The Lucky Star Read online

  4

  On Tuesday night she nearly met the lesbian, whose crumpled cocktail napkin became Shantelle’s prize, at which Francine stood rolling her eyes; Xenia ironically applauded the new possessor’s assaults upon the lipstick-stain: lusty licks and loud smacking kisses accomplished their effect, and bits of napkin clung to Shantelle’s mouth, reminding sardonic Francine, who aspired to be asexual, of the first time she had tried cunnilingus (her reward a tongueload of pissy toilet paper); while Al, whose spirits had improved from desperate to morose, finished drinking his first tequila, and the retired policeman told me: Well, yes and no. The whole thing was that finding him doing the same thing was circumstantial. There were no items of evidentiary value at the scene. The other problem was, he had some really bad mental issues . . .—On Wednesday the lesbian was absent but the straight man was there because he could see underground; on Thursday I bought Xenia her usual (Old German Lager), in exchange for which she repeated what she always did: I’ve been a dancer for seven years, and I’m twenty-nine and a half. (She might have been fifty.) My plan, she assured me, is to keep on at the Pink Apple for another year, until next July. I think then I’ll go back to Australia, and work there for three seasons, because you wouldn’t believe the tips. (Last month she’d sworn that she never once left the good old U. S. of A.) I have a friend that lives in Laos; he runs a resort there. So after Australia I’ll go to Laos and . . . I wouldn’t mind just being a slave at some beautiful hotel, and just, you know, be there. There’s boredom and there’s contentment . . .—while Selene and Francine bent toward each other over the bar, recalculating the cost of hors d’oeuvres and deciding where the minister would stand.—On Friday the transwoman skipped her doctor’s appointment so that she would not have to inhabit her body while the intern sliced another skin cancer from her back—she was getting old and nobody loved her!—which was why she picked a fight with the retired policeman and refused to let him beat her; on Saturday I accidentally sat next to Xenia again, and this time she swayed on her stool while telling me: I wanna get out of this and just . . . I’m smart; I’m ahead of the game; I’ll get busted out in July . . .—Then came Sunday, wedding day, with a ringed, jeweled glitter-bracelet caressing Selene’s sparkly wrist and the fan’s three blades winging slowly round and round.

  (Holly whispered: Oh, no, darling; bleeding might be a cancer sign.—Hunter replied: But Victoria says that Selene put in that vaginal ring and then she got a rash on her face . . . )

  The bride stood even taller and wider than usual; her vast blue eyelashes were weapons.—Sweetie, said Francine, sit down and relax.—Shantelle pulled Al to his feet, but he declined to dance, although a vast unknown T-girl with rouged cheeks, blood-red lips and blue eyelids began slowly nodding to the music, like a Buddha in an earthquake. Shantelle shouted: Yeah, bitch!—at which Francine raised one eyebrow. The minister arrived, escorted by Samantha, from whom he bought his marijuana twice a week, and they both hugged Selene, who had grown sufficiently nervous that Francine poured her a stiffer drink. The retired policeman stayed home with a fit of gout, so he could hardly exercise control over the transwoman’s asocial behavior; accordingly, while everyone else waited for the groom, who was late as expected, she chewed pink goofballs in the ladies’ restroom, then seated herself demurely at the bar, drinking rum and tonic with the straight man’s on-again-off-again ex, her not quite special friend Sandra, who answered: Umm, I don’t know which one came first. I remember this house that’s not the one I grew up in, so it must have been a different house, and I remember my parents sleeping and I was up before them, because it must have been my birthday; they had gotten me a plastic tea set and I really wanted it. I must have picked it out at the store and then they bought it and said you can open it on your birthday.

  Well, I wish I could have had a tea set when I was little! cried Judy, starting to feel good and high. All I ever got was cap guns and goddamn cowboy hats and all that Indian-fighting bullshit they thought boys had to have . . .

  And I remember the neighbors’ porch, said Sandra very slowly; I remember being there and it being late afternoon sun and then it being very shady.

  Yeah, said Judy, I remember sitting on the porch, all right, because they wouldn’t let me into my room; they wanted to toughen me up, but when I tried to make friends with the other boys they could see right away that I wasn’t their kind, so they—

  Ready for another? asked Francine, hoping to save her from bursting into tears.

  Could I take mine straight up? said Sandra.

  Straight up the ass, said Francine. Judy honey, are you finished playing with your ice cubes?

  Not quite, said the transwoman, who worried about rent money.

  Yes you are, said Sandra. Sweetheart, let me buy you a round.

  Are you sure?

  Of course I’m sure. Aren’t you my girlfriend? Aren’t you my very best friend?

