Friday, 6:17 p.m.
Angela Woolsey was wrapping up her report on Mamie. I didn’t want to watch, so I sat on Claude’s luxurious blue couch nursing a glass of dark red wine while Lee and Claude watched in their kitchen. Soon after I heard the television go silent, I felt Claude patting me on the shoulder with his enormous hand.
“Well done, kid,” he said. I smiled in return.
Lee floated into the room. “She did a great job,” he said. “Everyone is going to be looking for little Mamita now. We’ll get her back by tomorrow at the latest.”
“I hope so.”
“So,” he said. “What are you going to do now?”
“Not much.”
“Well, you can’t mope around here all night by yourself.” Lee was worried about me. It’s possible he was right to be.
“I won’t be by myself,” I countered. “Claude will be here.”
“Claude will be in bed by eight with his HGTV, and he’ll fall asleep in the middle of someone flipping one of those goddamn McMansions by eight thirty.”
“Do you have any more wine?” I asked.
“Not for you I don’t.”
Claude had already sauntered into the other room, but decided to be unhelpfully helpful. “There’s a whole case in the garage.”
“Look, I’m not going to allow you to sit around and drink yourself into a suicidal depression.”
“I’m not depressed.”
Lee gave me a look.
“I mean, of course I’m depressed, but I’m having a depressing life right now. It’s nothing chemical.”
“Oh, so let’s just pour alcohol all over it and sit alone in a dark room all by ourselves.”
“I’ll leave a light on, I promise.” I began to fall back on the giant blue couch. God, I loved that couch. More than anything I needed to find Mamie, but in the meantime all I wanted was Claude’s fluffy cerulean velvet pillows under my head.
Before I could complete my downward glide, Lee grabbed my arm and jerked me upward. I hated Lee. “Venga. You’re coming with me.”
“Coming with you where?”
“I got a show tonight. You can help me get ready.”
Lee had a show every other Friday at Pansy’s Bar & Grill. His alter ego, Banana Daiquiri, was the principal hostess of Drag Bingo. Typically, it took him about an hour in front of a mirror to transform himself into Señorita Banana.
“No. No way. Seriously, why would you make me do this? C’mon, Lee, I’ve only ever been good to you.”
He took me by the hand and led me like an unwilling toddler past Claude in his recliner and down the hall to the master bath, where he’d already laid out his powders and paints in front of a backlit magnifying mirror.
“Let’s make some magic, papi.”
Friday, 8:02 p.m.
“Drive faster. We’re late. Shit, shit, shit.”
“Relax,” I said. “The first round doesn’t even start for another hour.”
“But you have to warm up the crowd before the game starts,” she explained—she being the newly transformed Banana Daiquiri with red lips, wide hips, long lashes, and foam rubber tits, thanks to the sorcery of cosmetics and modern chemistry. “Otherwise you’re just interrupting their hookups and they hate you.”
Tonight, Señorita Banana was in full Carmen Miranda mode, including a headdress—now in her lap—featuring cherries and bananas circling around a giant pineapple in the center. Needless to say, I was behind the wheel. “Calm your tits, lady. We’re almost there.”
On show nights, Banana could park in the lot behind Pansy’s where we could sneak in through the kitchen without being seen by the patrons. We decided to take Lee’s car because it would be recognized and no one would call for a ticket or a tow truck. Before I could put the car in park, Banana was already fumbling to undo her seat belt and open the passenger door. “Vamonos, vamonos.” She affixed the headdress to her head, grabbed her makeup bag, a pair of six-inch platform heels, and a bag full of bingo chips, and ran for the back entrance. Getting from the car to the door was no easy feat for a drag queen in a giant hat, a bikini top, a flowing skirt festooned with various Frida Kahlo self-portraits, and puffy winter boots.
Miraculously, I made it to the stage door before she did and opened it. “Madam.”
“Gracias, señor.”
Her dressing room was a small closet stacked with cases of vodka, vodka, and fruit-flavored vodka, with an end table and a barstool. I pondered for a moment why the American homosexual held brown liquor in such disdain. With a keen sense of urgency, Banana began to unpack.
I loitered in the hallway outside for a while. “Do you need me?”
“No, you’re fine. Here, take a seat.”
“I think I’m going to go inside and get a drink.”
She tut-tutted. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“Look, I’m having the shittiest weekend of my life, okay? I’m upset.”
“Lo sé, honey. But I don’t know that you should get so drunk two nights in a row.”
“You brought me to a bar.”
“So? You’re staff tonight. You don’t have to do the two-drink minimum.”
“Besides, Jack just texted me. He and Tucker will be here soon, so they can look after me in case I have a sudden desire to slit my wrists. Unless, of course, you need me here.”
