Evan, do you remember watching me perform at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre? On the dance floor, I would give you a kiss before heading downstairs to the dressing room, to peel off my sweaty pantyhose. Once inside that postered and bright room, I would shake off my damp wig and count out my tips. Drag was a humble living but enough to get us a post-show burger and groceries for the next day.
I still remember that day, one of the last days. There were three of us queens removing our faces, making a pile of dirty wipes on the counter. It was one of the many gigs I shared with my roommates, Fanny and Nolan. Fanny, still in costume, went to the adjacent washroom to piss. Her chihuahua, Sedgewick, was celebrating our return to the dressing room with his sharp yelps. Nolan remained at the counter, meticulously wiping perspiration from his armpits with an old shirt.
“Who’s up for brunch tomorrow?” I said, flashing my tips.
“Oh look, Fanny,” said Nolan while rolling his eyes and scrolling his phone.
From the washroom Fanny flushed the toilet and then re-entered the room. “What?”
“Kay is buying us brunch.”
“I’m not buying anything for you thankless bitches!” I threw my pantyhose at Nolan’s face. I had the worst aim, so it drifted to the floor instead. Nolan flashed me a belittling smile. I tucked the cash into my jacket pocket and averted my eyes to save my dignity. “I’m just lucky that there happened to be a stagette party in the audience for my ‘Going to the Chapel’ number tonight. That ugly-ass bride was like a cash cow with a dollar-store veil on her head. And did you see the bills she had on her? All twenties, no fives, no tens.” I removed my false eyelashes in two dramatic movements for emphasis.
“You can have them, Kay. To hell with all those drunken bridesmaids with their feather boas and dick drinking straws. I couldn’t stand the sound of them butchering ‘Single Ladies’ during my Beyoncé set. They all ruined it with their . . .” Fanny flipped her hand back and forth to demonstrate the bridal party’s sad imitation of Beyoncé’s choreography, and I burst out laughing.
With his show dress still undone and bunched at his waist, Nolan rose from the counter, trying to catch the WiFi signal from the theatre upstairs. It was always weak down below in the dressing room. With his phone in hand, he tried various positions near the door, cursing in between each one. When a healthy signal was achieved, he gleefully gestured us over. “Who wants to see my latest Party Crashers episode? My editor just sent me the link.”
One of Nolan’s regular gigs was to host a popular web series where he crashed political events and interviewed attendees in full drag. Bare-chested and sweaty, we rushed to his side as the video buffered. It faded in to the tune of Vivaldi’s Spring. Establishing shots of a convention centre filled the screen. Catering staff prepared trays of hors d’oeuvres. Cascading floral arrangements were placed on tables. Fancy people in fancy suits shook hands. The video cut to a shot of the Ontario premier, Walt Ogilvy, shaking hands with said fancy people while cameras flashed. To the right of the screen, Nolan entered in Connie Chung drag, complete with larger-than-life blown-out wig and tailored pantsuit. One manicured hand held a glittery microphone, while the other arm bent upwards like a teapot to hook an oversized handbag. The music changed to a hard, rhythmic guitar as Nolan’s gait was emphasized by dramatic slow-motion video.
“Damn!” I said. “Was the wind blowing when you were shooting this? Did you plan it that way?”
“What can I say?” Nolan shrugged. “I try to change the world one slow-motion shot at a time.”
The video continued with a shot of Ogilvy walking with his colleagues down a hallway. Cameras flashed. Nolan approached Ogilvy with his microphone arm outstretched.
The premier’s ruddy and round face snickered at the sight of Nolan. I could see in his eyes that he thought this was a prank, or the entertainment portion of the event. “What do we have here?” More laughs. His compadres joined in, laughing at the man in a dress. Security guards stepped forward to protect him, but Ogilvy waved them off with a hearty guffaw.
Nolan’s face remained pursed with Connie Chung–like discernment and journalistic downward inflections. “Good evening, Premier. Are you confirming that you can actually see me?” Nolan pointed the microphone in the politician’s face and waited for an answer.
