Mall Santa and the Electric Touch

Santa was already shitfaced. It wasn’t even ten. A kid in a fluffy pink coat, maybe four, was screaming her lungs out.

Not crying. Screaming. A piercing, fire-engine wail that bounced off the fake snow and cheap tinsel, drilling directly into the base of my skull. The headache had been a dull, throbbing tenant behind my eyes since I clocked in. Beside me, Jason just adjusted his stupidly oversized elf hat, the tiny bells stitched to the points giving a nervous little jingle. That sound usually made my teeth ache, but right now it was the only thing that wasn't a child's shriek.

“Ho, ho… *hic*… pipe down, noisemaker,” Santa slurred, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re gonna make my hangover start early.” His fake beard was askew, glued-on wool pulling at one jowly, red cheek. The smell rolling off him was a toxic cocktail: peppermint schnapps, stale sweat, and something vaguely sour, like old milk. It clung to the air around the velvet throne, a holiday-themed biohazard. The kid’s mom, a woman with a hairstyle so stiff it looked like a helmet, was giving us a glare that could curdle eggnog. Jason caught my eye, a quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head. *Yeah, we’re fucked.*

The first few kids were a blur of sticky hands and impossible requests. A hoverboard. A real unicorn. My own desperate wish for the sweet release of death felt more plausible. Santa managed a few mumbled 'Merry Christmases' before the sixth kid, clutching a beat-up action figure, asked for a puppy. Santa squinted, his eyes struggling to focus, then let out a wet, barking laugh. “A puppy? Christ, kid. You know what a puppy is? It’s what your parents get you right before the divorce. A little furry guilt-payment that’ll piss all over the new apartment’s carpet. Then it dies. Everything dies.”

The mother audibly gasped. The kid’s face crumpled. Jason was already moving, his voice a low, urgent murmur. “Santa, sir, maybe… maybe we can talk about the magic of Christmas?” Jason's hand, surprisingly warm, brushed against the back of my arm as he leaned in. The contact was a jolt, a spark of unexpected heat that made my skin prickle. I flinched back, a stupid, involuntary reaction. Even in this shitshow, his proximity was a problem. *My* problem.

“Magic?” Santa barked, his voice carrying over the muzak. A few shoppers paused, turning to stare. “Magic is a bottle of cheap gin and a quiet room, kid. You want a toy? Go tell your dad to sell his shitty car. Look at the state of your shoes. He ain’t getting you jack.” He slammed a gloved hand on the armrest, a dull thump that rattled the flimsy plywood set. The kid in the pink coat started up again. My eardrums vibrated. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. The synthetic wool of my elf costume was suddenly suffocating, scratching at my neck.

Jason shot me a look. *Handle this*. His eyes, usually just sharp and observant, held a weight I hated. A kind of knowing patience that always made me feel like he was seeing right through my flimsy, sarcastic bullshit. He was good at this, the mall elf thing. Way too good. My job was handing out candy canes, not de-escalating a belligerent, drunk St. Nicholas.

I stepped forward, forcing a smile that felt like it was cracking my face. “And what a sense of humor Santa has!” I chirped, my voice painfully bright. I knelt down to the kid’s eye level. His face was a mess of tears and snot. “He’s just teasing! See, Santa’s reindeer… they eat a lot. He worries about money!” I glanced back at Santa, trying to send a telepathic message: *For the love of God, shut up*. He just squinted at me, then let out a long, wet burp that smelled like regret and fermented grain.

The helmet-haired mother scooped up her son. “This is a disgrace!” she hissed, loud enough for a nearby security guard to finally look up from his phone. She glared at Santa, then at me, then at Jason, lumping us all into one pile of festive failure. “I’m reporting this to management! You’ve ruined Christmas!” She stormed off, kid still wailing, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and fury.

Jason sighed, a quiet puff of air. He leaned against the faux-pine backdrop, watching her go. “Well, that’s one for the complaint box.” His posture was casual, but I saw the tight line of his jaw. He turned to me, a glint in his eye that was half amusement, half exasperation. “Good improv, Tim. ‘He worries about money.’ Fucking genius.”

My cheeks burned. It was a familiar, unwelcome heat that only ever seemed to show up when Jason’s attention was solely on me. “What was I supposed to do? He basically told the kid his family was poor and his parents were getting divorced!” I muttered, yanking at a loose thread on my tunic. “And you… you just stood there.”

“Tactical observation,” Jason said, pushing off the wall. He moved with a quiet efficiency that was unnerving. He was taller than me, broader, and even in that goddamn elf suit, he carried himself with an authority that had no place in a mall grotto. It was infuriating. “And besides, you’re better with the crying ones. All that… sensitivity.” He said ‘sensitivity’ like it was a rash.

