by Ann McMan
“I’m not sure I like this game.” She pouted.
“Yeah, well . . . stand aside and console yourself elsewhere. It’s my turn again.”
I prepared to make my last throw of the round. If I could manage to land my bag on top of the others teetering across the opening, I should be able to knock them all through. I started my wind up.
“Are you going to try to knock them all through?” El asked, just before I let it fly. Her voice was close to my ear.
I sighed and lowered my throwing arm.
“Will you stop that?” I turned to her. I noticed that she had taken off her sunglasses.
She was giving me the whole “who me?” treatment with her smoky gray eyes.
“Stop what, Friday Jill?”
“That thing you do with your eyes. It’s distracting.”
She fluttered her eyelashes. “It is?”
“Oh, like you don’t know it.”
“Oh, I know it all right. I’m just gratified it’s working.”
If we hadn’t been standing in the middle of a median on Main Street, surrounded by half-a-dozen pork chop vendors, face painters, and Hadi Shriners zooming around on those ridiculous little muscle cars, I would’ve grabbed her and showed her how well it was working. Instead, I took a deep breath and a step back. It was better not to tempt fate.
“Let’s just see if we can get this game over with in this life.” I glanced down at my watch. “I don’t want us to miss the talent portion of the pageant.”
El’s eyes grew wide. “There’s a talent competition?”
I nodded.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Toss that damn thing and set us free.”
“That’s the plan.”
I took careful aim again and let my last bag fly. Incredibly, amazingly, impossibly, it landed with the grace of a falling autumn leaf right on top of the other four bags. But none of them budged a single centimeter. I dropped my arm to my side and stared at the sagging pyramid of bags with an open mouth. The hole was now completely covered.
It was impossible not to see the metaphor at work in this one.
I faced El. “Do you think this game is trying to tell us something?”
She laughed. “What? That we’re mutually incapable of follow through?”
I nodded. “Or completion?”
“Or chutzpah?”
“Or determination?”
“Or commitment?”
That one stopped me cold.
“You think we’re incapable of commitment?”
She shrugged. “I think it’s possible.”
I didn’t have a ready response for that one. It certainly wasn’t an outcome I wanted—not for this damn game, and not for anything else, either. I glanced back at the board. El had one bag left to throw. I looked at her.
“Here’s your chance to change all of that.”
“I’m not sure I like these odds.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to play anymore?”
“Oh, no.” She took her place at the throwing line. “I want to play.”
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
I touched her arm. “Don’t you want to see what you’re doing?”
She shook her dark head. “Nope. Sometimes, it’s best just to go with your gut.”
She tossed the bag. It seemed to leave her open hand and fly away from us in slow motion—like time had decided to conspire with it and was dragging its foot along through the dirt to slow the spinning of our cosmic carousel.
I watched El’s bag of corn soar across the sky and coalesce into a unified tapestry with everything else around us. It became one with the group of musicians on a makeshift bandstand who were tuning their stringed instruments. One with the large man in a tiny red car who made lazy figure eights around a group of giggling children with faces painted like circus animals. One with some hoppers from the House of Praise, who were passing out leaflets and singing an a cappella rendition of “Falling in Love with Jesus.” And it became one with every hope and fear I’d ever known growing up as part of this quirky and curious world, where I fit and didn’t fit all at the same time.
But gravity won the momentary tug of war, and El’s bag changed course and drifted back toward earth. I followed its graceful descent with anxious excitement. I wanted to close my eyes, too. But I couldn’t. I needed to see it. I needed to know if the colors of my world were about to change.
It landed with a resounding thud—directly on top of our precarious pyramid. I held my breath. The pile of bags didn’t budge. They hung on, stubbornly refusing to slip through the opening.
I gave El a morose look. I thought she seemed equally demoralized.
“What do you call that one?” she asked, in a quiet voice.
“They don’t have a name for that one,” I answered.
