The Last Great American Beauty Pageant Read online

  THE LAST GREAT AMERICAN BEAUTY PAGEANT

  Denise Dietz

  1

  The TV speakers had developed an echo: “Here he comes…comes…comes…”

  A gaggle of young women goose-stepped across the TV screen. Clothed in white T-shirts and shiny red boxer shorts, tri-cornered hats and flame-colored wigs, the twelve siliconed clones segued into a Fosse-inspired bunny hop that exhibited an exaggerated sense of power and strength. As they wiggled their butts like Cardinals at a birdbath, they sang, “Here he comes…comes…comes…my ideal…deal…deal.”

  The dancers were all under five-foot-four — Radio City Music Hall rejects. They called themselves The Apostles, and Rufus Herrod thought they sounded like the background chorus for a 1930s Ruby Keeler musical.

  Christ!

  A middle-aged woman filled the screen. “Prove how much you love your country,” she said, her curly red wig askew. Rufus thought she looked like an over-the-hill Orphan Annie, only this Annie sported too much mascara, eyes shadow, rouge and lipstick.

  “Join us for the Super Bowl of beauty pageants,” the bewigged woman continued, her words audible despite a lisp. “The World Series of…” She squinted at a distant monitor. “Tables,” she said.

  “Tableaus!” Rufus shouted. “The World Series of tableaus!”

  “The Stanley Cup of spectacles,” she lisped. “The perfect embodiment of glamour, intellect and talent. Friday night, eleven o’clock.”

  The music swelled as the Apostles sang, “Here he comes…” Sly pause. “Mr. American Patriot.”

  Rufus thumbed his remote’s OFF button. At the same time, he turned toward a pair of form-fitting jeans, a fuzzy pink Angora sweater, blonde-streaked hair and brown eyes. “Maggie, get that ad agency on the phone and fire their butts.”

  “Relax, boss.” Two deep dimples dented Mary Margaret Delane’s face as she placed a stack of magazines on top of Herrod’s desk.

  “What part of ‘bun shots’ didn’t they understand? If the dancers’ drawers were any droopier, they’d be working for Focus on the Species, or whatever that psalm-slinging outfit is called.”

  “If you wanted short-shorts, you should have said something. Today’s basketball shorts are droop—”

  “Did you see Selena’s wig? She looked like Little Orphan Annie during a menopausal heat flash. Are her hormones as cockeyed as her wig?”

  “Selena Cross is popular with middle America and Boomers. Teens like her, too. She’s become a cult figure. Last Halloween TMC devoted a whole night to—”

  “What about that kid with the revolving head? She’s a cult figure.”

  “Damn, will you let me finish one sentence? Ms. Revolving Head isn’t a kid anymore, and she’s not as trendy as Selena. We tried to get Jamie Lee Curtis, but she’s too busy filming yogurt commercials and watching Dancing with the Stars. Don’t fret, boss. The viewers will be drooling over our fifty contestants, not our commentator. I’ll try and tone down the makeup, but if Selena’s eyelashes don’t look like centipedes, she feels underdressed.”

  Watching her boss pace up and down his office, Maggie swallowed her irritation. Herrod had no right to make disparaging remarks, especially since Selena was one of the sweetest people Maggie had ever met. Okay, sure, without her glasses Selena was blind as a bat. But the petite brunette possessed an impish, fey quality, and she’d sign autographs until her fingers cramped.

  Maggie patted the stack of magazines. “People interviewed Mr. Colorado, Mr. Texas, and Mr. Rhode Island.”

  “Yeah, great.” Still seething, Rufus glared at his desk as if the wood had turned to sawdust. “Did we get the judges we wanted?”

  Maggie nodded. “J-Lo and Ellen said yes this morning. So did Tyra and Dr. Phil. We’re still waiting to hear from Simon Cow—”

  “Arrange another closed meeting. Inform Selena, the two lead dancers, Jude Michael Manna, and Joshua Pilot. By phone, not e-mail. Joshua’s a Luddite, thinks e-mail is the Devil incarnate. I want the soundproof conference room. Test it for bugs, remove any phones, and have everybody turn in their cell phones at the door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The results of the psychological tests are in and we have to choose our thirteen finalists.”

