She was obviously getting frustrated. “Okay. Hey. I get it. Don’t like labels, huh? I hear ya. What about ‘visual artist?’ ‘Performance artist?’ Yeah? Okay?”
I was almost ready to give in when . . .
The fry cook looked out from the kitchen and did a double take when he saw my breathtaking androgyny. “FREAK!” he hissed under his breath—and we both looked at each other. Yeah?
“Oh, I’m totally down with ‘freak.’ I’m pretty used to it around here; in fact, I was already trying to reclaim it as my own.”
“Okay.” She smiled. “The title will say, Billy Bloom: Self-proclaimed Superfreak.”
We went through the questions she planned to ask, and walked me through the shots. She then looked at her watch, took a last gulp of coffee, and said: “We’ll start shooting in about half an hour. Does that give you enough time to get ready?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, and ran off to find Mary Jane and begin the process of my drag.
XVII
DAY ONE, SCENE: COURTYARD, EISENHOWER ACADEMY
The students started crowding around the minute they saw the Action News van.
Clancy was busy barking orders to her cameraman. “Roger, bump in with a long shot. I’ll be in front of the school sign for the intro. We’ll do a head and shoulders, first. Cut to three quarters medium shot for the interview, then pan to crowd. . . .”
By now, every student was on the courtyard lawn, struggling and straining to see what was going on. Push, push. What was Clancy Duckett doing here? Nudge, nudge.
“What’d she just say?”
“What’s going on?”
They murmured and rumbled and mumbled and surged forward and pushed backward and jostled for position. They jumped up and down.
The camera lights went on.
A hush fell over the crowd. All eyes were on Clancy as she made her way to the Eisenhower Academy sign and lifted her microphone to speak.
“WHAT IN HEAVEN’S NAME IS GOING ON OUT HERE?” Principal Onnigan boomed as he sprinted across the courtyard, and 787 students actually shushed him.
XVIII
At exactly five minutes to eight, I emerged from the library bathroom in my best monster-meet-the-press drag, and made my way across the courtyard, working my way through the crowd of looky-loos. “Pardon me! Excusez-moi! Coming through! Watch your back!” as I inched my way toward the front gate, where Clancy and her crew were waiting.
There was a rolling groan of horror when everyone got a load of my outfit and saw Clancy wave me through. Obviously, I was behind whatever was about to go down, and they were suddenly a little bit nervous.
Here’s what they said:
“Jesus Crap!”
“Not again!”
“What now?”
“What’s he up to this time?”
“Oh, here we go again.”
“Yawn.”
“Ho-hum.”
“Such an attention whore.”
“He just asks for it, doesn’t he?”
“Why doesn’t he ever learn?”
“No longer shocking.”
“BOR-ING!”
“Overkill.”
“We GET it—you’re different!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Whatever.”
“Lacking his usual polish.”
“Makes me miss the Swamp Zombie.”
“He’s up to something, though.”
“Why would the Channel Seven news come just to cover an outfit?”
“This can’t be good.”
“Maybe he’s announcing his engagement to Flip.”
“Oh my gaaaaawwd—stop! Someone might hear you!”
“I bet he’s suing the school.”
“Or about to go Columbine on our asses—LIVE!”
“He’s never going to go away, is he?”
“I guess we’re stuck with him.”
“Give him credit: He doesn’t give up.”
“Tougher than he looks.”
“You WISH you had his cojones, dude.”
PICTURE ME LOVELY: I was wearing a new dressy dress, a pretty lace number that I found at a thrift store the other day, with a real “special-day” feel to it.
I sported a heaping helmet of frosted hair . . . proper pageant hair, don’t you know, the likes of which they don’t do much anymore, except in the darkest depths of the deepest South.
I carried a festive bouquet of assorted flowers in my arms.
And to top it all off—a big, old twinkly tiara on my head, and a regal-looking sash across my chest, which was, strangely, still blank.
