Christmas and Commerce

Hey everybody, it's Ira. Okay, so what you're listening to right this second is not our regular weekly program, but an extra episode that we decided just to throw it on the podcast feed for the holiday. And Merry Christmas, we just figured that lots of you might be traveling long distances this week, flying or driving, and might want to have something extra to listen to on the way, or maybe you're with your family and you just need a long walk where you get a break from people who you love. You definitely do love them. There's no question, but sometimes a person does just sometimes need a good to break. Okay. Anyway, it's Christmas time. This episode is from our very first year as a national show. It has a couple of classic old school stories that definitely stand the test of time. Okay, I've said enough. I'm now handing off now to myself back then. You know that saying, you can really tell who somebody is in a crisis. You can really tell a Christmas too. That's because Christmas, more than any other day in the American year, is a day when we're all handed the same stage props, the same tree, the presents, the meal, the relatives, and all the same expectations. And then we all try to create more or less the same kind of day. It's like hundreds of millions of people all set to work doing exactly the same art project. Not just any art project, but a very high stakes art project. An art project everybody cares about getting right. And in that setting, the choices people make never seem clearer. In one place, you can witness this human drama of work is that one of the epicenters of modern Christmas, the world's biggest toy store, Toys Arras. Closing time, Christmas Eve. Still the story is filled with parents making one last run to the goal line of a perfect Christmas. Mark Neymus and his teenage son, Rickier, walking the length of the store, walking literally as quickly as men can walk without actually breaking into a run. Their bodies are tense, they spot a sales girl. Do you know where these twins dolls are? They're twins, they're like 70 bucks. They're directed into aisle 12c. It is stacked high with dolls. The Neymus voice down to much time. Where are the twin dolls? There's heart to heart baby, whose heart really beats. There's posibles sleepy soft skin, there's soft teen in the miracle, soft foam doll. There's baby bathalot, there's Danielle's fashion ensemble, there's baby braids, a pretty hugable fashion hair doll, there's baby tumming talks. They're an asylum somewhere. Well, no, actually, they're not. A middle age couple themselves in the search for a doll called the Sparkle Doll, Suggest 11c. All the dolls in 11c for some reason have names that suggest the names of starlets and adult films. So shy, Sherry, baby shivers, powder pool twins, previous playmate, Debbie attachable accessories. Depending on their real lives, of course their names are like names from adult films. Where else do you find this kind of hyped up, packaged theatrical girlishness? Right here. Oh, here they are. They find the price sticker on the twins doll and they stand there on nerves. I don't know. What are you laughing at? The price. It turns out to be $90. Oh well. I guess I gotta get it. Who's it for? It's for my daughter. How old is she? She's four, gonna be five. How come so last minute? I mean, the store closes in just two minutes? We bought her some other things and tonight she asked me three times. It Santa was coming and I said yes and she said, good, because she's bringing me these twins. So, and we didn't have it, so I never thought I'd be doing this at 730 at Christmas Eve. I've seen it in movies. I swear to God, I never thought I'd be doing this. But here I am. So, well, I gotta go pay for this now. We're good dad. Okay. I better be for 90 bucks. This is the thing about Christmas. Christmas is given a stage on which you can prove who he is. He's the same good daddy always is, but more so, you know? Christmas. Christmas. I'm fine when everybody is who they normally are, but more so. Well, from WBEZ Chicago to this American life in my reglas, if you are hearing our program for the first time, a number of public radio stations around the country are just picking us up for this Christmas special. We are a new public radio show. Each week we choose a theme, invite a variety of writers, performers, radio producers, to tackle that theme with radio monologues, mini documentaries, overheard conversations, found tape, anything we can think of. Today's program in three acts. Act one, choice our Russ. Act two, David Sideris' Sandolan Diaries. Act three, Christmas for it. That's Signum for it. Stay with us. It's American life. Act two. My costume is green. I wear green velvet knickers, a forest green velvet smock, and a perky little hat decorated with spangles. This is my working uniform. That's David Sideris. This is me back in 2025, by the way. So a few years before this American life began, David had this story about working as an elf at Macy's department store for two Christmas's. I made a little eight minute version of that and put it on to MPR's morning edition. I was working for MPR News at the time. We knew people liked that story because this is how we measured it back then. MPR sold a ton of cassettes of the story, like more than any story in morning edition's history. They have been rerunning the story every year since. Though the morning edition version of Santa Land Diaries ran for only eight and a half minutes because of the format of morning edition where they cut away the news and stuff over and over during the hour. Here we have the time to actually stretch out and play you something that is actually much closer to David's original text and what you would find in the published version of his story. So here's David. I was in a coffee shop reading the Wontads when I saw Macy's Harold Square, the largest store in the world, has big opportunities for outgoing, fun-loving people of all shapes and sizes. Macy's Santa Land is a center of the excitement. I brought the ad home and my roommate Rusty and I were laughing about it and he dared me to call for an interview. So I did. 