I cringed. “As I recall, Michael, Marie Antoinette suffered a wicked backlash when she tried the same thing.”
“Who’s that? Who is she? A new club kid? Does Phil Donahue know about her?”
I threw my hands in the air.
Michael and several members of the Disco 2000 family DID end up camping out with the homeless and, reportedly, had a MARVELOUS time, although Donahue never did come to film it. I stayed home and felt smug.
Now, from that story I really felt his delusional lack of empathy, his determination that the world change to suit his views, and his need to have every move, every idea, validated by the press (remember: It’s only real if it makes it into print).
But I’m philosophizing again.
Now let’s get back to our story, already in progress.
THE MAVIS AND FREEZE CHRONICLES
Well, we certainly can’t have a murder without Freeze. And you can’t understand the larger story, unless you understand his story.
Freeze was three very different people, who lived, at various times, three completely different lives.
When I first became acquainted with him, he was a very talented and fiercely well-read young man. Rather quiet. He had a boyfriend for many years, a dog named Pickle, and a thriving hat business.
He was equally at home discussing Duchampsian ideology and Melrose Place plotlines. He could quote freely from Susan Sontag’s “Notes on Camp,” and most anything by Camille Paglia. He had framed Schiaparelli prints hanging in his room, and he loved nothing more than to spend hours with me rhapsodizing over, say, Babe Paley’s neck or the Duchess of Windsor’s evolving hairstyles.
If I mentioned that I was just a fool for the decorative art nouveau ironwork I saw in Paris, he would look up from his sewing machine and murmur: “Oh, the subway station at Rue du Faubourg! Just divine! There are three books over there on the subject.”
He was always dressed to the hilt, to the ABSOLUTE NINES, with a shock of bleached white hair; a menacing, Mephistophelian goatee; and any number of pierced and painted body parts. He made all his own clothes—marvelous little deconstructed pieces that were very much in demand.
So there he was, a witty little hat maker and dress designer, in a rather unenviable position: he was locked away in a bedroom at the home of Drag Terrorist Bella Bolski—forced into indentured servitude—running up saucy little frocks for Bella—sunrise, sunset—all day, every day, in exchange for room and board.
Now, that Bella, boy, she was a work of art . . . I really do need to digress here and tell you a little something about her.
He/she would wake up early every morning and bounce out of bed, humming a happy song. Then she’d skip to work, pausing only to hug bunny rabbits and kiss little babies. She was a happy-go-lucky girl, and her coworkers enjoyed her sparkling sense of humor. Yes, everybody loved the daytime version of Bella Bolski, the adorable imp.
But as the sun went down, and night began to fall, she underwent a mysterious transformation. Her brow furrowed. Her smile turned upside down. With each layer of foundation that she slathered upon her face, another layer of armor was bolted into place. By the time the world saw this towering diva, she was lurking in the dark corners of one of Peter’s clubs, growling at the patrons. By the end of the evening, you could find her standing at the exit, like a looming gargoyle, barking, “Where the hell do you think you’re going? You aren’t going anywhere!”
And nobody dared. When Bella hosted a party, SHE TOOK HER DUTIES SERIOUSLY.
Why did she swing so maniacally from happiness to despair? Was her wig on too tight? Were her eyelashes too heavy? I contacted a prominent transvestite psychoanalyst on the matter, and Dr. Drag insisted Miss Bolski exhibited a definite case of borderline personality disorder. “Really.” He emphasized, “IT’S NOT COCAINE. No siree, THAT’S NOT BELLA’S PROBLEM AT ALL. Bella doesn’t touch the stuff. It’s all in her head. NO COCAINE UP HER SCHNOZZ.”
Well, that’s what he said, anyway.
So. She had a regular sweatshop going in her apartment. Five or six lost souls, all working toward a common goal: the Beautification of Bella vis-à-vis that evening’s outfit. There was Freeze on the sewing machine, her brother manning the wig station (“Bigger, I said! More volume, goddamnit!”), a faghag running errands and freshening drinks, and usually a random fan (terrified, really, poor thing) who’s only job was to play “I’m Every Woman” by Whitney Houston over and over and over again.
All this, so that when she went out at night and sat in her dark corner, growling at the patrons, she looked flawless.
