
The Best of Times Short Story Competition
Autumn 2024 Results
Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:
Rigged
Copyright © Romana Scarborough 2024Thelma Haystead’s Hawaiian grass skirt tickled the varicose veins on her legs and the coconut shell bra bit into the sides of her slack breasts as she rotated her unwilling hips. “Take me back to the little grass shack in Hawaii,” the CD wailed. She smiled at the four judges in front of the stage and felt the adhesive on the back of her dentures part company with her gums. She clamped her mouth shut to prevent a pop-out, turned, and presented her abundant backside to the audience to finish her number.
The last notes were doused by a nasal voice owned by a small, bald, pencil tapping reviewer. He paused while a few polite claps faded into the rose-colored walls of the Farnsworth Senior Center. He peered through his horn-rimmed glasses at the roster. “Now, Mr. Tully Peck will sing, 'If I were a Rich Man' from the 'Fiddler on the Roof.'"
Thelma, her head down, ran off the stage like an escaped criminal. The women’s lounge was crammed with other entrants in the Senior Idol contest struggling into girdles and costumes that might have fit them twenty years ago. She banged open the stall door, slammed it shut, locked it. and sat down on the toilet. She put her fingers into her mouth and pressed her lower plate into submission. As Thelma washed her hands, she saw in the mirror over the sink that a single tear had run a black mascara track down her cheek. She swiped it away with her fist. Her cheeks flushed with exertion and shame.
Why did I have to draw the number one as the first contestant? Why did I even enter this contest? I have just made a fool of myself. But Thelma Haystead knew exactly why she had bared her drifting midriff. A pain settled in her chest like after Thanksgiving dinner heartburn. She plucked her pedal pushers, no, they called them capris now, and blouse from a peg and again entered the bathroom stall to change back into herself.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she scuttled to the back of the hall and sat heavily into a folding chair set up for any overflow. Her friend, Maimie Parker, and her husband, George, were being announced. Maimie seated her polyester upholstered bottom on the piano bench and George lifted his banjo into position across his checkered vest. Launching into a rendition of “Hello Dolly,” Thelma realized Maimie in her nervousness was playing a lot faster than she had in practice sessions at home and George was plunking along about three notes behind. Thelma could see a woman’s back shaking with contained laughter in the last row.
Thelma shut her eyes and shifted in her seat causing it to protest with a loud squeak. Poor Maimie, she had been in the 'Hello, Dolly' Olympics from January to March 10th, the date of this contest. She and George had hoped to win the $1,000 first prize and use it toward the Alaska cruise they had been dreaming about since Thelma had met them seven years ago at Farnsworth Senior Center.
She watched Maimie leave the stage, her dowager’s hump more pronounced and her shoulders hunched. Thelma had an urge to run to the senior center’s library down the hall, yank out 'War and Peace' and smash it over the head of the woman who thought the Parkers were comical.
Thelma looked at the rear view of the judges to monitor any reaction. She realized then that the women sitting next to the bald guy was Miss Vashti Johnson, the center’s coordinator. Thelma and Maimie had once joked that Miss Johnson’s desk plaque should read Miss Vashti Johnson, Dictator. Good thing I was in such a fog on stage that I did not realize it was her. Miss Johnson’s tweed covered elbow moved in circles above her notepaper. Clairvoyantly, Thelma knew Vashti was writing a critique.
“Next, we have Mrs. Lindy Lowry singing 'Summertime.' A woman Thelma did not recognize swept up to the microphone. She displayed an acreage of white breasts compressed into the deep 'V' canyon of her iridescent black gown. She threw back her head reducing her second chin. Her industrial strength screeches reminded Thelma of the time Mittens had gone into heat and mated with Gunderson’s Tom.
Merrill Jenkins, a regular scrabble player at Farnsworth, was the next torture. Thelma knew he had been an English teacher before he retired, and she had made the mistake once of congratulating him on using all seven tiles as she looked over his shoulder. Now unless she ducked into the women’s bathroom, he would spot her and give a Howard Cosell play by play accounting of his latest victory over Opal Witherspoon, who used to be the queen been of the Scrabble Club.
