„… and don‘t mess up your lines. Whatever happens, you go Ho-Ho-Ho. Nothing else. No yippee. No Ha-Ha-Ha. No yuck – what the hell? No wisecrack. No talking back to the clients. You go Ho-Ho-Ho, and that‘s it. And you shut up. And you go Ho-Ho-Ho again. Got it, Junior?“
The tone alone would warrant my good old favourite of a response to bossy behavior, as in go f*ck yourself, combined with a proudly raised middle finger. But this is 2046, I‘m as broke as the peoples republic of Sotimmona, and just out of what they call prosocial rehab. The next middle finger will get me straight back into prison. Not that I‘m not getting used to it. Spent most of the last ten years inside. The beds are lousy, the food is rotten, that much I can take. But even thinking of the back breaking work shuts me up all right. This time, I’ll do what it takes to stay outside. In my best neutral-to-subservient voice I go:
„Yes sir. Got it, sir. Will Ho-Ho-Ho, sir.“
Doesn’t impress the master of my universe who shoots back:
„Shut up, Junior, we‘re not a debating club. Get dressed, and get going. Stage 5. When the lights go on, you go Ho-Ho-Ho. The elves will distribute some giveaways from your bag. You go Ho-Ho-Ho. And keep it up, until the lights go out. Got it, Junior?“
This time I nod, silently. Does the trick. My tormentor walks away, leaving me to figure out how to get into the red heap of stuff that is supposed to be my costume, and how to operate it. I‘m five feet three, but there‘s is cloth for an eight feet giant, at least.
I decide to start with the enormous head. It’s super bloody heavy, but I manage to lift it an put it on. Eureka, I can see, through the masks nostrils. Ingenious. Vision a bit blurred, because of the white moustache blocking part of the view, but this will do. Except I can‘t carry this weight any second longer. Have to let myself sag to the floor, to get some of the weight off my shoulders, before struggling out of the damn head.
„What the hell, Junior? Don’t tell me you never operated an exo-skeleton before? If ever I get hold of the idiot at HR who hires you kind of idiots for a living, he‘s rat food. Stand up and shut up, or you won‘t be ready on time.“
My urge to middle finger him is only very partly chilled by the fact that the boss is right, for once. This is my first exo-skeleton, and seeing him activate it, it starts to make sense. I don‘t need to carry the weight of the head after all. I only need to climb up into the thighs, grab the steering handles, understand how to make it walk, right leg, left leg, step, step, step, step, stop. Piece of cake. This contraption is good at walking and standing, no balancing skills input required from my side, a little steering is all it takes.
„That‘s it, Junior. Let me just get this moustache combed out of the way, we don‘t want you to stumble into the clients, fun as that would be. And don‘t forget: Ho-Ho-Ho. You go Ho-Ho-Ho. No more, no less, just Ho-Ho-Ho. Stage 5. Hit it, Junior!“
No time to appreciate my bosses skill at teaching a newbie the exoskeleton 101 in less than ten minutes. The light is on. Supersize me walks one, two, three, four slow steps towards the big red number five and the two tiny elves – wait a minute, are these real eight year olds, or what?! What the hell happended to the abolition of child labor? – with the enormous brown bag. The elves look kind of worried. Something at the back of my head, of perhaps my boss backstage, screams „Don‘t forget the Ho-Ho-Ho“, and I utter my first Ho-Ho-Ho.
Wow. The inbuilt sound system is powerful. That Ho-Ho-Ho is totally not my voice. Wouldn‘t have managed that kind of booming sound at twenty. No wonder I‘m not allowed to say anything but Ho-Ho-Ho. With that kind of size and that kind of voice I might be able to start a riot.
Would love to use that voice. To protect the poor elves. One just got bitten by a particularly aggressive little pest of a client. Five years old, at most, but already well versed in the art of torturing less lucky folk. Didn’t get a second giveaway, each kid only gets one, and bit the elf. And what must be dad only tut-tutting along. Would be great to yell at the little pest. Something on the lines of „Stop that! And give back the toy. Bad boys don’t deserve toys!“. With my voice, I‘m sure the message would hit home. But I go Ho-Ho-Ho. Have to go Ho-Ho-Ho. Not going back to prison. Have to go Ho-Ho-Ho.
Ho-Ho-Ho. This bloody kid is vomiting all over the place. Are the parents going to do something about it, or what? Yep, finally, sort of. They are yelling at the elves to get someone to clean up the mess. Ho-Ho-Ho. Someone in an unidentifiable uniform brings a sign „Cleaning in process – Robocleaner on it‘s way“. Very low tech, doesn‘t help with the look and smell of the mess the kid made, but quietens down the parents a notch. Better than noting. Ho-Ho-Ho.
The uniformed one brings what must the Roboclean, defines the zone to be cleaned with what looks like the foam referees use on the football pitch, activates the device and walks away, taking with him the sign. Ho-Ho-Ho.
My inner former manager identifies opportunities for quick and easy efficiency gains: Invest in a couple more Robocleans, skip the sequence with sign, fire half of the uniformed ones, should work. Ho-Ho-Ho. Am I starting to miss the spreadsheets of my youth? Is this senile nostalgia? Oh no, one more vomitter. Ho-Ho-Ho.
Better think about something else, anything else, preferably without a smell. Like robotics. Progress really has been slow. The Roboclean wouldn’t have surprised anyone back in 2026. Same for my exoskeleton. They need some stupid eighty year old without a proper pension plan to go Ho-Ho-Ho and „drive“ Santa, in 2046, instead of going full robot giant?! Ha-Ha-Ha.