Chapter 3
Penny
As a kid, I loved Christmas. The lights. The music. The way our house smelled like pine trees and gingerbread cookies. Not that my mother allowed me to actually eat the gingerbread cookies—but still. It was my favorite time of year.
Everything changed when I got my dream job as a “Spectacular Kickette” in the world-famous New York City Holiday Extravaganza show.
Three rigorous dance performances a day, dressed as a sexy elf or a sexy snowman or a sexy Christmas tree (yup, we even had sexy Christmas trees) would exhaust anyone, I’m sure.
But that wasn’t the issue for me.
The real issue was the daily weigh-ins and the constant anxiety about my body.
The “magic” of that famous Christmas kickline depended on the dancers’ figures being nearly identical, so we were always on high alert about our bodies.
At least I was. My brain got stuck in this endless loop of “Are my legs long enough? Are my breasts perky enough? Are my abs tight enough?”
I never felt like I was… enough.
Every insecurity my mother planted in me sprouted to life during my four years on that show. Now, Christmas just reminds me of how bad things got for me during my final season, and honestly, I’d prefer to forget that time in my life.
If someone told me ten years ago that I’d be back at Onyx Studios preparing for another audition, I would call that person a liar.
Yet here I am doing that very thing.
The place looks exactly the same as it did a decade ago. Framed Broadway show posters from the ’80s and ’90s line the walls. The hallways are crammed with performers stretching their limbs wherever they can find space. It smells the same, too, like tap shoe resin and sweat.
Memories rush back to me in full force. How many afternoons did I spend standing in these lines, my heart beating double-time behind the paper number attached to my chest?
Too many to count.
I remind myself that I’m no longer that nervous young dancer desperate to “get the gig.” I am on the other side of the table: the casting side. And as much as I am against this whole contest, I have to admit it feels good to be the one in charge this time.
Dottie comes barreling through the rehearsal studio door, a cardboard tray of coffees in her hands. “Did you see that line out there? Whew! There are sexy Santas everywhere, ladies! This is going to be fun!”
“Thank you,” I say as she hands me a cup. “This is decaf, right?”
“Yes. And for you, too, miss.” Dottie hands a cup to Keira, who is reviewing our list of auditioners. “I will never understand how you young people operate efficiently without caffeine pulsing through your veins.”
Keira takes a small sip. “Caffeine is a drug, Dottie. Didn’t your mother ever tell you? Don’t do drugs.”
Keira has an unusual edge to her today. Now that I think about it, her energy has been off all week.
“I gave up actual drugs in the late seventies, dear. I’ll be damned if I give up coffee, too!” Dottie chugs her caffeine and lets out an “aah” sound at the end like she’s a little kid. “Should we get this party started? It’s been decades since I got to ogle an array of man meat!”
“Dottie. I meant it when I said I want us to treat our auditioners with respect. They are not meat,” I correct. “They are men.”
Dottie salutes me. “I stand corrected. Bring on the men.”
“Thank you. Alright!” I clap my hands together. “We have five minutes until our first auditioner comes in. Keira? Let’s review the plan.”
Keira rises from her chair, clipboard in hand. “Each auditioner has a ten-minute slot. They’ve been instructed to arrive dressed in a Santa style that accentuates their fitness.”
“Accentuates their fitness?” My brows draw together. “Is that how we phrased it?”
Keira huffs out a breath. “Yes. Dottie wanted to say ‘shirtless-ness is recommended.’ You nixed that idea in favor of ‘please dress in a Santa style that accentuates your fitness.’ May I continue, please?”
Gosh, what is up with her?
I lift my hands in a defensive position. “By all means.”
Keira continues, all business. “Each auditioner will do a three-to-five-minute physical fitness demonstration of their choice, followed by a short Q&A with the casting team, which is, of course, us.”
Dottie looks my way. “Pen, you have all the Qs for our As, correct?”
I pull a notebook from my oversized purse and hold it in the air. “Yes. Our Qs are locked and loaded.”
“Excellent.” Keira moves toward the door. “At the end of the day, we three will deliberate, hopefully come to a unanimous decision, and crown our winner. If we can’t reach unanimity for some reason, two out of three in agreement will suffice.”
“My, my, this all feels so serious all of a sudden.” Dottie laughs.
