Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
I’VE ALWAYS BEEN A SUCKER FOR A GOOD MAKEOVER. From the ugly duckling and Cinderella to Pretty Woman and The Devil Wears Prada , stories of transformation have always fascinated me. Humble, ordinary people coming into their own and becoming extraordinary. Being seen. It’s exactly what I feel when I do drag.
The week before I was set to make my debut at Dreamland, fear and excitement clashed inside me nonstop. Even though I was just seventeen, I’d already amassed thousands of online fans. I knew that I could make good videos.
But would I be any good in front of a live audience?
Tito Melboy went to work prepping me. First, he took me on a shopping trip to consignment stores to search for clothes. He didn’t want me to wear something I could find right off the rack, but he didn’t have enough time to make me something from scratch. He was looking for the perfect garments to alter into a one-of-a-kind outfit for me. I tried picking pieces for myself, but no matter what I did, I just couldn’t figure out how to find things that went together or that complemented my skin tone.
“Rex, tell me truthfully—are you color-blind?” he asked me in the store.
“No, Uncle.”
“Ah, sayang. That’s a shame. It would have explained a lot. Oh, well, we all have our talents,” he said, and put back all the things I’d chosen.
Finally, at a vintage shop in the Haight, Tito Melboy found the perfect red-sequined gown. It was large, extravagant—which didn’t really suit me—but it meant that he’d have enough material to work into something more scaled down and suitable for my age.
Over the next three days, as I practiced my debut song in my bedroom, he worked on my dress. When I was finally able to try it on, I’ll never forget what happened when I looked in the mirror. Doing drag had always been freeing. Now I felt much more than freedom. Actual power seemed to course through my body. I finally understood why we were called queens. It felt as if I could truly rule a country. Or the world.
Eva screamed from my bedroom door. “You’re a princess!”
“Shhhh!” I hushed, even though I knew Mom and Dad were at work.
“Just let her, Rex!” Tito Melboy said. “She’s happy for you. And I am, too! Look at how beautiful you are. Never forget how this feels. Hold on to it forever.”
My first live performance finally rolled around. After early morning church, we all told Dad we were going to a potluck lunch at my ninang’s house in Daly City (whose constant gossiping he found insufferable), leaving us free to go to Dreamland’s Drag Brunch.
All the way there I was a bundle of nerves. Not just because I was excited to finally perform publicly in drag, but also because I was anxious to see if Ivan would be working at the garage again.
When we arrived, I let out a tiny squeak of joy. Ivan was in the parking garage office, leaning so far back in his chair I was afraid he’d tip over. Like before, my voice went raspy when I asked him for the ticket. He seemed to be amused by my shyness, smirking as he prepared it for me.
“You gonna be coming every Sunday now?” he asked.
“Um. Maybe,” was all I could manage, trying to clear my throat of endless anxiety phlegm.
“Nice.”
“Do you, um, work every Sunday?” I asked.
“Yes. Sunday mornings. And Friday nights,” Ivan said, handing the ticket over to me.
I gripped it in both hands and walked to our car to put it on the dashboard, looking back longingly at the office.
“Let’s go. We’re going to be late,” Tito Melboy said, eyeing Ivan as we left the garage.
We had planned to arrive two hours early so we could get dressed in Dreamland’s dressing room. Mom and Eva helped us lug all our things in two rolling suitcases that we had snuck into the car at home, making sure my dad didn’t see us. The dressing room, though not large, was generous in its furnishings, decked out with all the essentials for any of the girls who wanted to finish getting ready there instead of arriving in full drag. There were four makeup stations with lighted mirrors, lockers for everyone to keep their belongings, and two racks to hang up outfits.
My uncle and I crammed into one station while Eva played around with a set of starter makeup that Baby Buko gave her. She was older than I was when I started learning about makeup so I knew it wouldn’t be a problem with Mom, who was busy chatting with Baby, anyway.
Benta Box, still dressed in jeans and a baseball cap, prepared at the station beside us. She was baking her makeup—laying foundation, concealer, and powder and giving it time to set. “I’m so honored that the legendary Beaucoup Buko will be working with us,” Benta said to Tito Melboy. “And you, new girl,” Benta said, pointing a brush at me like a knife, “don’t dip into my tips or I will cut you.”
I snapped my wig cap onto my head and froze. She burst into laughter.
