One particular Queen I didn’t recognize. She was a white woman with a Patti LaBelle hairdo, circa 1985. You know, all flat and fanned out, from her “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” Live Aid period. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m a tad bit frightened by Female Impersonators. Not frightened really, more like intimidated, you know what I mean? Most of them seem sooo secure with who they are, it’s hard to imagine they were once little gay boys running around the halls of some high school somewhere.
“Damn, this is good shit.”
From the darkness, I heard an unfamiliar voice.
Suddenly, I smelled an old familiar scent.
Wanna know what I seen when I turned around?
Aryc smoking a joint in the middle of Zephyr’s closet—I mean, dressing room.
“Take a toke?”
He extended the joint, smoke wafting between us. As sweet as it smelled, I haven’t smoked pot in probably three years. The last thing I needed was to get caught getting high my first night on the job. So I politely refused.
“Pussy…”
I looked at Aryc like he was a post-demon Regan What’s-Her-Name from The Excorcist. Any second, I expected heads to spin and pea soup to fly. In all the time I knew him, Aryc always had this distinct, upper-crust British dialect. Suddenly, he sounded like every other gay guy in Detroit.
“What happened to your accent?”
“I grew up in Grosse Pointe,” he confessed. “I got my MFA in Acting from the Hilberry.”
I don’t know why it surprised me to discover Aryc a Drama Queer.
“‘Wayne State…Good school.’” He quoted Casey Kasem, sounding like my guidance counselor, Mrs. Ellis, the flake! Then he snuffed out the doob, and picked up one of Lady Z’s compacts from the table. “My nose gets shiny,” he reported, giving his schnoz a gentle powder.
Lemme tell ya, I felt just like Linda Lavin following Polly Holliday around Mel’s Diner the way Aryc showed me the ropes, telling me to shake my titties and show ’em some ass.
“Lose the Preppie look and you’ll make better profits.”
This was Aryc’s advice to me when he caught sight of my stash at the end of the evening. Personally, I thought I looked cute, whereas he looked like a Total Tramp sporting them godawful spandex shorts. Perhaps he did have a point as I noticed a lot more George Washingtons, and even a few Abe Lincolns staring up at Aryc from the pile o’ money he pocketed.
Note to self: next time, dress slutty.
“Did you wipe this table off?”
Upon returning from the loo, Aryc asked me this.
“I did…There was a bunch of dust all over it.”
For a split second, I thought I was a dead man.
“That wasn’t dust, you ass,” Aryc fumed, fire in his eyes. “That was coke!”
As in caine.
Well, how the hell was I to know?
The following Tuesday finds me back in action…
Only this time, I invested in a uniform, much like Aryc’s biker shorts/tank top combo. I feel sooo scrawny, but the tips are a-flowin’ so what do I care? Like I said, tonight is the weekly wet-Jockey-shorts contest, hosted by Zephyr “The Lady Z,” and the place is packed. Down in The Pit, two shirtless guys spin round in circles, connected by what resembles a torn T-shirt held tightly between their teeth.
“What are they doing?” I ask Aryc in passing. “Some sorta modern dance moves?”
Over the blare of Miss Jackson (if you’re nasty) belting out her latest hit, he shouts, “Ethyl rag!”
Ethyl who?
I don’t take a break till almost 10:00 PM. Two hours without a cig and I’m dying. I sneak into the back for a quick butt. Upon returning, Sam the bartender makes an announcement: “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Thru the door walks a grandfatherly gentleman, decked out in a three-piece suit, no tie, open at the collar to expose a rather hirsute chest. I can’t help but notice the gaggle of college-aged guys surrounding him.
“Who’s he?” I wonder aloud, not recognizing the old fart at all.
Aryc starts humming. “He’s the man, the man with the Midas touch…”
Turns out, they call him “Goldfinger.” Just look at the rings on his right hand and you’ll understand why. One of them, a chunky rock of a number resembles the MGM lion head, mid-roar.
