The Last Great American Beauty Pageant Read online

  An off-stage announcer trumpeted the contestants by state: Alabama, Alaska, California, Colorado...

  “Hi, I’m Jimmie Boutellier, Mr. Colorado.” Jimmie tossed his head. His Elvis curl did its thing and he heard passionate squeals from the balcony. Just for grins, he unzipped the top of his fly, giving his front row fans a feast but not the whole banquet.

  New Mexico, New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island...

  “Good evening,” Jonah said, and flashed his pearly whites. “I’m Jonah Kareem Kyle, Mr. Rhode Island, and I just want to say we sure have a winning team here. Go Patriots!”

  The audience shouted, “Go Texans!”

  South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas...

  Laz had never felt so ridiculous in his life. “Hi y’all. I’m Laz Matthias, Mr. Texas, and I feel like a lost heifer—”

  Loud cheers from the partisan Dallas audience silenced whatever else he might have said. Hand-printed placards sprouted like mushrooms.

  He saw Selena Cross, curly wig askew, holding a microphone close to lips that looked as if someone had crayoned them red but hadn’t stayed within the lines. Clothed in a toga-shaped evening gown, the aging actress stood at the side of the stage. “Mr. Texass is six-foot-three,” she lisped. “His hair is chess-nut, his eyes green, and he weighs one-hundred-eighty-five pounds. Mr. Texass breeds horssses and plans to stay single. Any gals out there want to change his mind?”

  As the applause washed over him, Laz stifled a groan. Bobbie-Jo would be spittin’ mad.

  Thirteen finalists were announced, including Laz and his roommates, Mr. Colorado and Mr. Rhode Island. Laz had wondered about the odd number until he realized that there had been thirteen original states, and, after all, this was the Mr. American Patriot pageant.

  The finalists shed their chinos. Swimsuits stretched across tight butts and aroused groins. Mr. California didn’t wear a jockstrap. As he strutted across the stage, the audience responded with enthusiasm, but Jimmie’s balcony contingency whistled even louder.

  Jonah Kareem Kyle was chosen Mr. Congeniality.

  Commercials followed while the thirteen contestants changed into their talent costumes.

  Rufus Herrod propelled his stocky body from the overhead booth and scurried down to the backstage area. “Where the hell are the stagehands?” he screamed, turning toward Maggie, who scampered in his wake.

  “They’re …. here … boss,” she panted.

  Maggie watched Herrod enter the special enclosure, followed by the network head she thought of as “Friar Tuck.” Rather than monk’s robe and cowl, the Friar Tuck look-alike wore a three-piece suit. He perspired profusely and sported a fallen halo of wispy white hair.

  One of the scenic designers finished attaching a crossbar to the prop. “Is this what you want, Mr. Herrod?” he asked.

  “Too low, you idiot! Raise it!”

  Rufus made an about-face and strode away, the sweaty man by his side. Maggie had just about caught up when the suit halted and tugged at Herrod’s arm. “Rufus, you’ve got to stop this now,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his wet forehead.

  “Are you crazy?” Herrod stared at Joshua Pilot, the network official who’d been paid more than enough to cover his gambling debts. “Why the bloody hell would I want to do that?”

  “It’s too iconoclastic. People won’t accept—”

  “Sure they will. Don’t be so spineless. God, you’re pathetic!”

  Although Maggie maintained a neutral expression, she couldn’t have been more gobsmacked if Herrod had proclaimed himself God. Or a tsunami had unexpectedly hit Dallas. One did not call the head of a network spineless and pathetic.

  “Maggie, please lead Mr. Pilot to the nearest men’s room. He don’t look too good.”

  “Yes, Mr. Herrod.”

  You don’t look too good, either, she thought, surprised at his grammatical goof. Rumor had it he’d been born in Hell’s Kitchen and was self-educated, but never before had he lost his cool. Or his syntax.

  “Come along, Mr. Pilot,” she said, as if speaking to a child. “Let’s find the little boy’s room, shall we?”

  As Maggie led the network official toward the stairs, Rufus returned to his booth, where he watched the curtain rise for the talent contest.

  Mr. Oklahoma sang “Oklahoma.”

  Mr. New York made like Sinatra, as he crooned “New York, New York.”

  Mr. Chicago made like Sinatra as he crooned “My Kind of Town.”

  Mr. California made like Jolson as he crooned “California, Here I Come.” Just like the Apostles, he hesitated before the word “come.”

