* * *
Bloomies during the day wasn’t anything to be messed with. The front facade—black marble with BLOOMINGDALE’S in big, art deco letters—looked like she was about to enter a fancy, seven-star hotel. She got out of the cab, one leg at a time like all the white women in movies did, and her heels never felt realer as she walked to the door. Lexington Avenue was wild behind her with cars and cabs and people and the anticipation she always felt when she went into these stores—Saks, Bloomies, Bergdorf, Ferragamo, Dior, Fiorucci—that as soon as she could make it past the front doors, she would be surrounded on all sides by Beauty with a capital B.
She lit up a cigarette and walked around the outside blocks of the store, prepping herself with nicotine before her big moment. There, from across the street, she dragged on her Newport 100 and stared at a pair of big-ass, gold cowboy boots in the Fiorucci window. God! Live mannequins in the window. Oh, to even dream of it all!
When she finished her smoke, she walked through the Lexington Ave entrance and went up the escalator and saw the line. Not only was it long, but the floor-to-wall mirrors in the place made it look like there were an infinity’s worth of people waiting to be seen. It reminded her of the time she went to Six Flags in Jersey with Hector. They had waited three-and-a-half damn hours to go on the Scream Machine. Now that was love, she told herself, to wait on line for an upside-down loop coaster all because her man was so excited to go on it. Oh, she remembered his face that day. He looked like a boy waiting for Santa Claus with all the presents. She had waited with him and they split a funnel cake that had so much sugar, it felt like the fried dough grease was pumping through her veins afterward. When they finally went on the roller coaster, the speeds and drops banged her head against the restraint thing and fucked her up big time: she had a migraine all the next day. But that was what she did in the name of love. Now she took a few steps forward in line and wondered what he would say if he was there next to her. Would he say she was beautiful?
No, she didn’t want to think about it. She took a wad of tissue out of her purse and dabbed her eyes so that nothing would smudge. There was a time and a place, and this was neither. She would think about him later, when she could be alone with her thoughts. When she could smoke a cigarette and cry at the unfairness of it all. Now she looked out at the sea of blond hair, thin bodies, aerosoled perms, hoops, purses, heels, gowns—denim? Yes, some of them were wearing denim. Bless!
To pass the time, she tried to figure out who were the girls that had beach houses in the Hamptons, the ones who referred to the Catskills as “the country” and the beaches in Jersey as “the shore.” She thought that girl, that girl, and that one over there with the Chanel bag could probably afford to fly first class, and those five way over there probably couldn’t even afford coach. She sighed. White skin, blue eyes, hair that could probably be straightened without a hot iron. There was the occasional morena, some dark-dark, some high-yellow. And the occasional Latina, from the pale Boricuas to the darker Dominicanas. If there were other drag queens, God Bless Them and God Bless America because they were passing so hard, even she couldn’t spot them. She took a few steps forward and wondered for how long she would be waiting there. And yet, these girls had come dressed in different outfits, to different degrees, hoping that it was their face, or their body, or their whatever that would get them spotted. What was it about life that made beauty feel so important? She didn’t know, but she felt drawn into it too. Just like everyone else in line, she only wanted someone to look at her and tell her she was beautiful. She thought that maybe, just maybe, if she was beautiful, things would get better.
* * *
As the line got shorter, it was easier to see the judges. There were four of them at the table: two men and two women. The two men looked dapper in their navy suits. They struck Angel as the type of eligible bachelors who were in their early forties, but deflated their age whenever the question came up at a gay bar or backyard soiree. The younger woman was the model who won last year. Her suit was cream-colored with big shoulder pads that made the entire ensemble look festive. The older woman was Wilhelmina herself, donning a herringbone top and a long pearl necklace that was double-wrapped around her neck.
A news reporter was off to the right, just after the table, asking some of the girls for comments about the process. “But where does this square with women’s lib?” he kept saying. Angel knew there was no such thing as a bad question, but sometimes she wondered.