Oh! Oh! And of course, how could I forget? The most important detail—the crowning touch, the splash of colorful whimsy that ties it all together, gives it depth and meaning—I was spattered, no, drenched, really, with chicken blood. BOO! It’s true! Dripping with honest-to-god chicken blood! In all its scarlet fury! (Okay, okay, really just a mixture of corn syrup and red vegetable dye, but with the same sticky consistency and overall look as the real deal.)
So I made my way through the crowd: “Pardon me! Coming through! Watch your backs!”
Dripping. Drizzling.
Sloshing forward.
Staining the very ground with my crimson gore.
Anybody figure it out yet? Anybody? You in the back?
Carrie! Yes! The movie Carrie!
The classic horror flick about a killer prom queen with telekinetic powers. She’s the class freak, see, who brings down the prom in a fiery blaze, killing everyone who made fun of her.
GOOD STUFF.
Real feel-good kind of movie.
Does anyone see where I’m going with this?
Clancy mouthed, “roll it” as soon as I reached her side.
XIX
After her introduction I began my speech.
My voice quivered and wavered and barely rose above a rasp. But it rallied as I did, and grew in pitch, in clarity. It started soft, then grew with confidence, and finally rang out like a clarion call to arms. “For too long I have suffered in silence,” I said. “I thought being an outcast meant I had no voice. I accepted the role of victim that was assigned to me and was shamed into martyrdom. No more! All that changes today. Today I take control of my destiny; I reclaim my birthright. Once again, I will be fabulous. Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make . . .”
Here, I paused to put on my EISENHOWER ACADEMY HOMECOMING QUEEN sash.
There was a sharp gasp from the crowd.
“Yes, I’m here to announce my candidacy for homecoming queen! It’s time to put a real queen in charge! I want the students here to understand that GENDER IS A CHOICE, NOT A LIFE SENTENCE. I’m going to change the world, one dress at a time!”
Well, that was it.
The world exploded in a mushroom cloud of horror and outrage. The collective “NO!” of every student there sent a sonic boom circling around the globe seven times, flattening everything in its path. And when the dust finally settled, it was as if common decency and two hundred years of Southern tradition had been dealt a deathblow.
The crowd turned ugly.
Torches were lit. Pitchforks were raised. Cries of “KILL THE MONSTER” were heard.
Here, Clancy stepped in, reminding everyone that the cameras were still rolling.
“Tell us about your platform, Billy. What do you want the students to take away from your campaign?”
“My platform is simple: I’m pro-glamour and anti-khaki. I support total artistic freedom, and I’m against conservative backlashes. I intend to stamp out redneckism wherever I find it, and fight discrimination and Christian intolerance, using only my beauty, wit, and wig-styling skills. I’m going to try, single-handedly, to bring about an end to the hatred I’ve found here at Eisenhower. And it’s not just for me, Clancy, no. I feel AN ABSOLUTE OBLIGATION to change the way the students here think about GBLTs. In fact, by running for homecoming queen, I feel I’m carrying the flag for a whole culture.”
Here, I looked straight into the camera, raised a fist to the sky, and shouted: “TEASE HAIR, NOT HOMOS!”
Clancy moved into the crowd to get their reactions.
They ran the gamut from: “It’s wrong. He’s sick and needs to be stopped,” to: “Why not? He’ll never win, but let him run.”
Why, there were even a few: “You gotta give the kid credit. He doesn’t give up.”
And that was slightly encouraging.
The cameras then turned to Principal Onnigan. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and said, “Well, while there’s no OFFICIAL rule that limits the position of homecoming queen to just females . . . ummm . . . errr. . . . We will certainly have to look a little more closely at the issue in the days to come and see if it’s feasible or advisable . . . but . . . um . . . as of now, Billy does fit the eligibility profile: He has collected the requisite twenty-five signatures, he has the support of a school-sanctioned club, and his GPA is certainly higher than the needed two point eight. . . . And let me also state, for the record, that the Eisenhower Academy is clearly not sexually biased, and as always, we support Billy’s . . . um . . . creative approach to school curriculum and campus traditions. . . .”
