Human Doll

by Mark McLaughlin

  “If you insist!” Sinthia batted her eyelashes at David. “Shoot me another question.”

  “You mentioned that you can sew. Should drag queens on your show know how to sew? Are there other skills they should learn?”

  “Queens should be good with a needle and thread, whether they’re on my show or not. Fashion is a big part of doing drag. They should also learn to dance, sing, and act. They should work toward becoming full-fledged entertainers. They also need to play well with others. A positive attitude is everything. A queen who’s always complaining won’t get too far, career-wise.”

  “Sometimes when I’m watching your show,” David noted, “it seems like some of your contestants should’ve watched more past episodes. They don’t seem to know the rules.”

  “That’s true! Being on a TV show may seem like fun and games, but like any effort that pays the bills, it’s a job!” Sinthia said. “Yes, some contestants don’t do their research. Those are the ones that lose. The past episodes can be found online, so there’s no excuse for not watching them.”

  “Your work keeps you pretty busy,” David said. “When you manage to catch your breath between shows, what do you do in your free time?”

  “I love making fried chicken! I change the recipe all the time. Someday, I vow, I will come up with the recipe for the world’s best fried chicken. Also, I like to design new outfits. Oddly enough, that’s why I love vintage movies. Lots of glamorous outfits to be found in them. They inspire me with their elegance. It saddens me when a young queen tells me that she has never watched a black-and-white movie.”

  “I love old movies,” David said with a smile. “Are you going to star in a movie someday? Or are you working on one right now?”

  “Oh, I wish!” Sinthia rolled her eyes dreamily. “I would love to be in a movie. I would love to be a bona fide leading lady.”

  “I think you’d make a great leading lady,” David said. “Do you have a boyfriend? Are you married?”

  Sinthia opened her mouth to reply. Then she caught the look in David’s eyes, and the fondness … the tenderness in his eyes took her breath away. It suddenly dawned on her that there was something special about this man. Then, just as suddenly, she realized what that something special was. He saw her as someone lovely … not a joke or a fool or worst of all, a deluded man in a dress. He saw her as a star.

  She also realized that she needed to answer the question.

  “I haven’t found my leading man yet,” she said. “But hope springs eternal.”

  Once the interview was completed, David left the stage and Sinthia provided the second half of her act. She lip-synced to a medley of disco hits, which her small but appreciative audience enjoyed.

  When she was finished, Sinthia joined David at the bar. She ordered a gin-and-tonic and he asked for a tequila sunrise.

  “That was a great interview. Thank you!” Sinthia said.

  “You’re welcome! It was a lot of fun!”

  “Now you know everything there is to know about me,” Sinthia said. “But I know next to nothing about you. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’ve done a lot of things over the years,” he said. “I’ve been a dishwasher, a cook, a housekeeper in a nursing home … these days, I’m working as a janitor. Nothing glamorous, like what you do.”

  “You see glamour in my work, but a lot of people don’t. People have called me crazy, sleazy, perverted, and my favorite, ‘a bad influence.’ At least people see what you do as good, honest labor. As for me – some people think I’m destroying society from within! Apparently, when young men see me on TV, they go mad. They say, ‘I was thinking of becoming a father of three, but instead, I’m going to put on a dress and wreak gay havoc!’”

  “Yeah, but this is America!” David said. “You have the Constitutional right to do all that.”

  Sinthia glanced toward the window. “The rain hasn’t stopped yet. Do you want me to drive you to your place?”

  David nodded. “It’s just a two-room apartment, but I have DVDs of great old movies and I can make popcorn, if you want to hang out.”

  “Have any old Universal movies about Dracula and the Wolfman and all those guys?”

  “I have all of them,” David said.

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Sinthia said. “Let’s go!”

  - - -

  Sinthia spent the night in David’s apartment. It was Friday and neither of them had any commitments for the next day, so they stayed up late, watching old movies and eating popcorn.

