“Hmm, well I do love some lamé,” Venus said, tiptoeing her way back to the stove so she could stir her oatmeal. She unlidded the small pot and the steam came up like a little fog machine.
After Angel went into her room, folded the new lamé, and put it away in the drawer, she decided that she didn’t want to keep the secret from them all. She marched back out of her room and stood at a point in the living room where she could see all three of her children. “I just want to tell you,” she said, “that I went on a model search and they didn’t like me enough to want to pursue me. And I’m okay with it. I’ve dealt with worse and I’ll move on. I didn’t want to keep it from you.”
There was silence for a second. Venus dropped her spoon in the oatmeal and came over to give her a hug.
“You mean,” Daniel said, “the Bloomingdale’s Model Search?”
“How’d you know?” she said.
She watched as Daniel and Juanito locked eyes.
“We found the newspaper clipping by accident,” Juanito said. “We thought maybe it belonged to Venus since she keeps the most secrets from all of us.”
Venus undid her arms from the hug so she could turn toward Juanito. “Excuse you!”
“¿Y qué?” Juanito said.
“C’mon, girl,” Daniel said. “You know it’s true.”
Venus marched back to her oatmeal and took a spoonful. “Don’t be hateful.”
Angel watched Juanito and Daniel roll their eyes. She knew what she could do to lighten the mood. She went back into her room, took out the lamé, and changed into it. She put a tape in the boom box and put some Whitney on blast and marched out with her arms up. “Come on, nenas,” she said to them all. “Dance with me.”
“Now see,” Juanito said. “Those judges must’ve been downright locas to not see what they’re missing out on with you.”
“Tha’s riiiight,” Venus said, clapping her hands and ready to pump it up. “How Will I Know” was on, and they all gathered by Angel’s side to dance. Out the window, the sunset looked like it could be placed smack on the side of a butter container.
“I suppose it’s important to remember, in times like this,” Angel said above the music, “that we simply cannot blame the straight world for their lack of imagination.”
THREE
DORIAN
The goal, of course, is to pass as fully as possible. If I’m a man but I feel like a woman, and I can dress like a woman, and wear makeup like a woman, the more I look like a woman, then the better I can pass. You see, passing has always been the key to banjee realness. If I wanted to pass as a straight macho dude—which I personally would never want to do, I’d rather burn off my eyebrows and jump into the Hudson River in December—but let’s say that I did want to pass as a straight macho dude and I come to the ball dressed looking like someone who could rob you with a knife and call you a fag and punch you in the face for no reason, well then hooray for me—that’s passing. And the judges will reward me with a trophy and applause.
Passing is an art form, darling. It’s a craft. And just like any craft, the artistic ideal is always impossible to achieve. We can try and try and try as hard as possible to pass as a woman, but if I’m a biological man, I can only go up to a certain point. The rest is all imagination. But just because it’s impossible doesn’t mean that should stop someone. We shoot to come as close to that perfection as we possibly can. I think Angel and Venus were impossible beauties—anyone could look at them and think, Now she is a woman.
But I think the larger issue is what it means to have this impossible beauty outside of the ball scene. It’s not like the world is going to look at you and say, Yes, honeys, you’ve worked so hard for this and we love you for it. No, that shit is not going to happen and we’ve got to be real about it. I’m interested in what happens when the balls are over and everybody’s gotta go home. Because you’ve got queens who come here and feel on top of the world because we’ve given them a trophy, but then what? They go home and get the shit beat out of them for being a faggot? Please. That’s less than ideal, obviously.
I like to think, darling, that we all need to face the fact that the whole world isn’t a giant ball. I mean, I think it would be wonderful if it was. Maybe there’d be less war and more glitter, less bloodshed and more fabulous. You know what I’m saying? But we’ve got to face the reality of the situation before us. And that reality is a harsher one.
My friend Keith used to tell me that I was just being a critical queen, and why did I have to say all of those things. I’d snap back that I’m just being realistic, and could he not? What can I say? It was a difficult time. People were dropping left and right, not from violence or bashing, but from that virus. Gosh. It was atrocious. Of course we were all scared, all mortified, for heaven’s sake.
