Ride, Cowboy, Ride! Page 13
Reno had not gone as well as Pica had hoped. File Blitzer, her road manager, had arranged for her to do an interview with the local television morning show. The cab driver who was to pick her up was ten minutes late, then couldn’t find the television station. By the time Pica finally came racing into the interview room, her hair was a mess, her breath was bad, and she was having a bout of stomach cramps. The show was nearly over, and File was pacing and making excuses to the show’s producer.
Pica was on the air less than ten seconds, managed to smile and say thanks. Afterward neither the on-air personality nor the producer had spoken to her. File just shrugged his shoulders and told her these things happen.
OTT had also sent a package to the hotel in Reno that included some monogrammed shirts and three hundred new promo photos of Pica, her smile blazing. After she’d signed and given out half of them at the rodeo grounds she noticed the printer had spelled her name “Pike.” She was upset, but File told her to keep signing, that they would get the spelling corrected in the next batch.
She buckled down and made it through the weekend. When she called her dad and told him about the late interview and misspelled promo photos, he said, “Darlin’, sometimes ya get bucked off.”
On Monday, June 27 she boarded a plane with File and flew to Denver. He went home to his apartment in Boulder, and she drove a rental car to the Ramada Hotel in downtown Greeley, an hour north of Denver. She was going to spend the week in the OTT booth at the Greeley Independence Stampede.
File planned to meet her the next day, and they would open and set up the booth.
To Pica’s great relief Tuesday went well. File had brought a new OTT poster that showed her and Straight side-by-side, actually back-to-back, arms crossed, one leg straight, the other bent as if each was leaning against a wall. Their bucking saddles were at their feet. Their hats were pulled down, and her smile shown like that of the Cheshire cat. They were posed against a white background.
From a distance their silhouette on the poster looked like a two-headed cowboy, legs spread wide, arms cocked and ready to draw pistolas . . . or if you were an old livestock inspector, it looked like the Death Head brand!
It read:
Over the Top Athletic Cosmetics Extreme Team
Lip Laster “For Pros Who Sweat”
It was a tasteful, artistic poster that clashed with the brazen, all-out postmodern splashy artwork that beckoned to teens and twenty-somethings from competing print ads. It was also evident to the “real” cowboy crowd that the two models were the real thing.
OTT was helping sponsor the Greeley Independence Stampede Rodeo Queen Luncheon and Fashion Show at the Clarion. Pica was set up to make a presentation and be recognized as a sponsor. She was expected to give a short speech, which File had prepared for her. He also told her that at 8:00 a.m. Thursday morning a fashion consultant, a friend of his, would be by to pick her up and take her shopping. Pica was not expected to model in the fashion show, but File wanted her to “knock their knickers off!” At 8:00 a.m. on the dot Pica’s hotel room phone rang.
“Pica D’TroiT?” asked a woman’s formal voice.
“Yes, that’s me,” said Pica.
“I am Sachet LaNewt [rhymes with ‘Chevrolet Ka Poot’], your fashion coordinator. Shall I come up or wait for you in the lobby?”
Pica looked around her room. Clothes were dumped on the extra queen bed. The other was unmade. A scatter of magazines, papers, signing pens, promo photos, business cards, scribbled notes, rental car keys, hotel keys, and change covered the writing table and dresser. Boots, socks, towels, jeans, and undergarments were strewn on the floor. She could not see the bathroom from her position by the phone, but she could imagine the scene postbath, postmakeup, posthair. Did she flush?
“No, I mean, yes, I’ll be right down.”
Pica had spent most of her young woman years working outside. As a result she had not developed her own sense of style. Being around the house, hunting, or doing chores she wore her hair in a bun or pigtails, wore hiking boots, too-big jeans, and a flannel or wool shirt. She could easily be mistaken for a young boy.
During her few months with Lionel Trane and at the occasional social functions she tended toward “cowgirl sexy.” It was a variation of “juvenile mall trash,” that is, hip-hugger jeans, tight short-sleeve baby tee, lots of cleavage, bare midriff, and pout. She had never really graduated socially from “high school parking lot rebel.” Her immaturity was a factor in Lionel’s ending of their relationship. Her sometimes-flirty manner was a means of overcoming her insecurity.
