Essays (for the Dysfunctional): 2003
by Matthew Hardy
Introduction
So, In my latest career adjustment, I have decided to become an essayist. I don't know if I'm any good, but I did get a perfect score on the English portion of the ACT. So this gives me some confidence. (Don't even ask about the math portion.) I will add more essays as I feel inspired to write them.
Searching for Miss Texas
September 2003
The event was to be held in the back room of an Italian restaurant with a big screen TV so we could enjoy fattening cream-covered pasta dishes while we watched 51 young women between the ages of 18 and 24 (who probably hadn't had a decent meal in the past seven months,) trot around the stage of the Atlantic City Boardwalk hotel in a variety of form-hugging outfits. I arrived a fashionable 45 minutes late and was greeted by a group cheer as I entered the back room. One of the guests, whose name I don't recall but shall heretofore call the “Pageant Nazi,” screamed at everyone to be quiet. “They're making the next cut and I can't hear!” I looked at her with pity. I had been invited to a Miss America pageant party hosted by my friend Wendy, former Miss Oklahoma City University and Miss. Oklahoma runner-up. Wendy gave me a hug and a kiss and handed me a scorecard so I too could be part of the judgment fun.
After greeting my friends, all women, all beautiful, and each a beauty queen in her own right, I sat at the end of the table behind a potted plant. “Will you be able to see?” they asked me with deep concern. “I'll be all right,” I replied. I looked around at the gathering and realized that the group was almost entirely composed of women and gay men. But then I have to remind myself that I work in the theater, as does Wendy, and most of her friends are women and gay men. Although I am a straight male who enjoys the sight of an attractive woman, I have never really enjoyed the Miss America pageant. I don't know how the rest of the straight male population feels about this show, as I am usually at the fringe of this group and often mistaken for someone who bats for the other team. I assume most men like the swimsuit competition but make a trip to the fridge to grab another beer during the talent, evening gown, and question and answer portions of the show.
I had arrived late enough to miss the first two cuts, and they were already down to the final ten. I was surprised by feelings of disappointment when I learned that Miss Texas was not among the final contestants. I live in New York now, but I grew up in the Lone Star State and consider myself a Texan. I say I was surprised by my disappointment, because I was never one to form ties to a competition just because I was from the same place as those competing. I have never been one to regularly attend ball games, because I feel that I have no invested interest in the outcome of the game. “But don't you want to have team spirit?” my friends would implore. “Team spirit is dangerous,” I would reply. “There is a thin line between team spirit and a collapsed bleacher strewn with broken bodies.” I never understood sports enthusiasts who could so easily be charged up or brought down to the depths of despair based on how “our team” was doing. The concept of “our team” is confusing to me. I've never played on “our team.” I don't personally know anyone on “our team.” And the majority of the people on “our team” are from other states and countries and just happen to play for the team located in “our” town because the price was right.
Having missed the beginning of the pageant, I was unable to identify Miss Texas among the swirl of nameless contestants who had now turned into a chorus of synchronized strutters providing a segue into the swimsuit competition. I thought that if I could see her, I might realize that I know her and then I would have someone to root for. But the camera was cutting in and out too fast trying to make the women look like they were moving more than they actually were. I looked down at my scorecard and wrote “Miss Texas. Swimsuit: 10. Evening Gown: 10. Talent: 10. World hunger answer: 10.” I had secret hopes that despite being denied advancement into to the final ten, she could still come from behind and win this thing. Everyone loves an underdog, and if anyone could do it Miss Texas could. I could just see her swinging onto the stage in the middle of the talent competition wearing a star spangled swimsuit and boots, playing “Deep in the Heart of Texas” on her fiddle. The audience would cheer, and the judges, realizing their terrible mistake would stop the competition and give Miss Texas her crown. The music would swell, and there wouldn't be a dry eye in the house... Wendy assured me that this wasn't an option and that once you were cut, you were out of the competition. But not to worry about the feelings of the contestants. They were relieved at being cut, because it meant they could go get something to eat. And this was coming from a former beauty pageant contestant. I nodded politely at Wendy's explanation, still clinging to the hope that if anyone could make a comeback, Miss Texas could...whoever she was.
