"Let them say what they will
because they will anyhow." - Tegan and Sara
(Creative works compiled from Fall semester 2012)
--- --- --- --- ---
Transverse
And you take Celeste here,
well, he’s gonna end
up Chuck. Chuck’ll
just never change. Destiny
on the other hand, crimson
lipstick was just always his
tone. Down the street
you’ll see Miss Divine
in Lady D’s
bar, busting out
Midler or Manilow. Most
typical, oh predictable. Me?
Honeybaby, I’m
all yours. Tonight,
listen to me though,
shush, I know all, doll.
Me, I am out
finding a name. Names. Only
words like magnesium sulfate.
I was soaking my sore skin
in this stuff, salt.
Sulfate. Soul. Fate.
My body was never so melo-
dramatic. I want a name––
But you! oh we should
marry. A fabulous!
Gaudy! Fuckitall!
wedding. With a winding
down staircase, my little
cantaloupe.
--- --- --- --- ---
Typecast
How did that dream you have go? You said we were both sixteen year old Mexican girls. Cheering and diving for our favorite luchador’s thrown cape. I don’t remember which one of us caught it though.
I said we were young cattle drivers in torn up Levis. Silver spurs glistened, jutting from behind your leather boots. I dropped my whip to the dirt. The boss yelled from his horse behind us, “You boys reckon you kin give me four quarters for a dollar and Ai’ll think I got the better deal. I’m up to mah ass with this Weston deal and what’re’ya boys tryin’ to pull? Cows get slaughtered, ‘member?” The director called cut. The whip I used wasn’t supposed to drop. I got use to not apologizing after every take, every mistake.
We “took it from the top,” as a stage director would yell. How did that dream you have go? We shared a corn on the cob seasoned with paprika after the wrestling match. My hair fell from behind my ear and I got butter on it.
We were selling the farm after the fifth season. I sat on my saddle next to you again, ready to round up my thousandth fake herd, try to swindle the boss in another fake scheme. We wrapped as the sun finally set behind the flat horizon. You turned to me and told me I was in your dream last night. I wondered how I would respond if I was the cowboy I had been playing. If you were on top of an actual horse, not a wooden post. Would I scheme with you? Would I go back to my house, slip my boots off, get in my long underwear with a flap in the back, sleep, wake up, slip my boots back on and work with you and cows and dung all day? How long had I been doing it? Days, months, years, my whole life? What if that was us, having to deal with that every day? Then I realized: it was. “You were in mine too,” I responded. A whip laid on the ground between our boots.
How did that dream I have go? I was wearing my seatbelt in my car underwater. A flurry of bubbles outside the driver seat window and I caught a glimpse of fabric. As the fabric seemed to open the door and pull me out, I realized the cloth was tied to a neck attached to your familiar face, only it was blue from the water. Now I remember which girl had caught the cape.
--- --- --- --- ---
Salabrasion
All of my vices seemed to exist in the subcultures that had no interest in me. The punks, the lesbians, the goths. Unlike the flat jigsaw puzzles that I saw other girls as, full of emotion, frustration and scrutiny, subculture girls were as layered as white noise. Living next to a hospital, white noise plagued me nightly: ambulance sirens and the scraping of asphalt, nocturnal creatures, wind against the palm tree outside my open window, my dad snoring through closed doors, the fan cycling above me, the occasional yawn, the rhythmic pumping of my heart, the flow of blood to my frustrated limbs, the rubbing of muscle together, the firing of synapses, the sound of the earth moving. These were my punk girls. Smokers with a smile that separated them, tattoos and piercings, ironically bright hair colors, bastardized manifestations of ‘50s pin-up models, the ability to hold silent, one-sided conversations. Who wore long sleeves and jackets in the summer. Who didn’t shave. Who didn’t care. Tattoos and piercings are the same on girls as on guys.
“I find androgyny sexy,” I confessed over the phone.
“Why? That’s disgusting. What, are you gay or something?” The word androgyny always led to the questioning of my sexuality. Kristen tried to change topics by asking me what time we were going to dinner.
“At eight,” I answered.
“You ate? You couldn’t wait just thirty minutes? I bet you would’ve if I had short hair, wore flannel and had stupid metal covering my face.”
* * *
She looked at me again with her doll eyes and with her dull mouth said, “I just don’t see why we need…” I wanted someone with a defined jaw bone. The skin under her mouth fell to her collarbone, creating a sluggish chin.
Some would call her beautiful, I just called her Kristen. Her resemblance to the actress Kristen Stewart afforded me the luxury of forgetting her Christian name. As she’d dramatically purse her lips to make an “ooh” sound, I noticed the ridge between her upper lip and the crest of her nose vanish, forming a flat flap of flesh and exposing her gums and whitish teeth. The pink on her lips reminded me of raw chicken.