“It is serious,” Keira says. “Whoever we select today as ‘World’s Fittest Santa’ will receive ten-thousand dollars, a lucrative sponsorship deal, and they will represent Herald’s Department Store during our busiest sales period. It’s imperative that we pick a worthy man.”
“A worthy man?” Dottie cocks her head to the side at her odd choice of words.
“I know, right?” Keira’s eyes well with tears. “Do worthy men even exist anymore?”
“Keira, are you okay?” I ask softly, and only then do I realize she’s not wearing her wedding ring.
She catches me staring at her hand and promptly stuffs it in her pocket. “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with, alright?”
Dottie and I give each other a look. Before we can say anything further, Keira flings open the door and shouts into the hall.
“Jimmy Farrington! You’re up!”
We all take our seats behind the table as a young man—a very young man—enters the room. He’s dressed predictably in full Santa gear with a realistic sack of presents slung over one shoulder.
“Hello, ladies, I’m Jimmy Farrington,” he says, a crack in his voice.
“Hi Jim Farrington!” Dottie says kindly, but she tips her head to the side, confused.
This kid doesn’t look old enough to drive a car.
Dottie opens her mouth to speak again, but nothing comes out.
“I got this,” I whisper, then clear my throat and smile. “Nice to meet you, Jimmy. I appreciate you coming to see us today, but I need to clarify something before we start the audition.”
“Clarify away!” he says, voice cracking again.
Oh boy.
“On the casting call, we specifically said that all auditioners need to be at least twenty-one years old…”
“Mm-hmm. Yup!” Jim squeaks. “That’s me! I’m twenty-one years old, alright! I just look super youthful. Cool, so… would you like to see my abs?” He moves his hand to his fluffy red coat.
“No!” I shout, startling the poor kid. I lower my voice to a more acceptable level. “I mean… no thank you.” I pause. “My apologies, but it seems we missed a crucial part of our check-in process. Would you mind showing us your ID?”
“Uhhhhhh. My mom’s holding my wallet in the hallway. Should I go and get it from her?”
“That won’t be necessary.” I break the news to him as respectfully as I can. “I’m sorry, Jimmy, but we can’t audition you today.”
“Awwww! Whyyyyy?” he whines. “I’m fifteeeeeeen! If I’m old enough to work at the movie theater, I’m old enough to let ladies sit on my lap in a Santa suit!”
“Inaccurate.” I point at the door. “Happy Holidays to you and your mother.”
Jimmy’s face screws up in anger. “I hope your Christmas sucks! All of you!” He stomps out of the room, letting the door slam behind him.
“Well,” Dottie says, “he seems like a nice boy. Shall we welcome in our next auditioner?”
I drum my knuckles on the table, determined to keep these proceedings positive. “Yes, let’s! Who’s next?”
Keira opens the door and checks the clipboard. “Stanley Steamer,” she announces.
“The man’s name is Stanley Steamer?” Dottie hisses at me.
“Yes! ‘Tis I, Stanley Steamer!” A man in his early seventies makes a grand entrance into the room. He’s wearing a long red trench coat and heavy black boots with huge silver buckles. He holds a shiny green present with a gold glittery bow.
“Well, hello, Stanley… uh, Steamer, was it?” I say.
“That’s correct,” he says proudly.
Dottie chimes in. “Is, um, is Stanley Steamer your legal name?”
“No, ma’am. ‘Tis my stage name.”
“Oh, so you have stage experience then,” I say. “That’s wonderful. Where do you perform?”
“Wherever I’m needed, miss,” he says without elaborating further.
“How mysterious,” I joke, but his face remains deadly serious. “Do you, uh, do you have a fitness demonstration for us today?”
“Do I ever.” He flashes a mischievous grin.
I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this one.
“Great!” Keira smiles tightly. “Lots of auditioners waiting, so hop to it, Mr. Steamer.”
“Eager, are we, miss?” He licks his lips. “Don’t you know good things come to those who wait?”
Okay, I’m getting a really bad feeling now.
Keira’s face twists in displeasure, but she doesn’t respond.
Stanley continues, “Before I demonstrate my unique fitness abilities, I need some assistance from you beautiful ladies.” He approaches us at the table and lays the green box down with a flourish. “Could someone do me the honor of unwrapping my gift?”
“Sure!” Dottie says with her usual charm. “Like this?” She takes hold of the gold ribbon and gives it a tug.
“Good girl,” he rumbles. “Santa Steamer approves. Harder, honey. Pull it harder.”