“And there you have it!” Clancy said. “Dawn of the ‘drag queen’ at one area high school. Despite overwhelming opposition, one out-proud young drag queen seeks to eliminate gender-based discrimination through that most archaic and sexist of institutions—the old-fashioned beauty pageant. Will he succeed? Will gender identity become a nonissue at this elite private school? Stay with Channel Seven as this story develops. I’m Clancy Duckett, reporting from the Eisenhower Academy in Plantation. Now back to Rick Rock in the studio with the weather.”
“And we’re out!” said Roger, the camera guy.
“Good stuff, Bloom!” she boomed, and gave me a punch on the shoulder. “You’re a natural. It’ll be on the news tonight. The six o’clock, definitely, and possibly the eleven o’clock, as well. And we’ll be following the story, of course, so this isn’t the last you’ll see of us.”
XX
And LO AND BEHOLD, I was on BOTH the six AND eleven o’clock newscasts!
AND all the commercials, as well! (“Day of the drag queen at one area high school, controversy at six!”)
And it must have been a slow night because I was the SECOND PIECE of the night! The granny suicide bomber got the lead. BITCH! But I managed to beat out the president’s pulled groin and day six of the Jessica Simpson chapped-lip crisis!
So, yeah. That’s pretty wild.
And I’m just going to come out and say it: I WAS FABULOUS! YES! AND LUMINOUS! AND RADIANT! AND RIVETING! I looked just like Fashion Fever Barbie! Or mid-career Lindsay Lohan!
Even better: I came off as intelligent and likable—a compelling underdog character with a crackling good hook, fighting against intolerance, and a memorable catchphrase: “Gender is a choice, not a life sentence!”
I’m on fire!
Can’t touch this! HA!
XXI
DAY TWO
I should have seen the signs—the malevolent crackle in the air; the rank, overripe smell of goat genitals; the rain of blood—the Hellmouth was opening. It was the End of Days.
Even as I passed the four horsemen without faces in the school courtyard and looked right at the flaming pentagram on the cafeteria door, nothing registered. What could be wrong?
La. La. La.
Then, up ahead: a bustle in the hedgerow. A commotion in the courtyard.
Something brewing.
Something afoot.
An ill-wind blowing.
Students were buzzing and racing all about. A crowd had formed.
And there, standing in the center of the storm, and looking like maybe she WAS the storm, Lynnette Franz glowered and tossed her hair and generally looked mean and scowly.
No surprise there.
Next to her, though, was a rather big surprise. Tossing HER hair while a makeup girl touched up her lips, and a field producer hiked up her skirt, was none other than Medea del Rio.
Yes, THAT Medea del Rio, Channel 4’s best weapon against the Clancy Duckett juggernaut!
The pint-sized Cuban dynamo was as pretty and vivacious as Clancy was earthy and raw. She’s got “WOW,” and isn’t afraid to use it.
She’s a real power-sparkler, see.
Treats every assignment like a walk down the red carpet, see.
Why, she’ll cover a bus full of dead babies in a clinging fuchsia wrap dress and six-inch leopard pumps. She’ll wiggle and giggle and struggle to keep her dress from unwrapping and her breasts from spilling out, and pretty soon you will have completely forgotten that she’s knee-deep in a pile of bloody baby carcasses.
Yes, here was “jiggle journalism” at its finest. Finally, news that looked like porn—yea!—with cameras that weren’t afraid of the old ZOOM-ZOOM, if you know what I mean.
And for people tired of Clancy’s dried-out mutton-face, and those intelligent think pieces of hers (groan!)—Medea del Rio was sweet relief, indeed. A breath of fresh air-freshener.
And now it looked as if she was going to glom onto Lynnette as a way to one-up Clancy’s interview with me last night.