“—agree, right?” I didn’t answer and the car remained silent until the braked squealed as she parked. She continued, “Listen, can’t you just tell her…” A sickly color vein pulsed as her neck skin was dragged by her smacking lips, like the gills of a fish on a hook shuttering open and close. Despite the indifference of sound, I knew from all our previous conversations that the silence was hers, not mine. Her silence wouldn’t let me speak.
I would have told her that I didn’t care, that she was talking to a wall. A wall that didn’t care about Kristens. For the sake of conversation, I kept my mouth shut. Brow furrowed slightly, her eyes began to search for contact with mine. When they met, I only noticed her mind swimming, searching for a memory to help conjure up fake tears. Her pupils dilated when she floundered upon some past dead pet, or perhaps the inevitable death of her current ones. Unlike sincere tears, her chin didn’t quiver, but, I thought, that could be because she has no chin to quiver. She leaned forward and pulled back twice, like a novelty drinking bird toy. “Well?” She had allowed a response.
“Remember that gift you gave me for our one week? That hippie shell that was suppose to absorb my agony if I had it in my pocket?”
“I gave you a stone, not a shell.” As quickly as her frustration had dissipated with the mention of something sentimental, it flooded back in return at my mistake.
“That explains it. Well, that’s certainly something,” pulling out an abalone shell from my pants pocket. And there I was thinking that karma, aura, magic wasn’t real. When we first met, she had told me that all objects were designed to hold energies that either repelled, attracted, expelled or absorbed external energies. In the car, as she buried her eyes in her hands, smudging mascara on the base of her thumbs, I wondered what energy the car had. Or if, as she said, all objects had energies, did the manufacturers of the car take this into account when gathering materials to build? Did the carburetor repel anger and the steering wheel attract it? What if the pistons expelled lust and the wheels absorbed sexuality? Kristen’s wedges had black leather on them, but the leather car seats were gray. Did colors matter? The disarray of energies cycling through the car like the stale air conditioning made me dizzy until I remembered I didn’t subscribe to “new age” thinking.
“What do tears even mean?” through blackened fingertips. I asked if I could drive us home, unconsciously doubtful of what grabbing the steering wheel might exorcise. The brakes squealed, but I was unsure if it wasn’t Kristen just trying to get attention.
* * *
The night before, she had confessed the first thing she noticed was the abundance of hair covering my arms and legs, like headstones in a haphazard army graveyard. Body hair showed vulnerability and openness, she had said. Were my eyebrows vulnerable? The strands of hair on my big toe did often seem susceptible, I wanted to say. That next night in the car I wondered if it wasn’t true, noticing the blonde strands stemming from her arms, only visible by reflecting the fluorescent street light. They occurred to me as something crystalline, fragile. I didn’t want to lean over and comfort her for fear of breaking them off.
Emily, or Emma, or was it Sam? …The girl I was with while Kristen was on vacation at Yosemite had shaved her legs. My caress had been met with biting stubble, like my tongue licking five o’clock shadow below my lips after dinner. She tasted just as salty. When Kristen forced her lips upon mine in the car, to appeal to my male understanding, I recognized the saltiness from her tears and was stirred. Emily, or Emma, or was it Sam? …Yosemite Sam, had tasted like artificial, cherry-flavored lip gloss. Kristen was sweet and salty, like a potato chip. How many calories were in a kiss? Yosemite Sam’s lips had sat stagnant against mine, waiting for me to grab hold of the back of her neck and push myself against her. As I remembered my inability to act with Sam, Kristen had grabbed a handful of my hair tight enough that I could feel the roots being tugged, like plucking weeds, while still pushing my head against her chest. It was something of a hug, I supposed.
The girl I was with before Kristen, her name was Kristen, a raven-haired, small-framed beauty when her mouth was closed, would never have done this to me. Not that I didn’t want to do it to her, but tears and grasps had meant something to me once. When she cried, I felt as if all events in my life had lead up to that single instance of disappointment I had brought upon her. When we tugged at each others bodies, it was “like the tugging of souls,” I would tell her. Both Kristen’s had found it pathetic. I wanted to be their savior, Kristen from her goth-like woes and “Kristen” from her counterfeit, feigned beliefs and cries for attention. I thought they should save me too and Kristen told me she had wanted to. I still can’t remember which Kristen though.
One night, later, in a different car, “Kristen” had let me go from an identical embrace. “I don’t think we should see where…” She had already unlocked the car door and I was opening it. As I walked to my front door, I heard a squeak and wished it was a squeal. Next to my Hide-a-Key rock, I noticed a rounded, luminescent green stone. Recognizing it as that energy absorbing gift, I picked it up and rolled in around in my fist. I aimed for the windshield, went inside, ate chips.
