Page 5 of Hacking the Holidays
“You can’t blame me for trying to play Cupid during the holidays,” Brenda said with a shrug. “Anyway, they’re all here because of you. I swear, ever since you started volunteering here, it’s like magic follows you around.”
“I’m always happy to help, but I think you’re giving me way too much credit,” I said, while behind her a child was systematically dismantling one of the table-top Christmas trees with the determination of a tiny, festive demolition expert.
“Nonsense—you’re our good luck charm!” Brenda replied, then her eyes got that conspiratorial gleam. “Our shuttle bus was dying a slow mechanical death, and just yesterday, the sales manager from the Seattle Ford dealership delivered a brand new fourteen-passenger shuttle bus with a wheelchair lift, all paid for by some mysterious anonymous donor! Do you have any idea what those things cost?”
$129,900.00, plus tax, title, and license fees.
“Between you and me, I think we have our very own Christmas angel,” Brenda added. “Or maybe it’s that mysteriousGood Samcharacter everyone’s been buzzing about. It’s so funny he has the same name as you.”
I’m not laughing.
“He could be here right now …” Brenda glanced around the center, inspecting the guests. “Can you imagine that?”
More than you know.
Of all the statistical possibilities for internet nicknames—with millions of potential combinations in the English language—the collective hive mind had to settle on “Good Sam.” It made perfect linguistic sense to shorten it from “Good Samaritan,” but when your actual name was Sam and you were the one doing the work, the irony reached levels that would make a statistician weep.
One thing was for sure, I needed to wrap up this whole operation fast and deliver as many Christmas miracles as possible. After that, I would vanish back into digital anonymity before someone connected the very obvious dots.
“Anyway, I am babbling again,” Brenda said with a knowing smile. “I will let you get to work.”
“Wait—I thought you said you were going to find me an elf substitute,” I said. “It’s pure chaos without one.”
My usual elf volunteer, Jaqueline, was glowing and showing, and apparently, pregnancy wasn’t the ideal image the community center board of directors wanted their Christmas elf to have. My backup elf had called in with the flu, leaving me in desperate need of someone to manage the pandemonium that was about to unfold.
“He’s coming right now!” Brenda said, gesturing behind me with barely contained glee.
I turned around and froze, immediately understanding why she looked so amused.
Harold Simmons, the seventy-five-year-old senior program director, was approaching in what could only be described as the most tragic elf costume in holiday history. The green tights were simultaneously too tight in someplaces and too loose in others, creating a sight so disturbing it should have come with its own viewer discretion warning and a toll-free counseling hotline.
“You owe me for this,” Harold muttered, tugging desperately at his tunic in a futile attempt to achieve coverage that the laws of physics had already determined was impossible.
I shook my head, trying not to laugh. “You owe me, because this image is going to be permanently burned into my retinas. I may need therapy.”
“Well, I think you look adorable, Harold!” Brenda chirped with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly didn’t know she needed glasses. “By the way, make sure each family fills out the contact form, so we know where to send the photos.”
“Of course,” Harold said.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I said, making my way to the oversized, red-velvet throne on the stage and taking a seat.
A harried-looking father at the front of the line wrestled a child who was eyeing me with the deep suspicion usually reserved for people who were trying to sell life insurance for ten dollars.
“Come on, Tyler,” the dad coaxed. “Say hello to Santa.”
Harold took over, taking the boy’s hand and leading him up the stage and onto my lap. “Santa, this is Tyler.”
“Ho ho ho!” I boomed with practiced enthusiasm. “Welcome, welcome …”
Tyler stared at me for a long moment, then poked my fake stomach with the scientific curiosity of a miniaturemedical examiner. “Your belly is bigger than my mom’s. She has my baby sister inside. Who do you have inside yours?”
“Tyler,” his father warned in that universal parental tone that translated to “please don’t embarrass me.”
“That’s the result of too many Christmas cookies,” I explained. “It’s an occupational hazard. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Tyler. Have you been good this year?”
He glanced at his dad, then shrugged with the honesty that only children possessed. “My grandma is the only one who thinks so.”
“Grandmas are excellent judges of character,” I said with a grin. “Do you have any special requests this year for Christmas?”
