(Why they were also fans of the beautifully serpentine Shantelle, who had so well remade her story, must be explained by her hard greed and violence, which enthralled them like the glamor of Marlene Dietrich.)
It got so crowded on show night that the Y Bar began charging a three-dollar cover, although Francine still let in us regulars for nothing. The Europeans may have noticed, but never complained, because three dollars was nothing for them. And so three dollars became five.
Just before the presidential election, the Y Bar’s owner, whose name was a secret held only by Francine and the other barmaid, Alicia, with whom I was indifferently acquainted, decided to remodel, increase prices and stock pricier liquor. (How would he have decorated the place? Imagine a marble Roman tomb teeming with Muses whose masks leak darkness.) I suppose he understood that his success would have driven away us regulars, not that we constituted any loss even to ourselves. As for the Europeans, I’ll bet they would have also fled the place in search of grimier holes to slum in. Once our election fell to an uncouth nationalist, they stayed away anyhow, and six months after that, the Y Bar went bankrupt. But in the time of the lesbian there were still foreigners to make cell phone movies of Shantelle, our tall one who could lip-synch so well onstage, her wide mouth and dark dark lips and greenish curly wig towering over the curtain of rainbow tinsel as she sang out: How many of you are from Sausalito? None of them ever were. (Tottering drunk, Xenia opined: It’s refreshing and it’s really nice to see these millennials, as open-minded as they are.—Then she popped two Zingo-Bingo caffeine pills in order to moonlight at the Pink Apple.) You gonna drive home drunk tonight? continued Shantelle while Francine dialled down the amplification. Those cops don’t cut a bitch no slack. You wanna just go home with me? Get on top of me? Or ain’t that how you Aryan bitches do it?
The Europeans were delighted. How hilariously American that they were in our country, sitting in our best seats, while Shantelle couldn’t imagine any farther than Sausalito!—Meanwhile, the transwoman became a special comical pet of theirs.
4
After years of trying to pass, Judy still felt something like terror whenever she went out in the street. Being unemployed certainly fertilized her self-hatred. The fact was, even at the Y Bar, where we sometimes tried to love her, she would probably do something else wrong. As it happened, her next mistake might be no demerit at all to her gender performance, which actually tended to surpass her miserable self-evaluations: She was blessed with pretty hair, and once the retired policeman had gotten attuned to her deep yet nasal voice, it became no less feminine to him than any G-girl’s. Francine was used to her; Sandra reassured and maybe even believed in her; as for me, the more friendly Judy and I became, the more womanly I found her.—But her loving public watched her mostly for sport.
The lesbian might drop in, wearing, for instance, a snow-white blouse and milk-white jeans, at which the transwoman would say: I wish I could wear white pants. But the trouble is, I’d spill something on them.—This remark would be electronically twitted and twatted all the way back to Germany, with such captions as: UNSERE LÄCHERLICHE HUNDEFRAU KOMMT WIEDER! And when they laughed, she cried, which made them laugh some more. Half the time, she was too far gone to perform her act.
She kept wishing for herself the tilted black-and-white child-face of Judy Garland, whose skin was so smooth and silvery-white, whose eyes knew how to fix on a fellow (or a gal) and whose lips knew how to part as if she were shyly preparing to kiss us all. Unfortunately, that was not how she looked.
But exactly why this sex appeal from, you know, Judy Garland? inquired a bespectacled German girl. Because, honestly, I don’t feel it . . .—to which Sandra (waiting on the lesbian’s arrival) goodheartedly replied: Well, she is a figure that you are introduced to as a child because of The Wizard of Oz. For a long time when you’re a kid you just know of her as Dorothy. Then you realize that there are other songs and other movies with her in it, so she is a figure that you can age with. There is always an appeal that a tragic movie star has. There’s a romance . . .
Sure is! piped the transwoman, wrapping Sandra’s long red hair round and round her big hands. (My dominatrix ex-girlfriend once called Judy invasive, but Judy really couldn’t help it!)—What turns me on about Judy Garland, she continued, speaking far more rapidly and fluently than usual, is addiction and brilliant dishonesty—
Honey, said Francine, you’re flying on goofballs.