Throwing the rock, I threw with it a wall of blind hostility that I built towards Kristen and all the girls that had come before her. I wonder now what happened to that rock. If someone picked it up, did they pick up my lack of self-awareness with it? I went inside, ate chips. The saltiness reminded me of hair and tears, something I’ve got use to now.
--- --- --- --- ---
Adhesives
I unraveled masking tape
behind tender thighs. She,
on hands and knees, stretched out,
let herself breathe. It hung firmly,
like my sight. Grout-crammed crevices
cooled my naked skin. We erected
a barrier between the door
and us of secretly shed clothes.
She turned on
the shower, let water gush across
our exposed flesh, washed away
sweat, revealed our mutual itch.
Tuckered tongues tirelessly trembled,
touched tips, spelunking crisp caves.
Stubble against stubble against
mound against muzzle. Thrust
forth, the juice sluiced into eager openings.
Our lightened voices made our pieces come
back into place. She asked me to do her
a favor and pass her black needle
lace garter belt and white torsolette.
I only had duct tape left. I held on
as she whimpered a mewl,
the sack was a little
too loose. I tore the adhesive off
with one quick tug. I apologized.
It hung between her legs again.
I told her I liked it better
that way. She smiled with yes or
no answers. I only took
them from her
with my eyes.
--- --- --- --- ---
(Group assignment)
Occupy: The Musical
Scene 1
High school cafeteria, Burbank. Theater auditions for Occupy: The Musical. Two rows of plastic folding chairs, each row ten wide, with three chairs in front, off-centered towards stage right. The stage director, Karen Turner, early thirties and her assistant, sit in two of the three chairs in front. Offstage right, actors and actresses are giving unheard and unseen auditions for the director while the awaiting actors sit in the folding chairs. Two handsome late-twenties, early-thirties males, Eddie Money, with headphones in his ears, and Felix Marlon, holding up a mirror to himself, sit in chairs four and five in the second row starting from stage left. Both pay no attention to each other as they warm up.
EDDIE. (Singing.) I’ve got one ticket to paradise––
FELIX. I own this bank.
EDDIE. (Singing.) On a trip that is so nice––
FELIX. I own this whole goddamn town.
EDDIE. (Singing.) Got me one audition and a pair of dice.
FELIX. Now get out of here before I annihilate you. Out!
KAREN. (Turning to the noise.) Hey, can you be quiet? I’m trying to make art happen here! (Felix hides further behind his mirror. Eddie, still wearing headphones, is oblivious. He pauses for a moment and starts his vocal warm-ups to himself.)
EDDIE. Better butter. Better butter. Better butter. Better butter. Thistle sticks sixty six thousand and six thistle sticks sixty six thousand and six thistle sticks. Piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, lion. (Eddie yawns as he hold the “o” in “lion.” Karen shifts her attention to him.)
KAREN. Are you serious? It's hard enough trying to recreate the mean streets of Wall Street in this stupid high school in the stupid Valley with these sub par actors without you adding your own useless background noise. Now shut the hell up, I have a terrible audition to suffer through right now! (Karen turns back to the person on stage.) I mean, you have to know you're not good, right? (The person auditioning runs out of the cafeteria in tears. Eddie and Felix acknowledge one another with one guffaw.)
EDDIE, FELIX. Ha!
EDDIE. That was ridiculous. These amateurs don't stand a chance against my professional voice. Just wait until I'm up there.
FELIX. Being the most successful business man in the nation, what do I care? (Silence.)
EDDIE. So, you’re a business man?
FELIX. What? Sorry, no. just trying to stay in character. (Moves his hand over his face as if wiping the character off. Extends hand towards Eddie. They shake.) My name's Felix. Felix Marlon.
EDDIE. Hi. I'm Money, Eddie Money.
FELIX. Wait, like the 80s singer with the mullet? You know, "Two Tickets to Paradise."
EDDIE. I have no idea what you're talking about.
KAREN. (Turning to the boys. Acidly.) If I have to ask you guys to shut up again, I will kick you out of my cafeteria! This is a place of art and creativity, not a cafe to have a snack and chat with a friend.
EDDIE. Well, there are coffee and muffins here...
KAREN. I'm going to ignore that and pretend you're dead. (Karen turns away from them and directs her attention to her Blackberry.)
FELIX. (To Eddie) Wait, they have muffins?
EDDIE. What?
FELIX. Muffins.
EDDIE. There's muffins?
FELIX. Forget it. (Pauses.) Have you been in a production like this before?
