Flight of Aquavit (27 page)

from an abbey. Instead of Christmas muzak the

sound system was blaring club tunes from the ’80s

and ’90s. A definite party ambiance was being cre-

212 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

ated here. The brushed-steel and glass bar was lit

from above and below by multicoloured halogens

and around it were two women dressed to be

seen. Sereena, her chestnut tresses a cornucopia of

curls about her face, was wearing a champagne-

coloured pantsuit that seemed to be missing its

back, perilously high heels and a stunning collec-

tion of garnet jewellery. The other woman, whom

I did not know, had straight Titian hair that cov-

ered her right eye à la Veronica Lake (and some-

times Nicole Kidman) and also wore a pantsuit,

but of black silk (its back intact) and a black scarf

dramatically woven about her neck. She was

laden with diamonds that looked spectacularly

real and her lipstick was a vivid red.

“I’m pouring you a Red Apple,” Sereena called

out to me over Aretha Franklin’s “Who’s Zoomin’

Who?” Red Apple Martinis are equal parts gin

(Bombay if you have it), apple juice and red

Dubonnet. Or, as Sereena is wont to suggest and I

am hesitant to repeat, if you’re a woman or not a

sissy, substitute the apple juice with Calvados, a

distilled apple cider that burns the palate.

I looked at the strange woman and then at

Sereena and Jared and back at the woman, trying

to wordlessly request an introduction. They

weren’t taking the hint and I was becoming a little

testy. Daniel would likely be arriving at any

minute and I didn’t want him feeling any more

nervous about his first visit to a gay club than he

probably already was. And I couldn’t understand

why Sereena would have invited Jared and his

red-haired friend over for cocktails when she

Anthony Bidulka — 213

knew we had some sensitive work ahead of us.

“Sereena,” I said after I’d accepted my drink

and placed it on the bar top. “Could I speak with

you in the kitchen please?”

“Don’t be rude, Russell, we shouldn’t leave our

guests alone, especially when you’ve only just met

Clarissa.”

Finally a name. I gave Sereena a tight smile and

held out my hand to Clarissa. “Pleased to meet

you, Clarissa. You wouldn’t mind if I stole Sereena

away for a couple of minutes, would you?”

“Of course not.”

The music must have been too loud. It was

playing tricks on my hearing. I was certain that

the voice that came from Clarissa’s moist, ruby

lips was that of a man.

A voice I recognized.

A voice that belonged to…

Daniel Guest.

I stared at Clarissa’s face. Under close inspec-

tion and layers of cosmetics, it was all there. The

nose, the eyes (without glasses), the jaw. I looked

further down. The well-placed scarf was no

doubt concealing an Adam’s apple. Further. Wide

shoulders and, the most telltale sign, big square

hands. Clarissa
was
Daniel Guest.

It was an amazing transformation. Daniel was

an attractive man
and
a handsome woman—from

a distance. The choice of black and a pantsuit for

his outfit was genius, for both hid a number of

obvious unfeminine traits. The makeup and hair

were perfect. In a dark enough room and at a

polite distance, Daniel could be Rita Hayworth.

214 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

Until he spoke. His voice was deep and undoubt-

edly masculine.

The reconstruction of Daniel into a woman had

been the plan all along (if we were unsuccessful in

the parking lot with Sunny—which we were—

resoundingly). I had gotten the idea from the drag

queen we’d spotted at Colourful Mary’s. I knew

however there was no way I could pull it off con-

vincingly myself. I needed a woman’s touch. I

needed Sereena. So I was glad for the opportunity

to introduce Daniel and Sereena at the DGR&R

Christmas party and thereafter suggest the collab-

oration. Daniel had been surprisingly supportive

of the plan. It met all of his needs. It got him into

the local gay bar where he hopefully would spot

SunLover and it kept him incognito so even his

mother wouldn’t recognize him. And, like many a

gay man, I was guessing he’d harboured a long-

held desire to do drag, even just once, for the fun

of it. And by the smile on his face, he’d certainly

been having fun…and a few Red Apples.

“You had no idea it was me! Did you?” he

shrieked, sounding excited and maybe a little

drunk.

I shook my head in wonder as I surveyed

Sereena and Jared’s handiwork. Now I knew why

Sereena had sounded distracted when I’d called

earlier. “I really didn’t,” I admitted. “Actually, I

still don’t believe it.”

“We wanted to surprise you,” Jared said, with

a companionable elbow resting on my left shoul-

der. “Sereena mentioned what she was doing and

I just had to help. So she called Daniel and asked

Anthony Bidulka — 215

if he’d mind one more person in on the sham,

someone with behind-the-scenes first-hand

knowledge of the makeup secrets of the world’s

most beautiful fashion models. He agreed and

then the three of us thought it would be a blast to

make him up before you arrived.”

“The ultimate test of our success,” Sereena

added. “And succeed we did. Clarissa, you are

gorgeous. You make me want to be a lesbian or a

straight man. Preferably a lesbian.”

Daniel/Clarissa laughed and held out his glass

for more Red Apple. “I can hardly wait,” he

enthused. “When do we leave?”

