Show's Over

                                                                      Pope Beach, Muskananippe

                                                                                  July 6th, 1994

Angelica adjusted the headset. It was loose and pillowy, smoothly settling around her skull, cushioned by lush curls. New, red-orange curls. She shuddered. The hair was right. Too right. She ruffled it fiercely, forming little knots and flyaways. That's better. She clicked open her compact mirror. Nary a wrinkle, but a bloated meaty-red pimple oozing over the fattest part of her left cheek. A lucky thirty, the snake-faced saleslady had hissed. Was the dark-pink blush too bright for an arched Italian nose? Did the glossy plum lipstick shrink her jaw as the saleslady promised? Did the beetle-black smear of sticky overpriced mascara do any favors for bulging blue eyes?

She examined her hands. Still too big, too rough, too manly? Her nails. Were the French tips too...flamboyant? Especially for such plump egg-like fingers... Adjusted her blouse. Its plum, fly-wing fabric strained across her broad shoulders (I look manly!) and clung to the soft bulges of her waist. She sighed. At least everyone gets chubby... Adjusted every icy, star-shaped charm of her red-gold necklace. God bless you, Arlette Ashford. Sit up straight. One plump, hairless leg over the other, that's right. Thank God I'm short! She bit her lip. Time to talk. This was the only way she could be-- a gnat-tongued woman.

"Angelica?"

She took a deep breath and shouted into the microphone:

"GO-OD MORNING, lords and ladies! You're listening to Breakfast Ramble and I'm your host, Angelica Gaspari."

Bell-hipped Mrs. Tabor marched in, clutching a clipboard. She leaned forward and mouthed:

Tell them!

Angelica shook her head and continued:

"Did you hear about this Japanese scientist who invented tanning beds for ants? Apparently, insects like 'em brown and crispy. Dr. Furukawa had some good points, I think, but ya know...I zip zoomed the hell outta there when I saw him rolling silicon balls into tiny breast implants."

She pressed a button. Scratchy applause rippled through the air. Her superior motioned and mouthed: Pick it up.

"Speaking of animals, why do guys call us girls 'bitches'-- which means female dog -- and then call us catty or catfighting when we argue with each other? Seems a little backwards to me. If you're gonna insult us, at least make it consistent! I swear, you guys are like a dog with a boner...I mean bone...ha ha!"

The show went as well as usual. She sang "Somebody's Watching Me" in her best celebrity impressions, flowing from lyric to lyric as Marilyn Monroe, Celine Dion, Dolly Parton, Bernadette Peters, and several others. A few phone calls, the dredging of half-dead advice. Yet no question. Not the question. Her jaw softened. Finally! I can relax-- or at least forget.

Angelica lit a cigarette, crunching it between her teeth to avoid smudging her lipstick. Her superior frowned.

"You really should've told them. My mother still asks about Jimmy Gaspari."

"They don't needta to know, Mrs. Tabor. My voice is high enough."

"And scratchy. If you want to be taken seriously, you have to have these conversations!"

"I'll have 'em later."

"For God's sake, Angelica, it's not Nonna's meatballs!"

"Whatever. I'm still the same loud bitch. I still wear sneakers." She shoved one wide, black-smothered foot onto the desk. "See? I'm no poser."