I’m going to blame my inability to fill in my beard patches to Sam insistent knocking at the door. Before I could actually step into the shower she came pounding on my door. At first I thought that she was going to apologize for some reason until she told me that I was going to be coming with her to Dragon. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, how I should dress, anything. The only information she gave me was that I had an hour to get ready. Finally giving up on getting a quiet moment unless I let her in, I throw open the door, causing the door to slam against the wall.
“My, my, my, you’re snappy,” Sam clucks, making herself comfortable on my couch as I go back to fixing my face. “How much longer do you have?” I ignore her and continue to fill my beard in. “Did you tell your parents about me?” She asks seductively.
“No,” I state simply. What she doesn’t need to know is that I didn’t even talk to my parents. Dr. Sparrow was pissed that I didn’t wear my gauntlets and now someone knew about what I could do that they couldn’t control the outcome. While Sparrow prepared for a doomsday scenario, Dr. Delaney and Dr. Shalhoub pointed out that the chances of Native American Activist being evil where slim to non-existent and to just let it play out.
“We’re gonna be late if you don’t finish beating-” She stops when I appear out of the bathroom. “Thank Christ, are you ready now? Cause we have ten minutes to make a twenty minute walk, so let’s go!” Sam hops off of the couch as I grab my shoulder pad and head out. Sam stands at the elevator before rushing off, heading to the staircase.
“So, where, exactly are we going?” I ask breathlessly as we clear another flight. “Friendly reminder that I have never been to D.C.” We finally broke through the lobby door to the far left of the elevators. I wave at the new front desk attendant. “Sam?” I ask as we make it out of the front door.
“Uh, it’s a club.” We run for a while without talking , dodging patrons on our way to the wherever we are going. Sam slows to a stop, causing me to run past her and collide with someone and a poster. I steady myself and the body that I collided with, dusting them off and picking up their sign.
“Repent or perish,” I read, handing the sign back to young child who snatches it away from me and disappears into the crowd. Looking after the kid, as they dodge poster after poster, I finally listen to what they are saying. Sam tugs on my sleeve, trying to coax me to moving away from the group. “God hates facts?”
“You know they’re saying fags,” Sam scoffs. “There’s more than I saw last year. Dragon must be getting popular.” She drags me away from the crowd, whose shouts are growing as people begin to stare and take pictures. In the direction that I’m being drag in is a nightclub. Mirror windows were highlighted with neon rainbow lights. Drag On pulses brightly on the very top of the building, the lights seeming to flicker to the beat. Sam leads me to the pure white French style doors and knocks. A slight, pale, official looking brunette opens the door, clipboard in hand.
“Name?” They ask, clicking the pen rapidly.
“Pageant,”Sam says incredulously. “It’s me. Sam.” The door attendant just keeps staring, as if they’re frozen in this moment. Sam scoffs reaching into her dress pocket. “I’m Samantha Oxendine. And I’m supposed to have a plus one.” They checked the list and without looking away bangs on the door behind them. It swings open again to reveal a lanky blond. At least 6’2”, she was dressed in what can only be described as ‘pioneer woman in the twenty first century.’ A sheer cerulean gingham drapes over a silver sequin bandage dress. Wildflowers are laced through her braided hair, while finches and sparrows rested in the middle of her head. She leans awkwardly behind Pageant, the door person, hanging onto the prairie door for dear life, and I can’t tell if it’s because her stiletto boots are hard to walk in or if she’s failing to look cool.
“Hello,” her breathy voice is at its deepest an alto, with a slight Texan twang. “My name is-”
“Can we move this inside, please?” Pageant pushes past the statuesque blond into the building, causing her to waver slightly before gaining her composure and footing. She shoots us a brief smile before flipping off the crowd behind us, big smile plastered on her face and walked backwards into the building, still holding up the gesture.
“I’m Yvonne Raquel Hood,” she continues, before turning around and taking a left down the hallway. “We had a table set up for you to talk to Thad during the show.” Yvonne heaves a heavy sigh before continuing. “However, gentrification is still an American tradition.” She leads us to a table close to the stage. “This, is Judith Ingram,” she points to the woman at the table, “The usurper,” she whispers barely loud enough for us to hear. Before we could sit and Yvonne can say anything else, a siren sounds twice and for a moment all activity seems to hang in the air before several people start heading backstage or to their seats. “Okay, I gotta go,” Yvonne says hurriedly, shuffling in the direction of the stage door. “Just sit there and once she gets a chance she will come and talk to you.”