I loved the daytime Bella. And the nighttime monster was such a fascinating read, I couldn’t put her down!
So that’s how I knew Freeze. Toiling away at someone else’s dreams. It was just like Rumpelstiltskin. Freeze was the fair maiden, forced to weave the impossible on a dusty old spinning wheel, while the evil old troll stomped about making demands.
He was a sad sort of creature. Funny, but remote. And you always wanted to hug him. Well, not exactly hug him—after all, he was a fussy old queen—but maybe touch his shoulder quickly as a gesture of sincerity and ask him: What were HIS dreams? What were HIS goals?
His dreams and goals were realized soon enough. Picture it: 1994, the year of the club kids’ last shout. Disco 2000 is on autopilot due to Michael’s growing heroin habit. Everybody, it seems, is bored . . . restless . . . addicted. The time is ripe for a takeover. Can’t you feel it? Clubland is looking for the Next Big Thrill. That’s when Freeze Number 2 came along. SuperFreeze. FrankenFreeze. The fulfillment and embodiment of all those pent-up frustrations he must have harbored while working in that back room.
It happened like this:
Typically, we would all end up back at Bella’s after a night out—against our better judgment, against our wills, actually. We were held prisoner at Bella’s every night for an after-hours “party.”
Party?! Woo-hoo!
Well, I imagine kibitzing with a roomful of brain-damaged halibut would have been more fun than one of Bella’s parties. It was always the same:
Nobody was allowed to talk. AT ALL. It made Bella tense.
Whitney told us how she was every woman several times.
And the cocaine supply dwindled until it was gone and we were fiending and tense, with full beards coming through our makeup.
But you couldn’t leave. You weren’t allowed. Days would pass. Popes would change, and still you would be huddled in that room—with Whitney reiterating time and again how it’s all in her.
Am I making my case clear? These were NOT fun parties.
But there we were again. It was January 1994.
Freeze joined us, which was a welcome change, and he had two friends from Boston with him.
One of them was a palsied old lesbian named Mavis,* and honey, she was on a mission.
She wanted to UNDERSTAND the CLUB SCENE. REALLY GET TO THE BOTTOM OF IT. FIGURE IT OUT. BECAUSE THAT’S WHO SHE WAS. “I’M MAVIS. GOOD TO MEET YOU! I’M A PROBLEM SOLVER. IT’S WHAT I DO. AND I WANT TO UNDERSTAND THIS CLUB KID THING. DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THESE ‘CLUB KIDS’ ”?
Well, bells went off, lights were flashing, and a hail of confetti rained down on her. This was her lucky day.
“Darling! Hello! You must sit right here, next to me, because do I have some stories for you! I’m James St. James. I’m a Clarifier, that’s what I do. It all began in third grade when my teacher said to me, ‘Jimmy,’ she said, ‘you’re really going places’—oh, wait, will you get me a line first, dear, we’re going to be here a while . . . we’re out? Already? WHY WE’VE ONLY BEEN TRAPPED IN THIS AIRLESS COFFIN FOR THREE DAYS! Oh dear . . . What . . . shall . . . we . . . do . . .? Hmmmm. Oh, I’ve got an idea! Mavis, would you be a dear and run to the bodega on the corner and get one? two? no three bags, I think, of their finest cocaine? Anyway, so there I was—me and Bianca in the bathroom at BAM—oh dear, no. One of those fiends must have stolen all my money. NEVER TRUST A DRAG QUEEN! B
ut, I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a bag of cocaine today. Anyway, I was telling you about my first time on Oprah . . . ”
Days later, when Bella finally granted us all parole, Mavis and I had truly bonded.
She was a strange bird, to be sure—but, listen to this—what a plan!—you know me: always thinking, my brain never sleeps, so try this one on for size:
We came up with a wonderful Life Plan for Mavis. She was going to invest all her life’s savings in a bunch of cocaine. She would quit the job she loved—managing a health food store in Boston—sell her house, move to New York, AND SHE AND FREEZE WOULD BECOME DRUG DEALERS!
I would show them the ropes, of course, and introduce them around and get them on guest lists—that sort of thing. Sometimes I rent myself out as an Image Enhancer. Lucrative side gig.
