Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
MY HEART RACES AS I SIT ON AARON’S COUCH , staring at him. I’ve never seen him like this before. What the heck do I do now?
HALF AN HOUR EARLIER
“What’s taking so long?” I ask Eva.
I wipe the glue off my eyebrows with cotton balls and oil cleanser while she continues to tug unsuccessfully at my dress. “The zipper’s stuck. I think you’ve gained weight over the last couple of hours.”
“No fat-shaming!” I say to her reflection in the mirror. “My body swells up sometimes when I’m stressed, that’s all.”
The clock is ticking. Eva’s gotten me back to my Oakland condo in record time, but that still only leaves me twenty minutes or so to get out of drag. Meanwhile, our mother is sleeping on my sofa, her head elegantly resting on a stack of my throw pillows.
“There we go!” Eva says victoriously.
Air rushes into my lungs, and my newly freed torso expands. “Much better. Thank you.”
Eva continues to take my dress off, pulling it down my body like a banana peel. “This brings me back,” she says. “Remember how I used to help you take off all your stuff back at Dreamland?”
When Eva and Mom were able to accompany Tito Melboy and me to our shows at Dreamland (they couldn’t come every time because Dad would’ve gotten too suspicious), they’d help us de-drag so that we could hurry home before Dad would start to wonder where we were.
“You were an incredibly helpful ten-year-old,” I say.
“I know. That’s why Uncle gave me this,” she says, caressing the beaded necklace around her neck.
That’s why Eva’s appearance seemed so comforting to me this evening. She’s been wearing the necklace Tito Melboy gave her. I remember watching him construct it out of glass beads and seashells during the summer he spent with us. As he worked, he told me it was a simpler version of a traditional baliog necklace, like the ones his tita from Mindanao used to make.
“Uncle said I needed something special, since I was such a good assistant,” Eva says, and laughs. “He also told me I could get him out of his clothes faster than some of his old boyfriends, which I didn’t really understand until years later.”
“He was so proud of you,” I say.
“He may have been proud of me, but he adored you, Rex. Like you were his own kid.”
That’s because I was Tito Melboy’s kid. His drag child.
I pluck a makeup remover wipe from the box on my bathroom counter and start cleansing my face. “Thanks for helping,” I say. “But I think I got the rest of this handled.”
Eva picks up her purse. “Happy to help. I’m just so glad you’re doing drag again. And Tito Melboy would be really happy, too,” she says, giving me a side hug before waking up Mom to go home.
Yes, Tito Melboy would be happy.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is red because of the scrubbing, and my hair is flattened from being underneath a wig cap all night. Tito Melboy was the one who showed me the fastest ways to take off the layers of adhesives, foundations, and colors from my face. How to put a wig back into its case properly. How to hem a skirt. How to mend a torn garment. And how to perform in front of a packed room of people. Live. Not just on videos taped in a bedroom. He was the one who taught me everything I know about being a true queen.
That summer before senior year, after I’d told my uncle about my secret life as Regina Moon Dee and shown him all my performance videos, he let me in on his own secret.
“Are things with you and my dad any better now that you’re here?” I asked him one day. My dad was sometimes a bit grumpy around Tito Melboy at home, but mostly, he seemed civil and was even outwardly appreciative of his cooking for us.
“Yes,” Tito Melboy replied. His brow furrowed as he cut away at a chunk of high-density foam at our kitchen table. “But I feel a little bit guilty about why.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, watching with fascination as he sculpted homemade hip and thigh pads for me.
“In order to make peace with him, I told your dad a little lie. I said I had stopped doing drag professionally. That I wanted to focus on family instead.”
I fake-pouted. “So you don’t actually want to spend time with us?”
“Of course I do, Rex. I love getting to know my beautiful niece and nephew.” He pulled me in and placed a quick peck on my forehead. “No, I lied about quitting drag. In fact, the main reason I came here was for a job that I’m starting very soon.”
