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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
The silicone solution
>> Honolulu
Arriving at the St. Francis auditorium, Cruz MacKenzie expected a room full of Sonyas, would-be starlets, maybe some strippers and cocktail waitresses. The term "hussy" floated through his consciousness, women who once they got new boobs flaunted them. In addition to flat, they'd been shallow, maybe, insecure certainly. Ashamed of a chest they deemed inadequate, they turned to the silicone solution. Walk into the doctor's office looking like a Little Leaguer, walk out a couple of hours later posing for Pet House. Voila -- instant voluptuous. It worked for Sonya.
The auditorium was nearly full. But even looking at their backs, he knew that he'd been wrong. A quick scan of the room showed at least four women in wheel chairs, one with an IV in her arm. He also saw several men. Supportive husbands or boyfriends?
"Mr. MacKenzie? I thought that was you. I'm Donna Tanega."
"Of course," Cruz said, taken aback. He remembered her well, but barely recognized her.
"I have another cause." She nodded at the full auditorium. "I started Survivors of Silicone. We brought Dr. Williams over."
She stuck out her hand and shook Cruz's, and he nearly pulled his hand back from the unexpected leathery feel of her palm. He'd interviewed Donna five years before, after her 11-year-old son was accidentally shot when a friend brought his father's pistol to school to show off. A haole who married a Filipino man, she dealt with her grief by founding Parents of Deceased Children. The last time Cruz saw her, she was obviously hurt and emotionally anguished, but physically healthy and reasonably fit. Now she was puffy, her skin mottled, and she limped.
"See what silicone can do to you?"
"You?" He couldn't help looking at her chest. She didn't seem like the type.
She nodded. "Come."
Cruz followed her down the aisle and sat beside her in the front row near the lectern. There were at least 200 women. Not a single one looked like "hussy." He saw women who looked like school teachers, secretaries, nurses, housewives. Some were in their 50s, a few in their 20s, and plenty of every age in between. Some were well-dressed and accessorized, others looked as if putting on baggie T-shirt and shorts had been a chore. Most looked quite healthy, some obviously sick, and scared.
"Back in '76, they discovered that I had lumps in both breasts," Donna semi-whispered. "They were malignant. The doctor said that I needed a mastectomy, but that he could give me boobs that would look better than the originals. 'Archaeologists could dig you up a thousand years from now and your breasts will still be perfect,' is what he said."
"Mm. There's something to look forward to."
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com