was a surprise visit from our beloved employer just as our first break was coming to an end.

"Gather 'round, troops! Chop chop!" Missy Widgitz commanded, snapping her fingers.

The four of us sauntered over slowly, Arlo and Kev and Big Buck exchanging surly, silent glances. For just a moment, they were united in their contempt for the She-Hulk. I kept my eyes down.

"I'm going to need all of you to come in an hour early tomorrow. We've finally got a way to top River Valley Mall."

Missy flashed me a happy smirk as she announced this, maybe thinking, in her deluded, self-absorbed way, that I gave a rat's ass about topping River Valley Mall.

Arlo took the bait.

"What is it?" he asked.

Missy placed a long, enamel-encrusted fingernail to her lips.

"Shhh. Top secret."

"That's gonna count as over-time, ain't it?" Big Buck asked.

Missy looked down at him (he was "Big" Buck to the rest of us, but she had three inches on him, at least) and pretended to mull it over.

"We'll see about that." Then she dismissed us with two claps of her big paws. "O.K., that's all. Let's see some smiles and Christmas cheer, huh?"

We marched away looking very uncheery.

"All I want for Christmas are her two front teeth," I mumbled to Arlo.

Big Buck guffawed and turned to face me, and I suddenly wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

"Are you sure that's all you want? Cuz ol' Santa would love to fill your stockin', if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean," I snapped back, so disgusted I finally forgot to be scared. "Why don't you explain yourself?"

Big Buck waggled his bushy eyebrows. "I mean I'd like to come down your chimney some night."

Kev snickered.

I shook my head.

"I still don't follow you, Buck. Be more clear."

"I'm sayin' I'd like to…"

Big Buck furrowed his furry, Neanderthal brow. He'd already run out of metaphors.

"… uhhhhh… jingle your bells."

That actually made me laugh.

"You want to 'jingle my bells'? Chuh? Please, try to choose your words carefully and speak slowly, Buck, because I am not following this at all."

Big Buck's face turned as red as his Santa suit.

"You think you're pretty smart, don't you, college girl? Well, you ain't. You're just a dumb bitch. And one day soon you're gonna learn just how dumb you are. I guarantee it." He turned away, stomped off toward his throne. "Come on, Kev."

"Nope, still don't get you, Buck!" I called after him. "Maybe you oughta try writing it down!"

Kev lingered a moment, a scowl twisting his small, sharp face. He reminded me of a little, snarling Schnauzer. The image helped me keep a smile on my face until he turned to follow his master.

The second he was gone, my smile melted. I felt like I was going to melt with it.

"Oh, God…why do I do these things?"

"Don't ask me," Arlo said with a shrug.

"I wasn't asking you, I was asking God. But as long as you're butting in, I should thank you for standing up for me. You're a real hero, Arlo. My knight in hemp armor."

Sarcasm doesn't work too well on stoners, so all I got was a puzzled "Huh?" I gave up and went back to work.

I endured hours of stares and glares from Kev and Big Buck before it was finally quitting time. The last thing I wanted was another after-work encounter with either of them, so I retired to my home away from home-my stall in the women's room-and spent the next hour plugging away at Run for Your Life or whatever it was I was reading.

When I finally emerged, it was closing time. The shoppers had scurried home-or over to River Valley Mall-and the stores were locked up for the night. They'd even pulled the plug on Santa's Workshop. The lights were off and the robotic reindeer were frozen in mid-prance.

I moved slowly up the path toward the Workshop, afraid I'd trip over an electrical cord or papier-mâché caroler in the dim light. When I reached Santa's throne, I lifted up one side, reached under… and found nothing.

Big Buck and Kev stepped out from behind the Christmas tree at the back of Santa's Workshop.

"See. I told ya it wasn't that doper kid," Big Buck said.

"Umm hmm," Kev replied.

They were both still wearing their costumes-and Big Buck had something in his hand.

"You lookin' for this?"

He held up my tape recorder.

"No. I left my keys around here somewhere," I said, thinking, Jeez, I sound scared. "Could you guys help me look for 'em?"

