If you have read any history of the era, you already know the 1960s in Montgomery, Alabama, were filled with civil unrest, hatred and violence. Times were changing. People of every color were tense. John Kennedy was president.
And yet, in the middle of this cultural Cuisinart, the Normandale shopping mall was the coolest place in all the Deep South, especially in December. Everything a kid could want was there - ice cream, candy, toys, a bomb shelter in case of nuclear war; Normandale had it all - especially Loveman's.
When Santa came to Normandale, on a bejeweled train or a fire truck or on the wings of a parachute, Loveman's was where he set up shop. It was the North Pole South, the headquarters for the jolly old man, a department store filled with expensive merchandise and weirdly real mannequins. At Loveman's, Mr. Kringle observed his subjects from on high in an ornate chair way up in the big display window on the second floor.
Kids by the hundreds lined up to personally deliver their lists. I was one of them.
On several occasions I had studied Santa's perch at Loveman's through my Sears binoculars from the parking lot. He was round and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I looked closely at his beard for the telltale signs of fakery. Never saw one fake thing. He was legit: Real beard, real fat, real boots; no fake, plastic pull-up leggings leading to a pair of scruffy wingtips. To my eight-year-old mind, this dude was the authentic, white-haired, varsity Santa and all the others were his second- and third-string minions. Maybe my list would get to him if I handed it to one of his JV Santas down at the corner drugstore, but if I handed it to the Loveman's Santa, I'd be mainlining straight to the source. Better odds.
On the appointed night, after Huntley and Brinkly had finished spreading the seasonal cheer of Civil Rights angst, the evil deeds of humans upon each other and the Vietnam body count on the 6 o'clock news from NBC's local affiliate, WSFA, we drove up to Normandale in the old Biscayne.
The weather was cold and wet, and fog shrouded the festive reflections of multicolored Christmas lights dancing on the streets. Snowflake-shaped foil decorated the light poles around the parking lot and crinkled in the breeze. Andy Williams, Perry Como, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole and Burl Ives sang into the thick, cold humidity from unseen speakers. Gene Autry's "Here Comes Santa Claus" mingled with pine and cinnamon and the sweet smell of strong perfume, Chesterfields and Old Spice drifting across the crowds.
We got in line to see The Man.
I clutched my list tightly in my corduroy coat pocket as my breath hung, cloud-like, in the air. Every lower display window of Loveman's was animated with transfixing robotic holiday figures. Santa's elves worked stiffly in his workshop. Nativity scenes bent and turned. Strangely mechanical people rode sleighs and decorated trees and Santa eased up and down a chimney as an awkwardly turning child with one ear missing looked around the corner. The window decorations were showing some signs of wear. That missing ear really bothered me.
We turned the corner into the wind. There was a long line ahead of us. "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" scenes filled several windows. It was mesmerizing to my elementary-school brain. An hour went by and it was obvious we'd never get to the fat man before Loveman's closed, so we left.
It was useless, just too many kids with too many lists. I looked up at Santa as we drove away. It was a funereal experience.
I didn't fight it, but I was heartbroken. My parents saw it, too. My dad, not to be put off by a long line to see the real Santa, and at no small amount of urging by my mom, drove to Gaylord's, a low-price precursor to WalMart, where he knew we'd get an audience with, at least, a second-string Santa.
Gaylord's sat next to the state liquor store, a bad omen.
It was the opposite of Loveman's. Their everyday low-priced stuff might fall apart after one day, but Gaylord's always exchanged their cheap junk for more cheap junk. They had a never-ending supply. And Gaylord's had a Santa too, sort of.
We walked in and there he was, all alone in the corner, a red-suited runt, discarded next to the Icee machine, sitting in a folding chair decorated with fabric and cardboard to look bigger than it was. This was definitely not the Loveman's Santa. He had some cheese smeared on his white fur and mustard on his red coat. I had my doubts about the list transfer.
This poor elf was about 4'3" and weighed about 90 pounds. A mini-Ichabod Elf. His ratty Santa suit fit him like it was still hanging on the rack. He was pale, almost yellow – a jaundiced, jowl-less Santa wearing fake black, plastic leggings and scruffy brown wingtips. One was untied.
