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 |  - a challenge - 52 short stories in 52 weeks...something must be worth reading, right? |
Seriously, all I was doing was just singing along to Kylie Minogue blasting in my eardrums. So, how the hell did I end up in six-inch-heels, and fish-net stockings, about to parade myself in front of a room full of hollering lust-filled men? Let’s rewind back to about three hours ago, shall we? I’d just got off another tedious shift at The Home Oasis where I spend hours stocking up on all the wood panels, tools, equipment etcetera. Unfortunately, Brad – in Gardens – was out sick today and they needed someone to cover his shift. Guess who was dragged into that duty? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for loving the flowers and shrubberies, but after stacking up the, seemingly, one-thousandth bag of freshly-made manure, I vowed to make sure Brad owed me big time. Anyway, at the end of shift, I was ready to go home and take a good shower to scrub off the dirt and grass stuck on me. I decided to take Eden Avenue. Not that it was any closer to my destination, but it’s a Friday, and Eden on Friday nights is like stepping into another planet. The streets are lined with all sorts of weirdos; the good kinds. There are your punk rockers with their rainbow-coloured mohawks and skinny jeans cluttered with stickers protesting against the establishment. There are your goths who are perpetually in mourning over something with their funeral-themed attires. You’ve got the college kids, all bright-eyed and excited over the littlest things, high-schoolers who dare to rebel by staying up past their bedtime, and if you make the turn on East Eden, you descend into the ‘cesspool’ of the Decadent Ones. Proud gay, lesbians, and everything in-between, parade the streets in colours so vibrant, it’s almost intoxicating. The air is sickening sweet with their infectious joy and take on Life, and sometimes you find yourself indulging in their whims; accepting freebies from eager businesses hoping to garner your attention. It’s not surprising the number of visitors (especially tourists) who visit this side of town. It was while waiting for the bus, that I was suddenly grabbed and spun around to encounter the frantic guy before me. He was just about as tall as my waist with spiky white hair and maroon tips. His widened eyes were mismatched; a hue of blue and grey, and his blackened fingernails dug, painfully, into my arm. “You perfect!” He screeched with an accent I couldn’t quite place. German? Probably. “Huh?” “Come! Come!” he continued, now dragging me toward a neon-lit brick building I had barely given a glance earlier. A wooden sign on it simply said Paradise, and I figured it was just another club. But wait a minute now… “Hold on, man,” I tried to interject as he launched into rapid – definitely German – while eyeing me from top to bottom. “Where are we going?” He smirked and took the back alley of the building before knocking hard on a door. It opened to reveal a mousy fellow dressed in faded army fatigues. He was just as short, but had stringy brown hair and a matching beard adorned with gold rings. He puffed out a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and I could only watch in growing disbelief as both men bantered back and forth in their native tongue while studying me at the same time. What the hell did they want? “You sing good, my friend says,” Mousy man, finally, spoke in halting English. “He say you can dance?” “I wasn’t dancing-” I began to protest. “No matter,” Mousy interrupted with a wave of his hand. The smell of tobacco, unwashed pits, and stale beer wafted from within. “We pay. You come dance and sing for us, tonight. Yes?” I couldn’t help it. This was all too ridiculous. I could feel the laughter welling up. “We pay one million, yes?” I rolled my eyes and began to step back. “Sure, dude. Whatever you say. One million dollars? For what? If you think I’m going to strip for you-” “Oh my God, Erik!” came the sudden shriek from within before the door was opened a bit wider to reveal a towering female…no, correction, a drag queen in all her glory. Dressed as someone who might have been plucked off a stage in Vegas, her gold and blue plumage was actually quite fetching. “I am getting tired,” she whined with a stamp of her foot. “Haven’t you found someone to take Shanelle’s place? They are getting antsy out there for crying out loud!” She stopped long enough to finally notice my existence. Her stunning green eyes widened in approval. “Oh? This who you found? You are perfect, darling!” Mousy (Erik apparently), and my recruiter, nodded in earnest and before I could protest, I was shoved into what I could only consider organized chaos. I was barely given the time to think, let alone get a word in as I was shuttled into a claustrophobic dressing room filled with enough rhinestones, taffeta, and feathers to make one blind. The stench of perfume and desperate dreams lingered in the