Silky Manners

One pound bacon, two dozen eggs, aloe shaving cream….

The express line at the supermarket was moving so slowly that I began to take inventory of my basket.  I knew something was missing, but I just couldn’t place it. To be honest, I was having trouble staying focused. It had been nearly three weeks since I’d consumed any carbs, and they say that can make you a bit ditsy. But I knew the real reason I couldn’t concentrate.

We’d met the week before, on Valentine’s Day. Patrick was a personal trainer at my gym. He approached me because I wasn’t squatting properly and he didn’t want me to get hurt. So sweet.

So there I was, in the early delicate stages of another courtship. And as I gazed down into my basket all I could do was think about Patrick and hope he wouldn’t turn out like all the others.

Then, as I approached the cashier, I saw the headline of The Enquirer. My heart knocked in my throat, my palms went moist. Could it really be? 

The headline read: SILKY MANNERS TO WED

It was referring, of course, to the famous socialite Silky Manners, daughter of billionare cosmetics magnate Randolph Manners. Silky was my hero, so I was thrilled.  The young heiress would finally be able to share God’s greatest gift—love—with another. She certainly deserved it. After all her ups and downs, I don’t think anyone deserved it more than Silky. But who was this guy? Was he rich? Famous? I had to know. 

I tore The Enquirer off the shelf and quickly turned to the spread. The first page was simply a huge shot of her fine, slender, white hand bejeweled with with the most glorious engagement ring known to man. It was said to be twelve carats, once worn by an Egyptian queen and purchased from a British collector for over a million dollars. Next there were a few shots of Silky and her sister looking at wedding dresses. I could almost feel their anticipation. And then there were a few more photos of Silky and the Kelsey twins at a club in Beverly Hills. These were recycled. I was insulted by The Enquirer for even attempting to run these. 

But where was the lucky guy?

Apparently, his identity was to be kept secret until the big day. The only thing any of the papers could ascertain was that he was royalty, and extremely rich. Nothing else could be found out about this mystery man. Things were being kept under an extremely tight lid.

The world waited. And speculated. MTV ran a two-hour special in which they narrowed the potential candidates down to five young jetsetters from around the globe. But still nothing could be established for certain. The paparazzi camped outside Silky’s many apartments and mansions in New York, Paris, Milan. Followed her from continent to continent as she searched for a suitable location for the ceremony. But never could they catch so much as a glimpse of the man that was to be Silky Manners’s future husband.

And then a kernal of information leaked to the press. Silky was to be married on June 14^th.

Never had the world loved a star more than they loved Silky during those crisp early months of spring before the wedding. For those few months she was our Marilyn, our Madonna. She embodied all of our hopes and optimism, helped us push through our difficulties and strive for a better tomorrow. Everywhere was her fine slender face—the way she opened her mouth ever so coyly when she smiled—and we all felt her joy and anticipation as the big day approached.

Luckily, the engagement party was televised so we could all partake in the fun. The Manners family had rented a small island in the South Pacific for the affair. I don’t think so many celebrities had ever been on the same island. Greyson Blaine, Zarissa, and The Kelsey Twins were just a few of the A-list faces that sunny day. Dawn Redwood and El Sueno did a beautiful duet composed especially for the occasion. And the honorable President Crowley and family were in attendance as well. In fact, a slew of political figures were there to wish Silky the best of luck with her engagement and future marriage. I recall Horace Wu, Peter Hooker and Britain’s Prime Minister Ty Sherry, to name just a few.

But where was the husband-to-be? The press was booted from the island just as his jet touched down on the runway….

And then, just weeks before the wedding, as the public waited nervously for a glimpse, a hint—there came a leak. 

Apparently a German tourist had spotted Silky and her beau, along with a slew of bodyguards, as they strolled happily through a street bazaar somewhere in the Phillipines. The enterprising German was able to shoot dozens of photos without being spotted.

That was the beginning of the end for poor Silky.

The damning images spread like a nasty virus. In a matter of hours they were on the internet, in newspapers and magazines, flashing across television screens throughout the world. What a shock it was. Silky, our beloved Silky, was engaged to—an Arab!

I didn’t know what to think, how to feel, when I first laid eyes on that famous shot of Silky with the spider monkey on her shoulder. She looked so happy, so at ease! But  standing there beside her was him. Sure, he was tall, dark and handsome, just as she’d told the world during her press conference. But he was wearing one of those head pieces.  And Rayban sunglasses. And he had a mustache!

