“No. This is metaphorical. The zombies are like a real and present evil within all of us, taking over.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“How is that bullshit?”
“You think the creators of Zombie Country are thinking metaphors and symbols? I think they’re thinking about what kind of show makes money. That’s all.”
“Sure, Fanny. There’s that, too.” Nolan combed his hair into a tight ponytail. “But my parents came from Cambodia after surviving the Killing Fields. The way my dad describes the events that led to the Khmer Rouge taking over and forcing everyone into labour camps . . . it sounds just like a zombie apocalypse to me!”
“Bitch, how did this conversation turn so sour all of a sudden?” Fanny chuckled. We all laughed nervously.
“No, for reals. I think there is evil in all of us. All it takes are the right circumstances and we’re in the same situation as Nazi Germany.” Nolan tossed his dirty makeup wipes into the trash and applied lip balm.
“Okay, Nolan,” Fanny slipped into an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt she’d purchased at a second-hand shop the week before. “So you tell me: how is this show, this internationally popular television show, preparing you for impending disaster?”
Nolan rubbed the stubble coming in on his eyebrows. I could see him partly thinking about his response and partly taking a mental note to pluck before his next gig. “It reminds me to look for hiding places. It reminds me to consider who I can count on in case of emergency.”
“What emergency is that?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat. I realized I was behind in undressing. I still had my head wrapped in tape and pins. I had forgotten you were upstairs waiting for all of us to undress. I quickened my pace.
“In case . . . the small things we experience every day become so big we have to run. I mean . . . look at what I just did to our premier. We can’t even exist in textbooks. Where else are they going to erase us?”
We were silent for a moment. Nolan lovingly touched Fanny’s forearm. It was badly bruised after her last run-in with a cop. The cop had catcalled Fanny just after she finished a gig at Sirens Nightclub. She did not respond and chose to jaywalk to avoid contact with him. He then issued her a ticket for jaywalking. When Fanny protested, the cop strong-armed her, calling her a she-male.
Fanny pursed her lips and looked away.
Nolan broke the silence. “Could you imagine drag queens fighting an apocalypse?” Nolan pretended to sword-fight with me. “We’d be, like, ‘Fuck, the enemy is coming! Hurry, get your heels! We need to stiletto these bitches to death!’”
“Or you know how in the movies, just before a revolution starts, the leader does that inspirational speech? We’d do that, but one of us would be lip-synching the speech from a playback track of a speech. That’s how drag it would be,” Fanny said, joining in with a smile.
I watched quietly as Nolan and Fanny took turns lip-synching in dramatic drag queen fashion (including quivering lips for vibrato) while the other recited William Wallace’s Braveheart speech in a Scottish brogue: “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!” Even Sedgewick joined the two humans above him with his high-pitched barking. I smiled but had nothing to add to the joke. Instead, I wondered what could possibly happen in my lifetime that would have me running. What would mean enough to me to fight for it?
I remember us all meeting you upstairs and heading home that night together, me on your right arm, Fanny on your left. Nolan up ahead smoking a cigarette.
“See? Look at Evan. This one’s a keeper, Kay,” Fanny said to me, while hitting your chest playfully with her purse. “He knows to walk slowly after an entire show wearing stilettos.”
I scoffed. “Oh, enough! You’ve already changed into those ugly-ass nurse shoes.”
“I will have you know, these are called high-tops, and kids nowadays are all about them.”
We laughed. Maybe a bit too loudly. You tightened the grip on our arms and whispered, “Keep walking. Keep quiet.”
Nolan looked back, confused. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Turn around. Keep walking,” you said.
Under the light of the bug-stained street lamps, we did not question you. Being followed at night (or in the morning or afternoon, really) was a familiar sensation. It was becoming more familiar as the days wore on. Making our way towards Church Street, our casual stroll became a speed walk, as did the pace of the person (or people?) behind us. I could not hear their footsteps but could hear their breathing. I did not dare look back. Just as Fanny began to cough with exertion, an open plastic cola bottle was thrown in our path. It spun in flat circles along the concrete, and the smell of piss rose into the air. We stopped before our toes could touch the filthy puddle.
“TRANNY N_ _ _ _RS!” a voice yelled before disappearing into the night.
We sidestepped the mess and continued walking towards our apartment, where we went inside and shared a spliff. I remember your hands shaking while rolling the buds into an imperfect cylinder. I remember you pulling the drag longer than usual and pretending everything was all right. We all pretended that night.
But that was then. Before Nolan left us. Before we all had to disappear ourselves. Before we begged Fanny to run.
I wonder sometimes where Fanny is and if she is safe. We aren’t white boys who can take off the gay like a coat, hang it up in a closet, then lock ourselves in that closet. People like Fanny and me don’t have a choice. You can’t take off the skin. You can’t take off the femme. So that’s why I ended up here in Liv’s house, sitting in her tub, writing this Whisper Letter to you.
Filth runs off me. I scrub the overgrown hair on my head angrily. I shave my legs, my sad legs, then pull the plug in the tub. I rinse off my body, this body that is mine, under the shower as the last of my filth and hair goes down the drain.
When I walk into Liv’s room, she already has her closet open for me.
“Kay, sometimes—well, no—every time we do this, I think to myself, you must hate my wardrobe.” I do. Her formal wear is boring. All capped sleeves and knee-length skirts fit for corporate arm candy. Her casual apparel is hideous. It’s like what those ladies used to dress up in at Lilith Fair in the 1990s. All paisley skirts and slouchy sleeves. But it will do for now. For this one moment.
“I don’t hate your wardrobe.” I roll my eyes and make my way to the closet. She knows I’m lying. I slip Liv’s fake kimono off the hanger and onto my true skin. The bottom edges of the fabric brush against my newly shaven legs and it feels like a kiss. Wrapping the belt around my waist, I admire my reflection in Liv’s standing mirror. I’m thinner, but you will be happy to know that the shelf of my bum can still be seen through the fabric. Liv smiles at my towering slender reflection, and I smile back.
“Shoes?”
“Ummm . . . yes!” I know her feet are too small, but I manage to squeeze myself into a pair of white peekaboo-toed heels. I look again into the mirror and flex my calves. I walk and pivot back and forth from the mirror to make Liv giggle.
When her laughter dies down, she says, “Do you want to have some time alone in here?”
“Hell, no. If you have a moment, I’d love to talk to somebody. I just want to say things and hear things. Anything.”