by John Berendt
Chablis riffled through a long rack of dresses.
“This is my drag, honey,” she said. The rack held fifty or sixty dresses in a rainbow of colors, most of them sparkling with sequins and rhinestones. There were fluffs of marabou, ripples of velvet and satin, and clouds of tulle.
She held out a red strapless gown. “This is the dress I won Miss World in,” she said. She pointed to a blue one. “And this one was my Miss Georgia dress. If you ever pass a dress shop and wanna be nice to The Doll, honey, just remember I’m a ladies’ small, size six.”
Chablis stood, virtually nude. Her torso was an ideal woman’s shape, narrow-shouldered, full-breasted. Her hips were a bit on the slender side, but I noticed there were no bulges in her panty hose.
“Ooooo, bayyyby,” she said. “I just clocked you checkin’ out my pussy! You didn’t see nothin’, I hope.”
“Nothing at all,” I said.
“Good, ’Cause if you ever see anything in my panties, child, you tell me. You say, ‘Girl, your Kotex is showin!’ and I will shift her, honey, ’Cause I cannot take that! That is a ugly sight! That is a nasty-lookin’ thing, honey, to be out there all painted with your dick showin’!”
Julie Rae looked up from her makeup. “Really, Chablis!” she said.
“That’s why I wear a gaff,” Chablis went on.
“What’s a gaff?” I asked.
Chablis looked at me with genuine surprise. “You never heard of a gaff?”
“No, what is it?”
“A gaff is a girl’s best friend,” she said. “It holds her dick in place.”
“Chablis!” Julie Rae blurted out through a mouthful of bobby pins.
“Sistuh hates it when I talk this way. Don’t you, Miss Thing?” Julie Rae did not answer. She was piling her blond curls into a Gibson girl upsweep. Chablis turned back to me. “It’s a trade secret, honey, and Miss Thing thinks I spoil the illusion when I talk about us girls havin’ dicks and all.”
Chablis picked up a small rectangle of pink cloth with two narrow elastic loops attached to it. “This is a gaff, honey. It’s somethin’ like a G-string. What you do is first you pull your stuff back between your legs, and then you step into the gaff and pull it all the way up. You shove your ovaries up inside you too—I call my testicles my ovaries, honey.”
Chablis looked wide-eyed at me. “Child, you should see the look on your face!”
“I can’t think of anything more painful than what you just described,” I said.
“Then don’t let me tell you what we do with duct tape!” Cha-blis did not wait for me to stop her. “Duct tape is for when you wanna be butt naked. You tape your stuff back inside the crack of your ass, honey, and nobody knows the difference. But you talk about pain! She is a painful girl to pull off! And gettin’ a hard-on in that position ain’t no picnic either.”
Julie Rae slammed her hairbrush down and left the dressing room. “There goes Miss Thing all in a huff!” said Chablis. “She’ll get over it though. She’s a good girl and I love her and she knows it. And she’s right, anyway. This bullshit ain’t as easy as it looks. It takes me twenty minutes just to do a daytime face—eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, rouge, lipstick. Twenty minutes, honey. And it takes a hour to get ready for the show.”
Julie Rae came back into the dressing room. Chablis gave her a rueful look. “Okay, Miss Thing,” she said, “I’m through talkin’ that shit. I ain’t givin’ away no more secrets. I’m sorry I did it. Yes, I’m sorry, baby. All the way down to my real live pussy. Do you forgive me?” Julie Rae smiled in spite of herself. “Good, honey,” said Chablis, “’Cause us girls has gotta stick together. Oh, child, there’s my cue!”
Chablis took a midnight-blue evening gown off a hanger and slipped into it. The dress was high-necked and hung straight to the floor. A solid cape of rhinestones sparkled across her shoulders. “Zip me, honey,” she said. I zipped her. There was, indeed, a slit halfway up the back. But the song was a slow-moving ballad, and Chablis swayed sinuously rather than bumped. She used her shoulders to express the emotion of the song, and her fans stood in a line to give her tips. When it was over, Chablis took the microphone again to thank the audience for coming. “If you liked the show,” she said, “thank you from the bottom of my heart and just remember my name, The Lady Chablis. If you did not like the show, honey, my name is Nancy Reagan and go fuck yourself.”
