by Steve Berman
The next morning, they went out on a mostly white fishing boat named “Aphrodite’s Kiss” with a small group of retirees who seemed to regard the serious-faced, slight black boy with a mixture of amusement and wariness. One of them, an elderly man with an impressive mustache and wispy remnants of sideburns smiled at Eric with nicotine-stained teeth and asked, “Looking forward to a battle of nature on the high seas?”
Eric shook his head and fingered the pair of binoculars around his neck. “No sir. I hope we won’t be fighting nature. I’m on nature’s side.”
The old man laughed and clapped Eric on the back. “This one’s a regular John Muir.”
After about a half hour, the boat found a still, quiet place on the ocean, and the crew cut the engines. Fishing reels came out. Eric’s grandmother helped him bait his hooks with shrimp flies. “This one works especially well on sand dab, Baby Dumplin’.”
Eric tried not to blush at the nickname and focused on attaching a two-pound sinker to his line. With his grandmother watching approvingly from over his shoulder, he cast off and waited. His grandmother leaned in close enough that he could smell her, a mixture of Oil of Olay, baby powder, and designer impostor perfume, over the salt smell of the sea. “Remember, sand dabs bite a bunch of times then stop. Don’t pull ’em up the first time you get a bite. You gotta be patient.”
Eric nodded, rested his chest against the railing, and felt the boat bob up and down on the waves. Overhead, seabirds whirled and screamed. The men sometimes punctuated the quiet with raucous laughter at jokes told at a volume too low for Eric to hear.
One by one the retirees reeled in their catch. Wriggling flat fish with eyes on the left sides of their heads flopped on the deck as they were brought up and pulled off hooks. The fish were tan and mottled like the backs of the retiree’s hands. Eric kept his hand steady on his rod as he watched his grandfather drop six pancake-sized fish into a bucket. Minutes passed without so much as a tremble on his line from the rising ocean breeze.
Eric’s grandmother patted his shoulder after stopping to pluck some fish from her own hook. “Not everyone is lucky all the time.”
But then the end of his rod bowed down nearly an inch. His fingers tingled and itched, but remembering what his grandmother had told him, he waited. The line jerked seven times in rapid succession, then lay still. He began to reel in the line, eyes gleaming with triumph. He turned the handle, slowly at first, but faster as he felt the weight on the end of line. His grandfather squinted and peered over his shoulder, “Looks like you caught a nice dab or three, boy.”
He turned the handle as smoothly as he could manage, although his arms ached from the effort. After what seemed an interminable period, a flatfish wider than Eric’s head splashed through the surface wriggling on the end of his line. He whooped and brought it down on the deck with a fleshy thump. But when he leaned over to pull it from the hook, the world went quiet.
The air around him was still, and all the adults seemed taken by a spontaneous game of freeze tag. Eric blinked twice and rubbed his eyes. The fish was still wriggling. It opened its sideways mouth and spoke to him in a voice that was low and rasping. “Only you can hear me, boy. I slowed things down so we’d have a chance to talk.”
“Fish don’t talk.” Eric set his jaw and glared suspiciously behind him. The adults were still motionless.
The fish flopped and made a rasping noise that might have been a laugh. “But yet I speak. Look, I wasn’t always a fish. I’ll spare you the details. I was once a man. If you throw me back in the sea, you’ll have my gratitude. And my help if I can give it.”
“What kind of help? Can you grant wishes?”
“Nothing so crude. But I can change things that are to things that are not, if you ask. Doing so will come with a cost, though.”
The boy exhaled sharply. He had just read “The Monkey’s Paw” in class. “What if I decide not to throw you back and forget about all this magic and stuff?”
The rasping sound again. “Then I get fried up, or eaten with butter and lemon, and you lose a chance to touch mystery.”
“I’m going to throw you back, but not because I want magic or to be a detective or anything like that. But ’cause you can talk.”
“Very well. But the offer stands if you change your mind. If you need my help, stand at the shore of the ocean and call, ‘Flounder, flounder in the sea, come up from the depths for me,’ and I will aid you as best as I can.”
“Aren’t you a sand dab?”
