Christmas time at Hess's

Some of my most magical Christmas moments took place years ago at my first job at Hess's of Allentown.

If you shopped beneath those grand crystal chandeliers at 9th and Hamilton, you know how special Hess's was. Magic and glamour. Fashion models. Strawberry pie.

It also was a place of mystery, a series of buildings five stories high, joined together to appear as one, with secret halls leading to areas designated as "Co-Worker Only."

I was hired in Hess's advertising/public relations department in the 1970s and spent several years learning the business.

I was thrilled to become part of Pennsylvania's largest in-house PR agency, an operation so big it was second in size only to agencies in New York City.

It was a great experience for a young kid from the coal regions.

My daily job was based in a workstation on the third floor, across the hall from offices of then-president Phil Berman and staff.

Many of my duties were mundane. But not all. I occasionally met and greeted entertainers, such as the Osmonds and Elizabeth Taylor. One day, the boss asked if I'd volunteer to be hypnotized by the Amazing Kreskin during a private demonstration for members of senior management. I agreed, and Kreskin appeared to levitate me.

Hess's Inc. was all about appearance and even illusion.

For Christmas 1977, we pulled a stunt. I posed as Luke Skywalker holding a force beam in Hess's advertising.

The movie "Star Wars" had debuted and we had just received the officially licensed merchandise. We fooled everyone on the East Coast with our ads and billboards, although I still don't think I look anything like Mark Hamill.

Another day I welcomed legendary pianist Liberace. I reached out and shook his hand. Turns out, the hulking bodyguard next to him was there to ensure nobody touched Liberace's fingers. (Oops!) I didn't realize, but Liberace's gifted hands were insured for millions by Lloyd's of London.

As Hess's expanded to other locations, I traveled to take part in grand openings. But nobody recognized me. That's because I appeared as a robot, working inside Hess's oversized mechanical man that could talk, move and travel like a human.

I sat in a small wheelchair in confined space, uncomfortably warm and hard to breathe. Naturally, I wasn't permitted to exit the robot in front of spectators because nobody was allowed to see how it worked.

I had to steer, make it talk and walk, and make the arms move. (Hey Al Gore, I think I invented multitasking).

A small, hidden windshield allowed me to see where I was going. Still, I remember getting lost inside Harrisburg East Mall, at which time the robot's batteries went dead. Shoppers gathered around to find out why the robot "died." Store security came and pushed the behemoth into a rear stock room. There, hidden from view, I crawled out of the secret panel, gasping for air.

I often wonder if that's why I'm claustrophobic today. Sounds like a clear case of workers' comp.

Hess's provided a rigorous co-worker training program. We were instructed in not only what to wear, but what colors matched and which fashion patterns to avoid.

In my first year, parking was an issue. I was still too new to have earned a spot at the Linden Street deck. So I parked many blocks away, near Tilghman Street, where there were no parking meters. From there, I sometimes roller skated to the store wearing a suit and tie.

I left Hess's at Christmas, 1978, and took a job as director of corporate communications at Blue Cross and Blue Shield. I suppose it was time for me to grow up.

Hess's was sold one year later, eventually closing for good.

But I still remember the night I walked out of those doors one final time 36 years ago. I felt torn, so much reluctance.

Like a little boy in Toyland, I really didn't want to leave.

And deep inside, I never did.