"Messieurs et mesdames, est placé s'il vous plaît. Le spectacle est sur le point de commencer."
"Le signore ed i gentiluomini, è seduto per favore. La mostra sta per iniziare."
"Las damas y caballeros, son sentadas por favor. La exposición está a punto de empezar."
"Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. The show is about to begin."
A sultry female voice, with a faint British accent, purrs these multi-lingual announcements through the club's sound system. A theme song that I don't recognize at first follows. As I am settling uncomfortably onto the top rung of the rickety step ladder and familiarizing myself with the hand controls for the spotlight, I suddenly determine that the tune is the opening music from 'Star Search', the weekly, nationally-televised, talent show hosted by Johnny Carson sidekick Ed McMahon. I smile at the cleverness of this.
A general murmur from the assembled audience below attracts my attention. I watch as the crowd, which has swelled to well over one hundred people, begins to instinctively re-orient themselves to face the far wall of the dance floor. The people closest to the make-shift stage sit cross-legged on the floor in a horseshoe shaped ring, leaving a small square of dance floor for the performers. Behind them, people sit on barstools and, behind them, a ring of onlookers stand around the perimeter of the room. The archways that connect to the bar area also fill with watchers. Thanks to the few steps up to this area, these customers are elevated above those standing on the dance floor. The electric buzz of anticipation and excitement is palpable.
"You ready?" Jesse asks me.
I nod that I am, but my hands are shaking a little and my palms are sweaty. I rub them on the legs of my pants. The mental image that keeps returning to me, is of those wonderful black and white Little Rascals re-runs I lived for on Saturday afternoons as a kid. Darla, Spanky, Alfalfa and Froggie, staging impossibly elaborate productions for the other poor children. Those were always my favorite episodes - when those inventive kids put on a show.
Jesse lowers the volume of the introduction music a bit to make his announcements over the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and those of you struggling somewhere in the middle... welcome to Jesse's Place's and our fabulous Friday Night Follies!"
A surprising thunder of applause, whistling and yelling erupts from below me.
"Tonight we welcome our Follies regulars, Peaches LaRue and Robyn Banks PLUS... our very special guest from Space City USA... the incomparable talents of Sylvia Estrella!!!"
The applause surges at the mention of Sylvia's name.
"So sit back, relax and enjoy the show!" With that, Jesse increases the volume again and lets the introduction music play out for a few seconds, while he busies himself with the box full of cassette-taped music and a clipboard, where he has written the line-up of the entertainers and the music they plan to perform. The professionalism and seriousness of it all is both amusing and impressive to me. The introduction music ends and Jesse addresses the audience again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, the mouth of the south... Peaches LaRue!!!' More applause and whistling.
I can barely make out a dark mass moving through the bar area, behind the audience members that watch from the archways. The first few strains of violin music from Madonna's wildly popular song 'Vogue' are instantly recognizable over the speakers in the club. I think back to the creature named Peaches that Javier introduced me to in the dressing room earlier - a three hundred pound man with belly hair that occupied two of the dressing room chairs. I turn on the spotlight and aim it at the back wall of the stage.
Peaches walks into the circle of light and turns his back to the audience. He is dressed in a long black grim reaper-style robe with a hood. He stands there, unmoving, during the first few opening bars of the music, until a loud snapping of fingers begins. A hand with long blood-red nails slowly rises from the side of the cape, snapping in perfect unison with that of the recorded music. Peaches' other hand emerges from the cape and begins snapping also. And then another hand emerges from the cape. And then another. And another. And another. The image of the six hands, all snapping in unison, is visually arresting. I realize I am holding my breath with anticipation. And then, just as Madonna's voice utters those first immortal words, "Strike a pose," the black cape whips off of Peaches with a dramatic flourish and my jaw literally drops open.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Chapter Six
When Javier and I re-enter the bar proper, I am a surprised to find forty or fifty customers clustered in small groups around the club. The front doors are now propped open and I can see Teddy perched on a barstool in the vestibule, checking IDs and stamping people's hands as they enter. A few customers wander over to greet Javier, who excuses himself to mingle with his patrons. I stay glued to the end of the bar, scanning the room for students that I fear may recognize me. I am startled when Jesse bursts through the curtained doorway and runs into me.
"Whoa! Sorry, man," he says, while trying to detangle himself from the curtain and juggle a clipboard and a plastic box filled with cassette tapes.
"That's okay. I should get out of the way." I scoot around to the front of the bar and signal Steven by pointing at my empty glass. Jesse leans in close to my ear.
"Order me one too and meet me in the booth," Jesse whispers and then dashes toward the far side of the bar. He looks back and catches me watching him leave and winks. The sound of Steven clearing his throat makes me turn back to the bar.
"I wouldn't play with that particular fire," Steven says, with a hint of admonishment. "I can almost gaurantee you'll get burned."
