Mary, Queen of Scotch

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Dying inside a whiskey barrel is not how I pictured myself going. Old-age, sure, that would’ve been preferred—highly, even. I’d have also taken: trampled at a Britney concert; crushed after falling off the Eiffel Tower while on a date with Chris Hemsworth— A.K.A. Thored to death; or shot in Texas, mainly because I’ve often said that I’d never be caught dead there. But pickled inside an overly-large oak cask? Yeah, not so much.

To be fair, said cask, at the time, was filled with a rather nicely blended scotch whiskey—and further blended with yours truly, Mary, Queen of Scotch, drag queen extraordinaire and noted private eye. And if you’re thinking that, wow, isn’t it ironic that a drag queen named Mary, Queen of Scotch was about to meet her maker while crammed and jammed inside a whiskey barrel, then you’d be wrong; it would’ve only been ironic had I accidentally found myself inside said barrel, perhaps for a little nip and/or nap, and then got trapped in there—again, accidentally. But there was nothing accidental about being inside that barrel, and so irony, however much a drag queen simply adores it, was nowhere to be found. Ditto for a crowbar or a working cellphone—mine being quite booze-logged by that point—or Chris Hemsworth, in or out of Thor garb.

This all, of course, begs the question: how did an extraordinary drag queen and noted private eye wind up trapped in a rather large whiskey barrel? Ah, see, most of that aforementioned noted was noted by me, namely on Yelp, and it’s quite extraordinary that I became a drag queen to begin with. In other words, I’m a drag queen and private eye by trade, but those nifty added adjectives are a matter of opinion, mostly mine—and my mom’s.

In other words, my dying in a whiskey barrel isn’t really all that surprising. Sad, to be certain. Awful, you betcha. But surprising, nah, not really. And a five-star rating on Yelp doesn’t do you much good when the barrel lid is nailed shut and you’re very much crowbar/cellphone/Thor-less. It does you even less good when it was you and your mom who left you two of the four Yelp reviews.

Meaning, I was ready to hear Gabriel blow that old horn of his, preferably in a Britney medley, with or without Auto-Tune—preferably with, if only for continuity sake.

Perhaps, I should’ve simply become an accountant. That’s what Dad wanted, Dad also being an accountant. Dad has eighty-seven five-star Yelp reviews, by the way, and I doubt he left any of them. Though Mom probably added a few, Mom being Mom. Plus, accountants rarely get nailed inside whiskey barrels. Mob accountants, maybe, but Dad didn’t work for the mob. Least I don’t think so, what with us being Jewish and all. And while Jews do so love Italian food, that’s not quite the qualifier.

Mom, by the way, a tiny woman with a ginormous personality, is a part-time librarian. There’s humor in that, as Mom couldn’t keep her mouth shut even if it’d been stapled and Crazy-Glued. I couldn’t picture her shushing anyone so much as egging them on. Knowing Mom, she probably chose the job so she could have endless people to talk to for five minutes at a time. After five minutes, my mom finds people annoying. I’m rarely an exception to that rule.

Anyway, I did become a private eye on purpose; the drag queen thing was by chance. Perhaps fate. I mean, cheek bones like mine don’t grow on trees. And how many thirty-year-old men still have a twenty-eight-inch waist? Sure, the girdle helps, but still.

The funny thing is, the private eye business is how I became a drag queen in the first place. Though I suppose funny isn’t exactly apt, all things considered—all things being me stuffed inside an oaken soon-to-be-coffin, sloshing around in a rather nicely blended scotch.

See, I was on a case at the time—the time I became a drag queen, that is to say. The case of the cheating husband. Presumably. Theoretically. Allegedly. I mean, my client, husband number one, thought that husband number two was cheating, and so he hired me to prove and/or disprove said presumed, theoretical, alleged belief. I’d already been a detective for three years. Licensed and everything. Trained by the best. Online. I was a barista before that. Starbucks. In person, not online. You do the math, but one and one equals anything is better than working at Starbucks, anything being detective work. FYI, the ad made it look glamorous. FYI, it wasn’t, but it paid the bills and you rarely got scalded by hot milk.

But back to the case.