  “Psychological tests?”

  “Slip of the tongue. I meant the physical exams.”

  Maggie picked up a copy of People and flipped it open. “I’m in lust with Mr. Colorado, boss.” Her Angora sweater expanded. “What a face. What a bod. I wonder if he’s straight.”

  2

  Mr. Colorado clutched his father’s straight razor.

  All six feet of him stood nude, in the middle of his mother’s ostentatious living room. Outside, raindrops snapped against the pavement and James Boutellier Jr. wondered how it would feel to slash his wrists.

  Would it take a long time to die?

  He couldn’t tolerate sustained pain. A simple toothache drove him up the wall.

  Providentially, his mother’s religious icons made wall-driving impossible.

  A life-sized crucifix dominated the east wall. Eyes shut, Jesus bled. And yet, despite his anguish, he smiled serenely.

  Jimmie looked at the razor, the crucifix, the razor.

  Thunder shattered his concentration. Why was he contemplating suicide? He had been chosen for the Mr. American Patriot Beauty Pageant. Wrist-slashing would have to wait.

  Pride stabbed through him as he sauntered into his mother’s bathroom, shelved the razor, and stepped on a scale. Flexing his biceps, he watched the needle waver and settle on 170. Ten years ago, the same needle had settled on 220. He’d been thirteen and five-foot-three and his classmates had chanted “Fatty, fatty, two-by-four, can’t get through the cellar door,” and his mother had called him a loser.

  The mirror above the sink reflected mink-brown hair. An Elvis curl flirted with his left eyebrow. Black lashes framed intense blue eyes. Should he grow a mustache? No, a mustache might detract from his sensual lips. Once upon a time, Charlene had called his lips sensual, not cruel.

  Three envelopes lay on top of the toilet tank. There were no letters inside, just copies of a People magazine article. Jimmie had circled his photo with a red felt-tip pen.

  One envelope was addressed to a nursing home. He doubted his mother would recognize his picture. He’d kept her house the same way she’d left it. He didn’t think she’d ever return — senility wasn’t reversible — but the whoosh of her riding quirt was entrenched in his brain; even thinking about it made his butt ache.

  The second envelope was for his ex fiancée. After finding Charlene in bed with his best friend, after the bloody knife fight, Jimmie had been arrested and fired from his job. His friend had dropped all charges and Charlene had tearfully apologized, but Jimmie had pressed his arms against his sides so his hands wouldn’t wring Charlene’s two-faced neck.

  Now he thanked his lucky stars. The pageant was open to single men only.

  Jimmie’s third envelope had a name, James Boutellier, but no address. James Sr. had skipped town when Jimmie was eight, leaving behind a straight razor and a twisted wife. Jimmie would mail the envelope anyway, fantasize his father’s reaction.

  He walked into the kitchen, where yet another copy of the People article was attached to his fridge door with four magnets: a miniature pizza, a miniature banana, a miniature piggy and a miniature rifle.

  Mr. Texas will be competition, he thought, a scowl molding his cruel, sensual lips.

  3

  Seated atop an Appaloosa stallion named Brando, Laz Matthias felt a vibration in his groin.

  It took a moment. Then, with a self-depreciating laugh, he fished his cell phon
e from his deep jeans pocket and said hello.

  “Yo, Mr. Texas. Congrats on the People article.” Bobbie-Jo sounded annoyed. “You sure looked great in that picture. Too bad it wasn’t in color. Gals woulda’ creamed their jeans over your red hair and green eyes. Did you know there’s a two-page spread ‘bout that actress with the humongous ta-tas? The one who’s in rehab every other week? The magazine even showed her boyfriend, his hand practically squeezin’ her left ta-ta.”

  Laz hooked one muscular leg around the saddle horn. “For the pageant article they only took pictures of the men. No girlfriends.”

  “A mention would have been nice. ‘Engaged to Barbara Jo Sinclair, the yellow rose of Houston.’”

  He sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you? Engaged men are disqualified, and I need the money.”

  “To save the ranch?” This time her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I have money, Laz.”

