Beauty Queen

Beauty Queen

         I suppose I should just tell them the truth.  But it’s like I discovered halfway to my destination that I’m too tired for this and maybe I should have taken the car.  The problem is that I’d have to travel the same distance to get back to my car, and then I’d have to drive to where I’m going and later have to find a good place to park.  It was the story of my life, walk quickly or drive slowly. 

Watching my mother sit on her haunches looking bereft and forlorn while they contemplated my sentence was almost too much to bear for even as solid a soul as mine.  I felt some pity.  When she wailed out, “Death to all you sons-a-bitches,” as they read out my sentence, I was glad someone was there to tell her the laws of this republic. I’d recently had nothing to do but study them.  She seemed surprised they understood English.  “Mom, they did read the sentence in English.  Oh please judge.  Have pity on her.  No one’s done her roots and her nails look like she had to claw her way in here.”  I knew there was plenty of room in prison for those who made threats against the republic, idle or otherwise, and if there weren’t, they’d surely release those Lebanese Cubans who were doing nothing more than fleeing Castro.  In any case, when the judges asked her to repeat what she’d said, I was amazed at how quickly she came up with, “Breath to all you sons of riches.”  Sometimes, it pays to be a librarian, even if your intentions were made of steel; your spine was still made of congealed worm poop, but it was well-read worm poop.  “Do no acts in fear that light can not shine upon!”

         But how did I end up like this?  After all, I was a beauty queen, isn’t that what all the headlines read?  “Beauty queen hairdresser accused of drug smuggling!”  It was preposterous.  Why would anyone try to smuggle drugs into these islands when everyone was trying to smuggle them out?  It didn’t make any sense, but it is what we did.  We’d done it on numerous occasions.  One of us, we didn’t know which, would have our bags stuffed with grass.  We weren’t sure who had the stash, so we’d either all three look guilty or all look sublimely innocent.  Innocent usually worked best and besides, nobody checked our luggage coming into the country.  Why would they? 

Well this time they did.  We’d been forced to land on this rock of an island due to bad weather.  They checked one of our bags; the wet one, and wouldn’t you know it?  The bag they chose was mine and it was loaded with contraband.  Imagine my shock!  It was genuine.  I didn’t know any of us was loaded this time.  I still have that look of surprise chiseled into my face.  I can’t believe it.  Protesting my innocence only made me look guiltier, as well as ridiculous.

It never made much sense to me, but I wasn’t born with Einsteinian brain matter.  I couldn’t be expected to figure out that drugs smuggled out had to come from somewhere.  The local government had made it so expensive to grow drugs that it became easier to transport them in and use these islands as worldwide hubs to ports elsewhere.  I didn’t realize that these were just stop-offs and that our next port was the real drop.  There was no need for me to know.  I was just a courier and besides, I didn’t care.  I just loved traveling, and first class was better travel yet. 

In my job as hair chemist to the blind and classless, these trips were the only thing that kept me alive.  Everyone thought the tips I made allowed me to travel the world.  Of course, these are the same people who thought my good looks won me that male beauty pageant.  It wasn’t really a beauty pageant, more like pig wrestling; an orgy of insecurity played out on a blanket of shame.  Bunch of morons!  But these are the same people who can’t help but meander into my path whether the sidewalk is ten feet or ten inches wide.

No, Bruno got me, and a few choice friends, into the good life.  Now that I think about it, Bruno got a few of us into the good life and a few of us into the life.  Sammy and Wanker were prostitutes, high class mind you, but callboys nonetheless. 

When it came time to choosing, I chose flying rather than lying on my face.  Nowadays I wonder if I made the right choice.  It looks like I might be doing time on my face anyway.  I’ve been noticing how those little midget guards keep staring at my cleavage, and this is a coed prison.  I don’t think trying to convince them that my chest is made of silicone will make any difference.  And Mama was so proud my chest was bigger than hers.  I hope they hold up for the ten years behind bars they just gave me.

Over the years while I’ve been waiting for trial, I’ve made a few friends.  I had to.  Those two heifers that flew in with me disappeared as soon as the dogs started barking.  I can’t blame them.  I would have boogied out of there with them if I’d had a chance, but I’d heard those dogs would tear out your Achilles’ tendon if you ran, and nobody likes a crippled beauty queen, nobody. 

Now I realize I should have run, maybe the dogs would have caught one of the other two nylon-clad princesses.  I was the one wearing the running shoes, and I didn’t have gluteal or breast implants to deal with.  No, this ass that enters the room ten minutes after me is all natural.  I’d heard if you got too much friction going while wearing nylon, those implants could catch fire, or explode.  And a guy with a ruptured pudendum was not pretty, even if he did survive it.  He also wasn’t popular.  I wonder if those two idiots were even worried.  Those two with boobs for brains had probably forgotten about the surgery and figured everyone else had also.  I never forget.  I forget nothing.

So my first friend is this little blue bird that I feed outside my window.  I’m surprised the little thing keeps coming back.  I don’t feed him very much.  I don’t get very much, so I feed him a couple of crumbs several times a day and he watches me do pushups.  I haven’t gotten him to land on my finger yet, but he does like to land in my hair.  The second he gets tangled up, I’ll be having fricasseed bird for lunch.  I won’t even pluck him, but eat him feathers and all.  I think he understands this, but likes to live on the edge.  Maybe I should feed him more.  Maybe that’ll slow him down and he’ll get sloppy.  It’s tough to balance nutrition to keep me strong against feeding him more so I’ll have a larger meal when I sacrifice our friendship.

My other friend is a rodent.  I would call him a mouse, but more likely, he’s a rat, and Bruno’s the only rat I know.  This one I first saw nibbling at my rubber slippers.  What is it with rats and feet?  I smacked him with my Bible.  The same way I did Bruno.  We all get Bibles in here, even if we’re Jewish, even if we can’t read.  Anyway, he wasn’t the least bit intimidated as we glared and bared teeth, but neither was I, so we became friends.  I’ve never been a friend with Bruno. 

I’ve trained him to stop eating my shoes and perform little tricks for his food.  He can sit up on his tail with the right amount of prompting.  So can Bruno.  Having a pet rodent helps to keep the others from looking too closely at you, and none of them will enter your cell.  No matter how butch they are, they’re afraid of rodents.  One day, I’ll tell them about how my mom introduced me to Bruno.  Likely we all have a Bruno to talk about.  We’ve got to stop listening to our moms and stop being afraid of Bruno.

The conversation would go something like this.

“You’ve got a Bruno?”
“Yeah, so what!!”
“So do I.”
“So what!”
“So what?  So fuck Bruno!”
“So fuck Bruno?  I have.  So what!!”
“So he fucked me!”
“So he did.  So what!”
“So I’m gonna fuck Bruno.”
“Yeah?  Big deal.”
“No.  Not really,” said with a snicker.
“Yeah, not really.  Fucking beauty queens,” said with a knowing smile.