Tito Melboy had come to the Bay Area to manage the shows at Dreamland.
The drag-themed restaurant opened in the nineties, gradually became a must-visit tourist destination over the years. Its hostesses, waitresses, and performers were all drag queens, both cis gay men and trans women, and mostly people of color. As Beaucoup Buko, Tito Melboy would be in charge of planning, promoting, and scheduling the shows. She’d also be the de facto mother to all the queens. The person she would be replacing—her own drag daughter, Baby Buko—was moving to New York at the end of the summer to manage Dreamland’s new Hell’s Kitchen location.
Dreamland was thrilled that Beaucoup Buko, a top-notch performer, would be taking Baby’s place. She had years of experience managing bars in both the Philippines and Los Angeles and was known for her creative and bold event ideas.
My uncle’s first idea for Dreamland was to infuse it with new talent. Namely, me.
“You will be perfect for this new weekly show I’m going to add to the schedule,” he told me.
“Doing what?” I asked, trembling from both excitement and terror at the idea of performing in public for the first time.
Tito Melboy patted my knee. “You’ll see. But first, I will give you an idea of what you’re getting into.”
He knew I was young and inexperienced, and that he’d have to convince me first. He suggested we go to Dreamland’s famous Drag Brunch, the most family friendly of their shows. It was notoriously difficult to get a table for it, especially at the last minute. But with one phone call to Baby Buko, VIP seats were reserved for all of us—my uncle, my mom, Eva, and me. (We told Dad that we’d be going jewelry shopping in San Francisco, which he, of course, had no interest in taking part in.)
Eva and I were thrilled to finally see a professional drag show. And anything as dramatic as a restaurant full of drag queens was right up my mom’s alley. “What should I wear, Melboy?” my mom asked as we got ready. “I have so many ideas. But I don’t want to attract too much attention and overshadow the other girls!”
“I don’t think that will be a problem, Sharon,” Tito Melboy replied, smiling at me and Eva behind her back. Even with Mom’s impressive collection of clothes, I had a feeling nothing she wore would come close to the queens’ extravagant outfits.
When we got to San Francisco, we couldn’t find a street spot. So we ended up parking at a small garage. As my mom and Tito Melboy continued their nonstop gossiping, I went to get the ticket from the office and then promptly lost my ability to talk.
The parking attendant was the most beautiful guy I’d ever seen.
He had a Mediterranean look to him, Italian or Greek perhaps. Dark, curly hair, thick eyebrows, and a prominent, sculpted nose. His uniform (dirty with a few grease stains, making him even more hot) was open down to the top of his pecs. The sight of his wispy chest hair entranced me. He smelled like Axe body spray and axle grease. And though he was older than me, it couldn’t have been by much. He looked like he was probably a college student.
“Hi,” I said dumbly, my throat suddenly sore.
“Hello,” the young man said. His voice was deep and sultry. The accent was hard for me to place, though I was pretty sure he was Eastern European. His name tag said Ivan . “How long will you be here?”
“Um, I don’t know how long I’ll take it. I mean, how long I am. Oh, my god.”
Ivan’s sexy lips turned up into a smirk. “No worries. See you when I see you,” he said, and handed me a parking ticket. When I went to pull it from him, he held on firmly, making me work to get it. He winked and let go.
My family stood waiting by the car.
“All set?” my mom asked.
“Yeah.” I looked back to see Ivan still watching me. “I’m ready. And excited.”
“I can see that,” Tito Melboy said, glancing at the tenting going on in my pants and chuckling to himself. Embarrassment made even more blood rush to my extremities, making it hard to walk out of the garage.
But my embarrassment was forgotten when Baby Buko greeted us with huge hugs at Dreamland’s entrance. She was a willowy queen with flowing limbs and a lamé gown that dripped off her like liquid emeralds. “Welcome, welcome!” she said, taking us inside the restaurant.
