Chapter 29
Fastening twenty-five sets of angel wings to the eighty-and-up crowd is about as easy as walking twenty-five kittens on leashes.
“Stand still!” I hear Ally yelling across the hall—volume ten being the only decibel range that registers around here.
As for me, I’ve pricked myself so many times with “safety” pins that it should qualify as a blood donation.
The crowd beyond the curtain is getting unruly—whooping it up for Daddy Christmas and, let’s be honest, the kind of wholesome, thirst-driven philanthropy that looks so good on social media. You know, ”the brand-sponsorship” kind of wholesome.
After Eben’s viral moment, Missy tripled ticket prices and added a VIP tier: a photo with Daddy Christmas, plus a surprise appearance by the Christmas King himself (assuming he shows), and a 25% off coupon for Golding Home. I’ve already slipped at least ten of those into my purse.
Now the crowd—who’ve paid a premium for what is, essentially, a sixth-grade talent show, but for senior citizens—is buzzing like they’re waiting for Gaga. Or Mariah, who, famously, keeps everyone waiting.
Missy rushes up behind me, scaring the shit out of me and causing me to stab my finger for what feels like the 450th time.
I’m finishing the wings on Roger and Richard, both in fluffy bathrobes.
We didn’t have the budget for choir gowns, so Missy put everyone in mismatched white bathrobes.
Angel wings and terrycloth—heaven meets Bed, Bath the torch narrowly misses his waistband.
A whole new meaning to fire-crotch.
The baton hits the floor with a forged-to-destroy-Hitler-not-softbois thud. Maude is unimpressed. “What’s wrong, kid? Can’t handle a hot older woman?”
The crowd roars. They adore her.
Ally shakes her head in awe. “God, to have that kind of confidence.”
Missy attempts to usher her offstage.
Maude grins. “Guess I’m too hot to handle for the Hot-Flash Honeys too.”
Missy turns four shades of red. “Where’s a cane with a hook when you need it?” she mutters. Missy steps up to the mic: “Let’s hear it for Miss Pear Blossom 1959!”
Wild applause. Maude beams and bows as deep as her hips allow. She’s got an encore in her, but Missy gently takes her arm to coax her offstage. Maude yanks free and spits: “Hands off the fit.”
The room loses it. Poor Missy. This job is barely worth the bottom half of the $65K–$85K pay scale.
A few more acts fly by, and somehow the audience isn’t bored—they’re hooked. Our seniors aren’t just old; they’re vibrant, raunchy, hilarious, seasoned performers. It’s an R-rated holiday spectacular (a few parents have already taken their kids outside).
We’re down to the final act before Eben and his dad go on, and there’s still no sign of the Christmas King. I’m pretty sure Missy and Eben are praying in opposite directions, like two lanes of highway traffic at night. And honestly? I don’t know whose prayer is more likely to be answered.
The lights dim. A hush falls over the room. I check the clipboard—the Silver Belles are up.
A disco ball descends. (When did someone install that?) The projector flickers to life with a familiar movie scene. The music starts and—oh my God.
Edna’s aide wheels her onstage. She’s in a tight red Santa skirt, cleavage pushed to the North Pole. Three ladies sashay behind her in mini Santa dresses with fur trim. Compared to their “Santa Slut” lineup, my Mrs. Claus outfit looks Amish.
Barbara—platinum from a box—strokes her mic suggestively, and I realize we’re closing on the GILF edition of Mean Girls’ “Jingle Bell Rock.”
Betty Jo hits the piano, and every Millennial in the audience lets out a delighted squeal. Edna’s aide helps her to her feet. I brace myself for her to go ass-up and face-down, but no. She’s steady. Standing, not dancing. Progress.
Barbara hands her the mic. Edna coos as the ladies roll their hips, nailing the Mean Girls choreography beat for beat.
I guess the new hips really do outperform the originals.
Ally and I can’t help but dance along—this was our song. Our movie.
“Get it, Grandma!” a tipsy dude yells. I’m ready to hunt him down when Edna turns (with some assistance), spanks her own ass, and gives it a shimmy. She spots Millie offstage, sticks out her tongue, and smacks herself again.
“Told ya I could dance, bitch!”
“Yeah, but you’re still broke!” Millie fires back. These two have been best friends for decades, and it shows.
They finish with a final roll of their slutty (artificial) hips. The audience stays on its feet for three straight minutes—whistling, cheering, hooting, and hollering. A Santa hat goes flying.
As the applause ebbs, a hush falls. Eben’s gaze flicks to a single ornament trembling on a tree—like water rippling before the T. rex appears. Stillness thickens. Anticipation hangs heavy.
Then, like thunder rolling, a deep, booming voice cuts through the silence.
The Christmas King has arrived.