Follow The Flock
“TAXI! Fannie Beacon & the crew need a RIDE!” Chimes, formerly known as Shannon, who is meow the fabulous: FANNIE BEACON.
She waves her fluffy gloved hand and points her finger in the air at an upcoming yellow cab; it’s waiting at the light. I watch her as she places, her now ungloved, finger and thumb in her mouth to make a piercing whistle in the true New Yorker style. I feel so intimidated by the demanding nature of the entire situation. I would for sure be swallowed whole, then spit out both wounded and limping by this beast of a place.
Patches Millgate & Cricket Sunnyside, holding up the large white cake box and balancing in 3″ heels, step between the newspaper cases to wave down another cab. Patches holds the side of her hot pink feather boa in the air and waves.
“TAXI! Yooohoooo, OVER Here!” she demands.
The cars begin to stream from the light. The bridesmaid minions were not only tasked to carry the phallus, but to protect it at ALL costs. They tip toe around ice and delicately step so their unprotected hooker heels will not sink below the surface of the daunting ice formations along the street. There is no way all of us will fit comfortably with this ridiculous cream filled confection. The long cumbersome box itself would take up at least two seats! Patches Millgate shrieks as one of her heels sinks and is enveloped by the surface of black crud beneath her. Two of the girls, Mimi Magnolia and Prissy Longvue, break away from our group to help secure the cake as Patches Millgate curses and hops on one foot.
The snow looks filthy; in February, it’s a far cry from the white winter wonderland you see on postcards of New York. The dreary sky glows from the lights of the city and the excitement of its pulse seems to reverberate down the frigid streets. The dingy islands of ice line each corner with their black lines of dirt; continually sprayed and sloshed by the passing cars. It’s truly a treacherous winterscape as the black ice, with it’s casual looking sidewalk, awaits its next unsuspecting victim.
I am, at this point, so glad I wore my boots! However my toes feel damp and are beginning to sting as we wait. I look down and notice the daunting black slush puddle that we have all precariously surrounded as we try to huddle together. There are floating pieces of trash and a couple wads of what looks like pink and white chewing gum in a shallow part of the curb. We manage to find segments of damp concrete that are slightly above the ice as the wind snaps at our ears and burns our noses. The city girls shift uncomfortably in their heels, cover their necks with their scarves and place their hands in their pockets. The warm clouds of breath billow above our flock as we shiver and chatter away.
Our crowd has grown to an even dozen now. The two taxis pull up in line to the curb creating a wake of charcoal slush. It spreads over and around the metal newsstand legs. We step back from the sludge and line up together. Everyone holds hands to help each other negotiate the good and bad ice patches in our ridiculously high, non-weather appropriate shoes. I watch the large white cake box float over us as it is gently guided into the safety of the cab.
“Oh PLEASE be fucking careful!” calls Fannie Beacon from the middle of the nest of feathers.
“The Cock is safe!” Announces Cricket Sunnyside as she and (her new bff for the night) Mimi Magnolia sit together with the box and hold Patches Millgates’ purse while she wipes her patent leather pink heels clean. The girls are chatty and excited as they each await their turn to join the flocks inside of the toasty cabs.
The cab drivers reach out to assist us one by one, onto the platforms of the vans. They step aside as we stumble, flap, and grab desperately for their ushering hands. The overwhelmed drivers hurry and quickly reach for each struggling girl. Its like we are rare dangerous birds with our boa plumes, flashing penis baubles and uncertain feet. All the while, the girls are calling out to each other practicing their new titles, sliding here and flailing there, laughing hysterically. We of course, are completely oblivious to the threat of the ice and how idiotic we are.
“Skippy Perkins! Make sure to not drop your boa in the slush girl!” bellows Bubbles Esplanade as she prances over toward the other cab.
She makes it to the small curb behind Prissy Longvue and picks up the train of blue feathers that are trailing behind Skippy Perkins’ blue coat. I can hear Fannie Bacon’s voice over the traffic as she shouts to Bubbles Esplanade and Skippy Perkins in specific detail where the martini bar is before she hops over the patches of ice back to our brown taxi van. The driver takes her hand and makes sure she steps over the icy puddle as she waves to the other taxi. She looks into the back seat and immediately orders us into a new seating arrangement
“Cookie Browning Lane sit over here! Wicket Beau Pre has to be in the front! After all… SHE’S the queen of the night, EVERYBODY needs to see HER first. So glad you made the trip down from Mystic, Bustie Mistuxet you look so Fabulouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuus! You need to sit back here with the MOH,” she orders.
Fannie Beacon points to the back seat where I am now seated. The bride, Wicket Beau Pre, heads to the front as the other blinking and feather covered ladies shift seats.
“UGH! Hold your tits Fannie Fucking B! Let me move my boa…these damned light up penis bobble headbands are blinding!” shouts Boomer Southshore as she squeezes in next to Sugar Severn.
“Oh mah GAWD Y’ALL! I think my ass is frozen, seriously! Why the HELL did I wear a mini skirt? This weather is fucking freezing! I want to go back to the 50 degree wet-cold crap in New Orleans! This is MISERABLE… turn up the HEAT please sir!” whines Sugar Severn as she zips the collar of her coat up around her cheeks.
I smile as I see my cousin making her way to sit in the back with me. Tonight she shall be known to all as “Bustie Mistuxet”. Her phallic name tag catches the light and sparkles as she rounds the seat with her fluffy purple feather boa. I can tell just by the way she responded to Fannie Beacon that she is just as overwhelmed as I am. She turns to me and laughs,
“Cookieee Browning! So good to see you cuuuuz! There is no way I want to buy shots tonight, but there is also no way in HELL I am going to remember ALL of these slut-tastic names! I have no idea what anyone’s REAL name is to begin with! Who knows what this night has in store for us! I just know this is clearly just the beginning of the craziness. Oh and by the way Miss Fannie Beacon already told me I owe Wicket Beau Pre her 1st shot because I didn’t say her STRIPPER NAME right…”
She leans in close to my ear, “I guess Fannie Beacon bitch-face will be the one keeping track all night…let’s make sure to sit far far away from her!” she whispers.
“OK BITCHES! We are off to try the city’s cheapest martinis and after that we have an amazing drag show to see at LIPs! I am the best Co-MOH you have ever had Wicket Beau Pre! Don’t you EVER forget that and you had better love your Fannie Beacon!” she touts.
Fannie Beacon plops into the captain’s seat behind the driver, her blinking penis head band bounces above her as the feathers flutter from the heat blowing on her. The flamboyant bride, Wicket Beau Pre, is dancing in her seat cheering with the other girls. The driver leans back and listens as Fannie Beacon rattles off the address to him. The taxi coasts along the curb and back into the street as the reward of cheap martinis is awaiting us…