My mouth dropped as we entered. For some reason, I’d expected the place to be small and dark. But the restaurant was huge, with large windows that let in lots of sun, making the place feel bright and airy. The décor was tropical-themed—lots of bamboo furniture, palm-leaf plants, and a festive wallpaper with a birds-of-paradise print, its repeating pattern of red-orange plumes scaling the length of the walls.
The place was already packed, but the entire staff moved around with ease. It was as if they were choreographed—from the seating of guests to the way the queens weaved around the room to avoid running into one another’s massive trays of brunch drinks and appetizers. It was easy to see that Baby Buko ran a tight ship.
“Baby!” Tito Melboy said, grabbing hold of his drag daughter’s hand. “Ang ganda naman dito! The pictures online don’t do it justice.”
“And the girls are just as beautiful as the restaurant!” my mom added. “By the way, is it okay that Eva and Rex are here? They’re underage.”
“Of course, of course,” Baby said, ushering us to our reserved seats at a table right at the front near the stage. “Look around. There’s plenty of kids here. Anything before nine p.m. is family friendly. The adult shows are after nine-thirty p.m. only.”
The late-night shows were labeled “adults only,” but even those weren’t risqué, Baby told us. Sure, the queens had more colorful language and maybe slightly more revealing outfits, but Baby’s policy was that, if you felt embarrassed to bring your mother, she didn’t want it at Dreamland. “This is no Red Light ping-pong ball whorehouse,” she once said to one of the performers, scolding her for doing a too-raunchy striptease one night. Her girls knew to keep it clean. And Sunday Drag Brunch was one hundred percent wholesome.
It was one of their busiest events, so there were at least ten girls working the dining room. While my family perused the menu, I watched the queens as they moved around, chatting with the guests as they took their orders. Tito Melboy told me that, while one would perform in the show, the others would seamlessly fill in and attend to her table.
Our waitress, a twenty-something queen from Taiwan named Benta Box, was a whirlwind, carrying multiple trays of food and delivering them all with a gorgeous smile. Baby Buko informed us that Benta, who identified as trans, was a seasoned performer. She had worked three different shows at Dreamland to make enough money to get her top surgery done. I couldn’t wait to see what she’d do during her turn onstage.
When our plates of loco moco and huli-huli chicken came (Dreamland’s Sunday brunch menu was Hawaiian-themed), we all dug in. As we ate, Tito Melboy leaned over to whisper in my ear.
“Notice how the girls hold themselves, even when just delivering food? They stay poised at all times.”
“You’ll need to cultivate stamina. See the shoes? They don’t take the easy way out by wearing comfortable ones.”
“Take a look at her wig, Rex. See the perfect shading she uses to blend in the hairline?”
Baby Buko opened the brunch show with a Tina Turner lip-synch. Afterward, all the girls, including Benta Box, took their turns, and she was indeed spectacular, doing a perfect lip-synch of Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me.”
But while they all did a great job, I could feel that the show was missing something. Something that my uncle knew I could provide.
After the show was over, as the queens went back to their tables to close out everyone’s bills, Baby Buko sat down with us. “Tell me, what did you think?” she asked.
“It was amazing,” I said. I glanced at my mom, who had clearly enjoyed both the meal and the show, and at Eva, who looked as if she’d just spent the entire day at Disneyland. I’d never seen a kid so happy to be sitting at a restaurant for two hours.
Tito Melboy beamed. “I’m so proud of you, Baby. It’s wonderful here.”
“The owners take good care of us, Mama,” Baby said. “They’re especially good to the trans community. We all feel safe here.”
I wondered if Baby herself was trans. It was impossible to tell who was and who wasn’t. I assumed that’s how both the cisgender male drag queens and the trans queens wanted it to be. As far as they were concerned, they were all drag performers. All that mattered was a commitment to the art.
“Rex, your uncle tells me you’re a budding young queen yourself and that you should be given the opportunity to perform here,” Baby said. “Would you like that?”
“Yes! Would that be okay, Mom?”
She squeezed my hand. “What an opportunity! Of course, anak. I will support you. My little superstar.”