  “Your daddy has money. Look, the winner pockets five hundred thou—”

  “Judges never choose redheads.”

  “I dyed my hair.” He tried for humor. “I now look like your favorite horse.”

  “Brando?”

  “No, Champion.”

  “You dyed your hair chestnut?”

  “Yep. I cut it, too.”

  “But I like your hair long.”

  “It’ll grow back.”

  “When do you leave for Dallas?”

  “Rehearsals start tomorrow at the Ewing Coliseum.”

  “Will I see you before you leave?”

  “We can’t get together, honey. Paparazzi might be lurking.”

  After a pause she said, “Give my love to Mr. Rhode Island. He looks like he could hype exercise machines, with or without a money-back guarantee.”

  4

  Jonah Kareem Kyle, Mr. Rhode Island, admired himself three times.

  His image peered back at him from the tailor shop’s triple mirror. Sky-blue slacks hugged his lean hips and long legs. Beneath onyx eyes, a Romanesque nose, and a Kirk Douglas chin, a pink ruffled shirt hid his furry pelt of chest hair and his St. Christopher medal. “They” said St. Chris was okay but he’d have to shave his chest.

  Pink shirt and blue slacks! Christ!

  A clairvoyant had told Jonah’s mom that she was having a girl, so she’d painted his bedroom Pepto-Bismol pink. His room stayed pink until he was old enough to cash his first McDonald’s paycheck and buy paint. By then his bedroom walls and ceiling had faded to Piglet pink, and the only paint he could afford was blue — on-sale cans of Eeyore blue.

  Jonah had sworn he’d never wear (or eat) anything pink (or blue), even if he had to go naked (and starve), but what choice did he have? “They” had originally considered brown patriotic breeches, which matched his complexion, and long white stockings, which didn’t.

  This morning Jonah had met “they.” First, Rufus Herrod. The promoter-producer would never win a beauty contest, not with his jelly-belly body and dirigible face.

  Jonah had also been introduced to Herrod’s pretty assistant, Maggie. And the pageant’s hosts: Selena Cross, a horror film star, and singer Jude Michael Manna. Jonah knew all about Jude Michael Manna. Born in New Jersey, he was the son of a Rabbi. Following his Bar Mitzvah, he formed a rock group. When the group fizzled, he moved to Hollywood and stole his first name from a Beatles song, his last name from the Bible. Too old for American Idol but looking much younger than his age, Manna faked his I.D. He made it all the way to the Idol semi-finals before a disgruntled ex-band member blew the whistle — or in this case, a sax. The resultant publicity had launched Jude’s career, proving the old adage that there is no such thing as bad publicity as long as they spell your bogus name right. Manna’s first song, “New York Minute,” hit the top of the charts. And stayed there. After meeting Steven Spielberg, Jude paid his old synagogue a visit. Then he bought a Hollywood mansion, which he shared with two mongrel dogs, Moe and Curley, two parrots, Tina Fey and Chris Rock, and one non-kosher pig. Jonah had seen the palatial mansion on Entertainment Tonight. The parrots had been bleeped.

  When he heard that Manna would co-host the pageant, Jonah had been surprised. Cross, with her cult following, he could understand, but Manna hadn’t had a major hit in years. Then there was the recent scandal. One of Manna’s most popular band members, a guitar-strumming backup singer, had dropped dead on stage. “Aneurism,” the band’s publicist stated. “Crack!” the tabloids shouted.

  Now Jonah carefully stepped from his chalked-and-pinned, sky-blue slacks, zipped up his skin-tight jeans, added the Dallas Cowboys T-shirt he’d bought at the airport, and reached for his chest-banner. “They” said to always wear the banner.

  On a white background, in black letters, the banner read: RHODE ISLAND.

  What a joke! He was a native New Yorker, a Jets, Mets, Knicks and Rangers fan.

  His diction was flawless, his demeanor friendly, and his teeth had been braced. Hell, if the situation called for it, he could out-Will Will Smith.

  Jonah had moved to Rhode Island for the Mr. American Patriot auditions. He knew the competition would be fierce in Manhattan, where he’d have to jockey for position against actors, dancers and models.

