*
“Sh-shaow ‘ahs yer teets!”The boy from the audience stumbled up. That’s when he tried to cop a grope off the lounge act. Not sure if the one on stage dressed up to the nines was into it or not. Closing act for the night that started (for some) with 3pm drinks at Drag Bingo – the highlight of this dump.
The hair, breasts, hips, legs in fishnets was almost all was on that kid’s impaired radar. Yelling at the stage as much as his inebriated mates, “shaw ‘ahs yer teets!”.
On second thought – he was lucky to be standing at all.
Princess, a sequinned-up cross between Amazonian Marilyn Monroe with cut of a dawn Pilates devotee. All in effort to appear as some variation of feller disguised as drag-queen. This camouflage once a week was better than nothing at all. That and every young football hooligan must have their day.
How could she be so stupid? Her hardbodied right arm flew a bitchslap back at the interloper. It was his hopeless reach to her as he faltered in the fall backward. She could feel them now, two tears careering down layers. That boy colliding with the floor might be about same age as her daughter, at least, would be. The foiled attacker wriggling uncontrollably on the ground looked like he was in throws of having an attack himself.
Multicoloured, stage lights pressed on. Despite this, she adjusted a right-hand memory-foam falsie back into place for the disco-yodel climax on Ronstadt’s last lines of Blue Bayou. First dump of rain hit hot streets. DJ scratched to a stop. A couple of staff were quizzing the friends there if the boy was epileptic. All they got were faces that suggested they were all there on fake I.Ds. Thunder clapped. She had another song before wrap but not tonight. No way. They’d dock her for throwing in the towel early but that was nothing. Paramedics always followed up with sirens, cops and questions and none of it was an option.
*
Fun fact: the average female, okay human woman; any who wear make-up regularly – consume 30-100g of lipstick each year. Makes you wonder what they put in that stuff. With this weather Princess clinched her quota months early. Water down in heavy sheets. Overnight case wrenched under arm as she assessed steps through dirty stormed canals before heels buckled up and dissolved.
Damn it. Couldn’t be three blocks from the club and still sirens. Drenched in mid-melt. Huddled under a shop awning. Was all still intact? White watered streets and taste of dripping foundation. A yellow flicker of light broke through the curtain, glowing over a giant billboard. Wasn’t she as Princess everything she wanted to be?
Through the rain posted on an empty side of a warehouse a 10 or 11 foot high Hilly Marshall looked back at her own image (without the makeup and heels).
They, he- didn’t even give this the airbrush he treated himself to. A look so ‘ordinary it was extraordinary,’ flat-chested roadmap-faced relic. Husband (and she used the term loosely) Chester’s bleached bright sucker’s smile to an inch of roots. It was the way that he – he wanted her to look awful. Her wrinkled hand upheld in his.
Underneath the word UNIFY.
What a joke! Who in hell would call their daughter Brunhilde? She hated the name, but not as much as ‘Chester’ like Chester Cheetah – the snack mascot. That was so right. It struck her. Nothing funny about it. Unavoidable as it was, the woeful woman on the billboard had played her part. Did she expect any better from him, his friends their past, the illusion of unity?
With enough makeup one could be anyone and yet – it would always be a lie. Any man who dolled himself up with prosthetic boobies, hourglass waist, fake lips, bright orange irises, eye shadow and cocktail outfit -to somehow lampoon women was understood – by everybody. This was a man impersonating women. Who in hell was she really kidding? A freezing shiver of drenched sequins sprayed around in full discharge like some stupid kid hopscotched over her frickin’ grave.
That’s when she spied the public restrooms.
*
The tight grip. Determined twist and unplug of the wig. Short cropped, pepper brown shock popped. Didn’t that ever feel great. That dripping piece was a platinum blonde fur scarf. She fell back with a deep breath out against the inside door of the toilet cubicle. Wig slung in arm. Her hair-band hit concrete. Damn it. That overdue relief – was however short lived; somebody’s footsteps from outside and march in weren’t at all female. She threw the wig and band back on half straight. To the sounds of a running tap and oddly masculine moans under the stream.
Ghoulish groans without pause. The restroom was compromised – probably by a homeless
person. All to be expected. But prolonged splashes and sound effects were, well – too much. Unless battling emphysema. Like a sort of little ole lady shakedown.
She felt around in a suitcase compartment for some pocket change. If that’s what they wanted, better have some ready and then be on her way.
Maybe she’d have better luck in the Mens?
Princess inched the door open to leave, as she did the noises ceased but a bumpkin doing his best drunk vagrant was leaned back, arms crossed, under a cowboy hat with one eye on his wristwatch like he had somewhere else to be. Propped up against the washbasin.
“E’m Jake, be’ yah cen ca’ meh Joker, Ma’am”.
Really? Eyelids narrowed as she crept forward with the suitcase as protection between them. “Eh lek’d yah sha’w. t’nigh’.”
Those riding boots of his somehow still bone dry. Accent wasn’t local. The look he gave was mentally undressing her. Wouldn’t he just love to tackle her to feel all her memory foam bits up on the way down?
“It was an accident.”
