Loudly snorting what polite manners would dictate to be a more than generous line of grade A quality coke, Blanche Sinclair explains it to him again, like he’s six. In her charcoal grey Armani shift, the overly fussed with attempt at a chignon framing her lavender scented decollete, she inflects every word with a razors edge.
“Zane, what you fail to grasp about this industry is that whatever sum price is ultimately paid, your effort and output will never command, equal, or make up for that. The simple absence of negotiation is the key, Zane. Now, please tell me again how vital your union is?”
Turning, she pauses, adding that her assistant’s “naive charm” as she has so disingenuously termed it, is really just old school ignorant, and not at all charming. She assures him it’s no reason to let it go to his head, as her gaze locks on his, holding the truth of it in the air just long enough.
Long enough that Zane is in no way unclear.
Her buzz in maximum drive, she gets a quick glimpse of her reflection in the pavilion window and quickly adjusts the leather Hermes knock off draping her shoulder. Fuck these southern hayseeds she thinks, they wouldn’t know a Hermes bag if it bit them in the ass. After all, it’s a Burlington Coat Factory crowd at best, and she’s in Armani. So what if it’s a 2011. It was on clearance.
Approaching the main gates of the pavilion her nostrils are already flaring.
“There is a line up! You’re fucking kidding me”, she mutters, a tad too audibly.
A line up to interview the Georgia Peach Beauty Queen? She grinds her newly porcelain treated teeth until they hurt, thinking this must be a really slow news day.
With growing disgust, Blanche realizes she is at least half an hour from the front of the line, and it is 93 degrees. At 10 am. To make matters worse, she is three back from a group of thirty one vaguely foreign appearing tourists, most of the women having brought what seem to be companion Pomeranian’s along for the day. All of whom seem to be experiencing an ear splitting, collective fucking meltdown. Blanche wonders aloud what language they are yammering on in. Well, it’s not English, therefore she doesn’t understand it, so of course that makes her irritated and uncomfortable. She takes a mental picture, realizing with visceral emphasis just how unseemly a Pomeranian meltdown can be.
“This moisturizer is fucking shit!” she screams manically to no one in particular. “$147.00 for 4 oz. of Chanel Sublimage Anti Aging Cream and my face is running like a thirteen year old field hockey player in puberty”.
The women smile and nod. She returns the greeting via icy sneer.
Nine minutes later, and still more dull people. “Does no one interesting come to beauty pageants and dog shows at rural Georgia theme park openings”, she says condescendingly to no one in particular.
For the next twenty minutes she pulls anxiously on her Armani, pretending to politely not listen, but instead listens ever more earnestly as the harsh, somewhat ignorant sounding lesbian with the lisp (or is it a hairlip) explains, rather pedantically, to the sporty dyke with the pixie cut, that it is, in fact, important to establish fluid and non linear goal posts if one desires a dog not overly self aligned with the trappings of traditional canine gender deportment often found in the larger breeds.
Pixie cut mutters something under her breath, when a large gaggle of teenage Korean girls giggle by in their plaid ultra minis, pig tails, platform boots and fuzzy hoodies.
Blanche regards the girls with mocking disapproval.
“Seoul is the next Paris or Milan? That’s about as likely as me having Anderson Coopers love child”, she says, just loud enough so the girls hear.
Convinced that she is on the in of absolutely everything, Blanche smiles contently at her Anderson dig.
“That would be one twisted fucking kid”, she says just under her breath.
After making only the minimal amount of small talk necessary with the latest Miss Georgia Peach, the two make their way to the podium. With a flawless and completely appropriated grace and style, Blanche scans the room like a silent shark, seemingly floating to the stage, with Miss Georgia Peach, a particularly uncoordinated young Barbie with a toothy grin, lumbering behind.
Nearing the podium, Blanche slows her pace and for effect, adds the strength of a pause. Lifting her face skyward, she begins.
“You all have been just so terribly kind, welcoming me here today.”
Her execution is spectacularly beyond reach.
“Effusive compliments be damned, it is I who has the pleasure of introducing this graceful creature known as Miss Georgia Peach, 2015! Miss Arnel Boulet.
Arnel smiles and executes what appears to be a nervous bow.
