Chapter 7 Part 2: THAT IS THE SLOPIEST DRAG QUEEN I EVER SAW


 Chapter 7 Part 2: THAT IS THE SLOPIEST DRAG QUEEN I EVER SAW

I’m supposed to be at rehearsals today, so I’m not sleeping as soundly as I’d like. I rise up on my elbows and glance at the clock. Damn it—I’ve overslept by a whole ten minutes, and my schedule is already shot. Panicked, I leap out of bed and peel off my disco clothes. I stink. I rush to the bathroom and, while stripping off my underwear, I accidentally drop them into the toilet.

The cold water of the toilet bowl jolts me awake, and I hurry to finish getting ready, skipping most of my usual grooming rituals to save time. I race down the stairs in nothing but my towel, start the coffee, pour a glass of orange juice, and add a little vodka just for taste—and, honestly, to forget about whatever it is I’m not sure I’m trying to forget yet.

Back upstairs, I throw on my clothes, run out the door, and hop into the van. Happy, smiling faces have been replaced by bloodshot eyes and grimaces. “Ugh,” I grumble. “Mmm,” is the collective response. We drive to rehearsal, spending the entire day learning something that may or may not be cut, may get used in one of our three shows, or could be completely forgotten. That’s how it’s explained to us as we struggle to memorize and perfect it. Most of the choreography and staging will be tossed out the moment the corporate bigwigs show up again.

Every day, when I pass the casino or get a break, I stick a quarter into the slots and pull the lever. I hope for three cherries, but I always get lemons. No win. If I do win, I’ve made a deal with myself—I’ll leave. Today, no luck. I’m here for another day.

We enter the theater, and the director is pacing the stage with his face pressed up against the script, turning it around and upside down. He doesn’t notice us, but then again, he doesn’t notice much of anything. He’s blind, and he’s been calling me George for the past week.

On stage, we realize that, because we don’t have mirrors, we can roll our eyes as much as we want without getting caught. Crossing the stage, our under-prepared choreographer—who blames the director for everything—has another brilliant idea. “Let’s have the boys dance the opening number with swords!” So now, the number that was choreographed without swords is going to have swords. He demonstrates by waving a sword around, trying to execute a few steps he can barely remember.

Let me explain. We’ve been in sword class, learning the art of combat from one of the greatest fight directors in the world. Day in and day out, we’ve been practicing. After rehearsals, we’ve worked in the parking lot, practicing on invisible targets. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5a, cut down. Those are the basic steps of sword fighting, and then we plot out the fight. The only sharp objects our choreographer has handled lately are a knife and fork. The man has gained at least 20 pounds since we got here.

“Swing the swords like this!” he says, waving them haphazardly at us. “Then do a cartwheel, and a handstand, and land with a sword slash.” Again, he swings the sword at us. I get a cramp in my head from rolling my eyes so hard. We work late into the night on this number, changing and re-changing it, only to have it cut from the show before we leave.

We stumble out of the van and into the house. No dinner tonight—I’ve lost my appetite. I pick up the phone and call my subletters in NYC. The phone bill’s in, and they owe $1600. “We got an eviction notice, and your dog needs an operation.” Unfortunately, this is the happiest news of the day. I stumble up the stairs, fall into bed, and crash out in my dance clothes.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and my bed starts rocking in that strange way it has for the past week. “I’m safe at home,” I think, and fall asleep.

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