Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (16 page)

Star wanted to look as graceful as the imported glitter she would be peddling. She arrived decked out in a money-green cocktail
dress, spiky heels, and a slick Audrey Hepburn updo, toting a large ebony doctor bag. Inside were fifty rolled Baggies of
the glitter. At first she panicked because Maria Juana didn’t use the pretty cello bags and satin ribbon, but Star proceeded
with the game plan anyway.

It worked. Within the first hour of visiting a few galleries, she earned a little over nine hundred dollars. Using 100 percent
enthusiastic desperation, she explained how the glitter came from finely crushed European glass ornaments, and how it traveled
to Phoenix direct from Hamburg. Her excitement transferred to anyone who would listen. Many scooped up a bag as a souvenir,
while others invested in several, including a performance artist, the owner of a hair salon called Bedazzled Beauty, a shadow
box artist, and even a hunky fireman who bought five bags for his German-born crafty mom. Star made sure to give them all
her cell phone number, just in case they wanted more.

Feeling more confident than ever, she made an executive decision to bypass one-by-one introductions and devise a broader method.
Down the street in a parking lot, she noticed a man with a megaphone surrounded by a large crowd.

Amplification! Excellent!
she thought. She’d just worm her way into the middle of the action, borrow his equipment, unload some of the sparkly, and
wrap up the night early. A proud smile spread across her face as she strutted down the sidewalk, seamlessly weaving in and
out of the oncoming crowd. Every few seconds she heard thuds and crashes, which grew louder the closer she got. She reached
the area and excused her way to the front. The shouting artist strutted before a line of rowdy people who took turns hitting
a yellow Hummer with their choice of tools: sledgehammer, crowbar, spray paint, or electric saw.

“This is what I call Frustration Art!” the artist shouted to the onlookers. “Down with mass consumerism! Free yourself?! Exchange
one of your possessions for some stress busting by beating on this gas-guzzling beast!”

The crowd hooted and shouted, and Star joined them. Three bodybuilder types handed over their cowboy hats and each picked
up a weapon of choice. While they had their way with the Hummer, Star explained her situation to the artist and handed over
forty dollars in return for two minutes on his megaphone. He took the bills, stuffed them in his pocket, and handed her the
bull horn.

“Come closer, people,” she said, waving her arms in the air and summoning her inner ringleader. “Mr. Hummerman Artist is taking
a quick break to replenish his fluids. Until then I’m here with an important commercial break.” Star watched as the crowd
grew thicker. “Are you tired of living in the dark, never allowing yourself to let in the light of your dreams?” She began
to pace back and forth in front of the Hummer, à la Tony Robbins at a self-empowerment convention. “What if I told you I had
something to help you see that light—and that it was only twenty dollars?”

People inched forward, and goose bumps raced up Star’s back. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve heard of angel dust, right? Well,
let me introduce you to the healing properties of
Star
dust!”

Star set down the bullhorn, planted her feet firmly on the asphalt, and held the top edges of a Baggie of glitter over her
head, letting it roll down. She reached in, retrieved a handful of the powder, and spread it across the air, like a seasoned
shaman releasing a magical mist. The crowd ooohed and ahhhed at the dazzling display of twinkles floating to the ground. Star
felt a hard tap on her arm. She peeked over her shoulder and wondered who in the heck would have the nerve to interrupt this
almighty moment?

Two cops, that’s who.

“Ruh-roh,” she mumbled as one of them snatched the Baggie from her hands. That’s all it took for the parking lot to clear.

“Miss, you wouldn’t be selling illegal substances, would you?”

“No!” Star pleaded. “It’s imported glass glitter, I swear—look—” she said, pointing to the Baggie. The officer unfolded the
sandwich Baggie, smelled the contents, licked his finger, and stuck it in the coarse powder.

Star tried to grab it away, but the other cop gripped both her arms from behind. “No! It’s made of crushed glass! And don’t
waste it, it’s imported! I paid thirteen dollars a pound.” However, he lifted his finger to dab it on his tongue anyway.

She envisioned herself crouched in a cold jail cell corner, chanting, “It was only glitter! It was only glitter!” She held
her breath, anticipating the officer’s next move.

“I’m not tasting this. She’s right, it’s glass glitter… it’s really pretty too. I could see my wife using this at Christmas.”