“Arnel is a graduate of Georgia Technical College, where she majored in beauty, her specialty being color, roller settings, and weaves. As well she is a licensed tint technician. Just call her a multi tasker”, Blanche teases.
She drones on, now paying homage to their host for the event, the newly re-opened attraction, Plantation Land Kingdom and Dog Park. “A tacky obstacle course most impeccably designed, the new and most improved flagship of the former confederacy. Oh, it’s a wonderfully quirky maze of trapped doors, running tracks, climbing gym, teeter totters, swimmin hole, and plain old shit pile of used and useless rubber tires. Ladies and gentlemen I predict it is to be a grand success, because I declare it is such good, elegant Georgian design! “
These cretins wouldn’t know good or elegant design if it kicked them in their inbred ass, she thinks. Whatever I say is gospel. Why? Because, I have both the means and resources to buy Prada. At retail!
A little too wrapped up in the moment, Blanche is suddenly aware the crowd is too quiet, and she still has over two minutes to go. Realizing she may need to step back slightly, she shields her eyes from the glare. And so begins the inevitable inward descent into a curiously invested anger; an anger that if not kept in check may sound not dissimilar to a Brazilian bikini wax on a country whore in hot pants. At least that is what her last ex had said.
Willing herself to pull it together, she continues. Eyes cast down, her tone a titch more demure, Blanche decides she will talk about her beau. Well, the latest one anyway. A long and creative narrative, most of it existing solely under that loosely swept chignon.
“I am reminded of a time and place so very long ago. We were so young and alive, hungry for life’s promise. I recall he had a dog. It was a little fluffy white thing, cute”, she swigs another last gulp from the what has to be her third mint julep.
With the dramatic turn of heel, she might be described as a mildly drunk drag version of Jackie O. Yes, the Onassis period, not pregers with Carolyn.
“His dog was named Tucker … and everything that goes along with that.”
The cocktail glass she is holding seems to dance and swirl along a velvet pathway of southern belle inflected charm. And just when it reaches a whisper, she utters melancholy, “I suppose there may be some things in this life one just never gets over”.
With that she knows they are hers. As her time at the podium concludes, the crowd is locked in hand clapping praise for a manically incestuous ghost of a younger, sluttier sister of Camelot.
“Can I offer anyone another tall glass of lemonade with mint? Line up to the left, don’t be shy now.”
Less than ten short minutes later, Blanche, the self appointed belle of the new and improved Plantation Land Theme Park is under the stage, Armani shift hiked up past her waist, panties under her head, the hunky sound tech man with the rancid BO and Grizzly Adams beard jack hammering his 10 by 6 tool balls deep. Her tongue suckling his ear, she rakes her crimson nails over his hairy ass with a guttural moan, drawing blood. She reminds herself that a touch up or two on that chignon will be required If this ape ever decides to finish.
“That’s right you hot man beast, slither that thing deep into mama!” she growls.
He spasms, exploding with several loud grunts seconds later. “Oh my fucking Christ, he’s a gusher!”
Getting up, she bunches her panties into a ball, hastily dropping them into the Hermes knockoff. Brushing the dirt off the raw silk Armani, she smiles.
“You should have told me that was all I needed to say.”
Making her way to the park gates a tad too quickly, it seems that the debate over gender neutral canines seems to naturally correct itself when Andy, a female Pointer with a male centric name prances and struts like the self appointed star of this shit feeding park. Only to be briefly but violently sodomized by a husky with a lazy eye. She moves along, keeping brisk pace with the crowd of others, making sure that above all else, she avoids eye contact with the Husky. Especially the Husky.
Nearing the end of the grass, Blanche trips, breaking her left Jimmy Choo heel.
“Oh fuck this southern charm shit, I’m putting in for a transfer to New York”.
Not really under his breath, Zane reminds Blanche that she doesn’t even have the lead anchor desk on the local Fox affiliate, Early AM Atlanta, thus New York may be a bit pre mature.
“Zane, shut the fuck up you ignorant simpleton!”
From somewhere to the right, a gaggle of giggling Korean teens in pigtails and ultra plaid minis point at the limping woman in the dirt stained Armani, then start to giggle some more.