All he wanted for Christmas was the job as that jolliest old elf. Part-time gigs weren't too hard were they? Ah, but nothing was guaranteed these days. He knew what he had to do. What should he reserve for the teens too old to be there in the first place? He'd smirk a slight titter with just the right tilt of his head with arched eybrows. For the parents serving up the usual jokes, he'd chuckle or chortle, his voice now taking on the deep tones with his shoulders bouncing up and down just enough. Of course, for the children old enough and brave enough to bounce on his lap, pull his beard, poke at his eyes and nose to see how he'd react, he could call out each "ho ho ho" from a jiggling belly strongly enough to send them bouncing onto the floor if needed -- not too hard, just enough to guffaw "Merry Christmas" as helper elves escorted them away. He practiced in the mirror. Cookies and milk through the nose was tricky to master. "Heehaws" were nixed because they sounded too much like tippled reindeer on New Year's Eve. He watched Fr. Christmas over and over on tv, determined to copy such impeccable style. Such joy was hard to fake this season when so much had gone wrong. Still, he was spending Christmas with his grandchildren, three-year old twin boys and their one-year old twin sister. As Santa Claus, he would learn what gifts other children dreamt of opening, and he'd buy them for his family's Yule - their first together in two years. There he stood in front of his looking glass. His red jacket was draped on the bed but his black boots were polished so brightly they shone, golden suspenders held up pants up while sparkling against his as fresh white shirt. Three little ones tottled in, cried out, "Santa Claus!" and showered him with hugs. Deep within his heart, a babble started trickling softly, crescendoed with each kiss, and then pealed out in pure joy. Soon all harmonized with a whimsical, gleeful chorus. Yes, he would get this job. He had found his Christmas song.