The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  An immense lady with a pink plastic orchid and coarse plastic sparkles on her muttony pink shoulders kept photographing Shantelle with her cell phone, while sweating in her Hawaiian dress.—Do you want a selfie with her? asked the transwoman, trying to be helpful.—Just give her five dollars.

  That’s right, honey, said Shantelle. Five dollars fresh cash money. Even four; what the fuck.

  The lady began sweating all the more for embarrassment, so Judy, knowing that emotion all too well, took her by the hand and led her up to Shantelle. The lady clenched her phone, not knowing what to do. Shantelle, growling lovingly, reeled her in with a long and lovely black arm, so that they snuggled side by side. Coaxing the phone away from her, Judy pressed the button three times; the lady beamed like a little child.

  Clearing her throat, Francine boomed out: So let’s not take the phones out of your pockets when the performers are onstage.

  Now the retired policeman trudged in, fat and pale and sweating. I wondered how soon he would croak.

  First up went Xenia. Her wide lips were almost black in the purple light, and although instead of dancing she was merely fiddling with her yellow boa and waddling in her sparkly silver dress, with a hat like a plastic fringe on her head, she looked beautiful to all of us, even to the retired policeman, who held out two dollars as she passed by. She did a stupendous job of lip-synching oh, my love is like a seed, baby! along with dead and gorgeously hoarse Janis Joplin. Meanwhile our well-travelled Xenia flirted, grinned—and appropriately froze at the song’s end.—She scored; she must have made almost twenty dollars.

  Second went Shantelle, as brazen as a yellow taxi turning a corner in disobedience of a red light, and some big spender folded a dollar bill into a paper airplane and shot it at her, shouting: Come and get it! at which Shantelle kicked it off the stage, and afterward, when he came up to complain she said: I’m already working for almost nothing. It ain’t worth my while to pick up your stinking money.—We all laughed at the man.

  (Xenia muttered to me: He’s too tight to let into my panties. I don’t trust his face.)

  Lashing the crowd with her long red scarf, Shantelle whirled, pounded her heels to pounding music, kissed the lady in the Hawaiian dress, mutated into Michelle Obama, then became something more frightening, and again Shantelle, Shantelle, dazzling us and sucking up money—maybe as much as thirty real dollars! Now over her head flew that red skirt, which she flung onto the stage; she was down to her bra, garters and G-string, rippling her smooth wide buttocks in hypnotic waves as if she were a perfect transmitter or conductor of ecstasy. She sang money money money money, and to her it came; even I felt called upon to give her three ones.

  By now it was standing room only, the crowd all magenta in the light, Francine beaming like a den mother to Girl Scouts; and a certain fat Judy Garland wannabe sort of kind of lookalike stepped into stardom, flicking her faux fur boa up off her smooth shoulders, raising her naked arms, then caressing herself all over! I don’t deny I felt titillated. As she stripped off more and more, she began to look thinner and maybe somewhat glamorous. The retired policeman clapped like thunder, grinning like the proudest corpse you ever did see. This was what Judy lived for, to be the real Judy however deficiently; and right now she kept her mind on the advice that that Julie Andrews woman had given her at the Buddha Bar: Be confident, or, confidence is beauty, or something, something about confidence, whatever. Al blew her a kiss; Sandra was clapping and smiling and calling out her name; the retired policeman and I clinked glasses as she flashed her big titties just for a second, then shimmied out of her wrap, with a big warm smile, riding the music as if it were a dildo! I think she might have even made five or six dollars by now. Then the policeman held out a ten; she blew him a kiss. A girl with blood-red-henna’d hands, shoulders and arms was grinning up at her and then a lesbian couple began shouting in unison: Take your clothes off, yeah! Yeah, Judy; yeah, Judy! . . .—at which the transwoman—triumphant girl!—flickered her tongue at them and showed a long groove of pink prosthetic pussy between her perfectly shaved spread legs, and Francine cried out: Give it up for Judy Garland!