"I wasn't. I mean... I'm not. I would never."
Steven slides my drink slowly across the bar.
"I need two actually," I say. Steven makes no move to make another drink.
"Is it for Jesse?"
"Yeah, he asked me..."
"Honey," Steven interrupts me, shaking his head slowly from side to side, "Jesse isn't supposed to drink while he's working. I can't."
This makes perfect sense to me, but Steven's attitude suggests something more. I decide to skirt the awkwardness and change the subject.
"So, there's going to be a show tonight I guess?" I'm surprised by Steven's reaction to the question.
"Oh girl!" He yells at me and begins to dance about. His excitement is barely containable. "You couldn't be here on a better night! Sylvia Estrella, Robyn Banks and Peaches LaRue! You're gonna get a big ole' dose of real Texas drag tonight, honey!"
"They put on a good show?" I ask, feigning interest. The few times I had seen drag shows in Ohio, the entertainers were a boring collection of poorly dressed men, pantomiming love songs at AIDS benefits. I'd pay my respects for their efforts and give them dollars for the worthy cause, but the sad show itself was always more of a chore to watch than something to actually enjoy. Steven recognizes my lackluster enthusiasm.
"Where you from?" Steven asks. A hint of irritation in his voice makes me feel scolded, yet again.
"Ohio," I say, with the false bravado that one has to try and muster when admitting their Midwestern origins to a Texan. Steven rolls his eyes and chuckles.
"So, you've never even seen a drag show." This isn't phrased as a question. It is a firm declarative statement. He begins to actually 'shoo' me away from the bar like a bothersome fly. "Go. Go claim yourself a good spot to watch."
"But I..."
Steven silences me with a raised eyebrow and punctuates it by dramatically crossing his arms over his chest.
I take my drink, slide off my stool and head through the nearest archway to the dance floor side of the bar, looking back at Steven like a wounded puppy the whole way. He grins at my corny acting and I turn, just in time to avoid running into Javier.
"Why don't you watch the show from the booth, I have a little problem to take care of," he says, never stopping his forward momentum. In one swift gesture, he physically sets me aside by grabbing my shoulders and gingerly, but firmly, moving me out of his way.
His considerable strength is evident, but so is his care and restraint. The look of concern and determination on his face is both worrying and comforting. That unfamiliar nervousness returns, and for the first time I recognize the feeling. It's that unique sensation of watching a horror movie when you know something really bad is about to happen. That odd sense of doom, offset by the comfort of the theater seat. Nail-biting fear cut by the comforting fact that you are safely ensconsed in a smelly cinema. He moves straight to the door where he and Teddy engage in a heated conversation. I decide to follow orders and head to the DJ booth.
Jesse is hunched over two spinning turntables when I climb the two, steep steps to the booth. With his back turned to me, I can see over his head and shoulders, through a cutout window in the front wall of the booth. The dance floor beyond is occupied by only a handful of people, but the crowd around the perimeter of the room is growing by the minute and some of them have dragged stools over from the bar. While there is no actual stage, you can clearly see that the majority of the people here are oriented to face the far wall of the dance floor, which is draped from floor to ceiling with raggedy black curtains.
Jesse turns, sensing my presence. Tethered to the sound board by his headphones, he takes my drink from my hand and then points to a barstool in the back corner of the booth. He downs the drink in two giant gulps, hands me the empty glass, sqauts to the floor and begins rifling through a metal crate of albums. He removes a cardboard sleeve and gently slides a shiny black record from it with surgeon-like care. He then replaces the sleeve at an angle to serve as a placeholder, gives me a quick, evil grin and turns back to the sound board.
Javier climbs the steps to the booth and begins to approach Jesse, but then backs away slowly.
"Watch," he says to me, gesturing to Jesse with his chin.
With a record spinning on the left turntable, Jesse adjusts his headphones and places the record he has just retrieved on the right turntable. He releases a small lever and the arm of the player slowly drops the needle onto the inky black vinyl. Jesse's head begins to bob immediately. With his left hand on a small sliding knob between the turntables, he uses the thumb of his right hand to act as a brake against the edge of the spinning album. He does this for a second and then, using his index finger, begins to 'wind' the album faster using the paper label in the center. He repeats this braking and accelerating over and over, with the kind of concentration usually reserved for organ transplants and shuttle launches. Slowly, he inches the sliding lever on the sound board to the right. For the first time, I can hear a new beat slowly gaining volume behind the song that is blaring through the club. Jesse's bobbing becomes more prominent and he begins a tight, lock-step dance. Then, with a masterful flourish, he slides the knob all the way to the right and a new beat seamlessly blends into the first. The first few bars of the orchestral Army of Lovers song "I'm Crucified" fills the club - a chorus of singers backed by strings and keyboards. Jesse lets out a 'whoop' and jumps back from the turntables as if he has been shocked. The few dancers on the floor surge with renewed vigor.