“Baby, I can make you both stars!” That’s how I put it. And they were sold. “You two are going to be, hold on to your hats, CLUB KID DRUG DEALERS! Oh, you’ll make a fortune. They all do. AND FUN! Woo Doggie! You’ll have the time of your lives. You’ll look back on it for the rest of your lives!”
Here Mavis interjected. Very seriously, she took my hand, looked into my eyes, and said: “I’VE GOT A REALLY GOOD FEELING ABOUT THIS. THIS IS WHAT I’VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF. AND NOTHING WILL GO WRONG, BECAUSE I’M A BUSINESSPERSON. THAT’S WHAT I DO. I KNOW NUMBERS AND MARKETING. That’s what’s missing in the club scene: A TOGETHER, ORGANIZED, BUSINESS-SAVVY DRUG DEALER.”
Pause.
Really let that sink in. Because I am going to hammer home the irony here. Oh, I wish we could cut to sometime next year. It’s delicious. It’s hysterical. But no.
Anyway.
I looked at Freeze. Visions of happy drug addicts danced in his eyes as he contemplated WHAT HE WAS GOING TO WEAR when his clients, no, make that his fans, came to him for a bump of cocaine.
“Yes. Hmmm. Good idea.”
Of course, I was just chattering like a magpie. I was all loopy from lack of sleep. I didn’t even know what I was saying. I certainly didn’t expect her to actually go through with it . . .
But about, oh, a month or so later, there she was in her new New York apartment and she turned to me and said:
“Should I wear the polka-dot spandex dress or this tailored suit with the big shoulder pads to really let them know I mean business—I mean, this is my debut. I have to look just right . . . ”
“Oh, the shoulder pads. Definitely the shoulder pads. They’ll love them at Limelight. Trust me.”
She had taken thirteen thousand dollars out of the bank. Her life savings. Ten years of work. Her rainy-day fund.
“No more rainy days for you! From here on in it’s Sunshine and Lollipops!”
There was more coke than we knew what to do with. Enough to keep Bella quiet for . . . weeks. And Special K . . . and Rohypnol for when you want to come down . . . and Valium for when you get cranky . . . and heroin for Freeze . . . And what else? A little GHB. Some pot.
Then I turned to her and clutched her shaky little hand: “I have a good idea. You should let me carry the drugs around. I’m a star, the guards won’t touch me. Of course, you trust me, right?”
“Oh sure. Of course. My God—JAMES, I CAN FEEL IT—YOU AND I ARE SO MUCH ALIKE. I FEEL LIKE I FOUND A BROTHER!”
I looked at this funny old coke freak with her spiky lesbian hair and her big watery eyes that looked so eager and happy, and I thought, “Oh well. I guess I can do this.”
So, out of the goodness of my heart, because I am a good person, really, I decided that we WOULD be two peas in a pod, if that’s what she wanted. And, by God, I was going to show her the time of her dreary little life.
These would be the best three months she will ever experience.
Because that’s what I gave it. Three months. Then crash and burn. We had already done fifteen or so grams to celebrate the opening of our joint business adventure.
“LOSS LEADER,” she rationalized.
“Oh, and Mavis, will you front me a bit for tonight? I’ll call my accountant in the morning and she’ll wire the money. I’m good for it. I’m James St. James.”
“WHATEVER YOU WANT HONEY. AND TAKE AN EXTRA GRAM ON ME.”
She went to the safe and extracted the goods.
“BUT WAIT FOR MAMA. I’M GOING TO MATCH YOU BUMP FOR BUMP. LINE FOR LINE. WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER.”
Oh, greater men than you have tried and failed to keep up with me, honey! But, hmmm . . . something tells me . . . yes . . . you just might have it in you. Yes, I see the love in your face, it shows when it’s gliding up the nose.
I looked at her again, in a new light.
“Mavis, you just might discover a whole new side of yourself. I think this will be a voyage of self-discovery for you.”
She hugged me tight—“Oh, I hope so.”
Freeze was in the next room, moussing his new sideburns. They were razor sharp—RAR!—and he dyed his hair FIRE ENGINE RED.
Now if he can just . . . get . . . the eyebrows . . . exactly right . . .
Not faggy, you see. But arched, like this.
And it will only take another hour to pencil in this goatee.
As I left the room, I heard him humming “Rose’s Turn” from Gypsy:
Gangway world, get off of my runway, . . .
