Page 3 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
“Whoever wins this contest is a special hire for this season only,” she says. “We’ll have a big unveiling for him during the Thanksgiving Day Parade, then he’ll mostly do fitness demonstrations in the sporting goods department for us, plus a few lap-sitting events for our VIP vendors and shoppers.”
“Lap-sitting events?” I scoff.
“Yes, lap-sitting events.”
“Fire me, Dottie,” I groan. “Fire me right now.”
“Never, Penny baby. You know I couldn’t get on without you! And don’t you even think about quitting on me.”
If only she knew.
I think about quitting every. Single. Day. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Dottie is the mother I never had. I mean, technically, I have a mother. But Dottie’s shown me ten times the love and affection I ever received from that woman.
Dottie’s lips purse, and her head tilts to the side. “Honey?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I say something?”
Uh-oh. I know I’m in for it when Dottie wants to say something.
“You always do,” I joke.
“You’re far too young and beautiful to be this wound up all the time. I mean, look at you with your long, luscious hair and brown doe eyes. You’re like a gorgeous little reindeer! You should be frolicking about, not worrying yourself about store policies.”
“Do reindeer have long, luscious hair?” I joke.
She waves a hand. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
I sigh. “I appreciate the compliments, Dot. For the record, though, I’m not so young. I’m thirty-two.”
“You’re young. Believe me.” She places a warm hand on my cheek. “We need to loosen you up somehow, love. Why don’t you get out there and have some fun? Find a boyfriend! Go on some dates!” Her eyes glimmer in the harsh overhead light. “Oh, dating in New York City at Christmastime is magic! Carriage rides in Central Park, hot chocolate at Serendipity, ice-skating at Rockefeller Center…”
We tear open one final box, this one filled with red-and-white striped tights.
“No, thank you. I do not need a man to buy me overpriced hot chocolate or take me skating on an overhyped tiny ice rink while hundreds of tourists fall flat on their faces, and—mark my words—the days are numbered on those horse-drawn carriages. Activists have been trying to enact a citywide ban on them for years. But also—” I pick a rogue hanger off the floor and point it at her. “Didn’t you just say that ‘love is dead’?”
“For me, yes. But not for you.” Dottie hangs the last package of tights on our display.
“Dot? Believe me when I say, I could not desire anything less.”
She sighs. “Fine, fine. You kids today.” She looks around at all the progress we’ve made. “What do you say? Shall we pack it in for the night?”
“Yes, please.”
We gather our broken-down cardboard boxes and start heading toward the backroom.
“If this contest truly needs to happen,” I say as we place the boxes into a waiting dumpster, “can you promise me one thing?”
“What’s that, love?”
“That we’ll keep things somewhat classy and treat the contestants with respect? Back when I was a dancer, I hated that feeling of being just a number, you know? The casting directors literally slapped numbers on our chests at auditions. It was gross. Promise me we won’t do that, and we’ll actually get to know the human beings who are trying to work with us?”
“Promise yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re in charge of the auditions.” Dottie’s eyes sparkle with mischief.
