“This is all wrong,” a buzzy woman with a clipboard says, shuffling back and forth on stage in front of us.

Four other guys are sitting with me in rusty old shitty folding chairs lined up at the edge of the stage, facing stage up. The curtains on either side of us are being pulled aside by some intern with a headset strapped around his face and a walkie-talkie in a holster.

The stage is pretty damn impressive, but I’ve seen ones that are much bigger and better. They should replace their old pulley system. There aren’t many professional theaters still using this kind of outdated technology. It’s not even outdated, exactly. It’s more like ancient.

I could spruce this fucking place up in six months. I could update this place and make it state-of-the-art, a premiere venue.

But I guess they like their old rickety pulley system and their spotlights that are expensive, bulky and a drain on the environment.

A loud crash from stage left snaps me back into the present moment.

“Damn it, William!” clipboard lady screeches, her low heels clacking across the stage as she hauls ass over to the source of the commotion.

I glance over at a couple of the other guys and they shake their heads, laughing.

This is the crew they’ve assembled to be security for the pageant. They look capable, confident, and a little bit bored.

“Let me see if there’s anything I can do to help out,” I say to no one in particular, getting up and jogging over backstage to see what the hell is going on.

“This is wrong,” clipboard lady says, stomping on the dull floor backstage. “We are supposed to have the pink curtain for this event.”

I look up and observe that they have a series of curtain pulls up by the ceiling.

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” I interject, saving the intern from having to draw upon knowledge he may or may not have. “You just need another couple guys to install the curtain you want,” I say, pointing up to the high ceiling over the stage, “over there and there. Me and another one of the guys could probably help.”

“And who are you,” clipboard lady asks with her nose in the air.

“I’m one of the guards,” I say. “I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help out over here?” I glance past her shoulder and see the intern looking down at his feet as though the mystery of the universe is contained in the pattern of the wood on the floor, and past him, I see Cynthia with her pen and notebook, interviewing a pair of girls who I assume are competing this week.

Clipboard lady sizes me up, though I don’t bother to size her up in return. I already know she is completely frazzled, way overworked, and could use a hand.

“It’s alright,” she softens.

She is as young as the women in the pageant, but with a hardness about her. She’s wearing a pantsuit and I know she wants to look very official with her hair pulled back into a low, tight bun.

“You sure?” I ask, “I can help if needed.”

“It’s okay...Jason, was it?” she says, looking down at her clipboard.

“That’s right,” I say. We walk back over to the row of guys sitting on the stage and she motions for me to sit down.

“Thank you Jason, but that won’t be necessary. Okay, listen,” she directs to me and the rest of the guys, “I’ll make this quick. This will serve as an orientation of sorts. The theater has its own security, as do the hotel and the pageant organization. So what you six have been assigned to is to provide auxiliary service during the televised portions of the pageant. You are the guards who are visible to the public. And you will be expected to protect the girls just as well as the employees of the hotel and theater do.”

“Like a babysitter?” one of the guys interjects, raising two fingers in the air.

“Unfortunately,” the woman sighs, “yes. In some respects. As the faces of the pageant, you will not be in uniform. You will be expected to keep an eye on the girls, for the most part. You are to be seen and not heard. Of course you will be expected to report anything that seems strange. You all come highly recommended and with stellar backgrounds and have all completed state-required training, so I don’t have to go into details about what you should be on the lookout for. But I will anyway.”

I know what she’s going to say. Before my hybrid role as guard and roadie on my last tour, I was a temporary bouncer at a club in my hometown, and I know exactly what to look out for.

Any shady characters - that’s the first thing. And while shady might seem like a vague term, it really isn’t. Picture what you assume to be a person who is at an event for enjoyment, fun, even to blow off steam.

Anyone acting even a little bit differently from what is considered normal is to be treated with suspicion. I’m not heavy-handed and I think I’m pretty damn good at reading people, and I’ve never had anything bad happen on my watch. That’s not praise for my abilities, though. It just means that, usually, people are decent and pretty fucking normal.

Clipboard lady starts into what we should be on the lookout for, as it relates to the girls’ behavior this week, because that’s the real reason we’re here.

“Look out for any of the girls doing shots,” she says with a nervous laugh. “This may seem like common sense, but I’ve learned over the past few years that common sense is not so common. Look out for men around the girls. Of course the hotel is a semi-public space, and people are going to be able to infiltrate us. The girls can talk to whomever they want, of course, but if any men start to get handsy, you don’t have to be shy about telling them to get lost.”

She looks down at her clipboard and checks off an item.

“Dancing. Tables. Look out for these, either individually or in conjunction with each other. This ties into my earlier point about shots. I don’t think I have to explain this.”

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket so I grab it, seeing that Cassie is calling me. I hit ignore and quickly text her that I’ll call her as soon as this meeting is over.

