Misadventures of the Most Beautiful Girl in the World

By Galen L. Rose

“Misadventures of the Most Beautiful Girl in the World” relates the comic adventures of a most singular girl. As our heroine Gold (Katharine) Garrison explains in the Prologue, “You may know of me through public accounts of my later years as a distinguished, refined, yet reclusive businesswoman of enormous fortune. While that characterization is correct, in essence, it is yet incomplete. That is who I became; it is not who I was, and it is but a shadow of who I am.” Misadventures,” then, is the story of who she really was and how she became that famous, iconic success.

Gold Garrison was born with devastating, Helen of Troy-like beauty, a “Most Beautiful Girl in the World” type beauty. But, as she says, “There are precious few in this world who understand that unique beauty is as much curse as blessing.” Gold’s peculiar curse is that her extraordinary, one of a kind beauty, and icy, charismatic presence intimidates boys and men, yet she is possessed with a craving for intimacy through a deep hormonal overload. Thus her desires are thwarted at every turn as she chases those who run from her, much as a child chases the bird which avoids being salted on its tail. Further leavening of the plot results as girls are also hopelessly attracted to the magnetic, delectable Gold Garrison. So what’s a girl to do?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483539409

Book preview

voyage.

Prologue

The following missive chronicles the early years of Gold (Katharine) Garrison. You may know of me through public accounts of my later years as a distinguished, refined, yet reclusive businesswoman of enormous fortune. While that characterization is correct, in essence, it is yet incomplete. That is who I became, it is not who I was, and it is but a shadow of who I am.

Over the past few decades, various scribes have described my life as ‘enchanting’, ‘fascinating’, ‘exciting’, and a host of other well-meaning adjectives. They don’t know the half of it. As I near my end, I feel somehow compelled to close the gap, as it were; to write the story of my earlier, and if I may say, more interesting years. My life has been rich and full (and strange) and I want the world to know something of it.

You see, my history is singularly extraordinary. I was a pretty baby who developed into a uniquely beautiful girl, and from this crucial fact issues my strange story. There are precious few in this world who understand that unique beauty is as much curse as blessing. The ignorance of the masses, however, can never change the facts.

The following may sound self-serving, but I assure you it is not. In my youth, as in my prime, I was described, not by one, or some, or even many, but by all who ever saw me, as ‘the most beautiful girl in the world.’ This was a terribly harsh affliction, in my earlier years especially, which took me many years to conquer.

Much of my story will test your credulity, for you have never seen, nor are you likely ever to see, such beauty as I possessed. Of course, you may have seen photographs and perhaps film clips of the younger me, but film can never communicate the ineffable life-force, the existential presence, it seeks to capture. And, while words are no better suited to conveying this beauty than pictures, you may begin to better appreciate that beauty by its effects upon others, as described in these pages.

Had I lived in classical antiquity, my life might have paralleled that of Helen of Troy and been the stuff of legend. Alas, the heroic is granted little stature in contemporary times, thus the early life of a living, breathing, radiant beauty was reduced to the stuff of comedy .

In short, my young life was filled with a steady succession of novel problems and strange misadventures, all arising from the fact of my classic, one-of-a-kind beauty, allied with specific hormonal excesses. Through the recounting of this period of my life, you may come to know something of the real me. Not who I became, which has been dealt with in considerable detail by my many biographers, but who I was. You cannot adequately apprehend who I am, without some knowledge of the spark which flared briefly but brilliantly in my youth, for that spark yet glows within my aged breast.

I write these pages that you may know me. The real me. At least, that is my intention. That is my wish.

I.

I was born and raised in southern New Hampshire, in a town of perhaps ten-thousand people. My parents were not rich but were comfortably well off. My father was a modestly successful stockbroker, and my mother owned and operated a small women's clothing store. My mother was attractive, but not exceptionally so. The same was true of my father. But, as sometimes happens, I inherited not only the best of each, in terms of beauty genes, but doubtless some generation-skipping genes as well, which amplified their effect. The result was a wondrously beautiful child. Fortunately, my parents passed on a reasonable intelligence, as well; not gifted, certainly, but more than adequate for most endeavors.