  The transwoman began smiling, because she truly did love Sandra, but then it happened: As soon as she laid eyes on the lesbian, she knew with the certainty of the utmost faith, never mind any prior certainties, about for instance Letitia, that here was a green-bloused someone from whom she could not bear to go away, someone whom she longed to be near forever, even if merely to spy on her; if the lesbian never spoke to her it would still be perfect, if only she refrained from going away!

  Francine, pour it strong, she said. Hey, who’s that stunner in the green blouse?

  But Sandra was saying: And I have one very strong memory, but I don’t know if this is really about my body or not. You know, at nursery school the kids have to keep shoeboxes with extra clothes inside, in case what they’re wearing gets dirty. And I remember—

  Sandra, who’s that gal in green over there?

  Who? I said I remember always wanting to wear dresses and being forced to wear corduroys. One day I got to wear this really, really beautiful dress and it was a sailor dress; we did fingerpainting that day and I got paint on myself and had to change into my corduroys. I remember feeling desperate. I know you can relate. And, Judy, I couldn’t stand it! I must have thrown a tantrum.

  You must have looked pretty cute at nursery school.

  Thank you! But I don’t remember how I looked. I’m remembering back to old photos. Francine, do you have any photos of yourself when you were little?

  My house burned down, said the barmaid.

  That’s horrible! You never told me—

  It don’t matter now. Selene, let me top you off. This is your big day.

  Francine, I’m so sorry about your house!

  Forget it. Samantha, how about another?

  Judy, do you think I hurt Francine’s feelings? I really never knew—

  Of course not, sweetie—this assertion being uncharacteristically emphatic, in order to keep on track, because just as if one were to ascend Jones Street past the Hotel Krupa and all the way up to Sutter Street, which for its part presently slopes gently down into the playpen of banks and insurance towers, so, thanks to those goofballs, Judy was rising up and up, which meant that if she allowed herself to be at all tentative she might forget what she was saying, maybe even disgrace herself, so she insisted: Francine loves you! Now, when you think of yourself as a little girl, what do you see?

  Well, when I picture myself as little, I am picturing myself as sepia toned . . .

  Having paid politeness its due, the transwoman returned to the fundamental issue: Do you know that girl over there in the green blouse?

  Now Sandra felt hurt, but her favorite thing in the world was helping others and pleasing them, so she merely said: Of course I do. You mean that you don’t?

  That’s right.

  She’s really, really nice. Her name’s Neva. Even Francine’s attracted. Would you like to buy her a drink? I think she likes gin and tonics—

  First I have to buy you one, because you just bought mine.


  Never mind, said Sandra. Go sit next to her if you feel like it. Excuse me, Francine, but I think Judy wants to buy someone a drink.

  Sandra, you’re the most gracious lady ever. And I do mean lady.

  Well, I don’t know about that.

  And I’m sorry I . . . I mean, I wish I could see one of those sepia-toned photos from when you were little.

  Oh, that’s just a manner of speaking. Look! Did you just see Neva smile at you?

  What’ll it be? said Francine.

  I, well, a gin and tonic. For—

  Seven dollars. Richard, once I make this can you walk it over to Neva?

  Embarrassed now, Judy laid her hand on Sandra’s wrist and said: Tell me the rest of the story.

  Which story? Oh! Well, said Sandra, I was going to be a lady from the first. I remember again, and this must have been nursery school since I went to a different school for kindergarten because I remember the parking lot, and the night before, my mother and I had watched the first part of Camelot the musical and got really obsessed with it; so when my mother picked me up from school, she had gotten me some pink plastic jewelry in a case, and my mother told the teacher, right in front of everyone, that the reason I could have it was so I could watch Camelot with her and be Guinevere. And I felt so proud! There was this sense that I had, probably because my mother did, that being little I was very precocious, until at some point I wasn’t anymore—and then in some way I fell behind. My mother was very good with little children and she still is. She taught four-year-olds for years and I have seen her be very tender and understanding . . .

  The transwoman was staring at the lesbian. Just as she would have been loyal to the child whom she could never bear, so now meticulously and irrevocably she fixed her loyalty upon Neva, riveting herself to her with every invisible glory of subservience.

  5

  Please, a moment of silence.

  What is this, a funeral?

  Let’s have Selene sing the wedding song.

  No, Francine, I told her track number two . . .

  And the vast bride in her silver spangly net-dress and her immense crown of blonde hair commenced singing or actually lip-synching to Judy Garland: Somewhere over the rainbow, as her Latino groom stood beside her with a flower on his breast and his painted eyes closed. Suddenly he winked and laughed at Selene, while Samantha slowly groomed her wig from behind. Meanwhile Xenia kept weeping, tasting the lesbian with her eyes.

  The minister said: Let us lift our hearts together in jubilation at the marriage between Selene and Ricardo, and Samantha finished smoothing out Selene’s wig.—We are blessed to open our hearts to their love. Let us each dedicate ourselves to the love in our own lives, while the bride stood as majestic as a planet, Francine beamed from behind the bar and another middle-aged T-girl sat dabbing at her left eye.