Being the consummate party planner, Wendy had brought strips of shiny material, a black marker, and safety pins so that we could make our own Miss America shoulder sashes. I decided to be “Miss Congeniality.” I'm not sure quite what someone has to do to become Miss Congeniality but I figured it was a title I'd probably never hold, so I might as well take this opportunity to live out the fantasy. I've always envisioned Miss Congeniality as a very sweet girl who may refuse to attend the bitch sessions, keggers, and orgies with the rest of the contestants, but is always tolerant of others and does not judge. I decided this might be my only chance to be Miss Congeniality, not because I bitch, drink excessively, or go to orgies...but because I judge. Yes, I judge. But I don't pass judgment. I just form strong opinions. If I were to pass judgment, it would be the judges and promoters of the show up on that stage, middle-aged men and women, strutting sound in bikinis and being asked ridiculous questions about how they would “use the crown to stop world hunger.” As if the Miss America tiara has some kind of magical mystical power that enables its wearer to make crops grow and rivers change course. Speaking of magical mystery accessories, wasn't Linda Carter a former Miss America? Maybe Miss America should not only get a tiara, but also a magic lasso of truth and wrist bands that deflect bullets. And while we're on the subject of superheroes, maybe men should have a pageant called Captain America. The winner would receive some red, white and blue tights and a magic shield and be sent out to fight crime.
“Quiet”! yelled the Pageant Nazi. “The evening gown competition is beginning!” I've never understood what the purpose of the evening gown competition was. We've already seen as much of the contestants as we're allowed in the swimsuit competition; how does covering them up with more material give us any new information? They should get rid of the evening gown, swimsuit, and casual wear competition altogether and just have the women jog down the runway in the buff. I have a sneaking suspicion that the only reason for the evening gown competition is to see if the girls can walk down a flight of stairs. Unfortunately, this year's evening gown competition had only a small flight of maybe 6 or 7 steps for them to navigate. And to make their descent even easier, they were allowed to have a member of their family escort them. Several of the contestants had invited their brothers. I found this very enlightening. It became painfully obvious why these girls were so thin: it seemed that as they were growing up, their brothers had eaten all the food.
Mid-way through the evening gown competition the program went to commercial break and the Pageant Nazi freaked out. “They only showed seven of the final ten evening gowns!” she wailed, looking at her scorecard in disbelief. “What happened to Miss Rhode Island!? What about Miss New Hampshire!?” It was as if she feared she had somehow lost consciousness during the program and would never be able to regain those lost moments of her life. We assured her that the rest of the contestants would have their chance to be seen after the break. But she was doubtful and sat on edge, scorecard clutched in her hand, eyes fixed on the television until the program resumed. She heaved a sigh of relief as Miss Rhode Island, appropriately the smallest of all the contestants, came out in a pink number that looked as if it had been taken right off of Barbie herself. I imagined Miss Rhode Island shopping at Toys R Us and carrying all her out fits in a miniature pink nylon-covered closet.
At long last the final cut was made, and the talent competition was about to begin. The whole room became silent as Miss Florida strutted on stage, mike in hand, to demonstrate her talent...singing. Miss Florida was lucky that she was in Atlantic City and not in the back room of an Italian restaurant with a crowd of unemployed music theater performers. My fellow viewers had already criticized the contestants on their motionless hair, their stiff walks, their robotic gestures and their stilted replies when questioned by the host. But these were forgivable offenses. This was the talent competition. This was serious business. The music swelled and as Miss Florida began to sing, her tight vibrato betrayed her nervousness. She sang a flat note and then a sharp note. The entire room groaned in disgust, those who had been rooting for Miss Florida throwing their arms up in forfeit. Next up Miss California, who strutted on stage, mike in hand, to demonstrate her talent...singing. Whereas Miss Florida had chosen an unfamiliar song in hopes that the audience wouldn't recognize the wrong notes, Miss California had chosen the standard Billy Vera karaoke song “At this Moment,” which is pretty undignified for a future Miss America to sing. (“I'll fall down on my knees, kiss the ground that you walk on”). But no one at the party was listening to the words; we were too busy howling in pain. Whereas Miss Florida had sung some sharp notes and some flat notes, Miss California found whole new notes lying somewhere in the cracks between the piano keys. Miss Maryland and Miss Hawaii each took their turn to strut on stage, mike in hand, to demonstrate their talents...singing. Miss Wisconsin was the sole exception to the singing phenomenon in that she wisely chose not to strut on stage with her cello but instead was revealed to the television audience after the commercial break already seated and poised for action. She launched into St. Ives' “The Swan” complete with the requisite cellist head-wobbles to show that she was really feeling the music. But like her predecessors, Miss Wisconsin can also be credited with finding some new notes that the composer had never intended.
