Magicians Taking Photos with Santa

Every December, some well-meaning mall manager decides it’s a good idea to have “Santa Photos with a Magician!” And every December, I — Alexander the OK — sign up because I need rent money and validation. What follows is an annual descent into peppermint-scented madness that could make even Frosty the Snowman start stress-smoking candy canes.

Let’s discuss the absolute fever dream that is a magician taking photos with Santa Claus.

I. Santa Is the Only Magician Who Gets Away With It

Let’s start here: Santa is literally a magician. The man breaks into homes via chimney teleportation, bends time and space, and somehow keeps milk unrefrigerated for centuries. He’s got a workshop full of unpaid elf interns and a reindeer-based flight system that defies physics.

And yet… he gets all the credit.

Meanwhile, I make a coin disappear at a holiday party and suddenly I’m “weird Uncle Alex who practices witchcraft.” Santa steals your cookies and your privacy, but I’m the creepy one?

So yeah, standing next to Santa feels like being the magician’s understudy in a show I wasn’t invited to. He’s the headliner; I’m the guy holding a deck of cards like, “Hey kids, wanna see something slightly less impressive than immortality?”

II. The Photo Setup from Hell

Picture this: Santa’s throne in the middle of a mall. Fake snow everywhere. A line of 200 screaming toddlers.

And me — the “holiday magician” — standing nearby in a sparkly vest that looks like a rejected curtain from the North Pole Motel 6.

My job is to “entertain the line.” Which, in theory, means card tricks. In practice, it means getting sneezed on by toddlers while a mom named Debra asks if I can make her ex disappear.

By the time I actually sit down next to Santa for the photo, I look less like a magician and more like a man who just lost a custody battle to Frosty.

III. Santa, The Stage Hog

Look, I get it — Santa’s the star. But does he have to upstage me in every photo?

Every shot, he’s there with that smug, twinkly-eyed grin, like, “Oh, you made a rabbit appear? That’s cute. I manufacture toys for 8 billion people in one night.”

I try to pose with flair — maybe a card fan, a puff of smoke, something classy. Meanwhile, Santa’s sitting there like a jolly warlord of cheer, throwing out ho-ho-hos like confetti and radiating raw charisma.

Next to him, I look like an unpaid intern at the Department of Belief Suspension.

IV. Kids Don’t Understand Boundaries (or Physics)

Children don’t see “two magical figures.” They see “two men who must both have infinite powers.” Which means during photo sessions, I get hit with questions no adult could possibly answer.

“Can you and Santa bring my goldfish back to life?”
“Can you turn my sister into a reindeer?”
“Can you make my dad stop yelling at Fortnite?”

And Santa just looks at me like, “Well, Alexander… you’re the magician.”

Yeah, sure, Claus. Let me just resurrect the fish between flash photos.

V. The “Magic vs. Miracle” Turf War

There’s an unspoken rivalry between Santa and me. He’s “magic,” but like, wholesome, Hallmark magic. I’m “magic,” but the kind that involves suspicious pockets and debt.

We’re from the same universe, but different neighborhoods.

He deals in miracles, I deal in misdirection. He says “Ho ho ho,” I say “Ta-da.” He gives out presents; I give out trauma and silk scarves.

And yet every photo makes it look like I’m his assistant.

“Smile, Santa!”
“Smile, magician guy!”
Magician guy. That’s what I’ve been reduced to — a festive sidekick to a man who legally shouldn’t exist.

VI. The Elf Situation

Elves do not like magicians. I don’t know why, but they don’t.

Maybe they think I’m competition. Maybe they’re jealous that I can palm a coin while they can barely palm an ornament. Either way, I’ve had elves glare at me like I just spoiled the ending to The Polar Express.

One even hissed, “We do real magic here.”
Oh really, Todd the Elf? Real magic? You made a Barbie Dreamhouse. I made a grown man cry with a double lift. Know your lane.

VII. The Santa Photo Album from Hell

I have an entire photo album of cursed Santa pictures. In every single one, something is off.

• One year, the dove pooped on Santa’s glove mid-photo.

• Another year, I accidentally set the tinsel on fire with flash paper.

• One time, I tried to vanish a candy cane and accidentally hit Santa in the eye.

That photo is still framed in the mall office labeled “DO NOT REHIRE.”

In most of the shots, Santa looks serene and fatherly while I look like I just got told my card trick caused an international incident at the North Pole.

VIII. The Existential Crisis

After a long day of photos, I sit in the food court eating a pretzel the size of a steering wheel, staring at the mall’s fake snow falling from the vents, and wondering where it all went wrong.

Santa walks by, still smiling, still omnipotent, still somehow not sweating in a full velvet suit.

“Rough day?” he says, sipping his Diet Coke.

I nod. “How do you do it, man? The joy, the pressure, the children?”

He leans in and whispers, “Simple, Alexander. I outsource to magicians.”

And just like that — poof — he’s gone.

IX. The Lesson (If There Is One)

So what did I learn from my time taking photos with Santa?

That being magical is exhausting. That fake snow gets everywhere. And that no matter how good my tricks are, no one can compete with a man who literally gives free stuff to children.

Still, I’ll keep showing up. Because somewhere between the chaos, the crying kids, and the accidental arson, there’s a little bit of actual Christmas magic — the kind you can’t fake with sleight of hand.

…Even if Santa still owes me hazard pay.