Merrill had chosen a long poem about a baseball game. Despite the thick glasses on his pointed nose, he peered closely at the words on the page and ignored the yawning spectators. Thelma pictured the calendar page turning from March to April.
Merrill was replaced by a group of gold spangled tap dancers who failed miserably at synchronization. Next, a woman in curlers and a ratty bathrobe sang, 'Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor?' She forgot the second verse, so she sang the first again. Thelma began to feel sorry for the judges, even Vashti. She knew she would not win, but the rest of the contestants were not too hot either.
Somebody in the audience whistled when the next lady swiveled up to a stool wearing a red dress that would require a shoehorn to fit into. This woman could NOT be a senior, she looked about forty and probably spent most of her days at the gym. However, Thelma knew that all participants had to sign a paper saying they were fifty-five or older. That would be a switch, lying to make yourself older.
Unfortunately, the woman could sing. The sultry lyrics of 'Stormy Weather' melted like warm chocolate on her tongue. The evaluators all straightened up their slouches. By the end of the song, the ample woman next to Vashti was scribbling frantically and the fourth judge, the other man leaned forward pointed like a bird dog. Well, we know who is going to win the first prize Thelma thought. While the lady in red swiveled off the stage the audience applauded wildly.
Elmer Flach, who lost regularly at the pool table, lugged his keyboard to the stand. He wore a black shirt, pants, boots, and a Stetson. Not surprisingly the emcee had announced a Johnny Cash ballad, 'Sunday Coming Down.'
“Well, folks,” Elmer drawled. “I first appeared on stage at the tender age of four. I was so scared I wet my pants.” Sam Steward, the beer-bellied Farnsworth’s cook yelled out. “Don’t do it this time, Elmer.” Elmer never played the keyboard, just turned knobs that played the background music and added an insistent beat. As soon as Elmer began singing, Thelma decided pool was not the only thing Elmer was poor at.
Tillie French who ran the gift shop was a welcome respite. Her fingers fluttered over the keys as she played a Schubert sonata accurately and with feeling. Tillie would probably win second prize. Of course, she did not need $500.00. Her husband, Roland, owned the Harrisburg Golf Course, and they lived in Maplewood Terrace.
Thelma lived in a single wide trailer in Ferris Flats with her husband, Hamilton Haystead. Of course, nobody called him Hamilton. Ham had been a football player for the Harrisburg Hornets when Thelma attended Harrisburg High. Thelma sighed. What a catch he had seemed back then. Now that he was retired, he had three hobbies, switching channels, drinking six packs, and finding fault with everyone but himself. Ham did not even have to hoist himself off the sagging couch to throw insulting remarks at Thelma.
Farnsworth Senior Center had become a refuge for Thelma. She fussed over displays of crafts in the gift shop on Tuesday and Thursdays; rearranging Mrs. Hensley embroidered tea towels and Mr. Banks carved wooden toys on the shelves. She chopped vegetables and battered chicken breasts to fill trays for Meals on Wheels. She kept a list of people who had checked out books and called with reminders when the books did not return. She had signed up for some classes, AARP’s driving instruction that cut down on their insurance bill, a knitting class that turned out to be an unwearable sweater, and a basic computer class. The only class she had loved was hula. Part of the reason was the instructor, a miniature doll of a woman, Lalani Burns. “Very nice,” she would say no matter how odd Thelma’s gyrations appeared to her in mirrored wall. Lalani hugged everybody. Thelma loved the soothing music; she would shut her eyes and picture herself on the beach in the Hawaiian posters Lanai had put up. She had made the mistake of telling Ham about the class. He nearly choked on his hotdog.
“You gotta’ be kidding me.” Thelma shook her head. A drip of mustard ran down the side of his shaking belly. “That’s the best joke I’ve heard all week.”
However, that did not stop Thelma from signing up for Intermediate Hula and then Advanced Hula. Lalani began using Thelma as an example in the beginning class of how to move their arms gracefully to tell a story. “Beautiful,” Lana said, and all the women clapped.
The twang of an electric guitar roused Thelma from her musings. On the stage, Ben Larson, the teacher of the wood-working course was strumming a lively tune. She had not been aware that he possessed another talent. He finished to a clapping storm.
The host stood up and turned back to the crowd. “I forgot to say that song was Mr. Larson’s own composition.” More applause. “We will now take a fifteen-minute-break and determine the winners.”