Me and Aryc spend the night fighting over who gets to care for Grandpa G and be the recipient of his big, fat—tip. Luckily, he likes ’em young, so Yours Truly wins the loot. Each time I bring him his $3.75 Sea Breeze, I’m rewarded with a crisp Andrew Jackson, followed by a firm fondle of my behind.
“Keep the change.”
So what if he’s a smarmy old man? I make almost fifty bucks alone off the guy.
“The Bitch is back…”
Once again, Sam is the first to spot the arrival of The Gas Station’s next celebrity guest.
Once again, Aryc starts humming. “The day my mama socked it to…”
Turns out, one of Lady Z. Zephyr’s theme songs is “Harper Valley PTA,” which I (Harper Valley) L-O-V-E! I’m told she does a routine where she sings the song all done up in ’60s housewife drag. When she’s finished, she makes the DJ play the record in reverse, and she strips to it while singing the song a second time. Only backwards. She’s got the lyrics memorized phonetically, I guess. Talk about a feat!
Sadly, I don’t remember the Harper Valley PTA movie very much. I only saw it once when they showed it on channel 50 or 20 back when I was little. I remember them turning it into a series in like 1980–81, I think. Mom wouldn’t allow me and the girls to watch it—too racy. After all, Stella Johnson was a divorcée, wasn’t she? If poor Mom only knew the path her own life would follow.
I’m pretty sure the TV version featured none of the same cast, save for Barbara “I Dream of Jeannie” Eden, who my dad used to have a crush on big-time. Or was it Barbara Feldon of Get Smart fame? I know the chubby girl who played Stella’s daughter on TV was the fattie from Little Darlings and Honky Tonk Freeway.
The latter, I totally loved. It’s got the best ensemble cast ever in a movie…Beau Bridges from Heart Like a Wheel, Beverly D’Angelo from Vacation, Terri Garr from Tootsie, Howard Hes-seman from WKRP in Cincinnati, and Celia Weston, aka Jolene from Alice (among others).
“Lady Z needs assistance!”
Sam bellows, and I run like a bat outta hell.
Being the “new girl in town” with my “fresh freckled face,” Aryc sends me to do the dirty work. Honestly, I don’t mind. The closest thing I ever saw to a Drag Queen up close is Miss Peter. While she’s got the hair down pat, she never wears an ounce of makeup, so she doesn’t count.
“What took you so long?”
Somehow, this isn’t the response I expect when I knock and enter Lady Z’s abode. I mean, sure I know she’s a tough broad. I once heard her tell a straight male heckler, “I’m more man than you’ll ever be and more woman than you could ever handle.”
“Excuse me,” I say, not sure whether or not I should throw in ma’am.
Zephyr stands at the mirror teasing her dark brown wig into a big old bouffant.
“Well, hello…”
From what Aryc told me, Lady Z also favors the young boys. This might explain why her attitude drops the second she sees me standing in the door. Did I mention how tiny she is? 5‘2” if even that. Up on stage, she always looks so much taller. I forgot about the five-inch spikes she wears during her act, I guess. You should see the deep-squatted Russian kicks she can do in them things!
“Here’s a towel,” I say, shyly offering her the pink cloth of terry.
“Thank you, young man.” Lady Z dabs at the beads of perspiration on her forehead, calling to mind Ann Bancroft trying to seduce Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. “You’re a newbie.”
I can’t tell if she’s asking a question or informing me of a fact. Regardless, I nod and smile. “My name’s Bradley.”
“Will you be assisting me this evening, Bradley?”
> As long as I been coming to The Gas Station, I can’t recall seeing Zephyr ever working as a duo. How much assistance could a dress-wearing man need wetting down some other men in their underwear?
Still, I mind my manners. “Not unless you need me to.”
Lady Z smiles demurely. “I don’t need anything.”
I’m not sure how to take that comment. So I smile right back before making my departure.
I don’t get very far.
“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?”
This I take as a compliment.
“I mean it,” Lady Z continues. “Such beautiful bone structure.”
Believe it or not, she literally grabs hold of my chin with her surprisingly soft man-hands, turning my face from side to side, inspecting me like a piece of pork she purchased at Kroger’s or Great Scott’s.
“Have you ever done drag, Bradley?”