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 am a 33 year old man applying for a job as an elf. My often see people in the streets dressed as objects and handing out leaflets. I usually avoid leaflets but it breaks my heart to see a grown man dressed as a taco. So if there's a costume involved, I tend to not only accept a leaflet but to accept it graciously, saying, thank you so much and thinking you pour some of a bitch. This afternoon on Lexington Avenue I accepted a leaflet from a man dressed as a camcorder. Hot dogs, tacos, video cameras. These things make me sad because there's no place for them, no community. They don't fit in on the streets. I figured that at least as an elf I will have a place. I'll be in Santa's village with all the other elves. We live in a fluffy wonderland surrounded by candy canes and gingerbread chacks. It won't be quite as sad as being some big French fry out on a street corner. I have to admit that I had high hopes when moving to New York. In my imagination I went straight from Penn station to the offices of one life to live. In my imagination I went out for drinks with cord Roberts and Victoria Buchanan, the show's biggest stars. We'd sit in a plush booth at a Tony cocktail lounge and they'd lift their frosty glasses in my direction and say, a toast to David Sideros, the best writer this show ever had. I'd say, you guys cut it out. People up the surrounding tables would stare at us whispering, isn't that? Isn't that? I might be distracted by their enthusiasm and Victoria Buchanan would lay her hand over mine and tell me that I'd better get used to being the center of the attention. But instead I'm applying for a job as an elf. Instead someone will say, what's that shoe size again? And hand me a pair of seven and a half slippers, toes of which curl to a point. And worse is a 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 Santa Land Office and was told, congratulations Mr. Sideros, you're an elf. In order to become an elf I filled out ten pages worth of forms, picked a multiple choice personality test underwent two interviews in submitted urine for a drug test. During the second interview we were asked while we wanted to be elves which when you think about it is a fairly tough question. I told the interviews that I wanted to be an elf because it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard of. I figured that for once in my life I would be completely honest and see how far it got me. I failed the drug test. My urine had roaches and stems floating in it but still they hired me and honesty had nothing to do with it. They hired me because I'm short. Everyone they hired is short. I'm one of the taller elves. I have spent the last several days sitting in a crowded windowless macy's classroom undergoing the first phases of elf training. We have been addressed by all sorts of instructors who begin their presentations by saying, this looks like an outstanding group of elves. Several of the bosses have led us in motivational cheers, a concept which stuns me to the core. Following an eight hour day of cash register training we were treated to a video presentation by the security staff, visited by interpreters for the deaf, and presented with the Elphin Guide, a 40 page booklet of rules and regulations. This afternoon's training concluded with the tour of Santa Land. Santa Land is beautiful, it really is. It's a wonderland with 10,000 twinkling lights and diversions. People enter and walk through a maze which affords views of mechanical dancing penguins, train sets, spinning bears, and really big candy canes. They walk through a quarter mile of maze and wind up at the magic tree, at which point they brace themselves for Santa. The tree is a connolly designed to resemble a complex system of roots. The child is supposed to think, I can't believe I'm inside a tree. But instead I think it looks like a large scientific model of the human intestinal track. Once you pass the magic tree the lights dim. It's dark beyond that tree. It's dark because macy's does not want people to know that there are six houses. These wants people to think that there is only one house, and one Santa, and he lives at maces. They constantly refer to the movie Miracle on 34th Street. But even if someone believed in one Santa, why would they believe he lived in an apartment store? Nobody lives in an apartment store. The Santa houses are cozy and intimate, laden with toys. Each house has a hidden camera. This afternoon we learned the names of the various elf positions. You can be, for example, and oh my god, Elf, and stand at the corner near the escalator. People arrive, see the long line around the corner, and say, oh my god, and your job is to tell them that it won't take more than an hour to see Santa. You can be an entrance elf, a water cooler elf, a bridge elf, train elf, maze elf, island elf, magic window elf, emergency exit elf, counter elf, magic tree elf, pointer elf, Santa elf, photo elf, usher elf, cash register elf, or exit elf. We were given a demonstration of various positions in action, acted out by returning elves who were so onstage and goofy that it made me a little sick to my stomach. I don't know that I could look anyone in the eye and exclaim, oh my goodness, I think I see Santa. Or can you close your eyes and make a very special Christmas wish? Everything these elves say seems to have an exclamation point on the end of it. It makes one's mouth hurt to speak with such forced marionette. It embarrasses me to hear people talk this way. I prefer being frank with children. I'm more likely to say, you must be exhausted, or I know a lot of people who would kill for that little wasteline of yours. I'm afraid I won't be able to provide the enthusiasm Santa is asking for. I think I'll be a low key sort of elf. Today was elf dress rehearsal. The lockers and dressing rooms are on the eighth floor directly behind Santa Land. People have gotten to know one another over the past four days of