  Then the man who had sent Shantelle a paper airplane reached out and groped Judy’s breast. Since she kept smiling and laughing, everybody kept clapping and shouting, the moment masquerading as a triumph for Judy until he viciously pinched her nipple, harder and harder, as if he meant to pull it off. Judy was screaming.—Sir! said Francine. You let go of her right now and get out.—The man stared around him with beautiful green animal eyes. Then he pulled away his hand and punched Judy’s breast, shouting: Fucking queer! Judy was screaming, then sobbing with pain.

  The retired policeman wheezed to his feet, while Francine ducked for her baseball bat, at which the man whirled around with strange grace, sprang through the doorway and before we could decide what to do became a skinny silhouette spidering across a midnight street, while a bicycle twinkled like a star, losing itself within the unwinking lion-eyes of speedy black autos.

  Judy’s face was crumpled with pain and slimy with tears. It was the ugliest face I have ever seen—the waste product of hatred. I imagine that she felt more isolated than if she had been buried alive. In Francine’s face, which was grim with readiness in case that man should come back, I thought I read something equally painful to perceive—the trembling of her lower lip, and a tendency to blink, which she had to hide to do her job.—Well, fuck it, said the retired policeman, who was all too calm. Judy, I’ll take you home.

  No! I don’t want to go home! I was having such fun—

  Honey, you let J. D. take you home now, said Francine. Get your things.

  Weeping, Judy shambled toward the door. Two delighted Europeans kept filming everything. While the retired policeman was gathering up her coat and handbag, Francine hugged her, whispered in her ear, sat her down on a stool, then went out to reconnoiter the street, with her baseball bat ahead of her.

  Honey, he’s gone, she said. Don’t worry. J. D. will go home with you.

  I’ll come along, I said, but Judy said: No no no, all the while shaking and trembling.

  The retired policeman said: Thanks, Francine.—Judy gripped his arm, and they went out. I was surprised how long I could hear her crying.

  Xenia said: I don’t know why nobody didn’t do anything.

  Like what? said Shantelle in her best purring, snarling voice.

  Well, I’d probably punch him, talk some shit, make some phone calls—

  Why the fuck didn’t you?

  I’ll call the police right now. I think the police are pretty cool people.

  Get a life, said Francine. I told you he’s gone. All right, everybody, show’s over! Let’s decompress—

  Samantha lectured us all: It’s a really bad idea to mix money, drinking men and drinking women . . . !

  Oh, yeah? said Shantelle. Then why the fuck are you drinking?

  Stop it, said Francine. Let’s either close up or say a prayer for Judy or try to have fun or something—

  Or something! cried Shantelle, and she danced so dazzlingly that we almost forgot about Judy. I who never did anything kept hoping that the lesbian would come in and make things right.

  2

  So I went home and felt guilty. My feeling resembled the headache that comes on at night, twenty-four hours after a so-called ecstasy pill is supposed to have worn off, the pain steady, cold and sharp behind one’s eyes. I reminded myself that nobody could fix Judy and somebody closer to the door should have stopped that man. That was how my wife used to plan: would have, could have and should have. Then I poured myself a shot of Binco Jack and refined it with sodapop.

  3

  Just before dawn, when Judy, in tears, sought to pay Neva an unscheduled emergency visit, the latter unfortunately happened to be receiving the worship of Selene (I remember that bride in her egg-yellow wig, complaining about the light, swishing her cros
sed fingers at another toast to the bride and groom); but Catalina fortuitously peeked out through the quarter-open door of Room 545. She disliked the retired policeman not for himself but as a member of the oppressor class, because four summers ago, when a black-and-white stopped her in Fruitvale for not wearing a seatbelt and the officers demanded her license and registration, she failed to respond at the correct tempo, so the nearest cop grabbed her wrist, breaking her pinky finger and causing a hairline fracture in her arm, then marched her into the back seat of the black-and-white, after which they let her go; the medical bill was seventeen hundred dollars. Therefore, she also looked down on Judy.—Always in trouble, she said.

