Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (7 page)
“I would at least wait until the hickey is gone. Use the back of a spoon and rub real hard. But after that, no! It is not
too late! Why don’t you visit him when he comes home from the trip? Oh, lordy, I have the best idea
ever
!” Ofie declared. She then rolled onto her tummy and kicked her legs in delight. “A shadow box dedicated to your love for
him.”
“Oh, jeez. You mean like a love shrine? He’ll think I’m a stalker!”
“Not if you make it so powerful it speaks what your heart feels. Then he’ll know how much you appreciate and love him. No
words necessary.” Ofie sighed, as if the year were 1957 and she was daydreaming of Elvis Presley.
“Maybe I could make it inside one of those Romeo y Julieta cigar boxes. Or maybe I could make a photo album and write letters
to him all throughout it,” Star pondered aloud.
“A scrapbook!”
“No!” Star nearly screamed. “Not a scrapbook. I wouldn’t be caught dead making a scrapbook. Never mind, it’s too crafty. I
don’t do crafts. I’m an artist.”
Ofie hated when Star dismissed crafts as though they were beneath her. Over the years, scrapping had brought Ofie heaps of
joy. A lot of bounced checks too, but so what? Documenting memories was priceless.
“Let me marinate on the idea. Maybe I’ll just write an old-school letter.”
“Borr
ring
,” Ofie sang out.
“Whatever I decide to do, I’ll give it to him Saturday, before his show at Sangria. I have no clue what I want out of life,
but I do know I want Theo in it.”
“Yay! Let me know if you need my help!” said Ofie, pleased at Star’s decision.
Star paused. “Let’s say hypothetically, maybe, I considered creating an assemblage box, maybe Joseph Cornell meets Frida Kahlo,
I think I have a focal-point picture.”
“I knew you liked the idea! Continue!”
“Don’t laugh, and do not repeat this!” Star couldn’t believe she was about to share this, but whom better than with her dear
friend? “Last week Theo put a Mexican novella comic in my bag with a nasty page bookmarked. He said he meant it as a joke—but
it was more like a hint. That was the night, we, you know… That’s the night I want to remind him of. I want us to pick up
where we left off.”
“Which novella?” Ofie asked.
“Hold on, I’ll find it.” Ofie heard Star fumble with the phone while rummaging through her stuff. Ofie simultaneously swiped
her arm under the mattress to feel for Larry’s stash of novella comics. They were his dirty little secret.
“Star, I have a stack right in front of me. Which one is it?”
“No way. You do? Woo-hoo, you and Mr. Larry got it goin’ on, huh?” Star chuckled. “It’s called
El Solitario.
“Oooohhhh.
Rider Without Borders
. That’s a juicy one. I have it. What page did he mark?”
“The top of thirty-six. What do the speech bubbles say? My Spanish is horrible and I need to decipher the dialogue.”
Ofie turned to the page and read the lines out loud. “ ‘Amame, como nunca has amado a nadie, esta noche… sera imposible de
olvidar…’Wow. Yup, the boy has the hots for you!”
Star howled on the other end of the line. “Tell me! Tell me!”
“Well, okay. He’s a beefcake Mexican cowboy and she is a voluptuous, buxom ranger girl. Her blouse is too small, so her cleavage
is busting out. They are at the top of a grassy hill and there is a full moon. He grips her fleshy hips under her skirt with
one hand, rips open her shirt with the other, the buttons fly off, she moans in delight, and he devours her chi-chis…”
“Ofie, I have the comic here—I can see all that—what does the speech bubble say? Verbatim.”
“Oh. Sorry. Alrighty, let’s see. He says he wants her to love him like she has never loved anyone before. And their night
together is going to rock! And in the next scene, he opens his mouth, like he is going to lick—”
“Jeez, you’re making me blush!” Star laughed. “It’s perfect. He won’t be able to resist. If—and that is a big
if
—I decide to make something. It has to be high art or the deal’s off.” Tomorrow’s first task on Star’s agenda—go to the library
and check out Joseph Cornell books.