“Regardless, miss. You need a permit to sell. We could give you a ticket.”

“Officers,” said a female voice from behind Star. “Would you really want to do that when across the street there is a band
playing in a flatbed truck in a residential neighborhood—a clear violation of Noise Ordinance Sec. 23–11?”

Craft Bimbo! Star remembered that she covered First Fridays every month for KPDM. Never in a gazillion years did Star think
she would be happy to see Chloe and her annoying crease-free business outfits, this time a smart—surprise!—taupe linen suit.
The cops, obviously fans, were delighted. Chloe gave them both a warm handshake and even flirted until they relented and returned
Star’s glitter. Star felt so relieved, she told them to keep it, and even gave the other cop a bag for his wife. The two patrollers
walked away admiring their gifts.

Chloe stepped in front of Star and crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay, do tell.”

Star didn’t just tell, she showed. She told Chloe to follow her in her car to La Pachanga. They approached the front of the
restaurant to find the parking lot filled to capacity, thanks to Las Feministas, an all-girl band that performed outside on
the balcony to a crowd of partiers below. Star waved and pointed to behind the property.

They turned off their headlights, left their vehicles, and snuck around to the back house. Star unlocked the side door and
opened a box of the glitter, letting Chloe in on the secret sparkle stash—all remaining 325 pounds of it. Chloe backed up
from the room with caution, as if the cargo was hissing cobras, not craft embellishments. She didn’t need to see any more,
and steered Star to La Pachanga’s coffee bar to discuss the situation. Plus, she needed a shot of French Roast right about
now.

As they walked into La Pachanga, Chloe couldn’t pinpoint why she had helped Star out with the cops earlier. Perhaps because
every time she encountered the girl, some kind of tornado swirled about. Chloe noted the good deed in her favor scorebook
and knew she’d cash it in at a later date.

“Let me make this clear: I despise glitter,” Chloe informed Star, while adding a squirt of liquid sugar into her cappuccino.
“It’s the most tacky substance ever invented. It makes me break out in hives—the thought of those micro-plastic pieces stuck
on my clothing or, ew, my skin.” Chloe shivered. “Can’t you dispose of it? Have you tried Craigslist or eBay?”

Star noted the new folk duo playing in the coffee area as she gripped her striped mug of decaf and listed all her efforts
up until tonight. She even confided about trying to prove herself to her parents, and how this mishap would set her back to
square one. They would likely cancel the centerpiece project altogether and make her move out. Even worse, lose all faith
in her. Star missed her job at La Pachanga, wanted it back, and the centerpieces were her only connection. Chloe listened
to Star’s dilemma, finished her coffee, and pushed the cup in front of her.

“What is the budget for this project?”

“Three grand, but I made nine hundred dollars tonight.”

“Star.” Chloe sighed as she set her mug on the counter. “I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking. As much as it repulses
me to say this, we have to use the glitter on the centerpieces so you can tell your parents you ordered it on purpose. To
offset the cost, we’ll curb expenses on the remaining supplies. We have two hundred of these to complete. You can’t spend
all your time hustling on street corners. We’ll have to find something and cover it in glitter to use it up.” Chloe already
regretted what she had just presented.
Ugh. Gliter
, she thought.

Star let out a reluctant groan. “Yah, I know, I’ve been thinking of that too. It goes against my glitter philosophy—I’m from
the ‘less is more’ school—but to hell with that. I have to get rid of it!”

Chloe rubbed her diamond stud earring and flashed her eyes toward the ceiling, “Oh my God…”

“What?” Star asked.

Chloe leaned back on her barstool. “You know Ofie is going to push that horrendous glittered cowboy boot idea on us. I can’t
be a part of this if it is not up to par with my other creations. I have a reputation to uphold. We’ll have to be firm with
her and not let her take over. No matter how excited she is.”

Star nodded in full agreement and slid her mug to the side. “True. I can’t afford any mistakes either. But we have to be delicate.
Ofie is a binge-crafter. She has self-esteem issues and she crafts to make herself feel better. You saw her stuff. I love
her, but she has no artistic skills whatsoever. Crafts are her life. She’s a basket case when it comes to any kind of confrontation.”

