Diamond Plate - Page 2

GeeGee’s is a hellhole, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. A real den of debauchery. Sticky floors that leave a sweet-smelling residue on the knees of your pants. Strands of cobwebs hanging off the ceiling fans’ guards (fans that haven’t worked since the place opened in ’93). Grimed-over bottles of liquor lining the shelves, the crowning piece being a bottle of Czech liquor called Tuzemsky “Um”: Such a god-awful abomination it wasn’t even legally allowed to be called “Rum”. But hey, if it belonged anywhere, it belonged here. This place is a refuge for the refuse; a haven for the haven’ts. It’s my home, and the only place with other queer people brave enough to admit it in this Podunk town (as the Seppos would call it).

Unfortunately, our little scum bucket is totally ruined by the “clientele”: A bunch of whiskey-eyed straights looking for a place that’ll give them the semblance of being cool, progressive, inclusive. But that little frown they give you when they drop change in your bucket at the end of the night reminds you that you’re never further away from acceptance than when you’re dancing for gold coin donations.

And there’s a bunch of these arseholes lined up outside right now, smoking and laughing and showing off their missing back teeth with loud guffaws. It’s a bigger line than I’ve ever seen: It’s like someone did the rounds of the farms and got every stockman to put their jackaroo on morning milking duty so they could stay out late and see the show.

One of the pros of being a drag queen is that no one notices you out of drag. So, I slip by the gathering crowd of oglers and into the back alley as an out-of-town Irishman asks his mate “Where’re all the tricked-up trannies?” In the back alley, I step over a mysterious puddle that has somehow survived the day’s heat. I stop, one leg either side of the puddle, and stare into it. My chins are all folded-up as my neck cranes down, and my small head seems impossibly close to the larger void of my spread-open legs. It’s like when I hold up my compact to try to shave my gooch. My grundle, my nifkin, my taint.

Gooch, grundle, nifkin, taint. Gooch, grundle, nifkin, taint. I make a little R&B backing beat and play it on repeat in my head as I continue down the alleyway. As I’m figuring out a verse for my genius new rap, I step inside the Employee Only entrance.

“Copper! Are you okay? I can’t believe you showed up. I mean, not that I’d blame you or anything, just... Fuck, I thought you’d be catatonic or in a K-hole or something by now.” This is Matt: A living legend, and the promoter for GeeGee’s. The club’s been doing a bumper trade ever since he took over publicity: Who’d have thought a washed-up junkie from L.A. would get what makes Aussies tick? Well, maybe that’s why he never fit into L.A. in the first place.

“Of course I’m here! This is the big night.”

“Fuck the big night! After I heard about Diamond, I just –” Matt grabs me in a big bear hug. I can feel his stubble scratching me. He smells like sweet, stale B.O..

“I knew it. You’re into me. You’ve got a kink for queens or something.” Matt grips my shoulders, staring me straight in the eyes with a look that’s piercing yet pitying at the same time. Like the look your Dad’d give you if you crashed the Commodore and concertinaed the bonnet. A look that says, ‘I just don’t understand you, but I wish I could.’ And it’s angry for some reason but it’s like they’re angry at themselves just as much as they’re angry at you but more than anything they just wanna rip open your head, look at your brain and see why it does what it does just so they can get it.

You know, like that.

“Okay, come on, green room. The other girls are worried sick about you.”

Matt leads me through to the “green room”: It’s just a converted larder from when this place still had a functioning kitchen. It’s even got those utilitarian shelves running from floor to ceiling, but now they’re stacked with all kinds of drag accessories: Boas, foamies, shawls, clutches, capes, and a bottomless box of rhinestones and thread. It’s like a drag queen’s wet dream “cum” to life. The entire left side of the shelves is a shrine to the two most important things to any self-respecting queen: Wigs and heels. That’s the one space you keep as your own, and if anyone touches your shit, you’re well within your rights to drive a 6-inch stiletto through their eye socket. Of course, I got the top shelf because I’m built like an Amazon.