She exhaled and looked past me toward the board. Her eyes widen. She grabbed my arm. “Look!”
“What is it?” I followed her gaze.
All four of the bags had disappeared.
“You gotta be kidding me?”
“They fell through!” El was giddy with excitement.
“Yeah.” I bumped her shoulder. “Double Deuce, baby.”
“I guess we both win.”
I smiled at her.
“I can live with that.” She linked arms with me. “Now let’s go watch Jailissa win this damn pageant.”
I knew better than to argue with her. For once, it seemed like all the omens were looking good.
“What the hell kind of instrument is that?” T-Bomb leaned forward between El and me and pointed up at the stage in front of us.
“Shhhh.” I held a finger up to my lips. “Hold it down.”
“It’s a euphonium,” El whispered.
“A phony-what?” T-Bomb asked.
“A eu-phon-i-um,” El said again. “Like a trombone—only with valves instead of a slide.”
“That don’t look like no trombone I ever seen.” T-Bomb dropped back against her seat with a huff.
On stage, an oblivious Casey Horton was hammering out a somewhat lackluster arrangement of “I’m Every Woman.”
“Well,” Luanne hissed. “I think her musical selection is in pretty poor taste.”
“I think it’s supposed to be ironic,” I offered.
El chuckled.
“I bet that Chaka Khan is rollin’ over in her grave,” T-Bomb mumbled.
“Chaka Khan ain’t dead,” Luanne said. “But this performance would probably make her wish she was.”
“Well it still ain’t as bad as that poem . . . why in tarnation would Destinee Knackmuhs quote that dern Eskimo thing on the hottest day of the year?” T-Bomb fanned herself with a paper plate.
She had a point, there. For some reason, Destinee had chosen to recite the Robert Service epic, “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” It was an eclectic choice, to say the least, but the crowd seemed to love it. And that was probably because most of the people in attendance had had to memorize the same piece in eighth grade English class, too.
“Would everyone please be respectful and stop yammering?” Grammy was giving us the evil eye.
We all managed to remain silent until Casey finished blowing her way through the R&B classic. There was a lukewarm smattering of applause. Casey gave a short head nod, pushed her horn-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses up her nose, and strode off the stage.
That concluded the talent portion of the competition.
“Well, I think Jailissa cleaned up in this part of the contest,” Luanne proclaimed.
“What contest?” T-Bomb asked. “Neither of them other two finalists came close to Jailissa’s twirling routine.”
Luanne nodded. “It’s true. Jay Jr. said she should add that flaming baton at the end. It was a showstopper at the Edwards County Fair last year.”
“I thought the sparks from that thing might catch some of them judges’ hairdos on fire.” T-Bomb laughed. “Now that would’ve been a real showstopper.”
/> “What happens next?” El asked.
“Well,” Luanne explained. “The three finalists come out on stage and answer questions from the emcee. They’ll all be wearing their evening gowns, too. They kinda combined those two events for this year.”
“You mean to tell me that Horton boy is gonna come out in an evening gown?” T-Bomb asked.
“I keep telling you he’s not a boy—he’s a girl.” Luanne’s exasperation was starting to show. “It’s Casey . . . the youngest one. She’s always been . . . different.”
“Hell. Different is sure one way to describe it.” Ermaline stood up and brushed off her shorts. “She looks like she’d rather have a root canal than participate in this pageant.” She turned around and scanned the crowd. “I need a smoke. Anybody seen which way Doc went?”
T-Bomb pointed across the square. “Him and Donnie took the twins over to look at those stupid little Shriner cars.”
Jay Keortge walked up with Joe Sykes in tow.
“We’ve got the truck all ready in case she wins,” he told us.
It was customary for the new Miss Pork Queen to take a victory lap around the courthouse square.
I could see Joe eyeing El. She noticed it, too. Before I could introduce them, she stepped forward and extended her hand.
“Hi there,” she said. “I’m El . . . one of the agitators.”
