Cocktails at Seven, Apocalypse at Eight: The Derby Cavendish Stories

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Mitzy’s hand closed on my arm. “He’s mastur-bating.”

  “It’s interpretive dance,” I said. “It’s simulated. It’s symbolic.”

  “No, Derby, he’s really rubbing one out!”

  I blinked. Xabi might still have been moving to the music, but there was no denying that he was now fully focused on his trouser tango. The audience had noticed too, and was reacting, as they had to Elsa’s surprise limerick, with a fickle mixture of shock and appreciation. Xabi ignored them. He dropped his briefs and, no longer concealing anything, moved right up to the edge of the stage.

  “He’s going all the way!” someone yelled. The crowd directly in front of the dancer scattered.

  Shirley appeared with a big tarp in hand. “Help me!” she ordered and I vaulted up to join her. Together we managed to wrestle Xabi to the ground and wrap him up before the Saturday Night Special became an intimately interactive performance.

  “I can’t help myself!” he said, still squirming underneath us. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I try to dance and instead—oh God, oh yes, oh yes . . .”

  But getting down and dirty on the stage had given me the perspective I needed. There was glittering dust spread across the boards—hardly unusual at Pride, but glitter that sticks in swirling lines as a furiously masturbating dancer rolls across it? That wasn’t right.

  “Shh,” I said as Xabi gave a final shudder. “I know what’s happening.” I helped Shirley get him backstage; then, as the sound technician threw on dance music to distract the crowd from the latest calamity, I hoisted myself up into the steel frame of the rigging for a bird’s-eye view of the stage.

  The pattern in the glitter was impossible to miss from above. I slid back down to Mitzy. “It’s a fairy circle,” I said “Everyone who enters it is revealed for what they really are and their performances turned against them. This is serious magic!”

  Mitzy frowned. “It wasn’t here when I did my first number!”

  “No,” I said grimly, “I don’t think it was. But I know where it came from.” I bent and swiped my fingers through a bit of dust. They came away as green as envy. “Let’s have a talk with Hermione Frisson.”

  Backstage, we found Shirley and the performers gathered together. The stage manager was trying to persuade the girls from CU2 Baby Baby to go on, but they’d dropped their cute act and were resisting loudly. I haven’t heard such foul language come out of such small bodies since my elderly aunts forgot to fill their flasks before a dry wedding.

  “But if someone doesn’t go on, the show is over,” pleaded Shirley. “We’re going to have to cancel everything!” She looked from the J-pop girls to the emo boys to Petal and Ricky. None of them would meet her eyes.

  At the back of the knot of performers, though, Hermione was looking smug. She’d changed into a sort of sexy Parisian cafe outfit with a tiny sweater, tinier beret, and impossibly tall heels. I knew in my gut that this was exactly the situation she’d been hoping for. With the others afraid to go on, she would take the stage as the star.

  But before she could say anything, Mitzy stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

  My heart dropped. Shirley’s face lit up. Hermione’s twisted with rage. “Non!” she said sharply. “I will go on! Put this hairy penis out there and you’ll just have another disaster!”

  She was more right than she knew. I tried to get Mitzy’s attention, but she wouldn’t meet my eye. Shirley looked from her to Hermione and back again. “Mitzy,” she said decisively.

  Hermione screamed. “You’re going to regret this!” she said, jabbing a finger at Mitzy and Shirley. She swept her hand around at all of us. “You’re all going to regret it! This show will be the biggest failure in the history of Pride!”

  She stormed away before even her boys could follow her. I grabbed Mitzy’s arm. “Mitz, you know what will happen if you get into that circle. Everyone is going to see the real you.” I mimed claws and fangs. “The real you.”

  “I can control it,” she said. “Xabi and Elsa didn’t know what was happening to them. I do, and I’m not going to let one jealous fucking diva ruin the show for all of us!” She slipped her arm out of my grasp. “Besides, remember what you’re always telling me, Derby.”

  I sighed. “That you answer the call when it comes.”

  “That my act is tighter than my tuck!” She turned to Shirley. “Cue up my big number and give me two minutes to change!”