The rest of the tiny space has been converted into a makeup room, with vanities lining the back wall. They even have those tacky lightbulbs bordering the mirrors, which are (thankfully) bright enough to drown out the chintzy wallpaper behind them. The other girls performing tonight are already beating their faces: Kara Vulgaris, Laurie Keet, and Petunia Fingers.

When Kara sees me in the reflection, she drops her brush and pushes her stool out, nearly tripping backwards over it. Her hysterical squeal pierces the room, and she waddles over in too-tight pantyhose.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry!” She’s holding my hands and looking up at me like some kind of moekko anime girl. What follows is a sickening chorus of condolences and platitudes which I’m tuning out. And not sickening in a “death drop off a hay bale” kind of way, more in a “washing spew out of my wig” kind of way.

“Alright, enough, you’re crowding her.” Matt pulls Kara away so I can sit in my makeup chair. While Kara is fussing over me, the other two queens look like they couldn’t give less of a shit.

Laurie makes sense: She’s always been a hateful, no-talent bitch. And, keeping true to her reputation, she’s wearing an outfit which is an insult to the world of drag. Pencil skirt, cotton blouse, jacket with 80’s shoulder pads: She looks less like a queen and more like a put-upon secretary at a failing print magazine. Plus, her makeup is busted: Straight-up Brickfield Hill. No wonder Matt put her in the middle of the line-up: Boring, dull, drab. Someone to make the rest of us look better. If she wasn’t one of GeeGee’s OG’s, she’d have been canned a long time ago.

The other queen, Petunia, I’m not so familiar with. Since she doesn’t know me, she’s keeping to herself, which is just fine with me. Matt tells me she’s an up-and-comer from Brisbane, but I’ve never heard of her. More likely she let Matt “up-and-cum” inside her – alright, enough cum puns, I’ll stop. I like her style though: She’s super camp (in case the name Petunia Fingers wasn’t a give-away), and she’s dressed top-to-bottom like one of those rainbow feather dusters. While that could look a bit shit, you can tell she’s nailed the details: The wig still looks like a wig, not a headpiece, and the blue frills on her skirt have a structure to them that really sells the concept.

Of course, it’s hard to get a look at their outfits with Matt and Kara crowding me.

“Back off already, I’m behind on getting ready.”

“You’re not seriously going out there, are you?” Kara whimpers.

“‘Course I am.”

“Psycho” Laurie pipes up.

“Shut up, cunt” I say, starting to clean off my face. But Matt stops me, plucking the wet wipe from my fingers.

“You don’t need to go out there. Laurie can do two slots. I’ll do karaoke if I have to. So don’t worry about the crowd, they’ll get their money’s worth.”

“What gave you the impression I give a single fuck about ‘their money’s worth’? I’m here to put on a show at them, not for them. I’m going to shove my style down their throats so they walk away raw. So they’re still feeling me the next day.”

“Jesus.”

“Fuck.”

“Bump?” Petunia offers me a key with coke which I wave away.

“Nah, I like to keep a clear head.”

Laurie scoffs, “That’ll be the day.” Ignoring her. I just need to get in my zone right now, so I take another wet wipe and turn towards the mirror. Kara and Matt’s faces are floating in the corners of the reflection, one pained and the other concerned.

Matt claps his hands together, “Okay girls, guess we’re still on. Normal program, except, um... Petunia, we’ll move you up a slot, if that’s okay? Kara, get your shit on: You’re up first”.

The others retreat back out of my mirror, and finally I have room to breathe. You know, when your face is lit up like this, the background fades away. I know my palettes and brushes so well now, I barely have to look at them. I can keep my eyes fixed on that face in the mirror. That big-ass forehead, those sharp cheekbones, and that aquiline nose I used to try and contour out.