"You're lookin' for your keys… under my chair?" Big Buck shook his head. "Ho ho ho. Come on, college girl. You can think up something better than that."

They were still moving slowly toward me, choosing their steps carefully, like you'd creep up on an animal you're trying not to spook. An animal you're trying to catch.

I started backing down the stairs, matching them step for step.

"There's still a ton people around," I said, not even convincing myself. There were maybe six cleaning ladies and two rent-a-cops for the whole place, and who knew where they were just then? Olde Towne Mall may be Olde, but it's also Bigge. "I could start screaming."

Big Buck smiled, but he stopped moving forward. Kev stopped, too.

"Why would you go and do that?" Big Buck said. "We're just a couple co-workers having an innocent after-work chat." He waved the tape recorder. "I want to know what this is all about, that's all. We heard it this morning. It makes a real loud click when it reaches the end of a side, y'know. Kev here thought it was Arlo up to something, but I knew better. I'd just like you to tell me why you'd do a thing like this."

"Well, Buck, you see…"

I stopped there. I couldn't think of anything else to say. My mouth's good at getting me into trouble, but out? Not so much.

"Come on, now. You can be honest. Have I done something to offend you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," I blurted out, grateful for the suggestion. "Those things you say to me-that's sexual harassment. I was going to take that tape to Missy Widgitz."

Big Buck nodded. "Sure, that makes sense. Except… hmmmm." He stroked his beard and rolled his eyes. "If that's what you were doin', why would you put the tape recorder under my chair? You're not supposed to come up close while we're working, remember? It'd make a lot more sense if you'd squeezed the tape recorder into those little tights of yours and tried to record me that way."

"I guess I didn't have a very good plan," I admitted.

Big Buck and Kev each took a step forward.

I took another step back.

"Now, guys…," I said, unsure what was going to come out of my mouth next.

It turned out to be a stunned grunt. As I stepped back again, the world suddenly dipped and turned sideways, and a second later I found myself lying beside something large and prickly.

Fortunately, it wasn't Big Buck. I'd caught my heel on the last step and stumbled backwards into one of the smaller trees lining the path to Santa's Workshop.

"Get her," Big Buck said.

I rolled up onto my feet just in time to face Kev no more than four feet from me. He was rushing at me crouched down with his arms stretched out, like a mime imitating a crab. As he moved in, I stepped to the side, grabbed one of his spindly little arms and swung with all my might.

To my utter shock, it worked. Kev went flying into yet another tree, rolling to the ground in a tangle of lights and tinsel.

I swung around to see Big Buck lumbering down the steps toward me.

"See! I wasn't lying about knowing karate!" I lied.

He didn't even slow down. It was time to run, run, Rudolph.

I turned and sprinted to the nearest exit, too afraid to look back until I was outside in the cold December air and the door was closing behind me with a reassuring clack.

I peered back into the dim shadows of the mall and saw… dim shadows of the mall. Big Buck and Kev hadn't followed me. They were letting me go!

I turned, ready to dash the last thirty yards to my Rabbit. And that's when I realized what a huge freaking idiot I am.

I hadn't parked in my usual spot that morning. I didn't want Big Buck waiting for me outside when I left that night. So I'd parked down by Value City, on the other side of the mall.

I was going to have to walk all the way around the parking lot, alone, in the dark, to get to my car.

Oh, did I say walk? Try sprint.

I didn't see anyone outside as I raced around the darkened mall. There were still a few cars in the parking lot, but the people they belonged to were inside somewhere, sweeping floors or counting money or molesting mannequins or God knows what. I could see more cars moving way over on Diamond Avenue, but I knew I was nothing to them-just a speck in the dark almost a half-mile away.

As I ran, I noticed two strange things. There was a big trailer parked by the side of the mall, the kind you see on the highway loaded with cows on their way to Hamburger Heaven. And the trailer stank. Like cattle, but even worse somehow-cattle eating rotting moss while wearing wet wool sweaters.

Of course, I didn't stop to ponder these mysteries. I had things to do, people to escape from.