“This is Medea del Rio, in Plantation, where it’s day two of ‘Eisenhower Under Siege.’ What’s at stake? One girl’s dream, and EVERY girl’s rights and privileges. Standing with me is Lynnette Franz. Tell us what happened here, Lynnette.”
“Well, I was supposed to be the only candidate, right? Nobody else was supposed to run. All the girls in our class knew better than to run against me. They all promised. That was the plan. Since seventh grade! But then yesterday, this sexually confused WEIRDO, Billy Bloom, announced HE was running. I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t realize he’s not a girl, or maybe he just wants to make a fool of himself. Whatever. I mean, of course he doesn’t stand a chance—everybody hates him, but WHY DID HE HAVE TO MAKE THINGS SO UNPLEASANT FOR ME? This was supposed to be the happiest month of my life. And now he’s ruining it!”
“So you don’t think Billy Bloom has a chance?” Medea asked, sensing gold.
“Can you imagine? A homosexual? Representing our school?” Lynnette spat. “Well, my gawwwd, I’d laugh if he wasn’t being so disrespectful. It’s like he’s peeing on the flag or something! I mean, he’s a drag queen! He just wants attention. Any kind of attention. Like all gays, you know? So they can advance their ‘gay agenda.’ That is the God’s honest truth. By running for homecoming queen, Billy is trying to destroy the Christian way of life here at the academy . . .”
“Tell the viewers why you deserve to be queen, and how you plan to fight against the threat to your values?”
“Well, Medea,” she said, suddenly smiling. “I understand the needs of the student body; I’m prepared for the responsibility; I know what’s required of a homecoming queen. I know the image that ought to be presented. PLUS, I have God on my side,” she said.
Here, she paused for effect, then continued:
“God hates sinners, you know, and gays ARE sinners. It’s like what we studied in American history. . . . What is it? . . . ‘Manifold Destiny,’ the right to conquer. God wants ME to be homecoming queen, see, because I have goodness in my heart, tradition on my side, and the divine right to be queen.”
And she gave her most regal look to the camera.
And THAT lit a fire, I can tell you, when it aired on the six o’clock news.
Suddenly, the drag queen wasn’t the ONLY kook in this story. Lynnette gave good quip, I’ll say that for her. She knew how to get the audience’s attention. And now the press had another angle, and the story grew a little larger.
XXII
DAY THREE
And the ball was back in Clancy’s court.
And there was NO WAY that Medea del Rio was going to have the last word on HER story.
She called just as I was running to catch the bus. “Hey, Bloom,” she boomed. “GREAT NEWS! The viewers want more. Are you r
eady for a follow-up?”
Oh hell, yes.
I was loving this.
I took to the spotlight like a duck to l’orange, like ugly to Ashlee Simpson, like crazy to Courtney Love.
Quick on my feet? You bet!
I loved the attention. Give me a microphone, and I’m off and running, chattering away about things I know nothing about.
And the camera loved me.
Just lapped me up.
Turns out I don’t have a bad angle.
Every new tilt up or tip down revealed new facets of my beauty. I was mesmerizing. So when Clancy’s cameras began rolling this time, I soared. I took flight. I came alive.
I spoke winningly of tranny power and the need for tolerance. “Homophobia is SO LAST CENTURY!” I proclaimed. “Heal the world, and vote for the sissy!”
I elaborated on my “cross-dress for success” campaign strategy. “Dare to dream!” I urged everyone. “NOW dare to dream in a dress!”
“Up with wigs! Down with prigs!” I chanted.
All in all, I think I was even MORE fabulous than I had been before.
Then: Clancy announced that since the story first aired, she had been contacted by the Broward chapter of Trans Pride America, and in support of my cause, they had created a line of Scarlet Fs (for “freak”) to pin on one’s lapel. They sent a box to the school for students to pick up and made them available on their Web site, as well, so that everyone could support me!
Freak Show Page 18