My hair was midnight black, my skin exceedingly fair, and my body slim. My most striking physical features, however, are my eyes (I speak mostly in past tense here, because much has changed over time, except the eyes). My eyes are pale blue, with innumerable and very prominent gold flecks. To the casual observer, they appear as glittering gold.

Of course, beauty in a living thing is not simply a matter of hair, and skin, and nose, and such. That is, it cannot be reduced to simple physical measurement and coloring. At least as important, and perhaps more so, are presence, bearing, carriage. A pretty girl grows into a breathtakingly beautiful woman, only if she has a certain presence about her, and this quality comes from the inside. Here, too, nature favored me to an extraordinary degree. My external bearing has been described as consisting of a sort of aloof coolness, which bore no correspondence to the interior me.

I was perhaps four years old when I first became aware of the power of my appearance. My older brother Bill (twelve years my senior) and I were asked to come into the house to meet my father's new boss and his wife. They said 'hello' and 'pleased to meet you' to Bill, then completely ignored him as I entered the room. The wife exclaimed, My God! She must be the most beautiful girl in the world! Her husband was too busy wiping the drool from his slack jaw to say anything. My reaction? I loved it! I didn't know yet that my life was about to become a lot more difficult.

The wife spoke to me about things I didn't understand at the time. Things like, I'll bet you're beating off the boys with a stick, already. And, You're going to be such a heartbreaker.

I wondered why I should want to hit boys with sticks, or break anybody's anything. The husband was simply frozen in his slack-jawed silence. I wondered if maybe he didn't like me.

I never really got used to the staring, and sometimes, when I was very young, literally screamed at people to stop it. It was another year or two before I grasped why they did it. My appearance and presence had their effects on my parents, too, who did their best to spoil me rotten. They occasionally spoke of grooming a Miss America.

Strangely, my parents' efforts to spoil me had little lasting effect. I remember one time yelling at them, Stop trying so hard to please me! I don't like it! I'm just a kid, you know. Perhaps it was their over-solicitousness which bothered me. Can you believe it? I prayed to be ignored! By my own parents, no less.

My childhood girlfriends weren't much different. They competed viciously to gain my favor, as though it was tremendously important to them that the beautiful girl liked them best. My appearance had already become an embarrassing burden, and I took to playing alone a great deal.

In kindergarten, I quickly noticed that boys seldom spoke to me. This was a genuine puzzle to a five year old. Why did the girls fight for my attentions while the boys kept their distance and just stared? Fortunately, as I said, I had the good fortune of a more than adequate intelligence. It didn't take me too long to figure out that I simply intimidated the boys. I liked boys. They played rough, and being physically strong, well coordinated, and active, I wanted to play rough too, but I never got the chance.

My appearance caused me considerable heartache from my very first day in school. While my girlfriends were teasing and giggling with the boys, I stood on the sidelines and watched. When I tried to initiate conversations with boys, I got one word answers and red faces, as they stared at their shuffling feet.

Like all mothers of beautiful children, mine was very proud that I was pretty, and loved to dress me in eye catching clothes. For my own tastes, I attracted too much attention already, without ornamental clothes. I argued with her to let me wear my torn, baggy jeans and sweatshirt to school. One exchange we had, I remember particularly well.

Mom, please don't make me wear that dress.

But, sweetheart, don't you want to look pretty? she asked.

No! Don't you understand? I'm too pretty already.

What do you mean?

Mom, all the kids and all the teachers treat me different because I'm pretty. But I don't want to be different. Nobody knows who I am. I'm just the pretty girl.

