Hugo drives us into the city in his car, a Geo Metro that’s at least thirty years old. His frame fills up the entire driver’s side and spills over into the passenger area, forcing me to lean against the window. There’s a dent in the roof headliner where his head sits. The back is full, stuffed to the brim with all his makeup and hair supplies, the dress hanging from a hook in the back seat. The car rattles and chugs so much I don’t think we’ll make it across the Bay Bridge, but Hugo distracts me by telling me what to expect.
“The audition is for a new show with a 1980s theme. Harry and I picked this whole Dirty Dancing concept, because of the song ‘The Time of My Life.’ Even though the movie is set in the ’60s, the song is so ’80s. It was really Harry’s idea.” He blows out a breath and glances over one shoulder before switching lanes. “We have to show them the performance so they can pick the lineup for the official show. Everything depends on today.”
“I’m sure you will be great.”
He huffs. “If Harry even shows. I’ve been trying to reach him since yesterday, and he’s not returning my calls.” He frowns, tossing me a worried glance. “What if he doesn’t show?”
I have no idea how to answer that question. “Um. Could someone else step in?”
“No. We practiced this for weeks. No one but the two of us know all the moves.”
“Oh, right. Well, I’m sure he’ll show. He wouldn’t want to give up this opportunity either, right?”
“I really hope so.”
We end up in the Mission District, where Hugo somehow manages to parallel park us between a VW bus and a Mercedes and I have to shut my eyes because I’m sure we won’t fit and he’s going to hit something, despite the amoeba-sized car we’re in. But somehow, he makes it work.
I help him gather his supplies out of the tiny trunk and back seat, the makeup, wig box, and the dress.
I follow him down the street. We pass three vintage clothing stores and a vegan ice cream shop, and then I get distracted by a brick building splashed in vibrant art, a giant mural of swirling colors and faces of various ages and ethnicities, a sky- and mountainscape in the background.
“Jane, come on!” Hugo yells from down the block.
I race to catch up, following him into a back alley. He knocks on a rough metal door.
From there, we’re led into the back stage of the venue, down a darkened quiet hallway and into the chaos of thirty-plus men putting on makeup and wigs.
Mirrors and lights line all four walls, and the middle of the room is pandemonium. Talking, laughter, half-dressed bodies, the air heavy with hair product and perfume.
Hugo points to a hook on the wall by a mirror and I hang up the dress up and turn back around. “I can wait outside?” I glance around at the chaos, the colorful dresses being tugged on, the elaborate makeup being applied, and then I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. I am so out of place.
He ignores my question. “Harry’s not here.” His eyes search the space. “But there’s Queen Bee. Bee!” he shouts into the chaos, waving a hand in the air.
His phone rings and he turns to face me with wide eyes. “Maybe that’s Harry.” He picks it up and heads toward the door.
“Wait!”
But he escapes into the hall, leaving me alone. I stand there, invisible amid the chaos.
“Hey, where did Hugo run off to?” This must be Queen Bee, her torso encased in a gorgeous silvery bustier with fringe fluttering around her hips. A bouffant purple wig hangs down to her waist, complementing her dark honey skin and expressive brown eyes laced with purple shadow.
“He’s taking a call.”
“It better be Harry on the phone or I will whoop his bony ass.” She shakes her head, the vibrant purple locks twitching with the motion and then sticks out one manicured hand. “I’m Queen Bee.”
I shake it. “I’m Jane. I’m . . . I was helping Hugo with his dress. It had a tear and I sewed it and then he wanted me to come here and, um. I helped him carry stuff.” I run out of reasons to be standing here in the dressing room with dozens of half-naked people.
Queen’s perfectly manicured eyebrows lift. Then she laughs. “Girl, that was the perfect speech. You may as well have carried a watermelon. Does Hugo know you’re stealing his part?”
My stomach drops. “Oh no, I’m not doing that, I could never—”
Hugo steps back into the room.
Bee lifts both of her arms into the air. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Was that Harry calling? Begging for you to come back to his no-good cheating ass?”
Hugo shakes his head, eyes sheening.
“He’s a giant bag of dicks,” Queen Bee says.
“Is that supposed to be an insult? A bag of dicks doesn’t sound like a bad time,” says another queen, this one with a cap on her head, wearing just a bra and panty hose and tugging a yellow dress over her head.
“Will you zip this?” she asks, giving me her back.
“Um. Yeah. Sure.” I slide the zipper up for her.