Ogilvy looked around the room, balking at Nolan’s strange question. “Of course I can see you and all this that you’re wearing. Whatever it is. Whatever you are. How can anyone not see you?”
“Then if you can see me, Premier, is there a reason why your party denies the presence of Trans and gender-nonconforming folks in the current sex-ed curriculum?” At the end of this sentence, Ogilvy’s face shifted and he began walking away.
“I think you are a very confused individual,” he said over his shoulder, dismissively. Two security guards intercepted Nolan as the premier made his way down the hall. The media scrum suddenly divided between covering Ogilvy’s arrival into the event space and recording the drag queen in hysterics.
“I’m not confused, Premier! I’m clearly channelling Connie Chung meets Vera Wang meets Armani!” Nolan cried. “And even if I was confused, at least you acknowledged that I indeed exist. Just like—” In front of the puzzled media scrum, Nolan reached into his handbag and pulled out a stack of papers loaded with images. One showed a doctored photo of the premier’s face on a porn star’s body, jacking off. “—masturbation exists!” He shuffled to another print, this time a photo of Ogilvy at a press conference denying allegations of sexual assault. “Consent exists!”
The video ended with Nolan exiting the convention centre, his arms playfully around the security guards as they escorted him out. Fanny and I gazed at Nolan, our mouths agape.
“I am . . . I am . . .” Fanny could barely find the words. “I am so damn jealous of you. I wish all of us homos could give that closeted asshole a piece of our minds. Drag him.”
“Wow, Nolan.” I shook my head in wonder. By the looks of the view counter, the video was already well on its way to going viral. “You are brave.”
“Why, thank you, Kay.” Nolan curtsied and put his phone in his show bag. “Okay, bitches. When we get home can we finally catch up on Zombie Country?” The skin where his eyebrows once were rose in a plea. I found it hard to read his emotions without his full drag makeup. He was one of those queens who had no lips or eyebrows unless they were drawn on. I had to rely on dramatic pauses or comedic timing to understand his expressions.
Sedgewick yapped at the sight of Fanny struggling to remove her pantyhose and foam bum. Nolan groaned at the sound.
“Yes, Sedgewick, Mama has to pack her ass into a plastic bag.” Fanny sighed with relief when her control panties were finally inched off her fat belly, giving her generous rolls breathing room. “I’m game for watching Zombie Country, but you need to promise to sit right next to me. That show is scary as fuck. I don’t know why we watch that. It’s like torture.”
“We watch it to prepare ourselves,” said Nolan, slipping on his boy underwear and adjusting his penis under the fabric.
“For what?” Fanny began combing out her bobbed wig. “You think we’ll have a zombie apocalypse?”
“No. This is metaphorical. The zombies are like a real and present evil within all of us, taking over.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“How is that bullshit?”
“You think the creators of Zombie Country are thinking metaphors and symbols? I think they’re thinking about what kind of show makes money. That’s all.”
“Sure, Fanny. There’s that, too.” Nolan combed his hair into a tight ponytail. “But my parents came from Cambodia after surviving the Killing Fields. The way my dad describes the events that led to the Khmer Rouge taking over and forcing everyone into labour camps . . . it sounds just like a zombie apocalypse to me!”
“Bitch, how did this conversation turn so sour all of a sudden?” Fanny chuckled. We all laughed nervously.
“No, for reals.
I think there is evil in all of us. All it takes are the right circumstances and we’re in the same situation as Nazi Germany.” Nolan tossed his dirty makeup wipes into the trash and applied lip balm.
“Okay, Nolan,” Fanny slipped into an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt she’d purchased at a second-hand shop the week before. “So you tell me: how is this show, this internationally popular television show, preparing you for impending disaster?”
Nolan rubbed the stubble coming in on his eyebrows. I could see him partly thinking about his response and partly taking a mental note to pluck before his next gig. “It reminds me to look for hiding places. It reminds me to consider who I can count on in case of emergency.”
