by Smith, Skye
"Honey, you don't just NOT go on the Rich Lumbar show," Karen replied. "Just calm down. I've never seen you this nervous."
She was nervous. The only name she ever got out of her made up Poli Sci game was Rich Lumbar. This was no longer an immediate reaction to the touch and smell of a psycho. This was almost like stalking, almost like premeditated. She felt sick to her stomach. "Well, I'm not going to say my spiel. His audience is all the creeps that I have been warning young girls about. I don't want to warn them that they are about to be blocked out of little girl pages."
"No problem, just keep crossing your legs and jiggle when you laugh."
"His audience isn't our audience. Like, no young people watch this show."
Karen turned around and faced her. "Promos aren't just about pushing the movie. They're also about the price of the company's stock on the market. Be good."
"Sure, and I suppose you like this guy Rich Lumbar."
"Him? You must be joking. If it were up to him all gays would be executed and all young women would be kept chained to beds for the pleasure of the elite. Now be good."
Maya dashed forward and grabbed the arm of the assistant. "I gotta go. Where's the washroom?"
She made it to a toilet just in time. One of the good things about mini kilts was they were easy to hold up out of harm's way. She flushed and then sat there a moment longer, just in case. She watched two pairs of stiletto heels walk past her cubicle.
"I tell you, he is going to roast the senator. You watch," said a young woman with a New York accent.
"That's just speculation on your part, just because the senator is pushing the bill to speed up the decommissioning of the oldest nukes." replied a woman with a southern drawl.
NY: "No really, I heard it last night at his place."
South: "His place?"
NY: "Yeah, well, it was time for my installment payment for keeping this job."
South: "Don't remind me. He's been hinting that I haven't been living up to our agreement."
NY: "He was doing me, when these Wall Street types arrive and he sends me into the bathroom and tells me to run the taps."
South: "So you heard nothing?"
NY: "I heard everything. I left the taps running in the bathroom and went back to the bedroom to unplug all the cameras. I hate it when he films us doing it."
South: "He's got cameras?"
NY: "So these suits are telling him to castrate the senator. Go for the jugular. Make him look untrustworthy, because the senate hearing is tomorrow. Embarrass him so he is afraid to show up. They gave him some photos and a tape."
South: "Who cares? He's got cameras. Where? How do I unplug them?"
The stilettos walked past going the other way.
NY: "You know all the mirrored tile around the bed. A couple of them are cabinet doors with one-way mirrors. Just press them in and they pop open. The cameras are inside. I just pulled the wires. He hasn't said anything today, so ..." The door banged closed.
Silence. Maya emerged from her cubicle, washed her hands, combed her hair, put on some fresh lipstick, smoothed her kilt down as low as it would go, and then went back to Karen.
Two minutes into the interview it was obvious to Maya that this was all about jiggle. Rich was using them to keep the old men of America watching while he brought on a boring old senator. They even had one of the cameras set lower than the rest and pointing at her mini kilt.
Karen and she sat demurely and smiled while the movie clips ran. Then Karen was asked some inane questions about her ex boyfriend, and who she favored for the Oscars, and then he made some wise cracks to get them to laugh and jiggle.
Maya stopped crossing and re-crossing her legs, put her hands in her lap, hard, and refused to laugh.
"Oooh, she's pouting," Rich said. The sign lit up for the live audience to laugh, "what's the matter, little girl? Can't keep up the pace? Are you just another short skirt with nothing upstairs?" The laugh sign went on again. The audience obliged.
"Oh, I just feel a little ill," Maya started in a low voice and then spoke louder. "I always feel a bit ill when I meet a psychopath. Frankly, you creep me out." There were low ooohs from the audience.
"So, we'll take a short break, so that our lovely guest can pull her skirt down, and when we get back she'll be joined by Senator Peacenik himself."
