Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (21 page)

No way would he ever leave before blabbing whatever it was he came down there to tell me, but I acquiesced just the same. “So sorry, my love, what is it that you came all the way down here to share with me?” I asked and sat down across from him. I sipped my coffee and batted my eyelashes for good measure.

“Well, it’s only the name of our fabulous new duo.” He looked up from his coffee, a beautiful grin spreading across his already too stunning face. Truly, I needed some less attractive friends. It was like being with George Hamilton. Perfect hair, perfect tan, perfect teeth. Of course, Sparkle is significantly less macho than George, but you get the picture.

“And what, pray tell, would that be?” I leaned in and set my coffee down. I mean, it’s not every day that you’re given a drag name, and I was, despite myself, rather agog with excitement. (Nifty little word,
agog
. One rarely gets to use it.
Aplomb,
too. Great word, but almost never seen. Shame really.)

As if a spotlight had suddenly hit him in the face, Sparkle stood up, raised his right hand out in an oratory gesture, and bellowed, “Ladies and Gentleman… please welcome to the stage… with a thunderous round of applause… the ladies… Miss Trinidad aaaaand Tobago!”

Sharon and I jumped up and applauded and cheered.

“I love it!” I shouted.

“Me too!” Sparkle rejoiced.

“Me three!” joined Sharon, and it was unanimous. In the traditional of Abbott and Costello, Kukla and Fran (I never liked Ollie), and Sodom and Gomorrah, a great team was born. I felt like Marilyn with her first prescription bottle: like I was floating on air.

“To stardom!”

***

Stardom, however, did not come without a price:
Hell
, thy name is stiletto. See, for three solid weeks, I breathed, ate, walked, and talked drag, and I did it from atop an ungodly high pair of red high-heels. I have no idea what Eartha Kitt was singing about, but you can keep your cha-cha heels far away from me, thank you kindly. How women spend their entire day perched on these torture devices I have no idea. Better yet, why? Honestly, everything below my thighs was in severe pain, but, thankfully, by the night of that fateful show, I was walking like a pro. Granted, it was more like a pro football player, but I did have a certain charm, something akin to poise, about my stride. Truth be told, I was actually proud of myself. 

Of course, Sparkle took to it like a duck to water. He was working the runway within a week. (Just between you and me, I seriously doubt that that was Sparkle’s first time in heels, but I humored his initial awkwardness.) It was Sharon, though, who was truly our savior. She instantly became our
Drag Master
, as she liked to call herself. We both figured that, since Sparkle was becoming our regular first customer of the day (though he never paid for anything), he might as well help us out with the morning rush. This he did every morning for three weeks, always in heels. Sharon gave us our first lessons, and, within a couple of days, we were up and running. (Hobbling, to be precise.) The customers didn’t know what to make of it, but this is San Francisco, after all, so live and let live they probably figured.

I, never being the overtly showman-like type, kept my heels on behind the counter, but shucked them when I worked the floor. (At least for the first week; then you couldn’t get me out of the damn things.) Sparkle couldn’t care less either way. Actually, I think he rather liked it. They made his calves look amazing, as many of the female and a few of the male customers expressed. Sharon even took to wearing her heels so that we could all be about the same height. And when there was a lull, she would start belting out some show tune, and the three of us would make up a routine. It was great practice, but even greater fun.

Allen was not having such a good time of it, however. The two of us saw each other periodically over those few weeks and we began to feel comfortable around each other fairly quickly. It was, well,
nice
. At least for the most part. There were, however, some bad times, some unfortunate bumps in the road. Allen, almost immediately, regretted volunteering for the show, you see. He couldn’t work the heels and walk and talk at the same time. At first, he’d practice with us after work, but once we started getting good at it and he was still rocky, he quit and only practiced in private. He wouldn’t even tell me his drag name or anything about his routine, saying that he wanted it to be a surprise. Heck, whatever floated his boat, I figured, and let it be. Besides, we had our own numbers to worry about.

In any case, overall, we had a nice time together. He was good company. And it’d been forever since I had any adult friends or had an intellectual conversation. Sparkle was more of a chit-chatter and gossiper, certainly not a world class conversationalist, mind you. And the sex, well, that was spot-on. As quiet and reserved as Allen was when he was dressed, he was the complete opposite when naked. We sucked and fucked the hell out of each other for three glorious weeks, let me tell you.

