‘Fine. I’ll start looking for apartments in Watts since that’s the only place I’ll be able to afford one,’ I joked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, we’re not pushing you out into the ghetto. You can stay in the garage apartment, you’re just going to have to pay some rent.’
‘That’s right.’ My father nodded in agreement with my mother. ‘And that goes for your car too. I think it’s only fair that you take over insurance and maintenance.’
In shock, I looked out the side window at the sad-looking Jeep Wagoneer that I had driven since high school. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It wasn’t the money that upset me…sure, a few skylights and a fireplace may have been the fanciest features of our home, but that didn’t mean that we were poor. We were far from it. But we were also far from the type, like some I went to high school with, who took private jets and were driven around in limousines. These were the kinds of people my parents would complain about for hours…but they were also the ones that they gave their full attention to. As a kid I could never understand it. If these Hollywood folks were really so awful, why did my parents spend so much time tending to them instead of me? I wanted to know what it was like. I wanted to be a part of that world too, to be as fabulous as the creatures they cater to, and yet they found this to be unacceptable for me. And now I was being punished it seemed. Sometimes I wondered what I looked like through their eyes. Goofy, clumsy, never-able-to-finish-anything Jackie–she doesn’t have what it takes to work in entertainment.
Interrupting my self-loathing, my mother piped up. ‘You had such a good thing going for you back East. I’d hate to see you ruin that. I don’t want to see you get lost out here, like so many people do…’
‘I don’t want to live a life you’ve planned out for me,’ I said, the frustration rising in my voice and red flames burning up my cheeks. ‘Just because you’ve always been so miserable out here doesn’t mean I’m destined to be!’
‘That’s enough,’ my father growled, but I was unable to stop myself.
‘…You always talk about people following their dreams…so why is it you want me to give up on mine?’
‘Honey, it’s not that I want you to give up on your dreams–I just don’t understand what yours are?’ The way she raised her eyebrows with mock concern normally drove me absolutely crazy, but as I listened to her speak a feeling of relief began to settle over me.
‘Just because we don’t have the same one doesn’t make mine ridiculous,’ I said calmly before turning and walking out of the dining room. Cool winter engulfed me as I made my way up the rickety steps to the apartment over the garage. I had no plan, no idea as to how I was going to make extra money but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less. I had never felt so free in my entire life. Starting immediately, I would pay rent like any other kid my age, and make sure to save enough money for things like car insurance, oil changes, and gas. Well it may have been the end of my social life, which was scarce these days anyway, it certainly wasn’t the end of the world. Since the hourly wage that Sheryl paid me wasn’t enough to cover even half of my newly incurred expenses, I was going to have to take on another job, and quick.
With Sheryl off in Santa Barbara shooting a local fashion spread, the store was in my hands. I was taking full advantage of this, using the time to surf the web for other part-time jobs, when our first customer, a rather big-boned woman, burst through the door around noon doused in shades of pink.
‘Hi,’ I muttered, not looking up from pages of openings on myjobsearcher.com, ‘let me know if I can help you with anything.’ The way she clunked about–the heels of her strappy platform sandals resounding in thuds along the wood floor–roused my attention. Looking up, the annoyance on my face quickly morphed into confusion. Standing just a few feet away, testing shades of cream blush by swiping them on her forearm, was what most certainly was a man in drag. The flutter-sleeve chiffon top with a ruffled bodice and plunging keyhole neckline tightly hugged what was supposed to be a cinch waist. A white cotton miniskirt with pink accents like rhinestones and piping was paired with the incredibly noisy six-inch wooden-heeled sandals to accentuate long, smooth legs. As I caught her eye, she lowered her chin, as if trying to hide the lump in her throat was an instinctual reaction. Then, thinking better of it, she turned and smiled at me, almost shyly at first.
‘Are you finding everything you need?’ I asked, trying to stifle my surprise. She made her way over to the counter, slinging along her pink-and-white purse–which featured a mishmash of designs that included a Christian Dior signature logo, butterflies and flowers, and a bejeweled padlock at the zipper to top it off.
‘I’m Rita,’ she said batting her eyelashes. ‘I need to find a good red lipstick, and a new shade of foundation. Something a little darker, I’m done doing Jayne…I’m on to Hayworth. She’s got Spaniard in her like me, you know?’
Her warm and energetic demeanor rendered me completely comfortable, and I found myself giggling at almost everything she said. Periodically she’d say things like, ‘You can’t rush glamour, honey!’ Or ‘Every woman is a vamp until proven innocent,’ which would make me laugh even harder. We spent what seemed like an hour rifling through various shades of coverup, looking for the best products that would allow Rita to exaggerate her eyes in an attempt to play down at least a healthy portion of her masculine jaw, and me trying to convince her to give up lip liners that were darker than her lipstick. In the end, like any good transvestite would, she stuck to her guns and bought a deep plum shade to match with her classic red.
‘What’s all this?’ Rita peered at my computer screen and then down to a list of names and contact numbers I’d compiled for job openings in everything from retail to government, none of which were too appealing.
‘My parents are done supporting my creative endeavors,’ I told her. ‘So that means I need to find a second job.’
She picked up my notebook, gingerly flipping the pages with her surprisingly feminine hands, before stopping to point out one of my leads. I tried not to stare when I noticed the exact pearlescent white Invicta watch I’d been drooling over for months on her dainty wrist. ‘You’re not going to make the money you need serving up hash browns and waffles, I can tell you that right now.’ She was pointing to a listing for a deli just down the street.
‘It’s in Beverly Hills,’ I argued. ‘The patio there is always busy.’
‘Everyone knows, honey, that the real money is in cocktail waitressing.’ She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and flashed a huge grin. ‘Today’s your lucky day, girl.’ Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a business card and smacked it down on the desk in front of me.
‘The Queen Victoria, huh?’ I said picking it up. Beneath the embossed lettering were background images of cross-dressers that appeared as 1950s and Hollywood’s screen legends. In smaller type was what I had guessed to be Rita’s birth name, Jorge Vazquez.
‘That’s right, I’m the manager over there; we could probably use a little help. And a pretty thang like you. You’d do real well.’
‘Yeah–no thanks, I think I’ll pass,’ I smiled, trying not to laugh.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but it really is a lot of fun. Plus…you can keep on doing makeup–some of the best makeup artists count drag queens as muses. Think about it.’ And with that, Jorge, er–Rita, scooped up her purchases and headed out the door.
Not heeding Rita’s warning, I took the waitressing job at the deli down the street. Most days, like today, I started my shift there at 6 AM so that I could finish early enough to accompany Sheryl to bookings, watch over the store, and take the occasional odd job by myself.
It had only been two weeks but I was already hating my new schedule. Not only was I barely