Hello, fans! Can I call you that? Do you mind? LoL.
Anyways, I haven’t written an entry on my writer’s blog since last October! But it’s because I’ve been very busy working on the first draft of my next book Death Drop: A Lucky Summers Mystery (working title). I’m actually like 3/4 done with it!
Although I’ve had my editor review some of the book already, they will still need to inspect, analyze, and edit it all and I’ll have to revise it several times. There’s a ton of hard work still needed and it’ll require countless hours. It’ll be a while before I completely finish the manuscript but my goal is to “git ‘er done” before our baby is born which is supposed to be August 8th.
Speaking of baby, read my latest blog entry on our surrogacy journey HERE!
Of course I’m also busy with parenting and teaching and self-care-ing that when I do have precious time, it seems silly to write a blog entry on my writing when I could be actually writing and completing my book. Ya know what I mean?
Hence this blog entry…I thought I’d just post the very rough, first draft of the 1st chapter of the book. It’s ROUGH! And will need many more drafts. But it’s a start. And hopefully I am at least setting up the characters and the world and the “inciting incident.”
Before we get to that…Random Thoughts:
-I applied for a Writers Residency Program for this summer. It’s for two weeks on Lake Chapala in Mexico. I’d get my very own casita. More importantly, I’d have the privacy and time and freedom to be inspired and write, write, write like a crazy man. Picture Steinbeck at a bar in Cuba writing to his heart’s content all morning and afternoon and night. Not having to worry about getting a damn kid to their gymnastics practice. Now I haven’t even thought about how I’d feasibly make this happen in my life…Two months before our baby is due…But yeah…I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
-My two books are still selling. I mean, to be honest, nothing unbelievable. However, I still get sales every week. Claude Hartel has been much more successful. Perhaps I should stick to more adult or young adult themes? Hmmm…
Alright. Here is the first chapter of my next book. Read it. Tell me whatcha think! I will probably ignore you. Haha. But if you absolutely must get something off your chest, I suppose I might listen a wee bit. Bwahaha.
And get excited to read the whole thing when it arrives at a bookstore near you this Fall 🙂
Find a comfortable chair. Get a cup of tea. Sit back. And (hopefully) enjoy a fun, cozy little mystery.
DEATH DROP : A LUCKY SUMMERS MYSTERY : CHAPTER ONE
The Furry Box was exactly that. Box-shaped.
“Where’s the fur?” I asked, curling my fake, crusty lashes in the rearview mirror. I’d used them like three times now, but they’d have to do.
“Maybe the fur’s on the inside?” asked Samantha, scrolling through Instagram sitting in the drivers seat of her 1989 Buick Park Avenue, a coffee in her hand. “The fur’d get wet in this rain if it was on the outside.”
That was true. It was a rainy morning in Milwaukee. Though my sister wasn’t always the brightest lipstick in the display, she had her moments.
We sat in the empty parking lot of the bar in the only car she’d ever owned, given to her by our dad for her 16th birthday. At least she had a car. I was thirty and recently sold mine.
I leaned forward to get a better look at myself in the tiny mirror on the back of the sun visor. She was letting me use her cheap make-up from Walmart.
“Wet fur is like the worst,” she added.
The Furry Box was an old, small, Peptol-Bismol pink building plastered with colorful signs.
Best Queens in the City!
Brunch with the Divas!
Nightly Drag Shows!
I adjusted my hip pads, squirmed a bit on my butt pads. The duct tape I’d used to keep the padding together was itching my skin. I had sculpted the edges of the upholstery foam from a couch I found on the side of the street, making sure there was no lumps, just tapered and smooth and as gorge as possible. But it was still couch cushion.
“Don’t worry,” my sister said. “You’re gonna kill it, bra.”
I hated when she talked like a frat boy.
“I look like Suzanne Somers on a Vegas drug binge,” I groaned, rubbing the lumps out of the thrift store leotard I was wearing, the one I bedazzled myself with Dollar Store rhinestones and a hot glue gun.
I couldn’t afford fake tits, so I was flatter than, well, a boy. The tight shorts I wore covered my attempt at a great tuck, but they were frayed and stained.
My drag persona, Lucky Summers, was inspired by the iconic character of Chrissy Snow from the legendary sitcom Three’s Company. A ditzy, fun, flirty blonde, roller skating through Santa Monica, giving 80’s mall girl realness. Well, that’s what I imagined in my mind for my Drag Queen. I’d adored Suzanne Somers, ever since I was a boy. But this wasn’t giving me life. Like at all.
“Yeah, you’re lookin’ a tad…rough around the edges,” said my sister, pulling down her sunglasses to inspect me.
“Thanks, sis,” I said.
“Not ratchet. Just…rough.” Her eyes were a tad bloodshot. She’d probably had an eventful night of partying. Like every night. “I bet your Thighmaster thingy is gonna win ‘em over for sure though.”
