Page 35 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
“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.”
