There's No Other Store Like...

Work sucks. Work in vacation sucks harder. There are no exceptions to this rule.

I received a call around one in the afternoon. At the time, I was watching a Simpsons marathon on cable, and eating toast in my old trackies. “It’s a really great job, and the people are really nice, and the kids really love it.” Monica worked in the HR department of David Jones. I should have picked up on her desperation by the amount of times she said ‘really’, but Christmas time? Santa’s workshop? My inner child couldn’t help herself. Besides, I needed the extra cash. “Congrats! David Jones in the city? How glamorous!” Tiffany was such a sucker for the marble floor and high ceiling department store. It started to rub off on me after ten minutes on the phone. Surely, working at the store would be as good as shopping at the store?

I rotated on five jobs in the Christmas Cave: the magic Christmas tree, the queues, lucky dip, the carousel, and balloons. None of these were exciting as they sound. Imagine a seven-foot talking Christmas tree with a painted smile on, and shifty eyes. At times, this was my favourite job. I was able to sit down, alone, behind a cardboard backdrop, and confuse the kids that walked by. ‘Hello there! Meeerrry Christmas! My name’s David! The magical Christmas tree!’ It was even better when it confused the parents. Other times, it wasn’t my favourite job. Usually the microphone smelled of the sour and stale breath from the person before me. There were also the kids that wanted to stay and talk. “I know you’re not real. How could you get here from the north pole with no legs?” There wasn’t much I could say but “I’m magic!” and secretly give them the finger.

It’s impossible to avoid queues at Christmas time, and if you think lining up is bad, watching people line up is worse. This role was about standing still and giving people the OK to move on to the main event. It would have been boring as batshit, if it weren’t for the chitchat. “Finally! We’re at the front Chanel!” I smiled with her, while Chanel played limbo with the velvet rope. “These queues are unbelievable! We’ve been waiting to see Santa for thirty minutes.” “This is the queue for face painting and lucky dip.” I found the same lady in the queue for Santa later. She had her eyebrow raised at the children pushing in. She scanned the room for the parents in question. Chanel was busy ripping down the Christmas set. “Mummy! Look at this big candy cane!” To make the lines move quickly, there were three Santa’s concealed behind three different curtains. Funnily enough, I never saw one of them. I did hear a lot about Santa no. 3, though. “Again?” I asked the photographer. “Yeah, this is his second or third warning.” Santa was taking cigarette breaks that lasted entire shifts. “We know he’s still around, though.” “How do you know?” “Well, he left his things on his chair – this month’s issue of Screw.”

Time spent on the lucky dip involved trips to and from storage for more prize packs. There were two variations: A ceramic flower for girls with yellow, pink, and green paint, or a ceramic car for boys with blue, red, and black paint. Sometimes parents would buy two spins for one kid. “I want two of the boys prize, mum!” Then we were stuffed. Luckily, mum put both the ceramic cars away to be opened at home.

The carousel was the main attraction. It was more popular than Santa - at least for the kids. Helping them on and off the ride was an awkward job. I hadn’t signed any child protection forms, and as far as I’m aware no one did. We were asked to lift the kids on and off the ride if they couldn’t get up themselves. I also had to tell the heavy ones they couldn’t sit on the horses.

Balloons duty involved standing by the entrance with a large bouquet, and handing out the helium. A few parents asked me how much each balloon cost. I could have made more in an hour than what I was already getting paid. Unfortunately, my supervisor was too close to make any transactions. “They’re free.”

These jobs were different from filing reports and emails, but it became pretty ordinary after a few hours. It had the same dynamics you get everywhere else. There was that one male colleague that was too touchy-feely. Every time a female co-worker passed by he would open his arms for hug, then push his groin against her for self-gratification. Our manager was only ever seen from a distance like most offices. He always wore black suit pants, a white shirt, and black tie. He never smiled. Then there was our water cooler. In our case it was a helium tank. We would congregate here and inflate red and green balloons while we bitched about customers and colleagues.

Work sucks. Work in vacation sucks harder. There are no exceptions to this rule. I wanted to tell Monica 'No, it’s really not a great job. The people are not really nice, and the kids are really not going to remember it'. I also wanted to smack my inner child with a big wooden spoon. Not only did I miss out on my break with family and friends, but Christmas just lost all its hype. Wizzard wishes it could be Christmas everyday. Wizzard have no fucking clue. At least one person was able to see the truth. Tiffany visited to see how glamorous the job was. An oversized t-shirt, black pants, and flat shoes made my uniform. My hair would stand up because of the helium balloons. I had dark circles under my eyes because of twenty hours work on five hours sleep. The Christmas Cave felt more like Santa’s sweatshop, and I, an underpaid elf with blistered fingers and a bad back. OK, maybe I’m exaggerating about the blistered fingers. After all, I was able to earn a bit of money. Most of which was spent on train tickets, food, tolls, petrol, and parking for work. I also learnt some valuable lessons like how to watch a queue. I mean, where would the world be if I didn't know the quickest route to the toilets? Last, but not least, a lesson for all: do not put your kids on Santa lap no. 3. Why would you when Myer’s just next-door?