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


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

At night, we become regulars at the only Bahamian gay bar on the island, named “Endangered Species.” There are five of us sitting there on a hopping Friday night. Actually, there are only two other people in the bar with us, bringing the total to seven. “It’s usually busier in here,” says the barmaid. “Funny,” she adds, “you said that last week—and the week before that.”

I look across the bar at the leopard prints that cover the walls, chairs, settees, and every bar stool. I absentmindedly tap my foot to the latest tunes from the '80s, blaring through small speakers suspended above the bar. An old man winks at me just before his head hits the counter. I sigh and put away my fifth straight vodka.

My five best friends are with me, and I raise my glass to salute them. The rest of our cast is asleep, safe at home in the condos. We’ve all become much closer since the “slaughter” wiped out so many of us just a couple of days ago. I suddenly become aware of the ticking of my watch, the needle on the record starting to skip, and the dust settling from the ceiling fan.

Then, the front door opens, and we feel a blast of heat from outside. “Thank God,” I mutter. “More people to get this party started.” We crane our necks towards the door, eager for any sign of life. And then, in shuffle two of the worst-looking drag queens I’ve ever seen. Both of them are about 6'5". They’re wearing sequined gowns, covered by sweater vests, and their hair is flat to their heads and completely uncombed. One of them sports thick Mr. Magoo glasses, which barely hide the fact that her eyes are crossed—at least they distract from her large, buck teeth. I raise my hand and order another shot of vodka.

I toss it back, and we collectively decide that this night has come to a screeching halt. Stumbling out to the van, we agree that it’s easier to drive on the wrong side of the road when you’re already drunk. Sliding into the front seat, I put the key in the ignition, and the van roars to life. We arrive back at the condos in record time. I stagger into the house, climb the stairs to my room, and pass out.

The morning comes earlier than I planned. The sun rises and blasts through the windows. I drag myself out of bed and pad over to the thermostat, cranking it as low as it will go. Frost appears on the windows. “It’s like a goddamned icebox in here,” my roommate yells from somewhere in the house. “I can see my fucking breath!” “Geoffrey, please find a happy fucking medium with the air conditioner!” he screams. I roll over in bed and pull the covers up. It’s the best way to battle the cold.

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