The Elfland Stories - Chapter 1: The House of the Unemployable
Chapter 1: The House of the Unemployable
None of this is true, except for the parts that are true.
It is a Thursday evening, the first day of Santaland orientation. I show up at the employee entrance for a very famous department store. You know the one, but for the sake of all that's “holly,” we'll call it WALLACE'S.
So I show up at the employee entrance for Wallace's. It is a drab brown doorway on 7th Avenue, between 34th and 35th streets. Everything about this door is brown. It has brownness all over it. There are dabs and globs of mucous-y brown paint covering all the metallic components of the door. Nothing about it is shiny or colorful or says Christmas.
“It’s come to this.” I sigh to myself, remembering a phone conversation I had a few weeks back with my buddy, Boone.
I hadn’t gotten out of bed in 3 days. I hadn’t left my room in five.
“You could work in Santaland,” he said, in that conversation from somewhere long ago.
I hadn’t had a gig in months because the economy crashed like a kamikaze cow. After years of being a freelancer, there was no work to be found. But those are all excuses for why a person really can’t get out of bed.
“Look, I know you’ve been through some shit lately,” Boone says, “And we don’t have to talk about it right now, but you need to get out.”
I start to stammer something, but he interrupts me.
“You need to do something. Go back to work or something,”
He’s right, but the idea of returning to the 9-5 workplace is terrifying.
“It’s temporary,” he says. “You’ll shake this off.”
I’m not as confident as he is. As of late, I’ve been an emotional, physical, financial and category defying mess.
And now I’m staring at a door the color of ancient potted meat, in an attempt to avoid a soul-killing office job, so that I can take a soul-killing department store job.
I push through the brown door and make my way to the security desk where I’m told to take an elevator up to Human Resources. The elevator opens up onto another drab brown floor that says “Human Resources.” There is a lady named Barnswallow, sitting at a desk tapping away on a keyboard.
She doesn’t look up.
Okay, her name isn’t Barnswallow, I just said that because she didn’t seem to think it important to tell me her name, and instead of a nameplate that says “NICE LADY FROM HUMAN RESOURCES” or a colorful potted plant, she has a photo of a brass plaque with the inscription, “Best in Efficiency Award.” I assume this to be her achievement, but again, it is a photo, not even the actual award.
I start to say, “Hi, my name’s Damon” when she raises one hand, palm towards me that tells me to wait:
She finishes typing something into her terminal,
checks her notepad in front of her,
types something else into the terminal,
adjusts her squeaky chair,
“Skreeeeeeeeee!”
moves a stack of applications from one side of her desk to a tray,
opens a chat window,
types into the chat window,
clicks out of it,
pulls an envelope out of her front drawer,
puts a key in it,
places it on the edge of her Inbox,
signs a document,
places it into a manila folder,
opens the filing cabinet next to her desk,
places it in a hanging file folder,
closes the drawer,
and then finally looks down the rim of her glasses at me expectantly like I’ve interrupted something very important.
“Are you here for custodial?”
“No, no, I’m an elf. I mean, I’m actually here to be part of the elf–
We’re interrupted when her desk phone buzzes.
She picks up and raises her hand in the same “hold, please” palm.
She opens the filing cabinet next to her desk,
reaches into the hanging file folder,
and removes the manila folder,
she takes out the envelope
and removes the key from it,
places the envelope back in her front drawer,
takes a document from her Inbox
and writes her initials next to her signature,
then places it in her Outbox,
opens a new chat window,
types into it,
moves the stack of applications from the tray back to the other side of her desk,
“Skreeeeeeeeee!”
re-adjusts her squeaky chair,
types something else into the terminal,
checks her notepad in front of her,
finishes by typing something into her terminal,
and then returns her gaze to me.
“So you are here to be support staff?”
“Well, no, I’m part of Elfland and–“
She wrinkles her nose as if I said something wrong.
“That’s support staff.”
She writes out ‘Santaland Support Elf,’ “Did you fill out your online information?”
“Yes, I did.” I say, rummaging in my bag for the printout, “I’m all in the system.”
She doesn’t look up, “Do you have a confirmation code?”
I give her the code
and she types something into her terminal,
scribbles some numbers onto her notepad,
then adjusts her squeaky chair.
“Skreeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
She stops moving.
Never breaking eye contact, she removes a travel-size can of WD40 from her bottom drawer and manages to insert a tiny red straw into the nozzle.
She delivers two succinct blasts to the roller of her squeaky chair.
She pushes, pulls, and twists the chair rapidly and the offending 'skreee' is gone.
She places the can back in the drawer, her dead eyes still on me, and says, “Orientation is on the 10th floor, they will give you all your materials when you arrive.”
“Thank you so much, I'm really excited to be a part of Elfland.”
She wrinkles her nose again as if I farted and simply says, “No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s called Santaland.”
“How do people of elvish descent feel about that?”
“All the materials say Santaland. Please don’t call it anything else. Don’t let anyone hear you calling it anything different,” she says.
“That was a joke,” I say. “I was joking.”
Still nothing.
“I mean, you wouldn’t call Ireland St.Patricks-Land, right? You wouldn’t call the Vatican, Popeland, right?”
Her face remains expressionless as I babble on.
“You wouldn’t take the Scots out of Scotland or the Fins out of Finland –“
I’m still talking as I stumble back and into the elevator, “–or the Ports out of Portland–”
“Shooosh.”
The doors close.
Then they reopen, so I keep talking.
“–or the Cleves out of Cleveland –
“Shooosh.” They close.
I’m still pondering the temperamental elevator when the doors open again.
Miss Barnswallow stands inches from my face like the revenant Jason Voorhees, daring me to mention all the Marys in Maryland. In place of a machete, her pencil is clenched tightly in her grasp. I titter nervously as she extends one clawed hand toward me. Her hand continues past me, her index finger finding the 10th-floor button.
“You. Have. To. Press. The. Button,” She says, forcing a diabolic smile.
“Th-thank you, Miss Barnswallow,” I say.
The doors begin to close, so I add, “On behalf of toponymists everywhere, Elfland. Elfland. Elflan–”
“Shoooosh.”
Through the doors, I hear the sharp “skrakkt!” of a pencil snapping in two.
.