As she looked out at all the beauty around her, she asked herself—when beauty was something everyone strived for and wanted to embody, when she was surrounded by so much of it, in such extreme amounts—why did it make her feel so sad to be around?
Her heart sank, as if gravity had finally found its way into her and was pulling her heart to the center of the Earth. She knew when she looked at that beautiful model who was last year’s winner—her white, shining smile; her luscious hair fit for a TV commercial; her supple earlobes; her chin that was rounded just so without any surgery—she knew that she had no chance. She thought about leaving the line, cutting her losses, and going home where she would tell no one about what had happened and what she had been foolish enough to dream of. But it was too late, she was already at the table.
“Hi,” the young woman greeted her and they shook hands. “Well don’t you look wonderful today? What’s your name?”
Angel had no illusions about her friendliness. She had heard her say the same exact line to the girl in front of her, and the girl in front of that girl. Angel smiled and told her what her name was.
The woman asked for her headshot.
“What do you mean?” Angel said. She froze. Of course she knew what the woman meant, but she didn’t have a headshot with her. She didn’t think she needed one.
“A photograph? With your face?” the woman said. She said it nice enough to Angel. Even smiled as she said it. Did she really think that Angel was too stupid to know what a headshot was?
“The classified ad didn’t say nothing about a headshot,” Angel said, trying to be as polite as possible. She didn’t want to ruin her shot by being rude.
“Oh? Well,” the woman said. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. We can jot down your information here and Robert down there can take a quick shot. Thanks for stopping by!”
Thanks for stopping by? Was this just a stopping by kind of thing? After waiting in line for how long, Angel was surprised to realize that yes, it was. It was just a drive-by. Smile and nod, keep your chin up, abs sucked in to give a bustier effect.
She walked down the table and the two men smiled and gave her a simple one-nod-and-done of the head. Finally, she was in front of Wilhelmina, whose pearl earrings made her earlobes drag down a little bit. Angel smiled as their eyes met.
“You are beautiful,” Wilhelmina said and Angel thought, Pinch me now. “Thank you for stopping by today.”
It was a relief that Angel didn’t faint right then and there. She felt light-headed though, so when the words came out, she didn’t realize how abrupt she may have come across. “Is that it?” Angel said. “What more do I need to do? Do I need to put my contact information down anywhere?”
“Oh, no dear,” Wilhelmina said with a smile. “We received your headshot and shall find you if we have a need. Thank you again. You look beautiful.”
Angel could tell that the words, though impersonal, were sincere. She tried to imagine how many women had to hear those same disappointing words, and how many times Wilhelmina would have to say them in just one day. She lost count.
She thanked Wilhelmina and walked away. She didn’t have the heart to tell Wilhelmina that she had been suffering from a case of the gran pendejas and didn’t think to come with a headshot. But she had no illusions about anything. She knew they didn’t want her, and that was that. C’est la vie.
* * *
She didn’t have any change, so she had to call Miguel collect. She stood on Fifty-Ninth with an unlit cigarette in her right hand.
She tilted her head to the side so that the phone booth receiver was wedged between her ear and her shoulder. When she heard his voice, she was glad she hadn’t got a busy tone, or worse, her mother.
“Mira, just listen to me,” she said. She told him to meet her at Barbary Coast on Seventh near Fourteenth Street in an hour and a half. He asked if everything was alright, and she said yes, she just needed a whiskey sour and a shoulder. “I have had a day,” she said. She told him she was going to go shopping now. She used the words retail therapy and said that she would see him at the bar.
She went immediately across the street, into the Fiorucci store, and picked out an entire outfit of gold lamé. It was head to toe, even those damn cowboy boots. Once she was in the dressing room, a cute young butch queen opened the fitting room for her and she took off the Annie Hall flared pantsuit as fast as she could. She put the gold lamé pieces on, and even though they were all about one half size too small, the spandex or lycra or whatever it was stretched around her. She looked ridiculous, like a toddler wrapped in gold, with two gold-sprayed hot dogs for legs, and those damn cowboy boots. She stared at herself in the mirror and wished Hector were there to hold her. She started to cry until there was a quick tapping at the door.