There was a three minute break, and she needed a toilet. An assistant took her to the closest one, the one in the star's dressing room. The assistant didn't even look in, she just pushed Maya forward told her to hurry, and closed the door. She found herself closed into the dressing room alone with him. He glared at her as he finished pouring a stiff whiskey. He looked angry.
"I'm sorry," she said the words sweetly, though they were empty. " I just felt weird. What can I do to make it up to you?"
"Well you can start by coming over here and sitting on my knee. Quickly. Only two minutes left."
* * *
She raced back to the set and sat on the couch between Karen and an old man who must have been the senator. She had just made it before the amber light went on. She straightened her skirt and pulled it down and crossed her legs so that they were angled away from the senator.
She felt faint. She couldn't stop shivering. It was as if her blood had turned to ice. She put her hands together to pray, to find her aura, to feel its comfort, its warmth.
"Girl, you are shaking like a leaf," said the old senator. He noticed she was praying, so he said no more, and simply stood, took his suit jacket off, and wrapped it around her shoulders. His hands clasped hers and he said "Amen, open your eyes now. We are about to go live."
His hands were warm and gentle, though ugly with arthritis. She had sucked in her breath when he touched her, expecting more charred toast, but there was none. Just a trace of aftershave and tobacco.
Directors and assistants and cameramen were starting to run around, and the noise level of the crew was growing steadily louder. A minute late another man sat in Rich's chair and looked at the camera. "Rich Lumbar has been called away by an emergency. I am Bill Waters from the late night news. I will be sitting in for him. Our guests tonight are ...."
* * *
* * *
Karl and Erik leaped over the back of the couch and raced each other to the computer. The show they had been watching was live in New York, but three hours old in Vancouver. Karl looked down at the contaminated mouse and keyboard and moved out of the way and let Erik take the controls.
"Here it is, hot off the press. Rich Lumbar... sudden death ... heart attack ... mourned by ... industry in shock ... will be missed."
Karl sucked in a deep breath. "Bring up the airline schedules. Is there a red-eye to New York? I'm going to get her."
"No, you're not. Don't you get it? He was the idol of every American son redneck. She is an American. You are not. You are a filthy foreigner. He was politically connected so there is bound to be some kind of investigation. You, a foreigner, spiriting her out of the country, would point the finger at her."
"So what can we do?"
"I'm going back to bed," Erik sniffed and pulled the old blanket closer around him. Damn November weather. He should know better. He should have started on some Vitamin D supplements as soon as the weather broke.
"India!" Karl yelled out. "We have to encourage her to go to India. Poona, Dharamsala, places where she can learn more about her gift." Then under his breath, "somewhere that does not draw psychopaths together."
"As I recall, the last thing you did before she left this house was to scare her away from India."
Karl pulled a fresh tissue from the box and covered the mouse with it so he could click it a few times to refocus on Karen's schedule. "Omigod, Karen is ringing the closing bell at the New York Stock Exchange tomorrow. Phone your stock bookie first thing in the morning and sell everything."
There was a muffled cough and a groan from the guest bedroom.
* * *
* * *
MAYA'S AURA
- the Refining by Skye Smith
Chapter 20 - In present day San Francisco
"The baby will come tonight or tomorrow," the midwife said, as she put her coat on to leave. "There must always be someone here with her to take her to the hospital."
Karen's mom looked at Maya. "You go to your meeting. I will stay with her. Jazzercise can wait for another day."
Maya kissed her cheek, and hurried out of the house to catch the midwife. The midwife had a car and could give her a lift the eight blocks to Gladys's house.
"Where do you find clothes like that?" asked the midwife as she watched Maya get into her aging Toyota. "When I go shopping it is all dreck. The stores are filled with dresses for grandmothers, or for fourteen-year-old sluts. Nothing in between."