Chablis came backstage and took off the long gown. “My lawyer from Hilton Head learned his lesson,” she said. “He tipped me twenty dollars.” She put on a lime-green silk minidress with tiers of swaying beads. “Now it’s time to go downstairs to the bar, pick up my money, and have an apple schnapps and a cigarette.” She applied some lipstick. “Then I’ll come back up for the second show, get into one of my nastiest bump dresses, and ream Burt’s stingy ass from here to kingdom come!”
Downstairs, the disco music was deafening. I followed in Cha-blis’s wake as she made her way through the crowd to the bar. She greeted her fans as they approached, turning her head so they could kiss her on her neck and not smudge her makeup or muss her hair.
“What, honey?” she said. “You missed the show? That’s okay. You can take that tip you was gonna give me and stuff it into my bosom right now. There you go. Ooooo, child! Thank you, honey…. Hey, baby, how y’ doin’? … Okay, girl! Sistuh’s lookin’ good! … Oh, child, you still got that number you was here with last week? Yeah? Tell me quick! Pour the tea, girl. Pour the tea! Aw right! … No, honey, I did not bring my husband with me tonight. He’s waitin’ on me at home, savin’ his big ol’ hard-on just for me.”
By the time Chablis reached the bar, her apple schnapps was waiting. She took it and raised her glass to the squat, thick-shouldered man standing next to her. “Hey, Burt,” she said. “Two tears in a bucket!” She downed the drink.
Burt had a shiny bald head and sad eyes. “How you doing, Chablis?” he asked.
“Well, I ain’t on food stamps yet,” she said, “but I’m gettin’ real close. It’s a good thing y’all don’t pay me any more than you do, or I might never qualify.” Burt did not answer.
“speakin’ of which,” she said, daintily holding out her hand, “may I have the envelope, please?” Burt gave her a small envelope.
“Thank you, honey,” she said. “You comin’ up to see the second show?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Burt said.
“That’s good, ’Cause I always do a better show after I’ve had my apple schnapps. And, honey, you don’t wanna miss the second show tonight!” Chablis looked inside the envelope. “Where’s the rest of it?” she said.
“The rest of what?” said Burt.
“My money. I’m a hundred dollars short. Y’all been takin’ money out of my pay!”
“Oh, well, yeah,” Burt said. “That was because of the two shows you didn’t work. We didn’t pay you for those.”
A flash of anger sparkled in Chablis’s eyes. “Burt, that’s a buncha shit!” she said.
“What do y’ mean?” said Burt.
“Maybe I wasn’t in front of that spotlight, but I was in front of my makeup mirror, and that’s work right there. Then I caught a cab to come down here, and I got here on time. No one ever called me to tell me the shows were canceled. I get a salary. That’s our agreement.”
Burt gave Chablis a weary look. “If you don’t work, Chablis, you don’t get paid. That’s the way it is.”
“Burt, my rent is due, goddammit! How’m I gonna pay my rent?”
“You’ll have to talk to Marilyn,” said Burt. Marilyn was Burt’s wife.
“I ain’t talkin’ to nobody. I want my money!”
Burt sighed. “Chablis, I’m not going to argue with you. I’m tired. Fair is fair.”
Chablis slammed her hand down on the bar. “Then fuck it,” she said. “Watch this!” She turned and cut quickly through the crowd, pausing briefly for a whispered conference with Julie Rae. Then she charged up the stairs with Burt in close pursuit.
“Chablis!” Burt called after her. “What’re you doing?”
“Give me my money!” she demanded.
“But you didn’t work!”
“Yes, I did!”
In the dressing room, Chablis grabbed a handful of dresses off the rack. “I’m takin’ my drag home,” she said. “I’m quittin’!”
“Chablis, please don’t,” said Burt. He took hold of the dresses, and for a moment the two of them were locked in a tug-of-war.
“Don’t you go pullin’ my beads, child!” said Chablis. Burt, suddenly embarrassed, let go.
Julie Rae appeared in the doorway behind Burt. She was accompanied by a half dozen people she had brought up from downstairs. Chablis tossed the dresses over Burt’s head. Julie Rae caught them and handed them out to the people in the hall. “Keep ’em coming, Chablis,” she said. “We’re with you, babe!”