training, but once we pick off our clothes and put on our costumes, everything changed. Ivy, the woman in charge of costuming, handed out our uniforms and gave us a lecture on keeping things clean. She held up a calendar and said, ladies, you know what this is, use it. I have scraped enough blood out from the crutches of elf-nickers to last me the rest of my life, and don't tell me I don't wear underpants, I'm a dancer. You're not a dancer. If you were a real dancer, you wouldn't be here. You're an elf and you're going to wear panties like an elf. My costume is green. I wear green velvet-nickers, a forest green velvet smock, and a perky little hat decorated with spangles. This is my work uniform. During dress rehearsal I worked as a Santa elf for house number two. A Santa elf greets children at the magic tree and leads them to Santa's house. When you work as a Santa elf, you have to go by your elf name. My elf name is crumpet. The other elves have names like Jingle and Frosty. They take the children by the hand and squeal with forced delight. They sing and prance and behave like cartoon characters come to life. It frightens me. Today was the official opening day of Santa Land and I worked as a magic window elf, a Santa elf and a nosh-ar-elf. The magic window is located in the adult quick peep line. My job was to say, step on the magic star and look through the window and you can see Santa. I was at the magic window for 15 minutes before a man approached me and said, you look so stupid. I have to admit that he had a point but still. I wanted to say that at least I get paid to look stupid that he gives it away for free, but I can't say things like that because I'm supposed to be married. So instead I said, thank you. Thank you. As if I had misunderstood and thought he had said, you look terrific. Thank you. He was a brawny wise guy wearing a vinyl jacket and carrying a bag from the radio shack. I should have said, real loud. Sorry man, I don't date other guys. People would have turned and looked our way and he would have curled into a little ball and died. All the Santa's have different routines. The children's names. So as you're leading the youngsters from the magic tree, you say, what was your name again? It's right on the tip of my mind where I can't get at it. Then they say their name and you say, that's right, van, you're van. See, I didn't recognize you with that turtleneck. That's new, isn't it? And it's always new because they grow so fast they're always needing larger clothes. Then you lead them to Santa's door and say, let me just check and see if he's ready. When you poke your head in and whisper, van, then half the time you'll usher the child into the house and Santa will say, Stan, it's so good to see you. It's hard when you have three or four kids in a group. It's hard to keep the names straight. And some of the names are names I've never heard. Vanisha, Fontaine, great, a child named great. I'm great. That's a name which is bound to prove challenging once he gets old enough to start sleeping around. This afternoon, I was photo-well for Santa Howard. Santa Howard uses names and sits the kids on his lap and asks if they've been good and what they want for Christmas. And then he asks what they plan to leave him on Christmas Eve and they say cookies and milk and he asks what kind of cookies and they say chocolate chip or whatever. And he demands the photo-well to say, chocolate chip, that's Santa's favorite kind of cookie. I don't mind saying it, but I must have said it 60 times today. This afternoon, Santa Howard got an Asian child who wasn't familiar with the idea of leaving cookies. Santa asked what she was going to leave him to eat and she got a puzzled look on her face. He said, something round to eat and she said, a potato. 22,000 people came to see Santa today and not all of them were well behaved. Today, I witnessed fist fights and vomiting and magnificent tantrums. Once a line gets long, we break it into four different lines because anyone in their right mind would leave if they knew it would take over two hours to see Santa. Two hours, you could see a movie in two hours. Standing in a two-hour line makes people worry that they're not living in a democratic nation. I was sent into the hallway to direct the second phase of the line. The hallway was packed with people and all of them seemed to stop me with a question. Which way to the down escalator? Which way to the elevator? The patio restaurant? Gift-drap? The women's restroom? Trimetry? There was a line for Santa and a line for the women's bathroom. In one woman, after asking me a thousand questions already, asked, which is the line for the women's bathroom? And I shouted that I thought it was the line with all the women in it. She said, I'm going to have you fired. I had two people say that to me today. I'm going to have you fired. Go ahead, be my guest. I'm wearing a green velvet costume, it doesn't get any worse than this. Who do these people think they are? I'm going to have you fired, and I want to lean over and say, I'm going to have you killed. This morning I got stuck at the magic window, which is really boring. I'm supposed to stand around and say, step on the magic star and you can see Santa. I said that for a while. And then I started saying, step on the magic star and you can see share. And people got excited. So I said, step on the magic star and you can see Mike Tyson. Some people in the other line, the line to sit on Santa's lap, got excited and cut through the gate so that they could stand on my magic star. When they got angry when they looked through the magic window and saw Santa, rather than share or Mike Tyson. But what did they honestly expect? If share so hard up from money that she would agree to stand behind a two-way mirror at Macy's? The angry people must have said something to management because I was taking off the magic star and sent to Elf Island, which is really boring. And all you do is stand around and act merry. This morning I worked as an ex-adelph, telling people an allowed voice, this way out of Santa