I am? And degradation, and, uh, beauty, and—
Calm down, said Francine.
And did I say addiction?
Sandra, is she bothering you? Xenia inquired.
Well, not really. Maybe a little.
I’ll get her paranoid. This’ll be fun. Hey, Judy! I’m telling a story about something that could happen to you. Two gay guys were coming out of the Dive Room in Laguna Honda and they got beat with pipes filled with sand. One died. The judge in the case pretty much congratulated the abuser. And maybe tonight when you’re swishing home . . . Oh, but that was back in 1990 or 1991, so don’t worry. Nobody’s ever gonna call you a stinkin’ old he-she—
Stop that, said Francine.
Too deep in her groove to be scared, the transwoman continued: And for sure enslavement and, and I’m tellin’ you, decay! And above all the sadness; ooh, how I love that! And don’t forget her groveling for pills from the makeup girl, and hitting on other actresses so she could, y’know, suck their little—
Well, said Sandra with a grimace, I admit that what you’re saying could be true, but I find those details something that I don’t want to dwell on. Judy, honey, you’re messing up my hair. I see the sadness part of it as pure folly and preventable. Judy, would you please . . . ? The only thing that I find appealing when I think about the tragic parts, as in Juliet or Guinevere figures, well, there’s a certain appeal to children who are overwhelmed by what romance is. I mean, Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe, and . . .
And Neva! cried the transwoman with shining eyes.
Getting excited, Francine butted in: Yeah, I mean, people who had to deal with the casting couch and public adulation and were survivors . . .—Then she flushed and recommenced washing glasses.
Survivors of what? demanded Judy.
Well, said Xenia, anyhow there’s something infantile about Judy Garland and all those fuckin’ stars . . .
The fat transwoman in her smelly spangles, thrilled that the conversation was about her, pouted her lips like a baby. She was supposed to be lip-synching to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in forty-five minutes, but in half an hour it would take a noose around her neck to keep her upright. Longing to star in one of those establishments in which men would “make it rain” by throwing up one-dollar bills in the air to then precipitate all over the wriggling girl and the stage she twisted on, she forgot all about the lesbian, because Sandra was so beautiful and so smart, and ever so patient, that why couldn’t she become Judy’s special friend?
Sometimes when a customer ejaculated on her face, Judy pretended that his semen was money; when the applause was sufficiently oceanic she might need to lie on her belly and reach under our seats to pick up all the dollars until her personal assistant (perhaps Francine) came onstage with a pushbroom to gather in farther-flung tips. (When she was still a boy her science teacher once said: Frank, do you ever come out of your dream world?)
No, said Hunter, I predict a war between Neva and Shantelle. You see how they look at each other? And Shantelle’s gonna win, ’cause she fights dirty.
Don’t be preposterous, said Xenia. Neva won’t fight.
Judy turned her dizzy head just in time to hear Holly say: Well, now Francine is counseling me. And she gives real good advice, because she—
Gives head, said Shantelle.
You wish, said Francine.
When I think about women and movie stars of that generation, continued Sandra (while Judy sat longing
to lick up every drop of Sandra’s education), I prefer Lauren Bacall, who made a big splash for being sexy but changed with the times; you see, she was somebody who was not a tragic figure but had talent and kept honing her craft—
Gimme tragedy! the transwoman shouted, and Sandra laughed and hugged her—which led Judy to forget herself, becoming so grabby with Sandra that Francine had me take her home. She vomited on the way.
5
Whenever she failed to soil herself, one of us could be counted on to insult her. We were not so nice; we led her on. Just as the Wicked Witch of the West was the true friend who slipped Judy Garland her amphetamines on the set of The Wizard of Oz, it might fall out when Francine declined to play savior that Snake Goddess Shantelle supplied the other Judy with just the right happiness pills, thereby profiting not only in cash, but also in entertainment, because when the transwoman got high enough, whatever humiliations her loving public inflicted quickly slopped out of her consciousness, so that the fun could continue all night, in the spirit of children torturing a small animal for hours, careful not to let their victim escape into premature insensibility. To tell you the truth, this was more fun than Judy’s so-called act.
