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The Santa Express

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During training, other Santas looked in awe at John Bell. They envied his size, his face, his beard. "I like his boots, too," one of them said. Jeff Angelo said Bell was a true "Coca-Cola Santa" and "smart as a whip." If you want to talk to a good Santa, talk to him, said Angelo. "That guy's cool."

Bell was 55 years old, a Vietnam veteran ("we won't talk about that"), a boilermaker who had become an intensive-care nurse. He wore a shirt that read, "Be naughty, save Santa a trip." He emphasized that he was from Santa Fe. He said a man's life could be divided into three stages: the time that he believes in Santa Claus, the time that he doesn't, and then, the time that he becomes Santa Claus.

"Because of girth, hair color and pigmentation," said Bell, "I have accidentally or by design been led to being Santa Claus." For many years he was just another large man, and then the friends of his children began whispering about him. Then kids began shrieking when they saw him. Then artists wanted to paint him.

In his first charity role, Santa Bell wore an artificial beard, plastic boot covers and a corduroy red coat "with skimpy fur." The experience was among the greatest of his life. The next year he grew a natural beard, a reddish-brown one that he had to bleach. That was the last time he used bleach, for a year later, he said, "some entity decided the beard should be white, and it began coming in that way, as did the hair."

He fell deeper and deeper into character. Aware that he was being watched, he rectified his behavior -- tried not to cuss, or lose his temper. Bell researched Santa's history at the library. He began keeping up with what's selling at Toys R Us and started watching cartoons ("I need to know what the characters of Cow and Chicken do").

During the holidays, Bell began wearing red scrubs to the hospital. He created a long scroll of the names of good girls and boys on which Perfecta would find herself, as would Pasqual, Lasheba and Lexi. In the parking lot outside his condominium, he spent weeks building himself a magnificent golden throne, flanked by giant metal candy canes that he fashioned from diesel tailpipe. The drawer below was for the real candy canes -- six different flavors, including bubble gum.

Santa Bell planned to make a sleigh and was trying to persuade his three grown sons to pose as reindeer. (He was going to raise a few reindeer until he realized their antlers fall off in November). No one in the family is laughing about this. Children believe in Santa Bell, and the Bells are all keepers of the trust. His daughter has stood by him as an elf, his wife, Sue, as Mrs. Claus. For "true believers" they may encounter, his wife carries candy canes in her purse wherever they go.

"This is something we take pretty seriously," she says.

Bell explains that he became Santa Claus for the same selfish reason he became a nurse: the feeling he derived from it. Every year a new generation of children reaches the age of belief. Tens of hundreds of thousands of children suddenly realize that Santa loves them, and they suddenly love John Bell.

He is moved to love them in return. When he is Santa Claus, Bell feels better about himself. He feels he's atoning for past mistakes. He doesn't fly into a rage at the traffic. A sense of joy and peace overwhelms him.

"I'm not seeking salvation as Santa," he says, "but what I'm getting comes from a higher source, and it's not Jeff, and it's not Sepia, and I don't think I can be crazy enough to feel this without it really happening."

The problem with charity work is that the gigs are brief. Santa Bell wanted more exposure to children, which is why he went commercial this year, for the first time ever. The job offered no health insurance or workers' comp. To discourage profiteer Santas, the pay was only about $10 an hour. Bell made arrangements to donate most of it to charity. He became a seasonal employee.

"Contractor's duties include but are not limited to the following: Helping children onto lap, creating smiles for photographer, telling children stories, taking requests for toys, reading children's letters (when time permits), passing out giveaways, being spirited and jolly."

The perfect Santa was assigned to the perfect shopping environment, the mall in a master-planned community. The Santa set at First Colony Mall was surrounded by two jewelers, a department store and a sporting-goods place. The set consisted of oversize alphabet blocks, bears and toy soldiers standing in a forest of 12 fake trees, over many bushels of plastic snow.

Bell was disappointed the first day by the dearth of children. It was November 12, and most people didn't know Santa was out and about. Things improved, and Bell eased into a 12-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week routine.

He drank exactly a gallon of pink lemonade every day to keep his mouth wet enough for the work. He ate four pickle-and-pimiento-loaf sandwiches ("You do of course recognize the color pattern"), two bananas for potassium, a handful of white grapes for carbohydrates and two Reese's Peanut Butter Cups because, what the hell.

He was granted two 45-minute breaks every day, during which he either ate in his truck or smoked beside the Dumpster. "Santa!" the security guard would say. "That's me," Santa replied.

After a smoke, he would go to his locker and gargle with Targon mouthwash and then massage some through his beard. When he wasn't smoking, he was chewing Nicorette, which was hard to do with just seven teeth, all of them on the lower jaw. Before leaving the locker room, just to get the adrenaline going, he always let loose with a few ho-ho-hos. His boots were equipped with bells, which jingled as he walked through mall. Crowds parted. He made his way to the throne.

"What's your name? My name is Santa Claus, but friends call me Santa."

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