“What emergency is that?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat. I realized I was behind in undressing. I still had my head wrapped in tape and pins. I had forgotten you were upstairs waiting for all of us to undress. I quickened my pace.
“In case . . . the small things we experience every day become so big we have to run. I mean . . . look at what I just did to our premier. We can’t even exist in textbooks. Where else are they going to erase us?”
We were silent for a moment. Nolan lovingly touched Fanny’s forearm. It was badly bruised after her last run-in with a cop. The cop had catcalled Fanny just after she finished a gig at Sirens Nightclub. She did not respond and chose to jaywalk to avoid contact with him. He then issued her a ticket for jaywalking. When Fanny protested, the cop strong-armed her, calling her a she-male.
Fanny pursed her lips and looked away.
Nolan broke the silence. “Could you imagine drag queens fighting an apocalypse?” Nolan pretended to sword-fight with me. “We’d be, like, ‘Fuck, the enemy is coming! Hurry, get your heels! We need to stiletto these bitches to death!’”
“Or you know how in the movies, just before a revolution starts, the leader does that inspirational speech? We’d do that, but one of us would be lip-synching the speech from a playback track of a speech. That’s how drag it would be,” Fanny said, joining in with a smile.
I watched quietly as Nolan and Fanny took turns lip-synching in dramatic drag queen fashion (including quivering lips for vibrato) while the other recited William Wallace’s Braveheart speech in a Scottish brogue: “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!” Even Sedgewick joined the two humans above him with his high-pitched barking. I smiled but had nothing to add to the joke. Instead, I wondered what could possibly happen in my lifetime that would have me running. What would mean enough to me to fight for it?
I remember us all meeting you upstairs and heading home that night together, me on your right arm, Fanny on your left. Nolan up ahead smoking a cigarette.
“See? Look at Evan. This one’s a keeper, Kay,” Fanny said to me, while hitting your chest playfully with her purse. “He knows to walk slowly after an entire show wearing stilettos.”
I scoffed. “Oh, enough! You’ve already changed into those ugly-ass nurse shoes.”
“I will have you know, these are called high-tops, and kids nowadays are all about them.”
We laughed. Maybe a bit too loudly. You tightened the grip on our arms and whispered, “Keep walking. Keep quiet.”
Nolan looked back, confused. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Turn around. Keep walking,” you said.
Under the light of the bug-stained street lamps, we did not question you. Being followed at night (or in the morning or afternoon, really) was a familiar sensation. It was becoming more familiar as the days wore on. Making our way towards Church Street, our casual stroll became a speed walk, as did the pace of the person (or people?) behind us. I could not hear their footsteps but could hear their breathing. I did not dare look back. Just as Fanny began to cough with exertion, an open plastic cola bottle was thrown in our path. It spun in flat circles along the concrete, and the smell of piss rose into the air. We stopped before our toes could touch the filthy puddle.
“TRANNY N_ _ _ _RS!” a voice yelled before disappearing into the night.
We sidestepped the mess and continued walking towards our apartment, where we went inside and shared a spliff. I remember your hands shaking while rolling the buds into an imperfect cylinder. I remember you pulling the drag longer than usual and pretending everything was all right. We all pretended that night.
But that was then. Before Nolan left us. Before we all had to disappear ourselves. Before we begged Fanny to run.
I wonder sometimes where Fanny is and if she is safe. We aren’t white boys who can take off the gay like a coat, hang it up in a closet, then lock ourselves in that closet. People like Fanny and me don’t have a choice. You can’t take off the skin. You can’t take off the femme. So that’s why I ended up here in Liv’s house, sitting in her tub, writing this Whisper Letter to you.
Filth runs off me. I scrub the overgrown hair on my head angrily. I shave my legs, my sad legs, then pull the plug in the tub. I rinse off my body, this body that is mine, under the shower as the last of my filth and hair goes down the drain.
When I walk into Liv’s room, she already has her closet open for me.