“I’m better with them because they’re not screaming directly into my ear canal,” I shot back, rubbing my temples. The next family was approaching. A dad with a toddler on his hip and another kid wrapped around his leg. Oh, Christ. Two of them. Santa, meanwhile, was trying to pick a piece of tinsel out of his beard, only managing to tangle it deeper.

“Alright, new plan,” Jason said, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a low rumble that vibrated in my chest, cutting through the mall noise. The sudden proximity was jarring. I could smell the clean, crisp scent of his laundry detergent, a stark contrast to Santa’s boozy fog. His breath stirred the hair at my temple. I stopped breathing. “You run interference on Santa. Keep his mouth full. Get him to drink water, ask him about his goddamn elves, I don’t care. I’ll handle the kids. Quick on, quick off.”

“Interference how?” I asked, my voice tight. His nearness was scrambling my thoughts, making my heart hammer against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

“I don’t know, Tim. Ask him about Mrs. Claus’s gambling problem. The rising cost of reindeer feed. The geopolitical implications of a warming North Pole, for fuck’s sake,” Jason said, his gaze flicking between me and the approaching family. A smirk played on his lips. He knew. He knew he was getting to me. He always fucking knew. “Just keep him from telling a six-year-old that her drawing sucks.”

The next hour was an absurd, frantic ballet. I improvised entire backstories for the reindeer and had a one-sided debate with Santa about the logistical nightmare of FAA regulations. Santa, to his credit, seemed content to nod along, occasionally leaning toward a terrified-looking girl to rasp, “You know what they put in fruitcake? Lies. And probably asbestos. Don’t let ‘em fool you.”

Jason was a machine. He’d swoop in, get the kid on Santa’s lap before the old man could launch into a tirade, snap a photo, and have them off with a candy cane before they knew what happened. He was so damn good at this.

At one point, Santa leaned in close, his breath a hot, foul gust in my ear. “You,” he rasped, jabbing a gloved finger into my side. “Elf boy. You ever get the feeling this is all a cosmic joke? I sit here, my ass sweating through three layers of felt, listening to these greedy little monsters list their demands. Does anyone ask what Santa wants? Hell no. Santa can go piss up a rope for all they care.” He punctuated his existential crisis with another burp. I fought the urge to gag.

“Of course they do, Santa!” I chirped, my laugh sounding thin and brittle. “A happy Santa is… crucial for the Christmas economy!” I threw a desperate look at Jason. He was prying a toddler’s sticky hands off Santa’s beard and gave me a look that was equal parts sympathy and ‘you’re on your own, buddy.’

We barely made it to break. The tiny, windowless room backstage smelled of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner, but it felt like a goddamn sanctuary. Jason collapsed onto a plastic chair, running a hand through his dark hair.

“He tried to give a kid a five-dollar bill,” Jason said, his voice flat. “Told her a doll had ‘no long-term market viability’ and she go buy him a pack of bootleg smokes.” He shook his head, a small, humorless laugh escaping him. “I thought the dad was gonna have an aneurysm.”

I slid down the wall to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The linoleum was cold through my tights. “I think *I* had an aneurysm when he started explaining Bitcoin to a four-year-old.” My whole body felt like a clenched fist. “He was sweating through the suit, Jason. I could smell the schnapps just… cooking.”

“He’s a menace,” Jason agreed, his eyes closed. “And we’ve got four more hours. Manager said if we can get him through the day without a major incident, there’s a bonus.” He opened his eyes, and his gaze landed on me, sharp and focused. It felt like a physical touch, pinning me to the wall.

“A bonus?” I scoffed, trying for nonchalant. My voice cracked. Shit. “What’s the bonus, a bottle of Prozac and a gift card?” The heat was back, crawling up my neck. It was just Jason. So why did my body react like this every damn time?

He watched me, a faint smile on his lips. “You know, for someone who bitches constantly, you’re surprisingly good at this. The ‘asbestos in fruitcake’ thing almost made me laugh.”

The compliment landed like a punch to the gut. “It was desperation,” I mumbled, picking at the curled toe of my elf shoe, avoiding his eyes. “Pure, uncut desperation.” The air in the small room felt thick, charged. Like the moment before a lightning strike.

“Desperation’s a hell of a motivator,” Jason said, his voice softer now. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes locked on my face. My heart did a painful thud against my ribs.

“So… the bonus?” I croaked, needing to change the subject, to break the current building between us before I did something stupid.

Jason leaned back, the spell breaking just enough for me to breathe again. “Yeah. Five hundred bucks. Each. If we can keep Santa from getting arrested and Ms. Harleson from having a rage-stroke.” He picked up a half-eaten granola bar. “And I need that money, Tim. My dad’s car died. Total piece of shit. I’m trying to save for a new engine.”

He needed it. That was a bucket of ice water. “Okay,” I said, pushing myself up. My legs felt shaky. “Okay. What’s the plan? He’s only going to get drunker.”