Now, I emphasise it. It was a way for me to distinguish myself from Diamond. God, she looked so beautiful in drag. And out of drag too, I guess. She had these soft features and this little body, and one of those K-Pop smiles. Like she was permanently airbrushed or something. I’d only just get done putting on foundation and she’d already be putting on lipstick. Well, she had shaved her eyebrows off, so that saved time. But she’d still hang out with me as I beat my face into submission.

It was Diamond’s idea to go heavy on the bronzer. Lean into it, she said. You’ve already got super tanned skin. With those cheekbones, you can look like a Persian goddess. No one had ever used the word “goddess” for me before. Bitch, faggot, slut, yes. But goddess? Even when I used to play rent boy to the kerb-crawlers, I never got goddess. So, when Diamond said I could look like a Persian goddess, I laughed. Shut the fuck up, I told her. But she just gave me this blank look. Then she reached for the brush, applied some bronzer to my forehead, the hollows of my cheeks, sprinkled some glitter...

I looked totally different. I didn’t look like me. But I looked how I wanted to be.

I put down my brushes and realize I’ve somehow flown through my makeup routine. Everyone’s left the green room, and I can hear the hubbub of the crowd echoing through the walls. Fuck, I need to squeeze myself into this corset and get dressed. I push back from the vanity and kick open the green room door so that I can hear the start of the show.

The mic screeches, and Matt’s voice booms down the corridor towards me.

“Hey, hey, hey, how’s it going everyone? Happy that scorching hot sun is finally down for the night?” There’s a general roar of agreement, a chorus of slurred voices. “Me too. I cranked the air up high as it’ll go. But guess what? I’m still sweating bullets. Because the ladies we have, I was just back there, and they are looking BLAZINGLY beautiful!” The crowd cheers and hollers, wolf whistles erupting.

“We’re not fucking strippers, ya dickhead!” It was Petunia that had called out, feigning anger. I smile, pulling up my stockings.

“Then why are you dressed like one?” The crowd laughs.

“That makes you our L.A. pimp, yeah?” More laughter. They keep bantering for a bit, until the crowd starts to get impatient. It’s something you pick up as an entertainer, the ability to read a room like that. Even without hearing the crowd, I can hear their laughter getting a little quieter, a bit more forced, a few stragglers laughing just to keep the mood up. Matt clocks this and moves on.

“Alright, alright, enough, this is the only part of the show I get to do, so shut it. Now, everyone, I want to thank you all for coming out here tonight. It’s a big night for us at GeeGee’s. Actually, the biggest night: This is the largest crowd we’ve ever had!” Said crowd cheers for themselves. “We even folded up and rolled away the poker tables just so we could fit a few more of you in.” Crowd laughter. Matt’s playing them like a fiddle.

“But tonight’s a very important night for another reason.” I’m just shaping my fake tits into a heaving bosom as Matt says this. His tone has dropped. “We uh... we got some shocking news today. The regulars here, you might have already heard, but we lost one of our queens today. Miss Diamond Plate.”

I drop down into the makeup chair. I’ve got vinyl thigh-high boots on, and my thumbs are tucked into the tops of them. I’m squeezing tight, warping the surface. The oil-slick texture flashes white and black as I squeeze the vinyl and release it. Squeeze and release, squeeze and release.

I try to tune Matt out, but I can’t help catching dribs and drabs. Something about Diamond being a beacon of love, of happiness. That GeeGee’s wouldn’t be around without her. That he might not be around without her. That she was compassionate, loving, and above all accepting. And that so many people being here, supporting this artform that she loved so much, is a greater tribute than he could have hoped to give her. There’s just cold silence coming down the corridor now... I’m too far away to even hear the shuffling of feet or clearing of throats.

Matt tries to right the ship and bring it back to a positive note. That Diamond was also one of the messiest bitches he knew; a party girl, a rager, a ‘90’s light-up pacifier raver girl’ wannabe. That she really would have loved this first performance, a throwback to the simpler days of those 90’s raves. To please welcome to the stage Kara Vulgaris.

