Lone Star Santa

"I told you Kristie Kringle sounded like a stripper." "So you thought you'd send me out as one?" Kristen Kringle, nÉe Zaleski, stood on a Los Angeles sidewalk outside the Samurai Salsa Burlesque club as she spoke to her agent. A chili pepper in a kimono posed seductively on the sign. "Not a stripper, Kristen. Burlesque. It's hot right now. Very family oriented." "Hot! Raw! Girls! doesn't quite have that Disney ring." "The hot and the raw means the salsa and the sushi!" "I know what it means." Kristen checked the time on her call. She was low on prepaid cell phone minutes and didn't want to recharge before the end of the month. Couldn't afford to recharge before the end of the month. Maybe not even then. "You said 'Leonard, send me out on anything you've got." This is what I've got," her agent complained. "Nothing else?" "It's a slow time of year. The holidays are coming up, you know." Kristen knew that, though nobody was dreaming of a white Christmas in Los Angeles. Tofu turkey, maybe. She eyed the blinking chili pepper. "This isn't exactly an acting job, Len." "For you it would be," he retorted. "I beg your pardon!" "Now that's what I'm talking about. You've got that classy thing going. It comes with the smaller boobs. To be honest, when I saw your head shot and that you were the Sugar Queen--" "Miss Sweetest of Sugar Land." "Whatever. The thing is, most Texas beauty queens... well, I was expecting more artificial sweetener, if you get my drift." "You're mistaking me for Miss Silicon Valley." Still, with judicious use of tape Kristen could fake it. Had faked it. And had suffered with a red rashy tape mark, too. No. This wasn't what she'd envisioned when she'd headed out to Los Angeles with her bright and shiny Miss Sweetest crown over six years ago. "Now if you could find a Sugar Daddy..." Len interrupted himself laughing at his own joke, such as it was. Kristen rolled her eyes. She'd heard them all before. Several times. "No, Len." "I knew that. Now hon, here's what I'm thinking. You take this gig and pick up some moves from the other gals and you'll prove that your lumps are as good as anybody's. Lumps--get it?" "Yeah. I get it." "It's all about perception." Kristen studied her cleavage. It was there. Somewhere. "I thought it was all about boobs." "See, that's what I like about you. You still have your sense of humor." But not her car, which was currently transmissionless. "What about commercials? The orange juice people seemed happy with my work." Her legs were good, if she could just get people to look down. "Maybe I can be a tomato or something." "A tomato--ha!" Kristen didn't understand what was so funny. "Or how about the department stores? Don't they need demonstrators this time of year? You know, Len, nobody sprays perfume like I do." That sounded too desperate. Well, she was desperate. To her surprise, Len abandoned his attempt to talk her into the ethnically confused burlesque show. "Hon, I know you've got talent. You know you've got talent. It's the casting people we've got trouble with. I still think the smart Texas beauty queen hook works, but in Los Angeles, not so much. You're more stage. Think east. Think New York." Kristen flashed back to drama classes. Stage acting was all very well and good, but for real fame, it was TV or movies. Youth wasn't so important on the stage. But with high-definition television exposing every little imperfection, youth definitely ruled. Kristen had thought she was being practical going for film work now, if maxing out her credit cards and taking survival temp jobs could be considered being practical. But after six years, it had come to this: Spraying perfume at people, sweating inside gigantic fruit costumes and Hot! Raw! Girls! And, frankly, the first bluMacAllister, Heather is the author of 'Lone Star Santa', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373751426 and ISBN 0373751427.