  As Mitzy dove into the dressing room, I went after Hermione. The crowd was getting thicker, the audience swelling as word spread of Xabi’s performance and people came to check out the train wreck of the Saturday Night Special. I could see Hermione’s bun bobbing through the press of bodies and I plunged after her. Her exaggerated heels slowed her down and as she broke into a clear space, I was right behind her.

  “Hold it, Hermione!” I shouted. She spun around. I stopped a pace or two away. “I take back what I said about sloppy choreography. Nice trick, working the fairy circle into your routine.”

  Her expression tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You go with that,” I told her, “but you’ve let loose some powerful magic. You need to undo it before someone gets hurt.”

  “Hurt?” Hermione asked. “You don’t think that was the point? This show was supposed to be mine! If someone gets hurt—” She gestured and the feather duster appeared in her hands. “—they shouldn’t have gotten in my way.” Snarling, she stabbed the duster at me.

  At that moment, the stage lights flared bright, then plunged into darkness. Hermione gasped in surprise. I dropped low. Shimmering green fairy dust swirled above me, but I was already kicking out. My foot found Hermione’s heels and, with a cry, she went down. The feather duster flew high. I rolled to my feet and snatched it out of the air.

  “Next time,” I told Hermione, “wear something sensible.”

  But I had been too slow. The lights came back up. Shrouded in a crimson cape trimmed in yellow marabou, Mitzy stood centre stage, right in the middle of the fairy circle. Her face was serene, her blond wig held high. She stood in silence, giving the audience a moment of anticipation before she began to sing.

  I knew the number. I’d listened to her rehearse it many times and never had the slow, proud opening of “I Am What I Am” seemed more poignant. “Ah, Mitzy,” I murmured to myself as the audience fell under the simple, earnest enchantment of her performance.

  Then the song hit its stride. Mitzy’s voice and the music rose together and she threw off the cape to reveal a costume of high boots, a sparkling sequin thong—and her own naked, manly chest.

  The crowd went wild.

  “That’s right,” screamed Mitzy Knish over the bridge of the song. “That’s the real me—a big flaming queen and damn proud of it! You know the words. Sing it with me!”

  The crowd roared its approval. At my feet, Hermione Frisson, her big moment irrevocably stolen, howled and pounded her fists against the ground.

  ※

  In the end, I didn’t even need to use the feather duster to erase the fairy circle. As Mitzy strutted across the stage, belting out her anthem, the glittering lines unravelled and drifted away in sparkling clouds, undone by the power of her pride. The crowd thought it was part of the show, but I knew better and so did Mitzy. With the magic dispersed, she got all of the other performers—even Hermione’s red-assed dancers—out on the stage to sing with her. The audience met them with a thunderous ovation that completely drowned out whatever now forgotten act was playing over on the Main Stage.

  The show was a triumph. Mitzy may have used up her big number early but she improvised a mash-up of “It’s Not Unusual” and “Danke Schoën” with CU2 Baby Baby that left the stage littered in panties and jockstraps. I’m pretty sure that the lowly Second Stage Saturday Night Special established a record for encores that night. I know for a fact that
all of the performers—including a certain pair of burlesque boys who joined Xabi for a risqué performance that nearly put the cum in come back—were immediately signed up to play the Main Stage at next year’s festivities.

  The only one who didn’t get invited back was Hermione Frisson, though I think the Pride organizers, unaware of her role in nearly destroying the show in the first place, would have asked her, too—if they’d been able to find her. By the time I looked away from the stage, she’d vanished. Mitzy and I went to the dressing room after the curtain finally came down, but even her costumes were gone.

  The only sign that Hermione Frisson had ever been at Pride at all was a lone pasty with a long tassel that shimmered with green dust as I picked it up.

  After the smash success of last year’s Gay Hockey League Jockstrap Auction and Bake Sale, I found myself much in demand as a fundraiser. Sadly, I had to turn down the flood of requests—vigilance against the otherworldly is a 24/7 job—but when the call came to help Filthy Camilla, I couldn’t ignore it entirely.

