It was February 2003 and America had just invaded Iraq. Protests had broken out across the country railing against Bush and his cronies for this misguided military action. The biggest one was to be staged in New York City. And I would be there, right in the heart of Manhattan, much to the envy of my liberal friends. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the true purpose of my trip… to judge a beauty pageant. 

Now understand, I have zero credentials. Nada. Zilch. At the time I was selling newspaper subscriptions over the phone while cranking out screenplays, a typical LA scene. And it’s not like I had a lot of experience with women. Hardly any, in fact. Heck, I’ve only had one girlfriend- and that was in college. What’s more, I don’t like to judge anyone, least of all beautiful, talented girls who were a decade younger and light years out of my league. Truth is, I had no business attending a beauty pageant, let alone judging one.   

Her name was Merry, the girlfriend of my college buddy Steve.  The non-traditional spelling of her name proved apropros upon meeting the bubbly blonde, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Reese Witherspoon. I bumped into the handsome couple at Duke’s in Malibu on my way to the bathroom. They invited me to join them.

We proceeded to drink heavily, swapping stories. Merry seemed to be intrigued by me- not sexually, but in a kindred, creative soul kind of way. She was, after all, a professional harp player. Thanks to the slew of margaritas, I made her laugh all night, a rare display of my suppressed charms. Merry said she headed the Miss New York City pageant- she was on a zillion boards- and that one of the judges backed out. Despite my utter lack of credentials, she thought I would be a good fit. We exchanged numbers and later, at the end of the evening, a warm embrace.

A week later, Merry mailed me a thick binder, a dossier of the two dozen young women competing in the pageant. The resumes of these girls were impressive, even if they were a bit doctored. Every one of them attended prominent colleges, possessed an arsenal of impressive skills, and volunteered for every charity known to (wo)mankind. Of course, I’d have to spruce up my resume, too. No one wants to be judged by a telemarketer.

I brought the binder to work, flaunting my elevated status as a pageant judge. My friends pointed out their favorite girls, oohing and aahing in between cold calls. They assumed that, as a judge, I would be able to sleep with any of them. Truth be told, the thought dangled in my mind, as well. This is when my progressive co-workers stopped by my cubicle and heaped praise on me for protesting Bush’s illegal war. I nodded, stuffing the binder in my backpack.

No one on the plane commented on the binder. It rested squarely on my lap, the bold-faced font screaming ‘2003 MISS NEW YORK CITY PAGEANT.’ Perhaps because I was seated by the rear bathroom, scarfing down free peanuts with the vengeance of a meth addict, that I was not mistaken for a celebrity. Oh, well. I still had an entire weekend in Manhattan to fool other people, particularly the contestants. I was listed in the judge’s summary as a music video director. Now, I did work on dozens of music videos, so it’s not a total lie. I was the guy who fetched coffee for the actual director, among other subservient tasks. Fortunately, Google hadn’t turned into the juggernaut that is today, so I was probably safe.

Later that night, Merry got us into an underground party somewhere in mid-Manhattan. The venue was a converted warehouse packed with the city’s hippest young socialites. The first thing you saw stepping through the door was a gigantic porno being projected onto the wall. I felt as if I had stumbled onto the Eyes Wide Shut set. In one roped off corner of the room, an 18-year-old Playboy model was giving lap dances. Merry brought me over and introduced me as one of the pageant judges. The model lit up. She performed an exotic dance, grinding on my crotch, eyeing me lustfully. Before she finished, she declared that Merry and I would have sex that night. We insisted that we were just friends.

Merry lived on the Upper West Side, north of 100^th street, where the swankiness morphs into sketchiness. It was a three-bedroom apartment that she shared with two male friends. After the party- and a healthy amount of cocktails- we returned to her place. I laid down on the couch, my sleeping quarters for the weekend. Merry freshened up in the bathroom, then proceeded to sit next to me. Actually, she was on top of me. She suggested that I stay in her room, that her bed was much more comfortable. I declined the offer, saying the couch was fine. This parrying went on for at least 10 minutes. Now, I have to say, I was tempted. Blondes aren’t really my type, especially ones with blue eyes, but she was more than pretty enough. And I was more than drunk enough. But I couldn’t do that to Steve. So I remained steadfast. Finally, she got up and went to bed. I heaved a sigh of relief, not sure if I should tell my friend.

The next day, my fellow judges and I interviewed the contestants at a meeting hall in the meatpacking district. There were six of us, from various backgrounds (none of them in the entertainment industry, thankfully). Merry stood to the side, occasionally throwing amorous glances my way. We were both terribly hungover and could have used a few hours more sleep. The interviews accounted for a third of the score. The girls were peppered with questions, generally of the softball variety: “What’s your favorite film?” and so forth.

Considering the nearby protests, there were a few queries lobbed at their political beliefs. The girls had incredible pose, well-schooled in the art of fielding queries. And they were as beautiful as the photos in the binders. I asked one of the contestants, ‘What’s your favorite Beatles,’ which she appropriately responded that you couldn’t really pick just one. I stayed silent for awhile.

Afterwards, the judges and the pageant staff, including Merry, had dinner. The big show was tomorrow, so we kept the drinking to a minimum. The previous night was never brought up again and there were no further offerings of sharing a bed. It was an early night.

The show was held in at a mid-town YMCA. The first event was the talent competition. One girl, a slightly obese African-American, crooned an opera score that blew everyone away. She had also done exceptionally well in the interview session. A few others sang, a few danced. One performed an acting scene, one juggled. My personal favorite- and I think I speak for all the judges, who were all men- was the belly dancer, who gyrated her sexy body at the edge of the stage, right in front of us.

Next was the swimsuit competition. And this proved to be the downfall of the opera singer. I’m not being sexist here. She was at least 20 pounds overweight, not exactly the body type that wins Miss America. And that’s what we were looking for, the girl best prepared to win the whole shebang. This portion of the show winnowed the field to just a handful of contestants. Jessica Lynch seemed to be the front runner. She aced the interview, had a decent dancing routine, and looked fantastic in a bikini. She looked like a pageant winner. What’s interesting is that she shared the name with the Iraq war hero who was rescued around that time.

The final segment was the eveningwear competition. Here the girls would be judged on their poise, along with their answers to what they would do as a pageant winner. Everyone was flawless, racking up near perfect scores. Fairly or not, it was the swimsuit deal that would decide this affair. It was no surprise to anyone in the crowd when a crown was placed on Jessica’s head.

The judges and staff met Jessica afterwards, congratulating her. I gushed something incoherent to her. She was stunning. My type, too, a petite brunette. Those girls generally don’t win the big prizes, though. And sure enough, after capturing the Miss New York title, she didn’t make the first cut in Atlantic City. I, though, was revered at my crappy job. Everyone asked about the pageant. I regaled them with tales of the Eyes Wide Shut party and the belly dancer, among other anecdotes. I told my liberal cohorts that I met Jessica Lynch. “Is she against the war?” I thought for a second. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”