Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (22 page)

“A drag queen,” Sparkle said, interrupting my epiphany.

“A star!” I corrected.

“Whatever, Mary. But I will say this for ya, you got guts going out there looking like that.” And the two of us left my office and went back to finish the afternoon rush. I felt a change coming on, friend. A mighty big change.

***

Over the next few days, Sparkle and I practiced being Trinny and Toby as our audience grew and grew. Word had apparently gotten out about the two wacky drag queens at the bookstore, and we became standing-room-only. Kiki came by before he went to work each day to make our faces and Sharon brought us new outfits and wigs. And though they dug their claws into each other as often as possible, secretly, I think Sparkle and Kiki were starting to appreciate each other. Their digs got less and less caustic and more, well, sort of chummy.

I for one was glad for it, too. It was hard having my friends on separate teams, and if it took a fake ass and falsies to bring us all together, then so be it. Which brings up something I’m sure you’ve been waiting patiently for: another gay rule. So here goes, Gay Rule #8: your friends are your family. It’s a short one, and it carries a lot of baggage, but the quicker you find it out, the better off you’ll be. And, even though I’m not sure if I picked this family or if it picked me, I knew for certain that I was glad to be a part of it, sick and twisted as they all were, because, at the end of the day, they were all mine.

Of course, as we got closer to the big event, we also got closer to the trial. Sparkle didn’t say as much, but I knew he was nervous about it. Still, I had faith in my Allen. As it turned out, though, we had very little to worry about. The whole thing lasted about ten minutes. With no one pressing charges and it being Sparkle’s first offense, the judge told him to behave himself in the future, fined him five hundred dollars, and gave him sixty hours of community service. Sparkle whispered into Allen’s ear to ask the judge if the drag show could be considered community service. That, of course, was a big no.

Allen, anyway, already had something lined up for Sparkle, and it wasn’t what I had imagined. Sparkle, in fact, was even more against it, until Allen told him the alternatives. See, for the next six weeks, Sparkle was to be, and this is only funny in retrospect, a big brother to a troubled gay teen. The alternatives? Feeding the homeless, picking up garbage on the side of the road, meals on wheels, and a whole array of depressing and/or messy alternatives. Sparkle balked, but in the end agreed to Allen’s choice.

Honestly, I hoped that this kid was emotionally stable enough, because I couldn’t imagine what good Sparkle could do for him short of teaching him how to accessorize or mix a good martini. Granted, these are two very important abilities, but not ones a troubled teen desperately needs.

Luckily, and I use the term quite loosely here, Sparkle’s ward would not need mentoring for another two weeks, as he was still in a youth detention ward upstate. So, at least for the next week, Sparkle could concentrate on our act. Allen whispered to me that he thought that a little responsibility might be good for Sparkle. I had my doubts, as it never seemed to help in the past, but I nodded my head in agreement anyway. It seemed a hell of a lot better than standing on the side of the road in an orange jumpsuit picking up trash. (Sparkle is a spring, not an autumn, and orange just washes him out.)

After the trial, or whatever it was that we’d just experienced, Allen dropped us off at the store and went back to his office. Sharon was waiting for us with two cold gin and tonics and two brand new wigs. Just what the doctor ordered! Once safely ensconced in someone else’s hair, we felt one hundred percent better. So we cranked up the tape deck and lip-synched our way through two Tori Amos songs, one Kate Bush, and a few Barbra Streisand’s for good measure. With each song, the crowd got more lively and dense, and by closing time we were chock-full and had completely forgotten about the day’s bad start.

Kiki came by once he finished for the day, and the three of us closed Classics II with a rousing rendition of The B-52’s
Wig
. Kiki did the Fred Schneider parts and Sparkle and I did Kate and Cindy. Each time he screamed, “What’s that on your head?”, we would throw a wig into the audience. By the end of the song, everyone was wearing one. It was a glorious sight to behold. Wigs, as it turns out, are the great equalizer. (Who knew?) Someday, we intend on taking a big truck-full of wigs to the U.N. in New York, where we plan on convincing all those dignitaries to put one on. We’re sure that world peace will be realized shortly thereafter. (Hey, they laughed at Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin a couple of hundred years ago, and they all wore wigs, didn’t they?)

***

And then, before we realized it, the three weeks had gone by and we were at The Stud getting ready for our premiere. I had the strangest feeling of absolute joy and excitement mixed with abject terror. Sparkle, though I had no idea how, was as calm as he could be.

