by Liam Livings
"Can't you remember anything from last night? Coffee, black, three sugars."
Three sugars? Who has it black with that many sugars? Something to tackle, when we were further into our friendship, I felt. "Bits. I can remember your hands on my knees, and not wanting them there. That much I can remember."
"Now she comes all the innocent at me. Butter wouldn't melt eh? You don't fool me, Ford, not for one minute." He leant against the work surface, covered in dirty washing up from eight people not being arsed to clean. His thumbs hooped into his pockets and his legs crossed at the ankle, revealing the attractive bump at the groin, I now remembered from last night. Some metal shiny things on his cowboy boots clinked as he moved.
I handed him the coffee and sipped mine - milky one sugar, like a normal person, obviously.
"We'd better get a move on if we want to get decent seats. Drink up and we'll go." He necked the rest of his weird coffee and raised his eyebrows in a 'get a move on' gesture.
As we walked to the city centre, I asked him how he knew my address, since I didn't remember giving it to him.
"You asked what was the best way to get home. I said it depended where home was, as Glasgow might not be as big as London, but it's still pretty big. You ended up giving me the whole address."
"I'm a weirdo's paradise aren't I?" I made a mental note not to do that again, and felt relieved that, so far, except the coffee, Charlie seemed pretty normal for a gay guy in his forties.
We arrived at The Birdcage cabaret bar. It had a large red door in the corner of a Victorian building which had probably at one point been a department store, or part of a hospital, such was its air of faded grandeur. At the top of the steps, a drag queen in blue sequinned evening dress, slit to the hip, and glass stilettos checked our names against a list on a clipboard she held. "Who's the chicken?" she asked, before making clucking noises at Charlie.
"Never you mind, D. Sit anywhere, is it?" Charlie handed some money to the drag queen door whore, and led me down the stairs, through silver tinsel curtains into the club.
As we arrived, I tried to hand him some money for my ticket, but he wouldn't have any of it. He kept pushing it back into my hand. In the end, I said it didn't feel right and I didn't want any treatment as if we were dating, 'cause we were most definitely not dating. And that I'd had enough of older men paying for me, so if he wouldn't take my money, I would leave.
"Older man was it?" Charlie raised one eyebrow. "The ex? Older, was he?"
"Dunno what you're on about." I looked away and tried to occupy myself by searching for a good seat, not too near the stage.
"I'll take that as a yes. Look, you buy the next two rounds, then we're quits. Okay?"
I nodded. "Where are these good seats you promised?"
He led me to a table one row from the front, looking directly at the middle of the stage. "This do you?"
I sat and took in my surroundings: a stage backed with silver tinsel curtains a few feet away. The bar was to the right of the stage, via a long mirrored wall. Circular tables either side and behind me, with chairs, some filled with people, others still empty. Pop music played quite loudly as waiters in tiny black shorts and bow ties - nothing more - roller skated with cocktails to the tables. "It'll do, I suppose."
"Fuck me pink, you're high maintenance aren't you? Glad we're not a couple, I couldn't cope with this twenty four seven."
"You wish."
"Someone mentioned getting the next two rounds. Can't remember who it was." He looked at either side exaggeratedly before staring at the empty table.
After my two rounds of cocktails, my initial misgivings about only just meeting Charlie, and how I'd prefer to still be in bed, had long gone. At the bar, I asked what drinks they did and was handed a fifteen page cocktail menu. Asking if that was all they did, the barmaid - another drag queen, this time top to toe in white feathers with a cleavage to make sailors weep - said, "Isn't that enough?" So I'd just gone with the flow and had come back with four various cocktails the feathery barmaid had recommended.
Now, Charlie sipped one and told me I was learning.
Learning, what did he think I was? Sixteen going on seventeen, and just off the coach?
