The World Doesn't Work That Way, but It Could Read online

  The World Doesn’t Work That Way, but It Could

  STORIES

  YXTA MAYA MURRAY

  UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA PRESS

  Reno & Las Vegas

  University of Nevada Press | Reno, Nevada 89557 USA

  www.unpress.nevada.edu

  Copyright © 2020 by Yxta Maya Murray

  All rights reserved

  Cover art from Dreamstime.com © by Waxart and Pixabay.com

  Cover design by Iris Saltus

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Murray, Yxta Maya, author.

  Title: The world doesn’t work that way, but it could : stories / Yxta Maya Murray.

  Description: Reno ; Las Vegas : University of Nevada Press, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references. | Summary: “Fueled by the ardor of the 21st century’s political movement and from a writer's point of view, The World Doesn't Work that Way, but It Could is a work of short fiction that speaks about the struggles of many Americans in the fractured United States”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020017104 (print) | LCCN 2020017105 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948908696 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781948908719 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Short stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3563.U832 A6 2020 (print) | LCC PS3563.U832 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017104

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017105

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  24 23 22 21 20 5 4 3 2 1

  To Andrew Brown

  Contents

  Miss USA 2015

  The Prisoner’s Dilemma

  After Maria

  Acid Reign

  Draft of a Letter of Recommendation to the Honorable Alex Kozinski, Which I Guess I’m Not Going to Send Now

  Paradise

  Abundance

  The Perfect Palomino

  Option 3

  Zero Tolerance

  The Hierarchy

  Walmart

  The Overton Window

  The World Doesn’t Work That Way, but It Could

  Additional Sources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Most of his wrath was directed at Mexico, which he accused of “bringing their worst people” to America, including criminals and “rapists.”

  RUPERT NEATE, “Donald Trump Announces US Presidential Run with Eccentric Speech,” The Guardian, June 16, 2015

  Univision Communications Inc. canceled its telecast of the Miss USA pageant next month, after [Miss USA co-owner] Donald Trump derided Mexican immigrants during his speech announcing his presidential campaign.

  PATRICIA LAYA, “Univision Cancels Miss USA after Donald Trump Calls Mexicans ‘Rapists,’” Bloomberg, June 25, 2015

  Miss USA 2015

  THE PROBLEM WE HAD was with the two walks, bathing suit and gown. The body, it was workable. Good breasts, tight stomach, okay height. But the legs, no. The legs had issues also. A saddlebag issue, just a hint of it, but by competition we had her on nothing but water and lemon and squats, and you can’t ask for more. And she was too old. Twenty-four. I don’t know how she won her state except that she did a great interview. She came to me in January, and so we only had six months. It was insane. By February we had already lightened her, and Dennis got her new teeth and Botox and fillers. We ripped the accent and the trailer park from her personality with elocution and poise training. And she was smart. That’s what she had going for her. Just a natural smart and reading newspapers all the time for the political questions. And she was black and Latina, which the judges find confusing. So we just said black. But of course we did the hair.

  No, the problem was the walk. I could see it right away. She stomped into my office in Florida, bumping her buns through my door with a big smile like she had no idea how wrong she is. She wore this yellow dress with a big frill on it that made her look like a one-winged chicken. Her mother had come along, a beautiful Tapatía maybe forty-three years old, with fantastic legs and a tiny waist and dragging in two other kids. They’d driven sixteen hours in their Plymouth for the meeting. There was the big brother, about twelve years old, and the littler brother, about two years old. The older one was dark and the younger one came out lighter, but they both had the same round, grumbly faces. The mother looked exhausted, and no wonder, with the two sons and then this one with the attitude. The family sat quietly on my sofa, staring at the photographs I have on my wall. Me, I had my silver hair clipped into a very chic drop-fade crew cut. I also wore black bespoke Dege & Skinner trousers in a light vicuña, a purple smoking jacket, bespoke cotton Charvet shirting accented by a silk purple Charvet foulard, and Church’s slippers. For a second I could see the mother looking at me and not understanding what she’s seeing.

  Who cared, though, because the girl, she stood in the middle of my suite like she’s Pat Cleveland or Beverly Simpson or the great oh my God Donyale Luna. She didn’t look at the pictures of the other girls or the framed key to the city. She stuck her boobs out and swayed the back, so you could see she knew nothing. But she stared at me like she’s an empress and I’m her slave. So I liked that.

  “I want you to make me Miss USA,” she said.

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking at the legs.

  “You are going to make me Miss USA,” she went on like she didn’t hear me. She walked over to her mother. The mother opened her purse and took out some cash and gave it to her. The girl held the money like it’s a billion dollars and then walked back over to me and gently put it in my hand. “You have twenty-seven weeks.”

  “Sssssssssss,” I said, shaking my head, because I’d been watching her walk, of course.

  “’15 is mine, and you’re going to help me,” she said. Her eyes shot fireballs and lightning storms all over the room so that I wanted to drop to the floor and kiss her feet.

