About Santa Jay

Jay Branscomb aka Santa Jay has been working in Washington D.C. and surrounding region as a real beard Santa for 15 years. You may have met him at a community event, or a private holiday party.

Santa Jay once met president Barack Obama who said “nice beard man!

SANTA JAY GREETS PRESIDENT OBAMA @ UN RECEPTION

Santa Jay, Santa Jay, where have you been?

I’ve been to New York to meet with the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED
STATES OF AMERICA.

Santa Jay, Santa Jay, what did he say?

The PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA said,
“That’s a good-looking beard, Man.”

I had already gone to bed on Thursday when a friend called me to ask if I could
be in New York on Monday to attend a reception hosted by President Obama.
I had been bugging her to help me get on the White House’s radar for a Christmas
party and now I had the opportunity to actually meet the man. Even if I couldn’t
sell Santa directly, I knew I was getting the story of a lifetime and something to
brag about at my 50th HS reunion in a couple of years. Of course my answer was
“yes”. I submitted my info for security clearance and, when I came up good-enough-
for-government (fortunately none of the misadventures of my misspent youth ever
resulted in an arrest), I worked out the logistics for my transportation and lodging.
[Shout-out to daughter Ruby for arranging those for me.]

The next couple of days were devoted to preparing for my BFD in NYC. Haircut
and professional beard trim were at the top of my list; Santa Claus needs a long
white beard with sharp edges. Otherwise he looks more like Taliban or Duck
Dynasty than Papa Noël.

Teresa at the Hair Cuttery did a good job, doncha think?

The reception was to begin at 8:00. There were no affordable rooms available in
Manhattan but Expedia got something in Brooklyn that would work well. I booked
a seat on a bus that would get me in town around 3:00, my check-in time. I would
chill in my room for a few hours, clean up, suit up and get to the Palace Hotel plenty
early. En route, I got a text advising me that I should arrive by 6:00. I thought,
“A couple of hours less of solitary chilling or a couple of extra hours mingling with the
smarter set?” This is not rocket surgery.

When I boarded the bus, I stupidly decided not to check my suitcase, expecting what?
An overhead compartment? Fortunately, there was an empty seat next to mine so that
wasn’t a problem—yet. When we got to Baltimore, however, the empty seats filled up
and when a young Black man in a clerical collar asked to sit, I had to put my suitcase
on the floor under my feet. It was a less-than-optimal mode of travel for a fat man.

The priest was Father Justin. He was headed for JFK to fly back home to Nigeria after
a vacation in the US. We had a very wide-ranging conversation about the state of
humanity and our separate ministries for mitigation and amelioration of the various
crises facing us. It was also an excellent antidote for the physical discomfort I had to
endure for several hours.

Once in town, I followed my daughter’s hand-written directions about where to catch
the train that would take me near my hotel. Like the spatially-challenged idiot I am
(the reindeer and GPS usually handle these things for me), I walked for 30 minutes
in the wrong direction. It cost me another 30 getting to the station where I should
have been an hour earlier. Still plenty of time to check in, clean up, and get to the
event plenty early.

OH NOES!! WHERE’S MY ROOM!!!

When I got to the front desk, I showed the clerk my confirmation from Expedia but she
told me that I was not in her system. The manager told me that his hotel had been
booked for several weeks because of the convening of the UN General Assembly. I sat
in the lobby trying to find someone at Expedia who could repair their error. An hour
later, they had found another room not too far from my present location. No rest for
the weary; not even a shower. But I could still stow my gear and don my business attire.
When got I into the cab, I contacted my friend who had already been there for a couple
of hours. She said that there was no time; I had to get into the city immediately.

I asked the driver to return to Hotel No-Vacancy where I dashed into a service room,
suited up, and asked the clerk to hold my suitcase until I returned that evening. I got
back into the cab with sufficient time to get to the reception well before 8:00 deadline.
Or so I thought.

OUT-OF-TOWNER LEARNS THAT SUBWAY IS QUICKER THAN CABS

I had been only obliquely aware of the constipation that seizes New York on UN
Opening Day. However, when the heads of state of more than 160 nations gather
in one city at the same time, it strains the city’s ability to function in the most
basic ways—especially movement.

Once we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, we were cast into traffic that inched and
nudged for block after excruciating block. To exacerbate the torture, the streets
leading to the hotel were blocked. The unfortunate cabbie and his unfortunate
passenger had to manoeuvre up and around to get back near the zone. The worst
moment was when we were under a grid of overpasses that resembled a tunnel.
The unnecessary horn-honking was annoying but it didn’t feel like a hellscape
until an ambulance behind us proclaimed its emergency into the echo chamber.
Helplessness and hopelessness began to whisper in my ear as I began to
consider the prospect of mission failure.

Ultimately, the driver had to let me out five or six blocks from my destination.
Once inside the car-free zone, I was dismayed to find that a direct route was
blocked even for foot traffic. I had to circle around a few blocks to find a
pedestrian passage to the Magic Palace. Time was growing short—the doors
were to be locked at 8:15—but I still could make it.

The perimeter around the hotel was sealed off but people were being granted
access at a checkpoint maintained by the NYPD and governed by a security
officer from the delegation from Portugal. I did not understand why the
Portuguese were in charge here but this guy was quite adamant that my name
was not on his list. I showed my invitation but he was unimpressed. I called
my White House friend who was already inside, but Generalísimo Portugués
refused even to speak to her. Fortunately, the New York cops were a little less
hard-ass and directed me to another checkpoint on the other side of the building.

However, even that would prove arduous. To get there, I had to walk three
blocks down, one block over, and three more back up. I got to the Secret Service-
controlled gate about five minutes before the doors were to be locked. These
guys –these Americans– liked my invitation and credentials. I passed their
screening (I never take my guns to town) and got inside just in time. The SS folks
were a lot friendlier too.

Inside, it truly was another world. I was both moved and shaken meeting and
posing with movers & shakers like:

Ambassador Susan Rice

Forrest Whitaker

Rev. Al Sharpton

and .

Professor Jeffrey Sachs

They all recognized me out of uniform and accepted my Santa Jay business cards.
Who knows who will eventually see them? They are, after all, very attractive cards.

We heard a short set from smooth jazz saxophonist Dave Koz, then the Secret
Service gave our instructions: No cell phones in hand. No touching other than
handshake (not even the hem of his garment). Handing him anything was also
explicitly proscribed. I was already pretty sure I couldn’t give him a card but
now I knew for certain that any Santa Claus appeal would have to be verbal
and fleeting.

After brief remarks from President and Mrs. Obama, they walked to the ropeline
to shake hands. As I shook the President’s hand, I said: “I bring greetings from the
North Pole.” The President of the United States looked me squarely in the eye and
replied: “That’s a good-looking beard man.”

I told him: “I want to be your Santa Claus at the White House this season.”
I’m pretty sure he heard me but had already moved on to the next person.
The event ended shortly afterwards and I caught the subway to Hotel No-
Vacancy where I picked up my suitcase and got a cab to the inn that had
room for me. Slept well and got back to DC the next day uneventfully.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

The Moral of my Story, the Moral of my Tale:
Do not go to New York on the day the General Assembly convenes. If you are a New
Yorker, stay home. If, however, your trip is related to the convening of the UN
General assembly, pay any price, bear any burden to get there. Achieving your
objective makes all the stress and expense totally worth it. It will not likely result in
being invited to a White House Christmas party but my bucket list just cleared up
space for a new event. Meet the prez? Yeah, been there, done that.

Love,

SantaJay