The Drag Queen.
A short story by Robert Cormack.
“I think impersonation is a great art. It’s something I enjoy doing in a frivolous, lighthearted way.” Andrea Riseborough
There was this guy — Russell — living in the apartment next door. Every so often, he’d forget his keys, knock on my door, and ask if he could climb over my balcony to his.
He was an odd character wearing this old fur, pantaloons and flip-flops. He’d swing his leg over the balcony railing and pull himself around the partition. We were eight storeys up, but that didn’t bother him. He said he was made for heights, a star’s destiny.
He claimed he had to wear his hair very short because of all the wig changes.
From what I could gather, he was the main act at some sort of comedy show down in The Village. The queers loved him. As he said, “When I’m all dolled up, sweetie, you wouldn’t recognize me.” He claimed he had to wear his hair very short because of all the wig changes.
I also found out it was his mother’s apartment. She was down in Sarasota, living with her sister. That left Russell with no rent to worry about, meaning he could indulge, as he loved to say, in the finer things.
Coming home from work one night, I saw Russell getting out of a cab, struggling with some bags. I went over to see if he needed help.
“Aren’t you a dear,” he said, handing me two bags.
We were just around the corner from our apartment building. As we stood there, he waved to a old couple sitting in the window of this restaurant. It was a run down Greek place. I never saw anybody in there except this couple and the cook. He’d come out and sit with them. They’d smoke and stare out the window.
“You know those two?” I asked.
“The Papadakises?” Russell said. “Who doesn’t?”
It might also have included me, my job, the dead end repetition of catalogue writing.
It might’ve been true. I’d only been in my apartment a couple of months. Russell said there were all sorts of things I didn’t know, which included the Papadakises. It might also have included my job back then. I was enduring—and I mean enduring—the dead end repetition of catalogue writing.
Russell walked over to the restaurant’s window.
“Hello, darlings,” he said to the Papadakises.
They nodded and waved back.
“How do they manage to stay open?” I asked Russell.
“They’re rich,” he replied. “They own half the block. I keep telling Andreas I want to turn the place into a queer palace. That’s what I’d call it. They think I’m out of my skull, poor dears.”
“Why do they still have a cook?” I asked.
“That’s Andreas’s brother, Nico. Wonderful old soul, once you get to know him. I tend to overwhelm him with my outfits.”
Russell blew the couple a kiss, then we were off, walking to our apartment building with Russell’s bags. A bunch of people were on the elevator. Everyone kept looking at Russell in his fur, pantaloons and flip-flops. Russell put his bags down and started going through his pockets.
“Forgot my keys again,” he said to me. “I’ll have to go through your place.”
He noticed everyone looking at him.
“Relax, darlings,” he said. “He only lets me in for a few moments.”
The doors opened, we stepped out. Once inside my apartment, Russell did his usual bit of climbing over the balcony. “Thanks a bunch,” he said as I handed him his bags. “I must have you over some time for a giggle.”
“Are you the least bit handy?” he asked, holding a toilet plunger.
I actually did get to see the inside of Russell’s apartment one time. It was in February. He knocked on my door, saying his kitchen fan wasn’t working. “Are you the least bit handy?” he asked, holding a toilet plunger.
His flip flops had been replaced by furry slippers, and the fur by a vintage dressing gown with silk collar. “This way, dear heart,” he said, telling me to follow the music coming through the door. He said it was Chopin, which he said calmed him down because, the kitchen fan obviously didn’t.
The living room itself looked like one of those second-hand emporiums, costumes everywhere, wigs on mannequins, make-up on the coffee table.
“Ignore, ignore,” he said. “Rehearsals all this week.”
We went in the kitchen and he speared the fan with the toilet plunger.
“As you can see,” he said, “nothing but a buzz.”
“Did you call the super?” I asked.
“He’s in Florida,” Russell said. “Probably cuddled up with my mother. Not answering the phone, anyway.”
I turned the fan off and on.
“I think you need an electrician,” I told him.
“Why don’t you take that grill thingy off and have a look?”
I pulled the grill downand all sorts of dried grease fell. Next thing I know, he’s handing me old rubber gloves and a parring knife.
Eventually, we got the caked grease on a newspaper, and the buzzing got louder, then the fan started going. Russell put on a fresh pot of coffee.
“Well, it’s not my daily garb, dear heart. One can only dream of that.”
“Aren’t we a team,” he said. “Mutt and Jeff.”
I kept looking around the living room.
“This the stuff you wear in your shows?” I asked
“Well, it’s not my daily garb, dear heart,” he said. “One can only dream of that.”