“Whoops, something’s going on!” Ofie announced. Both women heard Larry cuss and shout from across the house. Ofie dashed to
the kitchen and stopped. She raised the cordless receiver to her ear and tried not to laugh.
“Oh sweet baby Jesus in a manger,” she said. “Star, I gotta go. Larry tried to eat a button cover. He thought it was a cookie.”
From:
[email protected]
Date: August 4, 2010, 8:30 a.m.
Subject: Glitter
I have 350 pounds of glitter here with your name on it. Explain.
From:
[email protected]
Date: August 4, 2010, 8:33 a.m.
Subject: RE: Glitter
LOL! Not me, sister. I’m frightened by the stuff!
From:
[email protected]
Date: August 4, 2010, 8:40 a.m.
Subject: RE: Glitter
I’m serious. 58 boxes of glitter were delivered here, all addressed to you. Sender is Udell Industries based out of Hamburg,
Germany. Is this an error? Invoice is $4,985.99 and was charged to the publicity account on your corporate card. How would
you like me to proceed?
From:
[email protected]
Date: August 4, 2010, 8:50 a.m.
Subject: RE: Glitter
Myrna, I placed an order on July 10th for 3.50 pounds of vintage glass glitter that was on clearance from Udell Industries.
I e-mailed them the order and distinctly remember typing in 3.50 pounds. I provided payment information by phone and all I
can think of is that something was lost in language translation. The order was for Theodoro Duarte’s upcoming installation.
I calculated the cost to be approximately $50, including shipping. This is a mistake on Udell Industries’ part. I will call
and get it straightened out. I apologize for the trouble!
Chalk it up to another “Star-aster”! LOL!
From:
[email protected]
Date: August 4, 2010, 9:15 a.m.
Subject: RE: Glitter
I just tried to call the number on the packing slip and it has been disconnected. The Web site says the business has closed
and all orders have been shipped.
Star, I’ve worked for your parents for years because they are good, honest, hard-working people whom I respect greatly. In
case you haven’t noticed, business is down. Ever since the graffiti incident, we’ve heard many customers are reluctant to
visit because they are worried about crime. The glitter situation is far from an “LOL” matter. This mistake of yours has cost
La Pachanga $5,000, not to mention the outrageous contract for the CraftOlympics sponsorship. Simply put, we do not have enough
money in the marketing budget to cover all of it. Unless these funds are replaced in the near future, we will have to cancel
the annual Día de Los Muertos festivities this year. In the interest of your parents, La Pachanga, and the sugar skull–loving
community, I sincerely hope you remedy this problem immediately.
P.S. And as your former childhood babysitter, I feel it is my duty to tell you to get your act together!
From:
[email protected]
Date: August 4, 2010, 9:17 a.m.
Subject: RE: Glitter
Do not worry. I’m on it. All I ask (beg) is the following:
1. Please do not tell my parents.
2. Please have maintenance move the boxes inside the back house.
3. Please let me know when the credit card bill arrives and I will pay it.
4. PLEASE DELETE THESE E-MAILS & EMPTY THE TRASH FOLDER TOO!
Thank you, and again I am so sorry. Call me on my cell for any further questions, I promise to answer on the first ring!
E
very week for the past two years, “Crafty Chloe” Chavez has presented a new handmade idea on KPDM’s lunchtime newscast. It
became the most popular segment with the show’s mostly female audience and elevated her status from field reporter to “Crafty
Chloe,” the ultimate creative guru of the city.
Chloe predicted that with the help of Mark Jefferies she’d become a beloved national figure within a couple years—an international
do-it-yourself personality with a daily show, best-selling books, and product lines galore. Chloe planned to follow in the
footsteps of Betty O’Hara, aka “Betty Oh!,” a former local morning-show host who went on to fame and fortune thanks to her
morning craft segments.
Today, inside the fifteen-story high-rise on 16th Street and Camelback Road, Chloe paced up and down the carpet aisle way
outside her cubicle to burn off nervous energy.
At last, the timid voice she was waiting for.
“Hi… Ms. Chavez?”