“Okay, so what is this?” I turn to Sam. “What are you-”
“I’m not going to say-”
“Excuse me.” Sam and I face the voice that interrupted. Blond hair, blue eyes, pale: a cookie cutter attractive white woman. “I was told that I would have a table to myself.” I couldn’t see the face Sam made but I could only imagine that it matched mine. She turns back to me just as the lights went down. It was dark and quiet for a few moments before the lights started flashing and a song blares through the speakers. A spotlight is shown on the stage, as Freakum Dress blares over the sound system. Two by two, the stage fills with people dressed in modernized Old Western outfits and professional suits. The crowd’s cheers reaches a deafening pitch as the crowd on the stage parts and a familiar looking woman sashays her way down the stage. Her braided crown quivers as her body moves in synchronized steps, the rest of her compatriots following suit. The only thing that can be heard over the cheers are the scuffing of sneakers, the clicking of heels and the occasional stomp as the performers do what they are born to do. Suddenly, the performers stop and the gold dusted woman in the front lifts up her skirt in a seductively off-handed manner, retrieving a microphone from her thigh-holster. She taps on it twice, satisfied with the volume of it before she speaks.
“How are y’all doing tonight?” She asks in a nasally tone. The crowd roars once more, much to the delight of the emcee. “Welcome to Drag On, the greatest nightclub this side of the Mississippi.” Again, the crowd erupts in cheers. “I’m Thandie Nukem, and this is the Senators’ Show!” As she entertains the crowd, the stage transforms behind her to resemble Jenny’s office. “When we last left the Senators, they were dealing with the disappearance of one of their own, an extensive ban on Middle Eastern countries that are…Self-Serving,” she uses air quotes around self-serving. Then she looks left and right and leans right into the microphone. “They don’t like country leaders that can see through their B.S.” Cheers erupt from around the club again, much to Thandie’s delight. “That’s why we can’t play with Mexico anymore. Or Britain.” She pretends to examine her nails as the whooping and cheering continues. “So anyway, I guess we can check in on these spineless bozos.” She flips her hair before handing the microphone the the closest performer and sashaying right off the stage and into our direction.
“I’m surprised you were let out after curfew, little one.” She drops her head voice for what I can only assume is her regular speaking voice outside of the costume. “And I can’t believe they let you bring your friend.” Thandie, who is a least six feet five inches, muscular, skin the color of Mediterranean sands, slides a chair across the table from us and flops into it, her skirt puffing around her dramatically.
“I am very convincing when I need to be,” Sam offers. “So anyway-”
“Have you thought anymore about what I asked, Thad?” The blond at our table makes her presence known in the most annoyingly authoritative voice I’ve heard in a while. “I’m kind of-”
“I already told you no, Judith,” Thandie waves her off. “Three times, if I remember correctly. I’m not interested in being someone’s token.” Thandie turns back to Sam. “ If that’s what you are looking for-”
“No,” Sam shakes her head so vigorously, I know she’ll have a migraine later. “That’s not what I want at all.”
“Thad, these kids-” Judith starts again.
“I am not interested in what you have to offer, Judith Ingram.” Her voice is low and slightly intimidating, especially since she refuses to even look at Judith. “Enjoy the rest of the show.” Focusing back on us, she rolls her eyes dramatically and smiles wide. “You were saying, sweetie?”
“Yeah,” Sam, who had been glaring at Judith since the interruption, turns back to Thandie. “So, I wanted to do what you are doing right now, exactly as you are doing it. But I wanted it broadcast.”
“How will compensation work?” Thandie asks, while absently patting herself down. “Because my girls and guys don’t work for fr-Does anyone have a cigarette?” She asks the table. Judith scoffs and looks towards the stage, where to men were in a very heated debate over something or another. Thandie and Sam are now talking about the logistics of what she is proposing and I take off the gauntlets and imagine a cigarette pack and lighter. Putting my hands together, and praying that somehow, this work.
“Here you go.” I hand over the brand new pack of cigarettes and the lighter whose wrapping matched the wax print pattern of her dress. Thandie looks at me suspiciously before plucking the pack from my hand to examine it.
“How’d you do that?” Judith is now leaning over me slightly, turning my left hand over in her own, I guess looking for a trick sleeve. I pull my hand away so that I can face Thandie again, who is now examining the lighter with curiosity. She pulls a cigarette out of the pack, takes a whiff, her eyes widen and she leans across the table to me.
“I-Is this MJ?” Her voice is a few octaves higher as her eyebrows disappear into her hair. I nod my head and her slight smile widens, almost splitting her smile in two.
“So do you think you can do it?” Sam asks as Thandie takes a drag of her lit cigarette. She holds in the smoke for a moment before examining the object in her hand like she had just discovered magic. She looks up at me again, a satisfied smile plastered sloppily on her face. She leans back further into her seat, slinging her arm over her chair.
“Bring me a mock up of what you have in mind tomorrow and we’ll talk,” she concludes. “And bring them,” Thandie points to me. “By the way, parts of your beard are missing.”
I had no idea that I was scratching it again.