My worst fears were confirmed. I was about to be dealing with the bottom rung of Santa's organization. There was no line - no surprise. What kid would want to sit on the lap of this poor monument to all that had gone wrong with management at the North Pole? He stared off into the bowels of the store like his last post had been Hanoi.
I didn't want to, but I did it. Head hanging low and shuffling my feet,
I approached the red troll. As I got a breath's-length away, he
disgorged a belchy "Ho! Ho!," leaving off the last "Ho!" as if he'd
simply forgotten it.
Instantly, I knew where he'd spent his break. The putrid aroma of Old Granddad bourbon pounded me in the face. The door beside him wasn't ten feet from the liquor store and he eyed it wantonly as I came near.
I didn't get too close and didn't try to sit on his lap for fear of knocking him off the folding chair. He was pretty woozy anyway and his eyes were rheumy. His nose looked borrowed from Rudolph. The guy was sweating like a whore in church, so I stood my distance and folded my list and sort of flicked it toward him, hoping this desperate act would at least get my Christmas list desires put into the Santa system.
The paper bounced off his knee and landed on the floor next to the untied brown wingtip. I went to retrieve it, but he leaned over and reached for it ... and just kept going.
His obviously fake beard caught the edge of a decorative candy cane and the force of his fall yanked the rubber bands that held the skanky, squirrelish-looking chin-piece in place. He caught himself before he hit the linoleum and righted his skinny torso, but the beard jerked back and smacked him in the face. Now it hung from his forehead like a cascading, bad comb-over. His eyes rolled behind the unruly fake hair and he gurgled a gagging sound like a toilet about to overflow. He made no attempt to adjust the misbegotten beard; he was clearly just trying to not pass out or upchuck his liquid dinner.
He tried to smile and wave, and the deal was done. Snaggletooth Santa had my list in hand. I turned and ran like I had just handed over my deepest wishes to Fidel Castro. When I reached my parents, Dad said, "Well, he'll give it to his boss at Loveman's."
"Or to the clerk at the whisky store," Mom said with obvious disgust.
That Christmas, the basketball goal Santa brought could not be erected because of some missing parts. It got worse.
The hottest thing on anyone's list was the Mattel Vrroom Motor, the greatest invention ever thought up by humans: a plastic device that looked like a motorcycle engine that could be bolted to a regular bike, turning it into a loud, Harley-sounding machine.
I had lusted after this Vrroom Motor and Santa brought me one - with a mechanical problem. It was like a Craftsman tool had been thrust into my chest. I fought back the angry tears as the impotent Vrroom hung limp on my bike like a pathetic appendage. Every other kid in the neighborhood got one and it sounded like the Hells Angels were biking down our street – without me.
The only thing Santa had brought that worked was a sweater, and it was not even on my list. Idiot.
I still blame that drunken sot of a Santa from Gaylord's for my Christmas misery that year. I remember sitting in front of the tree listening to the symphony of Vrroom Motors roaring outside, wishing I could report that worthless, red-suited grunt to the real Santa at Loveman's. But I never got the chance.
Later that week, Benny, an older kid down the street, told me the truth about Santa. I was devastated. When I asked him where he got this shady information, he said his drunk uncle was the Santa at Gaylord's.
Figures.
-- T-Bone
great story. my fondest memories growing up in montgomery revolve around normandale!
the lovmans santa and window decorations are etched in my psychic, as well as toyland. not to mention the monkeys for sale at grants or was it woolworths?
living in the area, i spent countless hours fooling around this shopping center, learning all it's "secret" places.
remember when they had the "space" exhibit?
I was in montgomery last year and i'm sorry to report that i spotted junkies shooting up in the parking lot. needless to say, it's fallen fer from the vision i had of it from the early 60's. sad.
btw, i remember when they opened the first gaylords on the southern bypass. opening day they had a helicopter drop paper plates with discounts printed on them....
Posted by: pratt | February 16, 2007 at 01:28 PM