Finding Christmas

One retail worker's quest for Meaning

by Nick A. Zaino III

A little more than a year ago, when I was new in town and sporadically employed and the Christmas season was starting its long descent into the lowest levels of merchandising hell, I headed to Borders to apply for a "seasonal help" job. I should have asked if that included "seasonal therapy."

Nothing sparks cynicism quicker than working retail at Christmas.

After a quick lesson on the cash registers, and the funniest videotape about sexual harassment I have ever seen, I was sent into the fray like the first guy off of the boat in Saving Private Ryan. Almost immediately, I was besieged and berated by frenzied shoppers looking for that singular, perfect gift -- and wanting to be sure I gave them the receipt so that the "perfect gift" could later be exchanged for something vaguely resembling a useful or desirable item.

Then I was asked the question that has haunted me to this day. An elderly woman was wandering around the music section, apparently lost in the sea of Kenny G Does Rudolph and Rancid Sings Handel displays. She turned to me, mistakenly thinking I could be of help, and said, "Do you have Christmas? Where's Christmas?"

Suddenly, everything started moving in slow motion, and every sound seemed to be resonating from the other end of a long tunnel. Did we have Christmas? It was a simple question, but there were so many meanings.

Seeing that I was frozen, another Borders employee dutifully jumped in and pulled the woman to safety -- or, more accurately, to the Christmas-music section.

I was left behind to think, "No, goddamn it, we don't have Christmas. And neither does anyone else in this Christ-forsaken mall."

So if we didn't have it, where was it?

I knew I had to find Christmas at any cost. It had to be saved. Cindy Lou Who needed me, and I couldn't let those bastard Grinches bring me down.

I remembered the way Christmas seemed so alive when I was a kid. And it didn't take much. Some snow, lights, and the promise of a bunch of Christmas loot, and I was filled with a feeling of goodwill toward men. Maybe a couple of carols thrown in to remind me what the season was all about.

But there I was, working in a mall where decorations had gone up as soon as baseball season was over. I was filled with a feeling of dread. Could Christmas be dead?

Society being what it is these days, I figured that if Christmas were still alive, it would have to be somewhere on TV. Thank God I have cable. I checked the schedule and there it was, everywhere. A Very Melrose Christmas on Fox, Zalman King's Spreading Christmas Joy on Cinemax, New Jack Santa on WB.

I breathed a sigh of relief, but my celebration was premature.

I clicked on an old favorite, the Rankin/Bass animation of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, certain that I could remember Christmas that way. Surely Herbie the Misfit Elf and Yukon Cornelius could bring it back.

These tried-and-true soldiers of tradition fought a valiant battle, but this time, the snow beast was insurmountable. They were slaughtered mercilessly by commercials for the Christmas Tree Shops and ads for snug-fitting gloves hawked by football stars past and present. And they were surrounded by Christmas programming so vapid and pointless it actually made me sympathize, briefly, with fundamentalist Christians who believe Christ is coming back at New Year's to wipe out our sinful planet. Herbie never had a chance. Still, he'll be back in battle this year, and next year, and next.

So Christmas wasn't on TV, but the fight was on. Good luck, little Rudolph.

Maybe I was just behind the times. Everything is on the Internet these days. Maybe Santa was wired.

I punched up "Christmas" on a popular search engine, and felt relieved once again. There were nearly four million pages related to Christmas, so I had my work cut out for me.

There were sites filled with Christmas cheer, with Christmas stories and traditions from around the world, with drawings and stories from elementary-school students, and even with links to a few worthwhile charities. But for every honest effort, there was an ad for or a link to an Internet superstore, or a page with Santa's head poorly grafted onto Pamela Anderson's body and performing an illicit act on a smiling elf.

I couldn't find Christmas on TV, in the malls, or on the Internet. What other institutions are there in America? I thought of calling my representatives in local, state, and national government. But since the halls of government are filled with jolly fat men already, I figured the only thing I would find was Christmas pork. I could find Christ in church, but the Christmas I remembered was a spirit of goodwill that stretched beyond religious beliefs. And, being a "reformed" Catholic, I was afraid my priest would recognize me and ask why he hadn't seen me in church since my confirmation.

There was only one place left to find Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, I got in my car and drove. Through snow, past dirty rest stops and stalled cars. I counted hour after hour, and went through nearly two tanks of gas. Finally, I pulled into a small town in upstate New York called Bloomfield. I drove past undisturbed white fields and past an old brick church, smiling nervously when I realized the light was still on. When I turned on to the last quarter-mile stretch of road, I saw the light at the end of the gravel driveway.

Inside, there were sugar cookies and anise cookies, and the tree in the living room was surrounded with presents. My sleeping bag was there on the left side of the tree, where I'd spent hours reading, watching Rudolph on TV, and trying to pull the tape off of the paper without ripping it to peek at my presents.

It was late. My father was asleep on the couch; a midnight mass was on TV. My mother had gone to bed. I was home. I snuggled into my sleeping bag and turned over to find a large box with my name on it, on my side of the tree. Just before I joined my parents in Christmas slumber, I carefully peeled back the tape on the big box, peeked at the label, and put the tape back. I fell asleep breathing the smell of pine needles.

Christmas was right where I had left it. It's always in the last place you look.