Authors: Tomas Mournian
Anita’s legs are fantastic, all long and showgirlie, wrapped in shiny nylons. She draws it out, revealing her showgirl self
very slowly
.
Peanuts was right about drag time. We’ll be leaving five hours from now. On full display, Anita stops. Dramatic. The top of the stairs being the pinnacle, forcing us all to lift our eyes. Arms up, left foot turned out, knee cocked, it’s the Tah-dah! moment. The Showgirl slowly moves, turning like she stands on an invisible, rotating pedestal.
We hoot and holla, make catcalls and whistle. Anita merely
nods, a queen barely aware of her subjects. She doesn’t smile. Glamour is grim.
“Aiiigggt, fa-fa-fa-furrrrrrssssssttttt!” Kidd barks.
I go, “Huh?”
J.D. leans over. “Famous fierce.” Word.
Anita moves among us costumed mortals. Her outfit dazzles: headdress, mini-microbikini, heels, and freaky fluorescent colored tribal makeup.
“You are?”
“Dahhhhling …” she says, drawing out suspense over her true-secret self. “I am The Interplanetary Brazilian Samba Zone Goddess.”
“Rules. One, back by dawn. Two, stick together. Three—”
W
e burst out the Cretan. The sidewalk’s crowded. I stop, breathless, a combination of brain-body freeze and shock.
Freedom. I forgot. Half-alive, tiptoeing to and fro from bunk bed and bathroom and back has changed me. Half-naked in the Tenderloin, I feel
free
, really and
truly
free. Giddy, glorious, gay and glamourous, costumes don’t matter, it’s the intention.
I dismiss all thoughts of bounty hunters. Let them lurk on side streets. Me and J.D., we’re going to go get lost. Blend into city streets overflowing with partiers, revelers, dreamers, mystics, witches, warlocks and fairies. J.D. takes my hand and pulls me into the throng of magick, mischief and mirth makers.
“No—” I say, and hold back. “Wait.”
I want to absorb the energy given off by these creatures. I shut my eyes, take a breath and say, “My people.” I open my eyes, a smile on my face. My gaze is immediately drawn to a cluster of faeires. Our wings light up, and twinkle. They suck drinks through straws, spitting mischievous fountains at passersby.
“Look,” J.D. says. Alice / Nadya and Anita sweep by, larger than life. Anita reigns, the Queen of the Night. “Check it out. Alice / Nadya’s on fire.”
The crown’s candles are lit, flames dancing in the breeze.
“Yo, Golda Meir!” I call out.
“Hah hah!” She laughs, stops and strikes a pose, arms thrown up into the air. The gesture splits the blue chiffon fabric down the middle. “I’m the Flaming Menorah!”
“Wow.” J.D.’s eyes widen. “What a rack.”
Under the blue chiffon, Alice / Nadya’s
buck nekkid
(except for a floss-sized G-string). Two Playboy centerfold–sized breasts sit high atop her body, bare except for gold Star of David pasties glued to her nipples.
“C’mon!” J.D. says, tugs my hand and pulls me away. “Time to move. We’ll see them later.”
“But—” I look back. Alice / Nadya’s gone except for the trail of Hebrew camp songs she leaves in her wake.
“Wait. I want to look.”
I feel like I’m missing out on seeing thousands of other insanely cool costumes and creatures.
Maybe people see us and, right before we vanish, say, “Those beautiful boys.” Tonight, we’re blurs, captured in stolen pictures and flashes, memory.
“We’ve got a date.”
“With who.”
“It’s a surprise.”
I don’t like the sounds of this. It maybe Halloween, but I’m not into three-ways.
“T
hat’s it,” J.D. says, excited.
“McDonald’s?”
“Yes!” he says, rushing toward the puny, yellow (not golden) arches.
“Ronald. McDonald. That’s your date?” I say, careful to make it his, not mine. “I think I wait this one out.”
Nearby, there’s the Civic Center. I’ll go explore the wide open space and fountain.
“Wish me luck,” J.D. says. I watch him walk away. My heart sinks. I
know
the reason why he’s walking into Mickey D’s: Oskar, the supposed love of his life.
Until he leaves the fast-food fluorescent cube, I’ll wait. I remind myself, for what? The tenth? Hundredth? Thousandth? time—J.D. and I, we’re
not
in love.
Fuck that.
Denial fail.
I push open the glass door. I’m the lost Charlie’s Angel
.
I want to see the competition.
Inside, I search for J.D. His magenta mohawk and black cape move through the crowd.