There’s a smattering of subdued applause. Ethereal vocals hum down the corridor as Opus III’s “It’s a Fine Day” starts to play.

Fuck, Kara’s got her work cut out for her, bringing the crowd back around after that. I glimpse Matt walking past the open doorway... he’s got one hand over his face, head down, escaping towards the bathroom.

This whole rooms feels tiny now. I’m crammed in here. No windows, just one dusty vent spewing out refrigerated air. The shelves stacked with accessories seem to lean in towards me.

I turn to the mirror and slap my face hard with both hands. Buck the fuck up. This is no time to start spiralling, okay? I slap myself again, a little bit harder. My makeup smudges a bit, and I put on a little more to accent that cheekbone. A couple deep breaths, and I use the vanity to steady myself as I stand up. The heels of my boots wobble a little, and I take a step to keep from rolling my ankle.

There are some whistles coming from the bar. People are getting into the music. A collective “WA-HEY!” goes up: Kara must be doing her contortionist schtick. Thank fuck for that.

I’ve got 20 minutes ‘til I’m up. But I can’t go out there right now. I can’t face those faces. I can’t dance for those leering eyes. I can’t stand to pump my heels across that stage while I watch some douchebag trying to goose the girl he’s with. I need something to help blur those people into one shadowy mass.

Thankfully, Petunia’s left her coke out. Well, not out: Tucked in her bag. In a hidden pocket. But hey, she put it away right in front of me, so she must not mind sharing. I shut the green room door, lock it, and take out the plastic baggie. I make a couple lines, using a still-wrapped eyeliner brush to carve them out. I’m staring at that hard, white line, little flakes falling off to one side.

But I can’t bring myself to do it. It was Diamond who got me off this shit in the first place. And actually, now I think about it, is this even coke? It looks more like ket. I grab the tip of my brush and chip off the end of the line. Just the tiniest bit, just to see.

I sniff, it’s gone, and it’s definitely ket. Makes sense. Wow, when was the last time I did ket? I shouldn’t think about that right now. I shove the ket back in the baggie, return it to Petunia’s bag, then tap my phone screen: 10 minutes ‘til I’m up.

I head to the shelf and grab my wig: A dominatrix-style ‘do with a 60 cm-long high ponytail. I position it correctly, sticking it in place, making sure the ponytail drapes down between my shoulder blades. Checking out my look in the full-length mirror, I can’t help but admire my workmanship. Everything’s strapped into place and padded out just where it needs it. This sleek black bodysuit is rhinestoned to shit, and I’ve got this punk motif running through the outfit. Dangling earrings that look like sea mines, gunmetal shoulder pads, and my favourite: These spiked panniers that make my hips look killer. The mirror is tilted back: This is how I’d look to someone I was about step on, I bet. I flick my ponytail around once, then keep my chin up, staring down at the mirror.

I really do look like a Persian goddess... if that goddess was into BDSM.

5 minutes to show time. Let’s go hear what BS Matt is gonna spout out to hype me up. Unlocking the door and heading into the corridor, I feel the humidity of a couple hundred packed-in bodies hit me like a wall. Laurie’s just finishing up her number, which explains why it’s much quieter than before... Ha. I peek around the corner to get a look: Ooft... the crowd is basically dead still. Some people are just ignoring her, like this one twink at the bar who’s trying to chat up our bartender, Nick.

Laurie finally finishes her number, and there’s some polite clapping as she collects her clothes off the stage. Some drongo shouts out “Shitbird!”, and he’s not wrong. She probably pulled the same reveal she does every time. As Laurie rounds the corner, she clocks me and goes out of her way to shoulder me. I reel a little more than I expected... maybe that bump is kicking in.

“Stuck-up slut.”

“CostumeBox bitch.”

Laurie storms off into the green room and slams the door, which is covered up by a mic squeal as Matt takes the stage. He spruiks our new craft beer to drive up sales, then gets to the good stuff.