Arthur, my client, was sixty. His husband, Chad, was twenty-three. Arthur looked like Mister Roper from Three’s Company. Chad looked more like Jack Tripper, John Ritter in his younger days. If you don’t watch TV Land, then, to translate, odds were good that Chad was indeed cheating. Or not. Though ten to one he was. Like I said, good odds. And even better money, easy money. Follow Chad, snap some pictures, pass Go, collect cash. Voilà, and again, easy. Or, again, not. P.S., I didn’t trust Arthur from the get-go. Call it detective’s intuition, but if he was on the up-and-up, I was guessing the up was in the up-to-no-good category. Still, I took his money. Beggars, choosers, blah, blah, blah.

In any case, Chad was at home most days. I took photos of Chad lounging by the pool, mowing the lawn, and gardening. I took photos because Chad did all these things shirtless and because Chad looked like a young version of John Ritter, with an impish grin and a sparkle in his eyes. Not to mention an ample bulge in his too-tight shorts, which often yielded an ample bulge in my slacks, which often resulted in my bulge unbulging itself, which is, yes, a distinct advantage of working alone in your car. And, no, they didn’t mention that in the online detective school ad, but they should have. Just saying.

Anyway, Chad seemed the perfect husband. Emphasis on the perfect. So that left Chad’s nights for him to get up to no good. And Chad’s nights, twice a week, were spent at a local gay bar, the Out-N-Out. On the surface of things, that alone was damning evidence, but Chad wasn’t cruising so much as working those two nights—in heels and a wig. In other words, in drag.

“Why do you think he’s cheating, sir?” I asked Arthur before I took the case.

Arthur shrugged. “He doesn’t have s*x with me anymore.”

I paused, not wanting to state the obvious and more wanting the easy cash. I shrugged in reply. Mom always said, if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything. A shrug equated to the latter.

So that’s how I wound up at the club. But Chad worked behind stage, behind a locked door, behind a door with a sign that read: MEN IN FROCKS ONLY! Which is to say, I had no access to him, to any sort of evidence that he was cheating. Or not. Though when you’re betting ten-to-one, the one rarely rolls around.

Anyway, long and the short of it, that’s how I became a drag queen. Out of necessity. Fate might’ve had her nasty little hand in all that, but so did Goodwill. Mainly because Goodwill charged by the pound for women’s apparel; fate made me pay in other ways. Namely, slowly dying in a whiskey barrel. f*****g fickle finger of fate, ramming itself up my ass without so much as a dollop of slick lube.

“Why am I applying blush to you, Barry?” Mom asked, after she went blouse shopping with me at Goodwill.

“I already told you; I’m on a case.”

She sighed. “Starbucks seemed less dangerous.” I showed her the burn mark next to my thumb. Whoever said not to cry over spilt milk didn’t have scalding milk spilt on them. “Still,” she added, “at least you didn’t have to wear rouge and lipstick.”

“I had to wear beige slacks,” I lamented. “Beige, Ma. Beige.” I emphasized it the third time. It beared emphasizing.

She sighed and moved onto the mascara. “Just don’t tell your dad.”

I giggled. The brush tickled. “I already did.”

She paused. She frowned. “What did he say?”

I shrugged. “He asked me not to tell our rabbi.”

Sagely, she nodded. “Smart.” She moved her head back a bit, to better take me in. “Not bad.”

I smiled. “Good genetics.”

I got a roll of her eyes in return. “I’m already helping; you don’t need to butter me up.”

“Just hedging my bets.” Mom, you see, loves her butter. Both figuratively and literally. Mom reminds me of Shelley Winters in her later years, more zaftig, less s*x-kitten, still gritty and brash.

She moved away and threw me the clothes we bought at Goodwill. I already had a Halloween wig. Two years old. I’d gone as a hippy. I pried the flowers free and gave it a good comb-through. I slipped it on last, after the blouse and the skirt and the heels. It all felt uncomfortable. I, in fact, felt uncomfortable.

“Cher?” I asked hopefully.

She tilted her head a bit. “More like Sonny wearing lipstick.”

I walked to the mirror. That is to say, I tripped to the mirror, wobbling as I stared at myself. A fishy queen I was not. That is to say, I wouldn’t be getting free drinks at the bar on ladies’ night. “Thank God this is only temporary then.” Like a herpes outbreak. Meaning, temporary until it flared back up.