That all being said, Allen worked long hours and we only got to see each other a few times a week, at most. So, in my spare time, I practiced being Tobago, or Toby, as Sparkle called me. I called him Trinny. (Trinny the tranny. It has a certain ring to it, yes?)

“Hey, Trinny, coffee at table six and hustle it,” I would shout at him from behind the cash register.

“Eat shit, Toby,” he would shout back, with a snicker and sneer.

Well, after about a week of the heels training, Sharon started bringing wigs in for us to try on. Why she seemed to have an endless supply of wigs I had no idea and was afraid to ask. But she had every color and style, and the three of us had a blast wearing them around the store. Pretty soon, we had a whole new bunch of regulars in the mornings and all where there to see what the three crazy people would have on next. Sparkle looked best in the Roaring Twenties pageboy, Sharon in the seventies Cher, and yours truly in the Kate Pierson/Cindy Wilson beehive. Every time I had it on, I had this strange desire to shake my ass and make strange noises. (Dance this mess around, ‘round, ‘round.)

Drag was fast becoming our lives, in fact. So much so that I feared that once this whole thing was over, we would need some twelve-step program to get us back into sneakers. Anyway, no sooner had we mastered the pumps and the wigs, and Sharon had a whole array of smart party frocks and long glamorous dresses for us to wear as we sold books and served coffee. (Strange, but tips were up fifty percent.) Sparkle, naturally, wore no underwear beneath his gowns, insisting on no panty-line, but I was modest in my BVDs. And Sharon, she had the best time of all, and started wearing the shortest of the short skirts, along with a jet black Cleopatra wig and six inch black stilettos. Lesbians were arriving in droves. (Actually, I think a group of dykes is called a gaggle, but I’ll have to check on that and get back to you.)

Then the pièce de résistance, and for that we needed Kiki. It was obvious what we were lacking once we had the heels, the clothes, and the wigs: makeup. No surprise, Kiki was an expert painter of faces, and, once he saw the condition of our wigs,
they
were jacked up to heaven. Hell, my modest beehive became an insurmountable termite’s nest.

He started slow and did Sharon’s makeover first. When she came out of the office newly coifed and shellacked with makeup, I almost didn’t recognize her.
Va-va-va-voom
. She went from nerdy geek to slutty chic, and obviously loved the transformation.

Next came Sparkle. Honestly, words can’t describe the outcome, but I’ll do my best. Nearly an hour after they went into my office, Kiki emerged and triumphantly announced with aplomb (hey, I worked that one in after all), “Ladies and gentleman… may I introduce you to the lady… Miss… Trinidad.” Everyone in the shop came back to see the spectacle.

At first, all we were privy to was a single foot, encased in a stunning, two-inch-heel, white leather pump. Sparkle must’ve bought them himself, because I know that Sharon couldn’t possibly have afforded shoes like that with what I paid her. The foot was then replaced by a whole leg, and that’s when we got a glimpse of the dress. Honestly, I’d never seen so many white sequins before. Bob Mackie, eat your heart out. Next, he lifted the dress to show us his shapely leg and stylish pantyhose. Several whistles and cheers went up from behind me. That caused a white gloved arm to pop out from behind the door, which was quickly followed by an entire Trinidad, mouth wide in a smile, eyes twinkling like the midnight sky.

There was complete silence as she stood there. See, as handsome as Sparkle was as a man, he was equally as striking as a woman. I was transfixed as I stared at him, as was, apparently, everyone else in the shop. Then, one by one, all the people watching started to applaud, until there was a din of hands clapping and voices shouting. And Sparkle, as calm as he could be, crossed his legs at the knee, gently lifted his gown slightly off the ground, and, with absolute ladylike grace, curtsied. Then he motioned with his hands to Kiki, who also curtsied. I had a whole new respect for Kiki after that moment, because, seriously, he’d created a masterpiece. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what I would turn out looking like.

Alas, there was no hidden beauty lurking behind the façade of poor Bruce. Try as he might, Kiki just couldn’t work his magic on me. Luckily, my wig was so large and overpowering that it completely took attention away from my face. For some reason, whatever Kiki tried, I would always end up looking like myself with makeup on. Nothing more, nothing less. And, honestly, I think Kiki felt worse about his failure than I did. “Well,” I tried to tell him, “two out of three ain’t bad. At least Sharon and Sparkle look fabulous.”

