Courtesy of Michael Mele
- Michael Mele has been a professional Santa for 17 years.
- He worked at Macy's flagship on New York's 34th Street for 14 of them. He started as an elf.
- He's been pooped on by a toddler and propositioned by a mom who said she wanted sex for Christmas.
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Michael Mele. It has been edited for length and clarity.
My background is in theater, and in October 2007, one of the performers I was working with told me that Macy's was looking for Santas. "Why not?" I thought.
The interview took place in a back room at Macy's flagship store on 34th Street in New York City. The job paid about $22 an hour.
They asked why I wanted to be Santa. I didn't know at the time that there were right and wrong answers to the question, but I must have said something right because I went through to the next round.
I was 23 at the time, and the corporate guy in charge of hiring said I was too young-looking. So I agreed to be an elf. We were paid the minimum wage at the time: about $11 an hour. But a steady salary was a steady salary.
Macy's didn't have a reservation system at the time. People would stand in line — which would wind through the back hallways of the store — for up to four hours. "Every step you take is a step forward to Santa," I'd tell the kids as cheerily as possible.
One afternoon, it got crazy busy — I was asked to fill one of Santa's chairs
The next year, I was promoted to Santa with no warning. Instead of being an elf, I was stage managing a puppet show that told the story of "Miracle on 34th Street."
Things had been relatively quiet because the weather had been terrible and people didn't want to come into the city. But one afternoon, it got crazy busy, and we weren't prepared. We called it "Titanic Tuesday" because we thought we were all going down with the ship.
Macy's is usually a well-oiled machine and has more than one Santa sitting on curtained-off chairs. They're just trying to get people through. If they're short-staffed and the chairs aren't full, the line backs up.
I had no proper training as Santa but was told to fill a chair. I was suited up and padded out. It truly was a baptism by fire. I couldn't really smile because there was so much glue on my face to keep the mustache and beard in place.
Courtesy of Michael Mele
But it was a meaningful experience seeing the light in the eyes of the kids when they saw me.
Macy's was open 24 hours a day because it was the week before Christmas. Last-minute shoppers would come in at all hours. Santa's line would cut off about 9 p.m., but on Titanic Tuesday, I saw my last family at 1 a.m.
I was back in the store by 6:30 a.m. My 14 years as a Macy's Santa began right then.
The store was very much pushing the message of "Yes, Virginia. There is a Santa." Everybody was trying to embody the spirit of Edmund Gwenn, the Santa in "Miracle on 34th Street." It hit me in the heart. I knew that I couldn't make every child happy. Still, I was creating memories.
There would always be crying babies and kids who wanted the impossible — like 5-year-olds asking for the latest iPhone. But I was there for the right reasons. I could speak Spanish fluently and learned a few phrases in German, French, and sign language. I leaned on the veteran Santas for advice.
A middle-aged woman told me that she wanted sex for Christmas
The other Santas taught me how to deal with difficult situations. A group of adult workers from a strip club wanted to pose with me in their lingerie. One husband asked me to pretend to spank his wife on the butt and bury my face in her boobs.
Macy's won't photograph that sort of thing, but you can diffuse the situation. "Mrs. Claus can't see a picture like that," I'd say, extending the character. "There'll be trouble at home, and I won't get any cookie breaks."
Another time, I asked a middle-aged woman what she wanted for Christmas. "Sex," she said without blinking. She put her hand on my thigh. "I'm sorry," I said. "I just don't know how to bring that down the chimney."
The hours were grueling — and hot. Macy's Santas wear leather boots and a harness. You're carrying an extra 20 pounds. It started to get a bit better one year. The costume fitter measured me and congratulated me. I no longer needed padding. I knew there was an insult in there somewhere.
Courtesy of Michael Mele
And accidents happen. A family came in, clearly burned out from waiting. They had a baby asleep in a stroller so when I smelled that all-to-familiar odor of poop, I assumed it was them.
But when I posed with the rest of the family, I felt something warm on my leg. I assumed it was the heat of having four people on my knees. I turned to the maybe 4-year-old and asked what he'd like for Christmas.
"Santa, I pooped my pants," he blurted out. His parents were mortified. I had to stop myself from laughing. "Oh, that's OK," I said. "Maybe next time, we just tell Mommy and Daddy that you need the potty."
Baby vomit is also a problem. There are protocols where they stop the line while you spot clean or change your suit.
These days, I do corporate events, Zoom calls, and private visits
COVID changed everything since Santa couldn't appear. I branched out into Zoom meetings or going to people's homes wearing a face mask. I worked at Macy's for the last time in 2021. I wanted a change.
These days, I mostly do corporate events. My rate is about $150 an hour with a minimum booking of one hour. It's not my main job — I work in philanthropy for a college — but my Santa gig helps pay the bills. It gave me the opportunity to travel to Europe this year.
Wages are higher if you dye your hair gray and grow a bushy, white beard of your own. But I draw the line with a goatee. I'm single, and it's hard to date in New York already. At 40 years old, with a full, bleached beard, I think it would be even more challenging.
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