Thelma had to get some fresh air. She quickly walked to her favorite stone bench behind the hedge and sat with her aching head in her hands.
“We’ll all fit around this picnic table,” she heard someone say on the other side of the hedge, that voice … that was the announcer. She heard the group settling into themselves. Thelma knew she ought to get up quietly and go away, but the bench exerted a G-force of five.
“I gave a ten to Alma Jergins in the red dress, a nine to Ben Larson, and Tillie French, the piano player. What did you think?”
The man’s voice rumbled. “Oh, yeah, that Alma, whew, do you know if she’s married? I would give her a fifteen. I agree with the other ones you picked. Which one are we going to give the second and third prize too?
The third judge sniffed. “I can’t see that woman was that great of a singer, she just looked good. I would give the first prize to Ben, the second to Tillie, and the third to Tully Peck, his rendition of 'If I were a Rich Man' was very…um, virile. What is your opinion, Vashti?”
There was a prolonged silence. “I’ve already decided who will win and who will not, and I will tell you why.” Thelma gripped the bench until her arthritic fingers began to hurt.
“What?” the other three said in unison.
“The first prize will go to Thelma Haystead, the second to Tillie French, and the third to Ben Larson.”
Thelma put her hand over her mouth and hoped her intake of breath had not been heard, but she did not need to worry, the protests came stumbling over each other.
“That hula horror?”
“She should get a prize all right, the booby prize! Vashti,” the woman said, “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Thelma blinked back tears.
“No,” Vashti said imperiously, “I am making the only sensible choice. For the last seven years Thelma has given the most volunteer hours of any member. Without her unstinting work Farnsworth Center would not be what it is today. She deserves a reward. Tillie has run the gift shop for five years and her husband makes regular contributions for the lunch program. Ben has taught the woodworking class for almost four years. The Parkers come regularly, but they never volunteer for anything. Alma doesn’t even come here. I saw her for the first time when she signed up.”
In her mind, Thelma changed Vashti Johnson’s desk plague to read, “Miss Vashti Johnson, Humanitarian.” Maybe Vashti loved the Center just as much as Thelma. Perhaps the center was her vacation away from home too.
“That seems rather unorthodox,” the first judge said, stiffly.
“How about unethical?” the woman threw in.
“Go against my decision and I’ll resign. Do you have any idea how many hours I spend making this place run smoothly? I only see you board members at the monthly meetings.”
Thelma heard sighs. “All right, I’ll announce the winners as you wish.”
Thelma heard the pack breaking up. The G-force let go suddenly and she slipped back inside the hall and into her seat.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, now the moment you’ve been waiting for.” The little man yanked out his pocket hanky and wiped his brow. “The third prize of $200.00 goes to Ben Larson, congratulations, Ben.” Ben accepted his trophy amid applause and sat down smiling.
Tillie walked gracefully to the stage and curtsied to the audience after receiving second place.
Thelma kept her eyes trained straight ahead. “And the first prize goes to … Thelma Haystead.” She did an academy award winning job of feigning surprise. All heads turned, not having to fake their astonishment at all.
Now the tears she had held back due to the disparaging remarks spilled over the dam as she walked to the stage. The man’s mustache twitched, and his Adam’s apple bobbed twice. “Congratulations, Mrs. Haystead.” Thelma shook his sweaty hand, waved the check, held up the trophy, and avoided looking at Vashti. The announcer dismissed the crowd in a shaky voice. “Thank you all for coming and we hope to see you next year for the Senior Idol contest.”
A round of hugs afterwards from the Parkers, Ben, and Tillie brought on more happy tears. “I’m sorry you didn’t win,” she said to Maimie and George. “Don’t worry, dear,” Maimie said, “We are so glad for you. There’s always next year if we live that long.”
“My star pupil,” Lanai said, joining the hug fest. “See, all those classes paid off.”
“Yes, thanks to you.” And seven years of demanding work she thought.
Thelma drove from the Senior Center to downtown Harrisburg and parked her rusting Buick in front of Bernard’s Travel.
“How may I help you?” the perky agent asked.
Thelma smiled. “I’d like a one-way ticket to Hawaii, please.”