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The Santa Express

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They were little blond girls in green velvet dresses, red bows and black patent leather shoes. They were boys in monster truck T-shirts, with broken-picket-fence smiles. They were true believers like three-year-old Alison Ondrusek, who in the bath had lately been ho-ho-hoing with bubbles on her chin.

To understand how the children felt, Angelo told his staff to imagine they were going to see God. Some children ran to Santa. Others were dragged screaming by their parents like a dog on a leash. Pictures were about $10 a pop. "Say stinky cheese!" It was often impossible to get a smile. The toughest customer was the toddler, who was generally terrified of Santa Bell. The elves tried feather dusters, teddy bears, bells, keys. Santa tried raising the pitch of his voice, lowering his volume, opening his eyes very wide, even rouging his cheeks. It rarely worked. Until they were about three years old, the children were immune to his spell.

Most kids wanted Pokémon something. Five-year-old Erin Boyd wanted an Amazing Allie doll and some rocks for her fish. Ryne Handelman wanted a train track, more Hot Wheels and he couldn't remember what else. Laura Gorham wanted fingernail polish. Bobby, in his bright red vest, wanted to know why Santa couldn't remember what Bobby had just told him at that other mall.

Santa Bell sprinkled glitter and told them it was the magic dust that allowed the reindeer to fly. He did Buzz Lightyear impressions: "To infinity and beyond!" He cleaned goop from the eye of an infant. He said to three-year-old Amelia, "I love your hat. It is so happening." He hung the candy cane in the child's pocket, hugged him, and with a touch of the finger to the tip of the nose, said, "Merry Christmas! I love you. I'm glad you came to see me."

The children usually walked away slowly, sometimes looking back. Alice Calicher, the grandmother of Alexis, said, "That's the best Santa I've ever seen." Other parents said the same: John Bell "keeps the magic alive."

He got home late, usually. His back was tired, his biceps sore from the lifting. A green line ran along his temple where cheap Santa glasses had corroded from his sweat. Santa Bell was nearly weeping the night he told his grown daughter about the four-year-old whose only request was shoes for her Barbie. His daughter said to him, "We might have to take you in for psychiatric consultation."

The International Council of Shopping Centers predicted a 6 percent increase in holiday sales over last year. Retailers were expecting to take in about $187 billion.

"Santa matters a lot," said Ashlyn Booth, the marketing director at First Colony Mall. People who came to see Santa usually ate in the food court and perhaps bought a gift. "Santa is a huge draw."

Jeff Angelo said he was too busy putting out fires to enjoy the magic this year. The new cash registers were supposed to forward sales figures to headquarters, but they did nothing of the kind. Angelo had managers who were wandering off to go shopping, and unemployment had dipped so low that stores were hiring away his elves.

In years past, he has had a problem with Santas who quit smiling for the camera: Their cheeks were tired? That was not a problem this year, but there was a Santa in Colorado who was getting his hair styled for free. Angelo called and told him to quit that. The next thing he heard, Santa had gotten JCPenney to install a La-Z-Boy in the break room and was having complimentary meals brought in. Angelo sent him a pink slip. Santa cried.

Angelo called it "Santatude" and said it happened when a man took his job too seriously. In most cases, Santatude displayed itself as greed and imperiousness. In Santa Bell's case, however, it was the uncommon desire to protect those who adored him. Bell was the Santa with a conscience, the one who was more than a prop. And by the first part of December, Bell had concluded, "This marketing effort the child is being funneled through, with Santa as ventricle, has its problems."

He had raised five children and claimed to know what gifts were appropriate for whom. When a child asked, Santa Bell said no, he would not deliver puppies, kittens, iguanas, Ricky Martin or anything that was alive. Neither would he bring anything that kills. This goes for guns, trampolines and any gift that requires gasoline. Santa had treated too many kids in the emergency room for any of that. Santa also declined to bring any dismember-and-cannibalize-the-enemy video games. If parents wanted their child to have these things, parents could put their names to them. But "I as Santa will not condone it."

To the obviously poor child, he suggested an inexpensive present, as a hedge against disappointment. To young gluttons, he said simply, "That is an excessive wish list." To those who wanted Pokémon or Barbie, he generally said okay. Pokémon seemed a gentle game, and as he saw it, parents who are worried about Barbie "need to spend a whole lot of time on their knees grateful that's all they have to be worried about."

Depending on the photo and the conversation, the whole thing took about five minutes. No parents ever said Santa Bell spent too much time with their child, but they did complain of waiting in line for hours. A few griped that Santa had promised something they had not intended to buy. Booth, the mall's marketing director, who by now had noticed that she was not listed among the good little girls, called Sepia to report a few problems.

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