“You look like your grandmother,” she said.

“Thanks?”

“At least you have a good personality, Barry.”

I was gone before she could further complement me—if that’s what she was attempting to do. I drove back to the bar. I didn’t pass my temple, just in case. I drove with the heels off. I wished I could’ve walked without them, too. I figured that massive corns loomed in my future. Stalks of them. I caught my reflection in the mirror. I tossed my catch back. I looked like a raven-haired Raggedy Ann doll, though more raggedy than Ann. Like Andy on the losing end of a bet.

I pulled into the bar’s parking lot a short while later, luckily snagging the last free spot. My stomach did a series of somersaults, all scoring perfect tens from the judges. I’d never been nervous on a case before. I liked detective work. I liked uncovering the truth, finding pieces to puzzles, then solving said puzzles. But mostly, I did all that from behind the scenes, sifting through paperwork, spying from fifty feet away. This was decidedly different. I was suddenly Mata Hari, incognito on the front lines. FYI, Mata Hari died a horrible death.

I teetered inside. I was a half a foot taller than usual, ducking as I entered. Alice met looking glass in that instant. Where was the pill that would shrink me back to normal size? Better yet, where was the drink to calm my nerves?

“Jonnie Walker and soda,” I said to the bartender. “Please.”

He smiled my way. “Coming right up, pretty lady.”

It should be noted that the bar made a bat cave seem bright in comparison, and darkness was a girl’s best friend—drag queens and vampires, in fact. Who knew there was such a commonality? In any case, dark though it was, you could still see how packed the place was. See and hear, that is, the din just below a roar as the men waited for the show. Apparently, they had drag seven nights a week there. This was all news to me as I’d never been to the bar before, this not being my neck of the woods.

The barkeep poured. He stirred. He handed. I drank, then sighed. “Better.”

“You new around here?” he asked. “Performing tonight, I mean?”

I gulped. “Testing the waters.” One swollen pinky toe at a time.

He nodded. “Name?”

I started to reply. Barry, I almost said. But I wasn’t Barry that night. Barry didn’t wobble in high heels. Barry didn’t wear fake lashes and equally fake t**s. The bartender wasn’t asking about Barry, though. I was taught in online detective school to think fast. Don’t appear nervous. If you have to lie, do so convincingly and make it a lie you can easily remember down the line.

“Mary,” I replied, willing my hand not to shake as I took a sip. Mary was good, I reasoned. Quintessential. I stared at my drink as I set it down. I smiled. The bar brightened as a light pulsed above my bewigged head. “Mary, Queen of Scotch.” And a legend was born—even if only in my head.

“Nice to meet you, Mary,” said the bartender. “Name’s Ray. Ray Charles.”

I shook the extended hand and grinned. “Did your parents have a penchant for blind soul singers?”

He shrugged. “Doubtful. It’s short for Raymond. As in everybody loves.” He released my hand, then pointed to the mostly empty tip jar. “Oh well. Not everybody, I suppose.” The shrug got joined with a sigh. “In any case, you performing tonight? I don’t see you on the roster.” He pointed behind me to a screen on the wall. There was indeed a roster. My name, suffice it to say, was not listed.

“Last minute addition,” I said. “I’m a friend of Chad’s.” Tangentially, but still.

“Lucy? She didn’t mention it.” The shrug returned in full force as he walked around the bar and motioned for me to follow. Ray passed under a dim light. He looked less like Ray Romano, more like Ray Liotta. Italian, probably. Early forties, maybe ten years older than me. He was easy on the eyes. Then again, he’d called me pretty, so lord only knew what he looked like in the light of day. In any case, he trotted over to the stage door, pushing through the still-growing crowd, and unlocked it, then bowed courteously, and said, “Dressing room is on the right. Have a good show.”

My gulp made a triumphant reappearance. Show? Um, yeah, the online detective school didn’t teach performance art. They taught you how to lie convincingly—and legally, of course—even how to disguise yourself, but lip-syncing in heels and a cheap hippy wig wasn’t part of the curriculum. Mainly because their idea of a disguise was a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap, and, I had a feeling, that wasn’t going to cut it at Out-N-Out.

