“So I decided that when I grew up I would build my own Shangri-La,” Lola says as I put the wig on his head and pull it down. “Where people could be happy and beautiful.”
“As long as they never leave,” I say.
“You’re too young to be so bitter,” Lola tells me, teasing the wig.
“I’m not bitter,” I say. “That’s just how it worked. Everyone was happy as long as they stayed in Shangri-La. But when they left, they weren’t.”
“Poor Maria,” Lola says. “That scene where they turn her body over and see that she’s become a dried-up old thing is so sad.”
“Speaking of dried-up old things, you’d better hurry,” Farrah remarks. “They just started playing Paloma’s Madonna number, which means you’ve got about five minutes until you’re on.”
“Jumpsuit,” Lola barks, and I run off to the wardrobe closet.
The next few minutes are crazy as we stuff Lola into his costume, make sure his wig is straight, and do touch-ups to his makeup. I’m just strapping the rhinestone-covered sandals to his feet when Paloma sticks his head in and says, “Time to work, gurl.”
Lola leaves, following Paloma down the hallway to the main room and the tiny stage. I can hear people hooting and calling out Lola’s name. The energy from the bar pulses down the hallway, and I wish I could go out there. Then Farrah shuts the door and all I hear is the muted thump of the song as Lola starts to do his number.
“You’re right about Shangri-La,” Farrah says as I sit down in the chair in front of the mirror and pick up a makeup brush.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re only happy as long as you never leave,” he says. “And you know what that makes it—a trap. Just like this place.”
I turn and look at him. “You don’t like it here?”
He waves a hand at me. “I like it just fine,” he says. “I’m just saying, the only way to keep the illusion alive is to never let it wear off. And that’s a lot of work.”
I look at the color I’ve added to my cheeks. My skin is already pretty pale, and the pink blush makes me look almost doll-like. I switch to eye shadow and apply some blue to the crease of my eyelid, the way Paloma has been teaching me to.
“You look like one of those anime girls,” Farrah teases. He comes over to the mirror, takes the brush from me, and puts some more shadow on my eye. “Now blend it with your fingertip,” he says, doing part of it for me and then watching as I repeat what he did on the other eye. “That’s good. You decide on a name yet?”
I shake my head. My drag name is an ongoing topic of conversation at the Shangri-La. Everybody has an opinion. But I don’t know who I am yet. Besides, it will be another year before I can even legally perform here. By then I might be an entirely different person.
Farrah finds a wig and brings it over to me. It’s red, the color of a campfire after the flames have burned down and only glowing embers remain. When Farrah puts it on me, the long curls fall around my shoulders. I stare at the glass and wonder who this girl is looking back at me.
Then I notice the time. It’s 11:35. “Shit,” I say, snatching up a washcloth and some cold cream. “I’m going to be late.”
I told my dad I would be home by midnight. Even though it’s summer, and I don’t have to be at school in the morning, he doesn’t want me running around all night. Besides, I’m supposed to help out at the Eezy-Freezy tomorrow.
I get the makeup off in record time, give Farrah a kiss on the cheek, and start to leave. Then I remember the wig. I pull it off and toss it to Farrah, who catches it in one hand like it’s a fly ball.
“I’ll see you on Saturday night,” I say, and go out the back door to the parking lot.
Thankfully, my old truck starts up with no problem. It’s a 1965 Ford F100 stepside pickup, cherry red, that belonged to my great-grandfather, whose name was also Sam. He bought it when he was eighteen. It cost $1,900 new, which he earned washing bottles at the Adirondack Ale brewery for $1.25 an hour. I figured out he had to work 1,520 hours for this truck. Plus, he was married to Starletta and they had my grandma, Hank, to take care of, so really he worked a lot more hours than that.
He didn’t get to enjoy the truck for long. He died when he was nineteen. Blew up on the Fourth of July when a sparkler he was holding burned his fingers. He dropped it, and it landed in a case of Roman candles he was supposed to be taking over to the firehouse for the annual fireworks display. Starletta was sad, of course, but she’d kind of expected it because of the curse and all.
I’m told I look like my great-grandfather. There’s only one picture of him, taken the day he bought the Ford. He’s sitting in the cab, leaning out the window and grinning like a fool. Like me, he’s skinny and has light brown hair. And even though he’s smiling, his eyes look sad. I think it’s because part of him knew he wouldn’t be that happy ever again, but Starletta says his eyes were always like that. She says I have those same eyes, although I’m not really sad. I just think about things a lot.
The truck is still in great shape, because someone in every generation learns how to keep it running. It’s kind of a tradition. As soon as I was old enough, my dad started teaching me how to change the oil. Then he showed me how the engine worked, and how to replace the spark plugs and belts, before we moved on to the harder stuff like the brakes and the engine. I’m pretty sure I’m the only guy in my school who can replace a faulty kickdown switch and also create the perfect smoky eye.
I drive with the windows open, and the warm air blows through the cab of the truck. It smells like grass and tar from the recently repaved road. Reaching into the glove box, I take out a packet of cigarettes. Camels. The same brand Great-Grandfather Sam smoked. I remove one and light it with the dashboard lighter. I take a drag and let the smoke fill my lungs, then blow it out.
I don’t really smoke. Only once in a while when I’m driving late at night like this. Then I imagine that the swirling smoke exhaled from my mouth forms a ghostly shape and that the other Sam—the one I never met but whose name and eyes I have—is sitting in the cab with me, his arm on the edge of the door as we travel down the road.
I finish the cigarette right before I get home. Sam’s ghost swirls away in the wind, and when I pull the truck up in front of the house, I’m alone again. I walk to the back door, which leads directly into the kitchen. Inside, my grandmother, great-grandmother, and great-great-grandmother are seated around the table. Each one has a tall glass of strawberry Nehi in front of her, and they’re playing cards.
“It’s too hot to live,” says Hank.
“There’s peach pie on the counter,” Starletta informs me.
“Gin!” crows Clodine, throwing down her cards. Millard Fillmore, her ancient brown Chihuahua, is sitting in her lap. He opens one eye, sees that no one is offering him anything to eat, and goes back to sleep.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, considering the pie.
“In the trailer,” Hank answers. “You lucked out.”
“I’m not that late,” I say, taking a plate from the cupboard and spooning a piece of pie on it. “It’s just past midnight.”