Krisis Kontrol

Black Velvet

You peer into the dark nightclub while you tap loudly on the tinted window. It’s only seven in the evening but the staff are inside working quickly to prepare for the night ahead of them. It’s always hectic on Wednesday nights: a staggering lineup of talented drag queens from the Hollywood district gather to provide over three hours of nonstop entertainment. The only catch to the event is that it’s a wild card show. They never post a roster of the queens for the night but it never stops patrons from crowding into the venue every week. You have never missed a show since you moved to the West Hollywood area over a year ago.

All of the regular staff and managers know you by name; you are always the first in the long line of club-goers. A few months ago the managers agreed to let you in early since you’re always so respectful of the staff and performers; additionally, it doesn’t hurt that you tip well. In fact, you blow most of your expendable income at this bar.

You tap on the glass door again, rapping your short, black, fingernails on the glass. You catch the eye of a girl in a cocktail dress running a mop over the rundown wooden floors. You exchange a wave as she bounces over to let you in the front door. Quiet, classical music drifts out from the club, a bewildering contrast to the ear-splitting Top Forty that would blast from the speakers in about an hour.

“The second you stop showing on Wednesdays is the moment I file a missing persons report, you know.” She giggles with a knowing look. Her name is Delilah; her long black hair is pulled away from her face in a high ponytail, her black cocktail dress clinging to her curvy figure, you can’t help but stare for second.

“I’m sure of it, Deli.” You pull your eyes up to meet hers, trying not to be as creepy as you feel. She accompanies you as you head to the back of the club: there are round, high top tables scattered around to encompass the large, black stage. The stage stands about 4 feet high and  has a long catwalk in front of it with a shimmery, pink curtain at the back of it. You walk over and take a seat on one of the barstools at a high top; you prop up your elbows on the table and rest your head in your hands.

“You got any intel on the lineup?” You peer down at her with a smirk; in the distance a glass shatters followed by an irritated growl, you flick your eyes to one of the bartending stations kitty-corner.

“All you do is use me” Delilah pouts and stomps her foot dramatically, you snicker at her. “I heard some Ru Girls are coming tonight: Raven, Ginger, Morgan is a maybe, Adore is in town tonight, too.” She claps her hands excitedly and bounces on her heels. “But...I hear that your girlfriend is making an appearance tonight.”

“Bitch, please, I’m saving myself for RuPaul.” You lay your hand across your heart dramatically and let out a dreamy sigh.

She pulls an unimpressed face and crosses her arms, “No, you idiot. Katya is going to be here. You get all goo-goo eyed at her. Every... Single... Time.” Her hands have folded together and tucked under her chin, she bats her eyelashes mocking you.

“Whatever. Hey, don’t you have a job you should be doing?” You snip at her with a smile.

“I’m doing it right now: trying to reel in your crazy.” She flicks her pony at you and turns to pick up her mop again calling back over her shoulder, “Don’t deny it, bitch.”

Giggling to yourself you pull a ten out of your handbag and hop off the barstool; your heels clicking on the wood floor as you approach the bartending station. You cross your arms on the laminated surface of the bar, happy to find that it isn’t sticky yet. A tall, lean man with a mohawk is bent over behind the counter sweeping up pieces of glass.

“Hey, Bobbypin!” You say in a sing-song voice; his thin face turns up to meet your gaze, his black lips turn up into a gentle smile. Robert is one of the night managers here; he’s always been a little too sweet on you, you made it clear that you weren’t interested but he always over pours your cocktails so it was a good deal for you.