“Thanks, Ray,” I said as I walked inside a narrow corridor, the door closing behind me. The click of metal meeting metal made me jump. A trickle of sweat threatened to ruin my mom’s paint job. The wig was hot and scratchy. It was also flammable. It said so on the inside label. I wondered how often they caught fire and what the circumstances were at times such as those. As to my feet, they were already killing me. And if I lifted my arms, I was sure I’d find Lake-Ontario-sized pit stains.

“You can do this,” I whispered to myself under my breath. “It’s a job. I’m being paid to be here. Keep calm. Act like you belong.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Again, I jumped—and jumping in heels is even harder than walking in heels. I turned. It was Chad, A.K.A. Lucy, A.K.A. Lucille Balls. She had on a red wig, red lipstick, pale skin, a form-fitting dress, padded in all the right places. Still, it was Chad underneath. Of that I was certain.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

If you only knew, I thought. “I’m a friend of Ray’s.” I reached out a hand. “Mary, Queen of Scotch.”

She grinned. “Clever.” She was attractive as a woman in the same way she was handsome as a man. Me, I was attractive as a woman in the same way Robin Williams was in Mrs. Doubtfire. “You performing tonight, Mary?”

I coughed. “I’m, uh, I’m not dressed for it.”

She gave me the once-over, twice. “Clearly.” Ouch. “We’re about the same size. You can borrow something of mine.” She was grabbing my hand and pulling me along before I could object. And, trust me, I wanted to object. Loudly. And with great aplomb. I object, your honor! On the grounds that I have no talent, am not a drag queen, and only have four Yelp reviews, two of which are fake! But I didn’t object. I had my job literally in hand—and a yanking hand at that. This was my chance. Easy, like I said. Until it wasn’t.

I found myself in a dressing room. There were three other “girls” already inside, all in front of their mirrors applying their makeup. Though slathering was more appropriate. Apartment buildings had weaker foundations. My mom spent five minutes on me. I had a feeling it took more like five hours to look like Lucy.

“Girls,” Lucy said. “Meet Mary, Queen of Scotch.”

The queen nearest to me waved her hand. “I’ll have a double.”

“On the rocks, sweetie,” said the one next to her.

“With a straw,” said the third, pointing at her already made-up lips, which were twice the size of her actual ones, or so it appeared. Bozo, in fact, would’ve asked for pointers.

I shook my head. “I’m, uh, not a waiter…er, tress. Not a waitress.” I blinked through the flop sweat.

They all stopped their pre-show rituals and glared at me. “No room at the inn, honey,” said the queen closest to me. “Try the manger down the street.”

Lucy patted my shoulder. “Ignore her, Mary. Luna is the bitchy one of the group.”

And the queen next to Luna said, “I thought I was the bitchy one?”

And the third one said, “I thought that was me.”

Lucy sighed and flung me to a chair in the back of the room. “Bitchiest. Luna is the bitchiest of us.”

They all nodded and went back to their makeup. Luna turned one last time, squinted my way, seemingly realized I was no competition, and began to apply eyelashes the size of a cow’s.

Lucy pointed at each of them in turn. “Luna Tic, Auntie Bellum, and Pearl Necklace.” She leaned in and added in a whisper, “They’re all equally bitchy, by the way.”

She smelled nice, all up close and personal like. Or was it that he smelled nice. She, he? I was confused. I went with she, what with the pretty dress and even prettier makeup. In any case, she smelled nice. Not like a girl. Manly. Manly mixed with makeup. It was an odd dichotomy. Then again, all this was odd. She also had the greenest eyes. Like shimmering emeralds. The binoculars didn’t do them justice. So, yeah, I had a semi-woodie as I sat there, but I knew what she looked like under all that makeup and garb. Down, boy, I willed it. But woodie was not to be willed. Woodie simply pulsed and leaked.

“And you?” I whispered back, our eyes locking, a bolt of adrenaline shooting off sparks inside my belly.

She purred. “All bark, no bite.” Her hand was suddenly on my knee. “At least that’s what my husband says.”

