Lunchtime. I was sitting in the Laundromat minding my own business when the caravan of black Mercedes, Range Rovers, and one giant black bus came roaring into town. The stardusted ANGELINA was obnoxiously billboard-big. Curious, I packed up and followed them to town, where they set up shop on the courthouse steps. They parked, taking up most of the spaces around the courthouse, the bus’s robotic arms protruded like a transformer and leveled the rolling sound studio. Within moments, dozens of people—mostly dressed in black—all wearing secret-service earpieces, exited the vehicles and began a dizzying, antlike procession around the grounds. It’d been a long time since I’d seen so many people scurrying to and fro for one person. Reminded me of me.
I parked the bike and observed the festivities in mute amazement. And even some enjoyment. Talk about a well-oiled machine. I’d seen cartoons that didn’t develop this quickly. The traveling Angelina Custodia Show had taken Gardi by storm. Within an hour of setup, Angelina had exited her bus to a growing crowd and roaring applause. Without hesitation, she wielded the microphone and began working the bystanders and setting her hooks deep and early.
“Tell me what you think about convicted sex-offender Matthew Rising living right here, terrorizing your hometown.” To another woman flanked by two ponytailed girls, she asked, “Are these your girls? Does his presence worry you?” The woman stuttered, palmed the tangled hair out of her face, and wrapped her arms around her girls. The wrinkle between her eyes suggested that if that mother wasn’t worried before, she was now.
I’m not sure the KKK or Black Panthers were as adept at inciting a riot.
Ginger revealed in a practiced and seductive voice to her adoring crowd that she planned to broadcast live all afternoon and into the evening. This meant that her afternoon radio show would simply fade seamlessly into her nighttime television show. This announcement brought applause and catcalls from the growing audience, which in turn produced a well-rehearsed blush from Ginger. I flipped my hood up, pulled Wood’s Costas down over my eyes, parked the bike, bought a soda from a vending machine, and sat on a bench, viewing the festivities.
Word spread, cars pulled in, folks mobbed the grounds surrounding the courthouse. Onlookers set up lawn chairs, and both a hot dog and shaved-ice vendor appeared out of nowhere. The city must have called in additional law enforcement, because sheriff’s deputies from neighboring counties arrived en masse. The mayor showed and quickly took credit for everything. Ginger let him, then pounced on him for what she really wanted, which was the courthouse steps. The same steps they marched me down, handcuffed, some twelve years prior. Without the slightest thought to obtaining any type of required city permit, he quickly agreed and the Ginger Machine took over from there.
Within minutes, Ginger and her entourage had commandeered the steps, transforming them into a primetime stage. Colorful flags, spotlights, even fans meant to blow her hair back were brought in and set in place. Seated at a glass table situated between the columns while the courthouse served as the backdrop, Ginger looked toned and fit. Short skirt, muscular legs. A makeup artist brushed her face while another woman fussed with her hair. Ginger had always dreamed of the spotlight. If I didn’t experience such visceral disgust at the sight and thought of her, I’d be tempted to admire her—a self-made woman staring down on the world she’d created. The wind from the off-screen fans tugged at her perfect hair—auburn red had given way to jet black—and vacuum-sealed her blouse across her artistically crafted, perfectly enhanced plastic surgery chest, highlighting her personally trained and sweat-sculpted body. When the on-air light flashed from red to green, she proclaimed in a loud, articulate, triumphant voice, “This is Angelina Custodia, broadcasting live from the sex-offender epicenter of south Georgia.” Her voice rose, as did the perception of her passion. “I am the sound of the silenced, the town crier, the mouthpiece of the muted and the muzzled, the declaration of the disillusioned, the voice of the victimized.” Walking forward, the conquering hero, calm, resolute, finality in her tone, she pointed her finger at the camera. “Because you don’t have to sit there and just take it!”
Man, she’s good.
The several hundred crowding the steps of the courthouse agreed, and Ginger ate the applause like candy. At one point, she wiped away a tear and made some off-the-cuff comment to the audience about how she learned a long time ago that to do this job she “needs waterproof mascara” and that she would keep doing it “until they pry this microphone from my cold, dead fingers.”
They loved that, too.
If she didn’t make me want to vomit, it would have been comical.
Feeling a bit too exposed, I pulled my helmet back on and slid the visor down. I bought a shaved ice, straddled my bike, and continued to enjoy the festivities—illegally close. I felt like a voyeur.
Because I was in violation of my parole and she was not, I kickstarted the bike and was easing off the clutch, hoping to pry my way through the crowd, when the show returned from commercial. Ginger, basking in her confidence, descended the steps and began asking members of the crowd:
“Given the deviant crimes for which he was convicted, how do you feel?”
“Does Matthew Rising’s presence in this community give you pause?”
“Do you lock your doors at night?”
Wanting a better view of her, the crowd amassed in the street in front of me. Doing so funneled Ginger directly toward me, closing off my exit.
This was not good.
Scrambling, I hopped the curb, circled around the shaved ice trailer, and found that barricades had appeared out of thin air, closing off both the street and the sidewalk. I turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, eased down the curb, and ran directly into Ginger and her two cameramen. Our image appeared on the JumboTron at the base of the steps. She in all her glory and me in my dumb-looking but much concealing helmet. Concentrating on her surroundings and not the face inside the helmet, she asked, “Tell me, sir, are you afraid of Matthew Rising’s presence in your community?”
I shook my head.
She chuckled and the cameramen inched closer. “You’re not concerned about what he might do if given freedom in this town?”
Another shake.
Expressing her irritation that I’d not removed my helmet, incredulous that I was not in agreement with her riot-inciting speech, and wanting to prove for all the world to see that she would not back down from a man who stood nearly a foot taller, she—for the first time—attempted to peer through the plastic reflection on my visor, which was made all the worse by the two spotlights shining off the shoulders of her cameramen. Just inches from my face, she spouted, “Well, tell me, sir, what then do you want?”
I flipped up my visor, made eye contact, and said, “I want you to tell the truth.”
As the color drained out of Ginger’s speechless face, I eased off on the clutch and smiled as her producer clued into the fact that Ginger was completely tongue-tied and sent the show to commercial. Just before turning the corner, I glanced in my rearview and caught a glimpse of Ginger’s stunned and ashen face. I’d caught her off guard. And she did not like it.
And I was pretty sure it’d never happen again.