Land. A woman was standing at one of the cash registers, paying for her pictures while her son, beneath her, kicking and heaving, having a tantrum. The woman said, Riley, if you don't start behaving yourself, Santa is not going to bring you any of those toys you asked for. The child said, he is too going to bring me toys, liar. He already told me. The woman grabbed my arm and said, you there, Elf. Tell Riley here that if he doesn't start behaving immediately, then Santa is going to change his mind and bring him coal for Christmas. I said that Santa changed his policy and no longer traffics in coal. Instead if you're bad, he comes to your house and steals things. I told Riley that if he didn't behave himself, Santa was going to take away his TV and all his electrical appliances and leave him in the dark. All your appliances, Riley, including the refrigerator. Your food is going to spoil and smell bad. It is going to be so cold and dark where you are. We're going to wish you never even heard the name Santa. The woman got a worried look on her face and said, all right, that's enough. I said he's going to take your car and your furniture and all of your towels and blankets and leave you with nothing. The mother said, no, that's enough, really. Two new Jersey families came today to see Santa. Two loud, ugly husbands with two wives and four children between them. The children gathered around Santa and had their pictures taken. When Santa asked the 10-year-old boy what he wanted for Christmas, his father shouted, a woman! Get him a woman, Santa! These men were very loud and irritating, constantly laughing and jostling one another. The two women sat on Santa's lap and had their pictures taken. An each-ass Santa for a kitchen-aid brand dishwasher and a decent winter coat. Then the husband sat on Santa's lap and when asked what he wanted for Christmas, one of the men yelled, I want abroad with big jugs! The man's small breasted wife crossed her arms over her chest, looked at the floor and greeted her teeth. The man's son tried to laugh. Hi. Hello. How are you doing tonight? What are you up to tonight? What are you drinking? I think I'll have whatever you're having. I could use a change. My roommate Rusty gave me these lines. I don't have any idea what to say to people in clubs and bars. I freeze up and weather away, but Rusty tells me that these lines work. Hi there. I was just standing across the room and couldn't help but notice that your glass is empty. Can I buy you a drink? I think I'll have whatever you're having. This evening I was in May's Elf. Nothing is more boring than being in May's Elf. Other May's Elves addressed children and asked, what do you want for Christmas? But really, why should a child tell an elf? Santa is who they've come to see and it seems pathetic for an elf to try to outshine Santa. After children have passed the dancing penguins, they don't care if they ever see another elf as long as they live. The maze is overpopulated with elves. This evening I was stationed in the maze near the candy canes. Children would pass, board, and I'd say, how are you doing tonight? What are you up to this evening? Good. I'll have whatever you're having. Terrific. I've met elves from all walks of life. The recession has hit New York very hard. Most of the other elves are show business people but several of them had real jobs at advertising agencies and brokerage firms. Bless their hearts. These people never and their wildest dreams figured there was a velvet costume waiting in their future. They're the really bitter elves. Most of the elves are young, high school and college students. The young and their cute and one of the job perks is that I get to see these people and their underpants. The overall cutest elf is a fella from Queens named Richie. His elf name is Snowball and he tends to ham and up with the children, sometimes tumbling down the path to Santa's house. I generally gag when elves get that cute but Snowball is hands down adorable. You want to put him in your pocket. Yesterday Snowball and I worked to Santa elves and I got excited when he started saying things like, I'd follow you to Santa's house any day crumpet. It made me dizzy. This flirtation. By mid afternoon I was running into walls. By late afternoon Snowball had cooled down. By the end of our shift we were in the bathroom, changing our clothes and all of the sudden we were surrounded by five Santas and three other elves. All of them were guys that Snowball had been flirting with. Snowball just leads elves on, elves and Santas. Later on we were in the elevator and I heard him say to his friend, I don't know what these guys all want with me. It gives me the creeps the way they stare. Snowball is playing a dangerous game. It's one thing to get a child fired up but you really don't want to be working under a sheltered Santa. David Sideras' Santaland Diaries continue in a minute from Chicago Public Radio when our program continues. It's a American life, my reglass. This is the Christmas edition of our program from the first year we were in the air years ago. We continue with David Sideras' Santaland Diaries. Out of all the Santas to our black and both are so light-skinned that with the beard and make-up you'd never know they weren't white. Yesterday a black woman got upset after having requested a Santa of color, she was sent to Will. He's not black, the woman said. We assured the woman that yes he was black and the woman said Willy isn't black enough. Will is a difficult Santa, moody and unpredictable. He spends a lot of time staring off into space. When a boss tells Will that we need to speed things up, Will gets defensive and says, listen, I'm playing a role here. Do you understand? A dramatic role that takes a great deal of preparation. I was the pointy-wealth this afternoon when a woman approached me and whispered, we would like a traditional Santa. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. I sent her to Will. The Saturday snowball was the pointer and a woman said, last year we had a chocolate Santa. Make sure it doesn't happen again. Snowball Center to Will. I spent time at the Magic Window with an elf named Rita, a dancer who was in the process of making a video with her all-girl singing group. We talked about one thing and another and she told me that she's appeared on a few soap operas. I asked if she'd done one life to live and she said yes. She'd had a bit part as a flamenco dancer two years ago when cordon Tina remarried and had their honeymoon in Madrid. And suddenly I remembered Rita perfectly. I remember cordon Tina's honeymoon like it was yesterday. Rita wore a red lacy flamenco dress and stomped around the shiny nightclub floor while Spain's greatest ball fighter challenged cord to a duel. Rita said, DeCord, don't do it, Signor. You'd be a fool to fight with Spain's greatest ball fighter. Rita told me that cordon Tina's honeymoon was filmed right here in New York, which surprised me. I really thought they went to Spain. Rita told me that she performed her flamenco dance in the morning and then they broke for lunch. She was in the one life to live cafeteria and Tina waved her over to her table. Rita had lunch with Tina. She said Tina was very sweet, but all she talked about was her love for Smoky Robinson. Tina fell in love with Smoky Robinson in real life. She drove a wedge between Smoky and his wife and left the show so that she could move to Los Angeles and be with Smoky. I had read that in the soap opera digest, but it was thrilling to hear it from someone who knows the whole story. Later I was working in the cash register and Stephanie, one of the managers, told me that her friend Carol was the person responsible for recasting on one life to live, replacing the old Tina with the new Tina. I told Stephanie that I liked the new Tina and she said, well I'll tell my friend Carol, she'll be happy to hear it. Then Michael, another one of the managers got involved and told me he's been on one life to live seven times. He played Clint New Canons lawyer five years ago when half the Buchanan family was on trial for the murder of Mitch Lawrence. Phil knows Victoria Buchanan personally and said she's just as sweet and caring in real life as she is on the show. He said that Clint tends to keep to himself and that Bo is a lot of fun. I can't believe I'm hearing these things. I know people who know Tina, cord, Clint and Vicki. I'm honing in. I'm getting closer. I can feel it. Today, a child told Santa that he wanted his dead father back and a complete set of teenage mutant ninja turtles. Everyone loves those turtles. A child came to Santa this morning and his mother said, all right, Jason. All right, tell Santa what you want. Tell him what you want. Jason said, I want. I want to be a proctin and gamble to stop animal testing. The mother said, proctor Jason, that's proctor and gamble. And what do they do to animals? Do they torture animals, Jason? Is that what they do? Jason said, yes, they torture. He was maybe six years old. Night a man proposed to his girlfriend in Santa house number five. Santa asked what he wanted for Christmas and he pulled a ring out of his pocket and said that he wanted this woman to be his wife. The photo wealth got choked up and started crying. I got a new haircut and a few people complimented me but it didn't register. I spend all day lying to people saying, you look so pretty. And Santa can't wait to visit with you. You're all he talks about. It's just not Christmas without you. Your Santa's favorite person in the entire tri-state area. Sometimes I lay it on really thick. Aren't you the princess of Rangovia? Santa said that a beautiful princess was coming to visit him. He said she would be wearing a red dress and that she was very pretty but not stuck off her two-faced. That's you, isn't it? I lay it on and the parents mouth the words, thank you and good job. To one child I said, you're a model, aren't you? The girl was maybe six years old and she said, yes, I model, but I also act. I just got a second call back for official price commercial. The girl's mother said, you may recognize Caitlin from the My First Sony campaign. She's pictured on the box. I said, yes, of course. All I do is lie and that has made me immune to compliments. This afternoon I was stuck being photo-wealth with Santa Santa. I don't know his real name, no one does. During most days there was a slow period when you sit around the house and talk to Santa. And most of them were nice guys and we sit around and laugh, but Santa Santa takes himself a bit too seriously. I asked him where he lives, Brooklyn or Manhattan, and he said, why, I live at the North Pole with Mrs. Claus. I asked what he does the rest of the year and he said, I make toys for all the children. Santa Santa sits in waves and jingles his bell slash when no one is there. He actually recited the night before Christmas and it was just the two of us in the house, no children, just us. He says, oh little elf, little elf, straighten up those mantle toys for Santa. I reminded him that I have a name, crump it, and then I straightened up the stuffed animals. Oh little elf, little elf, bring Santa to a throat-lossage. So I brought him a lossage. Santa Santa has an elaborate little act for the children. He'll talk to them and give a hearty chuckle and ring his bells, and then he asks them to name their favorite Christmas Carol. Most of them say Rudolph the Red Nose reindeer. Santa then asks if they'll sing it for him. The children are shy and don't want to sing out loud. So Santa Santa says, oh little elf, little elf, help young Brenda here sing that favorite Carol of hers. They don't have to stand there and sing Rudolph the Red Nose reindeer, which I hate. Late in the afternoon a child said she didn't know what her favorite Christmas Carol was. Santa Santa suggested a way in a manger. The girl agreed to it but didn't want to sing because she didn't know the words. Santa Santa said, oh little elf, little elf, come sing a way in the manger for us. It didn't seem fair that I should have to so low. So I told Santa that I didn't know the words. Santa Santa said, of course