The spell was broken. The spark fizzled and promptly died. “You’re, uh, married?”

She lifted her hand and pointed to a gold band.

“Happily?” I tossed in, ever the detective. Plus, curiosity was killing my cat, truth be told.

Luna joined the conversation with a holler of, “God rolled him out just before dirt.”

Lucy glared at her drag sister and shrugged. “Arthur is a bit, um, older than me.”

“Like you’re a freshman and he’s a senior kind of older?”

She grinned. Even so, she looked sad. Or maybe that was me projecting.

Luna again joined in before Lucy could reply. “More like senior citizen, hon.”

Lucy stood and clapped her hands together. She looked at a clock on the wall. “Ladies,” she said. “It’s show time.” It seemed that the subject was changed. She then hurried to a rack of clothes. She tossed me something glittery and pink. Shoes were slid on. A new wig was proffered, also in pink. “No time for better makeup.” She pointed at my frowning mug. “This’ll have to do.”

I blinked. Do? Do for what? What was happening here? “Why?” I asked. “You don’t even know me.”

“Any friend of Ray’s.”

Again, I blinked. Seemed I’d gotten myself into quite a pickle. A dilly of one, in fact. Kosher, of course. I started to object. She smiled at me as the music outside the door beat through. Her sadness evaporated like rain in the bright light of day. There was suddenly a buzz of electricity in the room, the feeling palpable.

Luna rushed past me in a flutter of feathers. “Just put the damn dress on and hurry.” She turned and sighed. “The carriage turns back into a pumpkin all too soon, sweetie.” She was out the door in a flash. Literally. Because her gown had suddenly lit up as she exited. A Christmas tree should be so bright.

I looked at the shimmering dress now gripped in my hand. Would slipping it on turn me into that aforementioned carriage or simply make me look like a gussied-up pumpkin? I glanced at Lucy. “I’m still kind of new at this.” Like five-minutes-new, like I still had that new carpet smell. Only, the smell was of fear. Abject. Terror-filled. I mean, did anyone look into the abyss and go, gee, isn’t all that endless black comforting?

Plus, I was on a case; I wasn’t a drag queen. I wished I could have told her that, wished I could have ran from that room, curly pumpkin stem tucked between my legs, but I was being paid. This was a job. I made an oath. Sort of. I mean, I signed off on something when I got my detective license. I owed this to my client, to the potential Yelp review.

“Just put the dress on, Mary,” she said as she crouched down and took my hand in hers, as a swarm of butterflies took wing inside my belly, as the abysmal black dissolved into brilliant white. “And half your tips go to me.” Her grin widened, as did the tenting in my dress.

Auntie Bellum snorted from behind me. “Tips? Cart before the horse on that one.” She walked past us and headed out the door, whinnying as she went.

Pearl followed close behind. “Half of nothing is still nothing, Lucy.”

“Bitchy,” I said, once we were alone.

She nodded. “Told you so.” She squeezed my hand. “Put the dress on. Everything will be okay.” She uncrouched. “Besides, it’s only drag.” But the way she said it made it sound like Seabiscuit saying that it was only the Kentucky Derby—or, you know, whinnying it. And then she, too, turned and headed out, saying over her shoulder, “Is Madonna okay?”

“Huh?” I huhed.

“For your number.”

I nodded. The door closed before I could reply. And yet, I smiled. Madonna I knew. I’d been singing along to Madonna for years and years. I might look like a great, big pumpkin or even Seabiscuit out there, but at least I’d know the words. And at least I’d still be on the case, still have my chance to find out if Lucy née Chad was cheating. Or not. Though probably the former.

All that is to say, I slipped on the dress.

“When in Rome,” I said, my voice shaky.

And it really was just drag. Though even as I thought that, I knew I didn’t believe it. Drag is to gays what jazz is to blacks, what bagels are to Jews, pizza to Italians, narrow-minded bigots to Republicans. It is at our core, blasphemy to deride, the worst kind of offense to do half-assed. And so, yes, after I kicked off my crummy heels, I slipped on the dress, and did so reverently.