  Mr. Louisiana demonstrated Cajun cooking. Some sort of goopy gumbo, thought Herrod. Although cooking shows were very popular, doubtless Mr. Louisiana’s strategy, the audience coughed, bored.

  Jonah Kareem Kyle stood bare-chested, his pelt clean-shaven. He wore red, white and blue boxing shorts. Raising a harmonica to his mouth, he played “Gonna Fly Now,” the theme from Rocky.

  Mr. Hawaii performed a hula. Ho-hum, thought Rufus.

  Jimmie Boutellier juggled two bowling pins and a straight razor. Mesmerized, the audience gasped every time he caught the razor’s handle. Herrod gasped, too.

  Laz Matthias wore cowboy chaps that emphasized the bulge in his jeans — was that really him or a pair of rolled-up socks? The jeans were tucked into tap-soled boots. At the end of his simple tap dance, he lassoed Tyra, guided her up onto the stage, and gave her a kiss.

  That’s been added since rehearsal, Rufus thought. Clever bastard.

  After a series of commercials, the finalists were whittled down to four: Mr. California, Mr. Texas, Mr. Colorado and Mr. Rhode Island. They stood in a straight line as Selena Cross stepped out from the wings. She approached the men, now clothed in nylon and lycra body shirts and tight black leather pants. In her hand she held a slip of paper.

  Herrod’s forehead beetled until his eyebrows threatened to merge. Couldn’t the “movie icon” memorize one question?

  “Mr. Colorado,” she said, glancing down at the paper, “if the President of the United States mandated a draft and your number came up, would you go to war?”

  Holy shit, what kind of question was that? Jimmie tried not to look perplexed.

  “Hell, yes,” he replied. “I’d fight to protect moms.” The last time he’s seen his mother, she’d been too tranquilized to call him a loser.

  “Mr. California, if the President mandated a draft and your number came up—”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Would you like to elaborate?”

  “Hell no, ma’am.”

  Making no attempt to hide her anger, Selena looked at Jonah. “Mr. Rhode Island, would you answer the question, please?”

  “The way I see it, Ms. Cross, war should be run like a football game. We don’t need guns or bombs, just a group of players facing each other across a 120-yard-long field. If we fought a war like that, we couldn’t lose. We’d learn the playbook, practice hard—”

  “Are you insane?” California muttered, loud enough to be heard. “I suppose you’d give suicide bombers a ten yard penalty for roughing the passer.”

  “Mr. Texas,” a frustrated Selena said, her voice very loud, “if the President initiated a draft and your number came up, would you go to war?”

  Laz bit his lip. He wanted to say hell-no. He thought about the prize money. California was out of the running and Rhode Island’s response was ludicrous, so that meant Laz had a fifty-fifty chance to win this damnfool contest. “I s’pose I’d have to uphold the family tradition, Miz Cross,” he said in a Texas drawl that was thicker than Buck Owens and Kelly Pickler combined. “After all, my momma’s great-great-granddaddy fought at the Alamo and was one of the last to die, right alongside Davy Crock—”

  Interrupted by a standing ovation, Laz gave the judges an aw-shucks grin.

  Clever bastard, Rufus thought again. Crouched in his chai
r like a gargoyle, he alternately chortled and scowled. If the pageant’s sock-o ending failed, he was finished, kaput. If it didn’t…

  He had insisted the judges cast secret ballots, to be tallied backstage by — who else? — the show’s producer, Rufus Herrod. And to keep everything on the up-and-up, the network official, Joshua Pilot, would be there too, looking over Herrod’s shoulder.

  Rufus prayed that the psychological tests were accurate.

  7

  As the losers formed a backdrop of rainbow-colored tuxedoes, the four finalists fashioned a semi-circle around Selena Cross. Rhode Island wore blue, Texas red, Colorado white, California black.

  The twelve Apostles pranced on stage, clothed in black boy-shorts and tuxedo T-shirts.

  Selena Cross opened an envelope. “Third place goes to Mr. California,” she lisped, then waited until the tepid applause had died down before she opened the next envelope. “Second place goes to Mr. Rhode Island.” She opened the third envelope. “First runner up and the guy who will take the place of the winner should he refuse to be crowned…”

  Refuse to be crowned? That’s a funny way to put it, thought Laz, as he heard his name called.

  “And our winner,” Selena shouted, “is Mr. Colorado!”