Rasp. Eric picked up the fish with both hands and threw it over the side. A thin red ribbon of blood trailed behind it through the water. Eric was so still that he did not notice that movement around him had resumed. His grandfather grumbled, “What you do a fool thing like letting that nice piece of fish go?”
“Roland, leave the boy alone,” his grandmother said.
“Fine. But he don’t get none of my fish. He can eat red beans again.”
During high school, Eric fell in with a group of
queer kids who played butch in front of their peers. He was adopted one day after yearbook class by Events Editor Phil, who eyed him and asked conversationally, “You like guys, don’t you?”
Taken aback by the bluntness of the question, Eric could think to do nothing else but nod, and soon after found himself completing a trio that ran havoc on the seedy streets of Los Angeles.
Each of them adopted fake names for their clandestine lives; Phil called himself Lucky hoping that it would ring true, Nico chose the name Ram in a none-too-subtle advertisement of his sexual proclivities, and Eric’s slight figure and beatific expression earned him the nickname Angel. Phil and Nico’s parents relaxed whenever they saw Eric around; they were certain a good boy like that would keep their own wild children out of trouble.
On Friday nights, Eric would go with Lucky and Ram to The Study, a seedy gay bar in Hollywood that seldom checked ID. Ram liked rough trade, and there was a certain kind of thug that lingered over the too-strong drinks served up by the Korean bartender regulars called Chinese Andy. One Friday, just before the Spring term ended, Eric sat at the bar primly, hands in lap, sipping a throat-scorching Cuba Libre that had only the barest hint of Coca-Cola. Ram was in the back parking lot, probably pressed against the wall by some hard-living gangster who couldn’t resist a bit of muscular teenage flesh. Andy kept an eye on Eric whenever Ram or Lucky wandered off, shooing anyone who got too close with a pestilential stare and pointed references about chicken not being on the menu.
This Friday wasn’t especially busy, and Eric passed the time arguing with Andy about books they’d read. “I still think there’s something deeply creepy about how Marq manipulates Rat Korga,” Eric said, gesticulating a little with his right hand.
Andy shrugged and wiped down the counter with a rag, scrubbing at an ancient stain. “So you think it’s really about a ‘good’ slave master? I just think it’s hot.”
The red padded front door slammed open as if to punctuate Andy’s opinion. Eric whipped his head around to take in the figure filling the door: six-four in heels and sequins with towering wig and nails sharp as talons stood the biggest, baddest, blackest drag queen Eric had ever seen. For a moment the queen stood stock still, posed like an Old Hollywood Vamp and seemed to shimmer like the haze over the asphalt on the hottest summer day. Eric felt something new well up inside him. Not lust, covetousness. The drag queen seemed to evoke an unearthly, titanic beauty, like a Valkyrie covered in stardust and come to land in the pothole-filled parking lot of The Study. Then the spell was broken as the queen laughed and shouted out in basso profundo, “Chinese Andy! A girl can work up a thirst. Make mama a whisky sour.”
It was that same year that Ram had the brilliant idea for the lot of them to rent a U-Haul truck and ride in the back to beach party in Malibu. Eric had misgivings. “I don’t think it’ll be safe.”
Ram slapped him on the back. “It’ll be fine! All six of us can’t fit in Lucky’s shitty Stanza. Think of it like
a limo. Without windows.”
“Don’t think limousines use lawn chairs as seating.” Lucky said, worrying a kiss curl into another position on his forehead.
Ram smirked. “Limos also don’t let teenagers drink Ram’s famous Malibu cocktails out of a gallon jug.”
“Still sounds dangerous. No seatbelts,” Eric said, peering into the gloomy interior of the truck.
Ram put his hand on his forehead mockingly. “Oh la, poor Angel is such a delicate china doll he would just break to pieces if we hit a bump in the road.” Then, scowling, “Nigga, just because you high yella don’t mean you ain’t got warrior blood. You can see them African naps fightin’ on your head.”
Eric took a long swig from the jug of fruit punch and rum then clambered into the back of the truck with four others, muttering under his breath. Ram pulled the sliding door closed with a slam and darkness closed in on them. “The Elegance!” Eric shouted.