He sat on the arm of the couch, plucking his eyebrows in front of a make-up mirror, talking away about his show.
“I’m great with hecklers,” he said.
His nose had been broken in three places.
“I think we can turn the fan off now,” he said.
I went and turned it off.
“Tell me something, sweets,” he said. “If I wasn’t hiding my rolls of fat under God knows what, could I be a catch? I’m officially on the hunt, you see.”
“I’m not the one to ask, Russell,” I said.
“No, I guess not,” he sighed. “Single life’s making a piggy out of me. Look at these rolls.” He grabbed his stomach. “It’s pitiful.”
“Have you tried dieting?”
“I smoke three packs a day. If that’s not dieting, I don’t know what is.”
“You must come by the club some night,” he said. “Will you do that? I want you to see I’m not just some misshapen apparition.”
He went to the kitchen and brought back a bottle of Bailey’s Bristol Cream, pouring it in his coffee. “Please don’t judge, kitten,” he said, back to plucking again. “You must come by the club some night,” he said. “Will you do that? I want you to see I’m not just some misshapen apparition.”
“Sure, I’ll drop by.”
“Please promise?”
“I will, Russell.”
A few weeks later, I’m walking home, and there’s Russell in the restaurant, sitting with the Papadakises. He motioned me inside.
“Meet my friends,” he said. “Matthew, this is Andreas and Sophia. Folks, this is Matthew, my neighbour.”
They nodded. Russell pulled out a chair.
“Sit, sit,” he said.
Russell was trying to sell them on the comedy club idea with female impersonators. Andreas’s wife kept frowning, asking Andreas in Greek what Russell was talking about. Andreas would put his hands under his breasts and lift them up.
She shook her head and looked away.
Then Nico came out, still wearing his apron. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and looked at Russell. He spoke to Andreas in Greek, too.
Andreas finally patted Sophia’s hand.
“Russell,” he said. “These impersonators, they’re good?”
“Yes, Andreas, very good.”
“And they’ll bring in many customers?”
“Scads.”
He motioned for Nico to give him a cigarette.
“Anywhere, Andreas. We’ll build you thrones if you want.”
“I wonder, Russell,” Andreas said, “if that’s such a good thing.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Russell asked. “You’ll make a killing.”
Andreas chuckled and looked at Sophia and Nico.
“We have lots of money,” he said, holding the lit cigarette in his big hand. “Tell me this, where would we sit?”
“Sit? Anywhere, Andreas, anywhere. We’ll build you thrones if you want.”
“Thrones?”
Sophia was speaking Greek to him again.
“My wife says this sounds like a circus,” Andreas said. “She’s not a big fan of circuses. Will you have a throne, too?”
“I’ll be in the spotlight, darling. Entertaining my little heart out.”
“I’m sure you will,” Andreas chuckled. “You still haven’t answered me. Where would we sit? Would we be surrounded by men in dresses?”
“Not everyone wears dresses, Andreas.”
“Don’t men in dresses attract men in dresses?”
He was smiling, but it was like the smile of a tolerant grandfather. It came and went. He tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.
“I take it, you’re saying no,” Russell said, finally.
“I’m afraid so, Russell.”
Russell stood up and put on his fur coat.
“Come along, sweetness,” he said to me. “I’ve been turned down, yet again. Oh, and my keys are lost again. I’ll need to do my balcony highwire act.”
He grabbed a bunch of bags from under the table. More costumes and wigs.
As we got to the door, Andreas caught up with us.
“I’ll just hide my tears like I always do. I use number seven pancake, by the way. Never runs.”
“Russell,” Andreas said, “please don’t be mad at us. We’ll be selling everything pretty soon and going back to Greece. Nico wants to die facing the sea. I’d like that as well. You understand?”
“Sure,” Russell said. “I’ll just hide my tears like I always do. I use number seven pancake, by the way. Never runs.”
“I like you,” Andreas said. “Your buddy here isn’t so talkative. You a couple?”
“No such luck, darling,” Russell said. “He’s normal.”
“I’m sure love will one day kiss you on the cheek.”
“Anywhere would be fine, darling. I’m not choosey.”
“I think I’ll miss you calling me darling, my friend. Nico says you’re frivolous.”
“I have to be,” Russell replied. “It’s in my contract.”
Andreas laughed, squeezing our shoulders as we walked out, telling us we were always welcome. Then he went back to sit with his wife and Nico. They lit cigarettes and sat in their empty restaurant.
They watched people go by under the streetlights.
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Robert Cormack is a satirist, blogger and author of “You Can Lead A Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive).” You can join him every day by subscribing to robertcormack@medium.com/subscription.
