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m
nm"C.D. Payne has a knack for
mpace, rhythm, and humor as his
mcharacters pause frequently
m[for] satirical songs in this up-
mroariously funny farce of poli-
mtics, guns, corporate money,
mthe Christian Right, and more."
m -- Midwest Book Review
nNOW BACK IN PRINT!
"C.D. Payne, author of Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp strikes again with Civic Beauties, the fictional account of 15-year-old twins whose father has been chosen as the Republican vice presidential candidate (his motto: "putting God back in religion"). The narrative maintains a wicked political wit while alternating between the perspectives of two wise-beyond-their-years middle-class teens, bad-girl Toni and angelic, accordion-playing Cara. The dysfunctional characters occasionally break into song; these absurdly intelligent commentaries are spouted by the girls, various political figures, and hormonally charged teenage boys. A must-read for anyone with a sense of humor." -- Sonoma County Independent
"I sense an overdue Payne rush is about to commence . . . Civic Beauties parodies presidential races with caustic vigor, beating around the Bush like a vulture circling its prey, all the way down to its twin teenage narrators." -- San Francisco magazine
Chapter 1
When I heard my father was being mentioned as a possible candidate for the Republican nomination for Vice President, my first impulse was to slash my wrists. Why shouldn't I take these things personally? How would you like some shadowy Secret Service agent in sunglasses snooping through your underwear drawer and following you around day and night? It would be like having multiple sets of extra parents to cope with. My life was impossible enough when Dad was just pastor of the First Baptist Church and mayor of Rocky Pike, Ohio. Now that he's a United States Senator, my friends look at me like I'm a freak.
Of course, my twin sister Carissa (age 15-1/2) is thrilled by the whole thing. She wasn't even disturbed when I pointed out that one consequence of 24-hour-a-day Secret Service protection could be the prolongation of her virginity for four, if not eight more years. Boys, even the really slaggy ones, are only willing to go so far while under government surveillance. As usual, she pretended not to care. Perhaps she's taken to heart Dad's message that all a teen really needs to know about sex can be summarized in five words: Total Abstinence or You Die. I sure hope she's not a lesbian. If by some chance she is, I pray to God she announces it to the press before the convention.
I see from the morning Plain Dealer that before leaving for the Republican national convention, Senator Horace B. Mason (Dad) introduced legislation declaring that life begins at the moment of conception and compelling everyone to add nine months to their ages. Helpful in some respects for my sister and me, but it still won't get us into R-rated movies. Damn.
Dad takes a somewhat narrower view of the world than our mother. She spent her junior year abroad in Florence, and loves all things Italian, including the names Antonia (that's me) and Carissa. Like Dad, she is of mongrelized WASP extraction; her maiden name was Gloria Drucker. Only in the Midwest is the bestowing of such horrible names still actively encouraged. Dad contributed our freckles and wretched middle names: Esther for Cara and Rachel for me. Once at the Cuyahoga County Fair I had my monogram engraved on a bracelet, and it looked like a brass anatomy label or instructions for where to wear it (ARM). My third marriage (for love) will be an artful alliance with a guy from the "T"s, maybe one of Ted Turner's handsome grandsons.
Lately the consensus seems to be that we look like Doris Day, a fellow Buckeye who went to Hollywood and got famous for just saying no to Rock Hudson. I guess maybe it's our freckles and perky noses and Cara's wholesome personality. In any case I'm planning on having my nose fixed; perhaps some disastrous boyfriend choices will selectively darken my sister's persona God knows I've tried. The freckles I think will fade or can be chemically erased. Thankfully our figures and all-important bone structure show promise. With a little work, at least one of us could develop into a marginally captivating beauty.Pay attention now, Cara wants to take over the narrative. We're going to swap back and forth, so you have to stay alert.
* * *
This morning brought rare blue sky and sunshine (nearby Lake Erie is a prodigious generator of clouds). Since we were as Toni put it "whiter than our stepmother's soul," my sister and I lay on our beach towels in the back yard until Dan the Picketer showed up, when Toni suggested we transfer to the front yard. A dedicated member of the Sierra Club, Dan Wyandot is a forestry major at Cleveland State and quite good-looking. We stretched out our towels on the grass near the tall sycamore tree and chatted up the protester as he marched back and forth with his angry, hand-lettered sign: "God Save Our Forests from Senator Mason.""Is your father home today, Toni?" he asked. "Er, which one of you is Toni?"