As you can see, I also developed a keen social perceptiveness at a very early age, born of necessity. Fortunately, my mother began to appreciate what I was going through, once I had explained it to her. My father, though I loved him dearly, just never caught on. Mother started letting me dress in un-pretty clothes and, after I had come home from school crying, many times, she even helped me experiment to find the least attractive hairstyles possible. We couldn't do anything about my eyes or bearing, though. And, truth to tell, the plain clothes and ugly hairstyles didn't help much, either. A diamond in the rough is still a diamond. The other girls just started copying my tastes in clothes and hairstyles. I was pretty, after all, and I got attention. And if that's the way pretty girls dressed and wore their hair, then the other girls couldn't wait to follow suit. And the boys were as afraid to talk to me as ever.

My given name is Katherine, but I hated it. Unwittingly, an uncle solved that problem for me. I believe I was eight at the time, when my uncle paid one of his rare visits. Of course, he was a bit intimidated, too. On this occasion, he was remarking on the gold in my eyes and suggested he would call me Goldie. I told him that sounded terribly juvenile (I enjoyed sounding precocious), but that 'Gold' sounded nice. He said that was a rather strange name. My answer was, Uncle John, in the future you shall address me as Gold, thank you.

Yes, ma'am. he answered, laughing.

This set the scene for my first real introduction to the positive aspects of the powers of appearance. Because everyone was always so eager to please me, within a few days my name was effectively changed to Gold. My parents called me Gold, my other relatives called me Gold, my schoolmates called me Gold, and even my teachers called me Gold. It was a very easy victory, and a lesson I never forgot.

Actually, this had all begun as a mere whim with Uncle John. I was just playing cute with him. But once it got going, I became determined to see how far I could push it. And once I had achieved my goal, I felt stuck with it. From the lips of some people, the name sounded a bit strange to me, too. But once I had won my point, I was loath to give it up. Now, many decades later, I am still known as Gold, and only a handful of people know what my given name is.

You may ask, did I then decide that being beautiful was a plus? No, not by a long shot. Oh, there were a few positives, to be sure. But, the scales were heavily weighted to the negative. Think about it. If the boys would just talk to me, I didn't really give a damn what they called me. If one had walked up to me and said Hi, pig, I would have been tickled pink that he had spoken to me, period. No, beauty was an affliction I continued to despise.

I envied cute girls. To be cute, and not strikingly beautiful, was practically a dream of mine. Many times I considered cutting my face, or washing it with acid, or some similar nonsense, but always decided against it. I still had hopes that I would grow up to be merely cute. Perhaps this beautiful thing was just a stage I was passing through. I had seen in pictures that my mother had been a beautiful child, yet she grew up to have a longish nose. As an adult, she was quite attractive, but definitely not movie star beautiful. This gave me hope. Perhaps my nose would grow more than the rest of me, too. In fact, after seeing the movie Pinocchio, at the age of seven, I did a lot of lying. I was tremendously disappointed that it didn't work. My nose stayed as small and perfect as always.

As I have said, as a youngster I spent a lot of time alone. I read hundreds of books as a child. When I had pretty well exhausted my parents small library, I started reading my father's books on stock trading. I didn't always understand them, but I came to enjoy asking my father questions about his business.

He was amazed at my interest and intelligence, and began to see beneath my pretty face. Actually, since I was only nine or ten at the time, I really wasn't very interested in the stock market. But the reception I got from my father, when I asked him questions, convinced me to cultivate an interest. I got him to 'loan' me three hundred dollars to invest, and I started managing this stock fund on my own.

If being smart, or at least knowledgeable about unlikely things for a girl, got people to see me for more than a pretty face, then it was definitely something to cultivate. I began to take my schoolwork more seriously, and was soon a straight 'A' student. My parents were pleased, my teachers were pleased, my girlfriends were impressed, but the boys were more intimidated than ever. After a fashion, I learned that if there's anything more intimidating to a boy than a strikingly beautiful girl, it's a strikingly beautiful smart girl. It was a double-whammy, and my plan had pretty much backfired. But, since I had been striking out with boys anyway, and at least some people had begun to notice that I was more than just a pretty face, I decided to continue on this new tack.