It fit like a glove. Like OJ Simpson’s glove, that is. Which is to say, tightly. I made an oomph sound as I zipped up the zipper. My shoes were replaced by Lucy’s. They sparkled in various shades of red. Dorothy would’ve been jealous, though my feet ached just the same. My feet didn’t know they were being basted in Louboutins; they simply throbbed in protest. Seemed I had numerous body parts that throbbed at the most inopportune moments.

I hung up my wig and doffed Lucy’s instead, then turned around and stared at myself in the mirror. I then wisely flicked off the myriad of lights surrounding said mirror. “Oh, that’s better,” I said. And it was. Ru Paul wouldn’t be sending me acceptance letters any time soon, but it was a start.

But a start of what?

I took in a deep breath. Since my dress was so tight, and my shoes were so tight, and my wig was, well, you know the drill, my deep breath was actually treading in the shallow end, but after a few more of them, I was ready. Or, um, readyish. Ready as I’d ever be, that is to say.

Yeah, I wasn’t ready. Oh well.

I opened the door and tottered down the dark, narrow hallway. “Drag queens wobble, but they don’t fall down,” I said, then repeated it, then repeated it again, all mantra-like.

The stage was at the end of the hallway, a light at the end of the tunnel. Was this what dying felt like? Go into the light, Carol Anne. Lucy and Pearl were standing there, just out of sight of the audience, watching Auntie perform. I heard the Go-Go’s singing about how their lips were sealed. I poked my head between the other girls. Auntie was now in a body-stocking, a large X over her privates. Seemed her lips were sealed as well. I grinned.

“Hmm,” I whispered into Lucy’s ear—or at least overly large bouffant wig. “Does this crowd even know who the Go-Go’s are?” Said crowd was on the youngish side, you see. Then again, so was I, and I worshiped at the feet of Belinda Carlisle. I figured it was a gay gene thing. FYI, said crowd also seemed to be on the drunkish side, or was simply overstimulated by Auntie’s well-choreographed gyrations. Either way, they seemed to be enjoying her act. Maybe, I figured, hoped, crossed innumerable fingers, toes, and eyes, they were an easy audience to please. Or, like I said, were too drunk to care. I prayed, hoped, crossed innumerable fingers, toes, and, again, eyes for the latter. Or the former. Or both.

Lucy turned around to face me. “Why are your eyes crossed? You’re doing Madonna, not Barbra.”

I uncrossed them. “Never mind.” I kept my fingers and toes crossed, just in case. I figured I could use all the help I could get, gay gene or no gay gene.

Auntie took a bow and collected the cash that had been tossed on stage. Seemed like a big haul. I think I even spotted a twenty. And all she did was put tape over her hoo-hoo. My feet were sausaged into patent leather; they deserved at least a five-spot for all their efforts. Plus, they were keeping me, ahem, erect. Kudos for that, right?

Lucy was on next. Lucy rushed the stage. The crowd erupted. Lucy seemed to be popular. Given how beautiful she was, even when she was a he, I wasn’t surprised. She stood center-stage, a spot-light illuminating only her face. She stared up, off. She looked angelic. The music started. Grace Jones. “La Vie en Rose.” The song was nearly twice as old as Lucy. Thankfully, the song, not to mention Grace herself, was timeless.

The song rose and fell, awaiting its inevitable crescendo. Lucy’s lips never missed a beat. One would’ve sworn that Grace was singing through Lucy’s mouth—one being me, that is. And then the climax, the chanteuse wailing the title, over and over again. Gave me goosebumps. As for Lucy, it gave her a load of wampum. Cash came raining down. Pouring, in fact. FEMA would have to be called in soon, I reckoned.

“b***h,” grumbled Luna by my side.

“Cheap trick,” said Pearl.

“Takes one to know one,” said Auntie Bellum, who had disappeared after her act and had now reappeared.

I turned to them. “I thought you were all friends, sisters.” Or at least that’s how I always heard it told.

“Please, Mary,” said Luna. Given that my name was indeed Mary, that phrase took on a whole new meaning. “Step-sisters, at best.”

“Evil step-sisters,” cackled Auntie.

They all then pointed at the stage. “And that one,” said Pearl, “is the evilest of them all. That one has her own orchard of poisoned apples.”

