“I cannot fucking believe this,” Josh says, vibrating with anxiety.
We’re back on my roof, smoking a joint. And once again, Josh is super fucking pissed.
“So, the housing connect I thought I had,” he says. “They’re not gonna help me.”
He launches into a tale about how difficult it’s going to be for him to find affordable housing in Wiesbaden, Germany, where he’s just secured a two-year contract at the local opera house. It’s a Kafkaesque tale of having to have one piece of paperwork in order to get another piece of paperwork, but you can’t get the first piece of paperwork without the second piece, and round and round we go until he cannot legally live or work in Germany despite having been hired by a very real opera house that hires very real opera singers from all around the world all the time. It’s not as if Wiesbaden, Germany, has an incredible pool of local talent to pull from. They are hiring externally, honey. And yet. This process remains hellish.
“It’s going to be OK,” I say, as I’ve said a thousand times before.
We each take pulls off the joint.
“Cheers!”
It’s a few days later, and there are six of us clinking glasses of Moët in my kitchen.
It’s me, Allicia, Sophie, Magda, Oden, and our guest of honor, Miss Pretty Lamé. Tonight is her going away party. Not to worry—she’ll be back randomly, chaotically, over the next two years, but still. We’ll miss her.
“So,” Sophie says. “What have you guys been up to?”
“Mostly just hanging out,” Josh says mildly.
“Yeah,” I agree, throwing back my champagne.
Oden, the king of the Irish exit, slinks away to our bedroom, unnoticed by everyone but me. I catch his eye just as he disappears down the hall. He winks at me.
“Surely, you’ve been doing more than that,” Magda prompts.
“Surely,” I throw back at her.
The truth is, Josh and I have settled into a routine. During the day, I write. He goes into Manhattan for voice and Alexander method lessons. At night, we smoke joints on the roof and cackle, telling stories shot through with delusion. The paragraph I wrote that morning, the connect he texted with that afternoon—they’ll change everything. If words are spells, we cast them, swirling up a universe in which we’re artists who are living, shining, thriving.
“But, no, you’re right,” I offer. “Last night, we did do something notable.”
Sophie and Allicia both pour each other more champagne.
“Yes!” Josh agrees. “We went to Company XIV.”
Before Josh was Pretty Lamé—or rather, while he was becoming Miss Pretty Lamé—he was a full-time showgirl at Company XIV. XIV is a burlesque-cabaret theater tucked away near the Artichoke Pizza off Wyckoff in Bushwick. They employ a variety of performers, most of whom have the type of skillset that you’d expect to see in a circus. We’re talking weird talents, wild abilities. A pole dancer who’s also an opera singer, belting out arias while spinning on a pole in motion, suspended from the ceiling. An aerialist of Cirque du Soleil virtuosity, flying around a metallic crescent moon with a Gumby tattoo on his ass. A belly dancer who’s also a plate spinner who’s also a singer who’s also a contortionist. A juggling clown in a banana suit. All of them are insanely hot. For three years, Josh was one of them. He was the drag queen who was also an opera singer who was also a bearded lady. He was magnificent.
“How was it?” Allicia asks, eyes on fire.
Allicia has attended many a friends & family performance with me over the years; she is intimately aware of the skill that cast has. Also, of how thoroughly they’re taken advantage of.
“Oh, it was just all right,” Josh says, ever demure.
“Please!” I practically spit at him. “You were the star of the show.”
All night, Josh was receiving hugs, screams, tears of joy and reunion. He left the cast a year ago, and honey, believe me—he is missed.
He giggles, hiding behind his champagne.
“I was a little insufferable, wasn’t I?” he says, as if the word insufferable is a positive attribute, which in his case it is, because he was not insufferable last night, not at all.
“You were a fucking joy,” I say, twirling deeper into the kitchen for another drink.
The whole performance, Josh was cheering, laughing, kiki-ing with every performer on that stage. He was the cast mother, the guest of honor. It was like the entire show was just for him.
“Are they still using the performers as bartenders?” Allicia asks.
“Ugh, yes,” Josh and I both say in unison, rolling our eyes.
The XIV cast does not get an intermission. They are the ushers, the bartenders, the post-show cleanup crew. And if you’re not tipping in cash—which most folks are not—the performers hardly see any of it.
“Like it’s Ellen’s Stardust fucking Diner,” Josh scoffs.
Allicia asks after a few individual performers—all of them, like Josh, have left the show. They’ve also mostly been unfollowed by XIV on social media, as if leaving an underpaid gig is a personal betrayal. It is a narcissistic brand, suicidally obsessed with itself—there can be no standout performers, no stars, only XIV. This is a strategy that can only ever end one way: natural deterioration. Gone are the multi-talented circus performers, the girlies with true star power. Like the late-stage capitalist hellscape it operates within, XIV is giving circus in decline.
“A shame,” we all agree.
The drinks are flowing now. Scales are being sung. Laughter is pitching both higher and lower. We’ve got screeching, we’ve got bellowing.
For Magda, we’ve got a slight hint of boredom.
“Hey,” she says, suddenly appearing at my side. “Can I go play with Oden?”
She’s fidgety, her eyes are wide. She looks like she might bolt down the hallway into our bedroom, tackle him with pent up playtime energy.
“No,” I hiss. “If he wants to play, he’ll come out.”
She wilts.
But her vibe shift is helpful. I realize it’s just about time to go.
“Finish your drinks!” I call out over the din. “Final pees!”
“Last call!” Josh sings operatically.
Allicia and I start cleaning up the charcuterie board, which has been mostly untouched until now. Now that it’s getting packed up, everyone is descending, randomly crazed with hunger. Hands are reaching over our shoulders, grabbing up pieces of meat and cheese like chickens pecking at feed.
Ding.
We all jump.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I hiss.
“What the fuck was that?!” Sophie wails, already laughing at our communal startle reflex.
“Oh, shit!” Josh squeals. He’s looking at his phone. “I got a housing connect!”
He launches into a tale about some very specific person who has a very specific connection to a very specific type of temporary housing that he can live in until he gets his 127 pieces of paperwork sorted, and it’s actually affordable, can you believe?
I’m only half listening, partly because I knew this would work out, and partly because I’ve realized, behind Josh and Allicia, Magda and Sophie are making out.
“Alright,” I say, in my most Jersey voice.
The word comes out like barbed wire. They jump apart.
“Let’s go.”
Josh is cackling, and Allicia is calling an Uber, and we’re all stumbling down the hallway, and Magda is taking 127 years to tie her shoes, but we’re on our way, we’re tumbling out of the apartment, we’re climbing into the car, we’re doing it.
We’re descending into Bushwick, back where Pretty Lamé was born, into the land of abandoned warehouses and cracked sidewalks and one million potholes.
We’re going to Purgatory, where we think there will be a Sylvester-themed disco dance party.
And we’re about to realize that we are so, very, very, wrong.