Pink Flamingos

Priscilla Presley

“Want me to keep going?” Mama Heather asked eagerly.

“Of course,” I said, while staring straight ahead at the mirror blankly. “I want to look like Priscilla Presley.”

Whenever Mama Heather was sad when she was my age, she used to do her hair up real big and do her makeup so elegantly, just to cheer herself up a little. She would be dressed to the nines but all she would ever do was go to the corner store. That was how she met my father – he worked there, and he always told me that when he saw her, his jaw just dropped. Mama Heather had passed the tradition onto me, knowing that I had been blue lately.

The eyeliner made me look different. It was layered on so heavily that I felt that I had no eyes at all – only dark, especially stylish black holes to see out of. It all felt very glamorous and strangely different. Facing me in the mirror was another girl, one that I hadn’t seen many times before, but one that I loved more than I could ever love myself.

It wasn’t that the girl in the mirror was more beautiful, or more desirable, or worthier, or more this or more that. It was a matter of the girl looking not just capable, but poised to strike at any moment. She looked like she could kill with one flutter of those thick lashes. She was powerful.

That was what I wanted to be in the end, with or without makeup. I needed to be confident enough to topple a king, if I wanted to get myself anywhere. Because wherever I was going, I knew I was going to get there on my own two feet, with my hands feverishly working for me and my eyes open to all possibilities, my lips speaking my very own words whether anyone else approved or not. Yes, that was what I needed to do – that was who I needed to be.

In my gentle, innocent, sixteen-year-old opinion, the all-American girl could get f****d. I didn’t want to sit around all day, vacuuming and baking cherry pies, make loveless love in a bedroom that was part of a mortgaged house anyway. Thanks to Mama Heather, my lips looked like a cherry pie anyway, gleaming red, plump and juicy. I didn’t want to be confined to a side, I wanted the whole bed to myself, to spread out and do what I pleased. I wanted to sleep peacefully through the night and wake up the next day knowing that the entire day was ready to be lived however I saw fit.

I watched as Mama Heather made my hair bigger and bigger and bigger, combing underneath and smoothing over the knotty mess. My hair was almost bigger than my dreams. Thanks to Mama Heather, I really was starting to look a bit like Priscilla Presley.

“Done!” She yelled excitedly with wide smile. “You are my little masterpiece, Nance.”

Trying to match her enthusiasm, I stood up and smoothed down my dress. Together, we had created a beautiful character – an alternate version of who I was and who I could be. I couldn’t help but be a little proud. We had developed an alter ego right there in my little bedroom.

“Got any errands for me to run?” I asked, smiling to myself.

She chuckled and handed me the list, smacking her lips as I smacked mine too, imitating her. Stumbling ever so slightly in my heels, I walked out of the trailer with my head held high.

Eddie sat in his usual place in the sun, reclining as his music drifted through the air softly and slowly for a change. He waved at me, a slight smile creeping onto his face. I ignored his wolf whistle.

Disgusted by my own thoughts during the storm one night earlier, I walked right past him, pretending that I hadn’t noticed him at all – though I’m both sure that we knew that, like everything else I seemed to do, it was only one big lie.

Sometimes it seemed like my entire life was just an ongoing game of dress up. The only problem was that no matter how many dresses I slipped in and out of as the sun rose and set, I was expected not to change. As I grew older, I was expected to also grow constant. The pressure that I felt, not from any one person but the world itself, was making me feel weary.

As I walked, I couldn’t help but continue to keep him on my mind and wonder about him. What did he think of me? What did he want from me? What did he expect me to be? The questions haunted me. The idea that this boy who barely knew anything about me, and who in turn, I barely knew anything about either, had a preconceived ideal of who I was and expected me to continue to live up to it – whether he was even aware of that expectation or not – made panic rise in my chest.

But any and every thought in my head was ultimately hypocritical. After all, did I not expect him to be exact same way he’s always been? Did I not expect everything about him to be consistent, unchanging? If he suddenly started acting incredibly different, or shaved his head, or started dressing differently, or stopped listening to music, I would most certainly notice. And maybe I would even comment on it.

Because I expected him to be a little arrogant and a little sweet, I expected him to be funny and laid back, I expected him to still sit out there and spin his records, even if it annoyed me, and I expected him to keep wearing his dumb Hawaiian shirts. It struck me that as much as I preached change, all I wanted from him was continuity. That was the inherent flaw in all my thoughts.

I tried to push it all aside. After all, all I had wanted to do was dress up nice and grocery shop. There was no point in wondering when the wondering was incessant.

Each time I walked past a*****e, I made a habit of checking my reflection in the mirror. I saw my eyes blink and my mouth close and open and my chest move slowly, up and down and up and down. Here I am, the reflection seemed to say, and I am beautiful and real and more alive than ever.

As usual, the grocery store was quiet. Other people who were shopping there smiled at me, or even said hello to me, but everything felt sleepy anyway. The whole town seemed to be underwater, moving slowly through the murkiness. As I walked through the neon aisles, I wondered if any of them felt the same way as me.

Surely they didn’t, if they went about their daily lives so casually and consistently. But then again, so did I. Someone who observed me deciding which kind of pasta to buy or walking slowly through the soda section, examining my options, would never think that I was feeling completely lost in life in a town that simply couldn’t move. No, they would think that I was mechanical and my head was full of air.

A part of me wanted so desperately to be that way. It’s always so much easier to not think.

Slowly, I ran through the list. I picked up everything Mama Heather needed. There was pasta, beef and vegetables, soda, liquor and herbs. The woman at the cash register looked as bored as ever. I couldn’t exactly blame her. It would be menial to do the same thing, day after day. I wondered if she wanted to change too.

With my leftover money, I went to what was fast becoming my favorite part of town. The sign flashed brightly, blinding in the sunlight, and I shielded my eyes as I went in.

“Welcome to Robinson’s Candy Store,” a familiar voice chimed. “How can I- oh, Nancy, hi! You look so pretty!”

Barbara’s enthusiasm was infectious. When she smiled, her entire face lit up and it felt like the world did too. I grinned at her, hoping I looked even half as inviting as she did. “Thanks Barbara, you look great too.”

She waved my compliment away. “Oh, same old, same old.”

I wanted to reassure her, to tell her that she looked wonderful every single day that I saw her. It’s not as though I would have been lying. But I never had the courage to say anything and I was never very good at it anyway, so I did what I did best – I kept my thoughts to myself. Instead, I circled slowly through the store, searching for just the right kind of candy to spend my spare change on.

The selection seemed endless, as usual; there was a sweet of every kind. I could get sherbet, or toffy, or even cotton candy. Silently, I smiled to myself – despite standing there with my hair feeling like it was going to brush the ceiling and my face coated in layers upon layers of makeup, and my dress cinching in my waist, I felt just like a little kid again.

In the end, I ended up going for the same thing that I got every time. Barbara didn’t seem at all shocked when I put the packets of jersey caramels that I had collected down on the counter, along with the a few coins. I just hoped they wouldn’t melt on my way home.

“Hey Nancy, why are you all dressed up today anyway? I really like your dress by the way. The red suits you.”

I shrugged and after a moment, managed to force out, “When I’m a bit down, I dress up and everything. It makes me feel a little bit better.”

“Why are you sad?”

“Sometimes I think that life’s just like that.”

Barbara smiled sadly. “Maybe I’ll try that next time I’m sad.”

“Why are you sad?” I asked.

She sighed a little. “Because life’s just like that?”

I walked away feeling depressed and reassured at the same time. It seemed like the world was open to me – after all, I wasn’t the only one feeling dark blue. But why did everyone have to suffer?