  “Filthy Camilla” is the vintage pipe organ installed at the Royal Dominion Hockey Arena and Community Hall. She’s been a star of sporting events since 1932 and takes her affectionate nickname from the memorial plaque placed on her gilded keyboard by a young widow: in memory of wallace vail, from camilla. the hockey team loves it and so does the milkman.

  We’re all very proud of Camilla, but she’s a high maintenance kind of girl. Her pipes need to be cleaned regularly, her windchests have had more reconstruction than a porn star, and the last time her blower seized, they needed a specialist to reach inside and jiggle things loose. I couldn’t leave the preservation society in the lurch, so I put them in touch with the best fundraising organizers I know: the Ladies’ Senior Auxiliary of the East Sykes United Church. The ladies have been running the church Christmas Bazaar—not to mention the Thanksgiving Pie Auction, the Hallelujah Summer Day Camp, and the Easter “He is Risen” Bake-off—for decades so I knew that the Up with Our Organ campaign would be in good hands.

  They settled on a dazzling charity casino to be held at the arena just before Christmas when everyone is full of good will and festive giving. It certainly seemed like a marvellous idea to me—at least until I walked through the door and was greeted by a pair of young men in the costumes of Roman gladiators.

  “Yo,” they said in unison.

  “Yo,” I responded in surprise. I drew my date for the evening aside. “Edie, what’s this?”

  “It’s good enough for Caesar’s Palace, it’s good enough for us.” Edie North is a dear friend, a leading member of the Ladies’ Senior Auxiliary, and still a bona fide pussy magnet even if she’s almost as old as Filthy Camilla. She was between girlfriends at the moment—the last one had recently moved to Victoria suffering from exhaustion—so she’d graciously allowed me to escort her to the casino. “Disappointed, Derby? I would have thought you’d approve.”

  One of the gladiators looked over his shoulder, gave me a wink, and flexed oiled muscles that made me think of roaring crowds, sun-baked arenas, and hot, dark tunnels crowded with desperate, sweaty . . . I shivered. “Oh, I approve. It’s just that the theme has me a bit worried. It seems . . . off.”

  Edie’s expression turned into a glower that would have cowed an emperor. “Dear Lord, what is it this time?” she demanded. “Zombies at the Christmas Bazaar, spirits at supper club, werewolves at Hanukkah—so help me, Derby Cavendish, I would like to have one holiday without something weird happening!”

  “So would I, Edie,” I said. “So would I.”

  A server clad in a short tunic and sandals offered us champagne. I took glasses for me and Edie, and we ventured farther into the arena. The ice surface of the Royal Dom had been covered over for the evening’s event. Tuxedoes and cocktail dresses took the place of hockey sweaters, but the Roman theme of the evening had been laid on with all the subtlety of a New Jersey spray tan. Palm trees, fake columns, and reclining couches were scattered among the gambling tables, which were themselves staffed by attractive young men and women in draped togas and stolas. Legionaries, slaves, and gladiators of both genders—the Ladies’ Senior Auxiliary can be quite progressive—moved through the room, posing for photo ops and flirting with one and all. It was sophisticated, it was decadent—and it was very, very sexual. I could see it in every drawn-out glance, every touch that lingered just a little too long. The casino had more tension than a locker room full of horned-up jocks wondering who among them would be first to pop a boner.

  The ladies of the Auxiliary aren’t that progressive. “I don’t like this, Edie,” I said. “Something is definitely wrong.”

  “Derby, give it a rest. There’s nothing wrong.” Edie drained her champagne and handed the empty flute to a passing girl in the costume of a sexy legionary—then reached out and pulled her in for a long, passionate kiss.

  I gave her a few moments, then cleared my throat. Edie blinked as she realized what she was doing and quickly turned loose her prize. The girl smiled, gave her a saucy “Yo,” and sauntered away. Edie looked at me. “Something is wrong, Derby.”

  “And I know what it is.” The legionary girl’s response had been the clue. Four muscular gladiators and one of the local hockey stars, apparently having been talked out of his shirt, posed for a photo nearby. “Yo!” I called to them.