As for the lesbian, although we longed for her to attend show night, well, strange to say, she most often appeared in mid- to late afternoon, when the clientele consisted of losers like us, with maybe one of those hunter-looking men whose beard and moustache blended together across the bottom of his face like muskrat fur, and his hair clung down his forehead; his dark eyes were alert and somehow gentle, as is characteristic of many hyper-aware people; while our Europeans stayed out on their beautiful bicycles, ascending and descending San Francisco’s hills without getting tired, and the affluent bachelorettes and L-girls did time at the office, replying to e-mails, generating “content,” selling, creating trends, inspiring motivation and electronically “reaching out” to vendors, clients and hipsters. Longing to help, so that she would truly love me, I warned her: Neva, you’re missing the big time! Those evening people could do a lot more for you, because our dumb crowd . . .—to which she replied by laying her hand on the back of mine; at which Shantelle signalled that she was overdue for attention and Sandra leaned over to whisper: Oh, Neva, with you I can’t think straight . . . !—Then Neva went into the dark side of the bar with Xenia.
I wanted Neva back; oh, did I want her! (My own reason for loving her was that I felt we might be related. Having been adopted out for money, I never knew my real kin, but something about her face made me hope that it might be mine, if only around the skull. If after so many years I now began to notice my own face, that was thanks to her. Why she troubled over me I never understood, and the rest of us wondered the same. What we all disagreed about was whether she was easy to love. I mean, we loved her because we could not help it, but how that made us feel was a variable matter.) After she had sipped at Judy’s outthrust drink, and compliantly presented an ear to Shantelle’s obscene whispers, she returned to me—at which I felt as if everything were burning! My gaze burned; my sense of smell was on fire to inhale her; my thoughts glowed red and yellow with lust. And this fiery feeling kept me company even after I came home to my dinner of microwaved ramen and lukewarm orange soda, after which, too impatient to brush my teeth, I lay down on my unmade bed and happily masturbated, thinking of the lesbian—who presumably still sat in the Y Bar, with her hand on her purse—for how could I imagine her as living in motion without my gaze? (Xenia must have felt much the same when she insisted: Neva, nobody matters but you and me.)
She reminded me of the woman who lap dances some businessman, resting her head on his shoulder even while grinning encouragingly at the couple in the next row . . .—but that didn’t stop me from touching myself, while within my closed eyes she smiled eternally like a stone Virgin. By now the outsiders must be striding in, itching to buy Selene a drink or catch Judy crying or post Sandra’s saddest mermaid story ever on the SpiderWeb. But how could even those jaded entities ignore the lesbian?
6
No, said a Belgian girl who was nearly in Shantelle’s clutches. I . . . in fact I feel very nervous. Can’t we—can we talk?
A Japanese asked Francine how he could buy a used pair of the lesbian’s panties for fifty dollars.—Ask her, she replied. Or else I’ll sell you mine for forty-nine ninety-five.
But you’re too old, he said.
All right; forty-eight sixty-six, rock bottom price. You can take ’em off me yourself.
But either the humor did not translate, or else he could not be bothered. So Francine opened another Old German Lager for Xenia.
Judy, asked Al, what exactly is a hot celebrity tip? You seem like the kind of gal who’d know.
Judy, said a G-girl from Stuttgart, I’m sorry, but on you that’s not a good look.
By then Erin was indulging Judy again, unfolding girlhood memories for her to wrap around herself. (Her auditor, especially enchanted by the way that Judy Garland used to prevaricate to her psychiatrist, once thought that she too could get comfort by telling stories to others—Erin, for instance—but could never think of any. So she kept sucking them up like a hungry vacuum.) Like Sandra, dearest Erin could rarely say no to anyone. Truth to tell, she might turn out to be a Plan B special friend for when Sandra and the lesbian were both busy. She always hugged Judy hello and goodbye, and sometimes kissed her cheek.
Let’s pretend I’m you, said the transwoman. I want to be a teeny little Erin and . . . am I grossing you out?
