Down 'N' Derby (8 page)

I just want a sweet guy—is that too much to ask?

              I feel like a goat or a heifer at these shows. I get pushed around until I look just right and then move with the herd to the next pasture.  I stop at the make-up station and they poke and brand me.  Then when I get the approval of the make-up artist I get dragged to the hair station by my forearm as if I’m a toddler just learning to walk.  I see the other girls scrunching their feet into high heels and contraptions that barely pass as dresses and swimsuits.  I’m headed there next after this very charismatic hairdresser finished the polished victory rolls atop my head.  She asked me some question but I couldn’t hear her over the ‘Pssss’ sound of the aerosol hair spray she covered me with. 

             
I waved in front of myself and coughed once.  I’m sure at this point my lungs weren’t even expanding or relaxing.  They were glued in place by all of the aspirated hair spray. 

             
“Ma’am?” I asked the boisterous lady who was inspecting her work.

             
“I said, ‘How old are you?’ You don’t look a day over fourteen to me.” She stuck a few more bobby pins in my hair and some, I swear, directly into my scalp. 

             
“I’m twenty one.  But thank you.” I answered politely.  I got that question all the time.  I didn’t look a day over fourteen even plastered with coats of make-up.  It didn’t help the fact that I was only five foot two and a hundred and twenty pounds.  I was like a fourth grade pin up model.  And if I really thought about it too hard, that’s probably why I was so popular as a car model.  I looked young—eeew.  That’s why I was so defensive about what I would and wouldn’t wear.  Most of the girls in these car shows wore Brazilian cut bikinis or lingerie.  But I was a pin-up model and so that gave me a little more leeway in my choices.  But still my manager, Louise, always tried to make the shirt show more cleavage or cut the skirt a little shorter.  Thank God she was too busy to be present at this show.  I got to pick my own outfit and most of the vintage clothes covered everything just right. 

             
I got the pat on my shoulder, signaling my hair was done and I moved over to the wardrobe section, ecstatic to pick out my own clothes.  I always brought my own clothes but shoes were usually given to us.  I picked out a pair of stiletto peep toes in red.  I found my size easily.  I wore a size six shoe and most of the tall girls had big feet to match so finding a show to fit me was never difficult.  I clip clopped over to the clothing and found my pair of dark gray sailor high waisted shorts and a red cropped short sleeve cardigan.  I stepped behind the never used curtain and changed quickly.  I examined myself in front of the mirror and even though the cardigan showed a little midriff, it was better than a bikini any day of the week. I finagled some cherry earrings in my ears and a chunky bracelet made of dice and went towards the vintage car section.  This was day one of a two day car show and in Vegas that meant at least twelve hours of posing and smiling and being man handled by guys ranging from adolescence to those who had to put their walker out of the shot and lean on me.  But still I had to smile, ‘cause that’s what they paid me for. 

             
“Missy, you’re in the front left with the Dodge Dart.  Move between that and the GTO.” The man directing me around was a squatty bald man with thin spectacles and a clipboard.  He also seemed to have a little man complex, someone should snap his clipboard in half.

             
“Ok, thanks.” I said and made sure to walk to my hips swung out just enough to be sexy but not so much that I got off balance in my stilettos and ate cement.  There was already a line waiting for me and this was the part I despised.  It wasn’t them.  It was totally me.  I didn’t like this part, the men got handsy and it bothered me.  But this was the only way I could earn enough money to pay for school since I royally screwed up in high school.  And I could make excuse after excuse about why I fouled up but in the eyes of colleges, the issue was black and white.  You don’t make the grades, you don’t get in.

             
I introduced myself to the owner of the Dodge Dart and the first man in line took his place beside me for the pictures.  There were always pictures.  Some men and a few women would bring their own pictures or posters and have me sign them.  It was flattering for sure.  But what I really wanted to be doing was attending school like other people my age and skating—always, always skating. 

             
“Hi Missy.  I love your pictures.”  A middle aged man said as he sidled up next to me and snaked his leathery arm around my waist.  Missy Hellcat was my stage name.  I never used my real name for these events.  You were liable to bring home a creeper in your suitcase or one might be waiting for you on the stoop when you got home. 

             
“Thank you.  Straight ahead,” I pointed to the photographer so he would stop staring at my girls.

             
We smiled for the camera and then I started to move through the line one by one for hours at a time.  One man wanted a picture of me in a provocative pose on the hood but thankfully the owner of the car stepped in and claimed it would ruin the paint job.  I could’ve kissed that man.  A teen-aged boy with a fauxhawk was up next and I could see mischief glittering in his eyes.  He looked like Simon.  When he first took his place at the front of the line I did a double take, seriously thinking it was him.  But that was just my fear speaking. 

             
I’m sure he was a nice kid, but looking like Simon gave him an automatic bad mark in my book.  Plus, it made me shudder with a serious case of the heebs.  He slithered up next to me and his hand brushed my backside and judging by the cocky smirk on his face he did it on purpose.  I looked up to the huge clock on the wall and announced, “I need a break.” 

             
The cameraman must’ve gotten adrift of the situation and agreed with me saying his camera battery needed to be changed anyway. I didn’t know if it was my stature or what but usually the photographer and owner protected me from the real creepers.  I pushed through the small crowd and headed to the restroom to get ahold of myself.  There was no cold water splashes to be had with all this makeup on so I climbed atop a chair and opened the tiny window and prayed for a breeze.  A whispery gush of wind came through the rusty opening and I could breathe again-in and out, in and out.  I got down from the chair after I felt normal again and went to wardrobe to change for the rest of the pictures. 

