The Educational Experience soundtrack is here:

http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL8aXxdSi9kurEdSlp-nexGySMXNDg1f8T

12.

We brought Fourth Ave. to a complete halt dancing down the two blocks from The Fun House to Joie Di Vivre. A colorful crew we were, too. All these giggly college girls and gawking tourists grabbed their cells—mad clicks and videos going straight to Facebook and YouTube and Twitter.

Of course, some tourists also grabbed the hands of their kids, like they thought we might run off with a few of them or something. They come to stand next to the fire—like Jimi Hendrix sang back in the day. But not too close.

A lot of the locals had actually been waiting for us to dance by, hoping to fall in line and maybe even make it into the club. But they had a snowball’s chance in Tucson, to mangle an old cliché. The carnival after party was always private. If you weren’t on the guest list, the hairy “bears” and muscled up leather dudes who did security at Joie’s club would give you the boot.

Luckily, they were always nice to Joie’s friends and regulars--you haven’t lived ‘til a big, bearded, lumberjack lookin’ guy smooches or winks at you and goes, “Hey, cutie pie.” I told one of ‘em to kiss my ass once—I was joking, of course—and the fool bent down and did it. You shoulda heard the others squeal and carry on. Still “squirrels” under all that leather and “fur.”

But they can handle their bidness when the time comes. They’ve got skills, those guys. They have guns, too. No lie--some bad mamma jammas, Joie’s bouncer boys. They have to be.

Even though the party was private, the club was jam packed even before we got there this time. That’s because this particular party was being attended by more than just those of us who’d worked the carnival. It was a special night for Joie. And she had a shit load of friends, straight and gay, who would have damned near committed hara kiri if they weren’t invited.

That included a whole lot of big wheels in the “community,” too. I think a lot of people in the “social set” felt being accepted in our circle gave them license to act all “hipper than thou” in their own. It reminds me of how a lot of white people used to go to black clubs ‘way back at the beginning of jazz and all that, right? That standing next to the fire thing again.

But they could leave Harlem later, in their chauffeured sedans. Like the rich folks and tourists left us. Yeah, I’m rich and I can leave. But I don’t. I won’t—can’t, maybe. It’s too much a part of me, I guess. The people on that street and a lot of the ones around it are the ones who kept me alive back when I was growing up out there on my own. Not just physically—remember, it’s a neighborhood full of creative people. People who make music and other art. And they fed me little pieces of that, too.

I think that’s what got me ready for JJ. Hanging out with crazy people hammering big hunks of what most people would call junk into something art people could read like messages—I loved that. Didn’t understand it half the time, but it taught me that anything could be art. We’re all art, in a way. Works of art, walking.

Okay, what the hell, right? I’ve wandered off again. I’d love to call that art, too, but sometimes I think it’s a sign of early onset Alzheimer's, I swear. 

They were bumping Digital Witness, the St. Vincent song Mike and I love to dance to when we walked in. Mike came bopping back to put on a show with me while we were still outside waiting for the grand entrance to begin. That got everybody laughing and carrying on so they didn’t get restless waiting for big moment.

Even before we got all the way in, I could see they had worked overtime decking the halls for sure. I actually wondered if the stores still had any Christmas stuff left once they’d grabbed up all the ornaments and plastic boughs of holly and whatnot tacked up and wrapped around everything.

There were long silver strands of tinsel hanging from the ceiling so thick it looked like hair. And there must’ve been enough lights for a whole cul de sac of McMansions, too, all blinking at different times and rates. God help you if you had epilepsy or something. Between that and the mirror balls, colored lights and lasers and all, you’d be in serious trouble.

As soon as Joie appeared in the doorway everybody starting cheering and stampeding to the door in a big sweaty swarm. So she let off her air horn to stun them into submission.

And then she grabbed the Swarovski crystal covered mic one of the MCs held out to her—no one used that one but Joie--struck this indignant pose and yelled, “Git your silly asses back! And where’s my music, damn it?!”