“Have you heard from Harry?” Hugo asks Yellow Dress.
“Nope. Haven’t seen him. Sorry, sweetie. He’ll show, it’s early yet. He’s a twat but he wouldn’t leave you hanging like this. Not even Harry. I’ll string him up myself if he does. Who’s your friend?”
“This is my neighbor Jane. She’s a seamstress.”
“Lovely to meet you. I’m Fifi LaRue.”
“I love your dress.” It hugs the lines of her body like a second skin. A closer look reveals delicate sequins sewn into the fabric, twinkling under the lights, making her shimmer.
How clever. The fabric must be something flexible to move with her body, and incorporating the sequins is going to look fantastic under the stage lights. It makes me want to run home and bust out my sewing kit and make something myself.
“Thanks, baby doll. I think I need some bigger chicken cutlets to make it work.” She squeezes her chest.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod along in agreement.
They chatter among themselves, and I listen in silence, my gaze moving around the room, scattering, unable to focus on any one thing because there is so much noise and activity, bright and inventive clothing, not to mention the makeup and vivid wigs.
After a minute, I do a quick self-check. I should be panicking. I’m in a room full of strangers, most of whom are half naked, but when I do an internal assessment, I’m . . . fine. Normal. Is this what other people feel like in strange situations all the time? Maybe it’s because no one is paying attention to me. Plus the outfits and hum of activity are distracting, setting my mind buzzing over creating my own dresses, experimenting with colors and fabrics that will shimmer under the lights like Fifi’s dress.
The door behind us pops open and a short man with thinning white hair sticks his head in. “Curtains up in ten minutes. The order hasn’t changed. If you lost your list, it’s up on the wall. Raven, you’re up first.”
The frenzied activity in the room amps up ten more notches. Hugo meets my eyes, his wide and panicked. Huh. Someone besides me is freaking out. This is new. Or maybe it’s not and I’m just too focused on myself most of the time, and I don’t notice other people.
“I don’t think he’s coming.” Hugo’s eyes are shining with tears just ready to drop.
Queen Bee rubs his back, her red nails flashing. “There are at least ten acts in front of you. There’s still time.”
He shakes his head. “You know how long he takes to put on eyelashes. I’m barely going to have time.”
“Speaking of,” Queen Bee pats him on the back, “you need to get ready.”
“What’s the point if he doesn’t show?”
“He’ll show,” Fifi says. But she exchanges a glance with Queen Bee, and I’m not convinced either of them actually believes he’ll be here in time.
I go out to the theater’s auditorium. Almost all of the red velvet seats are empty. There are only a couple other people watching on the other side of the auditorium, and three people down in the front sit at small tables covered in paperwork. The director or theater owner, or whoever they are.
Wall sconces keep the theater from total blackness, and the stage is aglow in lights, the wide space framed by a bright blue archway.
They call up the first performer. The lights dim.
And immediately, I’m riveted.
I glimpsed some of the costumes and makeup in the changing room, but when it’s all together under the lights, it’s a whole experience. The outfits are amazing, exaggerated, colorful, shimmering under the lights. Feathers, boas, dresses, sequins, wigs, everything. It’s entertaining. Enthralling. I’ve never been to a drag show, despite living in San Francisco for the past five years.
The first few auditions are two group acts and a solo. Queen Bee auditions with other queens in a combination of diva songs. Bee is Tina Turner and with her is Cher, Whitney Houston, and Madonna. They perform an entertaining mashup of iconic ’80s songs that has me clapping along—quietly, to avoid being noticed or interrupting.
A little while later, when there’s a break in the auditions for the director and whoever to go to the bathroom, Queen Bee slides into the seat next to me, still in her bustier. “What do you think, baby?”
“It’s amazing. Incredible. I don’t even know how to describe it. You were wonderful. I don’t think I could ever get up there and do something like that, it’s so . . . brave.”
“I would have said the same thing ten years ago, but it’s easier than you think.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
It’s like a whole new world I never knew existed. I mean, I knew there were drag shows. This is San Francisco. You can’t go two blocks without bumping into a queen. I just never paid attention. I’ve been living my life surrounded in a tight bubble of mist thicker than Karl on his worst day.
On stage, an Asian queen with a poufy white wig and a huge wedding dress starts singing “Freedom!” by George Michael. As she sings, she dances, her movements fluid despite the abundant clothing, but as she moves, she strips, pulling off dress after dress, and wig after wig, each one a different character, a different person, a different life even. A suit jacket and skirt, a doctor in scrubs, a sexy body suit and then—nothing.