I remember one summer, Fire Island was relatively quiet. People were just scared rigid and all the beautiful Chelsea bunnies were disappearing, and by disappearing, I mean dropping dead, honey. Excuse my bluntness, but facts are facts. So Keith and I were sipping mai tais by the pool, no one was swimming at five in the morning because that’s hangover hour, but Keith and I were always the early birds. I was trying to get him to come to this ACT UP protest. We were going to do a stage-in at the cathedral in Midtown, and Keith was saying no, no, he couldn’t go because the police were already on his ass for graffiti on the subway. I just couldn’t believe that, not because I thought he was lying. I knew he was telling the truth, but it’s just the nerve of some people! Not Keith, but the police. Can it only pass as art when it’s on a canvas? Can no one see art when it’s right under their nose? No, apparently not. Why am I surprised? Why am I still always surprised?
The first time I saw his art—well, first let me say that he painted these bloated stick figures who look like they always want to dance together. So I saw it and thought, Yes, queen, I’m on board with this. So the first time I saw this one specific piece of his, it had a black stick figure being choked by a sperm. So this sperm, on one end, was a noose. And the other end, it had a mouth and was eating the other stick figure. I said, Keith, darling, this is horrid. So dark. Where is the beauty in this? And he said, Dorian, if you say that, you’re telling me that I need to turn this virus into something beautiful?
Two years after Keith died, I was walking in a museum exhibit of his work. I was just beside myself with grief, to see his work on the walls as if they belonged to some time that had passed us by, even though we were still in the thick of it. I saw this canvas with two stick figure men holding up a giant heart. You can tell they’re struggling because they’re bent on their knees and pushing up against the ground. And this heart is bigger than them—bigger than the both of them combined—and there are shining ray-lines coming out of the heart, and I thought, Damn, Keith. Even in the grave he was pulling stunts. I cried right there in the middle of the museum, and there are few things I hate more than crying inside, around other people. I always say, if you need to cry, go outside, bitch. But there I was, being a fat old blubbery mess and some young man put his arm around me and held me. I had never seen this man before, and never saw him again. He didn’t say anything to me, he just held me as I cried and it was a moment that’s just impossible to describe the full effect of.
I’m still figuring out how to process all of that, all of this, darling. I’m not sure I ever will.
JUANITO
Nerves were getting the best of him. He knew how vicious the ball crowd could be. Sometimes the shade just felt like downright ice. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He could handle this. He walked to the mirror that was duct-taped to his closet door so he could see what he looked like in the purple dress. The dress he had made for himself over how many months? Five months, sewn by those very fingers on his hands. He looked up and saw: marvelous. He was simply mar-vel-ous.
He didn’t tell the others about the ball. He wanted to go to make his debut all alone. His plan was to pretend to be like the Puerto Rican Cinderella, staying out on the town unt
il the clock ticked midnight and the subway turned into a pastelito and he lost his chancla running down some stairs. Oh, could anyone imagine? That would be downright silly.
He didn’t tell them because it was more of a relief not to have them around for his very first walk. The nerves were eating him alive! Sure, he loved them dearly, but now without them there, he felt less pressure. He could trip, or lose, or throw unwitty shade, and they wouldn’t see. Bottom line: If they weren’t there, there was no way for him to disappoint them.
Juanito showed up at the Lodge with some time to spare, so he walked into the bathroom behind the main room. There were queens, young and old, going in and out of the men’s and women’s doors. Juanito didn’t have to do his business, he just wanted to stare at himself in the mirror to make sure his makeup was done up right and that the subway ride didn’t add any wrinkles to his dress. He wanted to pass the time without sitting alone waiting for the show to start.
When he walked into the men’s room, two queens were having it out in front of one of the broken sinks. When the door closed behind Juanito, the queens turned their heads and stared at him. Juanito pretended not to notice their stares. He walked to the other sink to see if he needed to put more lipstick on. He reached into the purse he had borrwed from Venus to get the tube of lipstick.
