This is the 8 part raw and violent story of a sassy and razor sharp tongued drag queen who rose from the gutter to run a narcotics business. Love dragged her back into the gutter.
"And you my darling look ab-so-lute-ly fabulous!" I said while laughing at my splintered image in the broken mirror that was carelessly tacked to the unpainted plywood wall of my dingy shack.
Mentally I ticked each box for the last time.
Foundation; evenly applied on my smoothly shaved light brown face: check. Concealer?! With such beautifully unblemished skin at the young and tender age of twenty-four years of age, I have nothing to conceal. So; no check. Mascara; for extra-long lash extensions: check. Eyelashes; curled to maximum perfection: check. Eyebrows; daintily plucked and carefully penciled in check. Dark red blusher to slim down my round face and to create the illusion of prominent cheekbones where none exist: check. Sheer red lipstick with purple undertones on my saucy full lips: check. Matching red lip liner: check. Gold shimmer eyeshadow to highlight the yellow tint in my orientally shaped hazel brown eyes: check. Lightly dusted concave nose bridge that ends in a snub: check. Long red diamante studded fingernails: check. Plastic Daisy-shaped clip-on earrings: check. Long honey blond synthetic wig to hide my ugly dry kinky red-brown hair, parted in the middle and cascading down to the center of my back: check. To be honest, this was not exactly the hairpiece I had in mind.
My mind was set on a curly strawberry blond one. Something that would give me the appearance of my favorite screen icon: Marilyn Monroe. I could not find it anywhere and, because I needed hair I settled on this one. It spoiled the effect but, at least it was blond. A girl's hair is after all her pride but when one is on a budget then beggars can't exactly be choosers.
Looking at my dress I must congratulate Aunt Miriam. She outdid herself this time. The dress fitted like a glove. I took the hem of the skirt in one hand and, twirling round and round, and allowing it to billow and flounce tried to create an effect similar to that of Marilyn Monroe standing over a manhole in a street in New York.
Plain white open-toe stilettos: check. Being of medium height, I needed those nine inches to give me extra height if I"m to stand out in the crowd. Oh! and last but not least: Beauty spot: check. I penciled in a perfectly tiny black spot on my left cheek. Not too big, and not too small. There, perfect. I surveyed the results of my labor in the mirror and decided that perfection never looked better.
The community newspaper, lying in a corner, caught my eye. I turned to my favorite section.
"Horoscope: check.
Love is on the horizon, I read. "Liars, I shouted. "And as far as I'm concerned it can stay there. It has done so my entire life anyway."
I threw the paper back where I found it.
I stood still in my three-by-three-meter makeshift shack that was in the backyard of my landlord. The transformation from I-don't-see-you mousy Lawrence Roberts to gorgeous eye-catching Lady Rosè was complete.
The candle, burning short, flickered restlessly in the stuffy atmosphere. My eyes skimmed swiftly over the few secondhand items we call personal possessions; bed, bedside table, linen, and clothes, and came to rest on the only item that was not begged, borrowed, or stolen; but cut out of a discarded magazine.
A picture of Marilyn Monroe in her place of honor over my bed started me dreaming again of... that unmatched beauty; that seductive look in her eyes; that alluring smile; that captivating aura, captured on camera for eternity; that fame; that fortune. The movies she had made; the men she had loved and lost; the glitz and glamor so far removed from the everyday humdrum of my common existence. I could see the champagne flowing, the mink coats hugging her voluptuous body, the brilliant parties, the dancing, the limousines, the palaces, the yachts…
A rude and loud knock at the door brought me, with a violent jolt, back to the dreary, dirty, poverty-stricken township of Bontas. I knew that knock. It is my sister in drag. I blew out the low burning sputtering candle, hurried to open the door, and, with a smooth flick of the wrist slammed my door behind me. It was Friday night and we were on our way to the backyard shebeen of Aunt Lettie. Tonight was reserved for serious fun.
Tomorrow?
Who cares?
~•~
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