Chapter 10
Matt
Who’s got two thumbs, a killer routine, and is absolutely bringing the house down in the Thanksgiving Parade right now?
This guy.
News flash: these floats are way wobblier than they seem when you watch them on TV.
All this time, I had no idea that the performers were fighting like hell to stay upright and not plummet into the stands.
Also, it’s cold as fuck out here. I can’t feel my fingers.
And my toes? Forget it. They’ve been numb blocks of ice since eight a.m.
Despite all that, I am blissed the hell out.
Because I didn’t think I would ever have the opportunity to perform like this again.
Well, to be fair, I’ve never performed exactly like this before.
When I was a kid, I always imagined I’d have an acting career like Marlon Brando.
I would be that mysterious, tough guy who was super serious about his craft.
And I assumed the whole world would naturally respond to my mysterious tough guy work.
Turns out that while I may be a funny, creative guy, there’s never been anything tough or mysterious about me.
I wear my heart on my sleeve, I can’t memorize lines for shit, and past performances always led to an insane amount of anxiety.
When I’m in fitness mode, though? It’s a whole different story. I’m totally at ease.
I have been exercising for the past three-and-a-half hours straight in frigid temperatures for an in-person crowd of 3.
5 million, with over fifty million people watching at home.
Every time I do a squat, a dip, or a press, a crowd of women in multicolored parkas and knitted hats clap and squeal at me like I’m my own one-person boy band.
Turns out there’s only one woman whose attention I want.
I spot Penny in the stands, her clipboard in hand. She’s wearing a brightly colored parka, too, but it’s unzipped. She’s hatless and gloveless. Her hair is blowing in the thirty-two-degree breeze. She’s calm, cool, and collected. Like always.
She locks eyes with me for a moment, gives me a nod, then says something I can’t hear into her headset.
All business.
And hot as hell.
“Keep your head in the game, Barbarella! Stop salivating!” Eugene hisses and hands me a red-and-white striped kettlebell. He’s dressed in his elf gear once again.
I don’t love it when he calls me Barberella, but he’s doing me yet another favor, so I let it slide.
I launch into my next sequence of swings and scan the crowd for Penny again, seeking her approval. I don’t think what I’m doing right now counts as a pelvic thrust? Though I can’t be one hundred percent sure.
Damn, I lose track of her as the float continues to rattle down Sixth Avenue.
I put the kettlebell down. Eugene and I launch into a series of synchronized burpees as “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” continues to blare from our float’s speaker system. The crowd goes wild.
I think my mom would be proud if she could see me now.
I mean, I suppose she can see me. I asked the aids in her care center to turn the parade on for her this morning, in case she’s having a good day and can get a laugh out of seeing her son strut his stuff on national television.
Time will tell if it resonates with her or not.
My performance career peaked doing a national condom commercial when I was twenty-five.
My mom was thrilled about that spot. Seriously, she’d seen me in countless off-off-Broadway plays that lit me up as an artist, but I’d never seen her so ecstatic as she was about that bizarre commercial.
Money was always a huge motivator for her.
If you were making money, in her eyes, you were successful.
Didn’t matter so much if you felt happy or fulfilled by the work.
All that counted was how much money was in the bank.
I scold myself internally when I realize I’m thinking about my mom in the past tense. She’s present tense. She’s still here. In body. And maybe in spirit too? But most days, her mind is somewhere else entirely.
Surprisingly, this Santa gig checks her boxes and mine.
In the past, I never cared much about money so long as I was getting by, but it’s a relief knowing I’m making enough money to help me care for her for the next few months.
And silly as it seems? The work truly is meaningful to me.
I feel like myself when I’m up here, when I’m connecting with people, making them laugh, and encouraging them to get fit.
This opportunity came along at just the right time. Something about this whole thing feels like it was meant to be.
The Herald’s building comes into view, signaling we’ve finally reached the end of the parade route.
“Oh, thank god,” Eugene says under his breath.
“Have I thanked you enough today for doing this with me?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not nearly enough, no.”
“Thank you, Gene. Seriously. I think you can hang up your elf shoes after this one.”
“You think? Dude, I love you, but hell no. If I have to suit up as an elf one more time– ”
I laugh. “Relax, man. I know you can hang up your elf shoes. After this, your service is complete. But, hey. We do have one more block. Gimme one more round before you retire for good?”
Eugene can be a grump, and he loves to give me a hard time. But I know my friend. Part of him is enjoying this just as much as I am.