“I can’t take it off, mama,” the younger queen said to the older one. “You can’t take off a vest. It’s a vest!”
Juanito kissed out his lips in the mirror, but ran his eyes to the side to see if he could watch them argue.
“You need to take that shit off,” the older one said. “Nobody in they right mind wears a vest to a ball. You ain’t walking in SCHOOL or BANJEE GIRL REALNESS. Girl, you are walking in TOWN & COUNTRY. You ever seen a white lady in Town & Country wear a goddamn vest?”
The younger one sighed. “But if I take it off,” she said, “then people are going to see my flabby stomach.” She took off the vest as if that would be proof.
Juanito took a step back from the mirror and fluffed his hair in the air to try to add some volume. He usually kept it back in a short ponytail, but now he needed to let it down. He swooped his head back and forth to let the hair fall naturally.
“I said,” the older one said, “not nobody wears a vest to a ball. I’m helping you from making a mistake. Look at Juanito Xtravaganza over here, look at that fabulous dress he is working tonight.”
Juanito turned his head, like who me? He looked at the older queen and immediately knew her face. The first time he had met Pepper LaBeija, she was screaming at Paris Dupree. “You can tell her that I am the legendary mother, and if she has a problem, she can take it up with me,” Pepper had said without an ounce of irony. “I will tell her to look at my face—no lines, no wrinkles, no bags. She can stare at my youth—and suffer.”
Now Pepper smiled at Juanito. He could see the eyetooth that was missing on her right side.
“Hello prettiness,” Pepper said. She held her hand up and wiggled her fingers instead of waving. “I heard about Angel’s woes. The poor thing. My oh my. Sometimes it feels like the universe is pulling a giant stunt on that one.”
“I’ll tell her you send your love,” Juanito said.
“Please do,” Pepper said. The young LaBeija stomped past Juanito and stormed out of the bathroom. Pepper shouted out to her, “I know you’re gonna take that damn vest off, Dynasty.”
Juanito smiled and Pepper saw.
“Oh, boy-child,” Pepper said, “your eyebrows are looking sharp. Wax or pluck?”
Juanito said pluck.
“You lucky bitch,” Pepper said. “I can’t ever pluck mine right so I went to my girl Janise at the waxing place—and she was talking the whole time, eating up the minutes, telling me it was about to change my life. I told her, Girl, whatchoo talkin’ about change my life?—just wax my damn eyebrows and lip already—”
“Pepper,” Juanito said. “You think I look alright tonight? It’s my first ball, I don’t know if you know that, and I’m just worrying all inside.”
“Well,” Pepper said, “you’re not wearing a vest, so that’s a start. But, my oh my, you do look wonderful. The trick is all in the confidence.”
“And what if I ain’t got the confidence?”
“You gotta pretend then,” Pepper said. “I’ve seen countless queens—I’m talkin’ real ugly bitches—win trophies because they were confident. If you got the energy and the umph, the judges are gonna see it in the outfit. And the crowd will go wild and eat you up.”
Juanito sighed.
“And you already got a leg up,” Pepper said. “Cuz you ain’t got an ugly bone in that body. Angel always picks the cute ones. The Xtravaganzas are fabulous—not as fabulous as the LaBeijas, honey, let’s be real—but you’ll be just fine.”
* * *
He was missing an accessory. That was all that was spinning around his head as he walked to a corner table and sat alone watching the queens settle into place with their groups and families, as he watched the judges take to the stage with their placards that read eight, nine, ten, as the emcees hooked up the mic and made sure the trophies were arranged in size order on the side table behind the judges. Someone turned on the large fan in the corner and, from the mezzanine, someone dumped down a large box of the little Styrofoam nuggets that people put in boxes when they shipped gifts. It was like white chunks of confetti hailing down on the group, getting stuck in people’s perms and jheri curls.
