Loddy-Dah Page 16

  Queen of Hearts shifted in her seat as though she had an itch under her bum and propped her legs up on the empty chair beside Loddy. The skirt of her dress puffed up in a display of thick legs. “Look at these boots. Black vinyl stilettos almost to my waist, and my legs are sweating with the stink. But it’s the fashion, my dears, so we must suffer. I swear either my legs will shrivel into broomsticks, or I’ll end up on crutches by the end of the night.” And she twisted her heavy-set body to fan her boots with the peacock tail.

  “So why don’t you, like, take them off?” Loddy said.

  “Never!” The Queen of Hearts sputtered with such defiance, a spray of spit flew into the air.

  “They do look sexy though,” Loddy said in an attempt to appease her.

  “That’s why I’m not moving from this chair until I absolutely have to.” The Queen shifted one more time with feeling. “They look sexy as long as I don’t walk in them.”

  Percy, remembering his manners, made the introductions.

  “Loddy and I have met before,” the Queen of Hearts said. “We girls are all so excited for Miss-Ile. To be performing in a legitimate theatre, even if it’s semi-professional, is a dream. But what’s semi about it? No, let’s call it a professional theatre. My God! Do you think Montreal is ready for us?”

  “We’ll see,” Percy said. “Hope we make some money,” Percy said before popping a cigarello into his mouth.

  “Oh, my dears, I understand. Now I must go, make sure everything is ready back stage or ... or ... off with their heads!”

  The Queen of Hearts roared at her own comedic attempt as she fumbled towards the stage, frantically fanning her face with the peacock feathers.

  “She’s one of our sponsors and has seen every show The Garage Theatre has ever done,” Rita said. “Did you know she works in Eaton’s menswear when she’s not dressed up?”

  “She said we met before,” Loddy said. “I don’t remember.”

  “Yes, darlink, you know her. Erica.”

  “Like, now I’m really confused. Erica is Queen of Hearts at night, and works in menswear in the day as Eric?”

  “Yes, darlink, now why don’t I order us another round of drinks? What are you having?”

  “Ah, like maybe I’ll try one of those martinis and pretend I’m Alice in Wonderland and have fallen down the rabbit hole.”

  “You might as well enjoy yourself, darlink!” Rita signalled for the waiter.

  “I didn’t recognize Erica’s voice, Rita. She sounded like Lawrence Olivier doing Shakespeare.”

  “Erica missed her calling as an actor. Here she can be Olivier and no one cares, darlink.”

  The cacophony of music and chatter bulleted through Loddy’s ears and reminded her of the Limelite-A-Go-Go before the fire. She could no longer enter an establishment without feeling anxious. Rita’s voice a tedious monologue on all things trivial, Loddy needed to escape the babble.

  “I have to go to the washroom. I’ll be right back.”

  “Make sure you get in the right one,” Rita said as the waiter landed a tray of martinis on their table.

  It was as good an excuse as any for her to inspect the club, locate the exits, ensure the windows weren’t boarded up and the doors weren’t locked. Loddy spotted Jacob on a cigarette break, surrounded by admirers handing him folded notes for song requests. A 20-oz pickle jar filled with money in various denominations sat on the top of the upright piano. If you put Jacob on the corner of Guy and St. Catherine with the same jar, Loddy thought, he’d be mistaken for a beggar. Here, he was a lounge act, a piano man making a living on tips and beer, waiting in line to play Place des Arts.

  “Can you play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star for me?” she said, as she tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Loddy! Hey, little girl, what you doing here? Oh, never mind. I saw Rita and Percy. Another recruit?”

  “Yeah, some Missile or Miss-Ile, whatever, is in the next show with us. What a crazy place.”

  “Miss-Ile is a good performer. Just can’t see where she would fit in at The Garage though.”

  “It’s like Percy’s deal. He says it’ll bring in the crowds and Samuel likes that.”

  The house lights dimmed and the audience settled down to a murmur.

  “Better get back,” Loddy said. “See you later.”