Chloe arched one of her thin eyebrows. Her savior had arrived: Frances, resident introverted office clerk. The insecure girl
was a sight to behold. Frances’ bright red hair hung limp and stringy down her round cheeks, except for the crooked baby bangs
that cut across her forehead. And then that body—a plump, fleshy torso propped up by a set of toothpick-thin legs. However,
this unassuming paper stapler had a few tricks up her sleeve, including enough decorative concepts to fill a
Mission: Impossible
movie script. And as Chloe’s dedicated unofficial personal assistant, those brainstorms came in handy every week for Chloe’s
live craft segment. Frances Turner was the TV personality’s secret to success in a twisted Cyrano de Bergerac sort of way.
But rather than hand over romantic verses, Frances supplied her boss with resourceful and decorative ideas.
Original
ideas.
Chloe popped her head above the surrounding gray portable walls to scout for witnesses. “Coast is clear. Have a seat and let’s
do this,” Chloe dictated, still ticked off from having to wait two more minutes than usual.
Frances rested her booty at the edge of the navy blue office chair as her thick freckled hands gently passed a lumpy brown
bag over to Chloe, who grabbed it and ripped off the paper.
Frances’ left eye blinked uncontrollably as Chloe let out a sexy whistle of approval. “
Frances
, you’ve outdone yourself this time. It’s magnificent,” she said about the handsome lamp that had a shade meticulously covered
with silk leaves and gold micro stars.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Frances mumbled through a half smile. Her beefy finger pushed up her black horn-rimmed glasses as she
kicked her scuffed-up mary jane creeper into the tile. “People are crafting for September, so I wanted to do something related
to fall.”
Chloe shoved the fixture out of her way and ran her soft, slender hands across her suede taupe desk blotter and took a deep
breath.
“I have big news, Frances. You know how the CraftOlympics is going to be held here in Phoenix this year? Well, get this: The
executives selected
me
as the official host of the entire three-day event. Not only that, I actually beat out Betty O’Hara—and she has a best-selling
book and a top-rated show! This is big-time. Martha is the keynote speaker!”
The strained look on Frances’ face stunned Chloe. “What’s with the stare? Are you choking on your Nicorette again?”
Frances relaxed her face and neck muscles. “I’ve never understood… well… how you…
you know
…,” she whispered, as if she was frightened to unleash her thoughts.
“How what?” Chloe asked, raising her chin in self-defense.
Frances chewed on the inside of her cheek and twisted a lock of hair. “Um… How you call yourself Crafty Chloe when… you know…
you
hate
crafts. The only time you touch a glue gun is when the camera is on.”
Chloe chortled and jerked back to serious mode. “Don’t even go there, Frances. All you need to know is that I’ll always take
care of you. But right now I need you to help me prep. Did you know every host for the past five years has gone on to national
fame? Now it’s my turn and I want to be spot-on.”
Frances rubbed her stubbly chin. “Word on the clothesline is this year’s CraftOlympics will be the biggest ever. Red alert,
Ms. Chavez. It’s almost eleven. You’d better get on set…”
Frances’ warning was supported by a hefty cameraman, who hollered from across the newsroom.
“Chavez—you’re on in ONE minute, thirty-four! They bumped up your tease.” He signaled the media princess over while gripping
the mic over his mouth and jogged her way. He apologized for shouting and introduced himself as Larry Fuentes, her newly assigned
in-studio cameraman. Chloe would have given him the icy treatment, maybe even complained to her boss, except he mentioned
that his wife, Ofelia, was a Crafty Chloe groupie and even kept a VHS library of all her segments.
Chloe bounced up from her chair and headed toward Stage One, right on Larry’s heels.
“Tell the Mrs. I said gracias.” She clipped her mic pack to the back of her skirt and threaded the cord up the front of her
silk tan and white Pucci blouse and clipped it at the neckline. She smoothed back a bright chunk of yellow hair and shouted
another assignment to her handy assistant.
“Frances, come with me to La Pachanga this afternoon. I’m staging a mini ambush to find out more on the Happy Face Tagger.”
“Today?” Frances said, clicking around on her BlackBerry. “You have three appointments: teeth whitening, hair relaxer, and
your therapist. You won’t be done until at least five.”