I began to compete with the smartest boy in class. In spelling bees, we always finished first and second. Almost always, I was second. In history, geography, arithmetic, he always got the best marks and I was always second. At first I admired him, then I started to develop a crush on him. I spent many hours puzzling over this one because, you see, he was far from the handsomest boy in class. When I talked to my girlfriends about him, they thought I was crazy. What do you see in him, for God's sake, he's practically ugly.

They were right. He was practically ugly. He was short and fat with straight brown hair that always hung down over half of his face. I guess I admired his intelligence, but I think it was his sense of humor that most attracted me. He had learned to deflect criticism of his appearance and intelligence with humor. He called himself 'the fat boy.' Few of the girls ever paid him much attention, but most of the boys liked him. He was always ready to help them with their schoolwork, without seeming a know-it-all, and he was very quick with the pun or nonsensical answer.

One day our fifth grade teacher asked if anyone knew of a way to remember how many days there are in each month. Eggy (When the kids didn't call him 'the fat boy', they called him Eggy.) instantly started waving his hand.

Yes, Egbert? the teacher said.

Eggy answered, Thirty days hath September, April, June, and no wonder. All the rest eat peanut butter, except Grandma, she drives a green Buick.

Of course, everyone cracked-up with laughter, even the teacher. This was a typical Eggy stunt. When things finally began to settle down, the teacher asked Egbert if he had any other words of wisdom for the class.

Eggy paused, then said, Wisdom, wisdom. Let me think. Oh, yes, 'You can lead a horse to water...but you can't roller skate on a lawn without a boat.'

Silly? Of course. But Eggy helped me to forget myself for awhile, and I loved him for it. That day at recess, I approached him to talk. He was sitting on a swing eating an apple. He was always eating, it seemed.

That was really funny in class today, Eggy. I said.

Aw, thanks, he chuckled, never taking his eyes off his apple.

It's really fun having you in class.

He just shrugged. I was clearly too much pretty girl to handle, even for the brilliant Egbert. And, just as clearly, I wasn't able to help him much, though I desperately wanted to. When the other girls wanted to attract a boy, they would let him catch them staring at him. Of course, if the boy was interested, he would smile back at his admirer and the ice was broken. But when Eggy caught me staring at him, he would just turn red, look away, and study his feet. I knew he was interested in me because I frequently caught him staring at me. But, before I could show him a smile of encouragement, he would go into his chameleon routine. I tried it with other boys, too, but with no more success.

One day, walking home from school, I caught up with a different boy that I was mildly interested in.

I saw you staring at me in class today, I said.

Sorry.

You don't have to be sorry. I smiled back at you, but you looked away too quick to see it.

Oh.

Don't you like me, Richard?

Yeah, sure I do.

Then why don't you ever ask to walk me home or anything? I was determined to get to the root of the matter, no matter how awkward it was for both of us.

I didn't think you'd want to. You could have any boy you want. What would you want me for.

Well you're a nice boy...

I guess...But you're too pretty for me.

Why?

I don't know. You just are, that's all.

That's what all the boys think...isn't it?

I don't know.

Yes you do, Richard. Why don't you just tell me?

I suppose so.

See what's happening, Richard? They all think I'm too pretty for them, so all the other girls have boyfriends and I never do. Do you think that's fair?

He shrugged. I guess not.

I felt I had given him about as broad and obvious a hint as I possibly could. The ball was in his court, and he proceeded to drop it as quickly as possible. We had reached his house and he said Bye.

That was it. Finis. For two days I kept trying to catch his eye. I watched him playing football and cheered when he succeeded. I dropped my books at his feet in the classroom. He just watched as I picked them up again. I was, by