The mall’s Christmas centerpiece was a twenty foot tall artificial tree decorated decadently in red, gold, and silver. The tree was flanked on both sides by similar trees that descended in height starting at fifteen feet and shrinking all the way down to five. The display formed the semi-circle backdrop for photos with Santa, the front half finished by a four foot tall green iron fence. George recognized Santa as the man stumbling through the exercising crowd earlier in the morning. He was sitting in a chair that was easily half the size of the twenty foot tree it was placed in front of, and he was asleep. George and his daughters were parked outside, waiting for a welcome. Unlike the Santa displays in movies, there were no elves running around, or lines that stretched through half the mall, filled with exhausted parents and irritable children. Besides Santa, there were only two other people in the attraction, both wearing red shirts with a green smock and black pants. The person in charge of printing the photos and cashing out was busy perusing Facebook, while the photographer had his face buried in his phone.
Excuse me, when do you open?
Ten minutes.
Is there a line, or anywhere I should stand specifically?
No. You can wait there. You know there’s a playground right down that hall if you don’t feel like waiting, we’re not going to be busy until late tonight.
Have you seen that playground? Everything’s shaped like breakfast food.
Yeah, it’s called The Breakfast Frolic.
It’s weird right? Who designs a playground around food?
I guess. The kids seem to like it though.
I just tried to eat breakfast after spending fifteen minutes in that place. I couldn’t do it. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to eat breakfast again.
That’s a little dramatic, it’s just a playground.
But who thinks about breakfast when designing a playground for a mall? That’s such a weird connection to make. All I can imagine is some jerk scrambling for inspiration because he’s late for a deadline, and he spills some coffee on his blueprint, or his wife calls him to breakfast. Then he’s like, that’s it, like it’s some kind of revelation. If anything the playground should be full of giant plastic shoes, or khakis, or have a ball-pit full of rolled up socks, with shirtless greeters giving the creeps to anyone that walks by.
What kid is going to want to slide down a pair of khakis?
Who knows? What kid wants to slide down a piece of bacon? Or spin around on a giant cup of coffee?
I don’t know, that sounds pretty fun; I think I would’ve loved that as a kid.
Kids love everything. They don’t care if the slide is a piece of bacon or a pair of pants, all they care about is if it’s a slide, and whether or not they’re going to get shocked when they get off. All I’m saying is whoever designed this breakfast playground is a weirdo. It’s just an observation.
Alright, look, I don’t totally disagree with you, I just don’t know why you’re so passionate about it.
I’m not passionate, like I said: it’s just an observation. It’s not like I’m starting a campaign to have the monstrosity removed.
You’re getting a little loud though.
I’m not getting loud; it’s just the natural inflection of my voice when I’m trying to make a point.
That’s called being loud.
Can we just get these pictures taken please?
Yeah, let me wake Santa up.