  A man punched me tonight, Judy said. I don’t know if my rib is cracked or just bruised; it hurts to breathe—

  If you don’t know, said Catalina, it’s just bruised. Believe me: a cracked rib, you’ll know.

  Why’s your door open all the time?

  So I can see what’s going on.

  Who are you talking to? called a familiar voice, and peering around Catalina’s neck came Carmen, the barmaid at the Cinnabar.

  Oh, hi, the transwoman whispered.

  Who punched you? asked Carmen. If it was J. D., the next Old Crow I serve him will be garnished with broken glass—

  No, it was some strange man who . . . I was performing at the Y Bar. J. D. stood up for me, and so did Francine—

  Honey, let her come in, said Carmen.

  Catalina said: She always stays and stays. This is our private time together.

  But she got hurt.

  Squeezing shut her teary dog’s eyes, Judy turned away.—Oh, come in, said Catalina.

  I won’t stay long, I promise, said Judy. I just . . .

  Why did he punch you?

  I . . . for being what I am.

  Did you punch back?

  No—

  If I saw that, I would grab a chair or a glass and stop it. If I have to hit that person, I would hit that person. Why didn’t you defend yourself?

  He hated me, and I, I . . .

  Hate, said Carmen slowly. I think it comes from men, and it comes back again from the ownership and the history of men owning women, and women are supposed to be obedient. I think sometimes there is the intimidation. A lesbian is male-hating and out to get men. I have a dad and a brother and I love them dearly, and I have friends who are straight males. Yet it can be perceived that we hate men. And you—

  But I don’t hate men; I really don’t! I date men—

  They walk all over you. I’ve seen you and J. D. together, so I know how he treats you.

  Oh, she said.

  Why do you let him?

  I like it, she said steadily.

  Catalina, proprietary and jealous, took Carmen’s face in her hands and kissed her.—I’d better go, said Judy.

  Listen, said Catalina. You seek out abuse and then you seek out sympathy. It gets boring for the rest of us. Why don’t you pick one or the other?

  I didn’t ask that man to punch me, said Judy sullenly.

  Catalina softened.—All right. Sit down. I can see my crazy girlfriend would rather play Neva Do-Gooder than let me eat her pussy just the way she likes it. Well, that’s gonna be her loss. Judy, there’s coffee on the stove; mugs are over there. Now what can we do for you? You won’t get any sympathy fuck!

  Judy made her best little-girl face and said: Tell me a story.

  I knew it! cried Catalina in disgust. She comes leeching around—

  Don’t be so premenstrual, said Carmen. I’ll tell Judy a story and in ten minutes we’ll send her on her way and there will still be time for you to eat my pussy exactly the way you like it.

  Judy flushed.

  All right, continued Carmen. I’ll tell you about hate. Hate can happen because a lot of the time men think they can join in or have that ability of changing a lesbian’s mind. It’s almost like, males think they can have a piece of that lesbian relationship, that ownership. The worst experience for me has been at my other job where I had this person who used to tell me I should kill myself for being gay, and what’s the point of being a woman if you’re like that; it’s the waste of a woman. It was really hurtful because it treated me as worthless. I didn’t have value because of who I am. You already grow up with this thing that being gay is a bad thing, especially as a Latina. It almost validates those cultural norms. But he was a white male, not Latino. We didn’t get along anyway, so I try not to take it too personal. It was hard to just shut it off. After a long time I got to understand that my value was not attached to who I date.

  If I were you, Judy, I would pull from my own experience, and, well, I think what helped me with anxiety and rejection is to get involved in my community—because it’s my community that has made me. There is a community out there for everybody. When you find those people that love you and accept you regardless of your flaws, and just truly love you for who you are, that’s very fulfilling.

  But I’ve got no way to find that community, said Judy.

  Catalina got cross and said: What are we to you then?

  Carmen shushed her and continued: I would say to find one person that you trust, whether it’s a best friend or a teacher or whatever that you can confide in.

  Lighting up, Judy said: I have Neva!