Jason crumpled the wrapper. “Distraction’s not enough. We go on offense. We swap his flask for water. We get him coffee. Black and strong. We’ll tell him it’s ‘reindeer piss’ or something, he’s drunk enough to believe it.” He stood, and for a second he was just a dark shape against the buzzing fluorescent light. A small, genuine smile touched his lips. “Ready for round two, Elf Tim?”

I swallowed hard. The flush hadn’t left my face. But there was a weird surge of adrenaline, too. It wasn't just the money. It was this. This shared, insane mission. And him. It was always, somehow, about him. “Born ready, Elf Jason,” I said, forcing a grin.

He let out a low chuckle. It was a warm sound in the cold, sterile room, and it made something in my chest flutter, something I immediately tried to crush.

The afternoon was an escalating disaster. Our attempt to swap Santa’s thermos was met with a suspicious glare. “This tastes like goddamn tap water,” he grumbled. We ended up bribing a barista for espresso shots. It made him marginally less drunk and infinitely more irritable.

He told one little girl that her wish for a pony was stupid because “ponies are just angry, hairy dwarves” and that she’d “probably fall off and break her neck anyway.” Jason had to physically lift the child off Santa’s lap while I tried to explain that Santa was a big proponent of helmet safety.

Ms. Harleson, the mall manager, did a walkthrough, her smile stretched so tight it looked painful. By some miracle, Santa was in a quiet phase. “Wonderful work, boys! The Christmas spirit is just *glowing*!” she chirped. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying the glow was probably his liver shutting down. Jason shot me a warning look.

We fell into a rhythm. A strange, unspoken partnership. With every near-disaster we averted, every shared, frantic glance, the invisible wire between us pulled tighter.

Then, near the end of the shift, a little boy, no older than five, sat on Santa’s lap. He didn't ask for a toy. He just whispered, “My mommy’s sick. Can you make her better for Christmas?”

And Santa… sobered. For one clear, startling second. His bloodshot eyes focused, and he really *looked* at the kid. The mall noise seemed to fade away.

Santa sniffled, a wet, ragged sound. He patted the boy's head, his big, gloved hand surprisingly gentle. “Well, son, Santa ain’t a doctor. But… I’ll put in a good word upstairs. You hang in there.” It wasn’t the booming, magical answer. It was raw, and real, and it made my throat ache. Santa dug into a hidden pocket and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped chocolate. “Here. For the road.”

As the boy’s dad led him away, a weird quiet fell over the set. Santa looked… smaller. Defeated. The fight was gone. I looked at Jason. He was watching Santa, a strange expression on his face. He caught my eye, and we just stood there, looking at each other. The whole insane, heartbreaking, ridiculous day hung in the air between us.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Jason took a slow step towards me. Then another. He stopped right in front of me, so close I could feel the heat coming off his body.

His hand came up, slowly. My breath caught. My whole body went rigid. Instead of my face, his fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushed against the felt of my elf hat. He adjusted it, tilting it slightly. His thumb grazed the shell of my ear.

A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through me. My skin tingled where he’d touched, a phantom burn. I couldn’t breathe. He didn’t move his hand right away. His gaze dropped, deliberate and heavy, to my mouth. He stared for a beat that stretched into an eternity, and my lips parted on a shaky, silent breath.

“Your hat was crooked,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough thing that vibrated in the space between us.

His eyes, dark and intense, flickered back up to meet mine. The air crackled. The stress, the chaos, the shared glances—it all crashed together in this one, silent, loaded moment. This wasn't a mall grotto anymore. It was just him, and me, and this… thing between us that had no name.

I couldn't speak. My throat was tight. All I could do was stare.

He broke it first. A small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. His hand dropped, and he took a half-step back. The spell shattered, leaving me feeling cold and exposed.

He cleared his throat. “Alright, shift’s over,” he said, his voice back to normal, almost. There was a rough edge to it now. “Let’s get him backstage before he passes out on the throne.”

“Right,” I managed, my voice thin. I nodded, forcing my limbs to move. Normal. Act normal. But my ear was still burning, and my heart was still trying to beat its way out of my chest. As we helped the now-docile Santa off his throne, I glanced at Jason. He was already looking at me, a quick, searing look, before he turned away. The question in his eyes hung in the air between us, unanswered.

The cold bit at our faces as we finally escaped the mall. Santa was safely deposited with the night manager, who looked like she was already regretting all her life choices. Jason pulled his scarf tighter, his breath pluming white in the frigid air.

“Well,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “We survived.”

“Barely,” I shot back, my own breath fogging. The sharp cold felt good, real. “I think I have PTSD. Post-Tinsel Stress Disorder.”

“Probably.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He was quiet for a moment. “Walk you to your car?” It wasn't a question, not really. It was an offer. A continuation. And I knew, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that I was going to say yes.