BY MATT CHANDLER
Buffalo Law Journal

"So, do you have any experience doing this kind of work?"

While that may be a fairly vanilla question during most job interviews, when one is applying for the vaunted post of Mall Santa, it can draw a blank stare from many who sit just feet from the gilded throne they are attempting to fill.

After all, exactly how does one acquire experience dressing up as a fat old man and taking orders from packs of screaming children?

Not to be deterred by such a challenge, I sat up straight, cleared my throat and, while sliding a crisp copy of my resume across the table, announced that my character work had included stints as Chuck E. Cheese, Clifford the Big Red Dog, The Cat in the Hat and The Easter Bunny.

The words were barely out of my mouth, still hanging in the air, when it struck me with an odd sense of embarrassment that I had just announced that I was once paid to dress as a rat while over-caffeinated children attempted to rip my tail as a selling point to get a job.

For a guy who quit trick-or-treating before the age of 10 because I thought it was weird, there was a certain irony in the path my adult life had taken. Nonetheless, here I was on a crisp autumn afternoon, standing in a cattle call auditioning to play old St. Nick.

Though it may have been the only job interview in my life where I left hoping I didn't get the position, there was still a part of me that was intrigued by the proposition of the boots, the beard and the bells. The idea of wielding the power to make a kid's Christmas wishes come true (or at least royally irritate some parents) had a certain appeal to it. Best of all, contrary to what one might think, the pay wasn't too bad. As I hurried away from the table, glancing nervously over my shoulder and hoping that no one I knew saw me, I stopped to steal a peek at the Santa throne. As I walked away, a voice in my head told me I'd be back. One week later, I was.

As I sat through my mandatory "Santa School" prior to donning the red velvet suit for the first time, the boss laid out the ground rules, which to me seemed to be fewer than I expected and, frankly, most seemed to be common sense. No smoking in the suit. Check. No drinking within two hours of your shift starting. Check. No flirting with the customers or their parents while in the suit. Check, check. And most of all, under no circumstances are you EVER to promise a child they will get a specific gift. Check.

Like those who will always remember where they were when JFK was shot, I will never forget cinching up my big black belt and sauntering out into the mall for the first time.

I felt like Elvis. Children mobbed me from all sides. Moms smiled and occasionally flirted (which, per rule No. 3, I did not reciprocate). People clamored to have their pictures taken with me. It was so crazy I had to have an escort to get safely from the changing room to the throne, where I was greeted by another swarm of screaming children lined up waiting for the privilege of sitting on my knee and bending my ear for a few precious seconds.

Any sense of stardom was quickly dashed the moment my heavily padded rear end hit the seat. From that moment forward, I was subjected to five hours of climbing, demanding, crying, wet people coming at me from all directions - and those were just the parents.

I was poked, prodded, bribed, threatened and intimidated. These kids wanted their loot, and they weren't going to let some tubby old guy who needed a shave move them along with some open-ended you-be-good-and-Santa-will-see-what-he-can-do-for-you line. I was vomited on, peed on, sneezed on and ... well, you get the picture.

However, it wasn't all bad. For every hundred or so kids who defiled me both physically and verbally, there was the sweet child who would climb up on me and look me in the eye with that pure sense of innocence and gently ask me for a few simple items, give me a quick hug and climb back down, scurrying off into their mother's arms. They brought me letters, cards, candy and, in one case, even cash taped to a little girl's wish list. They were sweet, they were adorable, and they were the exception.

As my knee began to ache, my tailbone throbbed and my face broke out in heat rash from the fake beard, I would drown out the endless requests for video-game systems and iPods and let my mind drift away to that moment when the photo girl would announce to the crowd that Santa has to go up to the roof to check on his reindeer.

Those magical words were my cue that another shift was over and, for a few fleeting moments, I could enjoy rock-star status as I made my way, via escort, back to the changing room.

Once safely behind closed doors, I began to peel off the sweat-soaked suit and thought to myself: This still beats being a giant rat.