Dottie gives me a look like she’s not sure what she’s gotten herself into, then says, “Oh, what the hell?” and gives the ribbon another tug. All four sides of the box fall open to reveal three Christmas bells, each hand-painted with green holly leaves and little red berries.
“How pretty!” I say.
“There’s one for each of you,” Stanley says. “Santa always comes bearing gifts, doesn’t he?”
Did he just stress the word “comes”?
“Haha,” I say. “Yes, I suppose he does.” I’m trying to be supportive of this man, but I’m getting warier by the second.
Dottie, Keira, and I each lift a bell by its respective ribbon and examine it. In that split second of distraction, Stanley whips open his red trench coat and yells, “Ho, ho, ho!”
“My eyes! My eyes!” Keira shouts and covers her face with her forearm.
The man stands there fully nude, and fully erect, his penis painted bright green like a tree.
He juts his pelvis in our direction. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, ladies, so deck my balls with your bells of holly.”
“You need to leave,” I say calmly.
“But—” Stanley protests.
“Sir?” I say more forcefully this time. “Close your trench coat and leave the premises. Now.”
He fastens his buttons and sighs good-naturedly. “Oh well. You miss all the shots you don’t take, right?”
“That’s the spirit!” Dottie says. “I’m sure your act is delightful, Mr. Steamer. But… maybe just not the right fit for our particular contest.”
That’s Dottie for you. Always the diplomat.
Stanley reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card.
“Well, if you’re ever in need of an exotic dancer for your holiday parties, I’m your guy.
I’m almost fully booked next month at retirement centers, book clubs, and knitting circles, but I could always squeeze in another event for lovely ladies such as yourselves. ”
Dottie takes his card. “Very kind of you, sir. You have a happy holiday now, you hear?”
“And you as well.” He approaches the table again and gestures to the bells. “I sort of have to take these. They’re part of the act.”
“Understood,” I say. “Be well, Mr. Steamer.”
He gathers his bells—and his balls—and he’s gone.
I blow out a breath and regather my wits. “Keira, before we see the next contestant, could you remind everyone about the age requirement and our no-nudity clause?”
“Happy to,” she responds with an unusual ferocity to her tone.
She flings the door to the hallway open and yells, “Hey! All you Santa wannabes! It shouldn’t be that hard to keep your pecker in your pants!
Have some respect, will ya?! Also, it’s twenty-one and older, no exceptions!
So don’t you come in here and lie about your age!
You think you can pull a fast one over us just because we’re women?
Well, you can’t! Women know! We always know! ”
She slams the door, leans against the wall, and promptly bursts into tears.
I rise from my chair. “Keira, what on earth is going on?”
“They’re all lying liars who can’t keep their peckers in their pants,” she says between sobs.
“I really don’t like it when she calls it a pecker,” Dottie whispers to me as we approach our friend.
“No one does,” I whisper back. “But I think we should let that slide for the moment.”
We crouch beside Keira. She’s slid down to the floor, head in her hands.
“Do you want to tell us what’s going on?” I ask softly and brush a lock of hair behind her ear.
She wipes tears from her cheeks. “Tagg’s cheating on me.”
“What?” I gasp. “Sweetie, that’s terrible! Are you sure?”
She nods and wipes her nose on a tissue that Dottie hands her. “I’ve been suspecting it for a while now, and I got confirmation last week. From the woman herself.”
“Who is it?” Dottie says. “Do I know her? Because I’ll smack a bitch.”
“You’ll smack a bitch?” I question.
“Isn’t that what you kids say today?”
“It’s this woman he works with.” Keira chokes back another sob. “I actually don’t think I can handle talking about it right now. I’m fine, I promise. These lying, dick-swinging Santa Clauses just got to me, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I’m sorry. I’ll keep it together from now on.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” I peek at the wall clock. “You sure you don’t want to go home and relax? Dottie and I can handle the dick-swinging Santas. Though I’m hoping after your speech just now, they’ll know better than to swing anything in our direction.”
She manages a small laugh. “No, please. Let me stay. Tagg’s home with the kids, and he doesn’t know that I know yet. I need to be here with you two right now.”
“Okay. Well, why don’t you take a seat at the table? I’ll take the lead and welcome our next contestant.”
Dottie puts an arm around Keira and ushers her toward the casting table while I make my way to the door.
When I swing it open, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life is standing inches away from me.
And he’s wearing a spandex Santa suit.