“Don’t mind her,” Baby said. “She’s just kidding. We share everything, including the tips. But most importantly, we share our knowledge and support. You already have a drag mother,” she said, winking at Tito Melboy, “but now you have an entire drag family.”
The girls around me snapped their fingers.
I looked at Eva and my mom. “Since you’re all my family, would you all do me a big favor? Please don’t tell other people who I am, okay? My dad, he… he doesn’t know. And I don’t want him to find out.”
The girls nodded, many of them looking as if they knew exactly what it’s like to keep their drag a secret from their families.
“So, Regina,” Baby said, placing a hand gently on my shoulder, “are you ready to work?”
“Yes! But I’ve never waited tables before.”
“We will train you, don’t worry. You can just shadow Benta today. I mean, are you ready to perform your number?”
“Definitely,” I replied.
“Good. Because you’re up first.”
Two hours later, as Baby took to the stage to announce the beginning of the show, I watched from the back of the restaurant, hiding behind a large potted plant and trying not to nervously rub all the sequins off the dress Tito Melboy had made for me. Dreamland was full of people—gay brunchers, young couples, families, and groups of women enjoying bottomless mai tais—and I didn’t want to let any of them down.
“Hello!” Baby said into her handheld microphone. “I hope you’re enjoying your food. Try the mango dream pancakes, they’re a slice of tropical heaven. And speaking of a slice of heaven, for our first act, I want to introduce you all to someone new. A fresh, young face. Damn her! It’s okay, though. I’m not jealous. Beauty fades, but talent is forever,” Baby said, waving a hand over herself. The restaurant responded with cordial laughter. “Please give a warm welcome to Regina Moon Dee!”
I slinked out from my hiding place and walked up to the stage, worrying about absolutely everything. In the few seconds of silence between the quieting down of the audience’s polite welcome applause and the music, I looked out into the crowd. The other girls, usually busy taking orders, delivering food, or socializing with the guests, paused respectfully to watch me start. They all seemed so cool-headed and confident. Not a stray hair or blemish or snag in their tights. How could I possibly compare to them? I wasn’t a real queen. I wasn’t a pro. I was just some dumb kid who recorded videos of my mediocre looks and karaoke singing.
But when I saw Eva and Mom and especially Tito Melboy in the far back, now decked out in her own hand-stitched beaded ball gown as Beaucoup Buko, I knew I couldn’t let them down.
The karaoke track started. A steady quarter note pulse of a familiar piano chord echoed through the speakers. The intro to Celine Dion’s version of “All By Myself.”
I began to sing.
Someone let out a surprised gasp. It could have been one of the patrons or one of the girls. Maybe even Baby. But it wasn’t my family, who knew what my voice could do.
Most girls at Dreamland, Baby had told me, only did lip-synchs. There were a few over the years who also sang live sometimes, but they had low, male-register voices. If they did women’s songs, they were usually re-pitched several keys lower so that they could hit all the right notes.
I didn’t need to do any of this. I just needed to sing.
Everything was perfectly still. No food was being delivered. No plates were being scraped by utensils. Everyone gave me their full attention.
When I reached the infamous part of the refrain—the three ascending notes on “ a-ny-more ” that end in a high F, almost impossible for most women to sing, let alone men—the entire restaurant erupted into applause. The queens waved their hands and screamed, and Baby looked at Beaucoup, mouthing, Oh, my god!
I’d never experienced anything like it before. Online, I could be avalanched with likes and comments. But the impact of those things hit me obliquely, like having a nice meal one bite at a time. Now I was eating the best dish on the menu and swallowing it whole all at once. I never wanted the feeling to end.
Baby Buko said that I was Dreamland’s newest hit.
I don’t even remember the rest of the show. All I know is that, after it was all done, I was overwhelmed and exhausted from all the attention I received that day.
As Mom drove us home, she started tossing out ideas for my future performances. “You should do Whitney Houston, anak! And Mariah Carey, and some of Lea Salonga’s songs, too. For the next brunch, you should sing ‘A Whole New World’ with your uncle. What do you think, kuya?” she said to Tito Melboy.
“Great selections, Sharon. But I have an even better idea than singing at Sunday Drag Brunch,” Tito Melboy said.
He had a better—bigger—idea, indeed. Tito Melboy was planning a new weekly event that he’d mentioned to me previously: a happy hour karaoke show in the two hours before Friday’s six o’clock dinner service. Hosted by two people.
