Hidden America

by Jeanne Marie Laskas

  The men look at each other, at face paint, tails, fur. Oh, sweet Jesus . . . we look like fucking idiots.

  “Who-dey!” the cheerleaders say.

  The men dart away like roosters.

  Outside in the parking lot, the men are more serious. Businessmen, banker types, tailgating, bonding. Somebody knew somebody and arranged for two cheerleaders—yeah, two real cheerleaders—to come to the tailgate party for two hundred bucks. Heh heh. Where they at? Are they coming? Where they at?

  Holly (blond ringlets) and Stephanie (brunet innocence) arrive.

  “Hi!” They have doe eyes and dewy smiles. They wear little string backpacks in which they carry pom-poms. They slip off their backpacks. They slip off their white satin Ben-Gals jackets. “Ooh, it’s chilly!” Holly says, revealing her naked arms and abundant bosom. “Ooh, that storm is coming!”

  “I’ve been looking at you girls on the Internet,” one of the businessmen says.

  “Dude,” says his colleague. “Dude.”

  “I’m Holly,” says Holly. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for having us.”

  “You want some beef barley soup?” one says to her. “Some kielbasy?”

  “We have Chips Ahoy,” says another.

  “I’m good,” says Holly.

  “We’re good,” says Stephanie.

  The conversation is not flowing. Just what is the purpose of this meeting?

  The men give up trying to talk to the cheerleaders, turn to one another, laugh, grunt. Holly and Stephanie stand there smiling. Stephanie is shy, is a first-year, is taking lessons from Holly, who is also a first-year but who has so much more experience feeling gorgeous. “Would you guys like to learn a cheer?” Holly asks them.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Come on, do it with us.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Well, will you say it if we do it?”

  “All right.”

  Of course, it starts to rain. The men dart under a tarp. Holly and Stephanie stay out in the rain, just a sprinkle, a trickle, a tickle, droplets for the cheeks.

  “Let’s go, Bengals—ooh, aah!” the cheerleaders chant. “Let’s go, Bengals—ooh, aah!” They spin, throw their heads, offer ass. The men learn the words quickly. “Let’s go, Bengals—ooh, aah!” The men hold up their beer cans, toast one another. Heh heh.

  The cheerleaders finish and wave, taking their jackets and pom-poms with them.

  “Well, that was worth it,” says one of the men.

  MEET THE CHEERLEADERS: SARAH AND SHANNON

  Sarah: “I work for Pepsi. I’m pretty much on call twenty-four/seven, so it’s stressful. If somebody runs out of Mountain Dew and they’re having a sale on it, they’re calling me to get out there. I’m, like, I know, I know.”

  Shannon: “This apartment is two bedrooms, two baths. We met pretty much through Bath & Body Works in Lexington. We both went to the University of Kentucky.”

  Sarah: “I called Shannon ‘Miss Hair.’ I was, like, ‘Do you know Miss Hair?’ That was my first meeting of Shannon. We’ve been best friends ever since then. We’re so laid-back. Nothing gets us really fired up too much.”

  Shannon: “I thought it would be awesome to be a Ben-Gal. You just put it way up here. You never really think you can get there.”

  Sarah: “We dared each other to try out. To be an NFL cheerleader, I think every girl dreams.”

  Shannon: “We use a great bra by Victoria’s Secret. Body by Victoria Push-up Bra. We all had to get a bra that has a fixture that’s real low. It’s spandex and it’s definitely tight, so it squishes and pulls. And then we have bronzing stuff to make it look more . . . You do it, like, right here in the V. It makes it look like there’s a shadow, so it makes your chest look bigger.”

  Sarah: “Being a female, you gain water weight. You can go in there and think you’re so thin, and it’ll weigh you five pounds over. It gets frustrating. I eat lots of asparagus.”

  Shannon: “There’s, like, seven or eight things on our grocery list. For breakfast it’s egg whites and oats—dried oats.”

  Sarah: “People think we’re so weird. You have to be very disciplined. And you have to get in that mind-set, because it is hard to follow. Very, very hard to follow. Like, a guy will ask you out on a date on a Wednesday night, and you can’t say, ‘I can’t eat, because I have to weigh in tomorrow.’ But you can’t go and not eat, either. So it is hard.”