He smiles and ups the volume on our music. “What the hell?”
Together, we launch into a lengthy combo of squats and lunges with these hip wiggle flourishes at the end. I discovered the hip move was a hit at around 66th Street when a group of women went wild for it. It took a few blocks before Gene deigned to join me, but once he did, we were unstoppable.
When we land in front of Herald’s, the parade announcer shouts out our names, encourages the crowd to give us one more round of applause, and reminds them that starting tomorrow, I, “The World’s Fittest Santa,” will be taking photos and hearing people’s holiday wish lists in the main hall in Herald’s.
A young woman in the crowd fans herself despite the frigid temperatures and shouts, “SIT ON MY LAP, SANTA!” An older woman standing beside her covers her grandchild’s ears and glares at me.
Sorry, lady. I’m quickly learning I have no control over these women.
As Eugene and I disembark the float, I wave to my fans—geez, do I have fans now?—and lean closer to him to whisper, “I’m a little nervous about the whole lap-sitting aspect of this gig.”
“You? Nervous about women sitting on your lap?” Eugene laughs.
“Yeah, actually.”
He gives me a look like he doesn’t believe me.
“I’m serious! I know I can be a flirt, and I talk a good game, but having a whole bunch of random strangers sitting on my lap? It freaks me out. One of the first things I learned when I started personal training is that firm boundaries are a must and—”
“Right. Were those firm boundaries in place the other day when you asked Penny to fuck you?”
“Shhh!” I cover his mouth and smile at a group of women wearing turkey T-shirts and gobbling at me. Yeah, they’re definitely gobbling at me. I hiss, “I did not ask her that.”
“Ya kinda did,” he mumbles under my hand.
I release my grip on him. “Whatever. That was a slip.”
“Seems you slip a lot when it comes to Penny.”
“Yeah, well, it won’t happen again.”
“Sure, it won’t.” He smirks.
We reach the tent where they hold the talent. Apparently, I’m “talent” now. “Can you listen to me for a minute, please? Or are you set on mocking me?” My voice gets more serious than I intend it to.
“Sorry. Yeah, man, of course I can listen.”
I take a breath. “This Santa gig is uncharted territory. All the attention when people are watching me work out in the sporting goods department, or even on that float just now, is one thing, but having people sit on my lap? Telling me their wish lists? I dunno. It feels way too intimate. It feels like I’m setting myself up for some shenanigans. ”
“Since when do you say the word shenanigans?”
“Felt appropriate. Let me live.”
“Matt.” He slaps a hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve known you for over a decade at this point.”
“Poor you,” I joke.
“Thank you. It’s been rough.”
I laugh.
“And despite your occasional Penny-induced sexually charged verbal vomit…”
I wince. “Please don’t combine the words sexual and vomit.”
“…you are the classiest guy I know.”
“Ha! That’s a stretch!”
“True. Let’s try that again. You are a… decent guy who I can almost tolerate. How’s that?”
I nod. “Much more believable, yeah.”
Eugene continues, “What I mean is, I know you, dude. You’re a stand-up guy. I have full faith you’ll handle this lap-sitting situation with the same class and panache that you handle everything else.”
“What the hell does panache mean?”
“Fuck if I know,” he says.
“Thanks.” I laugh. “That helps. Anyway, it’s probably ridiculous to be worried. Penny’s my handler, right? Something tells me she’ll run a tight-ass ship.”
“You want to ride Penny’s ass ship, huh?” a feminine voice trills from behind me.
I turn and find Keira and Penny standing under the tent a few feet away.
Penny looks like her head is about to explode. “What the hell did you just say?” she says to her friend.
Keira is beaming. “I said—”
“Yeah, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you repeat that.” Penny’s eyes widen. “Who are you right now? You file for divorce, and suddenly, you’re this saucy, foul-mouthed matchmaking comedian?”
Wait. Is Keira trying to match me with Penny?
“For the record,” I chime in, “I didn’t say I wanted to ride your tight-ass ship. Just that I suspect you’d run a tight-ass ship. It was an attempted compliment.”
“Thank you?” Penny says with a question in her voice. “Though I think it’s best if we drop the topic of my ‘ass ship’ altogether.”
I hold my hands up. “Done.”
Penny looks at Keira with wide eyes, still waiting for her to explain herself.
Keira sighs. “My apologies to you both.” Keira looks between Penny and me. “I guess I’m feeling liberated these days.”