Joe actually smiled . . . sort of. “Joe Sykes.” He briefly shook hands with her. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Likewise,” El replied.
Jay was fidgeting. “What’s taking so long?”
“Will you just calm down?” Luanne looked at her watch. “They need time to change.”
“Why ain’t you helping her?” he asked.
“Because Violet Fewkes is back there with her.”
He looked confused. “The florist?”
Luanne nodded. “She’s putting all them little flower doodads in her hair for this final round.”
Ermaline coughed. “Well I wonder if she brought any smokes along . . . I’m about ready to succumb.”
“I told you to have one of mine,” Luanne replied.
Ermaline shook her head. “I hate them damn Viceroys . . . they taste like floor scrapings.”
Luanne rolled her eyes.
Joe fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a hard pack of Camels. “Want one of mine?” He held out the pack.
Ermaline’s hand was a blur as she snapped the cigarettes away from him. “Well, praise the Lord.”
Joe was staring at my outfit.
“What?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not used to seein’ you look so . . . girlie.”
El stifled a laugh.
“Friday had one of them wardrobe malfunctions gettin’ outta her truck,” T-Bomb explained. “Didn’t you, Friday?”
I sighed.
“Well,” Joe was still looking me over, “I think you look . . . nice.”
Nice? I looked like a refugee from the bargain bin at Dollar General.
El gave Joe one of her blinding, million-dollar smiles. “I agree, Joe.”
He gave her a respectful nod and nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
I looked back and forth between the two of them. If this kept up, they’d soon be joining hands and singing, “We Are the World.” I continued to marvel at how well El could work a crowd. No wonder she was so damn good at her job.
“Here comes Larry!” Luanne exclaimed.
We all turned toward the stage.
“Oh,” Grammy gushed. “I do love to see a man in a tuxedo.”
“Maybe he can lend it to that Horton girl,” T-Bomb quipped.
We all took our seats.
“I don’t think he’ll have to,” Ermaline whispered. “It looks like she brought her own.”
The three finalists followed Larry “Golden Throat” Dennis out onto the stage. They were a sight to behold.
Destinee Knackmuhs wore a canary yellow, one shoulder taffeta creation with a sweetheart neckline and big ball gown skirt. The shoulder strap was topped with a huge ruffle, and the waistband was beaded with dozens of handmade flowers. She looked like every bridesmaid’s worst nightmare.
Casey Horton took a more . . . eclectic . . . approach. She wore a western cut leisure suit in pale blue, finished off with a bolo tie and bull hide cowboy boots.
Jailissa was last to take the stage. She wore another stunner: a form-fitting, cobalt blue bustier gown with a flowing skirt. Her only jewelry was a simple necklace, ornamented with three white pearls, and matching pearl earrings. For a moment, it felt like we were in the front row at the Golden Globes—not sitting on metal lawn chairs in front of the downtown Pagoda in Albion, Illinois.
El shook her head. “She looks like Kate Winslet.”
“Without the airbrush,” I whispered.
Larry “Golden Throat” stepped up to the microphone.
“Welcome to the final round of the Miss Pork Queen competition.”
There was a robust round of applause and a bevy of wolf whistles.
Larry let it go on for a moment, then held up a hand to quiet the crowd. “Our three finalists will now answer a series of four questions before the judges submit their ballots and tell us who the next winner will be. Remember that we will have a Miss Congeniality, a First Runner-Up, and, of course, a new Miss Pork Queen.” He turned to the contestants. “So really, all three of you young ladies are already winners.” There was another smattering of applause. “Now, back stage, you three lovely young women drew straws to determine the order for the questions. What I’m going to ask each of you to do is step forward to that microphone stand when I call your name and answer your question. Then step back and let the next contestant come forward. You’ll all take turns answering one question at a time, until this round is through. Are we all clear on that?”
The girls nodded.