  Shannon: “I’ve been in situations with people who think, like, Oh, you’re not having fun. Or, Why won’t you go out? Because I don’t want to eat.”

  Sarah: “I usually say to a guy, ‘Let’s wait until Friday night, because I have four days to get my weight back down after that.’”

  Shannon: “You saw us in practice in the short booty shorts and, like, a sports bra or bikini top? That’s so they can see your fitness level. The stomach, the legs, the butt.”

  Sarah: “They stand right in front of you with a clipboard. I don’t like it, but it’s a good idea. It has to be done.”

  Shannon: “It’s about glamour, fitness, and always being ready: full hair, full makeup, giving 110 percent.”

  Sarah: “Of course, guys look at it as some type of sex symbol. But I don’t think it’s a thing that guys want their girlfriend to look like, you know what I mean? It’s like a costume. It’s not something I think a guy would like to look at every day.”

  Shannon: “Egg yolk is actually what carries most of the fat. I’ll usually put one yolk and about six egg whites just to have some fat and not just the protein.”

  Sarah: “This month has been good. I mean, we gained a few pounds, but that helps you start again.”

  Shannon: “I’m not usually this color. I tanned yesterday.”

  Sarah: “If Shannon has her hair up in a ponytail, I swear, ninety-nine out of a hundred people would bet it’s fake. It looks so perfect, and it’s so big and thick. I bet ninety-nine out of a hundred would think it’s fake. It’s that good.”

  Shannon: “You want some water?”

  —

  THERE’S MORE. For Adrienne, so much more. You have to understand at least one more important beat of the backstory: this is not the first time Adrienne has been named Cheerleader of the Week. The first time, she blew it. She may be the only Ben-Gal in history to screw up so royally. It happened three weeks earlier. Charlotte had told Adrienne, “This is it! You’re going to be Cheerleader of the Week!” The night before the game, Adrienne was so excited she could barely sleep. Well, she did sleep. And sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

  She awakened to the sound of her phone ringing. It was Missy, calling from the parking lot, where all the other cheerleaders had already gathered. “Where are you?” Adrienne hoped this was a bad dream. But, no, it was true. She had overslept. She threw on her clothes and rushed into the stadium, arriving not exactly Ben-Gal ready and more than sixteen minutes late.

  “Tardy!”

  The Cheerleader of the Week was . . . tardy? She was immediately dethroned. She would not be allowed to cheer, let alone be Cheerleader of the Week, and she would be penalized two games. Hey, late is late. Rules are rules. All the gals, including Charlotte, embraced her, grieved with her, over the tragedy that seemed for her so typical, so many almosts, so much dumb luck, so much stupid, rotten, dumb luck.

  “It’s my own fault,” Adrienne told her teammates on that dismal day. “It’s nobody’s fault but my own.”

  For all her mother-superior-style discipline, Charlotte is a kind soul. Now here it is, just three weeks after Adrienne’s disaster, and Charlotte is giving her a second chance at being Cheerleader of the Week. Here you go, Adrienne. Your sins are forgiven.

  So maybe it’s the generosity that is making Adrienne sick. The outpouring of love. The second chance that in so many ways feels like the last. The thou
ght of going out there, in front of all those screaming fans, appearing on the JumboTron in the stadium whose concrete you yourself once poured.

  After serious consultation with Mary and Traci, Charlotte has an announcement. “Catsuits!” she bellows out into the locker room that by now is held in tight under a hanging cloud of aerosol. “Okay, girls, catsuits!”

  “Catsuits!” the women shriek. There is nothing sexier than the catsuits.

  Adrienne throws her head into the sink, runs the water at full blast, plunges. “Catsuits!” several tell her. “Catsuits!” They throw their arms around her, leap tiny leaps. “Catsuits!”

  “Adrienne, honey, are you okay?”

  MEET THE CHEERLEADER: ADRIENNE

  “My mom was killed. She was murdered by my stepdad. I had just turned a year old. I break down sometimes. You can’t think: Why me? Things happen for a reason. You just can’t think about the unknown.

  “This right here is a mud mat. It’s just so we have a flat area to set our forms on. We poured all this today. We started back in the corner. Last pour, we did over three hundred yards.