The old Thighmaster I found in the back of our mom’s closet years ago was sitting on my lap. I was gripping it tightly. Nervous as hell. I was going to lip synch to “Lets Get Physical” by Olivia Newton John, all while using the Thighmaster, squeezing it between my manufactured thick padded thighs. My skinny legs were pathetic without the pads. I was hoping the gimmick would give me a leg up (get it?) in the audition.
I needed this job. We both needed this job. My sister and I had moved to the big city of Milwaukee from our small rural town Earlville about a week ago. Ugh. Earlville. I get the shivers thinking about it. All that corn. And flannels and overalls. Oh, and Bill.
Finished with my lipstick, I did a tongue pop in the mirror, bursting that negative energy right out of me.
We had no money. We were barely scraping by. Luckily, my sister had found a job at a bar a couple days ago but I still needed one. So here we were. Waiting outside The Furry Box, the premier (and only!) drag bar in the city, waiting for my 9:00 AM audition.
“Why is there nobody here?” I asked, shimmying my wig, which was the one thing I was wearing that was expensive. $300. I’d had to sell most of stuff in my apartment at a yard sale before I left Earlville just to get this wig. It was a super high, dramatic pony tail, California Blonde, a campy florescent sweat band wrapped around it all and it sat on my hairline perfectly. The taped cap underneath pulled my face back. A DIY facelift. Practically free. “You’d think that guy’s car would be here.”
When I called for the job I had talked to the owner and manager of The Furry Box. His name was Tony Marston. He’d just bought the place about a month ago. He seemed in a rush and disinterested and he told me to be here the next morning at 9:00 AM.
It was 9:05 AM. But no one seemed to be here yet.
“Maybe he takes the bus?” asked Samantha, double-tapping one more post and then putting her phone and coffee in the cup holders. “Some people aren’t as lazy as us.”
Maybe I was giving myself excuses? After all, I was nervous to go in there.
“Alright,” I said, tugging on the heels I got from Goodwill and painted to resemble tennis shoes. “Here goes nothing.”
“Good luck.” She put her seat back, readying herself for a nap, curling herself up into her faux fur coat she’d gotten from mom. “Do your thing, bra.”
I posed in the mirror, smiling bright—like a bimbo would—getting into character. I flipped my hair, raised my eyebrows, puckered my lips, and vogued.
Tongue popped again.
“You’re fierce and fabulous, girl,” I said all sexy in the mirror, as Samantha turned over on her side and groaned. “You’re drop dead gorgeous and you’re gonna make em’ gag!”
My heels clickity-clacked as I walked across the parking lot, echoing against the once-industrial buildings. The Furry Box was on the deserted outskirts of Walker’s Point, a neighborhood where many of the city’s gays lived. But not me. Sam and I couldn’t afford it. We lived on the East Side, near the university, on college kid budgets.
The Furry Box stood out amongst the gray brick buildings towering all around it. At this time on a Wednesday morning, the block was empty, not a person in sight, though the city hummed and honked and hollered in the distance.
I peeked into the windows. It looked like some lights were on but the windows were tinted, and there was a slight thumping of music coming from within, but I didn’t think anyone was there. I’d seen on the internet that this place used to be an old bar for the brewery workers. I pictured burly straight guys in their dirty factory uniforms coming here for a Pabst, bewailing about how the whole world was changing for the worse.
As the neighborhood began to change in the 60’s and 70’s, becoming more and more gay, the bar was bought out and became a simple little drag bar called Betty’s Burgers and served delicious, greasy burgers as amateur, sloppy drag queens performed disco songs. I wonder what the burly brewery boys would think now?
I looked back at my sister who I couldn’t see in the car. My heart beat in my chest. I was nervous. I’d never performed in drag for another person besides my sister. I’d only been practicing drag for about two years. And in Earlville, where there wasn’t a drag bar or gay person (at least ones out of the closet) within a hundred miles, it was difficult to practice my new craft.
Drag had been something I’d thought about doing since I was a boy. But Matthew Christie, my real, birth name, never had the guts to do it. I hadn’t come out until I was twenty-five. Trying to be the good boy, I was the son my parents dreamt of having. I’d played by the rules, done exactly what I was supposed to. Graduated high school, went to a community college for a year but dropped out because I had no money, worked at a bank, and drudged there for ten years, living in my own apartment above the pharmacy on Main Street Earlville, a farming community with a population of about 1,000.
When I finally did come out to my sister and parents, they were supportive. But I still lived pretty inconspicuously. I secretly dated Bill, a straight and married cattle rancher down the road. He was beefy and beautiful. I didn’t want to make waves though. I was afraid of conflict. I was turning thirty years old in a month and I knew I had to change my life, go big or go home, as they say.
My sister and I decided to leave Earlville and move to Milwaukee to pursue our dreams. Mine of becoming a drag queen. Hers of partying and clubbing and becoming the Kim Kardashian of the midwest.
