The door behind us pops open and a short man with thinning white hair sticks his head in. “Curtains up in ten minutes. The order hasn’t changed. If you lost your list, it’s up on the wall. Raven, you’re up first.”
The frenzied activity in the room amps up ten more notches. Hugo meets my eyes, his wide and panicked. Huh. Someone besides me is freaking out. This is new. Or maybe it’s not and I’m just too focused on myself most of the time, and I don’t notice other people.
“I don’t think he’s coming.” Hugo’s eyes are shining with tears just ready to drop.
Queen Bee rubs his back, her red nails flashing. “There are at least ten acts in front of you. There’s still time.”
He shakes his head. “You know how long he takes to put on eyelashes. I’m barely going to have time.”
“Speaking of,” Queen Bee pats him on the back, “you need to get ready.”
“What’s the point if he doesn’t show?”
“He’ll show,” Fifi says. But she exchanges a glance with Queen Bee, and I’m not convinced either of them actually believes he’ll be here in time.
I go out to the theater’s auditorium. Almost all of the red velvet seats are empty. There are only a couple other people watching on the other side of the auditorium, and three people down in the front sit at small tables covered in paperwork. The director or theater owner, or whoever they are.
Wall sconces keep the theater from total blackness, and the stage is aglow in lights, the wide space framed by a bright blue archway.
They call up the first performer. The lights dim.
And immediately, I’m riveted.
I glimpsed some of the costumes and makeup in the changing room, but when it’s all together under the lights, it’s a whole experience. The outfits are amazing, exaggerated, colorful, shimmering under the lights. Feathers, boas, dresses, sequins, wigs, everything. It’s entertaining. Enthralling. I’ve never been to a drag show, despite living in San Francisco for the past five years.
The first few auditions are two group acts and a solo. Queen Bee auditions with other queens in a combination of diva songs. Bee is Tina Turner and with her is Cher, Whitney Houston, and Madonna. They perform an entertaining mashup of iconic ’80s songs that has me clapping along—quietly, to avoid being noticed or interrupting.
A little while later, when there’s a break in the auditions for the director and whoever to go to the bathroom, Queen Bee slides into the seat next to me, still in her bustier. “What do you think, baby?”
“It’s amazing. Incredible. I don’t even know how to describe it. You were wonderful. I don’t think I could ever get up there and do something like that, it’s so . . . brave.”
“I would have said the same thing ten years ago, but it’s easier than you think.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
It’s like a whole new world I never knew existed. I mean, I knew there were drag shows. This is San Francisco. You can’t go two blocks without bumping into a queen. I just never paid attention. I’ve been living my life surrounded in a tight bubble of mist thicker than Karl on his worst day.
On stage, an Asian queen with a poufy white wig and a huge wedding dress starts singing “Freedom!” by George Michael. As she sings, she dances, her movements fluid despite the abundant clothing, but as she moves, she strips, pulling off dress after dress, and wig after wig, each one a different character, a different person, a different life even. A suit jacket and skirt, a doctor in scrubs, a sexy body suit and then—nothing.
My mind is blown. Not only by the story it tells about the things we wear, but the design that went into each outfit. She must use Velcro tear-offs or something to make them all so easily removable.
By the end of the performance, the makeup gets wiped off along with the clothes and all that’s left is naked skin, no wig, short clipped hair. He stands there, naked underneath everything. Well, not quite naked, wearing flesh-colored briefs, but alone, under the spotlight.
“Wow. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The act of undressing, of wearing a variety of outfits, combined with the lyrics of the song tell a story I never would have considered. I’ve heard the song a thousand times but never really grasped the meaning behind the lyrics.
“Damn, that hunty did good,” Fifi says from behind us.
I twist around. I didn’t hear her sit down.
She wiggles her fingers at me and I wave back before turning around again.
“Are all of the acts lip-synching?” I ask Queen Bee while the stage is cleared for the next audition.
She pats my knee. “With drag, baby, artifice is the point. Lip-synching is a perfect representation of pretense.”
“Pretense?”
“Drag is all about taking something mainstream and turning it into something uniquely queer. Drag itself is performance art, and a societal message. We’re all born naked and the rest is drag.”
My mouth pops open. “That’s beautiful. And scarily accurate.” It’s like the clothes I wear to work, the ones my mother picked out for me. It wasn’t me. It was who she wanted me to be. It was a façade.
Fifi snorts and leans in between us, putting a hand on the back of my chair. “Queen Bee didn’t say that. She stole it from RuPaul.”
“Don’t give away all my secrets.” She waves a hand in Fifi’s face. “Whether you’re a real queen or not, baby, you are a queen if you want to be. You make it yourself. The makeup and costumes, you choose that. And underneath it all, we’re the same. And I said that.” She twists in the chair to face Fifi, who just laughs.
We continue watching the auditions, songs, monologues and group skits, and my mind is abuzz with all of it, and with my own situation.
I’ve been trying to fit myself into a round hole