  “The finishers finish the concrete and make it look pretty. And the laborers, which would be us, rake it and pull it close to grade. The rod busters are the ones that put all the rebar in. They are just totally rebar. Oh, God, I would never want to be a rod buster.

  “Cement is not the same as concrete. Cement’s an ingredient in concrete. Cement is the glue in concrete.

  “Working with all men, you realize that they really act like girls. They whine and cry. I’m not trying to be stereotypical, but they act different. I don’t think of myself as a female at work. I think of myself as an employee. As a guy. Well, I don’t want to be a guy. But I let them know: You’re not allowed to call me names or treat me like dog crap.

  “With the Ben-Gals, with thirty girls in one group, you’d think it’d be a bunch of backstabbers, cliques, but it’s not like that. They say I’m this role model because I have a little girl I’m raising on my own and I work construction. They say I’m an inspiration. They say that they’re amazed I do all this.

  “I went to college, a full ride in track. I chose criminal justice. Afterward, I took a test in Lexington to become a cop. I got all the way to what they call the ‘rule of five,’ when they compare you to four other applicants. I had four speeding tickets, because I commute a lot. That ruined my chances. That kinda bummed me out. I was, like, Screw this.

  “Then I took the county exam and failed by two points. I did bad because the whole time I’m thinking how I’m gonna kill my boyfriend because he made me late. He had my car, didn’t get it back to me in time. The whole time I was thinking about him.

  “I had a change of heart. I decided I didn’t want to be a cop. I didn’t want someone to have to tell my kid someday that I’d been shot.

  “In the beginning, when I started working construction, the guys were horrible. The first day, my boss said I was a lawsuit waiting to happen. He made me bust up a twelve-by-twelve slab of concrete alone, with a sledgehammer. Then I had to carry four-by-fours, one after another. But I stuck it out. I’ve been doing this eight years. My body goes through a lot.

  “After my mom was killed, my aunt Pam wanted me. She really wanted me. After two years, she hitched a ride to Florida in the back of a truck to get me. People were upset with my grandma for letting me go. Pam was sixteen at the time. I call her my mom now. She ended up being a single mom with six kids. I think that’s why I am the way I am today, because I was raised on love.

  “I told Pam I wanted to go on Ricki Lake and find my dad. I said I want to know who made me. She didn’t want me to do that, but she talked to my aunts. I met him at a benefit. It was weird. I cried. Like, wow. We went out to dinner the next night, to F&N Steak House, in Dayton. I ate chicken, and he was so mad. ‘I bring you to a steak house, and you order chicken?’ I didn’t want him to think I was money-hungry. He told me how beautiful my mom was, how much he loved her. He said he remembered the last time they made love was 1975, World Series game seven. He followed a newspaper story about me in high school but didn’t know for sure that I was his.

  “I don’t regret anything that’s ever happened. I did get the shit end of the deal with Mom dying, but that was out of my control.

  “I never get hit on. A lot of my friends say I’m intimidating. Women who are successful or independent, guys are too scared to talk to. Which I hate. Because I’m a person.

  “My one fear is failing at being a mother. I don’t want her to go through the things I went through. I’m afraid she’ll be a priss. Her dad spoils her, which I hate because it makes me look bad.

  “Being a Ben-Gal in general is just awesome.

  “Being Cheerleader of the Week is awesome.

  “Taking photos for the calendar was awesome. It’s a day that’s all about you. Last year I ended up being Miss October. This year I was Miss December. It’s heartbreaking when you don’t make a month. People say, ‘Why didn’t you get a month?’ We don’t know. But when you are a month, you feel great. Awesome. Sexy. Amazing. You feel like you’re somebody.

  “Underneath this, I have jeans and long johns. And then I have two long-sleeves on, a sweatshirt, a sweater, and one of the poly sweatshirts that, like, covers you, and my Carhartts. You get cold. Your hands and feet and face and your nose. I’ll thaw out later on tonight, like, a couple hours after I’m home I’ll start thawing out.

  “I’ve always wanted to be a nurse. Ever since I graduated from high school. So I’m just gonna go back and give it a shot. I’m a people person. That’s my calling. I get home, and normally I pick up my daughter, and we usually do homework. I have to study. I’m taking chemistry. In a couple years, I should be a nurse. I should graduate in three years.