  His goal was to reach the televised finals. The winner’s take, five-hundred grand, would be awesome, but he wanted to be seen by network people. When “they” saw what he looked like, he’d be sure to bag a job as a sports announcer.

  Dallas was awesome, the hotel comfy, even though he had to share his suite with Mr. Texas and Mr. Colorado. Texas was okay but Colorado creeped Jonah out. Every so often, Mr. Colorado reminded Jonah of that banjo-playing dude in Deliverance.

  Mr. Colorado even kept a straight razor on his nightstand, within easy reach.

  Last night Jonah had slept with one eye open.

  5

  From the time Mary Margaret Delane was old enough to belt out “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” she knew she’d be a singer. And not just any singer. A star with one memorable name, like Cher.

  Maggie even had the perfect name: Magdalene.

  But she’d forgotten about Madonna. “Magdalene” couldn’t compete with Madonna.

  So she called herself Maggie Dell, then Maggie Bell — which she thought had a nice ring to it, ha-ha. She hired backup musicians and billed herself as Maggie Bell and The Clappers. One of the Clappers knocked up a girl in Mishawaka, Indiana, and left the group. After that, the other Clappers seemed to fade away.

  Maggie changed her name to Dolly Delane and tried Country-Western. She landed a gig in Colorado Springs, where she sang for peanuts. Literally. The bar gave its patrons free peanuts and, within a couple of hours, shells carpeted the floor. Some people threw the unshelled peanuts at performers. Oh, what fun! Like that petting zoo in Canada, where, under cover of darkness, people used deer for dartboards and beheaded birds. Not serial killers, either. Normal, everyday people who knew they were doing something wrong, ‘else why do it in the dark?

  When one peanut-projectile gave Maggie a bloody nose (raucous laughter) and another almost blinded her (more raucous laughter), she emptied her brandy snifter, added the few tips to her pathetic cache, and hopped a bus to L. A. There, she met a casting agent named Pecan Cashew. Pecan swore it was her real name, even though she insisted Maggie drop the ersatz Dolly.

  Maggie fired Pecan when it became obvious that Maggie’s audition roles as “party escort” weren’t exactly spawning movie roles.

  Why was she always running into nuts?

  During a Pecan party, Maggie had been introduced to Rufus Herrod, who was looking for an assistant who could type and keep her mouth shut. Best of all, the producer was willing to pay more than minimum wage.

  Maggie still wanted to sing but she also had this foolish desire to eat.

  One of the perks of working for Herrod was a room at the Mr. American Patriot’s host hotel. Another perk was room service, as long as Maggie didn’t abuse the privilege.

  Tonight she was abusing. If the pageant generated
high ratings, Herrod wouldn’t care. If the pageant was a disaster, she’d probably be looking for a new job.

  Half hidden inside an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne wore its foiled French beret. Atop a room service cart were giant croissants, rare roast beef, and chocolate-covered strawberries.

  Maggie had everybody’s room numbers. “You’d better keep them handy in case of an emergency, like a tsunami or something,” Herrod had said.

  “A tsunami in Dallas?” Maggie had asked, biting her lower lip to keep from laughing in Herrod’s face.

  “Today’s preparation determines tomorrow’s achievement,” he had responded, possibly the most profound thing he’d ever said to her.

  Maggie glanced at her list of room numbers. Was tonight an emergency?

  “You bet your ass,” she muttered, reaching for the phone.

  6

  “Please God,” Rufus Herrod prayed, “let nothing go wrong tonight.” He had screamed, threatened, cajoled, and won. The pageant would be televised live, without that annoying ten-second Janet Jackson lag.

  Seated inside a glass-enclosed booth, high above the stage, he watched The Apostles open the show. Boxer shorts were now red jogging shorts. Herrod then watched the contestants strut across the stage. Bare-chested, etched arm muscles taut, they wore tan chinos. Several had unbuttoned their waistbands.

  Herrod yawned. The opening ceremonies were tedious. Two hours until the climax. His pulse raced when he thought about the climax, and his yawn became a wolfish grin.