Chapter 4
I couldn’t stop by my apartment to grab anything, but Reggie assured me that clothing and “styling crap” would be waiting for me at our destination.
He drove us in a rental car to a military base in the Bronx, where we boarded a bare-bones, three-seat, single-engine plane, which wasn’t the ultra-elite travel I’d been anticipating, the sort of private jet where a tech mogul in a hoodie snorts coke with a rail-thin model in ripped jeans and sable, and the mogul defends the expense and climate damage by calling the flight “cost-effective.” “Regular airports take too much time,” said Reggie, once we were in the air. “Here’s your passport.”
I was confused, since as of this morning, my passport had been in my bedroom, barely hidden beneath a fitness magazine, which I’d bought for the movie star whose bicep routine was being promised on the cover, with the star’s T-shirted arms Photoshopped to boulder-like Captain America proportions.
These articles are fake, because the stars inject steroids while proclaiming their “gains” are “all natural” and strictly thanks to hours in the gym and only eating skinless, unseasoned chicken breasts.
But I don’t care because these magazines are the male equivalent of bridal publications that run photo spreads of the same gowns every month, alongside the same articles on choosing “just the right gift bags for your groomsmen,” but keep readers happy at the gynecologist’s office.
I opened the passport to view the sultry face of my professional headshot, above the name Rick Fennimore.
“Rick Fennimore?”
“Can you do that?” Reggie asked. “Pretend to be a gentile? I can have them change it to Heshy Rabinowitz.”
“But why do I need a different name?”
“So if anyone traces you online, which they will, this can slow them down. Did you want us to use the dick pic?”
“No, this is fine.”
A confession: I secretly liked becoming “Rick Fennimore,” and not just because “Andrew Birnbaum” is such a dutiful and suburban name.
For professional reasons I’d once thought about going by Adam Berne, Ace Barnes, or, on mushrooms, Andre Von Bernier, but since Meryl never became Merle Strathmore or Merry Sloane, and because I love my family and would never disdain them, I’m sticking with what my parents chose.
But Rick Fennimore wasn’t just a spy, but a spy who could seductively unbutton his shirt to mid-sternum, a stance that would make Andrew Birnbaum look like he’d gotten dressed in a hurry or the dark.
“It doesn’t really look like you,” said Reggie, studying the passport photo over my shoulder.
“It’s not supposed to. An actor’s headshot is meant to look like their hotter, younger brother who’s got perfect skin, killer hair, and a crooked smile to die for, or a moody allure that says, ‘I’m thinking about how I’d play Hamlet or a Zac Efron part after Zac turns it down.
’ And sure, when I show up for auditions and the casting people see me in the flesh, they’re disappointed.
But I love my headshot because it makes me look like I have a career. ”
“Got it. Okay, here’s what happening: we’re going to the White House.
The First Lady is giving the Estonian prime minister and his wife a tour, and while they’re both in the clear, they’re bringing some staff members who may not be.
A body was found in a storage locker at Dulles, and we think he was one of the Estonian secretaries, and a terrorist might be taking his place.
So you and I will be working for Maunders, who’s installing springtime floral arrangements throughout the building. ”
“We’re florists?”
“We’re assistants. Efficient underlings. We’ll shadow the First Lady and patrol for anyone suspicious.”
I was still in disbelief, but I was in the air, with a fake name and a forged passport. I’d had minimal training, and I might be making contact with a trained hit man (or hit person, because gender shouldn’t be a limitation when hiring maniac assassins). And I wasn’t sure where Estonia was.
“Estonia’s in Eastern Europe on the Baltic Sea,” Reggie told me, always a few steps ahead, “across from Finland and Sweden. They’re a parliamentary republic and they like America because they hate Russia. They’re good people but keep your eyes open.”
“Will there be guns?”
“Always assume there are guns. I’ve brought your backpack if you need a power bar.”
I had a horrific thought, of an absent-minded impulse when my blood sugar drops, so I unwrap one of the power bars, take a bite, and blow my head off.
“I’ll be right there, or nearby. You’ll do fine.”
After we landed, a black van brought us to the White House, although I couldn’t see out of the tinted windows.
But after stopping briefly at two security checkpoints where Reggie presented the necessary credentials, we were driven to a rear entrance of what was definitely the first family’s official residence.