That was their cue to play what I call the “Gay National Anthem.” It’s called We Can Fly--Sam Sparro wrote it, not necessarily just for gays. He’s gay, though. Proudly. And in the chorus he sings, “Been through the fire and made it out alive--we’re alive!” And man, in the clubs they sing it like they mean it. Tears and snaps and chins up.

Of course, the very first notes sent more people rushing our way. So we had to push and shove and shimmy through until security managed to carve a little path through the screaming hoards for us.

I couldn’t get into it as much as I usually did, though, because I couldn’t see Wyatt. Tall as I was, I couldn’t see over the swarm. And security was shoving us toward the steps to the sky boxes trying to restore order, too. That’s where they keep me so I can duck out of the fire exit if the law comes in unexpectedly. See, even though I have ID that can actually make it past a serious verification check, Joie knows it’s not smart to take chances. She’s got all those famous friends, but she’s had bricks and rocks and even Molotovs thrown through the windows a few times by people who think she’s the devil’s disciple.

As soon as we got to our VIP room, Juke Boxx, this pudgy queen who always wears 50s poodle skirts and saddle Oxfords came rushing in and screamed like I was Elvis or something. That’s her customary greeting. I’d feel neglected if she didn’t act a fool for me.

She also always runs over and squeezes herself between the girls and me, as if to push them out of the picture. But I had Wyatt on the brain this time, even when she grabbed one of the bottles of Cristal and popped the cork with her big old man hands.

“JB, you see a little blond in the conga line when we came in?” I asked her.

She glared at me, free hand on hip.

“I know you didn’t just ask me about some other ho,” she cried. “She is one dead bitch if I find her first!”

“C’mon, I’m really serious. She’s not used to all this craziness.”

Down on the main stage, Joie chose that moment to look up, shade her eyes from the follow spot and yell, “You can run but you can’t hide, children! Get those beautiful butts back down here—we ain’t scurred o’ no cops tonight!”

I sighed and said, “You guys go. I gotta find Wyatt.”

Aisha looked over and gave me a pat on my leg.

“Baby, why you trippin’? She in here somewhere.”

“She’s had a ridiculous day and now she’s...surrounded by a buncha screaming queens.”

“Oh, please—if she can handle you she can handle this,” Cat said, rising to adjust all those under garments that held all that hotness in place. I frankly prefer her au naturel, but that’s way too much bounce to the ounce than a woman would want to show off in public.

“And she’s feelin’ no pain, wherever she is,” Mike reminded me.

“Oh, that makes me feel a lot better,” I said—sort of sarcastic but not like I was angry or anything.

So Mike came over and gave me a little hug.

“We’ll put out an amber alert, okay?” she said, giving me this little wink before she hit the stairs with the other two.

I went over to lean on the little wall in front, hoping maybe I’d see her down in the swirling madness below. But people were looking up at me, waving and holding up drinks and stuff. So I had to put my game face on and wave back.

And Joie said, “Okay, eyes on me now, thank you very much.”

Her adoring fans guffawed. And she shot me a wink before looking out over the crowd with a sigh.

“The time has come, my darlings,” she said.

There was this loud chorus of “NO” from the crowd. But she waggled a finger at them like a teacher shushing naughty students.

“Now we will have none of that, honey. No, no, no,” she said. And then she went to work—the girl is fierce. She can really read a crowd—watches their faces like a hawk and knows just what to do and when to do it.

So she paused a little longer for effect, with this wistful little smile on her face that made you want to know what she was thinking, right?

And then she said, “As most of you know, this will be my last Christmas here at the club that bears my name—oh, shush! Just hush up--worst kept secret in the history of secrets. Don’t be actin’ all shocked. And don’t be actin’ all sad, either. That pretty little boy up there made me an offer I would be a damned fool to refuse. And you know Mama loves pretty little boys bearing gifts.”

