Mary, Queen of Scotch Page 2

  “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 be
en 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.

  “Bitch,” 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: bitch.

  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 pussy 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.

  Chapter 2

  “He’s not cheating on you,” I told my client, Arthur, the next day as we sat at a coffee shop a few miles from his house.

  “And you know this how?”

  I sipped my espresso with nonfat milk and a sprinkling of cinnamon. It seemed like something a drag queen would drink—since, apparently, I now was one, though where on my résumé that would go I hadn’t yet decided. “Um,” I said, mainly because I was treading in choppy waters here and was determined to stay afloat. Meaning, best not to tell your paying client that you attempted to lock lips with his husband and was summarily rebuffed, even if telling him such a thing would prove just what he was paying you to prove. And so, “Um,” I repeated.

  Arthur looked less than happy with my reply—or lack thereof. “I have another appointment, so if you would…”

  I nodded. “Right, right.” I flipped through my notebook. The pages were blank, but I’d learned in online school that you were supposed to take copious notes. I’d gotten as far as purchasing the notebook. I stole the pen from my bank. Still, the clients seemed to appreciate the effort, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. “I’ve been watching your husband for some time now, sir, following him when he leaves the house, when he’s away from you, even at his place of employment.”