"I am," replied my sister, sliding her bikini straps down her shoulders like a dissolute Malibu beach-goer. In Ohio straps are worn UP. "He's in there, Dan," she lied. "He hasn't left for the convention yet. He's tremendously embarrassed by your courageous actions."
"Well, he should be. He wants to sell off our national forests to timber companies to help retire the national debt. He wants to log Yosemite, for God's sake!"
"We're appalled, Dan," replied Toni. "We're on your side. Aren't we, Cara?"
"Not entirely," I replied, feeling somewhat self-conscious sprawled in Toni's old red bikini in front of such an extraordinarily cute guy. (He has the most piercing blue eyes that go through you like a chain saw.) As you might expect, Toni's swimwear left very little to the imagination. Fortunately, Dan, like most of his sex, only had eyes for my sister.
"Toni, could you ask your father to come out? I'd like to speak to him."
"Oh, he'd never do that, Dan. He hates confrontations with informed constituents. If you'd like, perhaps you and I could go out to lunch sometime to discuss the crisis in our forests. I could make sure your concerns reach my father's attention."
"Really, Toni? That'd be great. How about today?"
"Perfect! I'll go change."
My sister pushed up her straps, picked up her towel, and dashed into the house. Dan looked at me and my body. His looming presence was much scarier without the defensive distraction of my sister.
"I can't believe Senator Mason has such intelligent and aware daughters."
"He, he can't either," I stammered.
"I guess you must be twins."
"That's right."
"You're quite . . . identical."
"Well, you're in a good position to know."
Dan reddened and gripped his sign.
"Not exactly identical," I continued, nervously blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "I have this scar on my right knee from the time I fell out of a car when I was little."
Dan studied my legs sympathetically. "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"
"We're 15."
"Boy, you look considerably older."
"No, we're . . .uh, somewhat young."
"Thanks for mentioning that."
"Have a good time, Dan. Keep up the good work."
He smiled, convulsing several of my internal organs and causing my right hand to reach up involuntarily to pull down a strap. I intercepted it just in time.
* * *
Being a twin is rewarding in so many ways. My sister Toni and I have always felt sorry for the unlucky people who don't have a twin. How lonely that must be. We were as alike as two peas in a pod when we were kids, and lots of people still get us confused. (Though these days Toni tends to go a little heavier on the blusher and mascara.) Even our dreams are similar. Recently we compared notes and discovered we'd both had disturbing menstruation dreams in which we hadn't changed our sanitary napkin for three weeks and were beginning to panic.
At the age of eight, Toni and I made a joint vow that someday we would marry twin brothers. Our dearest dream was a big double wedding in Father's church with twin bridesmaids and best men. All through grammar school we were active in the Rocky Pike Twins Club, where we met and discreetly evaluated many sets of potential husbands. We eventually concluded our dream wasn't very practical as we always seemed to develop a crush on the same brother, and then had to endure a distressing period of not speaking to each other while the fortunate sister (usually Toni) enjoyed the attentions of the boy in question. It does seem to be generally true among male twins that one brother gets all the personality. (I trust that's not the case for females too.)
Toni is the vocalist in the family, but I hope you will bear with me as I attempt this song. Those of you who are musical can make up your own tune.
Me, myself, and I
The world is o'errun by ego;
Individuality is the cry
From Boise to Oswego.
But better far than oneness
Is a measure of duality;
It verges on the wondrous
Our state of double reality.
How lucky to be a twin,
To know this duplication:
To have as next of kin
Your true self's bifurcation.
For she is me and I am her,
And that's not silly sophistry;
For from the science you'd infer
We're just the same genetically.
And if an interlude of solitude
Permits the mind to flower,
Consider the magnitude of the amplitude
When two are joined in power.
How lucky to be a twin
An accident of germination;
Too bad everyone can't win,
But that would swell the population.