I squinted at my newly-minted friend, the one who had literally given me the clothes off her back—or rack, but still. No way, I thought, but kept it to myself. Mainly because Lucy was quickly running off stage, hands full of cash, and the announcer was announcing me. ME!

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, the one, the only, Mary, Queen of Scotch.” It was Ray; I recognized his voice. Ironically, when you think of it, that phrase, the one, the only, isn’t really much of a complement. There is, in fact, only one of me. There was also only one Charles Manson, but you didn’t see a whole lot of people singing his praises—or throwing George Washingtons his way.

I stood there frozen. Medusa’s victims were more animate.

“Go,” said Luna.

I didn’t go.

“Now,” said Auntie.

Budge much? Nope.

“They’re waiting,” said Pearl.

Let them wait. There was an ice age just around the bend, anyway. Hell would freeze over. I would go on stage then.

Which is just what I did anyway. Mainly because Lucy gave one giant shove and out I went, Venus emerging, only I was quite shell-less. The music began just as I came to a standstill, my wig a second later. Like a virgin, indeed. And my cherry was about to get popped.

In some feet of amazement akin to the building of the Great Pyramid, I knew the song and somehow remembered the lyrics. Neither of which should be that surprising, given that I’m a gay man, but throw in the fact that I was in a dress a size too small at the time, in shoes a size too small at the time, on a stage in front a few hundred strangers at the time, then yes, you should be surprised. I mean, I certainly was. Shocked even. Delighted, but no less shocked.

I moved about, lip-synced for my life, flipped my hair at just the right moments, and, praise be to any and all powers up above, had a friend in the lighting man, who, I had a suspicion, was also Ray. In any case, whoever was lighting me was also lighting my cootch, bathing it in a deep, dark red every time I sang the chorus. “Like a virgin, touched for the very first time.” Boom, I was seemingly bleeding, hymen no longer intact. Genius. Not me, no, but the audience didn’t know that. Meaning, yes, praise again to whoever was watching over me, even if it was a bartender/announcer/lighting man, because the tips kept right on tipping, wadded up bills bouncing off me and the stage, ping, ping, ping—which is the sound wadded up bills make when they hit a too-tight dress. I think. Hard to tell over the sound of the cheers and screams. I suddenly felt like one of the Beatles. Paul. The cute one.

I turned and caught Lucy’s eye. She was smiling. Like before, she looked sad. Beautiful, but sad. My eyes went slightly to the right. They landed on Luna. I read her lips: b***h.

It seemed I’d made it.

I didn’t rush from the stage. In fact, I basked in the glow, in the adoration. I bowed, as best I could, which was just barely. I tried to curtsy; I failed and didn’t try again. I smiled and waved. This, I imagined, is what the Queen of England felt like. After all, we were both queens, right?

In any case, my time was up. I knew this because Luna was yelling this in my ear as she tried to push me off stage, eager, it seemed, to start her own number, but not before I collected my well-earned tips.

“Amazing,” said Lucy. “You’re a natural.”

Pearl harrumphed. “Because her p***y bled? Please, Mary.”

“That’s my name!” I grinned, if only to piss her off. I didn’t know Pearl, but I could already tell I didn’t like her. She gave a bad first impression. I had a feeling her second and third were even worse. There was something hard about her. In fact, there was something hard about all of them, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

In any case, I headed back to the dressing room. I felt lightheaded. I needed to sit down. I needed a drink. I needed a drink while I was sitting down. Lucy followed. We were alone again a moment later.

“Thank you,” I said to her, the exhilaration at last waning, if only by a synthetic hair.

She smiled. The sadness was still there, masked as it was in lord only knew how many pounds of pore-blocking makeup. “Someone helped me once; just paying it forward.”

I thought to ask who that someone was. I thought it, but my lips were thinking something else, namely that they wanted to have a meet and greet with the lips directly across from them. In they went. That is to say, in they tried to go, but the landing was quickly aborted.

I moved in. Lucy turned her face away and gave a gentle push to my padded chest. “I’m married, Mary,” she said, calmly, gently. “I, um, I don’t…” She pointed at me, to my hovering and ever-so-lonely lips.

“Never?”

She shook her head and pointed to her wedding ring. “Never.”

I sighed.

Case solved.

Or so one would think.