Why is it called the talent competition anyway? It should be the music competition. What if your talent is rebuilding an engine? Or maybe your talent is witty repartee. It is obvious that the only “talents” valued by the Miss America pageant are dancing, singing, or playing an instrument. For once I'd like a Miss America contestant to proclaim that her talent is cooking and then proceed to make a seven-course meal and make everyone in the audience taste it. Of course, this could be problematic with all the hungry contestants stalking around the wings of the stage like jackals waiting for a scrap to drop to the floor. Maybe someone could read an essay, shoot some three-pointers, or roll in a potter's wheel and make a pot. Alas, Miss America must conform to talents that can be performed on a stage within a three minute time frame: music— namely piano, flute or a stringed instrument (we can't have Miss America blowing on a tuba); dance—preferably ballet or lyrical jazz (Miss America does not booty slam); and the old stand- by talent that requires no purchase of an instrument and very little training if any...singing!
And while I'm on a roll, what is with the new Jeopardy section of the competition? Is the Miss America pageant a game show? And who writes these questions? All the questions were about the U.S. government. For example: Who was the first woman appointed Attorney General? I was surprised to discover that it was Janet Reno. Not because I didn't know that Janet Reno was Attorney General, but after watching the Miss. America pageant for the past two hours, I don't see how anyone could mistake Janet Reno for a woman...at least not a Miss American woman. And then came the token street-smarts question: “What is the meaning of the urban slang “bling-bling”?” (Which for some unexplainable reason is being added to the Oxford English Dictionary.) Only Miss Maryland got that one right, and as she made a ghetto gesture proudly proclaiming her cultural background, the camera accusingly zoomed in on the African-American Miss Florida as if to say,” That question was for you! Why didn't you get it right?”
After the Jeopardy portion of the contest we were treated to an extended commercial break of make-up, weight loss, and tampon advertisements. At long last it was time for the awarding of the crown. The final 5 contestants huddled together as the runners-up/losers were announced. I was tense with anticipation. This was Miss Texas's last chance to come swinging onto that stage and show the judges that you don't mess with Texas. But as each contestant was called and finally Miss Florida announced the winner, I realized that there is no justice in this world. That contrary to what movies and popular culture had lead me to believe, the underdog is often unable to regain the lead no matter how hard she tries.
The evening had come to an end. I made my requisite rounds of hugs and cheek kisses and left the restaurant feeling a little depressed by Miss Texas's defeat and the exhibition of American vanity that I had just witnessed. But as I walked to the subway I set upon a new conviction. There was beauty all around in each and every face that I passed on the street. And perhaps they can also see my inner beauty. I began to notice that people were looking at me as I proudly strutted down the street, without a mike in hand, but with confidence. I am talented. I am beautiful. I am Captain America! I could see it in their eyes... or maybe they were just looking at my “Miss Congeniality” sash.
The Accidental Death of Stewart Treadwell
October 2003
"Stuart was the unfortunate victim of a bucket accident," I tried to explain, but she was having nothing of it. "You killed him!" she screamed, "You killed, him!" "No, no, that's not how it happened. It was a simple miscalculation. He usually runs much faster." "Can't you just live and let live!" she shouted as she stormed out of the kitchen. She was taking it pretty hard. Probably the hardest of any of the 9 actors living in Treadwood, the spacious two story farm house that the wealthy Treadwell family had donated to the Depot Theater for the housing of actors during their summer season. Actors can be emotional, but I was quite taken aback by the open anger and hostility of my eight housemates as they each learned of the unfortunate accident. I sat in the kitchen absorbing the range of emotions I had just witnessed, and my thoughts trailed off to a happier time for Stewart.
The kitchen was one of Stewart's favorite places. He would spend hours in the kitchen quietly waiting for every one to leave so he could have free reign to run about as he pleased. Sometimes he would wait in the bathroom and come running into the kitchen only to be surprised by someone quietly sitting at the kitchen table, he'd turn tail and run back into the bathroom and hide in the broom closet in between the mop and the bucket. Ah yes, the infamous bucket. To look at it, one would think it was a perfectly harmless bucket. It was moderate in size, smooth and plastic, baby blue in color...it was the last item in the cupboard that you would consider to be an instrument of death.