I came flying around the corner of the mall just a couple dozen yards from where I was parked. And then I went flying right back the way I'd come.

Something red and white and big was coming out of the nearest exit. A second later, I heard someone yell, "Hey!"

They knew where I'd parked.

I had three options: (A) just keep running running running and hope that I ran into somebody before Big Buck and Kev ran into me, (B) hide or (C) pray for divine intervention.

I was already pretty winded (too many cigarettes and late-night pizzas at school) and I'm not the religious type. So I went for option B. And, hey, I could still do plenty of praying once I was hidden.

Of course, the secret to proper hiding is finding what hiding professionals call a "Hiding Place," and I figured I had about twelve seconds to do it.

Behind the bushes?

Too obvious.

Under a car?

Too exposed.

In the stinky truck?

Too…

Alright. Why not?

I darted around to the back of the trailer. It wasn't the kind that opened by rolling up, like a garage door. It had doors that swung open on hinges. And there was no lock, just a couple metal bolts. I undid them as quickly as I could, cracked open a door, climbed through and pulled the door closed.

Once I was inside the trailer, there was no way to bolt the door again or even keep it completely shut. Which made me realize this wasn't exactly the best Hiding Place. There was no escape route. If Kev and Big Buck figured out where I was, there was no way to get out except the way I came in.

This is why I'm not a hiding professional.

I was panicking about this, completely forgetting to do my praying, when things got worse. Something behind me moved.

There was a grunt, then heavy footsteps, then more grunting. I turned around slowly-and couldn't see a thing. It was pitch black in there. But it was obvious I wasn't alone.

The grunts and clattering footsteps spread all around me, and the smell I'd noticed before got so bad I almost gagged. It was like a petting zoo multiplied by two pig farms and the breath of a thousand dogs.

And I wasn't the only one who noticed it. There were narrow slots in the side of the trailer, and through them I could see Big Buck and Kev stalking past.

"You hear that?" Kev asked.

"You smell that?" Big Buck said. He walked up and stuck his fat face against one of the slots. I was tempted to run over and poke his beady eyes, but almost immediately he stepped back waving a hand in front of his nose. "Whooooeeee. And I thought you smelled bad."

"Oh, ho ho," Kev growled.

He and Big Buck walked around to the back of the trailer.

"Well, lookee here," I heard Big Buck say.

He was noticing, I could only assume, that the doors were unbolted.

I wasn't happy about it, but what choice did I have? I started creeping away from the doors… and toward my stinky trailer-mates. Whatever they were-cows, sheep, llamas, unicorns-I figured they couldn't be too dangerous. Someone's going to leave a truckload of bears at the mall?

I shuffled through the blackness blindly, my arms stretched out in front of me like a zombie. The snorting and stamping around me got louder, which actually helped.

Clop clop, wheeze.

Excuse me. I'll move over this way.

Stomp stomp, grunt.

Alright, alright. I'll move a little more that way.

I'd been doing my Helen Keller imitation maybe half a minute when Big Buck opened the door. Just enough light streamed in for me to see him and for him to see me-and both of us to see what was in the trailer.

Reindeer. Nine of them. Big ones.

Big Buck and I were both dumbstruck. Reindeer? Really?

And then I remembered Missy Widgitz's big surprise. This was how she was going to get a leg up on River Valley Mall. Screw the "real elves." We'd have the real Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen and… uhhhh… Rudolph and… uhhhh, Snowball and… you know. All of them.

I don't know if Big Buck figured it out or not. Once he'd accepted the reindeer's presence, he didn't seem to care. The look of surprise faded from his face, and he smiled at me.

"You better come out of there, Shannon."

That made it even worse, somehow. Here I was about to be killed, and the jerk couldn't even get my name right.

"I don't think so," I said.

"You better come out, or we're comin' in."

Kev pushed in behind him.

"Buck… I don't think we oughta go in there," he said in a hoarse whisper.

Big Buck shot him a glare. "You're afraid of Bambi?"

Kev peered into the trailer. The reindeer were spread out all around me, their breath coming out in long puffs of steam.

