Mira and I set up for the Miss Satellite pageant. We spread menus across the bar and decorate the stage with old Christmas decorations. Miss Satellite is the only event that takes place on our stage. No one is playing in bands these days — there is nothing to celebrate, no reason to sing.
“Hey, this looks like a small intestine,” I say, holding up a length of red tinsel.
I pretend to slice open my stomach and pull the tinsel from my belly button.
“Don’t do that,” Mira says. “It’s freaky.”
“Sorry,” I say.
Mira laughs with a hand pressed to her lips. She is so beautiful I can’t look at her straight.
That night, we have seven girls competing for the title of Miss Satellite. There is no jury. After three rounds — fancy dress, oration, talent — we present a sash and a plastic crown to the girl who gets the most applause. Miss Satellite gets free drinks for a month.
The pageant is a favorite with the yuppies, who work in well-paid industries like funeral services and disease control and that new DigiBrain project in Brooklyn. They arrive in groups of ten or twelve. After the sun goes down, everyone walks in packs. When they arrive at The Satellite Bar, they shake rain from their coats and scream: “Shots!” The yuppies go nuts for Miss Satellite.
In an hour, the contestants are smiling on stage. They wear styles I haven’t seen in decades: peplum skirts, neon headbands, jean jackets torn at the elbows. I serve drinks and tuck tips into my bra. I try to watch Mira as she works — her fingers stretching across the cocktail shaker, her arms straining into the ice freezer. Mira and I have worked together for years. First at the Aloha Tiki-Lounge, then Pancho’s, then The Luna Room. The bars keep getting burned down, and I keep following Mira.
The talent portion of Miss Satellite is when the crowd goes really wild. One girl eats cotton balls and vomits them into an ectoplasmic mess. Another girl chants something she promises will summon a ghost. The third girl uses a butter knife to stab a doll that looks like our mayor. The last girl does Shakespeare’s sonnets, but no one likes that.
Right before Miss Satellite is crowned, Mira and I go on break.
I follow Mira into the women’s bathroom, and we sit with our backs pressed to the wall. Mira is haloed by penises drawn in fluorescent ink. The graffiti here is often explicit and unkind. Drunk people write violent threats to ex-lovers or ex-best friends. I’ll gouge your eyes out I’ll feed you to the fucking sharks I’ll burn it all. This upsets Mira. I scribble out all the graphic stuff every week and replace it with bunnies or hearts or flowers.
We share a cigarette and Mira picks at her nail polish.
“Who do you think’ll win?” I ask Mira.
Before she can answer, there’s a noise from outside – something quick and loud.
“What’s that?” Mira says. The cigarette shudders between her fingers, the bright end points at the ceiling, then the floor, then me. We hear the yuppies cheering and laughing.
“A car backfiring,” I lie. No one owns cars anymore. “It’s nothing,” I say.
I hold her hands in mine.