  Sinthia didn’t put on her drag regalia on Saturday. Instead, she put on one of David’s sweatshirts and some denim shorts. The shorts were a little baggy, but that wasn’t a problem. They spent the day simply getting to know each other. They watched more movies, ate more popcorn, and talked for hours.

  Sinthia returned to Los Angeles but kept in touch with David. They called each other every day and also exchanged emails and texts. Sinthia cherished David’s kind and gentle manner, and David was enthralled by Sinthia’s intelligence and sophistication.

  David began to send love poems to Sinthia. Some words were misspelled here and there, but even the mistakes were endearing – especially when he called her, “his bootifull dream come true.”

  They soon realized they were more than just fond of each other. They were in love. On David’s birthday, Sinthia arranged his one-way plane ticket to L.A.

  Her ranch-style home had more than enough room for them both. Even though she was the one who bought the ticket, she didn’t propose to him after he settled in. She knew him well enough to know, he would want to do the honors.

  And he did.

  A week after he moved in, he made a steak dinner for her and proposed. The ring he’d bought for her only cost $120 and he’d bought it on the internet, but that was fine. She knew he didn’t have much money. But he loved her with all his heart, and that was what really mattered.

  When she informed her closest friends that her life now included a fiance, they all asked what he did for a living. Many figured she’d marry a pop star or a movie producer. They were all beyond surprised when she told them she was going to marry a former janitor she’d met in Iowa. To each of them she said, “We’re all more than just our jobs. He’s a good man and he makes me happy.”

  Her parents were delighted to learn she was getting married. They had no problem with the fact that he used to be a janitor. “I’m so happy you’ve found somebody,” Maggie said when Sinthia called her with the news. “I don’t care if he digs ditches. If you love him and he loves you, that’s all that matters.”

  Sinthia and David honeymooned in London. It sounded very grand to David, and even though Sinthia had been there many times before, she was happy to go there again. She loved that David gave her a new perspective on life. He didn’t have much to say about the fashions she pointed out to him while they were browsing London department stores. But he did share his observation that chocolate in London was far richer and more delicious than it was in the United States. They asked a clerk in a candy shop about the difference and she told them that American chocolate was milder because it was diluted with milk.

  David also noticed that most of the meat they ate in restaurants was not as tasty as similar cuts served in American restaurants. He mentioned this to a waitress, a very chatty older lady, and she said it was because the farm animals in the United States were corn-fed, while meat in England often came from grass-fed animals.

  When they returned home from London, David found a thirty-hour-a-week janitorial job with a local grade school. Sinthia said he didn’t need to find a job, since she made more than enough for them both, but David insisted on joining the workforce. He didn’t want to be considered a moocher.

  Sinthia soon found that life with David in her ranch-style home was sheer bliss. In addition to his job at the school, he also took care of everything that needed to be done around the house. He swept and dusted in every room. He brought in and organized the mail. He s
hopped for groceries, cooked meals, washed the dishes, and took care of the laundry. He even helped to keep her on track with public appearances and other events on her schedule.

  Every now and then, he’d ask her, what would need to happen to make her life perfect? She would usually answer by saying, “It’s already perfect! I married you.” One time, she gave him a different answer: “A little one to share our joy would be nice someday.” Later that week, he brought an adorable orange tabby male kitten into their home. They named their little darling Pulp, since both Sinthia and David liked orange juice with pulp.

  The next week, he brought to the house an array of pamphlets and books. He cleared off part of her desk and set the information down. She saw him place the literature there, so she came over to give it a look. “This is exciting! I’m seeing the word ‘Adoption’ all over the place.” She hugged David and gave him a big kiss on the lips. “Are you thinking of becoming a daddy, and making me a mommy in the process?”

  “Nah! I was just thinking, we have a kitten now, so we might as well give him a pal to play with!” David said, laughing. ‘But seriously, from what I’ve read so far, it sounds like adoption can take a long time. I want to make sure we do it right, every step of the way, to make sure it well and truly happens.”