As I opened the glass door, I took a deep breath and told myself even if I don’t get the job, this would be good practice. I had to start getting experience in drag if I want to become a fierce queen. And the job was needed, that was for sure. So hopefully I’d get it.
I tongue popped again, flipped my hair, straightened my outfit, plumped my pads, and entered The Furry Box.
“Hello?” I said. “Mr. Marston?”
I walked into a small dark room with a server stand decorated with a small frilly lamp and covered in glitter. A sign hung from it. You better…wait to be seated by your server.
There was a bench painted magenta and above it were pictures of drag queens performing, newspaper articles, a trophy case filled with pageant crowns and scepters. I gazed at the newspaper articles. Drag Queens Dazzle, Burgers Sizzle. Local Queen Wins Midwest Drag Pageant. The queens looked gorgeous up on the stage, the audience going crazy. I couldn’t wait to be one of them. I wasn’t even close. But every dream takes the first step. Today was mine.
I could recognize the thumping music from within now. It was disco. I couldn’t quite hear what the song was. A slight squeaking could be heard beyond the second door, like a turning wheel or gear. I peeked inside the second door.
“I’m here for the audition,” I said, opening the door a bit more. The lights were on. All of them, it seemed. Now I knew the song. Diana Ross. McArthur Park.
“It’s me, Lucky Summers.”
Now I could see why it was called The Furry Box. It was as if I had stepped inside the belly of a Muppet. A rainbow explosion of fur decorated the entire space, covering the ceiling, which was spotted with spinning disco balls. There was a bar to the right; it kind of seemed like an old tiki bar, one you’d find in your grandma’s basement or something. It was flamboyant and colorful, the stools plastered in fur. The bar top was draped with cheap, vibrant wigs, a plexiglass over it all. Bottles of fruity alcohol shown on the shelves behind the bar. There was a small window revealing a kitchen, with a kitchen door like you’d see in an old Western.
No one was there. But it seemed as if it was all buzzing like it’d be on a Saturday night.
“Hello?” I said.
There was a dining room down some stairs, small tables and booths, about a dozen or so, all painted in fabulous colors. And fur. Even more fur! The small proscenium stage was at the front, with a catwalk jutting out into the audience. The curtains were closed. I saw a door to the side. That must’ve been the Queen’s changing rooms.
A chandelier hung huge and glorious in the middle of the dining room, all cheap, sparkling jewels. Lights shown on it, casting a glittery, magical light display all over the room. It was spinning, squeaking as it spun. I could see a walkway on the ceiling leading to the chandelier. There was a DJ stand, with music and speakers and more lights. It was covered in fur.
I suddenly got excited again. I imagined myself doing a show right there on the stage. Performing for a full house. Killing it. Music pumping. People screaming and laughing. I was a star. I imagined doing a death drop, a classic Drag Queen trick. You jump in the air, land in a sort of split, with one leg behind you, the other one in front.
“Yaaaasss, Queen!” they’d scream.
I couldn’t do one yet. But I knew when I could, it’d be gag-worthy and delight the audience, everyone throwing dollar bills at me. I would be a star, putting the base in my walk. A covergirl!
I gotta kill this audition.
The song ended. Silence. My heart dropped. What if I’d gotten the wrong time? What if it was supposed to be at 9:00 PM? That made more sense. What kind of drag queen was awake by 9:00 in the morning?!
My sister was going to kill me. I suddenly felt very disappointed in myself. Maybe it wasn’t my time?
“Oh, my God,” I mumbled. “I’m such an idiot.”
But why were all the lights on? Why were the doors open? Why was the chandelier spinning?
Suddenly the song started up again. McArthur Park. Again. On replay?
“Helll-ooooooooo?!” I yelled, going past the empty DJ stand. “Mr. Marston? You better not have cancelled…” I began to walk down the steps. “I’m a broke bitch—”
And then I saw it.
A dead body.
She was lying on the floor below the spinning chandelier. She was completely limp, her head on the floor, wearing a wig, which was a gigantic pouf, a renaissance bee-hive. She was dressed as Marie Antoinette. She had white powdery skin, an obnoxious black mole, a beaded, gorgeous gown with a huge hoop skirt. She was old and fat and beautiful. But she was dead. Her eyes were wide, staring at the sparkling ceiling, the chandelier spinning above her. The hoop skirt was showing everything, her foot was bent behind her, a literal death drop. Her heels still on her feet.
I looked up at the chandelier. It squeaked, the thumping disco music in time with my own heart.
“Girl,” I gasped.
The dead drag queen stared up. A puddle of blood bled from her white wig. It oozed all around her, like a melting cake.
I dropped the Thighmaster and screamed. Still no one was here. Just me and the dead queen. I ran out of the Furry Box, my heels klickity-clacking like never before.
Someone left the cake out in the rain.
Joe Neman : Writer 