  Isn’t this sweet? said Sandra.

  Oh, yes, said the transwoman, struggling not to watch the lesbian, which is to say thirsting to drink from the promise of her, perhaps the only promise in Judy’s life which would ever be kept; for Neva, the one who could love without shame or limit, would have sinned against that love had she not fed it to anyone in need, even to leeching Judy who so perfectly reminded me of myself; soon the lesbian would be lovingly embracing that sad fat woman, rubbing her breasts against hers, running her fingers through her partner’s long hair while Judy, naked and submissive, gazed stupidly ahead; after which the lesbian would go wide-eyed and motionless beneath me as she gave herself, so as to be towering over us all, and the minister said: Marriage is the essence of human relationships. It challenges us to be in accord . . .

  Shantelle burst into tears. She was black, smooth, young and skinny, with hair like ferns and waterfalls. Francine kept grinning proudly behind the bar.

  As the bride and groom recited their vows, Samantha began to look soft, old and gentle, the groom now repeating after the minister: May our love forever remain and keep us strong. Francine had helped dream that one up.

  Selene kept dabbing at her eyes, and other smiling T-girls and G-girls were blowing their noses. Ricardo repeated after the minister: I give you this ring as a sign that I choose you as my lover, my partner and my best friend for all the days of our lives.

  (Shantelle side-whispered: You’re gonna say, that’s okay, lover. You just have to remember who to say it to. See who the fuck you wake up with . . . )

  The minister said: It gives me great joy to pronounce you husband and husband!—at which everyone began clapping big echoing hands.

  Samantha said: She beat me to the altar; I was too damn late!

  I look like I cried, said Xenia, but I didn’t actually cry.

  I’m gonna shake it up! shouted the wide Nigerian T-girl in the green executive sweater.

  Shantelle called smirkily: Congratulations to my old back sister, my old, old back sister!

  Fuck you! shouted the bride in a bass voice.

  The wedding cake appeared to be a vast cushion of flowers and whipped cream.—Miffed or maybe just teasing, Selene shouted: Eat that, damn you!

  Lemme give a hug. Whoo-ha, whoo-ha!

  Oh, just cut the goddamn cake, bitch!

  The bride went into the men’s bathroom, locked the door and came out five minutes later in a green dress and a spangly silver collar, having armed herself in another great yellow wig which resembled a Valkyrie’s helmet. Xenia felt called upon to defend Selene against me, as if I could ever have grown sufficiently active to object to anything; I kept nodding dizzily and Xenia was insisting: If they feel that they are a woman then they are a woman. I don’t believe in discriminating against another person, because I know what it’s like to be discriminated against. I will never understand why they do it, to go through what they go through, and now dear old Selene . . .—Francine dropped ten quarters into the jukebox, and so the dancing started, with the disco ball’s rainbow rays whirling across lovely girls’ faces. By now Sandra was in the corner, soul-kissing another G-girl. Xenia chose a crewcut white man with an earring in his right ear and a T-shirt across whose breast a tank upraised its great gun at a target which proclaimed SUPPORT OUR TROOPS while an American flag waved over each galaxy and all of us who had ever been spat on. The newlyweds were having fun; they chuckled, whispered and cha-cha-cha’d. The G-girl boasted to Sandra: I’ve had girls lick my vagina and say, oh, wow, that’s real!—As for the transwoman, who had applied flower lashes like the drag queen Leeza Monet, in high delight she rushed onto Xenia’s stool, so that she now sat a mere two places from the lesbian, to whom she said: I’m Judy, and I brought you this piece of wedding cake . . .—Not long ago Shantelle (who herself was snakelike) had told her that her eyes were too small; therefore she widened them as much as she could whenever she gazed at her prey, trying not to blink, which led Shantelle to consider her quite the freak. Now Xenia was slow-dancing by herself. With the black gap of her mouth, those sad lovely eyes and that crumbling makeup, she emblematized the beauty of ruins. I got up and took her for a spin. Then I sat and sized up the lesbian, whom I had first seen standing in the doorway as if she were nerving herself up to something. I won’t deny that she lit up my heart in neon lights! She was even lovelier than Letitia, and, unlike her, never looked at herself in the mirror unless she needed to put on lipstick. Meanwhile the bride performed her best lip-synch dance, to the opening number of the movie Cabaret; her golden beehive became so incandescent that it seemed about to catch on fire. Wild, gleeful Ricardo snatched up the transwoman, who would much rather have sat staring at the lesbian, but did what she was called upon to do, showing off her new red dress, smiling blankly whenever Ricardo squeezed her ass; and now polite men were handing dollar bills to Selene.