"Never interrupt when he's mixing," Javier warns me and slides up behind Jesse and puts his arms around his waist. Jesse turns and pushes him away.
"Ugh... not now," Jesse says and removes the record from the left turntable and tucks it back into its sleeve in one of the crates. Javier rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out at him behind his back.
"Okay kids," Javier says, "Showtime in five minutes. Jesse, I don't have a spotlight person tonight. Can you find someone real quick?"
Jesse quickly scans the crowd before turning to look at me. "You think you can do it?" Jesse asks.
My eyes widen with fear.
"It's easy. You just point the light at the queen and follow it wherever it goes."
"Yeah, it's easy Jack. You can do it," Javier chimes in.
They both point to a small step ladder beneath a theatrical spotlight mounted on top of the wall that surrounds the booth.
"Um... I don't think I... I've never..." I stammer, trying to back further away from the step ladder.
"Trust me," Javier says laying a firm hand on my shoulder and looking pleadingly into my eyes, "it's the best seat in the house."
I tentatively climb the stairs as Jesse gives me a rudimentary lesson on the operation of the spotlight.
"Okay folks, it's showtime!"Javier exclaims, and claps his hands together loudly. He winks at me and then leaves the booth as quickly as he came.
I look down at Jesse from the second step of the ladder with a mixture of fear and excitement.
"Welcome to show business!" He says and then slaps me on the ass and presses play on the tape deck.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Chapter Five
I brighten up a little when Javier buys me a drink and invites me to join him in his office.
"Things won't pick up until about ten or so, you wanna come keep me company?" He asks.
The bartender, named Steven, acts a little less chilly in Javier's presence and makes me a bourbon and cola so strong, it resembles weak iced-tea. The first sip actually stings my nose and I recoil like a high school girl doing her first tequila shot.
"Oh honey," Steven says, "we gotta toughen you up. That's just the Grand Marshall in this cocktail parade." He slams two shotglasses on the counter, fills them with healthy shots of Southern Comfort and raises his glass to me.
I look to Javier, for permission I suppose. He just shrugs, smiles and heads off around the end of the bar and through the curtained doorway. I am suddenly struck by a chord of nervousness that is new to me. The feeling is colored with anticipation and a low note of apprehension. I feel like I'm being tested. As if I am experiencing the first few rites of passage for entry into some underground fraternity. I raise my glass and offer an old Ernest Hemingway toast to the bartender.
"An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk - to spend time with beloved fools."
Steven puts his free hand on his hip and raises his eyebrow.
"Well, that's the hard part about being a bartender. Figuring out who's drunk... and who's just stupid."
"Cheers," we say in unison and down our shots.
The warmth of the liquor is just washing over me when I round the end of the bar and pull back the gauzy, black curtain that leads to the mysterious guts of the operation. When I pass through, I am at the end of a long, very narrow hallway that runs almost the full length of the bar. Giant patches of drywall are missing in spots, revealing the wooden studs, coils of silvery cables and crudely engineered plumbing. The hiss and piston-like pop of a soda gun system startles me and I almost face plant into a time clock that juts out awkwardly from the wall.
"Be careful... it's an obstacle course!" Javier shouts from the far end of the hallway before disappearing through a doorway.
I move a few more feet down the hall and pass a cork board filled with handwritten proclamations like, 'Your mother doesn't work here... CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF!' and 'MANDATORY STAFF MEETING THIS THURSDAY. BE THERE!!!' Below that sign, someone has written 'This means you Jesse!' This is underlined several times.
Just beyond that, I encounter an open doorway. Inside, the drag queens from my rescue party are cackling loudly. The sweet, distinct smell of face powder hangs in the air. When the skinny, black queen spies me passing in the mirror, he jumps up and covers his chest and crotch with splayed hands and screams like a woman.
"There's a white man in my dressing room! There's a panty-sniffin', white man in my dressing room!"
The older queen, now wearing an elaborate kimono-style robe and a headband, looks up at me from his make-up mirror and then at the black boy.
"Oh please, you can smell your panties in the parking lot, Robyn. Ain't nobody gotta come back here to get a whiff." They both laugh maniacally. I move on without saying a word.
After dodging a row of empty beer kegs, a stack of Rubbermaid containers full of holiday decorations and an industrial mop bucket, I find Javier sitting behind the desk in a small office. I stand in the doorway sipping my drink while he counts one dollar bills into neat stacks of twenty while talking on the phone. He waves me to a chair in front of his desk. I am mesmerized by the money counting. After he finishes five stacks, he paper clips each of them neatly together and then layers them into a clear, plastic box, like slices of bread. He then withdraws another bank-bundled stack of ones from a zippered bag and begins the process all over again. He is lightening fast and continues to jabber into the phone, in Spanish, the entire time.