  I gave her the money back. “Go back to——” you know, the place she came from, is what I said. I can’t tell you which one I’m talking about. It was Miss USA, 2015. We sign an NDA, and they sign one too. I wouldn’t tell you anyway. In any case, I already had my hands full with another USA contestant who was at the top level, and plus the franchises. By franchises I mean the life coaching and model schools, the ones I advertise in Glamour and on YouTube. I don’t make money from stars or would-be stars like you; the winners are my branding. I earn from the hundreds and thousands of chubs who have the fantasy that they are going to be like Ali Landry or Gretchen Carlson, but really, they’re just going to learn how to stop chewing with their mouths open and attract a man. So I was busy already, and this girl who came to see me was very pretty, but she had a five-buck strut. So I told her to go back home and make do with the broke-ass coaches she already fired.

  “You big, huge, bald, old vaca,” she said, getting all heated up.

  She started yelling at me in Spanish that I was the brokest of all broke asses and she wouldn’t let me coach her now if I crawled on my stomach and pleaded like a dog. The boys started crying. I cursed back at her in German and French, which are the scariest-sounding languages I know. The mother’s crying. The girl’s crying. Now even I’m wiping my eyes because I could see they’re poor as pigeons and all surviving on whatever dimes and nickels her sponsor gave her after she won her ribbon.

  “Walk over here,” I said.

  She walked, so bad.

  “You are the worst walker I’ve ever seen in my life,” I said. “It’s like you got six feet.”

  “You’ll teach me,” she said.

  “Walk over there,” I said.r />
  She walked.

  “Even worse,” I said. I began sashaying. “Walk like this.”

  She started waddling all over the place with a fat walk.

  “Oh my Jesus,” I said.

  She’s walking around my office like a panda and the mother’s still crying and the boys too.

  And then the girl strikes a pose, a profile, and I almost fainted again.

  “No misdemeanors or felonies?” I said. Because there are rules. You know that, right? Qualifications. “And you have no man in your life?”

  “That’s Miss America,” she said. “I can date.”

  “Not if you want to win,” I said. Which is true. “Also, no disease? No children? No divorce? No annulment? Not pregnant? You have to do your own makeup and hair, so that it is perfect. You can be eighteen to twenty-eight only. They like it if you have a HSE or diploma.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” the girl said.

  “High school diploma?” I asked.

  “HSE,” she said. “And remember, I won state already. I’m checked out.”

  “Your state is the dumps,” I said. “Plus, I heard every story before. I trust nobody and nothing.”

  “I got the papers in the car. Health too.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Walk over there again.”

  She thumped around this way and that but all the time smiling at me like she could eat me down to the bones and still want more.

  “Hm,” I said.

  As I mentioned already, I had another contestant in that year. The lady was a much better shot, from a bigger state. She was a beautiful white woman, or white enough when you dyed her. The package. She’d turned twenty-one the month previous and ticked the other boxes with height and perfect turns. She could talk great and projected just fabulous, with that kind of fantasy Park Avenue class but very sexual, which can sell depending on whether that year the judges want erotic versus more innocent. Plus the blonde had grown up low income and abused, but she’d still got a computer science degree from an Ivy. And she advocated for the disabled, so she had that too.

  I took this new one on anyway, because of the way she made fires and flames with her eyes. I started calling her my girl right away as a kind of joke because she was just so, so wrong that it was like a pet project. She didn’t have the ultimate body or any of the walk or the school or the politics in the right way. And what she projected could be scary as fuck for these judges because it was that deadly star quality that is really fear. It’s beyond innocence or erotic and moving into goddess, if you train it right. It’s what Dolores del Rio and Lee Meriwether and Iman took to the bank. I told Dennis and Sarah to see if they could get her to control it in the time we had left. And I sent Laila to her too, to perfect the diction and fill her with some current events. I wasn’t going to burn a lot of minutes on teaching her, I said. I said I had to spend all of my time with the blonde because, with the disabled and her very large breasts and the Ivy, I knew she had an excellent chance to place.

  I snuck out sometimes and would train my girl, though. She was secretly my favorite.

  I started out in Jalisco, which is why I could spot that the mother was a Tapatía and I can see that you have a foot in Colima maybe, right? Were you born there? They don’t like that. And you have your papers? Okay, good.

  My sister Otila entered the Señorita Mezquite competition in 1986, when I was seventeen years old and she was eighteen. I was already becoming who I am, and I was beautiful. My hermanita knew that I could help her because I always had the eye. I had studied every move of the great Felicia Mercado, who won Señorita Mexico ’77 in a skin-tight gold gown and Farrah hair and a beautiful application of frosted eyeshadow, very pale blue. And I studied Alba Margarita Cervera Lavat, who won Mexico in ’78 and then was top twelve at Universe that year. Lavat made herself more of a virgin with short dark hair and a good girl walk, but with star factor. So I learned fast that there was some bullshit operating in the pageants, because there were generally only two ways to do it: more slutty and more innocent. That is, there are the two ways unless you’re a divinity like del Rio or say Dietrich and everything mixes together into gold. My sister, God rest her soul, was more slutty so we did that.

