Victor LaValle - Ecstatic

He paused for five seconds of nodding.

— Miss Innocence has been criticized for only accepting girls who have kept their chastity. I was there yesterday, on Braddock Street. And so were a lot of you. These ladies are tired from working twice on Saturday!

Less comfortable now. Even I shifted in my seat.

He scratched his head, pulled on his bow tie.

— I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. We all go to hundreds of pageants. It’s a good system. I respect that other one. Girls should be applauded for surviving hard times, but what makes Miss Innocence special is that we honor the girls who chose to keep living good lives. Being a virgin is hard. There’s a lot of handsome young men out there. I know, because I used to be one!

He laughed and I did with him. Most of the audience, too.

— But even with the pressure in school and advertisements the forty-two girls backstage have decided not to be indulgent. There are so many things in this world that makes us feel powerless. Tonight we celebrate some young women who’ve proven just how powerful they are. That’s right. You should applaud. I will.

He tucked the black microphone under an armpit and clapped. — Yes! he yelled.

I took off my glasses because I had an itch in my ear like a riot. It was bad enough that I had to use one of the arms of my glasses to dig in there right at the drum.

My glasses back on I looked over at Grandma who was interested, but confused. She might have liked this more if she understood the words.

Maximilian motioned for the first contestant who walked out quickly, lifting her feet. She stood beside him, he put his arm around her and then let her advertise.

— Hello and greetings. My name is Karen Tiffany Haynes and I represent the lovely town of Knuckleswipe, Rhode Island.

I wondered how Ms. Haynes would look sitting next to me. As a couple. Her hand on my thigh. My arm around her shoulders. Later we’d have a lot of sex. I was sure of it.

— Good evening. My name is Barretta Watkins and I’m here from beautiful East Orange, New Jersey. Come see us!

For Barretta I imagined a beach. Her in a thong and me wearing a gray sweat suit. Even in a daydream I was embarrassed by my body. I couldn’t even imagine owning a buffer one.

Barretta coming out of the water, rubbing her eyes and then hugging me. We rolled around together. In my fantasy her little frame could support much weight. When we had sex it was everywhere. In the sand. On a rock. Standing up.

— Greetings and God bless, my name is Sareen Amber Follows. From myself and all of Tennessee, from the Natchez State Parkway to the Fort Donelson National Battlefield, we’d like to welcome you over for dinner anytime!

As each girl finished introducing herself she joined those who’d come out before her in a line at the right end of the stage. My fantasies lost focus as more young women appeared. I couldn’t make up new kinds of sex that quickly and started repeating. Demetria Shavers was also sitting next to me in an empty theater. Tiffany Murdock in the sand.

When nine or ten stood around, smiling, I just started picturing getting them pregnant. The whole row bearing my children. I wasn’t even thinking of the fucking at that point; just that very sexy time, about five months in, when the belly can’t be ignored. A hard hump that precedes her; the skin a pleasure to lick.

After Uncle Arms’s jubilee, to see the same girls on a finer platform was strange. Sareen Follows wore long gold gloves so that her skinny arms were concealed, but on Saturday afternoon she’d exposed them.

Whether or not I heard the knock I won’t know, but I thought I did. As Maximilian awaited the next girl, I crept to the double doors.

I couldn’t just stand up. I didn’t want to be noticed, remembered, described to the police.

To Maximilian’s surprise the lights went out, but not the power. His microphone still worked. In the suddenly dark auditorium, he yelped, — Spit!

Once there, I pressed the long metal bars on the double doors and heard the lock give.

A raiding party was outside, expecting me.

A road flare should be used outdoors.

This seems like practical instruction, like who needs it said, but common sense escapes some folks.

Auditorium illumination had sworn down to nothing, even Maximilian had dimmed. He needed someone else’s cue. — Hello? he asked into the microphone. What part is this?

The audience was largely oblivious. This didn’t take a very long time. One minute of darkness.

Then the road flares.

They have to be snapped before they start burning so first there were half a dozen cracking sounds.

I saw the protestors go in carrying the flares. The hallway, where they’d been waiting, was as dark as the auditorium.

The sallow woman came in first; she still looked nineteen, but she was thirty-nine. I recognized her even with boots on. Wearing a black leotard and a black thermal underwear top, but nothing to cover her face. Did she expect to be seen? Want it? I wondered where the film crew was positioned.

She dashed her flare down the aisles. So did the six that followed her.

They ran past me. I pulled the doors closed. I was still inside. We were in a room, but it felt big as the world.

After flares the protestors pulled can-horns from their coats and pumped them. The honks helped to orient people: Yes, you should be scared.

Some women in the audience screamed and others ducked their heads. The men did just about the same. Less yelling, more tucking.

The middle-aged woman, their leader in here, yelled, — No more beauty, just more art!

They’d been in a group, but then the demonstrators ran the aisles chaotically. Playing their can-horns whenever it seemed the audience might get their bearings enough to get up and slap these kids down.

Every two minutes. Horn! Horn!

This was supposed to have been fun. Except for the flares there was no light and I’d let seven imps in the room.

One problem was getting my eyes to focus.

As if the bleating cans wasn’t enough, there were audience members screaming. Then the rusty ring of auditorium seats flipping up as people stood and slamming down as they sat again.

— Less beauty, more art!

The protestors were yelling, lecturing us, but who was listening? I heard the words, but didn’t understand. It was loud enough in here that even Grandma covered her ears. When I scooted back to her, she’d pulled her cloche down over her eyes.

The rear curtains on stage pulled back, but the band was gone. There was a drum kit, but no one playing it.

With the backstage area exposed there was some light other than the hot-pink road flares. The lamps back there must have been on another circuit. They didn’t do much more than illuminate the contestants, all of them on the stage now. A crowd of forty-two crying girls.

They were confused. So were we. Forty-two of them. I tried to pick my sister out so I could go up there and get her, but I didn’t see Nabisase. A few of the girls climbed off the stage and tried to find their families. Many of them screamed, — Mommy! Mommy!

It sounded like they’d all lost one.

Maximilian started making noise. I wouldn’t even have noticed his voice among so many others, but he was holding that working microphone. He muttered, — I’ll be so glad when I get home.

Somebody should have turned the speakers off but in the commotion they’d spun the dial up to one hundred and thirty.

— I’ll be so glad when I get home.

My eyes remained half in focus, half in the basement.

I saw many more of the Miss Innocence girls climb offstage. A few jumped. You might have thought they were on fire. We were beneath them, but they joined us. A magnanimous act.