The office is surprisingly homey. The walls, unlike the hallway, are finished nicely and painted a soft camel color. Shelves line every wall from floor to ceiling, each loaded to capacity with kitschy knick-knacks and beautiful, jeweled frames containing personal photos. Between the shelves, prints of famous artworks by Salvador Dali, Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo decorate the walls, each matted and framed with care. Javier's massive, heavily carved, antique desk is virtually barren, save for an ancient office phone, an adding machine with a long, curling receipt tape lolling over the edge and onto the floor and the cash he is counting. He ends his phone call with a hearty laugh and hangs up.
"Como estas?" His voice booms in the small room.
I stare at him quizically.
"How are you doing? How's your head?"
I hadn't thought about the lump on the back of my noggin since taking the Southern Comfort shot, but I discover the tender spot quickly when I reach back to find it.
"I think I'll live. Look, I don't want to be in the way, you seem very busy and..."
Javier silences me again with the wave of a hand.
"I brought you back here to ask your opinion about something. You teach art. What do you think of this?" He stands up and reaches beside his desk and produces a large painted canvas. Clearly the work of a young student, the painting is a noble attempt to capture the likeness of a young, attractive couple. Their clothing is vintage looking, but the garish colors and ham-handed textures make them seem costumed, like one of those sepia-toned, wild west photos from a county fair. The couple is posed in front of an old jukebox. But, oddest of all, just behind the jukebox, a group of men in loincloths and feathered headresses carry a scantily clad woman towards a volcano. I blame the booze for a laugh that escapes me before I can stifle it.
Javier turns the painting around to look at it himself.
"It does suck, doesn't it?"
"Well, it's a little 'amateurish', but it's not the worst painting I've ever seen," I lie.
"Do you think you can fix it?"
I am startled by the request. It' sort of an unwritten rule among artists - you just don't toy with someone else's work, regardless of how bad it is. I am searching for an excuse to decline when Javier walks around the desk and leans the canvas against the arm of the chair I am sitting in.
"The original photo is in an envelope taped to the back," he says.
I open my mouth to explain my moral predicament, when I feel a presence fill the doorway behind me. A shadow falls over half of the room. I turn and discover a mountain-of-a-man wearing a skin-tight, black t-shirt with the word 'security' screenprinted across the front in giant, white, block letters. His head is shaved bald and his hardened face is made less appealing by a heavy brow and a flat, wide nose. His arms, which are easily as big as my thighs, are covered with tattoos of skulls and flames. But, his size is not nearly as disarming as his complexion. He is powdery white from the top of his bald head to the tips of his fingers. His eyes are an eery, milky green. I shiver violently when he speaks.
"Everything okay in here Javier?" The hulking mass asks in a deep, authoritative tone. Javier turns and smiles.
"Oh yeah, everything's fine. Thanks Teddy. I want you to meet Jack Wescott. He's a professor at Lang."
Teddy extends his hand and I shake it. His fingers are massive and it feels like I've grabbed a bunch of unripe bananas.
"Teddy's a big art lover, aren't you Teddy? And quite an artist himself."
I am disarmed when the giant man looks down at his shoes, shoves his hands deep into his pockets and scuffs the ground with his foot. A boyish 'aw shucks' grin breaks out across his face. Javier crosses the room, grabs the man by the head and plants a loud, wet kiss on his forehead. The giant giggles and then picks Javier up off of the ground effortlessly. He nuzzles Javier's neck, making loud nibbling noises and then gently sets him back down. It is very much like watching a bear trainer roughhouse with his charge - adorable and terrifying at the same time.
"Steven said someone passed out? Was that you?" Teddy asks me.
"Guilty," I say, meekly raising my hand.
"What happened? You drunk?"
Javier cuts him off. "No, no, no Teddy. Everything is just fine. He just had some blood sugar issues." Javier winks at me. "Go ahead and open up the front and make sure to put down all of the mats. People are going to be wet from the rain and I don't want anybody busting their ass."
The world's biggest little boy lumbers off down the hallway. I shiver again when I see that the entire back of his head is covered with a tattoo of a Mako shark. Javier stands in the doorway and watches him go with a smile.
"And don't stop to chat with the girls! It's already after eight!" He yells after him.
Over the next few hours, two more bartenders, a door attendant and another barback make visits to the office upon their arrival. Each has a personal exchange with Javier that suggests a connection unlike any I have ever seen between employees. Kisses and hugs are plentiful. Inside jokes, that inspire gales of laughter, mark each encounter. One particularly cute bartender, a Hawaiian student I recognize from school, actually sits on Javier's lap during our introduction. It is like watching a family come home and greet the loving patriarch - one by one. The sweetness of it all is a welcomed surprise.
Between visits, Javier speaks candidly with me and answers loads of my burning questions without my ever having to ask. In fact, I don't say much at all. I get the impression that Javier is thrilled to have someone to talk to - a lonely father figure, talking with an adult for the first time in months. I listen intently and soak in every detail.