It’s okay, said Erin.
It turns me on to think of you and me as two little girls playing doctor . . .
I had enough of that, said Erin.
What do you mean? I’m sorry. Did I disgust you?
Never mind.
I know I’m disgusting, she blubbered. I’m no good!
Judy, you’re my friend, okay? But pretty soon I need to go to work.
Then tell me . . . !
About my childhood? Then I have to go.
Anything!
Well, running around in my back yard, said her almost-special friend, that’s the one I think about most. I used to make mudpies, and we had a chicken coop. I had three little girlfriends in the house on the side of us and one little girlfriend in the house in back of us. They were about my age, about four, five and six. I liked digging in the dirt. We just liked being with each other. Little kids have their own language; they have their own worlds. The little girls on the side of us, they were Mexican; they had dark hair; and then the little girl behind, her name was Maureen; she was just a little girl who looked more like me. You know what’s funny is I’ve had two sets of friends who were in two houses. There’s been two sets of three sisters in my life. I got in trouble once, because the three sisters asked me to crawl through the fence and play makeup with them. I said, well, I can’t, and they said, well, just come through the fence, so I went missing, and I came back through the fence, and I got a spanking for that. We just put lipstick on; it was just fun. I was four years old; I was beautiful all the time.
You’re still beautiful, said Judy.
Oh, thank you! whispered Erin.
I wanna be beautiful all the time, said Judy, and then kindly Sandra rescued Erin by asking her to dance.
Xenia, who liked to play hard all-knowing Superdyke, now put her oar in: I’d never take Neva’s job. It would be tough; I’d need a break. If I was her and any bitch came swarming around me the way you all do, I would tell her to slow her roll. I’d say, bitch, I don’t need anybody to behave desperately around me. It’s too much.
Francine said: Neva doesn’t mind. She loves us.
No, insisted Xenia, it’s something else. Who turns down Neva? Not anybody. So how can you know what love is if you don’t know what rejection is?
That was unanswerable, so we shut up. Pushing away the empty bottle, Xenia rose triumphantly; I think she was hunting for N
eva.
7
The cash settlement for my automobile accident four years ago came through, so I bought Francine a drink. (At that stage I still kept supposing that she was somehow trying to use me, not that that offended me.) I looked her in the face. I asked: Have you been with her, too?
Three times.
Okay, I said. (Somehow that made me sad.)
She sipped carefully at her nondescript brown potion (four dollars), which I suspect had nothing to do with alcohol. I asked: What do you get out of it?
She said: For me, being with a woman, I don’t care what she has going on downstairs. I’m attracted to her mind.
Since in those days I knew almost nothing about Neva’s mind, let alone anyone else’s, that slammed the conversation shut, so I said: I guess I’ll have my usual.
Special promotion, she said. Two dollars.
I was too surprised to thank her. She winked at me.
8
Her first time had arrived on the day before Halloween. She wore a white latex nurse’s outfit with a red cross over each breast.
Now that’s cute, said Shantelle.
Thank you, sweetie.
You got a medical fetish?
I’ve been nursing customers all day. Now, have you met Stacey? Look at her! Stacey’s built.
Men in drab kept hugging and kissing each other. The straight man, who in this tale will be a kind of late-bloomer, sat almost vertical at the bar, with his fingers straining against his sweating forehead, wondering how to make Neva stop torturing us; the torture was making us believe in true love.—Selene was telling Francine: I’ve had that experience where people just assume you’re friends and they wanna give you two beds or whatever, but it’s never really been an issue. But there’s always like that awkward silence, or that awkward look. When you’re getting it all the time, whether it’s at the grocery store when you’re shopping and holding hands, or down the street and you get those catcalls, it’s very draining.—Eight dollars, replied Francine.—Most of the time, wept Shantelle, drunk, I get in trouble, because I . . . , and the transwoman rubbed her shoulders (she was the first of us, and probably the most sincere, whose love drove her into snooping round the lesbian’s secrets). Beside them sat a slender young bearded man in a slip, showing the beginnings of breasts.
The Lucky Star Page 14