             
I found black stiletto Mary Janes with a leopard print bow on top.  I choose my leopard print halter dress, and topped it with a red corset.  I re-applied my lipstick and went to stand in front of the GTO this time, hoping the Simon lookalike was long gone.  Maybe his attention span was as short as the real Simon’s—and as many times as he cheated on me, it was shorter than a flea’s eyelash. 

             
Not to mention the times that he knocked me around in between the bouts of screwing everything that moved. 

             
I walked back onto the showroom to find him gone but I was rattled to the bone.  I could still feel the imprint of his hand on my backside.  I propped my hip up against the GTO and waited for the signal from the photographer.  He rolled his eyes at me, got behind the camera, and I took that as my cue.  Simon-Lookalike was gone and I calmed down a little but my intestines were still quivering from just the thought of him.  By nine o’clock that night I was dying for a bed and some pancakes.  That was the other kick-ass thing about being a pin-up model.  I could be a little pleasantly plump and you’d think it would push the boys away from the yard but the opposite was true, which drove the toothpick girls insane. If I did gain weight it went to the top and the bottom of the hourglass and not to my waist and that was a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because it gave my curves a boost, a curse because it gave the guys more to gawk at.

             
I took off the sky high heels, packed up my clothes and went back to the hotel.  I had a message from Renee, my best friend from New Orleans asking me to call her.  I was originally from the New Orleans area in the small city of Slidell.  I moved away after high school to get away from everyone who knew me when I was little and knew that Simon had beat the shit out of me for four years and I was too stupid to do anything about it.  I ran.  I just needed a breather from that life.  I drove for three days straight and didn’t stop until I was nose to nose with the Pacific Ocean. 

             
The phone rang as I returned Renee’s call and I couldn’t wait to hear her voice.

             
“Ugh, ga-ross, I feel skeezy just talking to you on the phone while you’re in Vegas.”  Renee had a real aversion to gambling and strippers, thus she had a very bad opinion of Las Vegas in general.

             
“It’s not that bad.  But I think I’m gonna skip out on tomorrow and go home.”  I could hear her get up and start walking and I knew she knew something was up.  I never skipped out on work, especially since I was saving up for college.

             
I heard a door shut and she said, “Ok, spill it.  What happened?  You never play hookey.”

             
“I saw a guy that looked like Simon.  It really, really gave me the creeps.”

             
“Oh gross.  Want me to stab him?”  This was my best friend, loyal as all get out and wouldn’t hesitate to choke someone for me.

             
“No, I’m sure he’s gone.  I’m just gonna head home in the morning.”

             
She breathed heavily into the phone, “Summer can’t end fast enough.  I can’t wait until you start at Loyola, it will be good to see your mug more than once a year.”

             
“I know.  But I will miss the beach.”

             
“Yeah, but you miss the gumbo more.”

             
“Ain’t that the truth.  Ok, I’m off to bed.  Talk to you soon.”

             
“Ok, stay safe,” Renee always said that at the end of our conversations.

             
“I will.” I hung up, now realizing that I was too tired to even eat.  I took a long, hot bath and then crawled into the cushy hotel bed and slept like the dead. 

Chapter 15

Maddox

Fact: One time
when I was about eight, I ate some kind of chocolate flavored cereal for breakfast when Mom was sick.  What I didn’t realize was that I had already caught her stomach bug too.  Brown foamy chunks everywhere, yeah, Count Chocula could kiss my ass.

             
I could hear Nixon heaving from the other room until dawn.  He had insisted we get separate rooms for the night since the hamburgers we ate were coming out of both ends of him.  What he didn’t realize was that I could still hear everything through the thin motel walls, might as well be a chain linked fence between us for all the good it did. 

             
We had missed the first day of the car show.  He was just too sick to go.  I, on the other hand, had always had a stomach of steel.  I could eat anything and it never made my stomach upset.  That’s why when I was a kid I was Mom’s guinea pig.  I would always try new recipes and if I liked it, then it stood. 

             
I showered and got dressed in jeans and a wife beater.  We found a motel with laundry facilities since Nixon joked that he was now turning his boxers inside out.  I knocked on his door and he answered looking haggard as hell. 

             
“I’m going to do some laundry.  Let me do yours, I know you’re still sick.” He opened the door wider and showed me a half empty bottle of some chalky looking stuff. 

             
“Nope, I’m good.  Discovered this baby in my bag halfway through the night.  I’ve got my stuff ready to go wash.  Let’s go.”

             
We did our laundry and while we did, made plans for the day.  We skillfully ignored the elephant in the room: Falcon and Reed would get married tonight and I felt like shit for missing it. 

             
We got packed up and I thought about calling Reed one more time, knowing that even if she were in the middle of wedding plans she would answer my call.  And Falcon would be so shocked when he found out that Reed and I had concocted a month long honeymoon for them in Charleston, South Carolina.  I shook my head, trying to rattle myself enough to stop thinking about them and how much I missed them. 

             
“Ready,” I asked Nixon as I slipped in the passenger seat.

             
“For Vegas? Hell yeah.  I looked up the car show on the internet early this morning and those girls are hot!” He sang the ‘hot’ part opera style and it cracked me up. 

             
“Ok then.”  This was a new thing with Nixon, the girl crazy thing. 

             
We finally arrived in Vegas about five hours later and found a pricey but nice hotel near the strip.  We wanted to go all ‘Hangover’ and stay someplace expensive but you had to be 21 to stay in those places.  We rushed over to the car show since there was only five hours left.  We parted ways at the entrance and I headed straight for the classics.  I saw Nixon head in the other direction for the new, innovative cars the ones not even on the market.