“Sweetie,” I stormed over to him as he sat before the tiniest of tiniest makeup mirrors, and asked, “how in the world are you so relaxed?”

“Secret?” he said.

“Yes, Sparkle,” I responded.

“How long have you known me?”

“Jeez, it seems like eons, but I guess it’s somewhere around three years now. Why?” (I know, I know. By now, you’d think I’d have known better. But in my own defense, I was wearing a
blonde
wig.)

“Secret?” he said again.

“Yes, Sparkle,” I answered again.

“What are these?” he asked and pointed down at the table to a lump of pills that I had somehow overlooked.

“Oh, damn it all to hell, why did you let me get all flustered when you had those the whole fucking time?” I demanded and grabbed one of each.

“For pure entertainment value, Secret. Besides, we have a full forty-five minutes to go until the show, which gives you plenty of time to get relaxed. Hey, how many of those things did you take?” he asked, counting what was left of the pills he’d set down. “Forget relaxed, catatonic is more like it. You better tell me now what it should say on your gravestone.”

“Mom and dad, I’m gay. How’s that?” I replied and pushed him out of the way so that I could get my turn at the mirror. Kiki and Larry were dressing at home, and so Sparkle and I were on our own until Sharon could make it to put on the finishing touches.

“Well, that’s one way to avoid the issue,” Sparkle commented and started in on his makeup using a hand-held mirror.

“Really, are there more ways to do it. Because, if there are, could you please write them down?” I guess I was mostly joking, even though I knew I had to tell them sometime. Lately, it had been really nagging at me. Of course,
lately
I was dressing up as a woman, so maybe my judgment was just a tad impaired. I mean, between the too tight shoes and the two-pound wigs, I probably wasn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain in order to make a sound decision anyway.

Just then, Sharon arrived with Allen, Kiki, Larry, and a terrified looking stranger in tow. All four men looked liked they would rather be anyplace but there, and I figured that the unknown gentleman was the last of our drag troupe. They were already in their outfits for the night, so all Kiki had to do was start in on their makeup, while Sharon finished off Sparkle and myself. Ten minutes later, we were six overly dressed, overly buxom, overly everything wo-men.

With only a few minutes to go until our curtain call, Kiki handed us some note cards and wished us luck. Of course, we had practiced our songs, but neglected our introductions. Oh well, the drugs had kicked in by then and I no longer cared. Sparkle said we’d just wing it, which was fine by me. Besides, what could go wrong? (Stop snickering up there.)

Before we could even look at the cards or wish each other luck or escape for our lives, we heard music coming from the other side of the door, which was Kiki’s cue to go out and introduce us. Kiki, who for the remainder of the evening was (are you ready for this?) Miss Eta Bug, looked at us apprehensively and lurched forward through the stage door.

Immediately, we heard a loud cheer go up from behind said door. And when I say loud, I mean nearly deafening. Loud enough to slice right through all those lovely pills I’d taken. Even Sparkle, who, without pharmaceutical intervention, was naturally unperplexable, looked panicky and made a quick grab for my hand. We both squeezed for dear life.

And then we heard it…

“Ladies and gentlemen and all forms in between… please welcome to the stage… the lovely, the glamorous, your hosts for this evening… Miss Trinidad aaaand Tobago.” If my heart hadn’t stopped it had at least skipped a few beats. Kiki rushed back to us and handed us each a microphone and promptly collapsed at Larry’s feet. Drama with a capital D.

Sparkle went out first, and his hand in mine was replaced by Allen’s. In all the excitement, I had fairly ignored my paramour. It didn’t help that my hot lawyer-man was now a towering mess of drag. Secretly, I was glad that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t make a pretty woman. Allen was, let’s see how to put it…
arf, arf, arf
. Plus, he was sweating profusely beneath his makeup and wig as I gave him an air kiss and wished him well. He did the same before we both peered out the door.

From my viewpoint in the wings, all I could see was the stage and Sparkle. And though I couldn’t see the audience, I could most certainly hear them. The din was ear splitting. The crowd was screaming and banging their feet on the floor and their hands on the bar and walls. Sparkle, remarkably, was retaining his composure. Actually, he appeared to be reveling in the ovation. That, thank goodness, had a calming effect on me. I knew that he would be there for me (the drugs helped, though) and so I stood and waited in anticipation for my introduction.