  “You’re not supposed to put a lot of stickers on your hard hat, because sometimes OSHA will think that you’re covering up a hole. If these get a hole, you can’t use them, because something might land on your head and kill you. But I have this sticker that says HOTTIE. And DEWALT TOOLS. The twin towers—one of the guys from the company, he was killed, so I have a sticker for him. And I have one that says BITCH GODDESS.

  “I spit, too, like boys. Oh, yeah. Just ’cause, I don’t know. Your mouth gets dry or whatever. The guys are, like, ‘Quit spittin’. That’s not ladylike.’ And I’m, like, ‘I’m not a lady at work.’ Charlotte doesn’t know I spit. Charlotte would kill me.”

  —

  “WHO-DEY! WHO-DEY! Who-dey think gonna beat dem Bengals?”

  “Nobody!”

  It is time. The gals have pranced like a pride of lionesses out of the locker room and are standing in the tunnel, peering out. There are enormous Bengals walking around back here, but the gals notice only one another. They are cold. Sarah is holding on to Shannon for warmth; she always seems to disappear next to Shannon, mostly due to Shannon’s hair, currently a celebration, a testament to extremes, curls streaming like Niagara Falls down her back, crashing into the bend of her bottom. “I’m so freezing!” Sarah is saying.

  “Get a grip, girl!” Shannon says. “It’s showtime!”

  The catsuits are sleek, sleeveless, with necklines plunging deep and tight, allowing for blasts of perfectly spherical honeydew breasts. Each gal wears a thin glitter belt around her hips and a pair of white satin wrist cuffs crisscrossed with orange laces. Hair is high, broad, glued in place. Makeup is paint, pasted on thick. Tans are air-sprayed, darker in the V to accentuate the total package. Perfect. Exactly perfect.

  Of course, it might not really rain and ruin all their hard work. It might not. The storm is probably still over Indiana or something. It could hold off. The balmy 68 degrees has gone kerplunk to 52. Outside, in the stands, ponchos are starting to come out.

  “I don’t know about the eighties look, with all this hair,” Lauren says. “Do you think
we look like poodles?”

  “I can’t brush my hair after,” Tiany says. “I have to wash it.”

  “I have to soak it,” Brooke says.

  “You guys!” team captain Deanna interrupts. “Think how lucky we are to be here, and savor every moment!”

  “Sexy, ladies!” Rhonée shouts. “SEXY!”

  “SEXY!”

  “Wooo!”

  With that, they fire out of the tunnel like bullets out of the barrel of a gun. One arm up, pom-pom shaking, “Let’s Get It Started!” “Who-dey!” “Who-dey!” Fireworks shooting into the night sky. Any one of them could burst into tears of excitement. Some of them will. Adrienne will absolutely not. Adrienne is all game face, determination from a twisted gut. She’s on the five-yard line, next to Maja and Tiffany, all the cheerleaders lined up forming a chute, a welcome path for the football players, who come chugging out like boxcars. “Who-dey! Who-dey!” The gals stand like ponies, one knee up, one arm down. Pom-poms shimmering.

  They take to their corners, and the kicker kicks off, and the stadium erupts into “Welcome to the Jungle,” Axl Rose crooning his timeless anthem, gals dancing stripper moves with hips, ass, roll head, whip hair. Then they just as quickly retreat into sweet pom-pom action. Sloopy. Feelgood. Hicktown. Worm. Tweety. All the dances have code names.

  “We’re on Pump, right?”

  “We’re on Worm!”

  “Oh my God!”

  Four sets of cheerleaders, one set in each stadium corner, Charlotte and Mary and Traci with walkie-talkies, demanding coordination, demanding precision: “Lines, ladies, LINES!”

  Six minutes into a scoreless first quarter, most of the hair is . . . flat. That was quick. That is a shame. But that’s okay. At halftime they’ll charge back to the locker room and drop to their knees in front of mirrors waiting like lonesome cousins. Hot rollers. Curling irons. Makeup. Spray tan. Primp! There is not much time to re-create perfection, but they’ll do their best.

  Six-yard line. The football players are trying to pound the ball in. Come on, football players! The cheerleaders hold their arms up, smile, keep their arms high, and jiggle their pom-poms, shimmer shimmer shimmer. They have turned themselves into candles burning flames of hope.