It's ducky to be a twin
A consequence of conjugation;
How sad that you can't join in,
But that was God's determination.
* * *
The doorbell rang as I was watching a CNN convention update. I opened the front door and said hello to Thom Kirkwood, who stepped around the screen door, gripped me in a tight embrace, and hungrily pressed his open mouth against my famished lips. Thom smelled faintly of motor oil and strongly of a citrus cologne. Immobilized, I diplomatically kissed him back, and he parked a large warm hand on my right breast.
"I'm sorry I didn't call, Toni," he said, coming up for air and slipping his unoccupied hand down inside the back of my bikini bottoms. "I was working on my car and before I knew it, it was after midnight."
"That's OK, Thom. I don't mind."
Thom withdrew his hands and stepped back. "You're not Toni!"
"Er, what makes you say that?"
"You look like Toni, but you're being nice. You're Cara. Hey, I'm sorry!"
"No offense, Thom. It happens all the time."
It was true. Most of my limited experience with boys has resulted from similar incidents of mistaken identity. Perhaps that's why I often linger around the front door dressed only in Toni's cast-off bikinis.
"Where's the other Mason babe?"
"She's not here right now."
A dark cloud passed over Thom's ruddy, boyish face.
"Where is she?"
"She went shopping with my mother," I lied. "You're in the doghouse."
"I figured I would be. What can I do, Cara?"
"Take the abuse like a man. It's better if you don't wimp out. Just call every hour on the hour."
"OK. Tell her I dropped by."
"Will do."
"Thanks for the kiss, Cara. You feel just like your sister. Maybe better."
I could have kissed him again for that remark, but he trotted back to his shiny yellow Ford Probe and "laid a patch" with his oversized tires. I don't know if my sister has slept with Thom, but it was clear they had worked past the awkward hand-holding stage.
* * *
Now commences an actual twins conversation, such as graduate students in linguistics get lucrative grants to study instead of working at Starbucks:
Cara, I just shared a pizza with the mother of all tree-huggers!
I think he's cute, Toni.
Dan is tremendously cute, Cara. That point is not at issue here. All those soft blond hairs curling around those tanned legs in those khaki forest ranger's shorts with the funny pockets and flaps. A Fashion Don't if ever there was one, but still the guy is devastating. Too bad he has such a one-track mind.
Are you seeing him again?
Cara, I just sat through a three-hour seminar in forestry management. The guy can't see the girl for the trees.
Did you tell him Dad doesn't live here any more?
Of course not, silly. I do enjoy being picketed by him.
That reminds me, Toni, your boyfriend Thom stopped by and was very apologetic.
That's not getting him off the hook, Cara. The guy hasn't phoned for 24 hours. He's going to grovel.
I know. I warned him. After you've finished tormenting Thom, invite him over for dinner. I'm making spaghetti.
OK, this once. But I'm not letting him get the idea I'm a cheap date.
By the way, CNN had a pre-convention report on Dad. They said he has the solid support of the Southern Baptists. Why is Dad a Southern Baptist, Toni, when we live in the north?
Oh, something to do with the Civil War and a lingering snit over Lincoln freeing the slaves. At least the church leaders have apologized formally for six generations of racial bigotry. Now they merely discriminate against gays and unsubmissive women. Thank God, religion never stuck with us. Just as the shoemaker's children have no shoes, the minister's kids demonstrate no piety.
Speak for yourself, Toni.
Look at it this way, Cara. If Dad worked in computers, would society demand that we worship Bill Gates? I think it's so unfair. Cara, to make amends for our religious upbringing, I think our first husbands should be African-American atheists.
OK, Toni, but the blacks at Rocky Pike High are so narrow-minded and suburban.
We'll marry inner-city Cleveland men, Cara. Big twin brothers with burly physiques and police records.
Dad would die. And Mindy would shit a brick.
Our stepmother doesn't shit, Cara. She's much too refined. Her colon terminates in a lovely picnic area set with coordinated linens. I tell you she's Barbie come to life: pneumatic breasts, flawless vinyl skin, artificially chiseled nose, and never a golden DynelR hair out of place.
At least Dad married Mindy. It wasn't just a fling. He did the honorable thing, Toni.