EDDIE. There was a––
FELIX. I acted opposite James Earl Jones in the all-black production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Well, actually I was an understudy to Lou Myers who played Reverend Tooker.
EDDIE. That's your highlight? Back in the day, I won my high school Battle of the Bands for consecutive years. Eddie Money and the Heartbreakers stole the show!
KAREN. (Calling the next audition.) Eddie…Money? (to herself.) Wait, like the singer?
(Blackout. End Scene.)
Scene 2
Lights up. Eddie, right of stage, stands still, staring at Karen, his personal Medusa.
KAREN. Okay, please get off the stage now. (Eddie, blank-faced, slowly returns to his seat after the audition. Karen calls the next audition.)
KAREN. Felix Marlon. You're the last one of the day, thank god. (Felix makes his way to the stage, patting Eddie pityingly as he gets up. He clears his throat and begins the monologue.)
FELIX. (Never looking away from the script.) You! Get me a hold of the IntraDen close––
KAREN. It’s pronounced C.L.Os.
FELIX. Uhh, right. Get me a hold of the Intraden C.L.Os. The long-term average scaled below the turbulent flow and the short term-ers are now the ankle biters chasing the bulls out of the pen and we’re fighters red flagging four options and emanating––
KAREN. Eliminating.
FELIX. (Disregarding Karen.) ––false bottoms and to top it off the discriminating…depot low rized…stocks are down goddamn sixteen. I need caffeine! (Felix takes a bow and returns to his seat.)
KAREN. Depolarized. Depolarized! Is it that hard? (To her assistant.) Oh my god, this has been the worst day of my life. Nothing good here, nothing good at all. Every actor just worse than the other––It's like people don't even respect the craft of theater anymore. You would think a name like Karen Turner would attract some talent! I once wrote a play that was used as an idea that later became the inspiration for the stage adaptation of Spring Awakening for god’s sake! Just end it all, burn down this cafeteria! (Silence. Felix, now seated, turns to Eddie.)
FELIX. (Deadpan.)At least I wasn't as flat as you.
EDDIE. (Shaken out of his stupor.) Yeah? Oh yeah? (Mockingly.) I’m the most successful businessman in the nation. Not so successful now, huh?
FELIX. At least I was in the real thing, not some hoedown, high school battle of the bands that you won consecutive years! (Scoffs. Holds up middle finger as if counting.) One consecutive year.
EDDIE. The real deal? What kind of real actor is auditioning for a play in a high school cafeteria? And that year was the best year of my life!
KAREN. (Standing up and turning towards the two behind her. Near tears.) Do you think I'm happy with this? Do you think I didn't already reserve the theatre then have to give it up because the drama club needed to rehearse their production of CATS! I'm a serious playwright with a lot of talent! I don't belong in a cafeteria, at least not as much as you two do.
FELIX. (Eddie and Felix both standing up) Oh, I'm sorry, we were supposed to be in the high school thee-aye-ter!
EDDIE. (Moving behind Felix slightly.) Yeah, and we're not part of the one-percent that gives a shit about your play!
KAREN. This isn't for the one-percent! This is for the 99 percent!
EDDIE. Yeah, the 99 percent of people that won't see your play! (Felix and Eddie high five.)
KAREN. Your opinion doesn't even matter. This is a masterpiece! I've been working on this for five years!
EDDIE. The Occupy movement didn't even exist five years ago.
KAREN. (Hysterical.) I was a visionary! (Felix picks up a copy of the script and reads aloud from it.)
FELIX. Blah, blah, blah, the ankle biters are chasing the bulls, blah, blah, blah, better butter, better butter? It's all useless, what did she call it, background noise?
EDDIE. "False bottoms and to top it off the discriminating depolarized stocks?" Yeah, Really making art happen––. (Karen grabs the script from Felix.)
KAREN. You both are idiots! This script is Tony gold! Like this part where the banker is in trouble and needs to see his daughter! Listen to the urgency in his voice: "I need a phone to phone my daughter! She also has a…phone." (Silence. Karen looks up from the script, somberly.) Oh my god. This is terrible. (Karen sits back down and flips through the script.) Did I--did I even try to write this? Did I pull this out of a garbage can by accident? What if my parents were right, what if I have to go to back to my job at Craft World?
EDDIE. Shit, maybe Eddie Money and the Heartbreakers can have a comeback!
KAREN. (Throwing her head and hands up.) I still don't know why your name is Eddie Money!
EDDIE. I still don't know what you're talking about! Wait–– it doesn't matter anyway. The Heartbreakers are either dead or in jail.
FELIX. (Looking back and forth between Eddie and Karen.) No, forget you guys. I just had a bad audition, it happens. And, just like the felix, I’ll rise from these ashes and be reborn a better actor.