“Well,” Baby said, sharing a look with my uncle, “how about we start you early? I can give you a spot in next week’s show.”
My head swirled. I’d actually be performing live. In real time. In front of real people. Except, “What about Dad?” I asked.
“I will take care of that,” my mom assured everyone at the table.
“And do you know what you would do for your talent number, Rex?” Tito Melboy asked.
I didn’t. Not right then. But I’d have the whole week to think about it and to prepare.
I’d thought that the excitement of that moment would be something I’d never forget, and yet for years I had because I’d forced myself to, pushing it down deep inside me.
Until hosting karaoke on the Pink Unicorn stage, when it all resurfaced.
Actually, it was before that. As soon as I unlocked my chest again to prepare for the evening, euphoria rushed through me—when my makeup, wigs, dresses, and shoes were finally released from their containment.
Now I feel a different kind of thrill as I break speed limits left and right to get to Aaron’s on time.
It reminds me of the first time I went home with him in Bloomington, after sitting at the same spot at Kilpatrick’s, ordering the same beer over and over for weeks. Talking to him. Flirting with him. Even though—no matter how hard I’d try—he’d never give me any clear confirmation that he was gay, I kept at it, hoping that I had a chance. And when he finally invited me over to his place after one of his shifts one night, that thrill burned inside me. I was excited, but not entirely sure what he wanted. Maybe he just wanted to talk. Maybe we weren’t going to have sex.
Thankfully, we did. Back then.
Tonight? Who knows. I’m trying to stay optimistic. But even when we were together, I doubted myself, never sure if he was fully into me. I was always fighting the sneaking suspicion that he didn’t think I was good enough for him.
It’s fifteen past midnight when I arrive at Aaron’s. My T-shirt, snug in all the right places, is slightly damp with nervous perspiration. It doesn’t really matter, though. If things go the way I want them to, it won’t be on for long.
I feel a little better when Aaron answers the door. He’s got on what I used to call his “hookup clothes,” the same outfit he’d always wear whenever I’d go over to his place to get busy. Sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and Cincinnati Reds baseball cap on backward.
“Hi,” I say. “Sorry it took me so long. I know it’s late.”
“You know this isn’t too late for me. Come on in.”
He heads toward his kitchen—to grab us two beers, I already know. A pilsner for him and a hefeweizen for me, like we’d always had at his place.
The state of his apartment is exactly the same as it was in Indiana: neither neat nor disorderly. A distinct man-smell permeates the rooms, unwashed clothes and meat-heavy meals mixed with about-to-expire air freshener. From here, I can see into his bedroom. A single bargain-basement comforter hangs off the edge of his bed, clothes are heaped on the floor, and empty beer bottles lay strewn across his dresser.
Aaron comes back to the living room and hands me my hefeweizen. “Cheers,” he says, clinking mine.
“Cheers,” I say. “To the success of my karaoke idea, right? And to Regina Moon Dee?”
He nods and takes a sip, smacking his lips. “Your friend’s a keeper.”
He seems sincere. And he didn’t emphasize the word friend . I’m pretty sure that he doesn’t suspect I’m Regina.
“Just tell her to keep the hanky-panky out of the workplace, okay? If she and Paolo want to get it on, they’ll have to do it someplace else.”
Something flutters in my stomach when he mentions Paolo’s name. “I’ll be sure to tell her that.” I take a long sip of my beer and focus on Aaron. “So, speaking of hanky-panky, did you just want to talk about Regina tonight, or…?”
“Heh. I’ve always liked that about you.”
“What?” I give him my most flirtatious smile, hoping he means my seductive charm.
“Your straightforwardness. You’re not afraid to say what’s on your mind. I always know where I’m at with you.”
“That’s me all right. You can read me like an open book. Nothing to hide here.” A sudden wave of warmth rushes to my neck.
His smile falters. I start to panic, wondering if he can see the deceit written in the redness on my skin.
