Evan, do you remember watching me perform at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre? On the dance floor, I would give you a kiss before heading downstairs to the dressing room, to peel off my sweaty pantyhose. Once inside that postered and bright room, I would shake off my damp wig and count out my tips. Drag was a humble living but enough to get us a post-show burger and groceries for the next day.
I still remember that day, one of the last days. There were three of us queens removing our faces, making a pile of dirty wipes on the counter. It was one of the many gigs I shared with my roommates, Fanny and Nolan. Fanny, still in costume, went to the adjacent washroom to piss. Her chihuahua, Sedgewick, was celebrating our return to the dressing room with his sharp yelps. Nolan remained at the counter, meticulously wiping perspiration from his armpits with an old shirt.
“Who’s up for brunch tomorrow?” I said, flashing my tips.
“Oh look, Fanny,” said Nolan while rolling his eyes and scrolling his phone.
From the washroom Fanny flushed the toilet and then re-entered the room. “What?”
“Kay is buying us brunch.”
“I’m not buying anything for you thankless bitches!” I threw my pantyhose at Nolan’s face. I had the worst aim, so it drifted to the floor instead. Nolan flashed me a belittling smile. I tucked the cash into my jacket pocket and averted my eyes to save my dignity. “I’m just lucky that there happened to be a stagette party in the audience for my ‘Going to the Chapel’ number tonight. That ugly-ass bride was like a cash cow with a dollar-store veil on her head. And did you see the bills she had on her? All twenties, no fives, no tens.” I removed my false eyelashes in two dramatic movements for emphasis.
“You can have them, Kay. To hell with all those drunken bridesmaids with their feather boas and dick drinking straws. I couldn’t stand the sound of them butchering ‘Single Ladies’ during my Beyoncé set. They all ruined it with their . . .” Fanny flipped her hand back and forth to demonstrate the bridal party’s sad imitation of Beyoncé’s choreography, and I burst out laughing.
With his show dress still undone and bunched at his waist, Nolan rose from the counter, trying to catch the WiFi signal from the theatre upstairs. It was always weak down below in the dressing room. With his phone in hand, he tried various positions near the door, cursing in between each one. When a healthy signal was achieved, he gleefully gestured us over. “Who wants to see my latest Party Crashers episode? My editor just sent me the link.”
One of Nolan’s regular gigs was to host a popular web series where he crashed political events and interviewed attendees in full drag. Bare-chested and sweaty, we rushed to his side as the video buffered. It faded in to the tune of Vivaldi’s Spring. Establishing shots of a convention centre filled the screen. Catering staff prepared trays of hors d’oeuvres. Cascading floral arrangements were placed on tables. Fancy people in fancy suits shook hands. The video cut to a shot of the Ontario premier, Walt Ogilvy, shaking hands with said fancy people while cameras flashed. To the right of the screen, Nolan entered in Connie Chung drag, complete with larger-than-life blown-out wig and tailored pantsuit. One manicured hand held a glittery microphone, while the other arm bent upwards like a teapot to hook an oversized handbag. The music changed to a hard, rhythmic guitar as Nolan’s gait was emphasized by dramatic slow-motion video.
“Damn!” I said. “Was the wind blowing when you were shooting this? Did you plan it that way?”
“What can I say?” Nolan shrugged. “I try to change the world one slow-motion shot at a time.”
The video continued with a shot of Ogilvy walking with his colleagues down a hallway. Cameras flashed. Nolan approached Ogilvy with his microphone arm outstretched.
The premier’s ruddy and round face snickered at the sight of Nolan. I could see in his eyes that he thought this was a prank, or the entertainment portion of the event. “What do we have here?” More laughs. His compadres joined in, laughing at the man in a dress. Security guards stepped forward to protect him, but Ogilvy waved them off with a hearty guffaw.
Nolan’s face remained pursed with Connie Chung–like discernment and journalistic downward inflections. “Good evening, Premier. Are you confirming that you can actually see me?” Nolan pointed the microphone in the politician’s face and waited for an answer.
Ogilvy looked around the room, balking at Nolan’s strange question. “Of course I can see you and all this that you’re wearing. Whatever it is. Whatever you are. How can anyone not see you?”
“Then if you can see me, Premier, is there a reason why your party denies the presence of Trans and gender-nonconforming folks in the current sex-ed curriculum?” At the end of this sentence, Ogilvy’s face shifted and he began walking away.
“I think you are a very confused individual,” he said over his shoulder, dismissively. Two security guards intercepted Nolan as the premier made his way down the hall. The media scrum suddenly divided between covering Ogilvy’s arrival into the event space and recording the drag queen in hysterics.
“I’m not confused, Premier! I’m clearly channelling Connie Chung meets Vera Wang meets Armani!” Nolan cried. “And even if I was confused, at least you acknowledged that I indeed exist. Just like—” In front of the puzzled media scrum, Nolan reached into his handbag and pulled out a stack of papers loaded with images. One showed a doctored photo of the premier’s face on a porn star’s body, jacking off. “—masturbation exists!” He shuffled to another print, this time a photo of Ogilvy at a press conference denying allegations of sexual assault. “Consent exists!”
The video ended with Nolan exiting the convention centre, his arms playfully around the security guards as they escorted him out. Fanny and I gazed at Nolan, our mouths agape.
“I am . . . I am . . .” Fanny could barely find the words. “I am so damn jealous of you. I wish all of us homos could give that closeted asshole a piece of our minds. Drag him.”
“Wow, Nolan.” I shook my head in wonder. By the looks of the view counter, the video was already well on its way to going viral. “You are brave.”
“Why, thank you, Kay.” Nolan curtsied and put his phone in his show bag. “Okay, bitches. When we get home can we finally catch up on Zombie Country?” The skin where his eyebrows once were rose in a plea. I found it hard to read his emotions without his full drag makeup. He was one of those queens who had no lips or eyebrows unless they were drawn on. I had to rely on dramatic pauses or comedic timing to understand his expressions.
Sedgewick yapped at the sight of Fanny struggling to remove her pantyhose and foam bum. Nolan groaned at the sound.
“Yes, Sedgewick, Mama has to pack her ass into a plastic bag.” Fanny sighed with relief when her control panties were finally inched off her fat belly, giving her generous rolls breathing room. “I’m game for watching Zombie Country, but you need to promise to sit right next to me. That show is scary as fuck. I don’t know why we watch that. It’s like torture.”
“We watch it to prepare ourselves,” said Nolan, slipping on his boy underwear and adjusting his penis under the fabric.
“For what?” Fanny began combing out her bobbed wig. “You think we’ll have a zombie apocalypse?”