KAREN. That’s a phoenix. Felix was the black and white, cartoon cat, you moron.
FELIX. Really? (Eddie laughs. Long silence as the only four people in the room sit still. Karen’s assistant, who has been on their phone this whole argument gets up to leave.)
ASSISTANT. Uh, you don’t need me anymore today, right Karen?
KAREN. Huh? …No.
ASSISTANT. Okay, here’s the notes from all the auditions. (Holds papers out for Karen. She is staring off into space.) Oh…kay. I’ll just put these right here. (The assistant puts the papers on the chair next to Karen and starts to leave. She turns back as if to say something, but doesn’t. Exit assistant.)
FELIX. (Getting up. Eddie stands up seconds later.) Yeah, I have to get rolling too. You’ll call or e-mail if I get the part, right?
KAREN. (Still motionless.) You guys won’t get any calls or e-mails.
FELIX. (Sharing a glance with Eddie. Matter-of-factly) …We know.
KAREN. There is no part to get. (Other than their voices, the silence in the cafeteria has been slowly reaching a peak.)
EDDIE. (Felix and Eddie both walk over towards Karen. Holding up script) Do we have to keep these? Do you want them back?
KAREN. You can take them. Or throw them away. It doesn’t matter. (Felix and Eddie walk towards an off-stage left exit. They stop at a trashcan. Felix dumps the script and his mirror. Eddie dumps the script and they leave. Eddie’s left his headphones behind. Karen sighs. She gets up and, without looking towards the stage, without picking up any of the papers next to her, follows the boys out of the room. Blackout. End scene.)
--- --- --- --- ---
polaroid girl1
is this boring because there aren’t any details?2
cut open into my head, stick it in, yeah, stick it in.3
is this cliché to you?1 i’m sorry, my mistake.
do i sound strange?4 i wanna know, and don’t stall,5
cut open my head, stick yrself in, yeah, stick yrself in
dear Daddy…i’m sorry6 you get nervous watching me
bleed,7 does that sound strange? i wanna know exactly
what you want.8 i wanna spread my dementia,9
dear Daddy. i’m sorry you get nervous watching me
going crazy, and do you wanna watch? do you wanna cum?10
is that what you want? i wanna spread my dementia
all over my skin, taking invisible streets,11
going crazy. and do you wanna watch me cum?
tell me, did grandpa tie you up, Daddy?5 like yr razor
all over my skin, making invisible streaks,
little slits on my skin, slowly, beautiful red lines.5
c’mon, did grandpa tie you up like yr razor––
wait, rub her face in glass Dad,12 rub
little slits on her skin, slowly, beautiful red lines.
she wants me to be like her heartbrainheartbrainheartbrainlunggut13
but, wait, rub my face in glass already, Dad. rub
it in deeper now oh deeper, harder oh i’m almost14
wanting to be like her heartbrainheartbrainheartbrainhungnuts.
fold the shiver in half again,15 you’ll unwrap me here16
deeper now. oh deeper, harder, oh i’m almost
a fly around yr head or a pin in yr neck.17
fold that shiver in half again. you’ll unwrap me,
and does that scare you?18 she burnt my dresses, cut my hair.19
a fly in yr head or a pin through your neck.
and is this cliché to you? i wanna know (stickystupidrunningdownmylegs20)
does she scare you? she burnt my dresses and she cut my hair.
and is this boring to you because i left out the details?
