mounted on the Styrofoam wig stand beside him.
“Matthew Swenson,” she said out loud,
interrupting a new round of the warm-up scale. Bright blue eyes
snapped to attention via the reflection of the mirror.
“It’s ‘ Matilda ’, honey,” he snapped as
she shoved the mascara brush forcefully into the tube and quickly
screwed it shut.
“My apologies,” Brigit replied. She was
unaffected by his attitude. She had seen worse in her time.
“Who are you? A fan? I won’t sign autographs
until after the show,” he snapped again.
“I’m not here for an autograph,” Brigit
replied quietly. “I’m here to help you pass over.”
A look of annoyance came to the man’s face as
he began searching the clutter on the table before him.
“I’ve been waiting ten years for this night
and someone has stolen my lipstick,” Matthew growled. Brigit
watched as his long, delicate fingers picked up and tossed aside
one tube after another. “Some jealous bitch has stolen my lucky red
lipstick.”
“Ten years is a long time,” Brigit
remarked.
“Tell me about it. I’ve busted my ass to get
here, honey. I’ve played every hole-in-the-wall and dive drag bar
in this city. This place is every queen’s dream. If I do well, I
get a permanent spot without having to do any favors , if you
know what I mean,” he looked at her via the mirror again and
narrowed his eyes as if to punctuate the innuendo behind the word
‘favors’.
Brigit nodded in understanding. Matthew
Swenson had died in the mid-eighties. Knowing the reckless habits
of the disco era and the drug laced mentality of the clubs during
that time, she could well imagine what someone in Matthew’s
position would have gone through to reach the pinnacle of their
ambitions. Matthew sighed heavily and turned his head to glance at
the clock mounted on the wall above the garment rack holding
various costumes. To Brigit, the costumes were moth eaten and dust
covered. To Matthew, they were freshly cleaned and glittering in
the naked light of the bulbs surrounding the mirror. The clock was
frozen at ten to eight.
“I have to finish getting ready. Mickey is
supposed to come get me in five minutes,” Matthew-Matilda sighed.
His blue eyes returned to the clutter on the make-up table before
him. The tube of red lipstick was still missing and his irritation
flared again.
“Mickey won’t be coming, Matilda,” Brigit
said quietly. She had not moved from her position directly behind
him.
“Why not? I’m taking the stage at eight
sharp,” her assignment pointed out furiously.
“Matilda, you’re no longer amongst the
living. It’s time for you to pass over,” Brigit patiently
explained.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get
out,” he snapped, flicking his hand at her as if to shoo her out
like a fly.
“I will not leave. I have my assignment.”
“Your assignment can kiss my ass,”
Matthew-Matilda hissed at her. Their gazes locked in the mirror.
Brigit smiled faintly. The angry, thin line Matthew-Matilda’s lips
had become grew even thinner. They were headed toward a stalemate.
Brigit had to find a way to avoid such a thing on her first
assignment.
“Perhaps you should tell me about your first
night here,” Brigit suggested.
“I’ve busted my ass to get here,” he
reiterated. “Tonight is my night.”
“So, tell me about it,” Brigit urged.
She glanced over her shoulder and spied a
dusty stool against the wall behind her. Slowly, she seated herself
and returned her attention to his reflection. He had picked up the
tube of mascara again and was unscrewing the lid in preparation to
apply more of the black goop to his false eyelashes. Brigit waited
patiently as the suggestion continued to sink in on his mind. She
knew well the penchant drag queens possessed to talk about
themselves. At best, it would be a sad story told with some flare.
She already knew how it would end and come to the present moment.
She felt the need, however, for Matthew
“Matthew Swenson,” she said out loud,
interrupting a new round of the warm-up scale. Bright blue eyes
snapped to attention via the reflection of the mirror.
“It’s ‘ Matilda ’, honey,” he snapped as
she shoved the mascara brush forcefully into the tube and quickly
screwed it shut.
“My apologies,” Brigit replied. She was
unaffected by his attitude. She had seen worse in her time.
“Who are you? A fan? I won’t sign autographs
until after the show,” he snapped again.
“I’m not here for an autograph,” Brigit
replied quietly. “I’m here to help you pass over.”
A look of annoyance came to the man’s face as
he began searching the clutter on the table before him.
“I’ve been waiting ten years for this night
and someone has stolen my lipstick,” Matthew growled. Brigit
watched as his long, delicate fingers picked up and tossed aside
one tube after another. “Some jealous bitch has stolen my lucky red
lipstick.”
“Ten years is a long time,” Brigit
remarked.
“Tell me about it. I’ve busted my ass to get
here, honey. I’ve played every hole-in-the-wall and dive drag bar
in this city. This place is every queen’s dream. If I do well, I
get a permanent spot without having to do any favors , if you
know what I mean,” he looked at her via the mirror again and
narrowed his eyes as if to punctuate the innuendo behind the word
‘favors’.
Brigit nodded in understanding. Matthew
Swenson had died in the mid-eighties. Knowing the reckless habits
of the disco era and the drug laced mentality of the clubs during
that time, she could well imagine what someone in Matthew’s
position would have gone through to reach the pinnacle of their
ambitions. Matthew sighed heavily and turned his head to glance at
the clock mounted on the wall above the garment rack holding
various costumes. To Brigit, the costumes were moth eaten and dust
covered. To Matthew, they were freshly cleaned and glittering in
the naked light of the bulbs surrounding the mirror. The clock was
frozen at ten to eight.
“I have to finish getting ready. Mickey is
supposed to come get me in five minutes,” Matthew-Matilda sighed.
His blue eyes returned to the clutter on the make-up table before
him. The tube of red lipstick was still missing and his irritation
flared again.
“Mickey won’t be coming, Matilda,” Brigit
said quietly. She had not moved from her position directly behind
him.
“Why not? I’m taking the stage at eight
sharp,” her assignment pointed out furiously.
“Matilda, you’re no longer amongst the
living. It’s time for you to pass over,” Brigit patiently
explained.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get
out,” he snapped, flicking his hand at her as if to shoo her out
like a fly.
“I will not leave. I have my assignment.”
“Your assignment can kiss my ass,”
Matthew-Matilda hissed at her. Their gazes locked in the mirror.
Brigit smiled faintly. The angry, thin line Matthew-Matilda’s lips
had become grew even thinner. They were headed toward a stalemate.
Brigit had to find a way to avoid such a thing on her first
assignment.
“Perhaps you should tell me about your first
night here,” Brigit suggested.
“I’ve busted my ass to get here,” he
reiterated. “Tonight is my night.”
“So, tell me about it,” Brigit urged.
She glanced over her shoulder and spied a
dusty stool against the wall behind her. Slowly, she seated herself
and returned her attention to his reflection. He had picked up the
tube of mascara again and was unscrewing the lid in preparation to
apply more of the black goop to his false eyelashes. Brigit waited
patiently as the suggestion continued to sink in on his mind. She
knew well the penchant drag queens possessed to talk about
themselves. At best, it would be a sad story told with some flare.
She already knew how it would end and come to the present moment.
She felt the need, however, for Matthew
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