Chablis took another handful of dresses from the rack, but this time Burt raised his arm to block her way. “Chablis,” he said, “you’re forgetting something. You borrowed a hundred dollars from us six weeks ago, and you haven’t paid us back.”
Chablis paused for a moment. “That’s true,” she said, “but you never gave me a deadline. You coulda warned me you were gonna cut my pay, especially when my rent was due. And somebody could have called to tell me the shows were canceled. I coulda got bookings somewhere else. I coulda went to Columbia. The tips in Columbia are flawless.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Chablis,” said Burt, “but I can’t let you take anything out of here until you pay back the loan.”
Chablis thrust a silver lamé dress at Burt. “Here!” she said. “Take this dress! It’s worth a hundred dollars, and it’ll make us even. Now I’m haulin’ my shit outta here!”
Burt stared blankly at the dress. It was a piece of silver cloth no bigger than a tea towel. It hung limp in his hand. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he said.
“Wear it!” said Chablis. “And here’s a little somethin’ else, in case you wanna hide your dick while you got it on.” She shoved a gaff into Burt’s hand. Julie Rae squealed with delight.
Burt dropped the gaff with a look of disgust. “Chablis,” he said, “the trouble with you is—”
“Don’t start!” said Chablis, “’Cause I know what the trouble with me is! The trouble with me is I buy a whole wardrobe of gowns, and then I spend hundreds of hours sewin’ on beads and sequins and rhinestones, and I don’t get paid for any of that. I buy records so I can learn new songs, and I get hormone shots for twenty dollars twice a month to maintain my feminine image, and nobody pays me for that either. Then I spend hours fixin’ my hair and makin’ my face and gettin’ into my drag so I can come down to this filthy piss-hole of a place that looks like somebody’s attic and do my best to create an illusion of glamour. Honey, the rafters in here are so low I’d be afraid to come out on that stage wearin’ a tiara!” Chablis glared at Burt, her dark eyes blazing.
“Well, Chablis,” he said, “if you—”
“The trouble with me is I work for a man who thinks he’s doin’ me a favor by lettin’ me parade around on his stage. He thinks I have so much fun puttin’ on dresses and shakin’ my butt that I don’t care if I get paid or not. Well, let me tell you somethin’. There are times I don’t feel like puttin’ on a dress or makin’ my face. But I come down here and do it anyway, because it’s my job. It’s how I make my living. And I’ll tell you somethin’ else: It’s damn hard work bein’ a girl full time!”
“Chablis,” said Burt. “You’re not being fair. You know I think of you as family.”
Chablis sighed. She had one hand on her hip and a sardonic smile on her face. “Sure, baby,” she said softly. “I suppose that’s why you got that sign down by the front door that says ‘Fifteen Dollars Membership Fee.’ The fee that only black folks are asked to pay, ’Cause black folks are not welcome in this club as guests—only as the hired help. The hired help that don’t always get paid.”
Chablis took another handful of dresses off the rack. “Stand back, bitch,” she said. “This member of the family is leavin’ home!”
The hall outside the dressing room was now crowded. Chablis tossed out gown after gown. “Hold ’em up high, honey! Don’t drag the drag! Hold ’em up over your head, baby!”
When the rack was empty, Chablis turned to Burt. He was still holding the silver lamé dress. “Don’t forget your gaff, Burt,” she said. “You’re gonna need it to hide your dick when you wear that dress.” Burt said nothing. Chablis shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said. “But when the time comes and you ain’t got a gaff to wear, whatcha gonna do, huh? I’ll let you in on a little trade secret. There’s something else that works just as good as a gaff: Put on four pairs of panty hose. Do that, honey, and everyone’ll swear you got a pussy!”
Chablis tossed the last dress to Julie Rae. “Okay, Miss Thing!” she said, “I am ready!” Then down the stairs she went, followed by a cascade of glitter and fluff. Chablis strutted out onto the dance floor, her long train of gowns floating behind her like a colorful, twinkling Chinese dragon. Other dancers joined the line, raising their arms to support the winding canopy of dresses. Chablis was radiant. “Ooooo, child!” she called out, “I wish my mama could see me now!” She bumped and wiggled and shook her butt. The gown-bearers fell into step behind her, hooting and hollering as Chablis led them snaking around the dance floor, into the bar, down its entire length, past the man with the baseball cap and the stringy hair, past the sign that read $15 MEMBERSHIP FEE and out into Congress Street.