“It’s no secret that our next performer is why you’re all here tonight. You sickos have got a thing for electrifying queens. Yes, she puts the “Cu” in Cunt! Please give it up for the Bronzed Beauty... COPPER HEAD!”

That’s my cue. I strut out from behind the corner and flick my ponytail back. There’s clapping and whistling, men calling out something about my ass. Even the little twink who was hitting on Nick is finger clapping. I give them a little wave, a coquettish smile, then remember to look where I’m stepping as I mount the stage – nothing worse than tripping right at the start of your set.

Matt’s holding out his arm in welcome, passing me a mic.

“Holy shit, look at this fit! Should I just strap on my collar now like a good boy? Give you the leash?” I laugh, playing along with Matt’s bit, inviting the crowd to laugh as well.

“Oh, I don’t think you could handle me. You’d probably snap right in two.”

“No doubt. I mean those THIGHS! Look at them! You build those at the mine?”

“This is what happens when you work on a shaft all day.”

“Don’t you mean work in a shaft?” Laughter.

“I know what I said.” Louder laughter. Better laughter. I wink at the audience, making sure to stick out my fake breasts a little more just like we rehearsed.

“Makes sense: I don’t know anyone who’s spent more time inside dark holes than you. Except maybe –” Matt freezes. Diamond. He’s supposed to say Diamond. Fuck, we forgot to change the patter. I feel my brain slip a bit, like it sloshed from one side of my skull to the other and hit with a damp thud. Well, at least he stopped himself from saying –

“DIAMOND!” Someone from the crowd calls out. I look out: It’s hard to see under the lights, but there’s no mistaking the round, red face of the dickhead known as Andy. He’s completely pissed. “IT’S DIAMOND! THAT’S YOUR LINE, MATT!” The crowd are turning towards one another now. The regulars look uncomfortable; the newcomers just seem confused. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I need to get back control.

I need to continue with the patter: “Oh Diamond, yeah. You know why she’s called Diamond Plate?” Matt’s still frozen... Snap out of it!

Andy calls out again: “WHY?!”

“Because that’s what you call the metal sheeting in the back of a ute: Diamond Plate. And that’s where I’d always find her: In the back of some bloke’s ute.” The crowd laughs; laughs of genuine surprise. Some people cover their face in embarrassment or turn to their partners to see their reaction. The regulars are smiling: They’ve heard all this before.

Matt finally gets his act together, “But I uh... I thought she was called Diamond ‘coz she was pure? ‘Pure as the driven snow’, you said!”

“Nah, ‘Pure as a driven ho’ I said.” Deep laughs this time. Even Matt gets his smile back.

“Hey, this stuff’s gold!”

“It’s better than gold: It’s Copper.” I click my tongue.

“Truer words were never spoken. You can keep your gold and silver everyone: We’ve got our Coppertone Baby.” Laughing, whistles of support, clapping. They’re all happy again.

Great. I’m glad they could all move on so quickly.

“Alright Copper, give ‘em what they came for.”

Matt takes my mic and rushes off stage. The room dims, and the backdrop lights up. Matt reaches the DJ booth – really just a laptop on a card table – and presses play.

“HIT ME!” Michelle Williams yells, and that iconic drum roll kicks in. I must have listened to “Lose my Breath” a thousand times. I had just started high school when it came out, and I’d already hit puberty. The aggression of it... it just made sense to me. Like this is what music was meant to capture. I wanted to take that energy and throw it in the face of everyone at school, everyone with a sly comment, everyone glancing out the corner of their eye at me. This was like my anthem.

But now... it feels foggy somehow. As that martial beat intro comes to an end, I don’t know if I’ll remember the words, or the choreo, or the attitude. My body moves reflexively, and my lips too, matching each word. But the music seems far away.

Where’s that dickhead Andy? I’m scanning the audience for him like he’s my Southern Cross, like he’s gonna guide me out of this mess. How desperate must I be if I’m looking for Andy?