  Chapter 7

  It was Sunday morning, so Viveka Megamega stripped off her clothes. Her weekly beauty regimen was as unique as her metabolism.

  She studied her reflection in the full-length mirror by her bed. Her body really didn’t look too bad, she felt, considering her age. The problem was, in many areas, her skin was extremely dry and coarse. That was why her extensive exfoliation process was always followed by aggressive moisturizing. Her housecat Oberon, a large black Bombay tom, watched her from the foot of the bed.

  She entered the shower, soaped up her body, and scrubbed her flesh with a loofah sponge. Layers of dead skin sloughed off, revealing pinker flesh beneath. In some spots, such as her elbows, knees, and the soles of her feet, she used steel wool and an abrasive powder to do a thorough job.

  After her shower, she examined the black tattoos on her arms. She used a mirror to check the tattoos on her throat. Her exfoliation process was not especially tattoo-friendly. She refreshed any faded or abraded linework with a special tattoo pen of her own design. Once she’d cleaned away the excess ink, she coated her body with petroleum jelly and then slipped into her full-body tights and leather slippers. She then made a thick paste of honey and coconut oil and rubbed it on her face.

  A few hours later, after she’d rinsed off her moisturizers, she examined her body again in the mirror, to see if any areas of her flesh had developed into creases. Into these regions she injected a special organic filler she’d developed. This filler encouraged the growth of collagen, to plump her skin and help her to retain the look of youth.

  Viveka wanted to look extra good that week because she was having drinks with December on Wednesday evening. She wasn’t attracted to December – he was, after all, a gay man with a life partner – but she respected his opinion, since he was such a good friend. Her best friend, really. She wanted to appear as exotic and stylish in his eyes. She enjoyed working on her ongoing efforts to rejuvenate herself, and it pleased her whenever December made an enthusiastic comment about how young and lovely she looked.

  - - -

  That Wednesday, December and Viveka met at a gay club called The Maestro. The club, like Viveka, was decorated completely in black-and-white. She wore an evening gown modeled after a tuxedo, complete with lapels. Everyone there loved Viveka’s outfit and many, like Sinthia at the restaurant, thought she was a drag queen.

  December bought their dirty martinis at the bar and brought them to the table. Each drink included three olives, just the way they liked them.

  “Ah, mother’s milk!” Viveka cried with delight. She took her glass and savored the briny delight.

  “‘Mother’s milk’?” December echoed, vastly amused by Viveka’s exclamation. “If your mother’s breasts had been filled with dirty martinis, you’d have sucked her dry at every feeding.”

  “I think you like martinis because your sweetheart’s last name is Martin.”

  “Could be. Martin and martinis are both welcome on my lips!” He checked out her outfit for the evening. “Don’t you look charming! Love the tuxedo look. Usually there’s some Egypt-style ornamentation, but I’m not seeing any this evening.”

  She held out her left hand. Her long nails were lacquered black. “My pinky ring has an onyx ankh on it.” She took another sip from her dirty martini. “Do you remember your first drink? Your first forbidden sip of alcohol?”

  “That’s a good question….” December gave the matter some thought as he enjoyed a swig of his own beverage. “I do remember. My mom’s side of the family was Greek, and my grandma came from Crete. Her name was Argiro and her favorite drink was retsina. Are you familiar with retsina?”

  Viveka nodded. “It’s a Greek wine. It’s stored in casks that are sealed with pine resin, so it has a strong pine flavor to it. I’ve had it a few times. It’s pungent, like drinking a cleaning product, but it does have a bracing quality. Invigorating!”

  December smiled. “That’s the stuff! My grandma used to drink it all the time. I had my first glass of retsina when I was nineteen years old. I didn’t know that alcohol wasn’t supposed to taste like pine, so it didn’t bother me.”

  “It’s been a while, but you’ve mentioned your grandma before,” Viveka said. “Didn’t you tell me she was married five times?”

  “Now that you mention it, I believe I did. She was a popular lady.”