Apparently, Jesse's Place is not actually Jesse's place at all. Javier rented the abandoned mechanics' garage five years ago and, thanks to a small investment from his brother, turned the space into an open-air icehouse that enjoyed little success.
"We pretty much painted the place and turned on the 'open' sign," Javier confessed. "We would throw open the garage doors and people would just wander up, order a beer and then sit around outside on folding chairs. That's all we sold - iced beer. We didn't even have coolers then. It became the hangout for all the neighborhood winos and a few bikers. Teddy was one of them. But business was never good enough to do more than pay the bills and keep me fed. Until I met Jesse."
Jesse had, apparently, come looking for a job as a DJ during their second year, just as Javier was entertaining the idea of closing the ice house. He decided that this would be his last effort to generate business. He paid Jesse one hundred dollars to play that following weekend. The industrious, upstart DJ plastered fliers all over Lang's campus and drew a substantial crowd of friends, family, curious neighbors and a handful of students.
"It was so amazing to see Jesse work that first night. I had my doubts when he started lugging in all of his raggedy equipment, but once he fired it all up... it was like watching a crazed conductor being seduced by his own.... genius. He mesmerized everybody. And I sold lots and lots of beer. He played, without a single break, until a neighbor called the police at four am. By the end of the night, Jesse was officially on the payroll as the house DJ."
Things continued that way until Fall, when it became clear that the loose, outdoor setup was just providing free entertainment to anyone in earshot. Some would set-up lawn chairs and card tables across the street and dance the night away, others would mill about carrying beers bought from the convenience store down the block. The general 'streetfair' atmosphere had also inspired suspicious loitering, something the Mecca police weren't altogether excited about.
"So my brother Ricky and I decided to enclose the space completely," Javier continued. "We walled over the garage doors and the windows and I convinced Ricky that we should capitalize on Jesse's popularity and rename the club Jesse's Place." Javier grinned slyly when he mentioned this. The truth, Javier eventually confessed, was that Jesse had gone home with Javier that first night... and had never left.
"He was so beautiful, I couldn't stop looking at him. His hair was longer than it is now and he was an avid soccer player then. His body was unbelievable. Just a mass of muscle covered in flawless bronze skin. I offered him the couch and, instead, he headed straight for my bed." Javier says.
I think back to my quick glimpse of Jesse's naked torso. It was hard to argue with his instant attraction.
"And when he DJs, he's just lost in those headphones. Oblivious to everything around him. Yet, capable of sizing up the crowd on that dance floor and giving them what they want to hear - at the moment they want to hear it. He is..." Javier trails off in this memory and a forelorn look crosses his face. "Well, you'll see," he finishes abruptly.
With that, Javier glances at his watch, which makes me look at mine. It is almost eleven pm.
"Well, you ready for another drink?" Javier asks, pointing at my empty glass. "Come on, let's go rally the troops!"
We leave the office and head down the long hall. The muffled thump of the sound system vibrating through the walls has, almost imperceptibly, gained momentum and volume throughout my visit with Javier. The exposed, rib-like, wooden studs of the hallway and the constant driving beat make me feel very much like I am walking through the belly of a beast that is waking for it's evening meal. We make a pit stop at the dressing room on our way.
"How are we coming in here ladies?!" Javier sings as he enters.
"Well, it's hotter than Satan's armpit in a wool sweater in here!" The older queen fusses.
I peer over Javier's shoulder into the room, but look away quickly. Everyone in the room is in various states of undress and a general atmosphere of seriousness seems to have settled in. I try to move on down the hallway, but Javier pulls me into the room by the hand and starts introducing me to the cast.
"Everybody, this is Jack. He's a new professor at Lang. It's his first night here." They all mutter a general greeting at once, but none of them look up at me. Each of the nearly naked drag queens is completely consumed by final preparations.
"This is Sylvia Estrella," Javier says, gesturing to the older queen. He has his face buried in a lit, magnified make-up mirror and I can only see one giant nostril from my angle. He grunts something I can't understand and resumes applying a pencil to his lips.
"And this is Robyn Banks," he continues, pointing to the skinny, black boy. He is completely naked save for a patch of silver duct tape across his chest and an enormous afro puff wig. He also mumbles something inaudible, while stretching a double-wide strip of duct tape from his pubic area, between his legs and up the crack of his buttocks. He finishes by firmly pressing the end into the skin at the base of his spine. I cringe with sympathy for his penis, which must now be painfully wedged somewhere in between.
"And this is Peaches LaRue." Peaches is easily four hundred pounds and occupies two of the dressing room's five chairs. He is clothed only in pantyhose and high heels and is in a deep, heated discussion with Jesse, who is sitting next to him and writing notes on a legal pad. Both are sweating profusely and neither looks in our direction or acknowledges us.
"Are we ready for a good show?!" Javier asks.