  “Yes!” Jimmie stepped forward.

  Jude Michael Manna removed Jimmie’s tuxedo jacket, socks and shoes. Selena pulled a long white tunic over his head and handed him a bouquet of lilies. The curtain came down behind him as he walked into the audience, his bare feet practically skimming the ramp.

  The Apostles sang:

  “Here he comes, Mr. American Patriot,

  Here he comes…comes…comes…your ideal…deal…deal.

  The dreams of a million guys,

  Who are more than phallus,

  May come true in beautiful Dallas.

  Here he comes…

  Mister American Patriot!”

  People pressed toward Jimmie, reaching for his feet and the bottom of his tunic. He hurled his lilies at the balcony.

  The curtain rose, revealing a black backdrop. One spotlight shone down upon a wooden cross. Laser beams flashed, simulating a thunderstorm.

  Back in his booth, Rufus felt tears spring to his eyes. The unrehearsed effect was even more beautiful than he had envisioned. Crossing his fingers, praying for all he was worth, he watched Jimmie return to the stage. Selena placed a crown of thorns on the boy’s head. Two of the Apostles stepped out from the wings and heel/toed a Shim Sham Shimmy until they were center-stage. They carried glitter-spackled stepladders. Climbing to the top of the ladders, they posed, one on each side of the wooden cross. Jude helped Jimmie ascend a third ladder.

  Standing in the wings, Maggie swallowed a scream. What the hell was going on, and why hadn’t she been informed? She knew the finalists had been pre-chosen, she wasn’t that naïve, but the show was supposed to end with the winner accepting hugs and butt-pats from his fellow contestants. And the crown was supposed to be a real crown. She had ordered it herself.

  Obviously, Selena and Jude were in on this secret climax.

  Maggie shut her eyes. Last night she had invited Jude to her room. The rock star had arrived wearing nothing more than a robe and a smirk, but soon his sneer had morphed into a genuine smile of appreciation.

  She wanted to produce her own reality show, Maggie told him. She’d hold auditions, nationwide, for singers who could play the guitar. The idea was to replace Jude’s dead band member with an unknown, whom the public would choose. Every week the finalists would perform with Jude’s group. Maggie would find judges. There were two stipulations. She’d host the competition and she’d record a duet with Jude, which they’d launch during the last show. By that time, viewers would number in the millions.

  “Today’s preparation determines tomorrow’s achievement,” she had said, handing him a contract and a pen.

  With enthusiasm, he had signed his name in triplicate.

  If she stopped the pageant now, she could kiss her dreams goodbye.

  Except, she really had no choice. She knew Herrod had some despicable scheme in mind and she wanted no part of it. As she took a step forward, Jude caught her gaze and smiled.

  Abruptly, she turned and ran through the backstage labyrinth until she reached an exit door. She flung open the door, stumbled into an alley, and vomited. Then she returned to the wings. What the hell. Let them throw their darts and peanuts.

  Jimmie reached the ladder’s fifth rung and looked up at the cross.

  He imagined he heard the audience chanting fatty, fatty, two-by four, can’t fit through the cellar door. He pictured his father watching the pageant, his mother calling him a loser. He remembered standing in his mother’s living room and staring at her life-sized wall crucifix. He pictured Jesus smiling serenely.

  The audience urged Jimmie to climb higher. They sounded vicious, like junkyard dogs.

  Jimmie climbed another rung and hesitated.

  Fatty, fatty, two-by-four, can’t fit through the cellar door.

  Rufus Herrod held his breath. Would the boy do it?

  This was his sock-o ending. It didn’t matter if the audience believed Mr. Colorado would be released from the cross after the show. That had been Herrod’s original intent, but maybe he’d keep the camera on Jimmie for hours. The boy’s crucifixion would keep going and going and — wait a sec!

  How about a telethon? For what? World hunger? Mosquito netting? Did it matter? When donations reached ten million dollars, he’d free the boy. And he, Rufus, would only take 15%.

  Maggie sped from the wings. Reaching the cross, all she could see was Jimmie’s feet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, anointing his feet with her tears as she sank to her knees.

  Jimmie finished his climb up the ladder, faced the audience, and shouted, “Made it, Ma! Top of the world!”

  He stretched out his arms and squeezed his eyes shut.

  The dancers hammered nails into his palms.

  A serene smile spread across his face.

  The TV screen faded to a commercial for underarm deodorant.