  “You told me the number of husbands, but you never said why there were so many. We were with other people at the time and somebody changed the subject. Did your grandma just keep divorcing them?”

  “No, they kept dying. Her husbands were heavy smokers and drinkers, so they never lived very long. Two died of pancreatic cancer.” December fished an olive out of his drink and ate it. “She could speak English, but never learned to read or write it very well, so she kept marrying Greek men.”

  “So they could translate for her? Clever girl.”

  “She was very outgoing. Everything she did was over the top. She even had two graves.”

  Viveka raised an eyebrow. “Why, pray tell, did your grandmother have two graves?”

  “Husband No. 4 took a while to die,” December said, “so he ordered one of those double-wide tombstones. Her name on the left, his on the right. When he died, she wasn’t dead yet, so they put her birth year under her name and left room for her final year. She was in her sixties, so everybody figured she’d never remarry. But she did, about two years after he died.”

  “She sounds awesome,” Viveka said. “So I take it she was buried with husband No. 5?”

  “Indeed. But she died before No. 5. He was a World War I veteran, so he had her buried in his plot in a military cemetery. Her name went on the back of the tombstone. Her year of death was never carved on the double-wide tombstone, so it’s like she never died – in that cemetery, anyway.”

  A waitress stopped by the table to check on them, and December asked for two more dirty martinis.

  “You talk about your grandma, but you hardly ever talk about your mother,” Viveka said. “Was she beautiful, too?”

  “Her name was Chloe and she was very much the opposite of my grandma,” December said. “My mom’s father was my grandma’s first husband, and he had a huge, bent nose.”

  “And your mother did, too, I take it,” said Viveka, wincing. “Still, a woman with a prominent nose can still look quite striking and dramatic. Especially with the right hairstyle and makeup. But I take it she didn’t share my opinion.”

  “Exactly. Her nose was the bane of her existence. Throughout her whole life, everything that went wrong, she blamed on her nose. According to her, employers fired her, men ignored her, and no one invited her to parties because they hated her big nose. Apparently the wor
ld is filled with nasal bigots.”

  “Oh dear. Did she ever have any friends?” Viveka asked. “Besides your father, of course.”

  “She did have one friend, before she met my dad,” December said. “When she was a young woman, she lived in my grandma’s apartment. My grandma moved into that apartment after husband No. 3 died. It was a big building and upstairs lived a handsome young man named Mr. Jacobs. My mom never mentioned his first name. He worked at the same accounting firm as my mom, and since he had a car and she didn’t, he’d drive her to work.”

  “That was nice of him. Did he ever fool around with her?”

  “Nope! I never met him, of course, but based on what my mom told me about him, he had to be gay.”

  “How do you figure?” Viveka said.

  “Well, she said she only ever saw male visitors go up to his apartment. She thought they were probably there to play poker. Mr. Jacobs was always dressed perfectly, no matter what time of day. And – here’s the big tip-off – his hair was always marcelled. Tight little waves! Back then, most straight men didn’t fuss with their hair that way. My mom always said, ‘He looked like a Hollywood film star!’ She liked talking with him and hoped he’d fall in love with her, just like in the movies. But alas, such was not to be.”

  “So basically, she was his fag hag but she didn’t know it. That is sad.”

  “Eventually, Mr. Jacobs moved out of his apartment to live in an older man’s house. Even then, my mom didn’t realize he was into guys. She just figured they’d spend their nights playing cards and drinking beer.”

  Viveka laughed out loud. “Oh no! Your poor mom! Poor Chloe!” She leaned closer to December and studied his face. “Why don’t you have a big nose? You have a gorgeous little schnoz. Did your dear Dr. Gabe whittle it down for you?”

  “Fortunately, I inherited my father’s bone structure, small nose and all,” December said. “My mom once said, she never would’ve married a man with a big or crooked nose. Their baby would’ve looked like a toucan. Gabe did perform a rhinoplasty on me a few years back, but it wasn’t because my nose was too big. Gabe just wanted to give it more definition. He thought the tip was a little bulbous.”