They cheered for that. And Joie flashed a 1000 watt smile and gave them some time to bask in her glory—you have to know when to shut up, see. Silence has even more power than words if you work it right.

And when she’d let us all recover for a few seconds, she tossed that wig back and said, “You see…I will be the envy of millions of men the world over—handlin’ fine tits and ass for days, honey! Yass!”

I had to laugh at that one. Our Web sites and merch sales were proof of how right she was. They could retire on that alone if they wanted. Anything with The Fun House Girls on it—that’s their trademark—is theirs now, pretty much. I get a cut, but it’s tiny compared to what some other company would take. And my cut goes back into the business, mostly. Getting them wherever they want to go next.

Joie was upstage, one hand on her hip next. Giving them a saucy stare.

“And just for the pitiful few of you who didn’t get the memo,” she said. “ Those gorgeous girls strutting their way up here have asked me to be part of a dream. It’s a dream a lot of us have, but we don’t all have a little sugar daddy to make it come true, do we? Yes, yes, I know. Life is not fair. To you.”

The crowd laughed at that one, too. And Joie strolled over to her bejeweled mic stand, set the bejeweled mic in it, and just stood there staring out at her fans--with tears in her eyes now.

“Life has been very, very good to me. But Mama had to work, you know what I’m sayin’? Bitches like us have to kick those doors open, honey—you know I’m right!”

The standing “O” and cheers rattled the rafters. So she held her pose for effect, and said, in a slightly softer voice, “Never fear, my babies. The club will still be here, and Joie will be here, too, in heart, mind and spirit.”

Man, when she said that, the crowd went went nuts. And it got worse when my ladies arrived onstage, playing their roles full tilt, throwing kisses and winking and waving.

It’s like acting—you have to always remember that. They’re not screaming for you. They’re screaming for this character that doesn’t even really exist. They might not even notice you as you. They might not like you as you, either—and you have to be okay with that.

The minute you start editing your real self to be what fans want you to be 24/7, you’re on your way to a strait jacket. That’s why a lot of ‘em self-medicate, to keep all the multiple personalities in check—Maddie never got this. Fame’s a drug. The drug. Just a tiny taste can mess you up for life if you don’t check yourself regularly.

Joie checks it when she’s going from boy to girl every day. She says, “Show time,” when the transformation is complete. And strikes a Vogue pose—she’s Joie then.

And she was Joie to the nines that night, boy.

She turned to the girls and said, “Lord, will you give a bitch a break up in here, please—are you people seeing this?”

Big crowd roar—I’ll just do that from now on. Just, like, abbreviated sound effects.

“Well, for some reason these luscious ladies have asked moi to handle wardrobe and makeup not just for them…” big pause for effect, “…but for every performer in every production in their new club in Las Vegas--lord, my nerves!”

Okay, this particular roar is worth describing. While Joie stood there fanning herself, people leapt up on chairs and tables and started screaming and carrying like Oprah had given away cars to everyone in the audience or something.

I was about to go crazy, too. Because even with all that going on, Wyatt had yet to make an appearance. And I could see damned near the whole club from up there.

So I decided that I was going to take a chance and head down there as soon as Joie was completely done with me and the girls—I knew what was coming and that it’d get pretty rowdy once she made that announcement.

And she was going for it right then, in fact.

She said, “Their Vegas Fun House won’t be open ‘til next summer, but tickets for that first week are already gone—bitches are fierce, are they not? Yass! But they’ve set aside twenty VIP tables for charity, sly devils—do you see my boys out there? Boys, wave to the people for me!”

Her boys were the waiters who ran around taking drink and food orders in these little gold boxer shorts. And they all grinned and waved these little slips of paper—raffle tickets—on cue.

“We want all of you rich bitches out there to buy a whole handful of those tickets—each book costs $100. That’s not even lunch money for most of you so don’t even try to make any funny faces up in here tonight,” Joie said.