  They looked at her.—Well, said Carmen, you do, but here you are with us. And you still have resources, like a library. I think finding something there that makes you happy and where you can find other characters and other alternatives, maybe that would help you. I used to sit in a corner and look through books, and it was kind of an escape; I would read a lot of psychology books. I can see you don’t like that. Well, your ten minutes is up.

  Bye-bye, said Catalina.

  Goodbye, Judy whispered, feeling disappointed—although she shouldn’t have, seeing that every religion even of love has to be unloving and cruel to unbelievers.

  4

  At four in the afternoon the retired policeman was watching out the window of the Rainbow Laundry (NO TINTING, NO DYEING, NO PILLOW WASHING OR DRYING), sighting over the parking meter which temporarily legalized a teal-grey 2014 Ford Jimbo XR with that signature “handlebar” fender, then diagonally across the street to the green-headed doorway of the Mayfair Beauty Salon (My Hoa Uon Toc), waiting for her to come out; he could see a tall black tranny through the window, and then a cigarette-smoking hooker fell onto her face on the sidewalk outside; a pigeon descended; a man in the livery of the Department of Public Works wheeled a trash can. Finally he worked himself into a rage and entered the Mayfair Beauty Salon: No Judy.

  He went home and waited. When she came in he said: Well, where the fuck were you?

  J. D., you know this is when I get my hair done—

  At Mayfair.

  Sensing trouble, she said: Well, they didn’t do such a good job last time, so I went back to Adriana and she—

  He slapped her face. She sobbed loudly and apologized. Then they both felt better.

  She was standing as he sat wheezily down on the edge of the bed. She bit her lip.

  Why are you here? he asked coolly.

  To please you.

  That’s right. And why do you go to Neva?

  I . . . To, to worship her and—

  He slapped her again, quite kindly and carefully, between her cheekbone and her lower jaw. She gasped.

  He demanded: Who do you belong to, Neva or me?

  You—

  That’s right, Frank. Now why do you go to Neva?

  Please, J. D.—

  She gets you off, right?

  Judy nodded, sobbing ingratiatingly.

  Well, you’d better think who the real submissive is.

  5

  She had been with Neva, of course: emergency comfort. Neva had kissed the bruise on her breast.

  Fo
r Aphrodite it must be no strain to gratify (or punish) any number of lovers without mixing them up. As for the lesbian, the more she did, the more she was called upon to do, and you have perceived how well she managed it, even with a feeling of exhilaration; moreover, because she had been fitted for selfless loving, the stress never inhabited the acts themselves; nor did she tire of Francine’s wrinkled buttocks or Xenia’s self-hatred; what abortion of a goddess would Venus be, to be bored by us who were by definition her inferiors?

  All the while she was gratifying Judy, she kept worrying that Xenia might be about to harm herself—although Hunter could be more volatile. While kissing Selene she suddenly remembered the scent of E-beth’s hair.

  Then it was my turn, but as she and I stood on the landing, there again appeared Xenia below us, weaving and screaming her heart out.

  Oh, no; oh, no, wept the lesbian, who after all could not do everything.

  6

  No, said Xenia, it’s not because you can’t do it. It’s because you set yourself up for failure. You and I, Judy, we can’t be young. We can’t be Neva. When we try, we fall flat.

  Three dollars, said Francine.

  But why the hell should he punch me?

  Listen, girl, and those sad sad eyes and crusted mascara became temporarily infinitely dear to the transwoman as her big sister said: Get over it or get out of the game. You want inspiration? Back in the day I used to know this really ugly T-girl named Dolores when we were all hanging out at Prima Donna’s, you know, before that stabbing. Well, Dolores never worked on herself enough, so she was not put together. She and I and this T-girl Renee used to go in on crystal together; it’s a miracle how much more you can get in a bulk buy. And Dolores was always bitching about how she could never pass anyway and she didn’t feel safe going downtown in a dress—all that other infantile cross-dresser shit. Well, guess what? She made the big time. She pulled herself together and moved to Mexico and went female twenty-four seven.