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At least that makes me laugh. “It never works out when someone approaches me after the show. The real me is a hopeless dork.”
“Who slays.”
“When I look like this.”
“So look like this.”
“I can’t go out in public this way!”
“Says who? Although you could maybe lose the bloomers and corset.” Cas ruffles the lace of my bloomer short-shorts. She doesn’t get it though. She tries. But if even I don’t get it, how can I expect someone else to?
“Besides,” I say, “you think it’s cringe we play it for laughs that I’m a boy in a dress.”
“Because it is. No one would think it was funny if I was the one in that getup.”
“I would!” I laugh.
She smacks my arm. To be fair, my very butch lesbian friend with the asymmetrical pixie cut and one side of her head buzzed, has never once been seen in makeup, or wearing anything resembling a skirt or fitted top. It would be funny.
I know it’s problematic that the joke is a boy in a dress, even if history well records that I am hardly the first one in the depths of these streets. Madame Mattie employed men too! I don’t care how cringe-worthy it is though, because even if I could never have the confidence to look or act like this outside these tunnels, I love getting to step into Mattie’s shoes for a while and pretend like I could.
“Guess I’ll go see if those college boys are still waiting on Mattie.” Cas pushes from the wall. “Care to tag along?”
College Boy was pretty cute. But if I like him, it’ll just hurt more when he’s disappointed by the real me. Whoever that is. “Not tonight.”
I wait behind the wall until I can hear that the patrons have all gone. I’m sure College Boy’s friends will cheer him up. I just hope I didn’t ruin too much of his night.
“There you are, Jeffrey! Sounds like everyone loved you as always,” Mr. Bevilaqua greets me from behind the gift shop counter when I finally surface.
The tour starts upstairs in the brothel building, and then loops around and winds through the underground until finishing here, which connects back to the same set of stairs the patrons come down. I live on the second floor of the building above, courtesy of Mr. B, who lets me stay rent-free, since I keep the building clean and lead all the midnight tours. He does pay me, but it’s never been much.
He used to lead most of the day tours himself, but Cas and I both know he’s looking to retire, and he’s been having her lead more and more of them.
“I aim to please!” I say, but when I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror for when patrons try on costumes, I am not exuding Mattie at all anymore. My shoulders are hunched, my expression pinched, just dorky Jeffrey playing dress-up, like the younger me who used to sneak into Mom’s closet to try on skirts and heels.
My parents were not surprised when I came out.
I’m 5’7”, slender, and in makeup, you really can almost ignore the Adam’s apple, but it doesn’t look right without the pizzazz, the mask of being someone else. I straighten my posture and shake back my hair. I curl it for performances but only loosely, giving it that harlot on a romance cover look.
Nope, still Jeffrey. Still wrong somehow if I’m not pretending to be Mattie.
“How are those classes coming along, kiddo?” Mr. Bevilaqua asks. He's short and stout and balding, sort of like a classic cartoon curmudgeon, only he's more like Carl from Pixar's UP at the end of the movie when he's learned to be nice again.
He inherited the tour from his family. His parents ran it, big history buffs, who bought it from the previous owners. I heard from some of the older clubs and businesses in the queer district that as equal marriage was getting closer to federally passing, people's real colors in the neighboring streets started to show. Mr. B was one of the first to prove that his colors were rainbow. As an ally, but the simple act of a rainbow flag in Mad Madame Mattie's window told people like me and Cas that this was a safe place.
It always sounds leading now when Mr. B asks me about classes. I worry he’s hoping I’m close to finishing grad school finally, so I can move on from this place. I started here to have a small paycheck and a place to stay, but I fell in love with its history, with the tours and performances. I’m supposed to be getting an MBA in finance, go on to work at some investment firm like my parents. They are both accountants, and if that doesn’t tip you off to how boring the real me is, being poised to follow in their footsteps certainly should.
I’d rather keep helping with the books here.
“Classes are good. Taking my time, you know. I’m in no rush. Is Cas locking up?” I nod at the stairs out the other side of the gift shop, moving toward the counter so I don’t have to see my reflection anymore.
“Yep. Not too bad for sales tonight. Not great.”
Tour traffic might seem good at a glance, but revenue has been on a steady decline for years, partially because the tour keeps getting shortened by neighboring businesses closing off their tunnel access. Being connected to passageways once used by brothel frequenters apparently doesn’t sit well with gentrification. We are one of the few establishments left that hasn’t been renovated into a trendy coffee shop or chain store. Contractor companies keep buying up everything else.
Like the one whose business card I spot inside the cash register while Mr. B is counting change.
“Grounded Development?” I snatch it up. “Please tell me you haven’t been talking to these creeps.”