"I'm ready for a great show," Sylvia says, "but you'll be lucky to get anything good out of these two," he adds while pointing to Robyn and Peaches with the unsharpened end of a lip pencil. I crane to get a look at Sylvia's face, but only catch a glimpse in the mirror - a razor-sharp red line ringing his bottom lip.
"No ballads tonight ladies! I want energy, energy, energy!" Javier says, banging the door with his fist to emphasize his last three words. With that, we return to the hallway and head toward the black curtain that leads out into the club. That unusual pang of nervousness hits me again as Javier pulls back the curtain and ushers me out into the club.
"Welcome to the freakshow," he says, as we step into a cloud of machine-generated fog and a riot of colored lights.
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| Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum |
I brighten up a little when Javier buys me a drink and invites me to join him in his office.
"Things won't pick up until about ten or so, you wanna come keep me company?" He asks.
The bartender, named Steven, acts a little less chilly in Javier's presence and makes me a bourbon and cola so strong, it resembles weak iced-tea. The first sip actually stings my nose and I recoil like a high school girl doing her first tequila shot.
"Oh honey," Steven says, "we gotta toughen you up. That's just the Grand Marshall in this cocktail parade." He slams two shotglasses on the counter, fills them with healthy shots of Southern Comfort and raises his glass to me.
I look to Javier, for permission I suppose. He just shrugs, smiles and heads off around the end of the bar and through the curtained doorway. I am suddenly struck by a chord of nervousness that is new to me. The feeling is colored with anticipation and a low note of apprehension. I feel like I'm being tested. As if I am experiencing the first few rites of passage for entry into some underground fraternity. I raise my glass and offer an old Ernest Hemingway toast to the bartender.
"An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk - to spend time with beloved fools."
Steven puts his free hand on his hip and raises his eyebrow.
"Well, that's the hard part about being a bartender. Figuring out who's drunk... and who's just stupid."
"Cheers," we say in unison and down our shots.
The warmth of the liquor is just washing over me when I round the end of the bar and pull back the gauzy, black curtain that leads to the mysterious guts of the operation. When I pass through, I am at the end of a long, very narrow hallway that runs almost the full length of the bar. Giant patches of drywall are missing in spots, revealing the wooden studs, coils of silvery cables and crudely engineered plumbing. The hiss and piston-like pop of a soda gun system startles me and I almost face plant into a time clock that juts out awkwardly from the wall.
"Be careful... it's an obstacle course!" Javier shouts from the far end of the hallway before disappearing through a doorway.
I move a few more feet down the hall and pass a cork board filled with handwritten proclamations like, 'Your mother doesn't work here... CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF!' and 'MANDATORY STAFF MEETING THIS THURSDAY. BE THERE!!!' Below that sign, someone has written 'This means you Jesse!' This is underlined several times.
Just beyond that, I encounter an open doorway. Inside, the drag queens from my rescue party are cackling loudly. The sweet, distinct smell of face powder hangs in the air. When the skinny, black queen spies me passing in the mirror, he jumps up and covers his chest and crotch with splayed hands and screams like a woman.
"There's a white man in my dressing room! There's a panty-sniffin', white man in my dressing room!"
The older queen, now wearing an elaborate kimono-style robe and a headband, looks up at me from his make-up mirror and then at the black boy.
"Oh please, you can smell your panties in the parking lot, Robyn. Ain't nobody gotta come back here to get a whiff." They both laugh maniacally. I move on without saying a word.
After dodging a row of empty beer kegs, a stack of Rubbermaid containers full of holiday decorations and an industrial mop bucket, I find Javier sitting behind the desk in a small office. I stand in the doorway sipping my drink while he counts one dollar bills into neat stacks of twenty while talking on the phone. He waves me to a chair in front of his desk. I am mesmerized by the money counting. After he finishes five stacks, he paper clips each of them neatly together and then layers them into a clear, plastic box, like slices of bread. He then withdraws another bank-bundled stack of ones from a zippered bag and begins the process all over again. He is lightening fast and continues to jabber into the phone, in Spanish, the entire time.
The office is surprisingly homey. The walls, unlike the hallway, are finished nicely and painted a soft camel color. Shelves line every wall from floor to ceiling, each loaded to capacity with kitschy knick-knacks and beautiful, jeweled frames containing personal photos. Between the shelves, prints of famous artworks by Salvador Dali, Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo decorate the walls, each matted and framed with care. Javier's massive, heavily carved, antique desk is virtually barren, save for an ancient office phone, an adding machine with a long, curling receipt tape lolling over the edge and onto the floor and the cash he is counting. He ends his phone call with a hearty laugh and hangs up.
"Como estas?" His voice booms in the small room.
I stare at him quizically.
"How are you doing? How's your head?"
I hadn't thought about the lump on the back of my noggin since taking the Southern Comfort shot, but I discover the tender spot quickly when I reach back to find it.