She sighed. “Okay. Go.”
“You look beautiful.”
She leaned forward and puckered. We gave each other air kisses on each cheek so as not to smudge the delicate masterpiece that was her face, and I headed for the bar.
As I opened the door from the kitchen to the main bar, I was assaulted by the noise of the place. It wasn’t the usual syncopated thump of disco music. Instead, all the televisions were tuned to a Capitals game, and the crowd was groaning with disapproval at a missed goal.
Sports was always a mystery to me. I never understood how people got so despondent about this stuff. Then again, I remember how I felt when Glenn Close lost the Oscar for Dangerous Liaisons, so perhaps I shouldn’t judge.
I noticed one empty barstool at the very end of the bar, which signaled the faint possibility I might be able to order a drink within the hour. It had a clear view to the front door, so I’d know when Tucker and Jack arrived, and I’d have an opportunity to sit, which is the best position in which to be alone and feel sorry for oneself, next to lying down.
I forced my way through the crowd of people. Later, the dance floor would be filled with hordes of shirtless men—yes, even in January—who had spent two hours in the gym before setting out for the evening, but at the moment it was all sweatshirts and backward baseball caps, and the occasional twink with a jock fetish.
I noticed Tucker and Jack entering through the front. They had already seen me and were waving. When I waved back, Jack pointed to the other end of the bar, a signal to meet them there. I nodded and began pushing my way back through the crowd again.
When I finally arrived, Jack had already secured a barkeep’s attention. Somehow, being a gorgeous, chiseled specimen of unbridled masculinity made that an easier task in a place like this.
Tucker hugged me tight. “Whatcha drinkin’, sugar?”
Still in Tucker’s embrace, I turned to Jack. “Tanqueray martini. Dry, slightly dirty.” And Jack, in turn, relayed my order to the bartender.
Tucker pulled away. “That bad, huh?”
I nodded. It was that bad. I watched as the bartender poured just a drop of vermouth into a martini glass, swirled it around, and dumped it in the trash behind him. Perfect.
“No news, then?”
“Not yet, but we’ll find her.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Friday, 9:48 p.m.
Drag Bingo was already in full swing, and the third winner of the night was a tall Asian man who looked barely old enough to drink.
Señorita Banana beckoned him onto the stage. “Come on up here, cutie pie,” she said into the microphone as he ambled toward her. “Ooh, you’re a big boy, aren’t you?” He was appropriately embarrassed, but the crowd loved her. “What’s your name, honey?”
She held the microphone to his lips, and he nervously answered, “Randall.”
“Randall what?”
“Ito.”
“And where are you from, Randall Ito?”
“I grew up in San Francisco,” he said, which provoked a smattering of applause to Señorita Banana’s left.
“Oh, look, the hippies and stoners are here,” she quipped, and the crowd roared.
Winning a game of Drag Bingo at Pansy’s afforded you three prizes: a free drink or appetizer of your choice, the chance to be humiliated onstage by Señorita Banana’s prying questions, and the opportunity to request a song she would lip-sync before the next round of play started.
When she asked Randall what song he’d like her to perform, he smiled and said, “‘Conga’ by Gloria Estefan.” The crowd went crazy, and even I clapped a little.
“Oh, you bastard. Go sit down. I hate you.” In truth, she was grateful. This was Señorita Banana’s signature number, and everyone knew it. She handed her microphone to her assistant, who also removed the bingo cage from the stage, then she struck a dramatic pose, head held high, to raucous whoops and hollers.
Three short brassy notes punctuated the club, and suddenly Banana stood flawlessly mouthing Gloria’s mile-a-minute vocals, urging the crowd to shake their bodies and do the conga.
Maybe it was a good idea to get me out of the house. I wasn’t having a good time per se, but it was good to be surrounded by people who were. I was still checking my phone every twenty minutes, looping through Facebook, Twitter, Nextdoor, and Instagram, searching each platform for #FindMamie to see if there was anything new. The later the hour, the angrier the comments got. Who could do this to a poor little dog, people are terrible, and you better find those sick bastards. All of which made me feel slightly better, but as usual didn’t accomplish anything.
When I looked up from my phone, Jack was standing before me with yet another Tanqueray martini-dry-slightly-dirty. I didn’t need a third cocktail, but I figured it would be rude to reject it. After all, he was only trying to help. I noticed some of the younger men at the bar watching me accepting an unsolicited cocktail from Jack of all people, and I imagined they wondered what someone like him could possibly see in me, an ordinary mortal.
“Hey, I’m taking off,” he said. “It was good to see you. Hope you get some good news tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I said, glancing over at Tucker, who avoided my gaze.
“I know you don’t pray or anything,” Jack said. “And I don’t either, usually. But I’ve been, y’know, sending good thoughts up there.”