"Bambi never got as big as that," he said. "And it's so dark in there."

"Yeah, sure, I get it," Big Buck sighed in a strangely resigned, Here we go again kind of way. "Guess I'll just have to take care of the bitch myself, then."

And he started to haul himself up into the trailer.

Now, this is where my story's going to diverge a bit from the official account. I told the police that when I saw Big Buck coming at me, I screamed. Which is kind of true. I did scream.

I screamed, "Yah! Yah!"

And I stamped my feet.

And I slapped the nearest reindeer on the ass.

Donder and Blitzen jumped, bumping into Comet and Cupid, who got spooked and bolted. And when a couple of reindeer bolt, the others tend to follow.

Big Buck didn't scream. He didn't have time. He just fell back out of the truck and let out one loud "Ow!" All I could hear after that was the sound of big hooves hitting something soft and wet.

When I finally worked up the nerve to peek outside, there were nine reindeer spread out all over the Olde Towne Mall parking lot-and one Santa Claus spread out all over the pavement behind the truck. Kev was long gone.

It took about five minutes for the cops to show up. The TV news vans were there in ten. I think I was still in shock at that point. I caught a glimpse of myself on TV the next day, and it wasn't pretty. I was being put in a police car (my mom practically fainted when she saw that on the news) with this stunned, stupid expression on my face. I looked like I'd been partying with Arlo.

It took a while for me to pull my words together, but I finally got out the whole story about Big Buck and Kev and the tape. The police were pretty nice, but they just sort of nodded their heads and looked concerned and asked me if I wanted to speak with a counselor. After a couple hours, my mom came and took me home.

Despite my babblings about a pervmo conspiracy, I think the cops assumed it was really an attempted rape, nothing more. The newspaper and TV stations didn't come right out and say it, but they hinted the same thing. At first. But then a day later, there it was on the front page of the Herald-Times: "Police Uncover Santa Burglary Ring."

The first part of the story went something like, "River City law enforcement officials have revealed that the man smooshed by reindeer earlier this week at Olde Towne Mall was William 'Big Buck' Thomerson, a.k.a. William Thompson, a.k.a. Thomas Williams, a.k.a. William Williamson, a.k.a. Vincente Benito de la Rosa III, a career criminal with multiple convictions for home invasion, burglary and theft stretching back to the early eighties. Police suspect that Thomerson was attempting to use his position as Olde Towne's resident Santa Claus to identify families that would be on vacation over the holidays, making their homes targets for break-ins. Sources also reveal that Thomerson might have secured his position through foul play: Yesterday afternoon, police found his fingerprints in a car that was involved in an accident that cost the mall's previous Santa his life. Thomerson's suspected accomplice, Kevin 'The Elf' Kane, was apprehended in Indianapolis yesterday attempting to hotwire a golf cart after his car ran out of gas near the city's Broadmoor Country Club. Authorities expect Kane to be back in River City for questioning tomorrow."

I've got to say-at first, I was pretty impressed by River City's finest. It took some real brains to connect all the dots.

But then I thought, "Did it really?" Maybe it didn't take brains at all. Maybe all it took was a tape-a tape that could have been found in Big Buck's pocket, untrampled, by cops checking out my story.

Of course, the article didn't have a sentence like, "Detectives gratefully acknowledge the assistance of Hannah Fox, whose paranoia and insane life choices made these breakthroughs possible." But that was O.K. There was an even better bit towards the end of the story.

"Thomerson's position at Olde Towne has raised disturbing questions about the mall's hiring practices. 'I assure you, we're going to be investigating this thoroughly and taking steps to ensure that it never happens again,' said Patti Cheney, Olde Towne's new promotions director. According to Cheney, the mall will discontinue its 'Santa's Workshop' operation for the rest of the holiday season."

Which meant I was unemployed, and there was nothing my mom could say about it. I'd been attacked, traumatized by vile criminals. It would take me weeks to recover-weeks I would spend sucking candy canes and watching TV.

It was going to be a merry Christmas after all.