I was stirred from my memories by the rumbling of a jeep as it rolled up the gravel driveway. Melissa had returned from her trip to the city. Melissa had not yet heard about Stewart's accident and I was a little hesitant to tell her. She was bringing her Chiwawa Zoot back with her from the city and she had hoped Zoot would enjoy playing with Stewart. She entered the back door into the kitchen and set Zoot down on the floor to scamper about. "Say Hello to Zoot" she said as he ran figure eights around my feet. "How was your trip?' I asked. "Great" she said, "I think Zoot is going to love it up here." "Melissa" I said, "I have some bad news. Maybe you had better sit down." "What is it?" she replied somberly sitting at the kitchen table. I pulled up a chair next to her, "Stewart is dead." "No" she gasped, what happened? "Well, I explained. It was really an accident. Stewart was playing a game of run under the bucket. It's a game that we had been practicing all weekend while you were gone. And well, last Thursday, we were playing and well...Stewart didn't quite clear the lip of the bucket...and ... "He was squished?" she said with horror covering her mouth with her hands. "No, not quite squished, but he did sustain a serious spinal injury. At first we thought he was going to be okay, but then we noticed that he wasn't moving." "Dear God!" she exclaimed, "I must see him." "Wait" I said, "There's more." Stewart fell into a coma shortly thereafter. We had him hooked up to life support. We had him lying comfortably on a little bed of cotton balls with a slow Cheez-Whiz drip, but after several days it became clear that even if Stewart did regain consciousness, he would never be the Stewart we had known and loved. He wouldn't be able to scamper from floor to floor, running behind dressers, and popping up in the strangest places. He wouldn't be able to gnaw his own holes in boxes of cookies and microwave popcorn. We would have to do that for him, and what kind of life is that? So after speaking with his closest family members in the field, the decision was made to remove life support and let Stewart expire. He passed on at 11:47PM last night. Stewart is in a happier place now."
The funeral was scheduled for that afternoon. We just hoped that everyone would be able to pull themselves together for that evening's performance of "Annie Get Your Gun." It was a beautiful ceremony. Stewart looked so peaceful lying in his little cardboard casket fashioned from his favorite cookie box with a cotton swab for a pillow. Each member of the company spoke of their special experiences with Stewart, in the living room watching a movie, in the front room playing around the piano, in the shower rinsing and repeating. Yes, Stewart had lead a grand life, better than most. But all good things must eventually come to an end.
That evening, the audience was treated to a slightly more somber performance of "Annie Get Your Gun" everyone had Stewart in the back of their mind. The Irving Berlin lyric, "You get word before the show has started that your favorite uncle died at dawn Top of that, your ma and pa have parted. You're broken-hearted. But you go on." had taken on a new, very personal meaning. The following afternoon, I was summoned to a special rehearsal in the front room of the Treadwood home. I was the last to enter the room, and I was greeted by 8 stony faces sitting in a line along the coach. There was one empty chair opposite the couch that had obviously been reserved for me. "What's going on here?" I asked. "We have a few questions concerning Stewart's death." answered Richard the Stage Manger. "I have nothing to hide" I proclaimed as I sat down on the chair.
Richard stood up, pacing the room. He cleared his throat and asked, "Do you remember the night of August 22nd?" "Of course I remember the night of August 22nd, we all remember August 22nd, it was four days ago!" "There's no cause to be sarcastic." he responded. "I'm sorry," I said, and began to recount the events of the evening as I had so many times in the past four days. After I was finished, Richard called up my roommate Tom who testified that I had told him about a traumatic experience as a child involving an infestation of rodents that took over my Weeble-wobble haunted house. I had been betrayed.
In turn, each of my fellow house mates gave testimony of how I had suggested that we buy mouse traps, or how I had expressed concern about my food being on the bottom shelves of the cupboard.
"This 'rehearsal' is over!" I stood up to leave. "I will decide when this rehearsal is over," countered Dick. "Did you or did you not, purposely squash Stewart with the baby blue bucket?" he demanded. "I've told you what happened. What do you want from me?" I replied. "I want the truth!" he shouted, a spattering of spit launching off his tongue as it thrusts itself against his upper teeth. "You can't handle the truth!" I retorted. "Every night you live under the protection that my dilligence provides. You can't handle words like mouse trap. Or sticky tape. Or baby blue bucket. Because deep down in side you're scared that something may chew a hole in your designer bags of coffee or crawl under your Egyptian cotton sheets! You need me in that kitchen! You need me keeping an eye on your produce! Because if I'm not there, whose going to do it? You, or you? What about you Mr. Stage Manager. Are you going to do it?" Everyone stared at me in disbelief. I refused to say anymore and the "rehearsal" was adjourned. Each of us left the room with our own ideas of what had really happened that fateful night. Over the next few weeks the anger slowly faded as people went about their daily business. Besides, they now had Zoot to play with. A creature that didn't hide in the broom closet or nibble holes in boxes and bags. No, Zoot would just chew on things. Like shoes and slippers that I had left next to the stairs. And he was always underfoot yapping and trying to climb up your leg. And then climb back down..and then climb back up, until you pried him off a stick. But Zoot is fun to play with ...he loves games...
"Hey Zoot! Wanna play run under the bucket?"
Based on a true story. Names have been changed to protect the indifferent.