“One moooooooomeeeeeent!” a voice sang from the other side of the door. The vintage brass peephole swung open and I heard another singsong “Well, hellooooooo.” A fat white Queer opened the door and posed. His face was still undone. His floral silk kimono curtained across the round of his belly. Judging by his hairlessness, I was catching him just after his shaving ritual. In one hand he held a roach clip with a soggy, crooked roach letting loose a pathetic line of smoke into the already dusty apartment.
“My name is Korus, as in chorus girl.” He waved his roach, gesturing at all the showgirl paraphernalia crowding the entryway behind him. “As you can see by my wardrobe, my drag acts fulfill my dream of becoming a Rockette without risking losing my girlish figure.” Korus framed his fat body with his newly shaven arms and curtsied.
“My name is Kay.” I curtsied back and he giggled.
“You are so damn cute!”
“Stop flirting and bring Kay in!” I heard Clara shout from some unknown place in the apartment.
“Hold your horses, you old cunt!” Korus screamed back, then looked at me and smiled. Korus began leading me through his tiny apartment as if it were a museum. Every square inch was covered with various costume pieces. Racks of clothes covered every window, so there was little to no natural light in the home, and every bulb hung dim, waiting to be changed. Where “normal” people would put a television set sat a pile of hat boxes so crooked it threatened to fall at any moment. Where “normal” people would line up books on the shelf, Korus had lined up his footwear, from standard nude character shoes with their clunky heels and quick-release buckles to bedazzled boots.
“Don’t mind the platform sneakers,” he said despite pointing right at them. “It was during the Spice Girls era. I thought I could be Sporty Spice, when I was more of a pumpkin. The left shoe squeaks, but I don’t have the heart to get rid of it.”
Korus led me to a kitchen cum dressing room. Or at least I assumed it was a kitchen. A ballroom dancing dress hung over the fridge, its sleeves half covered with twinkling cheap purple jewels. A silver tube of E6000 craft adhesive sat on the counter beside it with a tub of purple jewels waiting to be affixed to their new home. It was the brightest room in the house thanks to his vanity mirror, with all twelve bulbs shining brightly in a golden glow. Sitting at the vanity was Clara, with her hair in a headwrap and large sunglasses on.
“You look like a Warner Bros. star the day after her movie premiere!” I smiled at her, hoping she was impressed with my comparison. She did not smile back.
Korus put out his soggy roach in a weed box underneath a Styrofoam wig mannequin. He held the mannequin head under his arm while smashing the roach to bits in the debris of his past joints. Clara sat among dozens of mannequin heads, each with a different-coloured wig, each sitting on a wall of shelves that reached the ceiling and blocked any light from an adjacent patio. It appeared as though I was facing a jury of queens and wig heads.
“Korus?”
“Yes, Clara?”
“Suit this bitch up.” I shuddered in anticipation. What was happening?
Korus opened what had been a cutlery drawer. Inside were dozens of tiny eyelash boxes grouped together in blue elastic bands. “Shit. Where is that thing?” Korus opened another drawer, where “normal” people would put serving spoons, this time with countless lipsticks. He opened another drawer—this one, deeper than the others, the type of drawer “normal” people would place Tupperware in—and found a large electrical saw among rolls of electrical tape and pantyhose.
“What’s that?” I said, alarmed.
“What does it look like? It’s an industrial cutter.” Korus plugged the contraption in. I took a step back. The saw and each of its gleaming silver teeth looked large enough to cut someone’s head off.
Clara pointed up and down at my sweatpants ensemble. “Take off your bottoms.”
“Excuse me?”
“How is Korus going to do his work if he doesn’t know what he’s working with?” She waved her hands in frustration, then eventually landed them on her lap for emphasis. I took my pants off. “Now show Korus your bum.” I lifted the bottom of my hoodie. They both nodded.
“What do you imagine?” asked Korus.
Clara pinched the end of her chin in thought. “Obviously Kay doesn’t need help in the back end, but he definitely needs help on the sides. We need to turn this triangle into an hourglass, stat!” Korus nodded, then left the kitchen/dressing room.
“What’s going on?”
“You, my dear Kay,” said Clara ceremoniously, “are getting a new ass and hips.” My eyes widened. If the blade of the saw weren’t so close to me, I would’ve jumped for joy.
Korus returned with a block of solid foam and placed it on the kitchen table/vanity. He strapped on a pair of goggles, picked up the industrial cutter and began carving an ass and hips.
After five minutes of foam pieces flying everywhere, I exclaimed, “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Why do you own an industrial cutter?”
Korus froze. His goggled face was covered with foam bits. Clara stopped powdering her nose. Korus looked at Clara. Clara looked at Korus. They both looked back at me.
“I’d rather not say,” said Korus.
“It’s best we don’t talk about it. Probably best you never know,” Clara added while nervously looking side to side. And that was that. Korus returned to carving, Clara returned to powdering, and I returned to sitting on a pile of Korus’s dirty laundry, still without my pants on.
When the carving was done, Korus instructed me to wrap the curvaceous foam creation around my hips before putting on four pairs of dark-brown stockings to match my skin colour.
“Thoughts?” Korus said to Clara, one hand still on the plugged-in industrial cutter.
“I won’t know until I see her in swimwear.”
I changed into a bathing suit and put on heels.
“Now?”
“Perfect, Korus.” Clara finally smiled at the sight of me. She removed her sunglasses, and I could see her right eye was swollen and bruised.
“Clara!” Korus exclaimed.
I stepped towards her. “What happened to your face? Who did that to you?”
“Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh,” Clara said, placing her finger to her painted lips. “Please don’t ruin this moment by reminding me of last night’s misfortunes. You, Kay, are just perfect. Korus, show Kay what she looks like.”
Korus opened up a tall cupboard door in the kitchen/dressing room, where “normal” people would put their canned goods, to reveal a long mirror and an image of a woman’s curvaceous body looking back at me. Now I was truly ready to perform.
That night, I stood stage right, waiting for my big moment. Clara McCleavage had just completed her ode to the horror movie Carrie, which ended with three audience members splattering blood on her white dress using spray bottles. Out of breath, Clara took the microphone. “I love being sprayed with questionable substances by complete strangers! It reminds me of last weekeeeeend.” Snickers. Clara made her way to a tall stool where a tumbler of lemon water and a hand towel waited for her. She sipped on the water and then gently patted the sweat along her hairline and her upper lip. “I just wish you’d sprayed me more. Look at me. Hardly any blood. I imagined complete carnage, but this looks more like a paper cut. These are dollar-store spray bottles. You have to pump them and mean it. You have to pump those cheap fuckers. This is an homage to a classic horror movie, people.” Clara rolled her eyes, then gave a sly grin.