"I think I'll live. Look, I don't want to be in the way, you seem very busy and..."
Javier silences me again with the wave of a hand.
"I brought you back here to ask your opinion about something. You teach art. What do you think of this?" He stands up and reaches beside his desk and produces a large painted canvas. Clearly the work of a young student, the painting is a noble attempt to capture the likeness of a young, attractive couple. Their clothing is vintage looking, but the garish colors and ham-handed textures make them seem costumed, like one of those sepia-toned, wild west photos from a county fair. The couple is posed in front of an old jukebox. But, oddest of all, just behind the jukebox, a group of men in loincloths and feathered headresses carry a scantily clad woman towards a volcano. I blame the booze for a laugh that escapes me before I can stifle it.
Javier turns the painting around to look at it himself.
"It does suck, doesn't it?"
"Well, it's a little 'amateurish', but it's not the worst painting I've ever seen," I lie.
"Do you think you can fix it?"
I am startled by the request. It' sort of an unwritten rule among artists - you just don't toy with someone else's work, regardless of how bad it is. I am searching for an excuse to decline when Javier walks around the desk and leans the canvas against the arm of the chair I am sitting in.
"The original photo is in an envelope taped to the back," he says.
I open my mouth to explain my moral predicament, when I feel a presence fill the doorway behind me. A shadow falls over half of the room. I turn and discover a mountain-of-a-man wearing a skin-tight, black t-shirt with the word 'security' screenprinted across the front in giant, white, block letters. His head is shaved bald and his hardened face is made less appealing by a heavy brow and a flat, wide nose. His arms, which are easily as big as my thighs, are covered with tattoos of skulls and flames. But, his size is not nearly as disarming as his complexion. He is powdery white from the top of his bald head to the tips of his fingers. His eyes are an eery, milky green. I shiver violently when he speaks.
"Everything okay in here Javier?" The hulking mass asks in a deep, authoritative tone. Javier turns and smiles.
"Oh yeah, everything's fine. Thanks Teddy. I want you to meet Jack Wescott. He's a professor at Lang."
Teddy extends his hand and I shake it. His fingers are massive and it feels like I've grabbed a bunch of unripe bananas.
"Teddy's a big art lover, aren't you Teddy? And quite an artist himself."
I am disarmed when the giant man looks down at his shoes, shoves his hands deep into his pockets and scuffs the ground with his foot. A boyish 'aw shucks' grin breaks out across his face. Javier crosses the room, grabs the man by the head and plants a loud, wet kiss on his forehead. The giant giggles and then picks Javier up off of the ground effortlessly. He nuzzles Javier's neck, making loud nibbling noises and then gently sets him back down. It is very much like watching a bear trainer roughhouse with his charge - adorable and terrifying at the same time.
"Steven said someone passed out? Was that you?" Teddy asks me.
"Guilty," I say, meekly raising my hand.
"What happened? You drunk?"
Javier cuts him off. "No, no, no Teddy. Everything is just fine. He just had some blood sugar issues." Javier winks at me. "Go ahead and open up the front and make sure to put down all of the mats. People are going to be wet from the rain and I don't want anybody busting their ass."
The world's biggest little boy lumbers off down the hallway. I shiver again when I see that the entire back of his head is covered with a tattoo of a Mako shark. Javier stands in the doorway and watches him go with a smile.
"And don't stop to chat with the girls! It's already after eight!" He yells after him.
Over the next few hours, two more bartenders, a door attendant and another barback make visits to the office upon their arrival. Each has a personal exchange with Javier that suggests a connection unlike any I have ever seen between employees. Kisses and hugs are plentiful. Inside jokes, that inspire gales of laughter, mark each encounter. One particularly cute bartender, a Hawaiian student I recognize from school, actually sits on Javier's lap during our introduction. It is like watching a family come home and greet the loving patriarch - one by one. The sweetness of it all is a welcomed surprise.
Between visits, Javier speaks candidly with me and answers loads of my burning questions without my ever having to ask. In fact, I don't say much at all. I get the impression that Javier is thrilled to have someone to talk to - a lonely father figure, talking with an adult for the first time in months. I listen intently and soak in every detail.
Apparently, Jesse's Place is not actually Jesse's place at all. Javier rented the abandoned mechanics' garage five years ago and, thanks to a small investment from his brother, turned the space into an open-air icehouse that enjoyed little success.
"We pretty much painted the place and turned on the 'open' sign," Javier confessed. "We would throw open the garage doors and people would just wander up, order a beer and then sit around outside on folding chairs. That's all we sold - iced beer. We didn't even have coolers then. It became the hangout for all the neighborhood winos and a few bikers. Teddy was one of them. But business was never good enough to do more than pay the bills and keep me fed. Until I met Jesse."