She turned and headed east, still dancing to the music, her long train flowing out behind her. The streetlights glinted off the rhinestones and the sequins, igniting sparks of light in the billows of peach and red and green and white. “It’s like I told you, honey,” she called out as she passed me. “You’re gonna have to travel if you wanna see me do my shit from now on. Macon, Augusta, Atlanta, Columbia…. They all know The Doll, honey! They all know Chablis!”
Traffic on Congress Street slowed to a crawl in order to take in the glittering procession. The air was filled with honks and whistles and shouts in a mixture of good-natured cheer and lusty derision. The motorists were unaware, of course, that the spectacle they were witnessing was that of the Grand Empress of Savannah parading every wig, gown, and gaff in her imperial wardrobe. Chablis waved to her subjects. “Sistuh’s movin’ out!” she shouted. “Yayyiss, honey! Mama’s on the move! I am serious, child!”
Chapter 8
SWEET GEORGIA BROWN’S
“Lord, you Yankees are something else,” said Joe Odom. “We do our best to set you on the straight and narrow, and look what happens. First you take up with folks like Luther Driggers, whose main claim to fame is he’s gettin’ ready to poison us all. Then you drive around in an automobile that ain’t fit to take a hog to market in, and now you tell us you’re Hangin’ out with a nigger drag queen. I mean, really! Your mama and daddy are gonna pitch a fit when they hear about this, and I reckon they’ll blame it all on me.”
Joe was seated at a table in a huge warehouse space that was soon to open its doors as Sweet Georgia Brown’s, a piano bar with an 1890s atmosphere. Joe Odom was to be the proprietor, president, and featured performer in a three-man jazz combo. He was just now writing checks and handing them out to the workmen who were putting the finishing touches on the place. A carpenter was buffing the U-shaped oak bar to a lustrous sheen. In the center of the U, a white merry-go-round horse reared up over a hillock of liquor bottles. Mandy, who was to be part owner of the bar and a featured vocalist, stood on a ladder focusing spotlights on the bandstand, where Joe was having an afternoon scotch and signing checks.
Joe’s parting from Emma’s had been perfectly amicable. Under the circumstances, it had been the only gentlemanly thing he could have done. His part ownership of Emma’s had drawn all of his creditors out of the woodwork, and they had pounced on the little bar with writs and lawsuits in the manner of depositors stag
ing a run on a failing bank. Joe had become a liability to Emma’s, so he withdrew and took the warehouse space across Bay Street. He was not really sure how Sweet Georgia Brown’s would be any less a target of his creditors than Emma’s had been. An indifferent shrug was the best answer he could give to that question.
Meanwhile, Joe and Mandy had been evicted from 101 East Oglethorpe Avenue for nonpayment of rent. They had taken up residence a few blocks away in a handsome white frame house on Liberty Street. Joe’s entourage followed him to his new house, and so did the tour buses. The only people who were unaware that Joe had moved into the house were the absentee owners and the real estate agent, Simon Stokes, who had taken him through it. Joe had pretended to be undecided and in no particular hurry the afternoon Mr. Stokes had shown him the empty house. The next day Mr. Stokes departed for a six-month stay in England, and the day after that Joe moved in—furniture, piano, entourage, and all. He was a glorified squatter, but no one knew it at the time.
By the end of the first week, Joe was giving tours and lunches at three dollars a head. He greeted the tourists with a slightly altered version of the welcoming speech he had used at his other houses: “Good afternoon! My name is Joe Odom. I’m a tax lawyer, a real estate broker, and a piano player. I live in this house, which was built by a Confederate general who died in what we like to call the War of Northern Aggression. Feel free to walk around and make yourselves at home. If you see a closed door, though, please don’t open it, because you’re likely to find dirty socks and unmade beds and maybe even people sleeping in them.”
Mandy climbed down from the ladder. She was wearing a tight, floor-length beaded gown with a plunging neckline. A peacock feather was attached to her bejeweled headband. She had been trying on her Diamond Lil costume to go with the 1890s theme of the place.