My mind is blown. Not only by the story it tells about the things we wear, but the design that went into each outfit. She must use Velcro tear-offs or something to make them all so easily removable.
By the end of the performance, the makeup gets wiped off along with the clothes and all that’s left is naked skin, no wig, short clipped hair. He stands there, naked underneath everything. Well, not quite naked, wearing flesh-colored briefs, but alone, under the spotlight.
“Wow. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The act of undressing, of wearing a variety of outfits, combined with the lyrics of the song tell a story I never would have considered. I’ve heard the song a thousand times but never really grasped the meaning behind the lyrics.
“Damn, that hunty did good,” Fifi says from behind us.
I twist around. I didn’t hear her sit down.
She wiggles her fingers at me and I wave back before turning around again.
“Are all of the acts lip-synching?” I ask Queen Bee while the stage is cleared for the next audition.
She pats my knee. “With drag, baby, artifice is the point. Lip-synching is a perfect representation of pretense.”
“Pretense?”
“Drag is all about taking something mainstream and turning it into something uniquely queer. Drag itself is performance art, and a societal message. We’re all born naked and the rest is drag.”
My mouth pops open. “That’s beautiful. And scarily accurate.” It’s like the clothes I wear to work, the ones my mother picked out for me. It wasn’t me. It was who she wanted me to be. It was a façade.
Fifi snorts and leans in between us, putting a hand on the back of my chair. “Queen Bee didn’t say that. She stole it from RuPaul.”
“Don’t give away all my secrets.” She waves a hand in Fifi’s face. “Whether you’re a real queen or not, baby, you are a queen if you want to be. You make it yourself. The makeup and costumes, you choose that. And underneath it all, we’re the same. And I said that.” She twists in the chair to face Fifi, who just laughs.
We continue watching the auditions, songs, monologues and group skits, and my mind is abuzz with all of it, and with my own situation.
I’ve been trying to fit myself into a round hole when I’m actually a square peg. So I’ve been wearing down my own edges, making myself as small as possible to try and fit until there was almost nothing left.
Is that not a type of artifice, trying to be something or someone I’m not?
And then the universe shook me up.
After a few more acts, Queen Bee and Fifi leave to check on Hugo.
Ten minutes later, Hugo takes the seat she vacated. But it’s not Hugo anymore. He’s wearing a brassy blonde wig, the red dress, and fake eyelashes. I almost don’t recognize him, but he smiles sadly at me and he’s still over six feet tall and hard to mistake.
“Did Harry show up?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No.”
I wince. “I’m sorry, Hugo.”
“Dolly.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Dolly is your drag name?”
She nods. “Dolly Hardon. Bee named me. She’s my drag mother. You like it?”
I laugh. “It’s wonderful.”
She smiles but then the smile wavers and falls and her head droops. “I can’t cry because it will ruin my makeup.”
“It really sucks he ruined this for you.”
She laughs, the sound watery. “It’s not him. It’s me. He left because of me. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for other people and their bad behavior.”
“All right people, the call-back list is up. If your name’s not there, better luck next time, and if you’re on the list, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dolly and I sit together as people crowd the back of the stage where they’ve put up the list of names. Laugher, whoops, tears, and loud conversation buzz through the auditorium as people find out whether they’re coming back or not.
Queen Bee waves at us from the stage, holding her hand up to block the light and then shoots a thumbs-up in our direction.
“Looks like they made it,” I say.
“I’m so,” sniff, “happy for them.” She dabs at her face with a tissue.
My brows lift.
“I am,” she insists. “I’m a crier. I can’t help it. I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m angry. I understand it’s annoying. It was too much for Harry to deal with. Hence the barista.”
“It’s not annoying. And as for Harry, that’s not an excuse. If he couldn’t deal, then he should have broken it off with you before the barista.”
“That might be true.” She nods and pats at her face again.
Queen Bee and Fifi want to go out for drinks to celebrate, and they attempt to cajole us to come out with them. But Dolly’s not in the mood and I don’t want to leave her alone, so we drive back to Emeryville together.
We go back to the apartment, mostly in silence, each consumed in our own thoughts.
We part ways and say goodnight. Dolly’s eyes are sad.
Later that night, when I crawl into bed, once again the sobs leak through the wall.
There has to be something I can do. I can make this day better. If not for me, then for someone else.