  The entire room fell silent. Two spotlights criss-crossed like search lights during a prison break and caught Loddy heading towards her table. Beethoven’s 5th overpowered the room and added to the drama. As the symphony reached its peak, the Queen of Hearts tottered on stage with a noticeable limp from the squeeze of the too tight stiletto boots and blew kisses with her index and middle fingertips. She received a standing ovation.

  “You are a hot audience tonight, mes amis. Are you ready?”

  Loddy finished her martini and another miraculously appeared before her.

  “Here they are ladies and gentlemen and others, Diana Ross and the Supremes singing Stop, In the Name of Love.”

  Dressed in long gold lamé sheaths and short fat wigs, the three Supremes dominated the stage, lip synching, hips swaying, sinuous arms undulating with the proverbial traffic cop stance which punctuated every Stop. The crowd erupted into boisterous applause and shrill whistles.

  The Queen of Hearts, unsteady on her feet, returned to introduce the next act. “Didn’t I tell you this was a class act joint?”

  A thunder of claps and yelps and more whistles, everyone tapped their spoons on their glasses as though they were at a wedding reception and were trying to coax kisses from the newlyweds.

  “And now, Mesdames et Messieurs, you’ve seen her on Broadway, you’ve seen her in films and television, and you might have even seen her on the Main. Here she is. Barbra Streisand!”

  A slow fade to black, then a baby spot circled Streisand’s face singing People from Funny Girl. The impersonator caught all the nuances and gestures that were Streisand — the crossed eyes, the slender fingers with the long manicured nails clutching the microphone close to her mouth, the flip of her bob and the tilt of her head to accentuate the high notes.

  “They’re like all great but where’s Miss-Ile?” Loddy said.

  “They keep the best for last, darlink, don’t you know,” Rita said, boobs spilling ever more over her low-cut dress.

  It was the illusion of Cher, the next performer that fascinated Loddy the most. Cher, thin like a blade of ornamental grass, decorated in a flesh-coloured barely-there net costume, sang and swerved her hips to I’ve Got You Babe, while a short stout moustachioed Sonny, a male impersonator, no doubt, joined her on stage. Loddy envied their glamour, their sophistication, their liberating self-acceptance, their self-confidence and chutzpah. She swallowed martinis to honour each drag queen; another reason to order herself more of the cocktail.

  “I’ll drink nothing else but martinis until death do us part,”she vowed. At last, something that catapulted her to a happier place without packing on the pounds.

  Percy raised his eyebrows and suggested that perhaps the drag queens would understand if not everyone received a personal salute from her.

  “Nope.” Her head, slack and sloppy, swung in several directions. “A martini toast to each incredible performer,” she said, raising her glass towards the stage. After celebrating Judy Garland, Sophie Tucker and Brigitte Bardot, she was sloshed beyond redemption.

  Indeed the best was saved for last. Drum roll. The spotlight this time revealed the backside of a blond persona in a tight-fitting pink pearl satin sheath; gloved hands caressing exposed shoulders and back, creating the illusion that someone was kissing her. The audience tittered. To the strains of Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend, Marilyn Monroe spun around dripping in rhinestones, and seduced her fans. Miss-Ile had the movements down to exquisite perfection — from the rhythmic shaking of the shoulders to the sensuous removal of her elb
ow-length white gloves. Every wiggle and luscious curve breathed Marilyn Monroe.

  “Like, wow, Percy, that is Marilyn Monroe up there!”

  “She’s going to be fabulous in Evening Star,” Percy said. “Just fabulous.”

  Miss-Ile slithered off stage among shouts of Bravo! More! More! And then the room sighed back to its normal patter. Jacob reached into his song list and played the Four Aces’ Love is a Many Splendoured Thing; couples took to the dance floor.

  “These martinis are verrry Eeen-ter-es-ting,” Loddy said, imitating Wolfgang, the German soldier from Laugh-In.

  “Think you’ve had enough, darlink.”

  “That’s the best drink I ever tasted in my whole life. Thank you, Rita for the exp ... exper ... experience. Like, that’s a hard word to say. Just as bad as par ... parti ... particular ... ly ... particularly.”