It was like the Eurovision Song Contest for drag queens. They came from all countries and in all colours, shapes, sizes and costumes. Some looked like a big butch builder had put on a dress, heels and wig. Others looked exactly like a woman, until I noticed the Adam's apple, strategically covered by a neckerchief. Some came on and sang, others lip synched - there was a nice mix of modern pop music, Lily Allen, Lady Gaga, some classics, Abba of course, Donna Summer and an awful lot of Mariah Carey. An awful lot. Much more than I'd have expected. Some did stand up, acid-tongued quips about modern life, as a gay person, or just in general, about living in the UK. Others entertained us by telling their life stories, suitably tragic and dark, which left the audience with only one option: to laugh along. I kept expecting it to end, but on came the next drag queen, a little bit different from the last one.
Had someone told me about this venue and the entertainment, I'd have said, "Not for me." I mean, how many different drag acts can one person see in an afternoon? Twenty three, actually. And a final act, which wasn't a drag queen but a real woman pretending to be an air line hostess. She was called Virginia Whoreways and much of her act was about the differences between air lines. Some of her act must have been well rehearsed as the audience sang along, finished her sentences for her and copied her hand signals well.
Charlie introduced me to his friend, the mother ship of drag queens who had been the door whore earlier. She sat at our table and teased him for being with me, until Charlie told him he could see up his skirt and his bits weren't well tethered.
"I'm Devine, what do they call you, flower?" She shook my hand as she crossed her legs and perched herself on our table.
I introduced myself and told her how I'd met Charlie the night before. "Somehow he managed to get me up and dressed before lunchtime, on a Sunday."
"Was it worth it? Or would you have preferred to stay in bed bonking each other all day?"
Charlie put his hand on Devine's leg. "Oh, no darling, it's not like that at all." He smoothed his eyebrows. "More's the pity. And not for lack of trying, I can assure you."
"I see. Poor you." Devine leant towards me. "Would you come back? Tell all your friends, we're looking for some young'uns to see us."
"I'm used to this sort of thing. Not as many though. In London, I always preferred the cabaret bars. Less cruisy, more friendly."
"Isn't he lovely?" She looked at Charlie who nodded. "What do you do to keep yourself off the streets, my petal? Or do you work the streets?"
Charlie slapped her gently on the arm. "Don't be so disgusting; what do you take me for? Revolting. He's not a rent boy, can't you see?"
"No cold sores and you at least eat once a day. I did think you were a well fed rent boy, or one who didn't throw back drugs like they were going out of fashion. Ever wonder why you never see a fat rent boy?"
I started to reply, but she interrupted. "Drugs. Most of 'em, it's the only way they can cope with shagging all the clients. And the funny thing about drugs, they stop you being hungry. Thin rent boys, see." She smiled, and adjusted her top to show some more cleavage.
Charlie grabbed her hand as she continued with her monologue about rent boys. "He's a photographer's assistant."
"Really? If you do please. How glamorous." She leant forward and took my face in her hand. "You, my lad, might come in very useful if you're any good." She looked at Charlie. "Is he any good, do you know?"
Charlie shrugged. "How am I supposed to know, I've only just met him. I looked up the address where he said he worked, and it is a photography studio, off the High Street, so if he's a liar, he's a good one."
"How dare you? I'm not a liar.' I folded my arms and stuck my bottom lip out in an exaggerated gesture, getting used to how it worked in that place.
Devine patted me
on the head. "He can come again. I like him. He's got spunk."
Charlie put his hand up to stop her talking. "That's enough of that talk, we've been here before. He's a good clean living lad is Ford."
"And as for that name, I'm not buying that at all. Not at all. If you're called Ford, I was christened Devine, and we both know that's a big lie."
I started to talk, and she shushed me by putting her pink nailed finger across my lips. "We can deal with that later. I want to know more about this photographer you work with … " She asked what Ewan's background was, what sort of clients he had, what my experience was, did we do on site photos, or was it all in the studio.
I left with Devine's business card in my pocket. "It's got my real name on, and as for yours, I'll find it out, don't you worry, my chicken, I'll find it out. What Devine wants, Devine gets." And she was gone.
