Robert Hopkins

The Santa gig was supposed to be my big break—something lighthearted to break up the heavy slog of odd jobs I’d been doing to keep afloat in Chicago. At 59, you don’t exactly bounce back from financial setbacks like you used to, and when my friend joked that I had the perfect Santa Claus look, I thought, “Why not?” Big guy, white beard, deep voice—it made sense.

The agency in Winnetka loved me right away. They booked me for three families on Christmas Eve, each more upscale than the last. I thought I’d nailed it before I even started. But hindsight has a cruel way of pointing out every little mistake.

The trouble began with the pea soup. Leftovers, thick and hearty, seemed like the perfect pre-gig meal. Except by the time I reached the first house, my stomach was staging a rebellion. Sweaty and bloated, I powered through the initial pleasantries. The kids were adorable, the parents smiling—but then came the photo op by the Christmas tree.

I thought I could sneak it, but the fart that escaped was the opposite of subtle: loud, unapologetic, and reeking of regret. The kids giggled nervously. The parents, mortified. They handed me my check and politely asked me to leave.

Determined to salvage the night, I headed to the second house. Except I rang the wrong doorbell. The family who answered didn’t question my arrival; their kids were thrilled. It was only after their neighbors called to ask where their Santa was that I realized my mistake. Trying to explain to crying children why Santa was taking their presents back was a new low.

By the time I reached the final house, I was running on fumes. Literally. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost two gifts. I ended up handing the kids a $20 bill each, mumbling something about Santa outsourcing toy selection. The parents’ expressions were icier than the driveway I almost slipped on as I left.

Three complaints to the agency later, I hung up my Santa hat for good. It turns out that not everyone with a white beard is born to be Santa.