But it wasn’t just the makeup that didn’t work. My gown was lumpy and bunched in the most unappealing places, my fake breasts looked just that, and nothing I was wearing seemed to go together. And the more Kiki primped and prodded, the worse it got, until, finally, I had to tell him to just give it up. Crestfallen, he emerged from my office and blandly announced, “Ta-da… Tobago.” I felt much like a rabbit being pulled out of a hat. Ass-first.

There was, sadly, no gradual unveiling for Toby. I just lumbered out and watched as, one by one, all the smiles on the faces of the spectators turned to frowns. They were expecting gorgeous and they got grotesque. Only Sharon and Sparkle remained smiling, and, strangely, that was enough.

“Honey,” announced Sparkle, “I do declare, you’ve been reborn.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but it turned out a stillbirth.” Nervous laughter came from the crowd.

“No, no, you look positively radiant,” he insisted.

“If you like that Carl Malden meets Imogene Coco look, then, yes, I’m sure I look stunning.” Again, more laughter, followed by a couple of claps. “I mean, please,” I began the routine, “look at me; my ass looks flatter than a pancake, my tits are all over the place… hey, get back there,” I screamed down at one of them and pushed it back in place, “and my face, oh man, I wanted demure, I wanted wholesome, I said to Kiki, I said, ‘Kiki, give me… Doris Day.’ But Kiki, he must’ve heard Tammy Faye. Yikes, the last time I saw this much makeup on one face... well, I don’t think there ever has been this much makeup on any one face. I’m sure glad they test this crap on bunnies and kittens, ‘cause this, I think, would be a lethal overdose if it were the least bit unsafe. Ladies and gentleman, at this very moment, not one pore on my face is actually breathing,” I announced and moved my hands around my face as if to offer it up for their inspection.

Laughter and applause broke out in the shop, followed by an overpowering surge of adrenaline suddenly rushing through me. That’s when it dawned on me:
pretty
isn’t what makes you a star; charisma makes you a star. And, judging from the reaction I was getting, I think I was well on my way. Sharon and Sparkle were patting me on my back and smiling from ear to ear. Even Kiki, who was truly devastated by his failure, was all smiles. And I, well I felt like Bette, Barbra, and Liza all rolled into one. I felt like, well, a diva!

Sparkle leaned in and whispered, “I think we found our respective fortés.”

“Yep,” I whispered back, “beauty and the borscht. I feel like Mel Brooks on estrogen.”

Well, the show was over and the customers went back to their shopping, and Sharon went back to the register, and Sparkle and I went back to my office to catch our breaths. I was feeling so, well,
alive
. And as soon as the two of us were behind closed doors, we clasped hands and began jumping up and down and silently screamed, so as not to let the customers know that that wasn’t the first time we’d been fabulous as a team. (By the way, jumping up and down in spiked heels is a very bad idea. Word from the wise.)

Then, in mid-jump, I saw it. I’d caught our reflection in the mirror and immediately stopped jumping and grabbed Sparkle and pulled us right up to that mirror and pointed.

“That’s it, Sparkle, that’s it!” I screamed, and this time not nearly so silently.

“What’s it? Have you decided that you’re going to do this fulltime? You know,
snip-snip
, look, Ma, you have a daughter. ‘Cause I’m here to say, Precious, you would not make a pretty woman. Even as a drag queen, you’re on the bottom of the totem pole. Maybe even the part that’s buried in the ground. Uh,
woof
.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I wasn’t born to have the face that launched a thousand ships. Enough.” I stopped him from continuing.

“Honey,” he continued anyway, “you couldn’t launch a raft in a flood with that kisser. No offense.”

“Fucker!”

“Sweet talker!”

“Okay,” I ended it, “anyway, that’s not what I meant. What I meant,” and I grabbed Sparkle’s face and pointed at it in the mirror and then looked into it myself, “what I meant is, that’s my dream.”

“
The
dream?” he asked, now stunned.

“
The
dream,” I confirmed. “This is exactly what the two of us look like when I see us in that dream of mine. Now I get it. Now I totally get it. It makes complete sense now. I don’t want to be a woman. I don’t,
yuck
, want to be with a woman. I want to be… I’m going to be… a…”