Maya was wearing a light leather-coloured gaucho skirt of a cotton wool blend. It had straight lines that hugged her hips and an overlapping slit up both the front and the back. Her silk and cotton checked blouse looked like a cowboy shirt, completed with snaps on the breast pockets. The faux-fur trimmed short jacket also looked bolero. Only her boots were wrong. There was no way she could ride a horse in them because of the heels. They were her only long boots and they came almost up to her knee but the tops were covered by the low hemline of the skirt.
"Most of it was from a church jumble sale down in the Latin quarter," she told the midwife. "I heard about it from my Latina friend. All her friends get handmedowns from rich relatives all over Mexico, or South America, but they think the fashions are dated or something, and they don't always fit. Maybe the rich relatives are all thin and fashionable, but I find a lot of it fits me. And because it's, like, good karma to donate to their church, the clothes don't get taken to consignment shops.The jacket is from Argentina, and the skirt from Brazil."
"Well, that lets me out," said the midwife, "I like my soda pop too much. I haven't been as slim as you since I was fourteen."
Gladys's Paul was waiting for her at the security gate. He opened it and a green sedan slipped out as Maya walked in. Gladys was already in the Mercedes waiting. She was wearing a business suit with a mid-calf skirt. It was the first time Maya had ever seen her showing leg.
"You're looking at my skirt," Gladys said. "I have hidden my legs for forty years. That silk worm puke has done miracles for my veins, and not just for how they look. I cannot believe how much less pain I have when I walk. "
Paul folded himself behind the wheel and the large sedan swept down the driveway and out the security gate. "I'm glad you came early," he said. "The demonstrations have every downtown street gridlocked. I doubt Mr. Walland will be shaking many hands today."
"Well, Maya," Gladys said, "you get your wish. You get to meet our Mr. Walland. The next president. Somehow I feel I am getting the better side of our bargain. Your massages are unique and effective, whereas he is just a very good-looking politician."
"You may have to miss a week of your massages," Maya told her. "My friend's baby is due, and once it's born I'll be very busy. She is estranged from the father."
"What will be will be," said Gladys. "I do hope you will not be disappointed in Mr. Walland. He seems to me to be on a huge ego trip. He is too good-looking for his own good, and has surrounded himself with yes men who praise his every move. Despite his being married, don't be surprised if he makes a pass at you."
"Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid. Like, he must know what that did to Clinton. Besides, you will be there."
"Never underestimate the ego of politicians. I'd make book on it. Tell you what, if he does, then I get to come and see the new baby everyday and you massage me while I am there."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Another check to Maiti Nepal. But no cheating. You and I must give him the opportunity." Gladys watched Maya's face. "You think me a dirty-minded old woman. Don't you believe it. It will be just one of my tests to see if he deserves my backing."
They approached a street blocked by police cars, but the green sedan had beaten them there. One police car backed out of the way and they swept through down the empty street. The green sedan overtook them and arranged for passage at the next blockade.
When they got to the hotel, they found it almost deserted. They were met by a hotel doorman and two suits. "The event has been cancelled," one of the suits told them, "no way through the demonstrations."
"Mrs. Muir is here for a meeting with Mr. Walland," Paul said and pushed the suits back so that Gladys had room to get out of the car without being jostled. Maya slipped into place at her arm. She was her cane today.
They were shown upstairs to one of the penthouse suites. Paul took a position outside the door, while Gladys and Maya walked in. There seemed to be a meeting in progress between Mr. Walland and six suits. Gladys spoke up. "I agreed to meet with you, Mr. Walland, not your handlers. Send them away."
The suits looked at each other, and at Glover. He motioned them to leave.
"What about her?" asked one of the suits, pointing at Maya.
"You expect me to be locked in a room alone with a strange man?" Gladys hissed. "Shame on you. What would your mother say? The girl stays." With that she settled in an overstuffed chair that faced out the window with a view of the pyramid and the harbor. Maya pulled up a small chair and sat behind her and to one side.
