Monday, December 26, 2016

Mary Kay Cadillac

By Courtney Pierce

As many of you know, I'm writing a collection of two-page stories titled Is There an App for Life's Third Act. These tales are quick moments, a slice of life for baby boomers. This one happens to be a true one. Happy Holidays, everyone!

 Mary Kay Cadillac

“Driving in Houston is an adventure,” I muttered, inching my Honda into the turn lane on San Felipe Drive. Acceptance of my work transfer to this city required keen denial skills about the heat, bugs, traffic, and the immeasurable wealth flashed in fancy cars. So I wasn’t surprised when a long pink Cadillac pulled next to me like a docking cruise ship. The elderly woman behind the wheel rolled down the window and shook her freshly polished, pink-tipped finger in my direction to cut in line. A turn signal would have been nice for a hint of politeness. With traffic at a stand still, I waved and smiled, seething behind oversize black sunglasses. The enormous pear-shaped diamond on the woman’s bony hand flashed a warning shot in the five o’clock sunlight. Don’t mess with her. Let her in. She was older, richer, and had a fat bumper.
I gawked at the car and sat up straight. “I’ll be damned. A Mary Kay Cadillac.” It must have been one of the originals from the sixties. This changed the game. The Pepto Bismol paint job was pristine; hand-buffed weekly, no doubt. The back fins could have sliced a tuna into sushi, and the stacked tail lights resembled pump-up water rockets.
I let the Cadillac ease in front of me to get a better view inside. Plus, she was oldnot sixtyish old but ninetyish old. Being nice was defined by example.
Waiting through yet another light change, I stared through the back window; the driver’s snow-white hair had been teased into a shellacked wave cantilevered to the left. Her doo barely moved when she gestured to her passenger, another elderly woman who sported a white curly pageboy and a diamond choker. They gabbed non-stop as the signal finally turned green. 
Our cars became magnetized. I followed the women at ten miles per hour. The pink rocket ship glided on white-walled tires like four doughy Krispy Kremes. She turned leftwith no signalinto River Oaks, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the country, home to diplomats, energy tycoons, and good ole oil boys. An extra ten rooms defined the fine line between beautiful and heinous homes on this street. Time for a detour.
I pulled to the curb when the Cadillac stopped in front of two arched, wrought-iron gates with a scrolled W in the center. They parted to become frilly Vs with a low, motorized hum. My mouth popped at the Georgian mansion holding court on the other side.
“! Classic!” I lowered the window for better clarity. Wet heat, with a hint of bayou, blasted my face. I shut off the engine, transfixed.
Two puffy feet squished into sling-back pumps stepped out of the driver’s side. A boutique gift bag and pink patent leather purse dangled from the woman’s arm. A suited black man appeared out of nowhere and replaced her in the seat. She handed him the keys. The hump under the woman’s vintage Chanel suit compromised her stooped trek to the passenger side. She opened the heavy door and snapped her fingers, jingling her crowded charm bracelet. Out jumped a coiffed standard poodle, its diamond-studded collar sparkling like a circle of fireworks. The white ball on the end of the dog’s tail might have guided me through “This Land is Your Land” on Sing-Along-With-Mitch.
“A dog?”
I took that same route home from work for the next twelve years, but never spotted the Mary Kay Cadillac or the priceless pair again.

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her bossy cat. She writes for baby boomers. By day, Courtney is an executive in the entertainment industry and uses her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor and mystery. She has studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, she is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, She Writes, and Sisters in Crime. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal. 

Check out all of Courtney's books at: and Both print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including
The Dushane Sisters are back in Indigo LakeMore laughs, more tears...and more trouble. Protecting Mom's reputation might get the sisters killed―or give one of them the story she's been dying to live.

New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says, "Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love, unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure Delight."

Colorful characters come alive in Courtney's trilogy about the Dushane sisters. Beginning with The Executrixthree middle-age sisters find a manuscript for a murder mystery in their mother's safe after her death. Mom’s book gives them a whole new view of their mother and their future. Is it fiction . . . or truth? 

Get out the popcorn as the Dushane Sisters Trilogy comes to a scrumptious conclusion with Indigo Legacy. Due out in early 2017.


Judith Ashley said...

A laugh-out-loud moment in life! Thanks for this quick glimpse at one of yours, Courtney.

Maggie Lynch said...

You draw a very defined picture that made my smile grow bigger and bigger. Thanks for that!

Jim's niece was a Mary Kay distributor until they moved to New Zealand a year ago. She actuallly had a pink Cadillac for several years because she did so well in sales. So, they do still award them. Hers didn't look anything like the one you described. More modern. Needless to say, she didn't take it with her to New Zealand.

Sarah Raplee said...

You led me down the primrose path! So funny!

Courtney Pierce said...

Thanks for the comments. Truly, how in the heck could I make this stuff up. I can only be a reporter of life and spin it all around to get a cheap laugh.