I was prejudiced. There, I said it. I mean, with the war still going on, and all that talk about homeland security and terrorism, could you blame me? But most of all, I wondered, who the heck was this guy?

And I wasn’t the only one who was curious. It took the media all of twenty-four hours to discover the identity of Silky’s new love. His name was Ibrahim Ahmed Hassan, and he was a prince. A Saudi Arabian prince.     

It’s funny how fickle we are. Just as quickly as we embraced Silky, loved her with all our hearts and wished her the best of everything, we crucified her. And what a time we had! The press immediately branded her a terrorist sympathizer and ran only her most unflattering photos. There were anti-Silky websites and t-shirts, nasty editorials and vicious exposes. A middle school in Mississippi even staged a public burning of her best-selling book, Sincerely Silky. And if all this weren’t enough, even that tasteless sex video, which she’d worked so hard to put behind her, mysteriously resurfaced again like an old coldsore. 

But believe it or not, the worst was still yet to come.

It was discovered that Prince Hassan really was a terrorist sympathizer, that many of the so-called charities he supported were nothing but fronts for terrorist organizations. It was also discovered that Silky had donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to these very same “charities.” Things got ugly. That’s when Silky decided it was time to clear the air with a press conference.

People: Did you know that your fiancé was a terrorist sympathizer?

Silky: He had no idea what those charities were doing with his money.

Mademoiselle: Have you converted to Islam?

Silky: No, but I respect it, just like I respect all religions.

Daily News: Do you think it is unethical to be engaged to a terrorist sympathizer?

Silky: He is not a terrorist.  He is a sensitive, caring man.

Cosmopolitan: Is the wedding still on?

Silky: Yes, definitely.

Tiger Beat: Will you convert to Islam for the wedding?

Silky: No comment.

New York Post: Are you still struggling with an eating disorder?

Silky: Who isn’t?

Well, the press conference didn’t exactly have the effect Silky was hoping for. Unlike her previous conference, the reporters were no longer fawning over her. This time they were outright nasty, and she was clearly unnerved. I guess she’d envisioned a forum where she’d be able to proclaim her innocence and win herself back into the hearts of the people. Poor Silky, forever the optimist.

Shortly after that, she was subpoenaed. 

Silky was ordered to appear before a grand jury and answer questions regarding her involvement with terrorist organizations. Of course, she complied, and the world watched as she entered and exited the courthouse week after week. Supporters of the war were bussed into lower Manhattan daily to jeer and hiss and call Silky a terrorist. At first she laughed it off, feeding the press witty snippets about how to dress for the witness stand.  But gradually, the whole affair began to take its toll.

And not just on Silky. 

My own world became entangled with hers. I couldn’t stop surfing the internet for the latest information on Silky’s case. Or stop talking about how unfairly she was being treated.  For these reasons, I was relieved of my assistant editor’s position at Sassy. It was depressing at first, but I soon looked upon my termination as a sort of blessing. Now I could devote all of my efforts to supporting Silky. I spent most of my mornings and afternoons outside the courthouse, cheering her on. Then Patrick stopped calling. He was like all the others. But I didn’t care anymore. Silky needed me….                   

Already svelt, Ms. Manners lost considerable weight, and began to look tired and drawn. Word got out that her fiancé was hiding somewhere in Afghanistan, that she had not seen or spoken to him since her subpoena. Then one day she appeared in court without her famous engagement ring. June 14^th came and went. No wedding bells rang for Silky.

Finally, it was over. She was cleared. It was concluded that while Silky did exercise poor judgment in her choice of charitable organizations, she was in fact innocent of conspiring with terrorists. 

I was there that sunny June afternoon when she appeared on the courthouse steps. A reporter asked, “How do you feel?” and with tears in her eyes, Silky simply replied, “I’m glad it’s all over.” We all could see that she was no longer the same girl who had announced her engagement to the world just a few months before. Sure, the beauty was still there, and the charm, but now there was something more. Now Silky truly knew what it was to love, to trust. And she’d felt the sting of loss and betrayal as well. She’d lived. She was now a woman.      

Then—the gunshot.

Silky collapsed. One of the protestors, some nut who’d been bussed up from Florida, had pulled the trigger. Silky lay on the pavement, a .22 caliber bullet lodged in her heart.

She smiled in that special way, with her coy mouth just slightly open. Then I watched as her soul soared high above the New York skyscrapers, to a place where she would never be judged again.

This story first appeared in Letter X.