scabs grow thicker by the years,11
a gasoline gut with a vaseline mind21
three cheers for hypodermic! three cheers for twenty years!22
1 Bratmobile. “Polaroid Baby.” Pottymouth. Kill Rock Stars, 1993.
2 The Fakes. “Steve Society.” Real Fiction. Chainsaw Records, 1995.
3 Kaia. “Test.” Kaia. Chainsaw Records, 1996.
4 Team Dresch. “She’s Amazing.” Personal Best. Chainsaw Records, 1995.
5 Bikini Kill. “Tell Me So.” Pussy Whipped. Kill Rock Stars, 1994.
6 The Fakes. “Safety Cuts.” Real Fiction. Chainsaw Records, 1995.
7 Sleater-Kinney. “Dig Me Out.” Dig Me Out. Kill Rock Stars, 1997.
8 Team Dresch. “To The Enemies of Political Rock.” Captain My Captain. Chainsaw Records, 1996.
9 Le Tigre. “Let’s Run.” Le Tigre. Mr. Lady, 1999.
10 Heavens to Betsy. “Axemen.” Calculated. Kill Rock Stars, 1994.
11 Bikini Kill. “Strawberry Julius.” The Singles. Kill Rock Stars, 1998.
12 Bratmobile. “And I Live in a Town Where Boys Amputee Their Hearts.” The Real Janelle. Kill Rock Stars, 1994.
13 Bikini Kill. “Alien She.” Pussy Whipped. Kill Rock Stars, 1994.
14 Bikini Kill. “Sugar.” Pussy Whipped. Kill Rock Stars, 1994.
15 The Need. “Don’t Touch the Ribbon.” The Need. Chainsaw Records, 1997.
16 Sleater-Kinney. “Taking Me Home.” Call The Doctor. Chainsaw Records, 1996.
17 Team Dresch. “Fake Fight.” Personal Best. Chainsaw Records, 1995.
18 Bikini Kill. “Don’t Need You.” The CD Version of the First Two Records. Kill Rock Stars, 1992.
19 Bikini Kill. “Rah! Rah! Replica.” The Singles. Kill Rock Stars, 1998.
20 Sleater-Kinney. “I’m Not Waiting.” Call The Doctor. Chainsaw Records, 1996.
21 Le Tigre. “Deceptacon.” Le Tigre. Mr. Lady, 1999.
22 The Need. “Whitewash Cannonball.” The Need. Chainsaw Records, 1997.
--- --- --- --- ---
Hospital cafeteria
like a shower drain,
things could get hairy.
I need a shake to go
with these fries. Grease
back my balding
tuft, baby. Wear suits
with no ties, we’ll go steady
with matching socks.
My Mickey Mouse band-
aids
cover my bruises. Quickly,
screw me fast
while I still look good,
love. For your health.
--- --- --- --- ---
Prelude: Transfiguration or Something
It was twenty two years ago and people still sat in the pews. Miss Divine, then Larry Darlen, or Laurence William Darlen if she was in trouble, balanced a small wafer and plastic cup of grape juice in one hand. The man talking up front was droning on about a feast, but Miss Divine only paid attention once she heard something about eating flesh.
“Dad, what does he mean we eat Jesus’ flesh?”
“Shh! And don’t cross your legs like that.”
“But Mom cross–”
“I said shut up. You’re being rude.” Miss Divine’s mom hid her face behind a hymn book tucked behind the seat in front of her.
Miss Divine put the wafer in her mouth when she saw everyone else do it. She sucked on the flesh first because she liked the saltiness. Everyone else put the plastic cup of blood to their lips, she had trouble swallowing the grape juice.
In the back of the car on their way home, Miss Divine looked at her father’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. From her perspective, the mirror strangely doubled the reflection, given her father a second set of translucent eyes on his bald forehead and a second nose between his eyebrows. Her mother tried to answer her poor-timed question from earlier.
“It’s called transubstantiation.”
“No,” the monster driving the car interrupted, “it’s transubstantion. If you would listen to what the pastor was saying, you would have heard him say, “we eat this is remembrance of you.” We do it to honor what He did on the cross, how he died for our sin. Honey, show him in his bible.”
Her mother grabbed Miss Divine’s “Kids’ Adventure Bible” from by her feet and opened to the book of Luke. Miss Divine might have started reading if the there wasn’t an illustration of a tall, slim, tan man in a robe holding bread and a goblet surrounded by twelve men of about equal size. Her eyes wandered about under the painted table. One of the men was sitting at a slant and his robe did not cover his legs. She looked at his angular calves and the daintiness of his sandaled feet. The leather straps were a bit busy, but they accentuated his heel spectacularly. Next to him, Jesus’ hips were hidden by the table, but Miss Divine was in awe of his shapely, exposed shoulder and how it flowed into his bearded neckline.
“How come girls don’t have beards? I want to marry a girl with a beard.”
“What?”
“And how come I can’t wear makeup? I’d be better than those old ladies who do it that tell me how cute I am in my ‘itty-bitty suit.’ I hate this suit. It’s uncomfortable and the tie is an ugly maroon. I hate maroon.” Miss Divine’s brother laughed in the seat next to her, causing Miss Divine to contract the giggles. Her parents had pretended not to hear her outburst of questions.
“Shut your traps back there, or heaven help me!”
* * *
Part 1: The Hello, Dolly! Revival
“Here’s to not thinking or drinking to our fathers!”
“Preach it!”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“And, and, shush…Ladies, you can all lose your composure, among other things, after my toasts, please. We simply must drink to Miss Divine tonight. She is now a permanent little member, stop snickering, of my little group of loud-mouthed, all-out, flashy-never-gaudy queens!” The last ten words were said in unison by six of the seven girls, drinks in the air. Miss Divine only blushed. “Now, bottoms up!…Very funny, how original, Honeybear.”