“I appreciate it. At this point I’m for anything that can’t hurt.”
“I think you’re gonna find her. I really do.”
“Thanks,” I said, raising my glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
Jack turned to Tucker. “See you at home.”
“Okay,” Tucker said with a cursory smile that disappeared as soon as Jack turned around.
As Jack exited, Señorita Banana danced wildly as the trumpets blared. Tucker studied his drink as I studied Tucker, ready to divert my attention back to the stage immediately should he attempt to look my way.
Eventually the song ended to raucous applause. Both Tucker and I set our glasses on the bar behind us so that we could join in, and in doing so our eyes met.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said. But something on my face must have told him I was dubious. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay,” I said, pretending to be interested in the next round of Drag Bingo with Banana Daiquiri.
“Look, I don’t need any shit right now, okay?”
I had seen Tucker lose his temper before. He was usually the picture of calm, but occasionally Jack would trigger him, and he’d blow up, usually at whoever was around when Jack left the scene. I could sense he was spoiling for a fight and reminded myself not to take anything he might say too personally. He was mad at his husband, not me.
“Fine, okay,” I said, sounding anything but fine. I knew I wasn’t to blame for the coming outburst, but I wished Tucker would have the courage to direct his outrage toward its rightful target. After all, I was having a worse day than he was, and I wasn’t the one who had married him and ditched him on a regular basis to hook up with other guys. God, I thought, I sound just like my mother. I didn’t have anything against open relationships, I reminded myself. They weren’t for me, not because I’m a prude, but because relationships were already fraught with land mines. Opening them up made everything even more explosive, but I tried my best not to be too judgmental of those who lived by different rules. And yet perhaps I was more like my mother than I wanted to admit. I chuckled at the thought.
But Tucker wasn’t in on my joke. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Charlie. If you have something to say to me, why don’t you just say it?”
I should have apologized and let it go. Instead, I said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”
“God, you’re so passive-aggressive.” The pot was about to boil over. Tucker typically couldn’t conjure anger even when it was necessary, but tonight was not going to be typical. I reminded myself again he wasn’t angry with me. He’s mad at Jack, I thought, and he’s taking it out on me, so don’t take any of this personally. I attempted a smile while trying to think of the perfect sentence to defuse this suddenly tense exchange.
But I never got the chance. “Oh, just fuck off,” he said, heading for the same exit Jack had used two minutes ago.
“Tucker. Dammit, wait up.” I took a giant swig of Tanqueray-martini-dry-slightly-dirty, deposited my glass on the bar, and followed him out.
Señorita Banana shot me a what-the-hell-is-going-on look, but I could only shrug and hurry out after Tucker. Her curiosity would have to be satisfied later. “G-52,” she announced.
When I reached the pavement, I remembered it was January and I’d left my coat inside. I looked to my left, then right, and saw Tucker huffing and puffing away.
“Tucker Pickett, don’t you dare take another step.” And he stopped. He didn’t turn around, though. I was going to have to come to him. I folded my arms for warmth and walked in his direction until I was closer than shouting distance. “Okay, what on earth is wrong with you?”
“You tell me.”
“I have no idea! I’m not the one who picked a fight with you.”
“Oh, that is such horseshit.”
“Okay, would you please tell me what the hell I did to you, then.”
“You’ve been picking this fight for the last three years, Charlie. I finally had it up to here. All your condescending looks, the passive-aggressive asides. If you want to be a little bitch, have the balls to do it because I am so sick of your shit.”
“Seriously? You’re going to do this today? Right now? Because I asked if you were okay?”
“You know it’s not just that.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, Tucker, I’m having a pretty fucking awful weekend myself. I’m really not trying to make it any worse.”
“If I haven’t noticed?” Tucker was now red in the face. “Charlie, I’ve done more to help get Mamie back than you have. If I’d left it up to you, you’d still be at Lee and Claude’s moping. Honestly, it’s like you don’t even want her back.”
Suddenly, it wasn’t cold outside any longer, or I no longer felt it. Whatever was happening here, I was no longer worried about coming out of this looking like the good guy.
“Oh, is that right?”
“Look, Charlie, I didn’t mean that exactly. I’m just—”
“No, no, no,” I replied coolly. “It’s fine.” I yell when I’m angry, but when I’m furious I’m extraordinarily calm. “I suppose I have been at a loss today. Mamie’s been taken, and I have no idea where she is or who could have taken her, so I’m not quite sure how to get her back. At least I’m honest about the fact that I’d like her to come home. And when people express concern for my well-being, I’m not biting their fucking heads off because I’m too invested in a goddamn illusion to admit I’m miserable.”