air as I was plopped onto a chair. The other ‘queens’ – some in the process of making up, while others were getting out of theirs - glanced at me with mingled expressions of curiosity or disinterest. “Listen,” I tried again. “I don’t think-” “If you’re worried about tucking, don’t fret,” Vegas Queen – whose name is actually Katya – explained with a warm smile as she began applying foundation on my face. “It’s not that painful, and besides, it’s just for an hour and then it’s all over.” Ouch. Just the thought of it was already troubling, but as she continued talking and working her magic on me, even I couldn’t believe the transformation taking place. The only time I ever tried wearing make-up was playing dolls with my baby sister, way back in grade school, and even then, I had ended up looking like a really weird clown. Tonight, however, I was actually…beautiful! Gone was my usual long face, boring brown eyes, and thin lips. My reflection in the lipstick-smudged mirror was now of a woman who might have just stepped off the pages of Vogue, and with the voluminous blond wig now placed on my head, I was ready to hit the runway of any fashion show. “Wow,” I could only breathe in awe. “Wow, indeed,” Katya agreed with a gentle hug of my shoulders. “Who knew such beauty lay within you, eh? Now, let’s dress you up, darling and remember to just follow my lead. Don’t be scared of those guys, and some gals, out there. They’re only there to have some fun, so you should do the same. Sing, dance, and make them feel good for an hour, and consider this…an adventure, hmm?” Aside from the embarrassing sensation of my private parts being…well…taped away (so to speak), the shimmering silver dress – reminiscent of clothing worn by flappers from the 20s – fit like a glove. It was finished off with black fish-net stockings and a pair of black stiletto heels that hurt like hell, but for one million dollars…if that really was still a thing…I would grit my teeth and put up with it. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Someone was announcing as I tried to swallow the nerves while standing/hiding behind Katya. “Presenting, our big finale tonight! The Queens of Paradise!” Promptly, a popular pop song blasted from the speakers, and lucky for me, it was one of my favourites. I knew the lyrics by heart, and as I trudged after Katya, a microphone was thrust into my hand, and there I was…on a miniature stage with the spotlight on us. I wish I could tell you exactly what transpired, but I’d be lying. Everything, literally, felt like a blur. I do know I must have sung and danced, because something fluttered towards me several times until I realized it was actually bank notes. Money! That, alone, was more than enough motivation to give it my all, and for the first time in a long while, I felt absolutely liberated. ---------- By the end of the show, I am still thrumming with adrenaline. Katya, and a few others, praised my skills; some even saying I was better than the Shanelle that I replaced. They tease that I ought to quit my regular job and sign up as a Lady of the Willow, to which I shyly decline and state that I am still a first-year college student with loans to pay. “No problem,” Erik says, with a satisfied grin as he slaps an envelope in my hand. “Paradise special place. Clientele is very special. You very big hit.” He winks. “If you change mind. You come back, okay?” I think I give a non-comital response to that, as I really have no plans to return – as fun as this all has been – just thinking of my mother’s reaction, if I tell her I am going into drag as a full-time job, will give her a heart attack. It isn’t until I get home that I finally open the envelope. It is a check, as expected, but it’s the number of zeros written there that has me stifling a scream of disbelief. /We pay one million, yes? / No kidding! This can’t be real, can it? It certainly looks legit, but I’m now too terrified to actually take this to the bank to cash it. What will they say? Will they even believe that I had earned such a thing? And from doing what? Simply dressing as a female and entertaining some people for one night? It makes me wonder just how much earnings Paradise made, or what sort of clientele they had, to be dishing out so much money like this. Why would anyone want to leave if they worked there? Deciding best to let sleeping dogs lie, I return the check back into its envelope, and keep it hidden in a safe place. Perhaps there will come a time when I’ll be brave enough to dig into the mystery of my most generous benefactors, but until then, this will remain as a night I’ll never soon forget. -------------------  Winning EntryPrompt: Write a story or poem that answers the question - "What would you do for a million dollars?" The more creative / outlandish thing you (or your character) would be willing to do for someone to give them $1M the better! Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"  |
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