After Honeybear stood upright again and straightened the rear of her dress, Celeste sat back down next to Miss Divine. Frigo’s was nearly as loud as the layer of smoke lingering in it was thick. Everybody seemed to be smoking something that night. Being early yet, the ladies, Ladies and “lame d’s,” as Celeste referred to her previous lovers, sat as still as their bodies would allow. Miss Divine and Celeste looked enviously over at the curved, corner booth from their two-tables-pushed-together seating. Celeste exaggerated neck pain looking sideways to Miss Divine.
“If we had only gotten here earlier. Wait, that sounds familiar. Isn’t there some self-conscious, ‘I have to wear the right outfit’ attention whore I suggested that too?”
“And after that toast I was beginning to think you had decency in you…How dare you blame this outfit? Celeste,” said Miss Divine, both faces growing momentarily somber, “be lucky I’m here at all and not in the hospital, or worse. I get it, I do. I know we all do it and it’s personal but not unique and blah blah. I’ve only heard you say it a million times, but my family is different. Coming out–”
Celeste disregarded the look of worry draped unglamorously across Miss Divine. It was too cliché for her to accept such a typical tragedy. “Listen, you know you’re allowed to burn those tattered old britches.”
“I think you mean bridge–”
“Oh, sweetie, how I hate the phrase ‘coming out.’ No, no, no, we do not simply –hngh– come out. Come out from where, what do we hide? No! We make our fabulous entrances!” Celeste got on her chair again and addressed the girls. “Raise the curtains! Cue the music! Let’s show Miss Divine why she’s so lucky to have this family.”
Miss Divine watched this haphazard, buzzed, off-off-off-Broadway quality rendition of “Just Leave Everything to Me” and fulfilled Celeste’s first toast. It was a Wednesday, hump day, the day Celeste ironically decided should be the girls’ night off and out every week. Her family was behind her, the bars were open and shirts, shoes, pants, dignity were not needed for service, or servicing. The bartender passively applauded from behind three gorgeously of-size queens, the sight wasn’t anything new. All eyes turned to Miss Divine when she fell in line with the other girls, her voice overtaking them all.
* * *
Part 2: Summer Night Ejaculations
Those who had to get up for work in four hours found their sweaty limbs stuck to their soaked sheets. They would try moving their battery-powered fans closer to their heads, which were stuck thinking about past regrets. No one ever got comfortable. It was one of those hot, summer nights when the silver-blue glow from the moon outshone the oppressive orange splotches of streetlights. The girls on the streets had newfound exuberances on those nights. Even on a slow night, if no one made a cent, they were, each one of the girls, a million bucks.
Miss Divine stood, hands on hips, next to the bouncy Celeste. Honeybear swung along street signs. The bustiest girl of the gang, Ariel, moved her hands to her mouth in excited fear when Honeybear flung about just a little too quickly. Destinee leaned against a wall, the most elegant cherubim without even trying.
“We all look so majestic on these nights!” Celeste called out to her girls, who she now boisterously referred to as “Celeste’s Celestial Sluts on 7th Street.”
“All dressed up and nowhere to go. I’m so bored tonight,” Miss Divine whined, throwing her head up to the sky.
“Don’t spoil it for the rest of us, sister.”
“Who said that? What am I spoiling, another drab night? Where are my men, Celeste? You promised me men. Maybe we need more girls! More in the market would mean more to bag, right?”
“What have you done now, Miss Divine? I, unlike some whiny bitch, was enjoying this night. Now we all must suffer this plague of boredom you’ve wrought down upon us.” Lola Lipskin, the silently dramatic actress she was, threw her right hand, palm out, to her forehead as if a black and white Vivien Leigh coming down with the vapors.
Celeste began, the groans of the other girls already behind her, “Honey, honey, honey, do you know what I had to do just to get you down here?”
“Promise me freedom and men?”
“I mean emotionally. I can’t just run into the nearest gay bar and grab any guy with a Gucci purse by the groin. I have to make sure there’s enough to grab anyway. Girls, what’s lesson number one?”
“Never in, but on?”
“Do unto others as they do you?”
“Be polite and always tight?”
“Oh, I’m really impressed, ladies. Try this on for size: A tiny prick won’t do the trick. Honestly, anything less than four-inches and you might as well be a eunuch.”
“Oh, you’re too much. Would you have passed me up if I didn’t meet these, how did you put it, emotional, standards of yours? Would I simply be Miss Mediocre?”
“But how could I say no to such a face! Girl, your elegance alone is two inches.”
“I just didn’t take you to be the type of lady to say–– Oh! Look at this guy-candy heading my way.” Miss Divine lost her train of thought and sense of pouting and straightened her skirt, hiking it shorter than usual. Celeste intercepted the incoming potential john.
