Stan Anderson had arrived.
The red two-door beater car, decorated with about twenty bumper stickers includingRudolph is my co-pilotandMy other ride is a sleigh, came to an abrupt stop beside Natalie’s truck, sending a dust plume into the vendor area. Complaints and coughing were barely heard above the blast of Christmas tunes from the car’s speakers.
She gave Mason a questioning glance but there was no point in explaining anything when it would be difficult for her to hear anyway. Instead, he shook his head, rolling his eyes.
The music cut mid-song when the car shut off. Out stepped Santa, dressed in a red velvet costume, snow-white wig, and beard. The one thing not fitting with this stereotypical picture were the designer sunglasses and Santa texting on his phone. Bentley ran to greet the guy, continuing to bark.
“Yo, Mase, I didn’t see my VIP parking spot. I thought we added that to my contract.” Santa tossed Mason his keys as though he was the valet. “It’s all right. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Bentley, hush.” He tossed the keys back. “We took that out, along with your request for a personal nap trailer. Remember?”
“How many times do I have to reiterate? It’s not a nap trailer. It would be a holiday meditation room. It takes a lot of energy to beonall the time. You know who doesn’t holiday meditate? Dick Kline. And it shows. That old man is sleeping in half the photos he takes. The elves that run that pony show use a special app to apply open eyes and rosy cheeks, so parents don’t have to explain why their kids are sitting on the lap of what looks to be Weekend at Bernie’s: Santa Edition. I keep telling you, Mase, being Santa is not an old man’s game. It’s a way of life and you paid for Kriss Kringlegold, so your families are going to get the Kriss Kringlegold experience. Just make sure that check is made out to Stan Anderson. For some reason, the bank won’t let me open an account under the name Kriss Kringlegold even when I showed them the article featuring me in theEl Dorado Times. This is a page-five Santa you got working here. Don’t ever forget it.”
Diva Santa took the gig seriously and also had the bona fide middle-aged white guy confidence to go along with it, making for a barely tolerable personality during the season. But the man was liked by children and parents alike, and his seriousness meant he was good at the job. He just allowed the obnoxiousness to fester over his whole life from October to January.
Natalie scoffed, catching Stan’s attention. He turned, his mouth open as though he was ready to unleash fury on her, only to find himself faced with a beautiful woman. The open mouth switched to a page-five-Santa smile. Mason, the VIP parking spot, and the nap trailer were forgotten at this point. Stan reached one pristine, white-gloved hand in her direction. “Hello there, young lady,” he said, claiming a handshake before speaking again to Mason. “You know, Mase, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to finally get Santa a Mrs. Claus this year. No one likes a lonely Santa.”
“Nope,” he replied, not appreciating how Stan was still grasping her hand.
“Well, Kriss Kringlegold is used to carrying the show.” He rubbed a thumb across Natalie’s knuckles while keeping his eyes locked on her. “I’m Kriss, that’s kiss with an R. You probably recognize me from the Cameo app. I get a lot of personal requests there. If you ever get tired and need a rest, my lap is yours. It even comes with a big candy cane.” He wiggled his eyebrows and tipped her hand nearer as though he was about to kiss it even though she was making a not-so-subtle attempt to pull away.
“I’m pretty sure someone told me I was paying for the Kriss Kringlegold experience, not for you to creep on the other vendors,” Mason said while prying Stan away. “People are going to show up soon and you need to get to your area.” Thankfully, the Santa photo booth was on the opposite end of the food vendors.
While Stan allowed himself to be escorted away, he walked backwards, still talking to Natalie. “Hey, baby, I’m also going to need a hot chocolate brought to my booth. None of that packet shit. I want grade-A real hot chocolate served at 160 degrees and exactly three marshmallows.” He held up three fingers to confirm his exact order.
She crossed her arms, not appearing at all amused. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that, Santa. You have cows on this farm, Mason? Apparently, I need to go milk one to make sure the ingredients are fresh enough for his jolly holiness.”
“I’ll have someone bring that extra heater over to you as soon as I get this one situated,” he replied, yanking Stan toward his end of the vendor section.
“I might need some heating up too. Santa get cold, baby.” Stan was walking with Mason willingly now instead of fighting him. “Hey, hey, careful manhandling the suit. I got this custom-made with velvet brought all the way in from Carson City, the Paris of Nevada. This ain’t no velour shit. This is hundred percent silk rayon velvet here. Do you think Dick Kline is walking around in silk velvet? No, he’s polyester from top to bottom. The only thing real about him is the hair…and the beard. But I special-ordered my wig with real hair so I think we can agree it’s pretty much the real thing.”
“All right, Stan, you can tone it down now.”
“It’s Kriss. K-R-I-S-S. So, who’s the lady? Do you know if she’s available?” He broke out his phone again and started scrolling through his Instagram feed.
“She’s not available to you. And I don’t want to hear about you bothering her.”
“Who said anything about bothering? I just want to, I don’t know, get to know her a little better. What’s her handle?”
“Stan. No.”
He slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, his blue eyes studying Mason closely. “Is there something going on between you guys? Are you dating?”
He didn’t think, responding quickly. “Uh-huh. Yup. There, uh, might be…something going on between us. Leave her alone.” He knew this lie had the potential to get him into trouble but if he explained everything to Natalie, she might understand. Plus, he was actually doing her a favor because Stan could be extremely buggy, especially when he considered himself the biggest catch outside the North Pole.
The man clapped him on the shoulder. “Good for you, Mase. You got yourself a sweet little candy cane there.”
“Yeah, don’t say that. And don’t tell anyone. This is a business, not a high school text group. No gossiping.” Mason was already sounding more like his dad.
He pushed the sunglasses up his nose again. “Yeah, I hear you, big guy. I hear you. So…can I get that heater then?”
“Fine. I’ll bring an extra heater. Are we good?”
Stan tapped his phone against his fake-bearded chin, the wheels clearly turning in his head. “What about that V.I.P. parking spot?”
The muscles along his jaw tightened as he realized Stan was attempting to take advantage of his inside information. He didn’t see what could be gained by admitting the blackmail material Diva Santa thought he possessed was in reality a lie to keep him in line. It was probably better to push ahead and make Stan happy. “You have to park in the same area as everyone else. But if I put up an orange cone in the corner of the lot and tape a piece of paper with your name on it, will that work?”
“Will you put Kriss Kringlegold?”