you know the words, come now, sing. So I sang it the way Billy Holiday might have sang if she'd put out a Christmas album. A way in a manger, no crib far away. The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head. Santa Santa did not allow me to finish. The evening I was sent to be a photo well from house number two. The camera is hidden in the fireplace and I take the picture by pressing a button on the end of a cord. Most elves will hold up a stuffed animal over their fireplace and say, look at my little animal friend and smile. Oftentimes a parent will settle the child on Santa's lap and then start grooming. I've seen mothers pull cans of hairspray from their pocketbooks and spray the child's hair as if Santa were a false prop made out of cement. Hairspray shoots into Santa's eyes and he winces in pain. Once the child starts crying, it's all over. The parents had planned to send these pictures as cards or store them away until the child is grown and can lie, claiming to remember the experience. Tonight I saw a woman slap and shake her crying child, chie-elt Rachel, get on that man's lap and smile or I'll give you something to cry about. Then she sat Rachel on Santa's lap and I took the picture, which supposedly means on paper that everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, that everything is snowy and wonderful. It's not about the child or Santa or Christmas or anything but the parent's idea of a world that cannot make work for them. David Sederis. His sena and diaries are published in his books Barrel Fever and How Days On Ice. Here's the other of many fine books as late as one. Happy Go Lucky. That three Christmas Freud. Well, not so long ago on the Upper East Side of New York City, the upscale department store at Barney's chose an odd tactic for its Christmas decorations. They decided that they wouldn't refer to Christmas in any way at all, which is sort of, you know, you got to respect that kind of contrarian streak. Instead, each of the department store windows was dedicated to different famous people of the 20th century, filled with memorabilia and pictures and video monitors and all kinds of images and colors and lights. The subjects of the windows, Frank Sinatra, the beat poets, great blondes of the 20th century, Martin Luther King, and Sigmund Freud. Only one of these windows had actually a live human being in it. That was the Freud window. Human being was a 30-ish bearded man. David Rackoff. I am the ghost of Christmas subconscious. I am the anti-Santa. I am Christmas Freud. Tell me what they wish for. I tell them the ways their wishes are unhealthy or wish for an error. My impersonation merely involves me sitting in a chair either riding or reading the times or the interpretation of dreams every Saturday and Sunday until Christmas. I sit in a mock study facing Madison Avenue at 61st Street. My study has the requisite chair and couch. It's also equipped with a motorized track on which a video camera wielding baby carriage travels back and forth. A slide projector, a large revolving black and white spiral two hanging torsos and about 10 video monitors that play Freud-related text and images. When I sit down in the chair for the first time, I am suddenly horrified at the humiliation of this and I have no idea how I am going to get through four weekends sitting here on display. This role raises unprecedented performance questions for me. For starters, should I act as though I had no idea there were people outside my window? I opt for covering my embarrassment with a kind of Olympian humorlessness. If they want twinkles, that's Santa's department. I am not at by two fears. One that I am being upstaged by Linda Evans' wig in the blondes window. And two that a car will suddenly lose control, combariling through my window and kill me. An ignoble end to be sure a life given in the service of retail. Sometimes for no clear reason, entire crowds make the collective decision not to breach a respectful six foot distance from the window. Other times they crowd in attempting to read what I am writing over my shoulder. I thank God for my eligible handwriting. Easily half the people have no idea who I am supposed to be. They wave as if Freud was Garfield the cat, other snap photos. The waves are the kind of tiny juvenile hand crunches when it gives to something either impossibly young and tiny or adorably fluffy. Oh look, it's Freud, isn't he just the cutest thing you ever saw? Aw, I just want to bundle him up and take him home. They're also the folks who are more concerned with whether or not I'm real. This I find particularly laughable since where on earth would they make mannequins that look so Jewish? My friend David came up yesterday and was writing down what people were saying outside. He really looks like him only younger. Hey, that's a real guy. He just turned the page, is he allowed to do that? Who is that Professor Higgins? If psychoanalysis was late 19th century secular Judaism's way of finding spiritual meaning in a post-religious world, and retail is the late 20th century's way of finding spiritual meaning in a post-religious world, what does it mean that I'm impersonating the father of psychoanalysis in a store window to commemorate a religious holiday? In the window I fantasize about starting an entire Christmas Freud movement. Christmas Freud's everywhere, providing grownups and children alike with the greatest gift of all, inside. In department stores across America people leave display window couches snifflingly and meaningfully whispering, thank you, Christmas Freud. Taking his hand fervently, their holiday angst, if not dispelled, at least brought in pastarka relief. Christmas Freud on the cover of Cigar Fischernotto magazine. Christmas Freud on friends. People grumbling that here it is not even Thanksgiving already stores or running ads with Christmas Freud's face asking the question, what do women want for Christmas? If it caught on, all the stores would have to compete. Bergdorf Goodman would leap into action with a CG young window, a near perfect simulation