I let out a guffaw and almost ask, Are you nuts? But I realize the question might come off as an insult to a man who makes his living pretending to be a woman.
“When I was six, I dressed up like a gypsy fortune teller for Halloween.”
Lady Z’s face lights up. “You started young!”
“And last year I went to see Rocky Horror in costume with some friends.”
Tip to tip, she clicks her Lee Press Ons together. “Let me guess…Magenta?”
“Columbia…I even wore my own hair,” I state proudly.
Zephyr runs a hand thru my curly locks. “You ever think about giving it a shot?”
“Doing drag?” I inquire incredulously. “Never.”
“You got a problem with Drag Queens?” Lady Z sneers.
“Not at all.”
The last thing I want is her thinking I have issues with her people.
“How old are you?”
I almost say, “Seventeen.” Until I remember my ID indicates otherwise. “Twenty-one,” I reply, hoping my voice won’t waver as I lie thru my teeth.
“I’m hosting an amateur drag show at Gigi’s,” Zephyr informs me. “This Saturday at midnight…You should come by.”
Miss Peter says she used to go to Gigi’s all the time back in the day, but I never been. Most likely because of my Drag Queena-phobia.
As flattered as I may be, I still have to ask, “Seriously?”
I can’t tell if this woman—I mean, man—is feeding me a line in order to get in my pants or does she—I mean, he—think I truly got what it takes?
“With that face and that hair,” she gives each a quick grope. “Pick yourself the perfect song and costume…You can’t lose.”
“But I never performed before,” I confess. The last thing I wanna do is make an ass of myself in front of all of Gay Detroit.
Zephyr is bound and determined. “Not even in your high school play?”
Hello!
“Yeah, but…”
“So you’re a Drama Queer?” Lady Z points to her tits. “Brother Rice Thespian of the Year, Class of ’74.”
Maybe Zephyr is right.
Maybe all these years of playing Dress Up would finally pay off.
Maybe the transition from Drama Queer to Drag Queen would be a walk in the park…Albeit, one in high heels.
Think about it: Drama/Drag. Queer/Queen.
And then Lady Z. Zephyr utters the magic words…
“First prize is five hundred bucks.”
Where do I sign up?
Through the Eyes of Love
“Please, don’t let this feeling end
It’s everything I am…”
—Melissa Manchester
April 9, 1988.
When I look back on my childhood, this date will mark the moment that Laura Victor-Dayton-Victor and Bradley James Dayton went from being mother-son to faithful friends.
“Which exit should I take?”
Clutching the wheel at ten-and-two, Mom stares straight ahead down the Southfield Freeway. Surprisingly, there’s not a lot of traffic at 10:50 PM on a Saturday night here in the bowels of Detroit.
“West Warren,” I confirm, heart speed-racing as we draw closer to our final destination.
I could totally use a cigarette right now. Too bad I make it a point never to smoke in front of my mother. I know some kids’ parents allow them to partake, but I find it the ultimate in white trash, you know what I mean?
“Bradley…”
The subtext to the way Mom just said my name means she serioiusly doubts my navigational skills.
“It’s coming up,” I promise. “On the right.”
We just passed the Greenfield Village billboard with its Independence Hall knock-off, an indicator we’re getting close.
Mom puts on her blinker, even though there isn’t a car behind us for miles.
“Bradley, this is the ghetto,” she informs me, as if I can’t tell by the burnt-out buildings and abandoned houses flanking either side of the freeway.
“Lock the doors and don’t look at anybody.”
Damn Miss Peter!
Leave it to her to go on a bender at Backstreet and wind up in bed all day. I begged her not to party the night before I’m to make my official drag debut. But did she listen?
N–O!
I would’ve totally drove myself this evening, but once again, Val up and died on me. This time for good, I’m sad to say. As of this year, she’s officially an old girl of twenty, so I should probably put her out to pasture, huh?
Heading home from the Headrest earlier today, she totally conked out at 10½ Mile and John R. I know what they say about too much tanning, but why should I be the only Casper in town once all my classmates return from Florida? Luckily, Jack’s Aunt Sonia and Uncle Mark live nearby and were home so I could use their phone…
“Brad-ski!”