Two-timing our mother while preaching the sanctity of marriage is not exactly doing the honorable thing, Cara.
Mom didn't love him any more anyway.
Still, it was hardly pleasant for her to read in the Plain Dealer that her husband was touring Cincinnati on a campaign trip with the reigning Miss Ohio.
* * *
While we were having dinner, Mom came home dead on her feet from the battered women's shelter she founded and runs in downtown Cleveland. She said hello, nibbled a piece of garlic bread, then excused herself and went to her bedroom. After dinner I washed up while Toni and Thom watched a safe-sex video in the family room.
"They really should call it 'Safe Sex with Vegetables'," observed my sister.
"What's that green pepper supposed to be?" asked Thom. "Oh, I get it. Yeah, it does kind of look like that, especially with the parsley."
"See, then you put the plastic wrap around it."
"It's kind of like you're making a sandwich. What's he doing now with that carrot?"
"That's supposed to be his tongue, idiot."
"That's a relief. I thought it was his . . ."
"No, Thom, you're not paying attention. See, the carrot doesn't have a condom on it."
"Oh, right. I'm glad they're not expecting me to put a rubber on my tongue."
"Who says they're not? We may not have come to that part yet."
"Maybe they should just make us guys wear NASA space suits."
"The jet thrusters might be fun. Oh, here comes the part where they put the condom on the cucumber. I can't watch. Tell me when it's over."
"Boy, that cuke is really built. No wonder the announcer is smiling."
"Don't be gross."
"OK, it's over, Toni. But I'd say that green pepper is in for a really wild time."
After the video concluded, Mom came out to give her speech.
"Thom, have you watched and understood the video?"
"Yes, Mrs. Mason."
"Antonia, have you watched and understood the video?"
"Yes, Mother. Several times, as you know."
"Thom, Antonia, do you understand the importance of practicing safe sex and the need to prevent the transmission of communicable diseases?"
"Yes, Mrs. Mason."
"Yes, Mother."
"Thom, will you give me your word that if you choose to be intimate with my daughter that you will always practice safe sex?"
Thom gulped. "Yes, Mrs. Mason. I promise."
"Will you always use a condom?"
"Yes, I will."
"Antonia, will you reaffirm the promises you have made in the past to practice safe sex exclusively?"
"I promise, Mother. As usual."
"Thom, I would prefer that my daughter wait until she were older to be sexually active. But since she has chosen otherwise, I have given her my permission to have boys in her bedroom. I would rather be a technical accessory to a crime than watch my daughter die of a wasting disease.
Do you understand?"
"Gee, I guess so, Mrs. Mason."
"Good. There are condoms and dental dams in the drawer of her night stand. Use them in good health. You may not stay here overnight without your parents' permission. End of lecture. Have a nice time, you two."
"We'll try, Mother. But it won't be easy."
* * *
More than once Toni and I have threatened to place a personals ad for Mom. We think she should cut back a little on her work and put some effort into meeting a nice man. Toni's afraid she's getting permanently soured on men, what with Dad turning out to be a cad and all the creeps and sadists she has to get restraining orders against down at the shelter. Mom says she doesn't have the time, but I think that's just an excuse. As Toni says, it's time for our mother to put her first marriage behind her.
"The first one's just for practice anyway," says my sister. "It's just to get your marital feet wet."
Mom met Dad when they were students at Muskingum College, a pretty conservative school in those days. She says sociology majors are often attracted to divinity students, falsely sensing complementary values. Toni thinks they should put warning notices about this in the sociology textbooks. It was hard for a person with her ideals to cope with the politics of being a minister's wife, especially after Dad started running for public office and cheating on her. Mom is still nicely packaged for her age and has a lot to offer a man if she would only put herself out there.
CNN reports that since there's no clear front-runner, the Republican Presidential nomination process might go beyond the first ballot for the first time in decades. At least it should prove more interesting than the Democratic convention, where the selection of Vice President Greer as the nominee is a foregone conclusion. No sightings of Dad on TV since this morning. I don't care what my selfish sister says. I think it would be wonderful if Father were picked for Vice President. Or maybe even President!
Copyright 1999, Aivia Press
