By Alison Bullock
We landed in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, on a Friday. My boyfriend Mark booked us a stay in the cutest little place through VRBO—The Dome Experience, it was called. It had a curved roof, giant circular windows, and a surfboard for a door. Adorbs right? Its whitewashed exterior was like something out of the Greek Isles and offered the perfect backdrop for all of my outfits; the blues of my bikini looked even more beguiling, the purples of my pashmina really popped. True, you had to walk half a mile to the communal bathroom, the ceiling leaked, and there was a bit of a fire ant infestation, but photographically speaking, the place was great, which let’s face it, was the whole point anyway, and on top of that, all of it was comped. Mark, my boyfriend, was an influencer with hella followers. He made over $200,000 last year and never even finished high school! Talk about The American Dream. He and I met online. I had a bit of a following myself and he thought we’d pair well together. He liked that my online name was Marky, which meant that as a couple, we could brand ourselves as Marky-Mark, (so genius—so retro). Was it a real relationship? I mean, what’s real anyway? Let’s put it this way, it wasn’t not real, if that makes any sense.
The posts needed an angle, and Mark was great at coming up with ideas. Lately, we’ve been exploring US towns with strange names. This added a fun irony to our posts. Irony gets clicks. We’d already been to Toad Suck, Arkansas as well as Intercourse, Pennsylvania and Santa Claus, Indiana. I usually brought along Kim Kardashian, my Pomeranian, and we dressed her up for whatever activity we were doing. KK, as I sometimes call her, was getting her own following. She was bigger than Paul Mescal’s chain. If that’s not straight fire I don’t know what is. At each of these vacation stops, Mark always set the itinerary, and as long as we did things to promote his health and wellness platform, all of our lodging and expenses were covered by our sponsors. Win-win.
Truth or Consequences was known for their hot springs, which everybody knows is super restorative. We soaked in their thermal baths while sipping Schwepp’s virgin mojitos. Kim Kardashian wore the cutest little terry cloth turban and let us put cucumbers on her eyes. We jogged along The Healing Waters Trail, with Mark in his Dolce and Gabbana silk jogging shorts and me in a Prada knit number. Kim Kardashian scampered right along with us in a miniature tracksuit, her little legs scissoring into a frothy blur of pink. Down at The Passion Pie Cafe, we each treated ourselves to a small slice of heaven, because fitness is about moderation not deprivation people, and everybody knows #ilovepie will substantially improve your metrics. At each stop I did my usual poses: Barbie Feet, The Toothache, The Look-Back. People were vibing with our work. We’d gotten close to a half million likes since we arrived and momentum was on the rise. I was low-key loving life.
On our final night in Truth or Consequences, we went square dancing at the Fiddler’s Playhouse. That’s where things got dicey. Right off the bat I should have known something was about to go wrong. KK had some sort of stomach bug, so she couldn’t make it, which was unfortunate, as I’d bought us matching fringe jackets. Looking back, that should have tipped me off right there, like foreshadowing or something. My stomach didn’t feel so hot either. Nerves most likely. I specifically told Mark beforehand that I wasn’t a great dancer. I told him that, but he refused to listen. Square dancing is different, he told me. You literally just follow instructions and get whirled around. He said my inexperience would play as cute. It didn’t. Apparently, my shoulders were weirdly stiff during the promenade. I allemenaded right when I should have gone left. I raised my knees too high on certain moves, which unfortunately reminded our followers of Elaine from Seinfeld (so dumb—so retro). It didn’t matter that I had an adorable outfit from Cowgirl Kim. This only made the haters accuse me of being a poser. The nerve! By Monday morning, I was a meme. Some comedian went on Tik Tok with drawn-on eyebrows and an abomination of a wig, pretending to be me. In no way, did that look like my hair. Seriously, it’s not that poofy! This girl was flipping and flopping around in her Daisy Dukes trying to do-si-do with a deranged looking poodle. Again—completely unfair. KK wasn’t even there that night!
In under a week, I became a laughingstock. I was full-on cancelled. People were dressing up like me for Halloween, and not in a good way. Mark left me without so much as a text goodbye. He was seen flexing all over Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky with some chick with zero aesthetic who went by “Ruffalo.” Whatevs. I’m already planning my comeback. DWTS reached out to me for their most improved dancer series. They say they can train anyone. Just me. No dog.
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Alison Bullock is a writer from Massachusetts. Her short fiction has appeared in The Woven Tale Press, Peatsmoke, The Coachella Review, The Writing Disorder, Halfway Down the Stairs, The Metaworker, Bright Flash Literary Review, Idle Ink, and elsewhere.