Sounding happy yet surprised to find me knocking on her door, Aunt Sonia welcomed me into her home, smothering me in (“And they call it…”) Charlie. Meanwhile, her hubby sat on the floral print love seat watching Wide World of Sports.
“How ya doin’?”
Uncle Mark rose to shake my hand. With his over-the-ear salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, I often think of Detroit’s own Tom Skerritt in his role as Lexie Winston’s father in Ice Castles, Marcus Winston. Only with a warm Southern drawl.
“Want some pop?” Aunt Sonia offered. As per usual, she made me think of Penny Marshall, only Midwestern. “I got Faygo Rock & Rye or Moon Mist.”
I politely refused, opting for a glass of water, which I took extra care to pronounce precisely. Then I joined her in the dining alcove. I couldn’t help but notice the china cabinet just beyond the table. A small, single-masted schooner made entirely of seashells sat alone amidst a collection of owls. There must’ve been fifty, if not more, in all shapes and sizes from Great Horned to Woodsy. (“Give a Hoot—Don’t Pollute!”)
Aunt Sonia took out her Virginia Slim Menthol Light 120s (in the box), and I saw this as my cue to reach for my Marlboros. “May I borrow your lighter?”
She offered me her pink Cricket, and I proceeded to smoke. Like I said, I make it a point never to partake in front of my parents. For whatever reason, I’m not as concerned when it comes to other adults. Besides, after all these years, I consider Aunt Sonia as more of a friend.
I’ll never forget the time I went Up North with Jack’s family to his grandpa’s cottage in Gaylord. Aunt Sonia and Uncle Mark came along and they spent an entire afternoon trying to teach me and Jack how to drive a stick. Talk about frustrating! No matter how hard I tried, I could not remember whether I was supposed to step on the clutch or step on the gas, and at which point to shift the shifter…Yet thru all the grinding of the gears, not once did Uncle Mark lose his grip.
I remember being sooo nervous sitting beside him in the front of his Chevy S-10 pickup, complete with cab on the back. Like I said, Uncle Mark reminds me of Tom Skerritt, who I had a crush on since like age ten. He also smelled super good, wearing what I think was Old Spice. Maybe Jovan Musk for Men.
&n
bsp; “How come we haven’t seen you for a while?”
Aunt Sonia wanted to know this once we were both comfy doing what we did best.
As much as I wanted to tell her, Ask your nephew, I opted for something civil like, “Oh you know…I been busy with school.”
Call me crazy, but I couldn’t make my (former) Best Friend look bad in his aunt’s eyes, even though he’s the one who wants nothing to do with me anymore.
Then I asked, “Have you talked to Jack lately?” since my mind was on the subject.
Aunt Sonia sent a menthol plume soaring above her head, nodding. “He called me from Daytona Beach on Monday…For my birthday.”
“Happy Birthday!”
Aunt Sonia scoffed, stubbing out her cig. “I’m thirty-eight…How’s that for old?”
And I thought eighteen was ancient!
Despite my insisting I could call my mother, Aunt Sonia made Uncle Mark get off his duff and drive me home. When I arrived half an hour later, I found Mom at the kitchen counter up to her elbows in making meatballs…
“I need a favor.”
“Well, I owe you one,” she reminded me.
That morning, we made a special trip out to Meijer’s where I used most of my tip money from the night before to stock the pantry full for a month. Lemme tell ya, the smell of something other than boiling Ball Park Franks found itself most welcome at Dayton’s Depot.
Mom turned the heat down to simmer, placing a lid upon the pan. “What is it?”
“I can’t tell you,” I confessed, contemplating whether I actually could or not.
I mean, sure I could. I could tell my mother anything. Learning that her only son’s a homosexual would be hard to take, but not harrowing. Finding out he’s about to put on a dress and become (Drag) Queen for a Day might not have the same effect.
“Then how can I do you a favor,” Mom wondered, “if I don’t know what it is?”
“It’s no biggie,” I assured her. “I need a ride somewhere.”
Drama Queers! Page 29