of a bear cave. While the Melanie Klein window at Nike Town would have them lined up six deep, a neighborhood groups would object to the saliva and constant bell ringing in the babygaps BF Skinner window. There's an unspeakably handsome man outside the window right now writing something down. I hope it's his phone number. How do I indicate to the woman in the fur coat in benevolent Christmas Freud fashion, of course, to get the hell out of the way? Then again, how does one cruise someone through a department store window? Should I press my own phone number up against the glass? Like some polar bear in the zoo holding up a sign reading, help, I'm being held prisoner. One day I come up to the store for a photo up for a news story about the holiday windows of New York. It is my 32nd birthday. I'm paired with a little girl named Sasha. It's her birthday as well. She is turning 10. She's strikingly beautiful and appears in the upcoming Howard Stern movie. She's to be my patient for the photographers. In true psychoanalytic fashion, I make her lie down and face away from me. I explain to her a little bit about Freud and we play a word association game. I say, center. She responds of attention. I ask her her dreams and aspirations for this, the coming 11th year of her life. To make another feature and to have my role on one life to live continue. She sells every word she says to me, smiling with both sets of teeth, her gem-like eyes glittering. She might as well be saying, crunchy the entire time. But she is charming. I experience extreme counter-transference. I read a bit from the interpretation of dreams to her. Is this boring? I ask. Oh no, it's relaxing. I've been working since 5 o'clock this morning, keep going. Even though her eyes are closed, she senses the light from the news cameras on her. She curls towards it like a plant and clutches her dolly in a startlingly, unchilded like a manor. The glass of the window fairly fogs up. My photo up with Sasha leads me to the decision to start seeing patients throughout my stint. I'm simply not man enough to sit exposed in a window doing nothing. It's too humiliating and too boring. My patients are all people I know. Perhaps it's because the couch faces away from both the street and myself that the sessions are surprisingly intimate. But it's more than that. The window is weirdly enough very cozy, more like a children's hideaway than a fishbowl. Patients seem to relax immediately upon lying down. Tea begins the session laughing at the artifice and ends it actually crying on the sofa. Christmas Freud is prepared and hands in a handkerchief. Jay has near crippling tendinitis and wears huge padded orthopedic boots. The people watching think it's a fashion statement. She wears a dress from Lomonds, but I treat her anyway. Gee, a journalist likes to talk with children and write about them. Perhaps that's why his shirt is a regularly buttoned. I'm told that a woman outside the window wondered aloud if I was an actual therapist. I suppose there must be one in this town who would jeopardize his or her credibility in that way. I've scheduled our next session for the window at Barney's. I hope that's okay. Huh. You seem really resistant, do you want to talk about that? A journalist is doing a story on the windows for the times. He asks me if this is a dream come true. Well, it is a dream. It's logical I reply. One of my parents is a psychiatrist and the other one is a department store window. He doesn't laugh at my joke, but it's half true. One of my parents is a psychiatrist. The other is an MD who also does psychotherapy. I've been in therapy myself for seven years. The difference between seeing a shrink and being a shrink is not only less pronounced than I imagined it might be. It feels intoxicating. When my own therapist of seven years says, I have a fantasy of coming by the window and being treated by you. I think, of course you do. I feel finally and blissfully victorious. My father tells me a dream he had in which I've essentially analyzed and exposed him. It's the only indication I've gotten from him so far that he's anything other than amused by what is basically a mockery of what he does. In a certain sense, I'm not just aping my father and my mother, but also in a way their father, the man who's born their profession. And when I sit there, a patient on my couch pipe in my mouth listening, it feels so perfect. Like any psychiatrist's kid, I know enough from growing up and for my own years on the couch to ask open-ended questions to let the silences play themselves out or not. To say gently, our time is up after 45 minutes. The charade feels real, the conclusion of an equation years in the making. Even the media coverage for this escapade is extensive and strange. People from newspapers and television are asking me deep questions about the holiday, the nature of alienation at this time of year, things like that. As though I actually was Freud. It's disconcerting because with very little effort I could be drunk with the power. But it also points out the ohenry gift of the magi quality of it all. The media is so desperate for any departure from the usual holiday stories they have to turn out. They come flocking and yet the public doesn't really even want to read about the holiday in the first place. It's like trying to jazz up a meal nobody wants to eat anyway. I get a call from the store that Alan Ginsberg might be in the beets window on Sunday and if he wants to what I speak to him. I have no sway over Mr. Ginsberg but if he is something he'd like to talk about I'm certainly available I tell them. Not entirely true I'm pretty well booked. The whole Alan Ginsberg thing depresses me a bit. Then again if he can see it as a cosmic joke why can't I? I feel indignant and very territorial. Imposter's only, no real ones in the window. Anyway it's mood he doesn't show up. There's a street fair outside that seems to have brought a decidedly scarier type of spectator. They're like the crowd at a carnival and I'm the dog-faced boy. A grown woman sticks her tongue out at