Jesse had, apparently, come looking for a job as a DJ during their second year, just as Javier was entertaining the idea of closing the ice house. He decided that this would be his last effort to generate business. He paid Jesse one hundred dollars to play that following weekend. The industrious, upstart DJ plastered fliers all over Lang's campus and drew a substantial crowd of friends, family, curious neighbors and a handful of students.
"It was so amazing to see Jesse work that first night. I had my doubts when he started lugging in all of his raggedy equipment, but once he fired it all up... it was like watching a crazed conductor being seduced by his own.... genius. He mesmerized everybody. And I sold lots and lots of beer. He played, without a single break, until a neighbor called the police at four am. By the end of the night, Jesse was officially on the payroll as the house DJ."
Things continued that way until Fall, when it became clear that the loose, outdoor setup was just providing free entertainment to anyone in earshot. Some would set-up lawn chairs and card tables across the street and dance the night away, others would mill about carrying beers bought from the convenience store down the block. The general 'streetfair' atmosphere had also inspired suspicious loitering, something the Mecca police weren't altogether excited about.
"So my brother Ricky and I decided to enclose the space completely," Javier continued. "We walled over the garage doors and the windows and I convinced Ricky that we should capitalize on Jesse's popularity and rename the club Jesse's Place." Javier grinned slyly when he mentioned this. The truth, Javier eventually confessed, was that Jesse had gone home with Javier that first night... and had never left.
"He was so beautiful, I couldn't stop looking at him. His hair was longer than it is now and he was an avid soccer player then. His body was unbelievable. Just a mass of muscle covered in flawless bronze skin. I offered him the couch and, instead, he headed straight for my bed." Javier says.
I think back to my quick glimpse of Jesse's naked torso. It was hard to argue with his instant attraction.
"And when he DJs, he's just lost in those headphones. Oblivious to everything around him. Yet, capable of sizing up the crowd on that dance floor and giving them what they want to hear - at the moment they want to hear it. He is..." Javier trails off in this memory and a forelorn look crosses his face. "Well, you'll see," he finishes abruptly.
With that, Javier glances at his watch, which makes me look at mine. It is almost eleven pm.
"Well, you ready for another drink?" Javier asks, pointing at my empty glass. "Come on, let's go rally the troops!"
We leave the office and head down the long hall. The muffled thump of the sound system vibrating through the walls has, almost imperceptibly, gained momentum and volume throughout my visit with Javier. The exposed, rib-like, wooden studs of the hallway and the constant driving beat make me feel very much like I am walking through the belly of a beast that is waking for it's evening meal. We make a pit stop at the dressing room on our way.
"How are we coming in here ladies?!" Javier sings as he enters.
"Well, it's hotter than Satan's armpit in a wool sweater in here!" The older queen fusses.
I peer over Javier's shoulder into the room, but look away quickly. Everyone in the room is in various states of undress and a general atmosphere of seriousness seems to have settled in. I try to move on down the hallway, but Javier pulls me into the room by the hand and starts introducing me to the cast.
"Everybody, this is Jack. He's a new professor at Lang. It's his first night here." They all mutter a general greeting at once, but none of them look up at me. Each of the nearly naked drag queens is completely consumed by final preparations.
"This is Sylvia Estrella," Javier says, gesturing to the older queen. He has his face buried in a lit, magnified make-up mirror and I can only see one giant nostril from my angle. He grunts something I can't understand and resumes applying a pencil to his lips.
"And this is Robyn Banks," he continues, pointing to the skinny, black boy. He is completely naked save for a patch of silver duct tape across his chest and an enormous afro puff wig. He also mumbles something inaudible, while stretching a double-wide strip of duct tape from his pubic area, between his legs and up the crack of his buttocks. He finishes by firmly pressing the end into the skin at the base of his spine. I cringe with sympathy for his penis, which must now be painfully wedged somewhere in between.
"And this is Peaches LaRue." Peaches is easily four hundred pounds and occupies two of the dressing room's five chairs. He is clothed only in pantyhose and high heels and is in a deep, heated discussion with Jesse, who is sitting next to him and writing notes on a legal pad. Both are sweating profusely and neither looks in our direction or acknowledges us.
"Are we ready for a good show?!" Javier asks.
"I'm ready for a great show," Sylvia says, "but you'll be lucky to get anything good out of these two," he adds while pointing to Robyn and Peaches with the unsharpened end of a lip pencil. I crane to get a look at Sylvia's face, but only catch a glimpse in the mirror - a razor-sharp red line ringing his bottom lip.
"No ballads tonight ladies! I want energy, energy, energy!" Javier says, banging the door with his fist to emphasize his last three words. With that, we return to the hallway and head toward the black curtain that leads out into the club. That unusual pang of nervousness hits me again as Javier pulls back the curtain and ushers me out into the club.
"Welcome to the freakshow," he says, as we step into a cloud of machine-generated fog and a riot of colored lights.
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