Sometimes she overdid.
This morning she was wearing Justin ropers, khaki Wrangler Riatas, and a button-down Oxford shirt with the OTT LIP LASTER logo. Her hair was pulled back and pinned so that the sides were sleek, and her naturally curly strawberry blonde hair billowed out behind her.
As she stepped off the elevator a hefty woman rose from the waiting area and approached her.
“The preppy look! How metrosexual,” the woman gushed. “However, Dahling, it is not quite what we’re looking for in a star!”
Sachet LaNewt seemed substantial to Pica, who, at 5' 4" wearing boots, was at least four inches shorter than she. Sachet had a pretty face, brunette hair streaked with gray and pulled back, large tortoiseshell glasses, sensible clunky shoes, support hose, and rather heavy foundation makeup. A white ruffled collar rose from beneath her jacket and was buttoned at the neck.
She was a busty woman with a thick waist and wide hips. At first glance one would be reminded of a frumpy older aunt and not a cutting-edge fashion maven. Pica was reminded of Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire.
“I am Sachet LaNewt. Mr. Blitzer has engaged me to prepare you sartorially, so to speak, for your appearance at the Rodeo Queen Luncheon and Fashion Show.”
“I’m not supposed to be in the fashion show,” said Pica defensively. She had been petrified that they would ask her to model.
“I know, Dahling, I know, but . . .” Sachet raised a finger, “you will be a visiting celebrity. Your company is helping sponsor this event. It is my job to see that you make a lasting impression.”
“Yes, but,” Pica stammered, “remember, they are all queens, rodeo queens, Miss America types, beautiful, who can . . .” she added with respect, “rope and ride with the best of them.”
“Honey, can we talk in the car? We’ve only got three hours to transform you. I’ve got a thousand-dollar makeover budget for the morning, and I guarantee you will light up the room!”
On the drive into downtown Greeley, Sachet quickly concluded that Pica had very little knowledge of or allegiance to any particular style. She was just another victim of the “every clothing manufacturer’s” latest fad.
Through a prior arrangement the store owner had arranged to open an hour early to allow Ms. LaNewt and Pica some privacy. A well-lit office space served as the fitting room.
Sachet knew exactly what she wanted: black Calvin Klein ultra-low-rise jeans, stiletto Las Vegas cowboy boots with Swarovski crystals, bright orange tops, pointed toes, and a narrow sole. The belt matched the boots.
Instead of a blouse, she selected for Pica a padded halter top with a three-inch tiger-striped waistband that tied in the back. The bra portion was made with polyester sequin fabric that hung from around her neck like shiny silver teardrops. Even as short-waisted as she was, Pica was still showing four inches of bare midriff.
Streaking across the small of her back was the top of a silk lace thong in pale yellow that brazened itself above the pants line.
Bling included large orange ceramic hoop earrings, a choker necklace of black pearls, and a ring on her right middle finger sporting an oval black stone as big as a silver dollar.
Sachet selected a crushable, floppy Nashville/Santa Fe dishrag straw hat with a tiger-striped scarf as a hat band.
Dark eye shadow and off-red lipstick with a black outline were applied. A silver navel ring was glued on, and as the piéce de rèsistance, a temp tat artist drew “RODEO RAGE” horizontally on her right arm and “LIP LASTER!” vertically the length of her left arm.
The hairdresser, who herself had black and white streaked hair, pierced eyebrows, and a gold tooth, stood back and studied Pica.
“I don’t, like, well, ya know, I’m all, so, down with it!” the hairdresser gushed. “Movie star mania, cowboy goth, so hot, so cool, so up, absolutely hectorful. Are you, like, performing around here?”
Pica herself was not sure. She felt like a kachina doll or, worse, a kewpie doll. But Sachet kept up a running rave: “Stunning, stupendous, sexy cowgirl, so . . . cow girl growl! You will shine!”
