I was wandering through the Value Village, a local thrift store, when I bumped into what could only be described as a right jolly old elf. I gave him a quizzical look, and his eyes twinkled. By golly, it was him.

"What are you doing in Value Village?" I asked him. "Labor problems with the elves?"

"Well, yes, but that's not why I'm here," he said in a tired voice. "I had to let go more than half of my work force this fall."

"Let go of the elves? What about Christmas?"

Santa motioned us over to the furniture section. We reclined in gently-used plaid La-Z-Boys.

"It's a long story," he said. "First, global warming has seriously threatened our entire existence. I had to spend a few billion to build a North Pole that would float on the ocean without the ice pack. Then I had to anchor it to the ocean floor. That cost billions."

"How'd you pay for it?" I asked.

"I took the operation public," he said. "It was a quiet IPO, but successful enough to cover our demands. Warren Buffett bought a quarter of the issue."

"That's good," I said.

"Sure," he nodded. "But Kirk Kerkorian bought a third. And just like any other business, the recession has just killed us. I wasn't smart enough to sell non-voting stock, and so Kerkorian was able to force enough people onto the board to make me lay off the elves. They even tried to close the stables and make the reindeer independent contractors."

"No!"

"Oh, yes," he said, nodding slowly. "In the end, I got the keep the reindeer. Just the reindeer. The poor elves. Now they've got nothing to do but drink ginger ale and light each other's ears on fire."

"Light their ears on fire?"

"Elves on a sugar high will set fire to just about anything. About the easiest target is another elf's ears. And if you think your skin smells bad when it burns, you haven't smelled crispy elf flesh."

"That sounds like a demented Chinese dish."

"More Russian, I think," he said. "But I'm still working on that idea..." He seemed lost in thought.

"So the elves. Layoffs, ear burning..."

"Which means I fly down here on the Q.T. and pick up some bargains. I don't mind shopping at thrift stores, of course. A lot of folks want things that are no longer made. Thrift stores are great for that. And while most of the toys here are used, when you get a used toy you know it's not going to break down three minutes after you take it out of the box."

"But you seem upset."

"Sure," he said. "I want to be the one who decides what gets made and what gets bought. But these Kerkorian people won't get off my back. They want me to 'trim' the business until there's nothing left. If that stock price doesn't get up above ten bucks, next Christmas is going to be even more dire."

"Okay," I said. "I'll buy some stock. It won't help much, but it can't hurt. What's your symbol?"

"KKE."

"What's that for?"

"Kris Kringle Enterprises."

"Oh. Sure. But surely it's occurrred to you..." "That's why Kerkorian picked up on it. Yes, yes, it's regrettable. I picked KKE because it was a silly name for a silly business. Unfortunately, now things are serious enough that if next year isn't much better, we might well go under."

"Really? What would happen then?"

"I'm sure someone will step into the void. If there's a demand for a product, someone will eventually provide it. And anyway, I'm old and tired. I'd like to retire one of these days. The missus has her eye on a place in the Svalbard Islands. Positively balmy. I'm beginning to think that it's time to pack it in."

"Pack it in? Not you!"

"Son, watching elf after elf succumb to the numbing power of sugar and then proceed to put a match to another elf's ears is enough to convince me that my era has passed. It's time for someone else to take up the mantle of Christmas cheer. And if not, well, that's okay, too. 'Cause I'll let you in on a little secret."

"What's that?"

"Christmas isn't about me or what's under the tree. It's about you and everyone you love. I think that's what Mr. Geisel was saying with his story about the mean green man and his little dog."

"Yeah," I said. "I guess." I got up. "Well, Merry Christmas, Mr. Kringle. I hope everything turns out alright up at the North Pole."

"I'm sure it will, son," he said, patting my knee. "In any case, it's time for me to get back on the job. Oh, and tell your wife I couldn't do anything about the newspaper business. That's a little beyond my reach."

"Didn't hurt to ask," I said.

"Never does," he said as he whisked into another aisle to look for an Atari 2600 game system.

Jon Worley is not quite the humbug he sometimes seems.