This time boys, I’m taking the bows!
Oh, I think we were all going to learn a lot about each other in the coming months.
And so we went out—each of us soaring miles above the earth, lifted by the drugs—but buoyed by the realization of all our hopes and dreams.
Mavis was going to be popular! famous! loved! And applauded for her business skills!
Freeze was going to be in the center from now on. No more backseat living for him! He was about to explode.
And me . . . well, I had a new sister . . . who cared a GREAT DEAL FOR ME . . . a sister with thirteen thousand dollars of fun in MY pocket.
Of course, it all went off beautifully, as planned.
The kids at Limelight really did love her—“Where on earth did you find this one, James?” they all asked.
“She was working at a grocery store in Boston. Isn’t that fabulous?”
“GENIUS!”
At one point, a pink-haired nobody leaned over to her: “Mavis, I just worship your outfit. Those shoulder pads are so retro-aggro-chic!”
“Very butch, Miss Thing,” somebody else chimed in.
Mavis tittered. Flattered that these club kids would actually acknowledge her! Little Mavis, who this time last month was an aging spinster . . .
But let’s not dwell on the past.
It’s all about RIGHT NOW.
“Oh, and right now, I think you ought to give Loretta Hogg—the drag queen over there with the pig snout—SHE’S VERY FAMOUS—I think you ought to give her a gram.”
“Oh. Right. Right. Loretta Hogg. Remember that: very famous. Deserves a gram. Of course she does. Whatever you say. I trust you.”
“Oh, and over there—that drag queen?—she’s very famous too. The one with the four arms and the walrus tusks. A LEGENDARY LEGEND. Never pays for drugs . . . ”
“But, wait . . . ”
“LOSS LEADERS, MAVIS. Don’t you know anything? Keep the stars happy and everyone else will follow. That’s the rule. Always keep the people on top happy and you co-opt their fabulousness through association. You’ll see.”
“OK.”
“And I’ll need another gram to get through this. She’s such a bore!”
“I thought she was famous . . . A legendary legend?”
I threw my arms up in disgust.
“Looks like we’re going to have to break out the old flash cards. Remedial Nightclubbing 101, Spring session! OK, very slowly . . . yes, she’s fabulous, Mavis, but that doesn’t make her an interesting person.”
“A green transvestite with four arms and walrus tusks isn’t interesting?”
“Maybe at your little granola factory that passes for interestin
g. But this is the tippy-top, Mavis. You’re at the red-hot center of the coolest club in the world. You can’t get any higher than this, baby.”
Was I laying it on too thick? What would she say when she learned the truth?—that even the most fabulous club kid is still rated somewhere between Don Knotts and Regis Philbin on the register of international hip.
“Truth is, Mavis, most of the people at the top are real nightmares. Monsters. Not worthy of you at all. They aren’t real people like you and me. They’ve been corrupted. Why there’s one, his name is Michael Alig—well, you stay away from him. Trust me on this one; he will take advantage of you, Mavis. And I’m only telling you this because I love you. But Michael will try to lure you away from me—he’ll tell you lies about me, I know he will—just to cause trouble. He does that every day before breakfast. Every day he wakes up and says ‘How can I cause trouble for James?’ He’s evil. Pure Evil.”
Intuitively, he was right there. By my side. His antennae were tingling. He knew something was up.
“Why, Michael, I was just talking about you!”
“Of course you were, James. What else do you ever talk about? Hmmm. Who’s your interesting new friend here?”
I pretended to find a fascinating new way to fold cocktail napkins.
La La La.
“Well, if James is going to be SO RUDE—Hi. I’m Michael Alig. Welcome to my club.”
Mavis’s mouth dropped.
“OK! OK! OK!” I screamed, “Michael this is Mavis. Mavis this is Michael. Yea. Yea. Yea. He is the king of all we survey. But, Michael, Mavis picked corn for a deli in Massachusetts. She’s my new superstar. Oh. And she’s also a drug dealer.”
“AHA! I understand perfectly.” And he shot me a look which said that he . . . understood. . . . Perfectly.
“Now, Mavis, don’t you listen to a word James says. He’s a bitter old has-been. He has no power here. Take it from me . . . ”
Party Monster Page 8