  “Yo!” called back all five enthusiastically. The hockey star nudged one of the gladiators and added, “Hey, buddy, that harness looks pretty hot. Could I try it on?”

  I’d heard enough. “Saturnalia!” I said.

  “What?” asked Edie.

  “A Roman festival of frivolity and role reversal,” I told her. “During Saturnalia, masters served their slaves, friends exchanged joke gifts, and chaos reigned.” I swept my hand around the casino, which was becoming increasingly raucous. “It was frequently marked by gambling, as well as the traditional greeting of ‘Io Saturnalia!’ which is also sometimes rendered as—”

  “Yo!” shouted everyone around us in unison.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Edie, the East Sykes Ladies’ Senior Auxiliary has invoked the spirit of Saturnalia!”

  “Virgin Mary on a pogo stick!” Edie cursed. “We’ve let loose an orgy?”

  “So it would seem, which is odd because strictly speaking, orgies were more a feature of Bacchanalia, the spring festival of wine and—”

  Edie punched me with a bony fist. “Never mind that, you big whoopsie! How did this happen?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “God in Heaven, there really is a first time for everything.”

  Hell hath no sarcasm like an elderly lesbian. “You’re not helping, Edie. We need to figure this out before somebody does something they’ll regret.”

  Edie winced. “Too late for that,” she said as a woman’s voice rose from behind me—“Dave, no one wants to see your impression of a one-armed bandit. Pull your pants up!”

  I resisted the temptation to turn around. “Who had the idea to do a Roman theme for the casino?” I asked Edie. “We’ll start with them.”

  “Them” was a sprightly little woman named Mavis Anderson whom we had to drag away from a Texas Hold’em table piled high with pieces of clothing as well as poker chips. “Damn it, Edie,” Mavis said, “I almost had that young Dr. Singh down to his tiger-stripe underpants. A couple more hands and I would have shown him a pair of queens he’d never forget.” She gave us a shimmy of ample bosom, for the moment still supported by an overachieving brassiere.

  “Never mind him,” Edie said. “Haven’t you noticed things getting a little out of hand?”

  “Only Dr. Singh,” said Mavis with a wink.

  I took her by the shoulders and forced her to meet my gaze. “Mavis Anderson, look and see what’s happening around you!”

  Mavis blinked, then her eyes grew wide as she stared around the casino. A yelp o
f alarm escaped her, and she tried to cover herself with her hands. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing that can’t be fixed,” I told her. “Where did you get the idea for a Roman casino? An old book? A strange dream?”

  “A . . . a dream. Yes, a dream.”

  I knew it. “Were there instructions in this dream?” I demanded. “Rituals to be performed? What sort of otherworldly entity presented itself to you?”

  Mavis’s face, already flushed, turned an even deeper shade of red. “Alright, alright! It was my grandson, Braden!”

  “Don’t worry, Mavis,” I assured her. “It may have looked like Braden in your dream, but it was something else wearing his—”

  “What?” she said. “No! There was no dream. The Roman theme wasn’t actually my idea. Braden suggested it.”

  “Mavis!” said Edie.

  “I wanted to do a nice winter wonderland theme!” Mavis protested. “Braden said it would be more fun to do sexy Romans like those hunky boys they have handing out condoms at the Pride parade. And I thought, why not? Most of the volunteers are Braden’s friends from the frats and sororities at the university. A lot of them even had their own togas.”

  “Bedsheets, Mavis! They had their own bedsheets!”

  “Alright,” I sighed. “Where’s Braden now?”

  “In the community hall. They’re supposed to be getting ready for a big dance number.”

  “I bet they are,” I said. “Come on, Edie.”

  A side door connected the arena to the community hall, but the crowd became ever more unruly as we pushed toward it. I spotted the minister of East Sykes United double-fisting champagne while our local city councillor ground against him like he was a stripper pole. The gaming tables were largely forgotten or utterly subverted: the roulette layout was covered in shots instead of chips, genitals had been drawn on the Big Six wheel, and when someone at the craps table yelled “Kiss them for luck!” they weren’t talking about dice. Only Edie’s well-placed elbows and knees kept us moving forward.