Have you heard about the legend of the Christmas elf who went rogue? Probably not. The jolly big man and the reindeer use their dominant social media platforms to control the public narrative, and North Pole HR made all the elves sign non-disclosure agreements.This was originally posted in July, a peculiar time for a Christmas story, so I’m reposting now because it’s the season for re-giving. The story is also included in Career Secrets of Fairy-Tale Endings.
One advantage of living in the enchanted realms was not having to believe in Santa Clause. Creatures didn’t need to believe in Santa because they knew he was real. In the enchanted world, Father Christmas actually did all the things that people in the unenchanted realms thought were just make-believe stores for children.
Of course the enchanted creatures didn’t call it Christmas. They called it yuletide.
Everyone knew Santa’s worldwide operation depended on mighty magic, maybe the greatest magic of all. The whole thing ran on M&M’s. Yes, mirth and merriment were the ultimate source of renewable clean energy. And there were two kinds of each—organic and artificial—which made flavors of M&M’s altogether.
The differences between the different types of M&M were critical. Organic M&M flowed naturally from a jolly mindset. Artificial M&M required a conscious effort to get it started. If you tried to act merry, sometimes you would really start to feel that way, and if you kept going, artificial M&M could be transformed into organic M&M. Holiday magic!
The enchanted realms had a lot of artificial M&M. It wasn’t entirely their fault. When you know something is a plain fact, it’s hard to be very merry about it. The thing just is. But in the North Pole, it was all organic M&M all the time. To them, yuletide cheer was a self-renewing miracle, and they never got tired of it. The North Pole was a true workers’ paradise.
With one exception. Graben the elf didn’t have either kind of M&M. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way, even when he was younger. As a grownup elf in the project management division, he thought mirth and merriment were nonrational states of mind that led to operational inefficiencies. If the elves in the production design shop would stop caroling while they worked, maybe they could increase production enough to expand the business into the unenchanted realms. After all, making the stuff of myth and legend come to life would be the greatest yuletide miracle ever.
And the distribution model. Reindeer? Seriously? In the modern age of Dihjutal magic?
Graben was surrounded by mirthful merry making. The whole place was delirious with it. If Graben had been the head of the ER department (Elf Resources, that is), he would have ordered them all to take a drug test. They had to be on something. Granted, drinking 150-proof eggnog all day long (and on the job no less) might have been a factor. ER said strong eggnog had the same effect on elves as coffee had on other creatures. Graben had his doubts, though.
The discontented elf tried to get the chief merriment officer to understand the need for an organizational strategy that would align mission-critical functions to achieve key performance targets. But when he told the CMO about his ideas, the happy old elf just chuckled with merry mirth.
“But Graben,” he said, “the mortals in the unmagical world don’t really have Christmas precisely because they are un-magical. That’s why the BJD only visits enchanted realms. Of course, the unmagical lands have heard rumors, but they think it’s all myth and legend and folklore and an excuse for rampant commercialism.”
“Well, they’re not wrong about the last one,” said Graben. “They may not have enchantment, but at least they know a profitable situation when they see one.”
“You’re missing the point,” said the CMO with a look of mirthful affection. “We’re not running a business. We make magic—the magic of mirth and merriment.”
“Well, I say we’re missing growth opportunities,” said Graben.
The CMO believed in keeping an open mind because it stimulated imagination and creativity, so he agreed to let Graben draw up a detailed proposal for boosting operational efficiencies and show it to the BJD. When the big meeting came, Graben delivered a TinselPoint presentation full of colorful charts. As a subscriber of Hereford Business Review, he knew a business case based on logic and data was merely a collection of words but a TinselPoint slide with a chart was a strategy.
The BJD listened patiently. When Graben finished the presentation, the BJD erupted in jolly laughter, and his belly shook with the merry trembling that people compared to a bowl full of jelly. He gave Graben an affectionate pat on the head and handed the proposal back to him.