I’d taken a tour as an eight-year-old, on a vacation trip with my family, during which my mom said, “You should appreciate this place as an American landmark, but it was built by slaves,” and my dad said, “Many American presidents were fine people, but not always. I’ll point out the portraits of the unpleasant ones. ”
The White House’s current residents were the Democratic President Kyle Pershing and his wife, First Lady Reata Pershing.
They were the first interracial couple to share the titles—Reata was Black, and Kyle was a good-natured, well-intentioned liberal who I’d voted for.
Frankly, I was more undone about coming into any proximity with Reata, an effortlessly glamorous and blazingly intelligent figure who’d worked steadily to modulate these attributes to avoid being labeled a mere fashion plate or an Angry Black Woman by conservatives.
Reata’s name was pronounced ree-AH-tuh, but her enemies often deliberately stumbled over it.
She’d been a tenured professor at Harvard before putting her career on hold to support and, many people insinuate, mastermind Kyle’s rise.
Reata’s field was Archaeology with a concentration in Ancient Greek Civilization, and she’d authored several revered textbooks and done copious fieldwork.
But among the most viral aspects of Reata’s stardom was the incredible yellow shantung sleeveless dress with a matching coat that she’d worn at the Inauguration.
“That dress,” Brock had commented, “made me proud to be an American.” Reata’s outfit, and the gown she’d selected for the Inaugural Ball, in a vivid teal silk, had both been created by young designers of color, and signified an assertive improvement over the more drab wardrobes of earlier First Ladies, although I’m excluding Jackie Kennedy because she wasn’t just a First Lady but an eternal goddess, and my mom treasures her childhood Jackie Kennedy paper doll book, preserved in a plastic sleeve.
I’m not saying that couture supersedes policy, but let me put it this way: when Viola Davis played Reata in a Netflix series, she’d looked amazing in a copy of that yellow ensemble, she’d won an Emmy, and I bet she kept the dress.
As Brock put it, “Reata is pro?gay rights, pro-choice, and she makes Oprah levitate.” As for me, I could easily pitch a musical called Reata, with the first act peaking as the star (Audra?
Janelle? Maybe Cardi B in a stunning Broadway debut?) strides along Pennsylvania Avenue in the yellow look, like Dolly Levi greeting a grateful nation of dancing campaign volunteers, led by me. Okay, maybe led by Jace.
But today I wasn’t here to worship Reata, and grab a selfie to make my parents believe I have a future, but to protect her.
Reggie and I met up with other Tuxes, including Maunders, Brock, and Timothy (taking time off from his porn career), in a basement locker room, where we changed into pressed khakis and white oxford-cloth button-down shirts overlaid with knee-length canvas aprons printed with the Coxley Blossoms logo (the company’s initials in sprouting branches).
Maunders was haughty but exceptional, instructing us, “The arrangements have already been finalized and everything’s waiting on brass carts, and the index cards in the pockets of your aprons have instructions for placement. ”
“We’ll all seem to be busily removing the earlier, drooping arrangements,” said Reggie, “and substituting the new ones.”
“Please don’t get any ideas about rethinking the tulip clusters or tugging on the gerbera daisies, just because your Montessori preschool teacher called you creative,” Maunders continued.
“There’s a casual meadow theme that can’t be disturbed.
Wear your white cotton gloves and use both hands with the vases.
There’s enough water to replenish the flowers but not splash on the floor, not if you’re careful. ”
“Um, so Reata’s gonna be here?” asked Timothy.
“Yes,” said Reggie. “I’ll give you five seconds to get it out of your systems.”
Timothy, Brock, and I grabbed each other by the forearms and quietly howled, “REATA!”
Three white gay men celebrating a high-personality Black woman could be construed as cultural appropriation, but our fanship was genuine and we wouldn’t be lip-synching her speeches or sneaking into the family quarters to try on her gowns or leave “WE LOVE YOU” Post-its on the mirrors.
Reata was something beyond a movie star, because she championed all minorities, and her memoir Together We Rise was a bestseller, inspiring millions, with a dazzling cover photo that’s on my Instagram, beside a classic bare-chested image of Paul Newman, who, as my mom will tell you, was Jewish by the way.
Whenever I pass a bottle of Newman’s Own salad dressing on a supermarket shelf (with the proceeds going to charity), I always whisper, “Shalom.”
“I can’t even,” said Brock, regarding Reata, as we calmed ourselves.
“She’s got a trans cousin, who was a guest at the State of the Union,” said Timothy.