Two guys follow him. They look like pedophiles from that show,
To Catch a Predator
. The types who agree to meet a 13
y.o. for a burger and side order of diddle. (And when they’re caught say, “I just came here for something to eat!”)
I’ve seen them before, but I don’t remember where from. Are they wearing costumes? Or, are their oversized parka jackets and combat boots real work clothes? Viewed from the rear, the duo could be the same Rent-A-Escort-A-holes who nabbed me from my bedroom, shoved me into a backseat and drove me to Serenity Ridge.
They stop, pause and look back. I see their faces: Dave and Seth, a.k.a., the Pigfuckers!
Maybe it’s detoxing off the tranks or being away from Sadaam “Dad” Hussein, but my intuition’s come back. Something bad’s about to go down. The little voice in my head chimes,
“And you’d better do something about it!”
Outside, Hammer poses. He’s a Market Street sidewalk show stopper.
“Help!” I grab Hammer’s left, cantaloupe-sized bicep. “J.D.’s in trouble—”
Hammer turns and walks toward the Mickey D’s.
“Find a pay phone, call 911 and make a bomb threat.
Now!
”
X
-nay on the pay phone. Where’s AT&T when you need to make a bomb threat? I run back inside. The Pigfuckers’ big asses spill over soda-pop-sized seats. Their feet jiggle, nervous as girls on first dates.
J.D. sits with a woman. If Oskar was the bait, Mom is the hook, Pigfuckers are the fishermen and J.D.’s the prize.
Mamacita. Let’s just say, if Dracula’s nephew had gone in drag, he would look something like this woman’s daughter. The Addamses’ family reunion.
“
Mijo
.” Her voice oozes insincerity, “This new place will
help
you.”
“I’m fine!
You
—you and
your
fucked-up ideas.
That’s
what needs a cure!”
Hammer walks to the table between the Addams Family and bounty hunters, plops his butt-naked ass down, go-go boots dangling off the side. I wonder if the boots are steel tipped. I’d
love
to see him break some Pigfucker face.
His legs wide, Hammer’s big basket spills out onto the table. He plants his palms on the surface and pushes his chest out, pure, 100%, All-American Boi Beefcake. He moans, drops his head and gyrates his ass.
To keep J.D. in their crosshairs, the Pigfuckers are forced to look at Hammer’s exaggerated cam whore / stripper moves.
“Oh, baby—” Hammer groans, bouncing his body and rapping out a Lil’ Ru ditty, “
I love the way she freak with no panties on….
”
Pigfuckers shake their heads, grossed out by Hammer’s homo-porno-rap. Pigfucker #1—Dave? Seth?—hollers, “
Shut up!
”
“
Acting?
” An alarmed voice refocuses my attention. She’s been nominated for her leading role as Most Dreadful Ma-macita. Her startled face suggests she thinks she’s on TV. “Acting like
what?
”
“Acting all ‘innocent,’” J.D. says, sharp. “Don’t play games with me. I know why you sent me there. Why can’t you just be honest about that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Oh,
come on!
” J.D. says, shoulders rolled forward. I feel bad for him. He wants to fight but, facing her, he’s deflated. He sits back in his chair, arms crossed. “Yes! You do!”
I’m tempted to jump up on the orange table and join Hammer on his makeshift go-box. Dirty dancing, I can make J.D. jealous
and
detonate the Pigfuckers’ heads.
A little voice cautions me, tells me to hang back. These bounty hunters might be out to score an RTC runaway Twofer. After all, I
was
featured on the side of a milk carton.
“Mami, how would
you
like it if someone put their hand up your ass? You know, they did that to me in there.”
We’re surrounded by dozens of Adams and Steves who probably think we’re dumb twinks, forget about our civil rights. Fuck gay marriage. We need help.
Now.
“Where did you go?”
“Work,” J.D. says. “But Mami, that was two—”
“They said you left early.”
“—years ago. What about—”
“Night after night,” she says, tone-deaf to J.D.’s words. Their conversation sounds like one between me and my parents. Everybody’s talking, nobody’s listening.
I move around the column to a spot where I can see “Mami’s” face. She’s a Latina version of Haifa, my stepmother. For an older lady, she’s hot. Tonight, she’s dressed to the nines:
red suit, gold hoop earrings and big hair. She’s either going to a fund-raiser or dressed as Nancy Reagan.
“
Lies!
” she wails, black eyes narrowed to slits, the j’accuse! look borrowed from a telenovela.
Muy
dramatica. Just like my stepmother, she wants to act out bad soap opera dialogue. Logic, reason and facts are for suckers. These women “win” through emotional display.