But I can’t even see him. I just see arms in the air clapping. Someone’s yelling out with their hands cupped around their mouth but they’re a total blur as I spin around. I’m still performing, but I’m on autopilot. I barely have time to connect with them before I’m twirling around again. My head feels light, like there’s a chain attached to the top of it, lifting me slightly off the ground.

“Take me out so deep when you know you can’t swim; Need a lifeguard and I need protection...” Shut the fuck up Kelly, I’m trying to find my feet here. But it’s no good: I’m now getting lowered down by that chain. It’s dropping me down below the audience, deeper and deeper.

Oh... it’s a winch. Someone’s lowering me down, down into the heat. Maybe the vinyl boots weren’t such a good idea. But this isn’t the sweaty, humid heat of GeeGee’s anymore. It’s dry. It’s the kind of heat that sucks the air from you. My lungs are working overtime to keep up.

“Hit me hard, make me lose my...” Okay, enough. I want to go back up now. I know where this goes, and I don’t want to be there. I have to spend every fucking day there, so take me up right now.

But I keep descending, and now I can see the walls. They’re getting narrower. Narrow enough I can reach out and touch them. I’ve felt them before. Thick, clay bricks. As I descend, my fingers trail down the wall. From clay, to magnesia, to magnesia-chrome, deeper down into the heart of the blast furnace.

It’s darker than I thought in here, but I know that the pool of molten metal must be below me by now. Even though I can feel it’s heat, the molten metal is obscured by a rippling layer of glassy black slag. Bubbles of red-hot copper pop through the surface now and then, disrupting the beguiling shimmer of the obsidian-like crystals floating on top.

The winch stops. I’m hovering just a couple of metres above that seething void.  I’m breathing hard, my lungs are scratching, my eyes are drying out.

There’s a jolt as the winch releases. My heart jumps into my throat as I fall into...

Sand. I’m outside, lying in one of the cast iron drainage channels beneath the great bowels of the furnace. I manage to get my arms underneath me, on all fours before the hulking metal structure. I’m naked – why the fuck am I naked? I hear the mixture churning away above me, deafeningly loud.

People are watching me from a distance on either side of the channel. They’re dressed in aluminized suits, safe from the heat. Some are holding tongs, others shovels. But they’re all looking at me from behind their blacked-out visors with forms hidden by silver smocks. The floodlights lining the catwalks illuminate me like I’m some alien specimen being examined by astronaut researchers. I usually don’t mind being probed, but –

One of the men signals to an unseen figure in the control room above. The silver men step back as a remote-control buggy drives up to the base of the furnace. Mounted atop the buggy is a mechanical arm with a drill attached to the end.

I need to get out. I try to get purchase on the sand, to get my feet underneath me. Either side of the channel is a rift of sand; I’m caught between two dunes. I run to the left side, try to scramble over the top, but the sand is loose and gives way.

The drill turns on, and the arm extends out towards the taphole in the furnace’s base. It’s clogged with mud and clay... But not for long.

In sheer desperation, I manage to get to the top of the dune. But one of the silver men is kneeling there, waiting for me, watching me struggle. I reach out a hand, and he seems to reach back...

But he grabs a shovel at his feet and swings. The blade catches my cheek, sending a shock through my system, sending me careening back down the sandy slope. I roll to a stop at the bottom of the drainage channel. And as I look up, the whirring drill plunges into the taphole’s plug.

A shower of sparks comes first, followed by a furious splash of orange that arcs through the air, coating the bottom of the channel. As another layer of mud cracks under the drill, more molten copper glubs out of the furnace and pushes its way down the channel towards me, encroaching slowly but surely like The Blob.

It’s stupid, but even as I’m lying there facing my imminent fiery doom, I have only one thought: The whole furnace looks like a tapped-open goon sack spewing out. And with that useless observation, the flowing copper takes me beneath its crushing mass.