Page 6 of Hacking the Holidays
The kid’s eyes transformed into dollar signs. “I want a new PlayStation, the Spider-Man collector’s edition, a fifty-inch TV for my room, a gaming desk and chair, and?—”
“Wow,” I interrupted gently before he could name everything in the Best Buy catalog. “That’s quite an ambitious list. I’ll have to check with my elves about production capacity and shipping logistics.”
“Why don’t you use Amazon Prime?” the father asked with a smirk. “Everybody will get their presents in two days.”
It didn’t matter that I wasn’t really Santa or that his idea was preposterous—my brain couldn’t help running the calculations …
Christmas Eve meant delivering to roughly 526 million children across 195 countries in a 31-hour window,accounting for time zone rotations. That worked out to approximately 16.9 million deliveries per hour, using over 10,000 Boeing 747s. The physics were laughably impossible, but having a conversation with the father about orbital mechanics and logistics optimization seemed like overkill.
Instead, I opted for, “Not a bad idea. Thanks for the tip!”
After Tyler was photographed with me, Harold led him off the stage and then approached with my next visitor.
“Ho, ho, ho!” I said. “Who do we have here?”
This child was unique. I noticed it the moment I saw him standing in the line by himself. A boy around seven, with serious brown eyes that seemed older than his years and clothes that were clearly loved but had definitely seen better days.
“This is Carter,” Harold said with unusual gentleness.
“Hello there, Carter,” I said, my Santa voice automatically softening. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Hi, Santa,” he said.
Carter settled onto my lap with movements so careful it tugged at my heart—a protective instinct I hadn’t expected. Something was going on with this kid, no doubt about it.
“Have you been good this year?” I asked.
He nodded solemnly. “I try, but it’s not always easy when kids tease me about my shoes. Mom says being good is important, especially when everything’s … hard.”
“Your mom sounds wise,” I said gently, taking a quick peek at his worn shoes when he broke eye contact with me. “Is she here with you today?”
Carter shook his head. “No. She has two jobs. My bigsister brought me here. She’s by the cookies talking to a boy.” He pointed toward the refreshment table, then leaned closer like he was sharing privileged information. “She said she likes him, but it’s a secret.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I won’t say a word. Are you looking forward to Christmas?”
“Yeah …” Carter was quiet for a moment, picking at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve before shrugging. “I know Christmas costs a lot of money, so maybe I can have a book this year. But …” He looked up at me with those too-somber eyes. “Could you help my mom instead of giving me a book? She complains about the bills sometimes. And our heater is broken, so we can’t sleep at our house right now because it’s too cold.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Where are you staying?”
“With Grandma and Grandpa. They’re fun, but their house is tiny, and Grandpa farts when he walks.” Carter’s voice got even smaller. “My dad died, so I have to be the man of the house now. But sometimes when I hear Mom crying in the bathroom, I don’t know what to do because she thinks I can’t hear her.”
His story hit me harder than I’d expected since it was a reminder of my own past, and the reason I’d started this whole digital operation.
This brave little boy was shouldering burdens that would flatten grown men, and his first instinct was to ask Santa to help his mom instead of himself. The protective urge that surged through me was so strong I had to grip thechair arms to keep from wrapping him in a bear hug that would probably violate several Santa-child interaction protocols.
“Carter, your mom is incredibly lucky to have such a thoughtful son,” I said. “And I’m so glad I met you.”
The photographer moved in for a few shots of us together, then I leaned closer to the boy. “I’m going to do everything I can to help your family this year. Hang in there; things are going to get better soon. I promise.”
“Thank you, Santa.” The hug Carter gave me was fierce and trusting and nearly destroyed my carefully maintained Santa composure.
The parade of kids continued for the next three hours—children requesting everything from iPhones and gaming consoles to Barbies, bikes, and the occasional pony. Some handed me extensive lists, others wanted their parents to stop fighting, and one memorable six-year-old asked if I could make her little brother “less annoying but not completely gone.”
By the time the last child had their photo taken, my list had grown to nine families I wanted to help. My fingers were already itching to get back to my keyboard and turn their struggles into Christmas miracles.
As the stragglers lingered around the refreshment table at the end of the event, enjoying the last of the cookies and carols, I slipped backstage and peeled off the Santa suit. The beard came off, then the fake belly, and within minutes I was back in my comfortable street clothes and outside on the sidewalk, glancing down Highway 2.
The entire downtown sparkled with Christmas magic—twinkling lights and garland wrapped around every lamppost, people strolling or stopping to admire some of the storefront window displays, the sound of carolers in the distance, and that wonderful smell of street vendors roasting chestnuts nearby. This was my favorite time of year, when the entire world seemed to believe in humanity and possibilities again.