me. Later during a session a man in his 50s presses his nose up against the window getting grease on the glass presses his ears up to hear and screams things at me I cannot hear. When I leave after each stint I put up a little glass sign that reads Freud will be back soon. It's like a warning. The postmodern version of Christ is coming. Repent. Freud will be back soon whether you like it or not. Freud will be back soon. Stop deceiving yourselves. In the affluent downtown neighborhood in Toronto in which I was raised someone had spray painted on the wall. Mau lives to which someone else had added here. My window is a haven in Midtown. I can sit there unmindful of the crush in the aisles of the store. The hour badly spent over gifts thoughtlessly and desperately bought. As I sit there I hear the songs that play for the display one window over the blondes of the 20th century. Doris is singing once I had a secret love. May west singing my old flame Marlena Dietrich singing falling in love again. As I listen I feel that they're really referring to my window to Freud. Every time they come up on the repeating tape I find them almost unbearably poignant with all their talk of planned destined love, erotic fixation and painfully hidden romantic agenda. But they might also just as easily be referring to this time of year with the aching sadness and loneliness that seems to imbue everything. Where is that perfect object? That old flame, that secret love that eludes us unfindable, unparticipable. And if their wings burn I know I'm not too late. Falling in love again never wanted to. What am I to do? This is my final weekend this Christmas Freud and I'm starting to feel bereft in anticipation of having to take down my shingle. I started off as a monkey on display and have wound up uncomfortably caught between joking and deadly serious, a persona that seems laughable at times faded for me at others. I know this will pass but for now I want nothing more than to continue to sit in my chair, someone on the couch and to ask them with real concern. So tell me how's everything? David Rackoff. Brighayr listeners know that he was on our show dozens of times over the years. This was the very first thing he ever wrote for us. He died in 2012. A version of the story is in his book Freud. His last book, a novel in rhyming couplets, is called Glove, Dissonner, Mary, Die, Cherish, Parrish, a novel by David Rackoff. City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, all neurosis and fear. Children act out deertical, complex, the complex, then there's your dream. That's a drag queen. Mom is driving our train. Christmas, Freud, Christmas, Freud, Christmas, Freud, Christmas, Freud, Secret, Christmas, Freud, in the window, in the window, close your eyes, close your eyes, and a lie, and a lie. I'm afraid our time is now all. You know, I think we have time for one more act. Where's Jiren set? See what it says on the box there. Just so... there. For Daddy! Oh, I'm just a boy. Daddy was a good boy. He got something. It's 1966. John's family taped everything. All the time he says. Including this Christmas when he was three. Hope. Wow! Wee! What are you doing in there? Look at that. Fuck you, get out of here. Look at that. This is not a roller coaster. Look at how nice. How about that when you like it? John is John Connors, Chicago DJ. He provides a lot of the music for this American life from his vast and strange record collection. And on this, the third Christmas of his life, he's given exactly the present that he asked for. The close-and-play record player. Is this to get to bike? John's mother pulls out her camera to take a picture of him in his presence. You like it? John went in his first photograph. Okay, baby. It's live, pretty. Going out of bulb to work. Thirding batteries in there? I just put no batteries in there. What the heck? Maybe spitting on the music. You have left poisoning here. It deteriorates from there. Oh, and disgusting with these cameras. I like you to get one nice one from Santa Claus. That's what I should have got. This right here? This is what Christmas is all about. Everybody's posed, everybody's ready, everybody's straining to be happy. Everybody has this picture in their heads of the perfect Christmas. Of course, it's never going to be perfect. It's never going to live up to that picture. So disappointment is built into the very structure of the day. So the best you can hope for are Christmas. I say this is a Jew. Somebody who has never celebrated the holiday, which makes me an outside observer and impartial observer. The best you can do is to ride the imperfections. Hope they don't ever take everybody. In this tape from 1966, John's parents spent a lot of time trying to keep him from destroying a new train set the very first day he gets it. Wait. Go right through this train. You want it? This kid will leave it on slow at once. Three-year-old John runs the train so fast it always crashes. Well, don't turn it so fast, yeah. John, don't moke you with that. I'll date one. The perfect day waivers in and out of focus. For a while, wobbling towards disaster, broken toys, hurt feelings, disappointment, and listening back towards happiness. Our three-year-old DJ puts a 45-of-win-chester cathedral in his new record player and runs his trains as fast as he can. Well, Greg misproduced today by the original staff of our radio show, Peter County, a wee speagle, an anti-optic and me. Anthony Roman has spent many, many hours relicencing all the music in today's rerun, lots of Christmas songs. Production up on today's rerun from Matt Tierney, Stone Nelson, Suzanne Gabber, and Seth Land. Christmas-froid caroling was by the formerly known as family, though a Riley-Kato Riley, Colmar Riley, and Jenny Magnus. Hi there, guys. This American Life is a little bit of public radio stations by PRX, the public radio exchange. Thanks today as always to our program's co-founder, Mr. Tori Malatia, who warns you, Freud will be back soon, stop deceiving yourselves. I'm Eric Glass. Back next week, we'll be more stories of this American Life.