Except for being knocked around as the truck navigated turns and a moment of terror as Eric’s lawn chair nearly collapsed under him, the half hour drive to Malibu was uneventful. When Ram pulled open the sliding door, the gallon of punch was more than half-finished between the four of them in the back, and they all blinked and squinted in the daylight.
Ram bowed with mock-gallantry, “My Ladies, your chariot has arrived.”
Eric frowned. “I feel like I’ve been in a rock tumbler.”
“You’re no longer a diamond in the rough then,” Lucky said.
Eric hopped out of the back of the truck, gathered what dignity he had left, and turned to take in the sights. The pale sands stretching beneath a stony promontory were covered with towels, pavilions, beach umbrellas, and folding chairs of a dizzying variety of candy colors. And the people! Black men, women, and drag queens of every size, shape, and shade from inky to ivory cavorted, posed, and preened by the shore. A towering coffee-and-cream colored drag queen in a feathered showgirl headdress was playing beach volleyball against a blue-black muscle-boy in speedos who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. A slender caramel-colored boy walked arm-in-arm with his dark chocolate boyfriend. Eric stood there trying to take it all in. Ram rumbled over his shoulder, “Girl, close your mouth before something flies in. We need to find a place to set down so haters can break their necks looking at us.”
Ram strode towards the shore like a peacock, glaring at anyone who bothered to smile. Eric followed behind half-smiling, holding the half-empty container of punch. Lucky ululated in imitation of savages from bad movies and tromped puppyish over the sands, innocent of ugly looks and curses when he his passing scattered sand onto blankets and beach towels.
After they set up an umbrella and Ram lay out to drink up the sun in the sluttiest pose he could devise, Eric crept away from the group toward a narrow line of rock at the far edge of the shore. From there he could take in everything, the ocean, the dazzling people, the rich deep color of it all without worrying that he was too colorless by comparison.
From his perch on the rock, he saw the crowd part as if royalty was approaching. Standing nearly a head taller than everyone around her was Ebony Eternique, the drag queen he had first glimpsed months ago at The Study. She wore a rhinestone spangled gold bikini, a translucent cape and the highest Lucite heels Eric had ever seen. Her wig was arranged in a tower of gleaming curls dusted through with pearls and crystals. Despite her mass, she seemed to glide effortlessly. Her platform heels glittered in the sun and did not seem to sink in the sand. The wind blew her chiffon cape behind her and almost every eye was on her in admiration or envy. She was no mere queen anymore, but a Goddess, Venus in reverse come to wade inexorably into the sea.
Eric’s heart beat fast, and his mouth tasted like chalk. Makeup, baubles, and poise had given Ebony power. This was magic. This was mystery. Mystery. The word struck a chord in his memory. He thought of a childhood trip to Bodega Bay, of a sand dab he’d caught and abandoned. With a sad, drunken smile, he turned his face away from the party and towards the sea spray. In little more than a whisper he called, “Flounder, flounder in the sea, come up from the depths for me…”
The world went still.
Seagulls froze in midflight. The water roiled and turned black. The sand dab surfaced. The flatfish had grown as big as a manhole cover. Much too large for that species of fish, Eric thought, remembering his animal cards.
It swiveled its froggy eyes towards him. The sideways mouth seemed to grin. “It’s been a long time. Seven years? I thought you gave up on magic.”
“I want to BE magic, like Ebony Eternique.”
The fish wriggled. “You’ve been drinking.”
Eric shrugged. “You said you could help me.”
The fish made the rasping sound that might be a laugh. “I can give you the power to transfix men, to fascinate them with your gaze. I can give you the power to rule hearts. But it will cost.”
“I don’t have a lot of money.”
The fish rasped. “Not that sort of cost. You will become a little more like me, and a little less like you. This is the cost.”
Eric shrugged. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
The flesh between his toes grew cold and began to itch. He felt skin pulled taut and stretch. He looked down in sudden horror as webbing knitted his toes together like a fin. The fish sank beneath the waves. Its baritone echoed out from behind Eric. “Granted.”
