Beauty Pageant
The Source
There was no doubting the tone of the lady’s voice. She said, “Mr. Bradbury, you need to leave the motel now. By the back door.” “But I’ve been here for two days. This is the big moment.” “I’m sorry, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave right now. And don’t talk to anybody.” Frankly, my memory of the entire weekend is blurred as I was truly in shock through the entire process. In my life…before and after that weekend in Iowa, I’ve never witnessed something so…well…shocking. I say yes to too many things. I know that. My friends tell me that. My brother tells me that. Never before that weekend in Iowa had I said yes to something that was just plain stupid. And dangerous. I’m not sure of the exact title. It was something like Miss American Beauty or Miss Rosebud America, or …heck, I don’t know. I shudder just trying to remember. A lady called from somewhere in mid-Iowa and asked if I’d agree to judge a talent contest. Okay, I don’t like talent contests, usually pitting 8-year-old tap dancers against 60-year-old fiddlers. The very idea of comparing one art to another is ridiculous enough, but to judge the amateur apples against the professional oranges is usually just an excuse to draw a crowd. But this event…this absolute, certified, all-out contest-from-hell was worse than I could have imagined. Until the Learning Channel recently added a show about these contests to its lineup I’d completely erased the horrible weekend from my memory. When I tuned in to the show last week it all came roaring back in horrifying detail. It was a kiddie contest… kiddie talent, kiddie interview, kiddie costumes. And of course this was completely untrue. In fact it was a mommy and daddy contest to determine which set of parents could spend the most money on their pre-schoolers, dolling them up like some Halloween version of Las Vegas. I was the idiot. I was the one who truly believed that we’d spend the weekend interviewing kids and watching them play the piano, hoping to give some encouragement to rising young stars of Iowa. Instead, I found myself to be a guy sitting alone in his motel room, only allowed out when escorted to dinner, talking only to the other judges, and totally forbidden to make contact with anyone in the hallways. Mommies were lurking everywhere. Daddies were charting my whereabouts. I’m not kidding. These people were real and these people were vicious. For a day and half we interviewed a parade of children wearing outfits much more expensive than anything I’d ever owned. In some cases they were much more revealing that anything I’d ever wear. The “children” were products of costly dance lessons and charm instructors, and they walked onto a rented stage as we three kings of kiddiedom sat in front of them with their parents/trainers sitting behind us in the darkness. I know they were there. I could hear breathing. I could hear growling. I think I may have heard a gun hammer being cocked but by that time I was too jumpy to discern anything clearly. I truly have few clear memories of the weekend. I was stunned. I was in sequin-shock. At one point I turned to one of my fellow judges, a lady who’d sat in these seats many times and asked where what these parents spent on the outfits. “Thousands?” I asked. “You’re low,” she said. Oh come on now! “Where do they get that kind of money?” I asked. “Some even borrow it. Most don’t drive fancy cars. Everything they can get, they pour into the kid.” I was not a good judge. I didn’t exactly sabotage the contest, but I’ll admit I gave very little thought to my decisions. I marked my ballots and I escaped by the secret exit of the motel that my host had carefully sketched out for me. I was on the road back to Arenzville by the time they announced the winner. Oh, by the way, there was a winner. The contest hosts did very nicely. Vanity is an expensive commodity.