I once spent a day playing Santa for the rich. It was a party held in Carmel by a big famous corporation for upper management and their families. As I crossed the room to my chair I imagined them sizing me up from a business point of view. Santa was setting a bad precedent by giving away product, they thought, but a superior labor system (unpaid elves with nowhere else to go) and an innovative product delivery method (flying reindeer/sleigh) clearly gave him an edge. Perhaps Santa's operation was worth considering as an acquisition. Would it come with exploratory drilling rights at the North Pole?

I sat down, trying not to look drunk. Not that I was drunk, but I had heard a rumor that the year prior, Santa was played by a rum-soaked company V.P. who had creeped out most of the kids, so it was up to me to restore Santa's reputation.

The kids got in line, playing games on palm pilots and exchanging stock tips. By the time they got to my lap, their parents reappeared, spying. Kids are funny. Sometimes they won't tell their parents what they want, but they'll tell Santa. So the parents eavesdrop. If a child whispered in my ear, the parents would send them away to watch the souvenir Polaroid develop, and pump me for information. Once in a while they'd tip me, which was awkward. My red satin gloves were no good for holding anything small, and the suit had no pockets. Besides, what if a youngster witnessed a Santa bribe?

Kids were eager to believe that I was really Santa, despite the terrible beard and padding. It's not like Halloween. On Halloween, when you dress up as Darth Vader nobody really thinks you're Darth Vader. But dress up as Santa and kids will climb into your lap and look at you with a clear and simple love that will make you blush. Presents from Santa are a confirmation from an all-knowing being that you are, deep down, good. Perhaps for this reason some kids fear Santa as a wrathful God, sure to bring the hammer down this year for various transgressions. They squirm and cry in Santa's lap, placed there by parents trying to get a cute photo. Ha. They're terrified. This episode will later come up in therapy.

I wonder what happened to all those photos. It's strange to think of myself appearing in all these people's "precious memories" albums or on gramma's refrigerator door. It's a weird kind of celebrity, like being inside Barney the Dinosaur. When the kids grow up and look at the pictures, will they see the Santa of their youth or just Oz in red polyester?

Sometimes I would work in cahoots with the parents. Here's how it worked: the parent would stand behind the little supplicant, listening. If the request was for something the parent was planning to buy, I would get a confirming nod, and I could strongly hint that I could make that dream come true. "My elves make excellent cell phones," I would say. "I think I can reserve one for you. Think you can be good for the rest of the year?" Requests for things like tattoos or ponies got the parental head-shake, so I would be discouraging. "Ponies are afraid to get into the sled."

"You mean sleigh?"

"Sleigh, yes, ho ho ho." The kids were sticklers about the details.

The hardest part of the gig is confronting kids who are just on the cusp of not believing. It's a hard thing to have a kid in your lap whose eyes are calling you a fraud. This is the age where they're noticing that the Santa story isn't adding up. How can Santa do all that in one night? How does the sleigh hold so much? What about houses without chimneys? What about Jewish kids?

And, on that hectic Christmas Eve, with so much to do and so little time to do it, will Santa be expected to observe no-fly zones over Iraq? Are the kids there asking for toys or medicine? Or fresh water? Are there trade sanction issues to consider?

Why does Santa give the wealthier people the most expensive stuff? Could Robin Hood substitute for Santa one year?

After hours of kids believing you're Santa and parents pretending you're Santa, it's a little sad to return to normal. It's nice to have the power to effortlessly make a lot of people happy, but the power is stripped off along with the costume. If it weren't for my elves, the drive home might have been unbearably lonely.