That was another thing that bothered Graben. If the BJD’s belly shook like a bowl full of jelly, then a bowl full of jelly should shake like the BJD’s belly. But he had done experiments with all kinds of jellies, and none of them resembled the jolly seismic tremor caused by the big merry epicenter of mirth. It was unnatural. But if it was unnatural, then it couldn’t really be organic mirth, now could it? And if the operation wasn’t running on pure 100% all-organic M&M, then it wasn’t really magic. That would make it a business operation. As a business, it was unprofitable yet prosperous, which seemed like an impossible contradiction. But there it was.
One day, the CMO called Graben into his office.
“Well, I think you’re right about there being a misalignment,” said the CMO.
“Finally, someone else can see reason,” said Graben.
“Yes, but you may not like it at first,” said the CMO. “You see, the misalignment is you. That’s why you’re so unhappy. To the other elves, this place seems like paradise and they can’t imagine anything better. Your values are misaligned with yuletide values. Maybe you need to escape from paradise to be happy. But you’ll never figure out your real purpose if someone doesn’t give you a push.”
“Wait, are you firing me?” said Graben, suddenly nervous about the prospect of uncertainty.
“Not exactly,” said the CMO with a kindly glint in his yes. “I got an interesting call from an old friend, very wise. We got to know each other when I was a foreign exchange student at the University of Unicornia. He’s been working as a Certified Royal Advisor™ for ages but recently decided to make a career change. While passing through a village on his way to finding a new gig, he came across a funny little tavern that had been mismanaged by the owner. Actually, the tavern keeper is now ready to become a former owner because my friend persuaded him to pursue a different calling. To make a long story short, the former owner ran the place in a way that made the villagers miserable and drove them away. My friend thinks there’s a great turnaround opportunity for someone with the right entrepreneurial mindset. So I suggested you.”
“Yes!” said Graben, jumping out of his chair and punching his fists in the air. His mind went from freefalling anxiety about getting fired to soaring with grand hopes for improving an operation about which he knew nothing.
The BJD gave his blessing, and with a jolly hug from the CMO, Graben set off.
It was a risky venture full of countless unknown variables. Graben had to invest all his savings to buy out the centaur who owned the tavern, so he was starting from zero. All he had to work with was his own gumption.
The elf found himself the proprietor of a business with a damaged brand image. Even worse, the centaur had been such a crotchety, stingy boss that trying to recruit new employees was a challenge. No one wanted to work at the infamous tavern. But Graben had a secret advantage he never knew he had: mirth and merriment. The elf was the merriest, most mirthful soul the villagers had ever seen. Compared with the artificial M&M of the average enchanted creature, even an elf who suffered from chronic low levels of organic M&M seemed like a jolly optimist.
And that turned out be a saving grace because the spirit of happy purpose radiating from him was like a magnet that attracted success.
At first, Graben had to do all the cooking and waiting himself. The menu wasn’t so great and the service was slow because the elf had to go back and forth from the tables to the kitchen, but customers returned to be recharged by his positive energy. They told him all about themselves, their hopes and problems, and in return he gave them a touch of M&M. Slowly, he learned from his patrons which local grandmothers and great-grandmothers were legendary for secret recipes, and the old ladies were only too happy to share their homemade wisdom with someone who made them feel them important again. Because of Graben, they discovered that they still had something valuable to offer the world. When his cash flow improved enough, he made them paid consultants.
As the menu came together and sales increased, Graben was able to start hiring help. The tavern thrived. Before long, he was doing well enough to buy the tavern in the neighboring village. It was time to start thinking about defining a business strategy that would align mission-critical functions to achieve key performance targets.
But as soon as he put his business in those terms, something felt wrong. He wasn’t interested in achieving performance metrics anymore. That wasn’t what motivated him. What was his business really about? Then he had an epiphany: the tavern wasn’t about the restaurant business at all. It was about cheering people up. That was his new definition of success. His mission was to spread mirth and merriment.
And that was how one of Santa’s elves became the founder of the largest family restaurant chain in all the enchanted lands, with franchises in 22 realms.
R.S. Mitchell is the author of Career Secrets of Fairy-Tale Endings and The View Finder.
Stampeding Toads 