“Well, perhaps it’s time she toughens up,” Chloe said, as compassionate as a prison warden. “If an honest craft critique is
the worst of her problems…”

“She is borderline bipolar!” Star said just as the duo’s song ended. She lowered her voice. “We can’t do anything to hurt
her. If you’re gonna call her out, you can’t be in the group.” Star glared into Chloe’s eyes to assure she meant business.

Chloe reminded herself about her professional motives. “Fine. Then let’s make it look like her idea. I’ll have Frances draw
up some ideas tomorrow.”

Star tilted her head. “Your assistant Frances? Why her?”

“What I mean is, Frances has a list of all my ideas. I can have her organize them.”

“Let’s just save time and come up with something right now. Like, I don’t know, we are in the southwest, we have hundreds
of pounds of green glitter, how about a cactus garden? Flower pots are only a buck or so, and we can pick up some faux cacti
at Maker’s Marketplace.”

Chloe hooked her fingers around her mug and raised it to Star. “Problem solved. Truce—to get through this?”

Star relaxed, eeked out a grin of ease, and clinked her mug with Chloe’s. “Truce. To get us through.”

“Now all we have to do is convince Ofie that our classy glittered cactus garden is her idea.”

“No sweat,” Star said. “Just follow my lead.”

T
he following Wednesday, the group met at Ofie's, determined to set the centerpiece project in motion.

“Out of all the treasures in the world, there is nothing more precious than giving someone a piece of your heart, and that
is why I made these necklaces for you,” Ofie said to the group, holding three small boxes. “They are a piece of my heart that
I’m giving to you for being my new friends.”

One by one she hugged Chloe, Star, and Benecio and handed them her gift. They opened the boxes to find an odd-shaped lump
of silver hanging from a ball-chain necklace. Benecio, elated, slipped it over his head. Star and Chloe gave warm thanks and
each put the gift in their respective purses.

“It’s supercute, Ofie,” Star assured her friend. She, Chloe, and Benecio were on the committee only for professional gain,
but Ofie embraced it as a deeper commitment. For years Ofie had joined other craft groups—beaders, scrapbookers, and even
mixed-media collectives where anything counted as “art.” They always ended the same way: By the third meeting, they conveniently
broke up only to re-form later without her. Even though Star dreaded the upcoming centerpiece production, she was happy to
give Ofie what she wanted most—company.

“Now let’s get down to business,” Star said. “The more I think of it, Ofie, the more I like your glitter idea. Don’t you agree,
Chloe?”

“Yes,” Chloe recited just as she and Star had rehearsed.

Ofie clapped in joy. “Let’s do a rainbow-striped glittered cowboy boot with balloons coming out of the top! I can hand draw
a horseshoe on each one with gold metallic puffy paint!”

“Hmmm,” Chloe said, swallowing hard. “But maybe something that represents desert life, since this is the first time the CraftOlympics
has ever been in Arizona. What is a well-known desert motif that we can cover in glitter?”

“My tumbleweed idea! Or no… a desert rock—a red rock of Sedona!” Ofie said.

Star silently winced at the thought of two hundred red glittered rocks as centerpieces. “Something green! Think botanical!”
Star coaxed.

Chloe served her last dish of patience. “Something prickly, Ofie. Something that has
sharp little needles
all over it. Want me to draw you a picture?”

Star kicked Chloe’s foot under the table for being cold. Benecio, mature for his age, caught on and joined in. “Something
with sharp little needles that hurts your butt when you sit on it!”

The three of them leaned in Ofie’s direction as she rubbed her chin, squinted her eyes, and concentrated. “I got it!” she
said, raising her index finger. “A cactus! Let’s glitter cactuses!”

“Love it!” Star cried out in relief. “Let’s do it!”

Ofie clenched her fists and pumped them in the air as if her favorite quarterback had just scored the winning touchdown. “Don’t
move—I’ll be right back!”

Sweaty from the swamp cooler’s humidity, the craft committee members fanned themselves in the humid Arizona room while Ofie
raced into her house. A series of tumbling noises followed and she returned with an armful of terra-cotta flowerpots and plastic
cacti.

Star smiled and blinked hard. “Why am I not surprised that you happen to have an abundance of plastic cacti?”

“I bought them a few years ago on clearance,” Ofie explained, while admiring the odd-shaped objects. “I don’t have a green
thumb, so I was going to plant them in front to make our yard look pretty. I forgot about them until now!”