  “Didn’t know you were such a lush, babe.”

  “Percy, you are just so funny. Ha. Ha.”

  At which point, Marilyn Monroe showed up at their table still wearing her pink sheath, and in a breathless voice, like she’d been battling laryngitis, asked everyone: “Was I wonderful?”

  “Yes, darlink, always.”

  “You are stunning, Marilyn,” Loddy added in a slur of words.

  “Did you like Streisand too? I was so nervous singing with that bastard Sonny.”

  “You were Streisand and Monroe?” Loddy made an effort to straighten up but crumbled back into her seat and hit the side of her head on the table.

  “Are you not feeling well?” Marilyn whispered as though she were about to sing Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

  Loddy propped up her head with a hand under her chin, and said: “Oh, Marilyn, it’s you. Do you really believe that the body is meant to be seen, not all covered up?”

  “It’s all make-believe, isn’t it?” Marilyn said.

  “Darlink Percy, she is clearly drunk out of her mind. I had no idea she couldn’t hold her liquor.”

  “Yessss, I can. I’m just not used to martinis and I think ... and I think ...” Loddy covered her mouth with a cocktail napkin.

  “Not here, darlink.” Rita pulled her towards the Ladies Room which, mercifully, was empty. Loddy held her head to stop the spinning, folded herself into a fetal position onto the cool tiled floor and fell asleep.

  xxx

  The following morning as light filtered through the venetians of her apartment, the smell of toast and coffee woke her. Loddy thought she was back at Alma’s flat but Percy was lounging in the recliner nearby engrossed in the morning paper.

  “You awake, babe?”

  “Oh, my God, Percy! Like, I had the weirdest dream. I was having drinks with Marilyn Monroe, Cher and The Supremes.”

  “No dream. We were at PJs last night and you passed out. Jacob and I brought you home.”

  “You stayed the night?”

  “You didn’t look so hot, babe. We were all a little worried.”

  “Is this what hung-over feels like?”

  “Don’t know but you’d make the perfect poster child for what it looks like. Made you breakfast before I go.”

  “You going?”

  “Have to, babe. Busy day. Just wanted to make sure you were alive. I’m reading Evening Star with Miss-Ile tonight and I want you there. Five o’clock sharp, comprendo?”

  “Miss-Ile? Oh, yeah, okay.”

  It frightened Loddy that she had little memory of the previous night and she vowed never to lose control again. She swallowed several sips of the strong hot coffee before burying herself under the warm covers. “I love my bed,” she said. It was too early for anything but Sunday Mass.

  SCENE 19:

  Evening Star

  He was just a kid wearing too much Max Factor and it wasn’t even Halloween. When he wasn’t Miss-Ile or Marilyn Monroe, he was David Morgan from Utah who spoke in the voice of a young boy. Loddy didn’t know what to make of him, how to act, what to say. She didn’t want to appear stupid or unknowingly hurt his feelings. So she said nothing. They were leaning against the brick wall outside The Garage Theatre. David toyed with his bracelets, a three-inch cuff of noisy annoyance while Loddy kept her eye out for Percy who had the keys to the door.

  “My parents, they just wouldn’t understand. I get calls from my mother and she still asks why don’t I find some nice girl and get married.”

  “What do you tell her?”

  “That I’m still looking. Don’t want to hurt them. They’re nice folks.” They fell silent and then he said: “So Loddy, will you marry me?”

  “Huh?”

  “Kidding. Just wanted to hear how that sounded,” David said and rubbed his hands, cracking his knuckles as though preparing for a boxing match. He went on to summarize his life so far: never finished high school. Converted to Catholicism. Moved to Montreal to enter postulate training as a monk.

  “Like, why in the heck would you do that? Were you like trying to avoid the draft too?”

  “I thought that was what I was meant to do,” he said in his melodic Streisand voice while crossing his eyes. “But I left the monastery after five months, and became a hairdresser and, eventually, a hat-check girl at PJ’s. Erica thought I did good impersonations and the rest is history, as they say.”