“Honey,” the young boy attendant sang. “You okay in there?”
Angel opened the door and when she saw the boy’s look of shock and awe, she could only imagine what her mascara situation was like.
“You look horrible,” the boy said.
Angel whimpered.
“Oh no,” the boy said. “That sounded harsh. I just meant to say that your makeup was running. What is the deal? That outfit is so fresh. The gold lamé was a choice and a decision, but you are working it. I’ll say.”
“You really think so?” she said. She dug through her purse to look for her tissues so she could wipe at her face and blow the mocos out of her nose.
“I’m gonna tell you what my mother tells me,” the boy said. “She sits me down and says, Xavier, no one should ever cry when they’re wearing lamé.”
Angel was about to blow her nose when she laughed. “It’s my party,” Angel said, “and I’ll cry if I want to.”
“Oh, okay, Lesley Gore,” the boy said, dripping in sarcasm. He held on to a bunch of hangers, hip out to the side and elbow leaning on the door.
“You’d cry if it happened to you too,” Angel said.
“No, please,” the boy said. “I hate sing-alongs—unless it’s ‘It’s Raining Men,’ and then only for a bridge and chorus—so let’s not do this.”
Angel took a seat on top of her original outfit that lay on the dressing room bench. Well this one was being a sassy little thing. Angel didn’t have the energy to argue with him. She didn’t even have the energy to ask him to let her be in peace. “Humidity is rising,” she said. “Barometer’s getting low.”
“Ugh,” he said, rolling his eyes. “According to all sources, the street’s the place to go.”
“Tall, blonde, dark, and lean.”
“Okay now you’re going out of order and testing my patience.”
Angel’s laugh turned into a sob.
“Gosh, I hate seeing people cry,” the boy said. He dropped a hanger and left it there. “So, let me tell you a story about lamé.”
“You have a story about lamé?”
“Yes?” the boy said. “Have you ever in your life seen a butch queen with a nine-inch-plus cock wearing lamé pants on a dance floor?”
Angel didn’t know if she was supposed to answer yes or no. The answer was no, she thought, though it was certainly possible she had, but had not thought to pause, stare, take it all in, store it to memory, etcetera.
“That wasn’t a story,” she said. “That was a question.”
“Because,” the boy continued, “I have. And I’ll never forget how close I came to the divine that night.”
“How old are you?” Angel said.
“That is irrelevent,” the boy snapped. “Your eyes haven’t really seen anything until they’ve seen that.”
Angel really had no idea what to say. She just wanted to take a nap. “Could you imagine if it really did start to rain men one day?” she said. “It would be deadly, like cannonballs. Everyone would have to run for cover—”
“I wouldn’t think too much into it,” the boy said. “So, do you want the lamé or not? Because if you’re not gonna take it, I need to put it back on hangers and get it back on the floor.”
“Yeah, sure,” Angel said, “I guess I’ll take it.”
“Oh, I knew it,” the boy said. “I knew you would.”
* * *
Removing any chance of returning the outfit later, she decided to snip the tags at the register and wear it out of the store. Because who could stop her from wearing nothing but gold lamé if that’s what she wanted? It certainly wasn’t the most outrageous outfit she had ever seen on the streets of Manhattan. In New York, a bitch could wear cellophane and nobody would blink twice. She loved that about her city, how even the most outrageous people could have a home in it.
She took the 6 and then the L. When she walked into Barbary Coast, Miguel was sitting alone at the bar, picking at some peanuts. She scurried over to him, put her hands on his shoulder, and kissed his cheek.
“Qué jodienda,” he said, looking at her outfit. “What the fuck are you wearing gold aluminum foil for?”
“It’s not foil, it’s lamé,” she said, seizing the moment as an educational experience. It wasn’t even four yet, so the bar was nearly empty. There were two flacos with platinum-blond hair, and a viejo in a bowtie sitting alone with a martini glass. She waved down the bartender and ordered two whiskey sours.