As they stepped out onto the sidewalk that brilliant Colorado morning, Sachet dragged an Australian ankle-length oil-skin duster from the back seat and draped it over Sachet’s shoulders. Sachet stepped back to admire her. “When they unwrap you, Honey, you’ll cause a riot in the firehouse!”
Sachet punched her cell phone, waited, then spoke. “Mr. Blitzer, this is Sachet LaNewt. LaNewt,” she repeated. “The fashion coordinator for Ms. D’TroiT.” Another pause. “Right! Now . . . your prize is ready. We shall meet you in front of the hotel in twelve minutes. Excuse me a moment.” She cast an admiring gaze at Pica and said with a dramatic flair, “She is so beautilicious I must catch my breath.”
Pica gave into the praise, conceding that Sachet must know, and spread out a smile so brilliant it blinded a passing motorist!
At five minutes past noon the exchange was made on the sidewalk. File was speechless. Pica was smashing. She would have turned heads at any ultra-hip art gallery, jazz bar, or bachelor party in New York, Soho, Paris, or Benihanas anywhere! Maybe not anywhere. For a moment File had begun to doubt that having Oui Oui Reese, aka Sachet LaNewt, prepare Pica for her queen luncheon debut was a good idea.
But, of course, it was not his idea. It was Oui Oui’s, and she was a past master of sabotage.
In the conference center ballroom, the rodeo queen program director, Loretta Length, was addressing the audience, who sat at round tables on each side of the banquet room. The stage and runway were built of four-by-four-by-eight-foot risers arranged in a T. The runway split the room, allowing the watchers a good view of the models.
The podium from which Loretta spoke was on the stage. She was doing the welcome, introducing celebrities. File and Pica slid in the backdoor and worked their way to their sponsor’s table.
“. . . And we’d like to welcome a new sponsor for our Greeley Independence Stampede Rodeo Queen Luncheon and Fashion Show, marketing coordinator File Blitzer and Miss LIP LASTER, Pica D’TroiT!”
Pica watched File stand and wave. He gestured for her to do the same. She stood up. Several eyebrows shot up in unison as if saluting a passing general! Pica had shed her duster. Need I say more?
Consorcia (pronounced “CON-SOR-SHA”) Ti rose from her table and discreetly worked her way into the adjoining room. Seven young women were in various stages of being costumed.
She walked over to the tall, twenty-year-old raven-haired woman called Contempla. Contempla was the reigning queen and Consorcia’s daughter.
Contempla was an exotic beauty, having inherited her mother’s patrician Hispanic features and her father’s Oriental eyes.
Bold colors had been Contempla’s choice for her ensemble today. But the style conformed to the strict guidelines established in the world of rodeo queen contesting.
Her dress was a black and yellow lambskin with four-inch fringe on the long sleeves and hem. A modest scoopneck set off a tasteful silver necklace.
The hem of the skirt reached halfway between the ankle and knee, covering the top of the boots, which were black ostrich with yellow stitching. She wore a Gist belt buckle as big as Hulk Hogan’s.
A black felt western hat displaying her tiara sat like a purring cat above her luxuriant mass of shiny black hair, which shone like an oil slick on rolling waves.
“Mija,” spoke Consorcia conspiratorially, “you will not believe! Into the room there walked the OVER THE TOP lipstick girl. She is looking like a puta, Father forgive me, you will see, I cannot be believing it.
“She is being a disgrace to the banquete. So I think I should warn you so you will not make an exclamation upon seeing it!”
“It’s okay, Mama,” said Contempla. “Nothing can shake me. I am a professional . . . but I will warn the royalty so they won’t be shocked. You go on back and sit down.”
Contempla turned to the first runner-up, her princess: a blonde from Fort Collins wearing a lavender-purple pigskin dress with silver piping and fringe. She, too, wore a black hat on her cotton-candy hair. Beside her stood the queen of the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo. She wore a turquoise and rustic pink version of the other queens’ dresses.