  “You’re so funny.”

  “Just call me funny girl!”

  “Seriously.”

  “Okay, seriously.” Back to his David face. He took a deep breath. “I became disillusioned because it didn’t offer me what I wanted. The monks were no different than anyone else. They drank, smoked and slept on beds in comfortable rooms. There just didn’t seem to be any point to it. It was just too ... too comfortable.”

  “Did you, like, want to punish yourself or something?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  He fogged up the glass door with his breath and started a game of X’s and O’s. Loddy couldn’t resist and joined in. She drew an X beside his O. When it was obvious she would win, he erased the game. He didn’t like losing. They briefly caught their mirror likenesses in the glass door.

  Loddy made a dash for the sidewalk to check for Percy while David fixated on his reflection, adjusted his makeup and re-applied lipstick. No sign of Percy. She stepped back and studied David as he primped himself.

  “Why Monroe and Streisand only?”

  “I love Streisand’s guts and bitchiness and her voice,” he said, becoming energized and animated. “She’s such a perfectionist and does everything so well. Marilyn is, well, she’s just such a sex.”

  Before Loddy could comment, Percy showed up.

  “You said five o’clock sharp,” Loddy said. “You’re late!”

  “Had a nap. Forgot to set the alarm.”

  “Comprendo.”

  They spent the rest of the day reading Evening Star, a 30-minute monologue written by a drama student from Sir George Williams University.

  “You know, Percy,” David said, putting the script down. “I don’t think I can identify with the character in the play. Some people can’t accept what life has given them. I can. Suicide is not my bag.”

  The character was meant to be portrayed by a female, but Percy thought David’s questionable gender would add another dimension of alienation, a story centred on a beautiful woman, a lonely persona, enacting a last rite of passage.

  “Knowing you,” Percy said, sliding a cigarillo between his lips, “if you ever decided to kill yourself, you’d do it with a full marching brass band behind you. But this is called acting, so just pretend.”

  xxx

  On opening night, Montreal’s gay community packed The Garage Theatre. While some critics might call David just another drag queen, to his friends and admirers, he was a talent majore, and they showered him with telegrams, flowers and a standing ovation. And the reviews were good:

 
; Of the three plays, Evening Star was the most original. We meet an actor in the guise of Marilyn Monroe, dolled up in sequins and feather boa, lip-syncing to Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend (and she did it very well). The actor disrobed, removing jewellery, shoes, dress and, as the falsies fell out of her bra, this reviewer was surprised to find that “she” was a “he”. The play is set in a dressing room and, as she pulls on a robe, we become privy to her one-sided conversation with an absent lover. After the final line, it’s time now, isn’t it? Marilyn Monroe singing River of No Return washes over the entire audience. The spotlight captures the face of David Morgan, female impersonator, and slowly diminishes until it evaporates into a blackout as though she never existed.

  — The Montreal Star

  Adult Games was a box office hit and, over the two-week run of the trilogy, Samuel took a break from drinking as line-ups circled the block and audiences were turned away. He strutted around the mezzanine, perplexed by this thing called Miss-Ile, and planned to extend the show for another two weeks. But David had other commitments — a gig in Las Vegas as a showgirl.

  “Life is no easier now than it was in Utah,” he told Loddy. “But there’s a certain relief in not having to pretend the thorns are roses. Besides I’ll be able to afford my sex change operation.”

  Their friendship had grown over the course of the run — Loddy let David colour her hair platinum like Marilyn Monroe’s, and he taught her make-up tricks to enhance her facial features, discover her cheekbones, and conceal her double chin. But he couldn’t convince her to revamp her wardrobe and discard the red caftans and tent dresses that hid her largesse.

  On David’s final night in the city, his friends threw a farewell party at Percy’s apartment. He arrived wearing no make-up, a stubbled face and his shaved eyebrows revealing the use of an eyebrow pencil. He’d be taking the bus into Nevada, and Loddy praised his courage.