That took awhile, as the crowd was slow in quieting down. Sparkle, for his part, was giving them a show. A little leg here, a little shoulder there, and a hair flip every few seconds, and the audience would be whipped up all over again. I had to admit it, he looked amazing. You know the outfit that Marilyn had on when she was singing happy birthday to JFK? Well, that was close to it, only tighter and sluttier. And, as always, no underwear. Sparkle may have been happy dressed as a woman, but he wanted no mistakes that he was all man underneath. I’m sure the people up front were getting quite a deluxe view. (See, when they say ring-side seats, I doubt they mean cock ring.)

After several minutes, Sparkle finally made the
okay, quite down now
motion with his hands, and the audience reluctantly obeyed. Then it was show time.

“My, my, my, aren’t you a stellar crowd?” he began, and the audience went back to their hootin’ and hollerin’. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, as you well know, we’re here tonight to help send our boys off to Seattle. And I for one am always willing to do my part in helping out anything that involves playing with large, hard sticks and round, tight balls.” Sparkle licked his lips and grabbed his crotch for effect. Naturally, it worked, as the shouts and clapping erupted forth again. “Of course, as you all know, Trinidad never works alone, so let’s hear it for my partner in crime and your co-host for the evening… the lovely… the talented… the ripped up to her britches… Miss Tobago… (Not yet.)… Miss Tobago… (Still not yet.)… (Pause.)… Toby, get your fat ass out here!” (That was it.)

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you,” I rasped into the microphone and then slowly made my way on stage. Again, my ears were greeted to an uproarious shout. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before and I was instantly covered in goosepimples from head to throbbing toe. It was like an orgasm without the sticky, gooey mess. Naturally, I loved it, and my fear quickly gave way to elation. Then I put my hands over my eyes like a visor and scanned the crowd.

I’d been to The Stud on numerous occasions, but had never seen it anywhere near as packed as it was that night. Virtually all of our regular customers were there, as was just about every person I’d ever seen Sparkle talk to before. He’d obviously been a very busy beaver (pun intended) over the prior several weeks. But now it was my turn to shine.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I announced into the microphone. “Could everyone please settle down for a moment? Thank you.” I waited for absolute silence and crossed my arms over my ample-bosom and tapped my foot so they’d know that I was serious. “Now… that’s better. You, you over there,” I was pointing over at the adorable bartender closest to the stage. “Double gin and tonics, and keep them coming. And speaking of coming… (I made a lascivious gesture to the bartender, who promptly turned red and fixed us our drinks.) Sparkle and I waited patiently for them to be delivered.

 “Oh, yes, yes… much better, Toby,” said Sparkle, downing his entire drink in one fell swoop. The audience loved it. And, never one to be upstaged (granted, it was my first time on stage, so I needed to set a precedent), I also downed my entire drink and then reached into the audience and downed someone else’s. (Yuck, bourbon.)

“Ah,” I ahed and wiped my mouth with my sequined sleeve. “Yes, lovely. Now, where were we? Oh yes, Bartender…”

“No, Toby,” Sparkle interrupted, “we’ve done that already. Tell them about the show. Remember the show?”

“Trinny, my love, of course I remember
la show
. I was just going to thank the bartender. Now, let’s see.” I began running my hands around my dress like I was looking for some pockets. “Oh, pooh, I haven’t any money on me to tip… to tip… what’s your name, Sweetie?”

“Chester,” yelled out the barkeep.

“Ah, Chester. Yes. How quaint. Well, Chester, it appears I have no money stashed away in my lovely gown to tip you with.” I kept searching around my dress until my hand landed on my crotch. “Oh my. Say, Chester, I believe I’ve found something to tip you with after all.”

“Leave the poor boy be, Toby. Besides, that’s clearly not even close to the twenty percent gratuity he so richly deserves.”

“Wicked bitch!” I hissed at my partner as I shot her a sly wink. “Well, anyway, Mister Chester, I’ll leave you my number in case you should want to retrieve your tip at a later time.” I shifted my crotch around, again for the enjoyment of my audience. Mostly. “Well, enough of that,” I said and flattened out my gown and poofed up my hair. “Now, on to the business at hand… (pause)… um, er, why was it we’re here again, Trinny?” I scratched my head and tilted my wig out of sorts.