“Okay, then. Let’s get started.” Larry lifted his thin stack of index cards. “Our first contestant is Miss Casey Horton.”
Obviously, Casey drew the short straw backstage. She sighed and took two steps forward to stand just behind the microphone. She seemed to be eyeing Larry with suspicion—like she expected him to ask her something insidious, instead of simply inane.
Larry held up his first little white card. “Casey, our judges would like to know what quality you like most about yourself, and why?”
Casey rubbed two fingers along the side of her nose.
“I don’t know, Larry,” she answered in a voice that sounded remarkably like her euphonium. “Avarice, sloth, envy, lust . . . I think there’s a couple more, too.” She looked at the judges’ table. “Do I have to name just one?”
Larry stared at her with a blank expression, and then consulted his card again. A few people in the crowd tittered, and finally, someone began a round of polite applause. Casey nodded, and stepped back to reclaim her place in line.
Larry cleared his golden throat. “Our next contestant is Miss Destinee Knackmuhs.”
Destinee surged forward with all the grace of a street sweeper. She stopped moving, and her dress kept right on going. It flounced and surged around the base of the microphone stand in a tidal wave of bright yellow. It looked like Mountain Dew sloshing around in the base of a mason jar. She ignored Larry—and the audience—entirely, and turned to the card table where the judges were seated.
Larry rolled with it. “Destinee, what quality do you like most about yourself, and why?”
“Well, Larry,” Destinee flashed the judges a brilliant smile, full of big, white teeth, “I really like that I’m a super nice person, and people really like me. A lot. I’m really popular, and that means people want to be my friend . . . including the kids that no one really likes.”
Destinee’s sizeable claque in the audience leapt to its collective feet and whooped and hollered. Larry patiently waved his little stack of index cards. Finally, the applause tapered off.
Luanne huffed and fid
geted in her seat. “Them Knackmuhses shouldn’t be allowed to carry on like that—it ain’t fair to the other contestants.”
Jay patted her puffy hand. “It’s okay. Jailissa won’t let it rattle her.”
T-Bomb snorted. “And that Casey Horton is too occupied with starin’ at Destinee’s derriere to even notice.”
“Well,” Luanne remained agitated, “I’m still worried. We didn’t prepare any answers for trick questions like this.”
Trick questions?
“What kind of questions were you expecting?” I leaned across El and asked.
“Ones about doing that GMO stuff to crops, neutering pets, or creating world peace.” She waved a hand. “The usual things.”
El chuckled.
“I think Jailissa can handle it,” I said.
“And now let’s hear from our last contestant, Miss Jailissa Keortge,” Larry said.
Jailissa glided forward like she was riding on a conveyor. She smiled shyly at Larry.
“She’s really extraordinary,” El whispered to me.
“Jailissa,” Larry said, “tell us what quality you like most about yourself, and why?”
“Well, Mr. Dennis,” Jailissa replied in her soft, soprano voice. “I like to think that I’m a glass half full kind of person. By that I mean that when I see something like puppies covered in ticks, or read in a magazine about how some elderly people have to eat cat food, I remind myself about how soft puppy bellies are when you rub them, or how lots of older people drive really nice Buicks.”
The crowd erupted into another bout of raucous applause.
I glanced at El, who was staring at Jailissa with a confused expression. She turned to me. “And yet . . . maybe not so much.”
I bumped her shoulder.
Jailissa smiled at the crowd and demurely stepped back to reclaim her place in line with the other contestants. I prayed that maybe her abundant poise would carry more weight than her . . . depth of expression.
Larry was ready for round two. He gave a nod to Casey, who sauntered forward again.
“Casey,” Larry said. “Here is your second question. If you could change just one thing about the world, what would it be?”
Casey cleared her throat and bent toward the microphone. “Well, Larry,” she said with confidence, “I’m glad you asked me that. I’d abolish telemarketers. Then surely, world peace would ensue, or at least, world peace of mind.”