“Any questions?” the woman asks, putting her clipboard down at her side and scanning her eyes across our group. “No? Good. You all have an appointment to get fitted for a suit, since you are going to be visible and on camera.”

She gives each of us her business card and a copy of our itinerary for the next few days. We’re here to look after the girls, but there is one girl that I won’t be able to keep my eyes off of.

I say goodbye to the men I’m going to be working alongside as I see Cynthia coming over to me from the corner of my eye.

“Hello Jason,” she says, meeting me by the edge of the stage. “Good to see you again. I was hoping I could get a quote from you.”

“A quote about what?” I ask, slightly bemused. I wish I could give this woman a piece of my mind, but in deference to Cassie’s wishes, I’ll stay polite and cordial toward her even though she doesn’t deserve it.

“A quote about anything,” she shrugs, “it’s up to you.”

“I don’t know,” I say, “I’m happy to be here. How about that?”

“Oh come on Jason, give me something better than that. How about something about how excited you are for the talent portion of the competition.”

The truth is that I’m not all that familiar with the different parts of the contest. I guess I’m vaguely aware that each of the girls has to perform some kind of talent - baton twirling? Tap dancing, maybe - I never really gave it much thought before.

“Yeah,” I nod, “that. Use that as a quote. I’m excited for the talent portion.”

“Come on Jason, give me something better than that.”

“Fine,” I say, growing impatient. I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up Cassie’s number. “I can’t wait to see what these girls have to offer. They’re all such beautiful young women, but they’re also smart, talented and capable. Good enough?”

“Perfect,” she says, snapping her notebook closed and slipping it into her purse. “Thanks, Jason.”

She starts away from me and looks back over her shoulder as I wave goodbye and start to call Cassie.

“Hey!” Cassie answers brightly, “what’s up?”

“I just finished up at my orientation,” I say, “what are you doing?”

She pauses for a moment before responding. That’s something she does when she doesn’t want to answer.

“I’m practicing my talent,” she says sheepishly.

“Oh?” I say, pushing my hair away from my face. “I was just talking to Cynthia about the talent portion.”

Making my way backstage, I weave through groups of girls sitting in front of big mirrors doing each other’s hair, some of them toiling away at musical instruments or shimmying into leotards. For a moment I think I shouldn’t be here seeing the girls get into character, but then I remind myself with a shake of my head that I’m supposed to be here.

It’s so different from being security for a band. Bands are rowdy. You don’t know what the hell to expect, and the girls are all trying to get backstage. Here, the girls are already backstage and there aren’t many men around. I like it like this. It’s refreshing.

And if the worst behavior I have to be on the lookout for is a girl dancing on a table or barfing into a garbage can, then this should be a piece of cake.

“Yeah,” Cassie replies as I push an exit door open, leaning against its big metal bar. “Practicing my talent.”

“And what is your talent, baby?” I ask. It’s still the morning, and I haven’t had a morning where I wasn’t a little groggy from the night before in a long damn time. It feels really good to have the sun beat down on my shoulders and feel clarity for the first time in a long while.

“Guess,” she says with a smile in her voice. “You’ll be able to get it.”

“Huh,” I say, walking across the boardwalk to the beach. The sand is dotted with colorful, big umbrellas with families congregating under them, trying to get out of the stifling heat of the sun. There’s a few girls sunbathing on their bellies with their bikini tops undone and their boyfriends smearing sunscreen on their backs.

“Being pretty?” I say, taking a seat on a bench facing the ocean.

“No, Jason,” she says, “that’s not a talent. Try again.”

“It’s one of your talents,” I say.

I consider Cassie Blake for a moment, turning her over in my mind. She’s always loved animals; maybe her talent is throwing a frisbee around and having a dog catch it. I saw that on TV a few days ago, and the dogs were really super cute and talented.

But no, that’s not it.

“Recorder? You could play a mean recorder back in the day.”

“No…”

“Singing?”

“One more guess,” she laughs.

I think back to what she was really interested in in high school. They say that the person you are around age eighteen through your early twenties is the “real” you, whatever the hell that means.

“Oh,” I say, a lightbulb going off, “it’s your skincare products, right?”

“Close,” she says, “that’s very close. It’s not that, but it comes from that.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s speaking. Selling.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Okay,” she says, “so, I have my products, but that’s only one part of it. My talent is public speaking, and coaching people, helping them feel like they can get up in front of people and sell anything.”

“Cassie,” I say, kicking my legs out in front of me and putting them on the metal bar on the edge of the boardwalk, “I have to admit that I still don’t really get it.”

“I guess it’s a little bit hard to explain,” she says, “so why don’t you come over and you can help me practice?”

“That sounds really fucking good,” I say, “I’ll be over soon.”

We end the call and I get up, stretching my arms out over my head. I can’t wait to see Cassie’s talent. I might not get it, but if she’s really that good at selling, I’m sure I’ll understand it soon enough.