“Don’t speak. Don’t even stop walking, get your monstrous feet stomping along. No, don’t even think about looking back.” She gave the man, who was elegantly dressed in a Marc Jacobs designer suit with socks that unfortunately didn’t match, a shove. Before the tall drink of water was even out of earshot, Miss Divine began her tantrum.
“What in the hell was that all about?”
“Didn’t you just smell it on him, Divine? You at least saw the cross hanging from his necklace, or did you miss that? My Father had gray sideburns just like his, I thought it was a sign of wisdom, but those signs don’t really exist.” The silver from the moon came across as steel on Celeste’s face. Miss Divine dropped her annoyance, which was always tinged with playfulness, and instead adopted a look of wickedness. Honeybear had stopped swinging. Destinee shivered.
Miss Divine stuttered in frustration, “Listen here you two-inched, made-up, f–... Never st–… You ever do anything like that again and I will lace your mascara with Nair, heaven help me–”
A silence interrupted the group. The pendulum moon dissolved as the sun rose hours later. The two girls apologized over tears and coffee the next day, but Celeste no longer referred to anyone as “celestial.” Miss Divine stopped calling herself “Celeste’s.”
* * *
Part 3: Wrapping it Up at 4 a.m.
When the tenants at the apartment, whose stoop Celeste and Miss Divine were approaching, woke up, they might have gone to their window and gazed at the glorious sight of freshly fallen snow blanketing the neighboring roofs and streets for the first time that season. Regardless of their age, waking up to a transformed, white, sparkling city from a dreary, grey one, a sense of magic would drill through them. The same magic cannot be said to have penetrated the two girls. Snow appropriately froze their business and the product they were selling came in shorter supply. Celeste was stewing, after coming out of the bar they had to shelter in all night. Miss Divine broke the icy silence with her balmy voice bursting with eagerness.
“I was with another youth pastor last night.”
“Lord girl, how many is that this month? Three? And I’ve never even seen a damned one.”
“No, he was fiery number four. When he first approached, I thought, as I always so self-consciously do, he didn’t want all that us girls not-so-blatantly offer. But when I saw his playfully lusting eyes, I knew he knew he was getting the whole, sweet package.”
“What is it about you that lures all these catches? You get all the most interesting men and here I am, all dressed up and nowhere to go but down on my regulars. I mean, don’t get me wrong honey, I love those guys to death, but they stopped tipping big, among other things, once the thrill of something new wore out. We’re basically their orgasms. Once the crest of that pleasure-wave crashes down, it just laps back and forth on the sand. I want more strangers like you.”
“We all love our remarkable regulars, Celeste, but I would drop them all for a night with someone new. Especially to see that youth pastor again…Oh, you should have just seen him! You would have dropped dead gorgeous on the spot and let him ravage your corpse anyway. The hair of John Stamos with the build of a Brazilian soccer player and the complexion of clouds! He told me his name was ‘Lu-lu-luke’ All the first-timers seem to pick the names of disciples.”
“Jesus must have had the biggest cock to have so many guys drop their families and follow him around a hot desert.”
“Celeste!”
“All I’m saying is after I was done with Jesus, among other things, I’d give him a hell of a good Samaritan discount.”
“Now, what does that even mean? No. No, I’m not even going to start with you. So shut up, Celeste, and listen about Luke. He was so much more fresh than the first three youth pastors and oh so much more exciting than the boring “big church” pastors I had to suffer through as a kid.”
“And here, silly me, I thought you were above such horrible clichés, Divi–”
“Oh just shut up! You know what I meant. And for the thousandth time, it’s Miss Divine
thankyouverymuch. Can I continue now, your majesty? Luke is so, so, so down to Earth. He’s not that down though, he’s a top. What a big sense of humor on that one though. As you would blurt, among other big things.”
“All the better to bless you with. Here’s to corrupting your language as well as your mouth!” She took a swig from their shared, half-empty bottle of warming Shock Top. Celeste had dropped the cap earlier and only bothered to pick it up when somebody sauntered by.
“It’s not that he was even a gentleman. He actually, my God, reminds me of my broth-”
“Was he a big tipper?” Celeste interjected.
“Well, of course. I’ve told you countless times: ‘The religious are always the most guilty and the guilty are always the most generous.’ You don’t see any of us complaining.”
After ceaseless interruptions, Miss Divine couldn’t help but pick up all those dropped hints that Celeste was only interested in what was in Luke’s pants, other than his wallet. A silence clung like the stars at dawn except for Celeste’s occasional slurps. They both wondered how much longer the silence would last.
Miss Divine finally sighed. “I would just love to see him again.”
“Oh you poor doll, you know there’s never a second coming.” Celeste gave Miss Divine a hug on her tip-toes, her heels finally leaving the ground that night, and they headed down 7th street in the same direction.
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