The first time Anthony Piselli put on a red suit it was a favor, not a plan. He was living in Connecticut then, roped in by his sister-in-law to play Father Christmas at her children’s bookstore. The jolly beard was already real; the rest was borrowed—jacket, boots, a pillow for a belly. He remembers mostly the uncertainty: what do you say when a child looks at you like you’re supposed to know everything? But by the end of the night, he’d taken requests for toys, for peace between siblings, for a grandparent to “get better.” The suit went back on its hanger. The role didn’t. When life later brought him south to St. Augustine, the costume came in the moving truck. He found a city that already understood performance; horse-drawn carriages, twinkling lights, holiday tours. There was room for one more working Santa. Over time, “The Santa Anthony” turned into something like a second job title. His phone started filling with December dates: home visits, company parties, church gatherings, the occasional hospital stop that came through a friend of a friend. He keeps track of returning families and tries to remember details from year to year. In photos, it looks effortless. On his calendar, it’s closer to shift work. Ask around, though, and a different picture emerges. Parents recognize him at the grocery store, even without the suit. Event organizers talk about “our Santa” the way they talk about a reliable caterer or band—someone you book early because, if you don’t, someone else will. Kids who met him with pacifiers now show up as fourth-graders, half-skeptical, still getting in line anyway. When he explains why he keeps doing it, he doesn’t go long. He likes the continuity, he says. The town changes, the kids grow, the lights go up and come down. His part is simple: be there on time, listen carefully, and, for a few minutes, let people see the version of the season they came hoping to find.