“Mama says the OVER THE TOP LIP LASTER girl is here. But she is not the little barn cat that she appeared to be when I saw her passing out samples in her booth this week,” said Contempla to her fellow rodeo royalty.
“What do you mean?” asked the princess. “I sneaked by yesterday, and it looked like she was wearing her brother’s clothes!”
“Mama says, and you know Mama.” And they all did. She was the ultimate stage mother.
“She is dressed like, in Mama’s words, a call girl!”
“At our fashion show?” said Miss Frontier Days indignantly.
Within ten minutes all seven of the royalty were in high dudgeon that someone—and remember that any “someone” can be competition—could actually invade their domain and distract attention from their worthy purpose of promoting professional rodeo.
“Maybe your mother’s exaggerating,” said a large redhead bedecked in tan and white with black accessories.
“Maybe so,” conceded Contempla. “I know I spoke to her, Pica, I think is her name, at the booth OTT has at the rodeo. She was nice enough, maybe even a little shy.”
“Well, you make a lot of us a little shy,” said Redhead, acknowledging what they all secretly felt in Contempla’s presence. She was actually destined to be Miss Rodeo America, Queen Isabella, or Jude Law’s leading lady! Contempla was in a class by herself.
Out front a sirloin salad was being served along with cheddar baguettes and a choice of wine or lemon water. As the audience members began garnishing and picking at their lunch, Loretta Length filled them in on the history of the Greeley Independence Stampede Queen Contest. She herself had worn the crown.
Then followed a slide show of past queens and a summary of the contest guidelines for dress, the equestrian competition, and the talent portion, including how judging points were awarded.
Then the seven queen models were presented by last year’s queen with a detailed description of their attire. Photographers from the Greeley Tribune, the Denver Post, the Fence Post, and Pro Rodeo Sports News snapped pictures like polite paparazzi. The rodeo queen royalty was the height of rodeo fashion: glitzy, western, and elegant, a cross between a Cadillac showroom and a Quarterhorse sale.
After the parade the royalty returned to the stage to enthusiastic applause. The sponsors were invited to say a few words from the podium by way of congratulations. Reps from Wrangler, Montana Silversmith, Justin Boots, Pace salsa, and B & W Trailer Hitches each spoke and shook each queen’s hand.
“And next, from our new sponsor, OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS, I would like to introduce Pica D’TroiT!”
At least she pronounced it right, thought Pica. Her mind had been elsewhere during Lorett
a’s lengthy running commentary. She had practiced the short remarks File had written out for her. She didn’t give much thought to her appearance. Sachet had said Pica’s job was to make a splash. Pica trusted File. He was supposed to know how these things work.
Pica rose from her seat to polite applause. She left her duster on her chair. But as she approached the runway to ascend, the clapping faded into a cavernous silence. Pica was concentrating on her speech and being careful not to trip. She walked the length of the runway toward the podium, and every click of her high-tone boot heels reverberated in the room.
Camera noise and flash were at a minimum. The press was unsure what was happening as the audience watched her tight-lipped. Loretta had been reading her notes through half-glasses and didn’t exactly see Pica until she was ten feet from her and closing in!
Lips, teeth, navel, buckle, cleavage, and hat burst upon Loretta’s professional composure as if she had opened the door to a chemical toilet and found Cirque du Soleil in the middle of Act II!
Loretta reacted physically to the overload. She grabbed her throat and gasped!
Pica kept coming, oblivious to her reception, the silver sequins on her headlights swinging jauntily with each step as she bounced across the stage.
Pica extended her hand. Loretta gave her a weak smile, then gestured to the microphone.
“Good afternoon to all the rodeo royalty and your committee. I would like to thank you on behalf of OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS and our LIP LASTER for extreme conditions.”
Pica sounded relaxed, but she was quite nervous. She smiled and took a breath. “We are glad to be a part of the great rodeo tradition and the contribution these glamorous women make to our cowboy heritage.
“It gives me great pleasure to give each one a necklace bearing a solid gold LIP LASTER dispenser as a token of our respect.” Addressing the audience, she said, “And there are samples for each of you here at the table.”