“You made it seem like this was an emergency,” he said. “I rushed the fuck out of the house to get here, for what? To see you dressed for the clubs?” He sighed as she sat down next to him.
“I just had an entire day of disappointment,” she said. “Is it too much to ask you to squeeze a little pena out of your heart?” She explained everything that had happened with the model search: the other women, the unbearable amounts of beauty, the outfits, the line, the implied rejection.
“Damn, Angel, that’s so fucked-up,” he said. “How’re you dealing?”
“Well, I just bought this outfit as an impulse purchase,” she said. “So that’s pretty much how I’m dealing.”
He smiled and winked at her. “So you’re making it alright, verdad?” he said. “Never seen a girl wrapped in gold that wasn’t some kind of alright.”
Their drinks arrived and she lay down a twenty to cover the both of them. She smacked his hand as he reached for his wallet. “My treat this time,” she said. “The least I could do for making you trek to a gay bar in the middle of the day.”
“There I was,” he said, “thinking you were gonna lay some shitty news on me, like you had got the virus or some shit.”
His words took her back. She drank an extra-big sip from her glass so she could feel the whiskey’s bite in the back of her throat. “Don’t joke about that,” she said. She tried not to sound too angry. She didn’t want him to get defensive about it. The thing that bothered her was that Miguel had known Hector. He knew how Hector died.
Miguel apologized and Angel felt bad. She was sad that no matter what, their experiences of life were still going to be so different, she’d have to explain how and why certain things hurt her. She didn’t feel like getting into it today. Sitting in a bar explaining virus anxiety to her straight brother while downing the last drops of a whiskey sour in an outfit of gold lamé. This was not how she imagined it would go. She had called him on the payphone so that she could see a familiar face, to hug someone she loved, and feel alright about the world.
“Why don’t you ever come around to see me?” she said.
“You never invite me,” he said. “It’s always bar this, lunch that, I’m on a payphone, Miguel, and we gotta meet now.”
“Qué porquería,” she said, but she had a
n inkling that he was right. “You know you don’t need to RSVP to come to my house.”
“Just say when,” he said. “You know I got shit to do in the evenings and nights, but maybe one day, you know, early and shit.”
“You’re still dealing?” she said, holding the empty glass up for the bartender’s attention.
“Yeah, but it’s no biggie.”
She asked him what he was dealing these days, was it still weed or had he moved on to higher sights.
“Smack,” he said.
She got closer to his ear so she could hush. “Dealing manteca, are you fucking kidding?” she said. “And how do you feel when those kids overdose? How do you let that sit in your heart at night?”
“Jesus,” he said. “I don’t wanna talk about this shit with you.”
“Fuck that,” she said.
“Yeah, fuck that,” he said. “Just lay off it. You want me and Mami to starve? I’m just doing what I gotta do, alright?”
* * *
Before she left the bar, she went to the bathroom to change back into her suit. When she got home, Venus was waiting by the stove, Juanito was sewing something at the kitchen table, and Daniel was laying on the sofa. She walked in and they all greeted her. “Ay, Dios mío,” Juanito shouted out, putting a momentary pause on his sewing. “You look like a million buckaroos. Where were you at?”
“Oh my,” Venus said, scurrying over to kiss her on the cheek. “I spy with my little eye: a shopping bag from Fiorucci.”
“Open it,” Daniel said from the couch. “Show us what’s dazzlin’.”
Angel turned the bag upside down and the gold lamé outfit plopped out into a puddle of itself. “Double ay Dios mío,” Juanito said. He gasped in a bunch of air. “So much fabric. All lamé?”
“All gold lamé,” Venus corrected. “Well,” she continued, fingers pinched around the pants like a claw in an arcade game, “this is certainly a statement.”
“You know how she is when she has a bad day,” Angel said, “she goes shopping.” She hoped that would settle it and the conversation would be over.
The House of Impossible Beauties Page 25
