XVI
We met for coffee an hour before school.
“You’re Bloom, then?” she asked when I walked into the Denny’s.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Clancy Duckett, Channel Seven,” and she shook my hand, giving me two firm pumps and a business card. “You’ve taken on quite a challenge. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. And thank you for covering it.”
“Okay, Bloom, before we get into the preinterview, there’s a little paperwork here. Standard rights and agreement—name, image, story. No union, right? Good. Sign there, there, and there, date there and there, and initial this. And then this. And then this, this, this, and this. Yep. Yep. Okay, and I need to ask a few questions before we begin. Purely technical. Bloom is spelled B-L-U-M-E or B-L-O-O-M?”
“Double O,” I answered.
“And how do you want to be identified?”
I must have looked blank, or taken too long, because she added, “Under your name? You know: Gay? Bisexual? Transgender?”
“Oh . . . um . . . Well. Hmm . . .” I thought for a minute more, frowned, then brightened. “Hey! I’ve always been partial to ‘preen queen.’ Yes, yes, that’s good! That pretty much sums me up!”
She shook her head. “We should stick to established terms. Maybe something like ‘Gender-bender’? ‘Transvestite’?”
“What about ‘TRANSVISIONARY’?”
“Okay. Too vague. Could be a moving company. What about ‘gender illusionist’?”
“‘Gender obscurist?’” I countered. “Or ‘GENDER OBLIVIA-TOR! ’ ” I shouted, maybe a little too wild-eyed.
“Wooo. Wrong direction, Billy. Network. Keep it friendly. What about the standard ‘drag queen’?”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “‘Twinkle queen?’ ‘Tinsel queen?’ No. No. Nothing old-school. More forward. Oh, hey! What about ‘GLITTEROID!’ That’s hot! Oh my God! That could actually take off!”
She was obviously getting frustrated. “Okay. Hey. I get it. Don’t like labels, huh? I hear ya. What about ‘visual artist?’ ‘Performance artist?’ Yeah? Okay?”
I was almost ready to give in when . . .
The fry cook looked out from the kitchen and did a double take when he saw my breathtaking androgyny. “FREAK!” he hissed under his breath—and we both looked at each other. Yeah?
“Oh, I’m totally down with ‘freak.’ I’m pretty used to it around here; in fact, I was already trying to reclaim it as my own.”
“Okay.” She smiled. “The title will say, Billy Bloom: Self-proclaimed Superfreak.”
We went through the questions she planned to ask, and walked me through the shots. She then looked at her watch, took a last gulp of coffee, and said: “We’ll start shooting in about half an hour. Does that give you enough time to get ready?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, and ran off to find Mary Jane and begin the process of my drag.