“Kay, sometimes—well, no—every time we do this, I think to myself, you must hate my wardrobe.” I do. Her formal wear is boring. All capped sleeves and knee-length skirts fit for corporate arm candy. Her casual apparel is hideous. It’s like what those ladies used to dress up in at Lilith Fair in the 1990s. All paisley skirts and slouchy sleeves. But it will do for now. For this one moment.
“I don’t hate your wardrobe.” I roll my eyes and make my way to the closet. She knows I’m lying. I slip Liv’s fake kimono off the hanger and onto my true skin. The bottom edges of the fabric brush against my newly shaven legs and it feels like a kiss. Wrapping the belt around my waist, I admire my reflection in Liv’s standing mirror. I’m thinner, but you will be happy to know that the shelf of my bum can still be seen through the fabric. Liv smiles at my towering slender reflection, and I smile back.
“Shoes?”
“Ummm . . . yes!” I know her feet are too small, but I manage to squeeze myself into a pair of white peekaboo-toed heels. I look again into the mirror and flex my calves. I walk and pivot back and forth from the mirror to make Liv giggle.
When her laughter dies down, she says, “Do you want to have some time alone in here?”
“Hell, no. If you have a moment, I’d love to talk to somebody. I just want to say things and hear things. Anything.”
I sprawl myself across the width of her soft bed. I raise my legs up with the high heels still on. Damn, I look good. Damn, I feel good. Damn this entire life.
Liv’s side table contains both her sex toys and her nail polish collection, so it smells like a strange combination of rubber, bubble gum and acetone. I choose the reddest-of-red colour. I choose it because it’s a similar shade to the first red lipstick I stole, from Shoppers Drug Mart on my thirteenth birthday. It is red like newly bloomed poppies and red like blood from a fresh wound.
“I’m glad you chose this colour. It was my wife’s favourite . . . It is my wife’s favourite.” Liv has a problem with tenses too, which are dependent on how hopeful we are of reuniting with those we have lost. I slip the heels off and prop my feet atop Liv’s lap as she weaves a rolled-up tissue between my toes. She gathers her bleach-blond hair into a messy bun, exposing the dark brown at her roots, then begins painting. I love listening to stories about Erin, so I keep quiet, hoping she will tell me more. “When Erin got pregnant, she still wanted me to paint her toenails, even though she could barely see her own feet by the end of her third trimester. I loved doing it, though. She’d fall asleep every time.”
Each nail looks like a race car when she is done, shiny and perfect. We both admire her work for a moment. Liv looks at the blood red of my nails and she begins to shake. When she kneels next to the bed, I can tell her head is heavy with thinking, so I reach my hand out to hers and hold it tight. That’s when she speaks truth. “It’s time to run again.”
My heart sinks. My skin is suddenly cold against this silk robe. This fake silk kimono. There is a sour smell to the sweat of my armpits against this fabric. Every pore on my body touches the kimono in pins and needles. It’s time to run.
Arranging for Liv to not only cross paths with Charles Greene, but also to engage with him meaningfully took a substantial amount of planning and patience. The Resistance strategically placed Liv as a server at Legal Tender, a bar located in the heart of Toronto’s financial district, where Charles was a regular.
After two months of Liv being on the job, the two finally met. It was Cinco de Mayo. Despite the incessant rainstorms, the bar was packed with executives who embellished their tailored suits with tourist sombreros on their heads and handlebar moustaches on their faces. There wasn’t a Mexican in sight.
Charles sat at a booth with two men who clinked their Coronas. One had a reddened face and bloodshot eyes. The other had smart spectacles and a loosened tie. Charles, on the other hand, appeared soft and disarming in his blue golf shirt and khaki slacks, casual Friday to their power suits.
Over the sound of faux mariachi music and dudes screaming “Ándale!” at random, Liv approached his booth to take food orders.
“Are you hombres ready to order some tapas?” With a listless face, Liv turned the page of her notebook and clicked the nib of her pen into position. Charles removed his sombrero and finger-combed his boyish haircut.
“Uh-oh! Someone’s trying to fill us up on some food because we’re gettin’ too rowdy,” Bloodshot Eyes said, half speaking, half spitting.
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