Him. And me.
I was thrilled. And terrified.
“Uncle, singing in front of an audience is one thing,” I said, already sweating at the thought of his proposal. “Being a good host is another skill entirely.”
“Yes, that’s right. But they are related. They both require awareness and flexibility. And an extra special something you have that most people, even your mother, do not.”
“What?” I asked.
“A face prettier than mine.”
“Che!” my mom said, slapping Tito Melboy on the shoulder.
His pudgy body bounced as he laughed. “Joke lang !”
As my mom and uncle continued to cackle in the front seats, I struggled to wrap my head around this new opportunity. Like my tiny little window into drag had suddenly expanded into an IMAX screen so big I could barely take it all in.
“Mom, would you still be able to cover for us with Dad?”
She wiped her eyes from laughing with Tito Melboy. “Oh, yes. We’ll think of something. Maybe we can say you’ve picked up a summer job working at the same restaurant that your uncle is working at. That way it’s not even a lie. But Eva and I won’t be able to accompany you every time.”
I looked at my little sister, conked out in the seat next to me in the back, her head tilted to the side and her mouth drooling.
“It’s probably for the best, Mom. I think she can only take so much fabulousness at this point in her life.”
In the following weeks, Beaucoup Buko’s Karaoke Show turned out to be a big success. Downtown office workers looking for a fun way to kick off the weekend flocked to it. And as word of mouth got around about my unique singing skills, more people started to attend, people who were curious to see me who then became fans, coming back week after week.
At first, I only sang the opening and closing songs. But I watched Beaucoup as she emceed, paying close attention to her every move. She’d do more than just say a few words before each singer and then leave the stage. Each introduction was a chance to make the audience laugh, to connect with them. Even when someone else was performing, Beaucoup was still part of the show. She mingled with the patrons and stood by different tables to join guests as they watched. Her presence was like a battery, placed here and there to energize certain parts of the crowd when she felt they needed a little more to keep them entertained.
Finally, I was ready to do more than just sing, and for the rest of the summer, Beaucoup split the show hosting duties with me. I still sang a song or two of my choice, but now I was emceeing just as much as she was. I had so much fun hosting that, as soon as a show would finish, I’d ache inside, knowing I’d have to wait seven more days to get to do it again.
I also had something else I looked forward to every Friday evening. Ivan.
“Hey, why do you come here every weekend?” he asked me one time, jerking his head over at Tito Melboy, who was pulling our suitcases out of the trunk of the car. “And what’s in those suitcases that you always bring?”
I hadn’t told him what we were doing on purpose. Ivan was super-friendly and flirtatious, but I wasn’t sure he was gay, and I didn’t know if I should let him in on my secret. Looking at his kind eyes and his easygoing smile, I had a hard time imagining him as being judgmental about something as simple as dressing up for karaoke. And besides, Dreamland was only two blocks away and was a famous tourist destination. He had to have known about it.
“The suitcases are for w-work,” I stuttered. “At Dreamland. You know that restaurant—”
“Let’s go, Rex!” Tito Melboy said, yanking me out of the parking booth by my collar.
Ivan laughed. “See you later, bro.”
I waved goodbye, unable to breathe as my uncle choke-pulled me out of the garage.
“You shouldn’t have told him where we work,” he said when we were out of the garage. “Not a good idea.”
“Why?” I pushed my lopsided collar back into place. “I think Ivan likes me. Like, like likes me.”
My uncle shook his head. “Perhaps as Rex. But not as Regina. If a man is attracted to you as a man, then he will not love you as a woman.”
My uncle was overreacting. I didn’t know if Ivan would be interested in drag, but I was almost positive he was interested in me. It would be fine. He could come see me perform one night. He’d be so impressed with my talent that any unfamiliarity he had with drag would be instantly obliterated. I had the best drag mother there was. Beaucoup Buko had helped me become a sensation, a star.
I had learned so much from her all those years ago. And now, I have my own chance to pay it forward and teach someone else to be good at drag. Paolo.
Well, sort of. I have no expectations of Paolo becoming America’s next drag superstar. I’m not sure I’d ever be a good enough drag mother. And more importantly, drag is a personal art form. A way to express oneself. And what I’m doing is asking Paolo to express who I am—not himself.
But still. It would be so much fun to drag up his life.
If I can figure out how to convince him to let me.