He turns around abruptly. “Want to chill on the couch?”
I follow him and sit. Close, but not too close. I don’t want to come on too strong or go too fast. I need to set the mood by doing and saying the right things. Subtlety and sensitivity are paramount right now.
“So,” I say, “too bad about you and Russell, huh?”
Shit.
An awkward smile forms on Aaron’s face. “Yeah. It was a bummer.”
“But you don’t miss him, right?”
Ohmigod, Rex.
Aaron coughs into a balled-up fist and takes a very big chug of his beer. “I guess I look at it this way,” he says. “If we’re not together, then it just wasn’t meant to be.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s right.” I pat him enthusiastically on the knee. “He couldn’t hack it here. So he’s better off back in Indiana.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say he couldn’t handle it, just—”
“Oh no, I mean…” I grip his knee and then feel him pull back slightly. I start massaging it instead, hoping he’ll relax. He doesn’t seem to. “I mean you made the decision to stay. And there’s a reason for that. There’s a reason why you’re here. If you didn’t, we couldn’t have run into each other after all these years.”
He looks down at my hand. I’m about to stop massaging his knee, but to my surprise, he puts his own hand on top of mine, stilling it. “I am glad to see you again,” he says, looking somewhat at ease for the first time since I’ve arrived at his place.
I turn my hand and interlace it with his thick fingers. “I’m glad to see you, too.”
Aaron smiles kindly. He leans in. My heartbeat quickens as my breathing slows to almost nothing. I close my eyes, and—
“What is that?” he asks.
My eyes pop open to see him staring at the back of my neck. “Oh god, kill it!” I say, thinking an insect has landed on me.
“This.” He swipes the tip of his finger on my skin and raises it to his eyes.
I look at his finger. It’s foundation. The dress I had on tonight showed a lot of neckline, so I made sure to color and contour everywhere. But in my rush, I’d forgotten to clean it off the back of my neck.
I flinch. “That’s just… uh…”
He sniffs his finger. “Smells kinda sweet. Is it chocolate or something?” he asks, placing his fingertip on his tongue.
“No, don’t—”
Too late. He sucks his finger. “Ew,” he says, scrunching up his face.
“It’s not chocolate,” I say, cringing. “It’s… self-tanning lotion. There’s coloring in it.”
Aaron wipes at his lips. “Ick. It’s gross. It’s—” He coughs. Coughs some more. He starts to hack and wheeze.
“Oh, crap,” I say, grabbing his beer bottle off the table for him to drink, only to realize that it’s empty.
I run to the kitchen, pour a glass of water from the sink, and rush back to Aaron. He chugs the water. His coughing keeps going but with less intensity.
I rub his back as he leans over his knees.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Whatever was in that stuff, I think I’m allergic to it,” he groans.
“It probably just went down the wrong pipe, that’s all,” I try to say as encouragingly as I can.
“Yeah, maybe,” he says, and sits upright.
I scream.
“What?” Aaron says.
I shake my head dumbly and stare at his mouth, now starting to puff up.
“It’s my face, isn’t it?”
I nod quietly, trying not to show my utter horror and failing completely.
“Crap,” he says, and trudges to his bathroom.
Great job, Rex. A perfect second chance now gone horribly wrong, all because of a lousy little smear of makeup.
The sound of banging fills the apartment as Aaron opens and shuts bathroom cabinets, presumably looking for something to ease the swelling. I fall back on the sofa, silently berating myself for being so careless with my makeup, when I suddenly remember that another stupid smear caused a situation earlier in the evening. The smudge of lipstick I cleaned off Paolo’s face. And I was in such a hurry to leave the Pink Unicorn that I never got around to apologizing to him for it. Maybe that’s why he seemed so disappointed when I left. I’d crossed a line, and it looked as if I didn’t give it a second thought.
But I am thinking about it. Because for some reason, even though my makeup has literally made Aaron sick, it’s my lipstick on Paolo’s mouth that I now can’t get out of my head.