Two Lines for Santa

           I think it might have been the last time my brother and I were to pose for a picture with Santa Claus.  Or it could just be the only such memorable occasion.  The overcast sky of early December cast its usual gloom over downtown Brooklyn as we – that is, my mother, my big brother and me – rushed up the escalator at the A & S department store.  I remember the distinct squeak of my black patent leather shoes and the weight of my dressy winter coat over my velvet dress, the color of which eludes me as I write this so many decades later.

            A few twists and turns through the infant/layout department, then children’s wear and finally Santa’s workshop, which was nothing more than a paltry space containing one big chair, one large man in a red fat suit and the kind of camera where the flash was held up on a long stick when a picture was to be taken.   Not that I could see any of that.  What I did see was one awfully long line to see Santa.  Even at such a young age, Santa’s cover had already been blown.  I knew he wasn’t real and I knew it didn’t matter what I asked him for.  Christmas morning would bring with it whatever toy my mother could afford: one for me, one for big brother.  I could even find out which toy it would be, as my brother was quite adept at finding hidden treasure.  At the time I thought he was pretty crafty.   Looking back I realize my mother’s choice of hiding places in our small apartment were limited to her bedroom closet, top shelf.

            Five minutes after joining the line we were bored silly and just wanted the whole thing to be over and done with.  It was hot and we were not allowed to sit on the floor because of the dress-up clothes.  So we stood there and waited, periodically shuffling forward a few inches. 

After some time, it became clear to me that there was another line for Santa which was parallel to ours and appeared to end miles ahead of where we stood in our line.  I enquired of my mother, who ignored me and then to my big brother, who knew pretty much everything else and he promptly told me to shut up.  I was terribly confused as to why my question would not be answered, so I asked again.  Nothing. I protested, “But the other line is so much shorter!  Why can’t we go on that line?  Look how fast it’s moving!”  No reply. And again, louder.  Finally, my mother scowled down and shushed me angrily.  Incredible!  How could they not see the logic?  What could I do?  I shut up and resumed the dreadful wait, purposely squeaking my shoes together - scuffs be damned!

Suddenly we were next in line and Santa’s whole stage was finally visible in my low line of sight.  It wasn’t what I saw that fazed me, but it did answer my earlier question.  There before my very eyes were two Santa’s identical in every way except for the color of their skin.  I was angry, “That’s it?  That’s the big deal?  We could have gotten out of here hours ago!”  I huffed and pouted on the white Santa’s lap, the one with the longer line, and wished I were the sort of child who could pee on a stranger’s lap at will.   Fortunately for Santa petulance wasn’t in my personal repertoire of childhood behaviors.

On our subway ride home, curiosity persisted in me.  I needed to know why.  “Why Mommy?  Why couldn’t we take a picture with the other Santa?”   She sighed heavily and said plainly, “Because Grandpa wouldn’t understand.”  Something in the weary look on her face told me to just leave it at that.  And thirty some-odd years later, I am still no closer to answering the question of “why”.