The noise of the world returned again.
It took Eric nearly a month to work up the nerve to talk to Ebony Eternique about drag, and then almost another two after that to ask if Ebony could show him how to be a drag queen. Ebony had grabbed Eric’s face with her strong, long fingers and stared at him for twenty seconds in the dim light of The Study before sucking her teeth, laughing and slapping Eric hard on the back. “I never had a drag baby, but there’s something about you. Sure, I’ll be your mama.”
At first it seemed hopeless. Eric was terrible at doing his own makeup, awful at lip synching, and clumsy in heels. But Ebony didn’t give up, and neither did Eric. And after she drilled him to the point where he could walk backwards down stairs in heels, do contour makeup in his sleep, and lip synch to songs in languages he couldn’t speak, Ebony decided her protégé was ready.
Eric was set to make his debut at Diamond Catch, a notorious gay nightclub whose patrons were not at all shy about voicing their displeasure with substandard acts. He had run through a dress rehearsal earlier in the week, but that night was his first time in front of a crowd.
Three songs before he was scheduled to go on, he waited backstage with Ebony, who was going on just before him. Backstage was a cramped, crowded storeroom filled with musty costumes, cracked mirrors, and queens in various states of undress.
A skinny, pockmarked boy with frizzy hair and prominent front teeth was slathering on foundation furiously. Eric smiled tentatively. The boy put his hands on his hips. “I hope you don’t bomb. I’m supposed to go on after you, and I’m still cooking. Buy me some time.”
Eric adjusted his wig in the mirror. “I hope I don’t either. I’m Eri—Mahogany.”
“Eri-Mahogany? That’s a bougie name. I am Sierra Sin. You may call me Mistress.” Sierra turned to glance at Eric. “Well. You are most definitely a fishy queen. You look like a real girl. I bet you’ll get all kinds of chasers.”
“Chasers?”
Sierra snorted. “Don’t you know nothing? ‘Straight’ boys who want to hit some of that ass you got padded.”
Ebony called over her shoulder as she stomped toward the stage. “My baby ain’t takin’ up with no trash. And daylight is no queen’s friend, so she’ll be keeping that face in the night.”
Eric looked at himself in the mirror again. His balls ached from being tucked out of sight, his feet were sore, the padding was hot, and his face was caked with makeup, but the illusion was startling. Mahogany was a goddess like Dorothy Dandridge or Lena Horne. Mahogany glided over to wait in the wings while Ebony performed her set.
; All too soon, Ebony finished her lip synch, and gestured towards Mahogany. The basso profundo voice seemed to fill the world. “And I have a very special treat for y’all. My little baby is going to tear up the stage tonight for you, for the first time. Give it up for Mahogany Eternique!”
Mahogany prowled out onto the stage like a leopard, drinking up the spotlight that shimmered on her sequins. She could do this. Men were creatures for her to control. The music welled up behind her, and her lips took the shape of the words. Her eyes sought out a man and she thought, want. The sudden heat was palpable. She knew he’d do anything for her, and she reached out her hand and smiled contemptuously as he fumbled in his wallet to pass her a twenty dollar bill. One by one, she ensnared them with her smoldering gaze, making them feel her beauty. The crowd crushed against the stage trying to get close to her. She gave none of them a second glance until her gaze settled on someone who she didn’t need to inflame. Andy. Eric’s eyes lingered on his friend with a newfound understanding. Then the song ended, the lights came up, and he exited to thunderous applause.
Four years after the beach party, Lucky had moved
across country to go to college, Ram had found Jesus, gone back to being Nico, and turned into an enormous pain in the ass. But Eric kept in touch with Andy, who came to almost every one of his shows as Mahogany. Mahogany Eternique was doing three shows a week at two different clubs and making more than enough in tips and her cut of the door to pay the rent as well as foot the bill for wigs, makeup, accessories, and the fabric needed to create new and ever more outré costumes.
At least once a month he and Andy would make time to have dinner together. Eric would leave Mahogany behind in her world of wigs, makeup, and lip synch to talk to Andy about books someplace where no one paid any attention to him.