A few days later Devine - or Carl as he was known during the day - turned up to the photography studio. Carl looked at the photos we'd taken of other clients. We confirmed we could indeed do photos 'on site' if required. I'd already warned Ewan about where I'd met Devine/Carl and he'd shrugged saying, "As long as it isn't illegal, I'm not fussed aboot what people do if it makes them happy."
Now, Carl sat opposite us, seemingly half the size of Devine without her feathered headdress and heels. Carl was very much more unassuming than Devine. Carl was nice, but Devine was fun. Devine was the sort of person you'd want to grab hold of at the start of a night out, not knowing where she might take you.
Carl coughed then took a sip of coffee. "It will require," he leant forward and looked either side, "the utmost discretion. No one must know you've taken the photos. You can't have them in your portfolio, on your website, nothing. The only people who can know are us, and the people you photograph. Okay?"
Ewan looked at me, then Carl. "You're not part of the Mafia or something, are you? Only I don't think I want to deal with that. I've seen The Sopranos, and that was enough, d'ya know? I've only just got this up and running, I don't want someone coming round and kneecapping me, or giving me a Glasgow kiss."
"It's nothing like that. Nobody's getting head butted. And before you ask, it's not illegal. Just something people want to keep private."
Ewan nodded, indicating for Carl to continue.
"Imagine The Olympics, The World Cup, whatever works for you. Got it?"
We all nodded.
"Imagine that, but for the best drag queen. All across the UK, with regional local competitions in pubs all over the UK, until the best of the best come to one event every year. The must-attend event in any self respecting, serious drag queen's calendar. Well, we need a record of who wins what, which wig out-wigs which other one. Pictures of us parading around in our heels, holding our trophies, whatever. Well, that's where you come in."
"That's it?" Ewan asked.
"Just about. We use the pictures in the magazine and for all contestants, they all want a picture to remember it by. But no one else can know. Last time, people found out who was taking the pictures, and some of the contestants' wives and families saw the pictures. Ugly. It got messy."
"Where is this World Cup of drag queens?" Ewan asked.
"It moves about every year. Last year it was in Birmingham. It's been in Manchester, Brighton, Milton Keynes, all over. It's due to be in Scotland this year, in a few months, if that's your next question."
"Is it a day, an evening, what?"
"It's four days, Thursday to Sunday, all day, and evening events too. There's gala balls, drag races … "
"Races in cars in a straight line?"
Carl settled back in his chair and explained it all to us both. It was an annual four day conference for female impersonators and cabaret performers. It made no judgements about sexuality, "But most of 'em are queer though," Carl explained behind his hand, quietly - quietly from what, I wasn't sure; it was only us three in the room. There were singing competitions, lip-synching contests, walking in heels, best dress, best wig, most realistic make-up, least realistic but fun make-up; Carl counted the categories on his fingers until he ran out. Each competition had a gold, silver and bronze as well as a 'duly noted' - that was a category the committee had added the year before last, to recognise those who weren't quite up to standard but had still done very well. "That was quite a battle at the committee meeting I can tell you." Carl sipped his tea and crossed and uncrossed his legs. And they all wanted a professional photo for the individual, and select ones were happy to be in the magazine. It all had to be done with the utmost discretion, or it would be all cancelled, and no payment made.
Ewan and Carl shook hands on it over lunch later that day. They'd carried on chatting and drinking until Ewan returned to the office unfit for anything other than the taxi I poured him into, and his bed. I sorted out the paperwork with Carl's office - the organisation that put on the show.
Although it didn't bring us any publicity as we couldn't share the photos, it was a very lucrative contract. In those four days, once a year, we made as much money as the previous four months. Shortly after the first trip - Edinburgh it was, the first year - Ewan made me permanent, up-titled me from work experience to 'photography studio manager', and gave me a pay rise. "The boy done good, son. I'm really proud," he said, after the large cheque from Carl's organisation cleared.