“All good things in good time,” Jared told him

looking at his watch. “Most serious clubbers are

barely waking up about this time. We can’t possi-

bly make our entrance for another couple of

hours. Until then, we’ll have drinks, pupus and

scandalous gossip!” He turned to me and said,

“And Anthony and Kelly and Errall will join us at

the club later. Don’t worry, they don’t have to

know anything about Daniel. We’ll just tell them

Clarissa is an old friend of Sereena’s in town for

the evening. You’re okay with that, right

Clarissa?”

“Except the part about being an ‘old’ friend,”

he said, hopping not-so-daintily off his barstool.

“There ain’t nothin’ old about me tonight!” And

right in front of my eyes, my accountant client

began to boogie on three-inch heels to vintage

George Michael.

“You sway, Mary Kay!” Jared yelled out, join-

ing in.

216 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

Sereena sipped her drink with deeply sucked

in cheeks and a smug look on her face.

I watched the scene and particularly Daniel.

Like many people in costume or behind a mask,

he’d become a different person. Livelier, more

carefree, more willing to smile wide and let loose

with a smart aleck remark or swear word. He

seemed freed. I couldn’t help but wonder which

character—the staid, uber-professional number-

cruncher or the wild, boogey queen—was closer

to being the real Daniel Guest.

Diva’s is the only gay bar in Saskatoon that has

stood the test of time. It is gay-owned, gay-run

and, although it welcomes the non-gay crowd, it

has held itself aloof from giving in to the allure of

the non-gay dollar as so many other gay establish-

ments do. Gay night-spots the world over attract

straight people who by simple intelligence know

that gay bars are the best place to have raunchy

fun and by sheer volume spend more dollars on

entertainment. Slowly the tide turns and what

was once a gay bar with lotsa gays and some cool

straights becomes a mixed bar with some cool

straights and some cool gays and eventually a

straight bar with lotsa straights and a few jittery

gays. In the short run you can hardly blame the

bar owners, most of whom are just struggling to

stay in business and make a buck. But in the long

run, it seldom pays off. Most of these bars go

bankrupt once all the gays are gone and the

straights realize it’s not so cool anymore and head

Anthony Bidulka — 217

out to find a new gay bar to convert. It’s a sad but

true vicious circle.

As the only sober member of our ABBA-like

group and officially on-the-job, I volunteered to be

the designated driver. It was well after 11 p.m.

before we managed to finish the last pitcher of

Red Apples, cover our finery with outerwear

appropriate for the frigid weather and pile into

my mother’s van. I parked on 3rd Avenue and led

my giddy group down a back alley in the direc-

tion of rumbling music vibrating off the walls of

surrounding buildings. We entered an unmarked

door under a rainbow flag into a long, wide

vestibule at the end of which was a chest-high

window kitty-corner to a locked door. Through

the window we could see a pretty woman in her

late forties giggling with a tough-looking coat-

check chick in her early twenties. Diva’s is a pri-

vate club and as none of us were members we

paid a reasonable cover charge and were buzzed

in through the door. The music we’d heard and

thought was loud in the alleyway hit us at full

high-decibel force. The music is the place. It’s

meant to overcome you, to drive you to physical

limits beyond exertion, to be the magic carpet that

takes you to the moon. Well—the music
and
the

poppers.

Stepping into a gay bar after midnight on a

Saturday night is much the same wherever you

are. It didn’t matter that this bar was in a small

Canadian prairie city and that it was minus thirty-

three outside and our vehicle would be covered

with ice when we finally decided to go home.

218 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

Inside was hot and dark, packed to the rafters

with people made up their best (or worst—

depending on the look they were going for), the

air smelled of sweat and smoke and other sub-

stances and amongst the crowd were, as always, a

bare-chested boy, a bald-headed woman wearing

a too-tight muscle shirt, a six-and-a-half-foot-tall

drag queen, a guy who danced on the speakers

and someone pretending to be straight for the last

time. It was an electric atmosphere where any-

thing could happen but rarely did. And still, as

always, the promise of it was more than enough.

Errall had already arrived and was saving a

table with two extra stools. The positioning was

good, near both the front door and bar and with a

nearly unimpeded view of the dance floor, giving

Daniel the best chance of spotting SunLover. A set

of stairs led to a second level loft with more tables,

a pool table, bathrooms and a drink rail that over-

looked the writhing dance floor. “People keep on

stealing stools!” Errall yelled over the noise of the

music. “I started out with enough but you’re late

and I was beginning to get dirty stares!”

Jared and I stood while Sereena and Clarissa

sat down.

“Sorry,” I said. “I had a hard time convincing

the royal family here to move their asses.” Now

that we were gathered with our heads close

together we didn’t have to shout as loud to be

heard. “Where’s Kelly?” I asked.

“Not feeling up to it,” Errall said, giving me a

look that said she was more than a little pissed off

about it. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and

Anthony Bidulka — 219

a simple low-necked blue sweater that looked

great on her. Her hair was loose around her face.

She put down her bottle of Pilsner and held out a

hand towards Clarissa. “Hi, I’m Errall Strane.”

Clarissa shook hands politely.

“Clarissa is a friend of Sereena’s in town for the

night,” I said.

“Oh, where are you from?”

“Ottawa,” I quickly lied.

Errall cocked an arch-shaped eyebrow at me,

meant to question why I wasn’t letting the lady

speak. She looked back at Clarissa, leaned in

towards her and said rather loudly, “I love

Ottawa. What part of the city do you live in?”

Clarissa pulled back and looked desperately at

me and then Jared and Sereena for help.