I was working checkout on Monday, ringing up a woman with an unbelievable amount of makeup in her grocery basket.
“Who is this for?” I said, as I scanned item after item.
“Who do you think?” she said.
This was a skinny young woman of nondescript mien.
“When do you use it?” I said.
Opportunities for socialization are limited out here in South Potlatch.
“I don’t live here,” she said. “I’m here on a photo shoot. I’m a supermodel.”
“Good Lord!” I said. “I’ve never met a supermodel before. What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Princessa,” the supermodel said.
“I would think you’d bring your own cosmetics,” I said. “I never pictured you buying them at Walmart.”
“The makeup bus missed the turnoff and kept right on going to East Gravy Stain or somewhere,” Princessa said.
“Well, welcome to South Potlatch,” I said. “What tales you could tell, huh? What adventures you’ve had. And the funny thing is, you look a lot like Daisy over at the Dairy Queen. If you put on a little weight… Burt! Price check on this exfolient scrub with rice bran, please.”
Princessa was clicking her gum, which surprised me. You don’t see that on Project Runway. She was drumming her fingers, the nails sans polish and trimmed rather blunt.
“Are you looking at my hands?” she said.
I focused on the remaining items to be checked and shook my head.
“I don’t like people looking at my hands,” she said. She sounded like she meant it.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not used to being around stars. I saw Phil Donahue from a distance once, but he was seventy-five at the time. Someone said he was approachable but I was too shy to try.”
Princessa also reminded me of Albert Chroner. He’s fourteen, Elmer Chroner’s boy. Just the slightest bit light on his feet.
I bagged everything up.
“Well,” I said. “Have a good shoot.”
Princessa didn’t answer. She was leafing through People Magazine with a jealous look on her plain little face.