And he was missing a damn accessory. How had he forgotten? He was so swept up in making the dress—from scratch, mind you. And altering it. And resewing it. He scratched the back of his scalp and looked out at all the kids who hadn’t been stupid enough to forget their accessories. He looked at all the outfits that popped and dazzled the floor and he came up with a list of reasons why he wouldn’t win and take home a trophy. He just wished Daniel were there, to hold him, maybe, or simply tell him that he was overthinking the situation and that he needed to take a chill pill.
Across the way, he saw a red faux-snakeskin dress, cut off just above the knee, rising just below the cleavage point. It was body tight, with matching red gloves that went up to the boy’s elbows. He was smoking a cigarette and dishing shade with some chica in a silver lamé tube top, hair that was overly permed and hairsprayed, with an emerald-encrusted brooch in the middle of her flat chest. Juanito could see the outline of her hardened nips through the tight lamé. Then a few tables down, he saw a black queen with a completely shaven head and a box hat angled just above his right ear. Juanito had no idea how it was staying on top of his head without sliding off. Maybe tape, he thought, certainly not glue, but he couldn’t be sure. He wouldn’t put it past a queen to hot glue some shit to her head. Another boy, this time to Juanito’s left, was wearing eyelashes that must’ve been four inches long. How the hell could someone even blink in those?
There were dresses so long and so fitted, they looked like mermaid tails made of silk, made of polyester, made of nylon and acrylic, organza, tulle, rayon for heaven’s sake. There were dresses so short and so flowy, one gust of the fan could give a girl a peek of some ass cheeks à la Marilyn Monroe.
Pero there he was, a flaco boy alone, donning a fitted dress of purple silk. With no accessory. With no family. He reached into his bag to grab Venus’s compact mirror so that he could look at his lipstick situation again.
“Child,” a voice said behind him. He turned and saw Pepper. “Don’t tell me you’re going to sit by your damn self all night long.”
“Dani’s gonna come for the second half,” Juanito lied.
“And what about the first half?” Pepper said, “that’s what I’m talking about.”
“You already know they’re all at the funeral,” Juanito said. “Dorian’s friend. They performed at Sally’s together, or something.”
“People dropping left and right,” Pepper said. “And it’s always close to home, ain’t it? But that don’t mean you should ever be sitting by your lonesome.
”
Pepper grabbed him by the wrist and practically dragged his ass all the way to the table in the right back corner where all the other LaBeija children were sitting.
“Pepper,” Juanito said. “I’m the only Xtravaganza here.”
“Just because you’re sitting with us don’t mean you’re a LaBeija,” Pepper said. “Even though bitches would die in order to be reborn as a LaBeija.”
“Yes, honey,” one of the LaBeija children said, enunciating each word, “tell it like it is.”
Someone came up behind Pepper and put a real-life snake around her neck as if it were a scarf. The creature must’ve been three or four feet long, and it just lay there doing a 360 with its head to catch a glimpse with its black sequin eyes.
Juanito gasped and put his hand up to his heart.
“Oh, this?” Pepper said and laughed. “What can I say? I prefer my boas to have scales, not feathers. We call her Lana Turner because she’s a fabulous addition to any neck.”
Alright, Juanito thought, it has been confirmed: these bitches were cray-zee. If only Angel could see, she’d have a coronary and be shocked back to life in the span of two heartbeats. Venus would probably shriek and run away in her heels. Maybe Daniel would laugh, and that thought made Juanito wish that Dani were there to witness this charade with him.
“I forgot to bring an accessory,” Juanito said. “Maybe forgot ain’t the right word. I never had one in the first place. You can’t really forget something you never had.”
“Oh, child,” Pepper said while scratch-petting Lana Turner with her pinky finger—the only fingernail that was longer than the rest. “Everybody needs an accessory.”
“Hell yasss,” said the young LaBeija who had put Lana Turner on Pepper’s neck. He was a flaming black fem queen with gold eye shadow on. He must’ve been no older than fourteen. “My body is my accessory.” He pulled his tank top down to flash Juanito his nipple, which was pierced with a gold ring.
“Hush, JayJay,” Pepper said. Lana Turner hissed. “Does Miss Juanito look like he’s got time for some foolishness right about now?”
The House of Impossible Beauties Page 26