“And here we go,” he said. “Life must be pretty goddamn peachy up on that mountaintop, looking down on everyone else here on the ground.”
His voice was cracking. He was either so mad he was about to cry, or his marriage was in more trouble than I thought.
“So, I guess it would be better if I didn’t notice when Jack drops everything to hook up with some trick who he’s been texting for all of two seconds, and I should just look the other way when you wallow in self-pity every single time it happens.”
“Yes, you goddamn well should look the other way. My marriage, Charlie, is none of your business. You’re not my mom, you’re not my shrink, and you’re not my husband.”
“No, I’m the one who’s still around after your husband leaves. Again and again and again! Face it, Tucker. You’re not mad because I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. Because if you were happy it wouldn’t matter, and you wouldn’t care. You’re mad because I’m right. Your heart gets broken every day, but you don’t have the stones to take it out on Jack, so you take it out on me.”
“I love my husband.”
“You’re a doormat.”
“Oh, and I suppose I should take after you instead. Charlie, let me tell you something. You’re going to die alone and lonely, and it’ll be your own goddamn fault. When Freddie left, we all expected you to lick your wounds for a while and recover, and no one was mad at you when you did. But it’s been over a year, and you’re still locking yourself in your room with no sign of ever coming back out. If a guy so much as looks at you or, heaven forbid, flirts with you, you act like he’s a piece of shit on the bottom of your shoe. Okay, maybe Freddie was an asshole—”
“Maybe Freddie was an asshole?”
“But get over it, Charlie. You pick yourself up and move on. Find someone new.”
“And what if I don’t want anyone new? What if I’m fine on my own?”
“That is such bullshit,” he screamed. “You’re not fine. You’re scared out of your mind.”
“I’m not Jerry Maguire, Tucker. I don’t need to be completed. I’m not so scared of being alone I’m going to tie myself to another Freddie Babcock who can rip my heart out of my chest for a daily stomping.”
“You think you’re brave because you live like a hermit? You’re the biggest chickenshit I know. You’re too scared of your own shadow to even leave the house. Courage is letting someone in, Charlie, not locking them out. And you can look down on me all you want, but at the end of the day I’ve got someone to share my life with. You’ve got yourself a dog. And right now, you don’t even have that.”
“Yeah, well, when you get home, be sure to say hello to your life partner for me. Oh, wait—he won’t be there.”
I didn’t wait for a response. I simply turned and walked. I really wanted to have the last word, and besides, the initial flush of anger was over and the cold was starting to get to me. How long he stood and watched me go, I have no idea. Just in case he was waiting for me to turn around, I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. I opened the door and walked straight through it.
Having snuck in the back way earlier with the featured entertainment, I hadn’t paid a cover or received one of those flimsy paper bracelets that always rip out a couple of tiny hairs on your wrist when you remove them, no matter how careful you are to fasten them precisely. So the first thing I had to do upon entering Pansy’s again was to pay up and be tagged like a big gay cow entering the herd.
“Here all alone?” asked the bearded blond bear behind the glass.
“That’s correct,” I said rather cheerlessly. Mercifully, the hint was received and no more conversation ensued.
Upon reentry, I was once again assaulted by the noise and the crowd and the smell of the sweaty male musk and the futile efforts to conceal it. This was the place where I was having such a good time moments ago. Well, good in the relative sense. I returned to my former post, not knowing where else to go, and found my coat draped over a still-empty barstool, and half of a gin martini, slightly dirty, undisturbed on the bar. Turns out I hadn’t been gone that long.
I reclaimed my seat, finished off my drink in one gulp, and looked at the stage. Señorita Banana noticed my return, but the game was still in progress. “N-37, darlings,” she intoned into the microphone.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Agnes at work. OMG just saw you on the news! Why didn’t you tell me why you were out today? Take as long as you need, honey. I’ll handle the odious Muriel.
Agnes was a good person. I was lucky to have her in my corner. I wanted to tell her how grateful I was, but I didn’t trust myself not to be impossibly gooey in my current state of drunkenness, so I settled on a simple Thanks. I was about to put my phone back when it buzzed again.
This time the text was from Tucker Pickett. Fuck you.
I inhaled deeply through my nose, jaws clenched. That’s quite a comeback. How much time did it take you to conjure that? It’s devastating.
But as I exhaled, I decided not to send it. Delete, delete, delete, and the phone went back into my pocket. I didn’t feel like fighting any more.
“You want another?” asked the barkeep behind me. I knew I shouldn’t, but I also knew I was going to, so I turned around to place my order. “Tanqueray martini, dry, slightly dirt—oh, fuck me.”
Staring back at me was the vacant, stupid face of Bunny Montebank.
“Bingo!” somebody yelled.