Chapter 8
Lena couldn't wait to visit me. At first I had used the weather as an excuse for putting off her visit. "I am from Sweden. It snows all winter, and there is no sunlight. I think I can be okay with your little Scottish winter."
So, on a bright but cold February Saturday, I met her at the station in the middle of Glasgow. She ran across the concourse, her bright blonde quiff rock solid with hair spray, pink ear warmers, a puffy pink jacket which was like a duvet with arms, and dark pink jeans. I hugged her and asked what was with all the pink.
"I have listened to Pink’s music very much lately, and I realise I like the colour, so I go a bit mad. Brightens up the winter?"
I couldn't argue with that. "It's great."
"Where is this shop selling the kilts? You said we would see one?"
"Let's drop your stuff at mine, and there's one round the corner from there."
I looped my arm through hers and we left the station. "I've missed you."
"And I have missed you, too." She smiled. "Since how long has it been?"
"Six months. I've been here six months. Seems like a couple of weeks. What about for you?"
"Since many years, I have not looped my arm through yours. Since many years, I have not seen your smile … "
"Now we both know that's a lie, we've Skyped all the time."
"Yes, but you cannot do this can you?" She leant over to me, kissed my face and squeezed my cheek, it stung slightly in the cold air.
"I've missed you too." I hugged her to me briefly as we continued to walk. "We have his and hers quiffs now."
"If you want."
Lena hadn't quite believed that people actually wore kilts in Scotland. She'd thought it was only in "olden times" or "for tourist people", and when I said there were special shops you could buy or hire them, she hadn't believed me either. A bit of internet research and she did believe me, but the novelty had proved too much to resist. So now, we stood in the kilt shop as an elderly shop owner talked about the different tartans, ("Each family has a specific tartan from generations back") and the difference between tartan and plaid, as the Americans called it. ("Plaid is any tartan pattern, but without a family heritage. Made up, it is. Just made up.")
Lena asked if she could try one on, and did women wear them.
The shop owner scratched his grey sideburns and disappeared into the stock room, reappearing with a few options for her to try. "We're a serious kilt establishment. We've been here for hundreds of years. It was my son who told me I needed to cater for tourists so I've got some things you might like." He laid out some kilts for women in pinks and mauves on the dark wood table. I noticed him rolling his eyes slig
htly.
After trying on a few different sizes and colours, unsurprisingly she settled on a pink plaid kilt. She squealed as she handed it to him to wrap for her.
"Can I not get you anything, sonny?" he asked, carefully folding her new purchase and wrapping it in brown paper, before putting it into a tartan plastic bag.
"I live here, I'm fine." I looked at Lena and nodded to the door.
"Mind how you go now," he said. "It was his idea for the bags, my son, it was. Tartan plastic bags, whatever next." He rolled his eyes and smiled.
We closed the door with the ring of a bell and strode towards the city centre, Lena beaming and constantly checking the contents of her tartan plastic bag.
We had a drink in my favourite café, which overlooked the gardens in the city centre. The greyness of the granite buildings, and the low winter sun gave the whole place an other-worldly feeling. This was brought banging back to the real world with a bump by groups of teenagers smoking and sitting in the gardens in bright clothes, wrapped up against the cold.
"What now?" I asked.
"There is a bus which goes all around, all the places to see in Glasgow, and it does not have a roof. I have read this."
I nodded. I was well acquainted with the yellow double-decker tour buses which filled the streets, spitting out tourists at various points around the city. "We don't need that. I can show you the sites. I know all of them now. I'm not new. It's my city. I want to show it to you my way."
"Can you show it to me on the top of a high bus with no roof?"
"Well, no, I can't. I was going to suggest we walk."
"This is the only one tourist thing I want to do. I know what it is like. When friends, they visited me in Stockholm from the country they always wanted to do this thing, and I said no. But it is fun, even for someone who lives here. It was many times I saw my city from different eyes, from the tourists' eyes."