“Now, there are some other nice prizes, too—designer shit. And some serious technology, too, honey. We don’t play. So I want you to dig down into those deep pockets and give all you can because Little Daddy up there is going to match whatever we raise and we are going to build us some houses next year—are you ready for this? In honor of The Fun House, we are going to build houses—that’s what I said! And those houses will go to the forgotten people who are workin’ two and three jobs and still can’t afford rent let alone to buy. We’ve done plenty for the poor and that’s not going to change. But right now, we’re thinkin’ about those people right on the edge, the ones that fall right through the safety net because they’re got a few dollars above some limit. Are you with us on that?”

They were with her and climbing over each other to get at those tickets. I was really happy to see that—I almost forgot about Wyatt, in fact.

“Oh, you’re makin’ Mama so proud—lemme do somethin’ for you right quick—Tony, put on somethin’ these girls can get their wiggle on to, honey! Y’all get up there on those platforms and give ‘em some inspiration, wouldja?”

They put on that Talk Dirty to Me song and my girls got their grind on at once, up on these platforms that this dude in the DJ booth operates along with all the other special effects. As the platforms rose, he let off a bunch of smoke from each one and turned the mirror ball on, too.

And the party was on, boy—my girls did their thing and all the guests were fighting for tickets and dance floor space. It was bedlam in there.

And I took off down the stairs and dove right into it. Couldn’t see shit, though. And there were all these babes and boys all over me, too, pretty soon, wanting selfies and to kiss me and all that—Big Man swam over somehow and got me over to the DJ booth.

Which is where we both saw Wyatt come out of the Ladies Lounge surrounded by a group of loud locals and some of Joie’s squirrels.

“What is that little woman up to?” Big Man asked me—we couldn’t see them as well as we wanted. So we went out again, and that’s when I realized exactly what she was up to.

And all I could say, as I watched two of the squirrels lift her up onto a platform with them, was, “Oh, shit…” And Big Man started laughing his ass off.

See, Wyatt was up there giving my girls some serious competition. She was three sheets to the wind for sure—you could tell by her eyes. But that little chiquitita was gettin’ her Shakira on up there—real belly dancing, not that fakey stuff video hos and pole dancers do.

Swear to God—I have no idea how they found out she could work like that, but she was doin’ it to death. In fact, she was doing it so well that they started raising up the platform she was on, like they do when they really like what somebody is doing up there. She was swingin’ all that hair and swingin’ her hips--every time they got to that Middle Eastern sounding riff those hips would do stuff you’ve never seen hips do before.

She even dropped it like it was red hot and came up with her little butt stuck out just the way they the pros—people screamed. As if she needed even more encouragement, right?

So Big Man leaned over to me and said, “Well now, I think your girl can handle ‘er own bidness, Lil Daddy.”

“Yeah, well, when she sees herself all over YouTube and whatnot tomorrow morning she’ll wanna know why we didn’t do something—what if her kids see ‘er? God—what if the parents—what if the principal sees her dancin’ like that?”

“Hell, I’d give ‘er a raise, myself,” Big Man said.

I rolled my eyes and started trying to make my way over to the platform. But there was just no way. By then, there were even straight and gay guys raining money at her, right? And I wanted to yell at them for it, but I mean, that’s what they do at those places. It’s how Joie’s girls made all that wardrobe and makeup money.

A few of them were starting to pick it up and put it in their own bras, but I knew they wouldn’t keep it unless she told them to. They have rules about that.

So while I was standing there in the traffic jam feeling totally useless, I finally saw Big Man sidle up to the special effects guy in the booth. And special effects guy laughed and nodded and the platform started to go down sloooowly.

But it startled Wyatt. And as I watched in horror, she stumbled backwards, fell off the damned thing and disappeared into the madness below.

My heart stopped. I started shoving people like a mad man to get over that way until I looked up and saw all these guys holding her up over their heads like before, in the conga line.  

And our eyes met. And she gave me this boozy grin and blew me a kiss.

And then my cell phone buzzed…and I heard this commotion at the door…

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