Shaky Madam

Life in a small mountain town means it’s not unusual to be recognized. But to hear my name when dressed up in an ostentatious ruby dress and black fishnet stockings, a magenta-and-bubblegum-pink-boa draped across my back and over my elbows, a cerise silk ribbon tied around my throat and vermilion lipstick—to look nothing like myself, yet stand out in kodachromatic vividity whilst hearing my name was abnormal.

I’d been rushing to Town Hall, the streets full of traffic forced to wait for the jaywalkers, the sidewalk swamped with oglers unable to enter the stores overflowing with sweaty, dehydrated bodies, wallets opening and closing, a crush of consumption.

I turned to the sound of my name again and saw my boss; he and his wife stared at me agog, the hustle of tourism flowing around us. I had a momentary flash of what they must be going through seeing me, the woman who doesn’t know how to do her hair or wear make-up, the woman always in slacks, now looking like the madam from any western imaginable. I gave them my biggest, fakest smile, and winked. What could I do? I’d agreed to play this role three days a week, every weekend, for a month, and I’d do my best.

“I’m late for the show!” I said, “Come see it if it’s not sold out.” I waved and click-clacked away down the sidewalk at a clip, the jaunty feather in my hair threatening to come loose at any moment.

He can’t fire me for what I do outside of work, right? I thought, zipping along as best I could, “excuse me!” and “pardon me!” and “come to the Melodrama!” escaping my lips repeatedly as I made my way down the final block. A pause for a quick moment as someone with a camera insisted on a photo; I bawdily crook up my knee and the skirts of my dress, drape my arm around their shoulders. The moment the shutter snaps, I’m off.

Finally arriving at Town Hall, the ticket booth still on the porch, I could hear “Oh my darlin’ Clementine” coming off-key from inside. The sing-along was nearly over but I wasn’t too late. “We sold out!” I’m told as I hustled by giving a thumbs-up before stopping inside the doorway, allowing my eyes to adjust from the glare of a cloudless fall day to the shuttered windows and air-conditioned interior, the stage ahead of me lit as professionally as an off-Broadway production.

Not only were we sold out, it was standing room only. Thank god, I thought. It was hard enough finding the nerve to do this for a good cause, even harder in a near-empty theater. Unfortunately, there would be no way to quickly nor discreetly edge around the room; I’d have to walk right up the aisle.

There was modest clapping before a woman called out, “And now we’re going to finish with She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain!” As the piano cued up, and before I could lose my nerve or my lunch, I trotted up the aisle clapping my shaking hands in time, occasionally rubbing the feather boa along a gentleman’s shoulder in passing.

I reached the group of ladies in similar attire just as one woman began her chaotic ‘ride’ across the stage, one hand holding invisible reigns, the other hand thrown up to the sky a trail of feathers behind it. The crowd erupted in laughter, and I remembered it isn’t just the scholarship money we’re raising, the energy and the humor of that space make it almost worth the shaky-pukey feeling I get every time I take the stage.

-Sunday Dutro

Sunday Dutro is a creative nonfiction writer with publications in or forthcoming with Bear Paw Arts Journal, Panorama Journal, Nunum, and BarBar. She is a UCDavis, Writing By Writers Manuscript Boot-Camp, and Haven I Writing Retreat alum. Sunday lives in Montana with her family, and is actively working on a memoir. Find her at sundaydutro.com