“Tha’ meh be’.”
No-one was coming to save her.
Air outside cooled and rain stopped.
“Da yah wanna see’h,” he half grinned. “Me’ badge – Pren-sess?”
What did this Joker already know? And what was it going to take for him to give her a break?
“I don’t want any trouble.” Each step was like being knee deep in treacle. “Alright, Joker? I have to get home.” Was it his posture or her view in the awkward creep past? Spied his holstered handgun glimmered in a hand basin mirror, slack off a rear rung of knotted bumpkin belt. This was probably his good cop act and wasn’t hanging around for bad cop.
*
“Shaw’s yer teets!” That’s all he wanted. A little attention from someone beautiful, well not beautiful but notable or something. That’s whether they had beer-goggles on or not. It was her job kinda. At least something she loved doing. Not to smack some kid in the face. Then poor soul wriggling on the floor with a mouthful of foam. He didn’t deserve any of it. Both Hilly and Princess are so sorry. Wherever he is now, if only he could find in his heart to forgive them for hurting him. They’d never do anything like that ever again. This matter wasn’t over but could hardly see how Joker could do anything about it.
Or what he really knew.
Those 6” heels. Few could fathom the difficulty to stay upright like a stilt walk. Three blocks from the high street. After only a couple of strides flat on her back against restroom brick-wall. From there was as good a place as any to catch breath. Eyes shot. under heavy lids. A fingertip or two in contact with the suitcase and good long, deep ones to relax.
If the shoes challenged – what if she ditched them and carried on barefoot? There was a gentle dripping off the edge of the roof. Grasshoppers perked up but her heart was racing like a hummingbird. “Wha’ yah doin’?”, he started, “kee’ tha’ up an’ you’ll pass ou’.”
“I’m sorry,” she hadn’t moved a muscle. “And who invited you?”
“Look Princess, I’ll cut ta’ the chase, a’righ’.”
By the smell of his aftershave and nearing proximity she dreaded opening eyes. But as she did, he raised upright from the crouch. It was on the ground he recovered her hairband. Before she could protest he was patting, preening and close to enough to kiss. Operating like any good entrepreneur to reset it all back into place. “We gotta boi’ in intensive care. Yo’ was there. Was a’ incident befo’, he ‘ad tha’ epi’eptic turn.”
He had her attention but she was still mum. “I don’ wanna pu’ words in yo’ mouth, a’igh? I’ll on’y sey they was a’ lookin’ fo’ yo.’”
“Y-you don’t look like the type to visit a drag-show.” She was doing her best Princess and God willing would finish the same way. “Jake, am I really under arrest?”
He held her firmly with both hands and eye to eye. Skinny green ones of suspicion. It was there she detected his thinly veiled disapproval – that’s before he dropped the next one. “Nah, bu’ if eh don’ get a proper statemen’ from ya – tonigh’ we can make tha’ happen.”
The longer she stayed out there, longer she was in danger of melting. Every wrinkle, dark circle or vein on display. Like Cinderella’s coach come pumpkin time. “Bu’ befo’ weh do tha’,” his work on her hairpiece was over . “Yo‘ ough‘a know, I – I rea’y like yo’.”
That operator moved in like he was angling for the kiss. “Eh think yo’ real’ attractive.” She wanted to protest but nothing came out. Those words of his stayed and he could tell.
Already had her suitcase in grip. Except this yokel cowboy was a cop.
*
The warmth inside his police car came as a welcome change. Feet and toes stretched out by the wet pumps. Didn’t mind him knowing where she lived – they knew all that stuff anyway. She toyed curiously with a pair of loose handcuffs.
“Tell me truly, this drag queen thin’ – Eh don’ go fo a’y tha’ gender iden’ity ga’bage.”
He pulled them off her and fastened away.
“Ah’ yo’ a boi o’gi’l?’” Had to know.
She didn’t kiss on first dates, not that any of this qualified as one. Under Princess her next move felt easier, if only. The heat was way up and he hadn’t even started the engine.
“Listen, Mister Joker – does it matter?”
*
The gilded cage of this old house didn’t fool her anymore.
Lipstick application in Fire-Engine Red. A popular favourite. Tasted great.
Went with her ruby beret – packed away for so many years. Until tonight.
Hilly Marshall looked somehow different. Taller – more self assured. If the mirror on the back of
the door to this walk-in-wardrobe was worth anything. Last night with Chester – sleeping on his
side again and snoring. Maybe bedside one or two nights a week. God knows where and with whom he spent the rest of his nights.
None of it was easy. They needed to speak – that much was sure.
Mumbling from his depths, “it’s damsels, Hilly – damsels and damsel’s damsels. All
damsels in distress.” If it wasn’t for Jake she’d be on the fuzzy end of shakedowns and stakeouts. She’d be kissing him again tonight.
The boy from the club recovered in hospital but as the butt of everyones jokes. A spiked drink was said to be the culprit. Could anyone ever imagine anything like that happening – unless he was – in a gay bar. That red beret was staying on but she could certainly use more blue eyeshadow. It was reassuring that a piece of Princess was still there – alive and kicking inside her.