“Mi’jo,” she says, insect-sized, false eyelashes fluttering. Flirtatious, she places a gnarled hand over his. The diamond ring catches the hard light. I shudder, creeped out. She’s worse than the Pigfuckers. J.D. can’t see it, but he must sense it. His hand jerks back. This telenovela’s episode is “Bed-time for Oedipus at Mickey D’s—Hello, Jocasta!” “I’m your ma—”
“Not anymore!”
“I
knew”—
she hisses, enraged by his “rejection”—“where you were going!”
“What? That stupid club?”
“Mi’jo!” she says, sweetly, switching personalities the same way
The Exorcist
girl’s head spun 360 degrees.
“It’s not
just
a club,” she says. I get the feeling they’ve had this conversation before. I’m watching a revival of a long-running show, and they’re reciting lines off scarred hearts.
“Mami, I like to party! I—”
“They
told
me—”
“Yeah? What’d they
tell
you? Who is they, anyway?”
“—was a
lion’s den
of—” She waves her diamond hand toward the street. “
Homosexuality
. Look at them! What do you—”
“People, Mami, I see—”
“No, Mi’jo, you
don’t
know—” She pauses, pre–bomb dropping moment. “They just want to
use
you and throw you away after they give you AIDS!”
“Clubs can’t give you that.”
“This about what I
believe
,” she says, bejeweled hand waving away his words. “And until you’re eighteen, you’ll live by
my
rules.”
“Mami, I haven’t lived with you for almost
two
years. I
barely—” he says, and I mouth the words, lyrics to a song I know by heart. “Know you.”
Mamacita looks away. The window’s reflection captures an expression that’s a mix of disgust, self-righteousness and sadness. Disgust at her monstrous desire. Self-righteousness over something she can’t understand. And sadness over the painful truth of what she’s lost.
“You’ll never be happy in that ‘lifestyle.’”
“Jota. Maricon. Vestida. Taco. Burrito—”
“Such words!” she cries. “Where did you learn them?”
“Luis!” His voice cracks, he shakes his head and looks away. The light catches tears in his brown eyes. “
My
faggot son. Sometimes, I think you sent me away just so the neighbors wouldn’t know. How’d you explain? Tell them I died? How will you explain my return? The Immaculate Resurrection?”
“Return? You’re—” She catches herself, doesn’t say, “not coming back,” cautious about alerting J.D. to the Pigfuckers.
“Ai, Mami—”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Okay, how’s
Puta
. Dressed like some cheap street hooker’s idea of ‘classy.’”
“
Cayate
—”
“Mami, since we’re spreading our legs so the truth can spill out, answer me this. Who’s my father? The real one. Not one of my ‘uncles.’ Do you even know?”
“This is
why!
” she cries. “You lie. You lie.”
“I watched you pick them up. Married—”
“
Nev—
”
“
Yes
. One time in a Denny’s, I saw you uncross your legs, flash him and stand, knowing—
knowing
—that he’d follow—”
Jeweled hands fly to her ears, eyes shut and lips press together, watertight. He reaches across the table, pries her hands off her ears, pinning her wrists to the table.
“Every time you say—you
claim
—you know ‘what’ I am, I feel like you’re talking about an alien species. Lady, I know exactly what
you
are. A telephone number palmed off. Twenty
minutes later, on your cell. An hour later, three hundred dollars to ‘see’ the bedroom.”
“I want my boy back,” she rasps.
“Who’s my father?”
She shakes her head. Black, mascara-stained tears run down her face.
“
Why
, Mami, if you can’t be honest about that, why’d you do that to me? Did you know what they’d do? Am I—really even—your son? I mean,” he pleads. “Do you even know who he is?”
“Because …” She struggles to speak having tossed the bad-faggot-you’ll-just-get-AIDS-and-die script. She reaches out. He pulls back. “I wanted you to go to the seminary! Become a priest! Our hope! Yes,
our
hope. There’s time. You can save
us!
You can save
yourself!
You—”
Cue, Pigfuckers.
T
he men push back their parkas. They’re both armed—handcuffs, interrogation hoods and syringes—ready to end the Addamses’ family reunion.
Hammer jumps up and busts a series of high-speed, go-go boy moves. He’s the whirling dervish of male strippers, a combination of the Tasmanian Devil and Fabio. Mamacita stares, horrified and aroused. The crowd moves toward the “show,” a clusterfuck that slows the Pigfuckers. Jackets back, they’re ready to go: plastic handcuffs, mace and hood. I guess people are so jaded by American Torture, nobody blinks. Rendition? Black Ops? Who cares.