Deck the Malls with Bowls of Valium

"Christmas is coming." I'm beginning to think those words should be banned, as I'm sure they fall under the Patriot Act as terroristic plots to incite riots. As a matter of fact, we should find a way to ban
even the mere thought from anyone's mind. Oh, sure. They may seem like innocent words, but they quickly reduce even the most respectable person into a raving heathen, smearing on war paint, practicing strategic road rage, and brandishing plastic weapons known as credit cards as they prepare for their holiday shopping. Where's the reality show that highlights surviving the retail world during this time of mayhem?

I am a holiday retail veteran. I served during the Christmas of '99 when the Pokemon craze hit. I was on the front lines. I served in the toy department at Wal-mart. In 12-16 hour shifts, I warded off angry shoppers, defended my aisles from children's sticky fingers, and saved fellow employees who had fallen in the line of duty. I fulfilled my duty to the fullest, launching stuffed animals at the locals-all of them direct hits, I assure you. I only have a few scars to show for it, recurring nightmares, and an everlasting fear of the word Picachu.

You would think I learned my lesson, but with a strong sense of duty, I enlisted again to serve during this country's annual time of commercial "need". This time, I've been deployed to J. C. Penny's photography studio. If a photography studio doesn't sound like a battle field to you, then you've obviously been slacking on your duties as an upstanding member of your family to supply everyone with a glossy 8 x 10 of yourself looking nicely starched and pressed, or an adorable picture of your kid crammed into a gift box, sitting on some bearded stranger's lap, or looking magically angelic. How dare you? You should repent immediately.

After waiting for an hour to an hour and a half for their appointment to begin, customers have plenty of time to strategize in our detainment camp. To make them more comfortable, we refer to it as the waiting room. I think they spend their time coming up with the perfect plan of attack-some real zingers. Like troopers, they will try anything to put themselves in front of everyone else and make their case sound the most important

I scheduled my appointment a month ago!
Hey! What a unique idea! Too bad thousands of other people thought about it and about 130 of them scheduled their appointments on the same day as you.

My kids are getting out of hand. I can't get them to sit still and wait any longer. I think they're on the verge of a nuclear breakdown.
I'm sure the candy you're stuffing down their throats while they wait and the 3 cans of spray starch you used on their darling outfits aren't helping either.

Well, at Sears they....
Maybe you should check your standard issued moron map and take a look around. This isn't Sears, now is it?

I took off work for this today!
I'm sorry. Would you like me to write you a photographer's note?

I am sure, during less hostile times, these people are good people. They seem upstanding enough as they come dressed in their finest, reeking of expensive perfumes. Did someone forget to tell them you can't smell a photograph? They may well be community angels, but during this time of mayhem they become something else. They become the enemy. And while in our studio, they become prisoners of war. (Insert maniacal laughter, here.)

Once we move the prisoners into our torture rooms, which we tell them are camera rooms, our mission takes on a different direction, trying to cumulate a smile from their younger troops. If they would only comply with us, we would release them a little sooner. Instead, they go on to wiggle, cry, become defiant, and even run around knocking over backgrounds and tearing up props as we try our best to torture them with flashes of lights, bouncing stuffed animals that bop them on the nose, or horrible renditions of "I'm a little teapot". The parental units either sit frozen, doing nothing, or turn and begin yelling at them.

You would think that the parents would notice at this point, our missions are really the same. However, it's hard to tell, because parents either stick their hands in front of their kids to straighten their outfits, or talk to them from all corners of the room, later wondering why their kids are looking anywhere but at the camera in the picture. In efforts to obtain the smile themselves, occasionally one of them will pick up one of the wee soldiers and spank them, further erasing all hopes of completing both of our missions. Great tactic-very effective.

Don't get me wrong. I love this part of the job. I take a certain pride in being able to get great smiles from the kids despite their crabbiness, distractions, or poopy diapers. I just think I'm beginning to have an identity crisis from the tactics I employ during the day. Some nights I wake up screaming, stuck in a nightmare where I actually become Dora the Explorer, Barney, or Elmo.

Once it is decided if our mission is a success or failure, we move the parental units and their troops onto the next step in the process-interrogation. While the children run around or return to the detainment camp to watch the same tired movie, we use psychological warfare to barrage them with pressure to buy cards, bigger photos, a wall portrait and even emails that include portraits of their little "angels". This sends them into a state of trauma and they even begin to turn on each other snapping and fighting over whose family will get what or which picture makes the female combatant look the best.

Before leaving, they fire one more round at us while at the register-the receipt check. After paying, they hold up the rest of the line of detainees by going over their receipt item by item, not understanding how they end up owing more than $100. They finally leave as we move on to the next group of prisoners without having time to gloat over our victory. The strangest thing is that they return again and again to battle us, repeating the whole process throughout the year. Who knew pressed and packaged memories were worth going to war for?

I think I'm done with my service. It's time for me to retire from Santa's SWAT team. I'm just getting too old, and I'd like to enjoy many more holiday seasons with all of my limbs in tact. Maybe next year, I'll defect to the other side and get lost in the wild abandon of shopping madness. Then again, there's always something to be said for a nice home made gift.