Glover closed and locked the door behind the suits, and then took the matching chair to the one Gladys was sitting in, and looked out over the view. "The convention starts in two days," he began. "It is important for the health and unity of the party that there is no real opposition to me. We need it to be a coronation rather than a bitter and divisive battle. I ask you now to please instruct your editors to switch from the senator to me."
"The senator is an old and dear friend of mine," Gladys said. "I know who he is and what he stands for. It was he that oversaw the clean up of the Savings and Loans crisis. That included both the running of the trust, and the forensic audit teams. That rescue of our financial system did not beggar the government, yet a thousand crooked bankers were put on trial. Convince me that we don't need him as president to clean up the current gangs of CEO crooks."
"But he doesn't need to be president to do that. I can pass that authority to him."
"So you say now. What else?" Gladys settled back in her chair to listen.
"I will support the corporate agenda of destroying trade unions. I will appoint management into the public sector that will ensure that public services fall apart so we can justify the privatization of the services. I will support our oil companies by removing regimes that are unfriendly to them. I will ....."
"And so would any GOP president. That is all standard party policy." Gladys snapped her fingers at him. "Distinguish yourself, man."
He looked very uncomfortable, or was it repressed anger against this bossy old woman. "The crisis of the next decade is the Latino voting block. Because of their immigration rate and their birth rate, in twelve years the Latino vote will choose that president and every president afterwards. It will be my priority to ensure that white people will continue to choose the presidents."
"And how will you do that?" asked Gladys. "The demographics are undeniable."
"Increase the population of whites. A tax on large families that want to vote, restrict Latino immigration, reverse their immigration, control their birth rate. Do I need say more?"
"A little more," Gladys said, "just so I know it is well thought out. For instance, how will you increase the population of whites? They aren't having babies."
"Our oil companies now control the Canadian government. That government is very friendly to the idea of a union. That will add twenty-five million whites and ensure the oil, the water, and the arctic for our use."
"About time. And the new tax?"
"I will introduce a Maggie Thatcher-style poll tax. A property tax based on the number of people in the house, but only payable if anyone in the house registers to vote."
"An old idea," said Gladys, "but a good one for stopping the peo
ns from voting."
"The next step will be to move the focus of our oil wars away from the Middle East and towards the Caribbean. The time is right to cause regime changes and take control of the oil states of Bolivia, Ecuador, Venezuela, Trinidad and Cuba and to totally destabilize Mexico's economy so that they are forced to sell Pemex to our own oil companies."
"Why Cuba? It is nothing," Gladys asked.
"Cuba holds the rights to a third of the possible oil fields in the Gulf of Mexico. They are untapped. They will be a windfall profit for our oil industry."
"This is just more oil wars. A continuation of the Munroe/Bush doctrine."
"Ah, but once we have more control of Mexico we will close our southern border by turning the Mexican maquiadora zone into a stateless no man's land. Any Latino without a green card will be sent to work in the factory towns in that zone, for, say, five years." He watched Mrs. Muir's face as he spoke. He had her interest so he continued.
"Once we control the oil industry of those countries we will, er, encourage the Latino immigrants to move back to those countries. Perhaps by giving them priority to fill the new oil jobs."
"And the birth rate of those that don't go?" Gladys prompted. She had him going now. He was spilling secrets.
"We have a new birth control pill ready for the market. It will be marketed in Spanish only, and only to young Latino women. It will be dirt cheap with no script or doctor's permission required. One pill a month and..."
"But that is the pill that sterilizes young women if they use it too much, or incorrectly," Gladys interrupted. "The same pill that the high tech charity trusts are currently handing out to poor black women in Africa, and to the untouchable women of India."
"How do you know that?" The man's face changed. His wide smile disappeared, and was replaced by a cunning look. "Those claims have never been proven."
"Son, I have been an insider with the party since my husband convinced Reagan to turn against his own union. This is just an updated version of the plan for an American Century. Frankly, you don't need my support. This plan has the approval of every major corporation.