  For Señorita Mezquite, I made Otila a hot-pink chiffon gown with rosettes at the right shoulder and at the waist, with a long train detailed with fake pearls and tiny silver sequins that took a month to sew on. I would put on the gown and show her how to do the walk. You have to be able to move your charisma down the cat. Just smooth and then with the stance and the flirt. Bounce a little. But graceful. Elegance. And always, sex. Don’t give your neck away. Don’t look down.

  I was born with it, but I am a king and so being a pretty beauty like that is not my personal taste. I only demand it of my clients and my wives. In my own way, I am one of the divinities, like my girl was and Dietrich and del Rio and Iman. I am actually more like Dietrich because I am both a particular kind of woman with that special seductiveness and also a particular kind of man, aloof and untouchable like a Roman soldier. Not that I have anything against friendly, silly girls because little Otila was a monster of sex. And that’s why I know intimately that bad girls aren’t really bad; they just screw around to survive, and on the inside they can keep their souls very pure.

  Okay, everything’s getting jumbled up and talking to you about this is making me feel weepy, so let’s just get back to the details.

  I showed Otila how to walk and how to smile. She won Señorita Mezquite. The next year, though, it was all over. She tried to walk out pregnant in Señorita Amacueca, and I swear to Christ one of the directors took her out into the street and I thought he would kill her. My sister took her beating and rose up very dignified and said to the director, and I will never forget this, “I am not one of your whores.”

  So that was my beginning. After that I did beauty queens in Acapulco and D.F. Next, I made my way to Connecticut and then here, Florida. It’s been forty-three years of this for me. And I am the best, one of the best. I won five USAs and three Universes and two Worlds and six Miss Americas. I’ve been profiled in People and Business Insider, though wearing a hairpiece and my Jil Sander and Valentino dresses, and so looking like a lady they can handle. I bought myself two houses, and I’ve had many lovers and three marriages, and I speak Spanish, English, French, and German. The franchise operates out of four different cities and is growing. From all of this experience I know who will win. I know also when a girl is not quite right.

  When my girl came to my office, I could tell there was something. A dilemma she didn’t talk about. I made some calls to my contacts in her state, and they all said she was legit, the only problem being she’d fired three coaches and was a diva. And now also the sponsor, an oil man, was maybe not paying the bills anymore. In the end, I didn’t care because she reminded me of my sister Otila in how she bossed me around. And also I thought, deep down, that if we could fix the walking and teach her how to master her persona, she could take the crown.

  “Don’t cry,” I said. We were in the studio. It was five thirty in the morning. We’d already been at it for an hour. If I was training her, I liked to do it myself, without Dennis blabbing on about silent third-person self-talk for emotion control and Sarah going on about swan movement. So they weren’t there. The mother had come, though, with the older brother and the younger brother, the toddler. They sat on some pillows on the ground and ate the cottage cheese and apples that I’d bought them.

  “I’m not crying,” my girl said.

  “Do you want to win?”

  “I am going to win,” she said.

  “Do you want to be a winner?”

  She put her shoulders back. “I am a winner already.”

  “That’s right, baby,” I said. “So walk.”

  She tried the walk again. There’s the bathing suit and the gown, like I was saying. We were doing bathing suit. There’s small and import
ant differences. The gown hangs low, and you have to negotiate it with your heels. So there’s less freedom and more danger. The bathing suit also has more danger because you have more freedom and could get carried away and fall. With Miss USA it’s worse because it’s sexier than America; the slut factor is most years pretty high, but of course we don’t say that. If you think about it, it’s no surprise, because Trump owned USA in those years. I would rather do Miss America than Miss USA 100 percent of the time even though those bitches are just cruel. There was the Donald on the one hand and then the bitches on the other. So I don’t know. In the end, it’s not like we have choices in this life.

  My girl was neither erotic nor innocent. Instead she was everything, smart, beautiful, cranky, angry, on fire, scary, relatable, like—like a whole person, like a—I don’t know. Something different. Still, because of the USA brand I told her to be friendly. And that means you’re doing more of the bounce, which can get tricky.

  It’s bang bang bang. Like that, see? No, like this. Leg out, opposite arm cocked at the natural waist, not lower. Leg elongated always. We’re doing the turn. Leg out but not too much. Then twist sideways. To the profile. Step back. The last thing to leave is the face. Also the face should be moving, not frozen. Big smile with teeth and then maybe no teeth and then when you’re turning there’s the flirt. Hell-o. Behind the eyes there has to be something. Leave them on the floor. And then you go back home. Bang bang bang. That’s good.

  She walked her normal fat walk down the cat and then put her leg out too far. She forgot to stop on the profile stance and put her head down so it killed the neck.

  “How’s that?” she asked, smiling at me.

  “Just the worst,” I snapped.

  She started crying again. She walked over to the mom and the brothers and sat on the ground next to them. She wiggled her fingers at the little two-year-old brother and sang to him a little bit. The whole time I was yelling at her to get her ass up. I wanted her to repeat the half turn at least twenty more times in a row so that the muscle memory began to kick in.