If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why?

What I didn’t know yet was that I started reading for the part the moment I walked into the colonnade. 

Without sitting for the standard screen test, I got cast in the role of Truly Scrumptious. 

Instead, Sister Sun sat with me in the little glass building, outside the ‘Plexiglass Confessional.’ She explained the look-alike mishap from earlier. “Miranda and the queens can’t stop laughing long enough to come in here and apologize. They’re running around playing this video  and shouting, SAY MAGRATHEA! 

Those women were all in the wrong place for tryouts for the roll of Truly’s bête noire, Periwinkle’s nimesis, the insatiable Ms Trulie Skrumshus. It’s more of a Chekhov method role. They should’ve been at Fuck E. Cheese. The role has a lot of turnover. We go through a dozen or so Trulie per season. And two seasons ago they almost killed another Periwinkle in real…”

To recapture my attention, Sun says, “Ain’t it pretty? It’s a Womb Settee.” Pointing behind her,  at the absolutely gorgeous red loveseat my eyes are stuck on, in a terrarium display case with a charred wood base and background. “It’s Eero Saarinen, a copy of the one that belongs to Judy, his Winsome little Copy Editor. 

And the wall treatment is called Shou Sugi Ban.” Sun says,” Some of the guys on the crew helped another crew member make it from the ruins of their childhood home. It was her grandparents’ house. There’s this whole excruciating, long ritual Periwinkle has to go through before he gets in the confessional to give his account, naked, kowtowing before his Truly Scrumptious, sitting on that, as you call it, “Love Seat. 

You! If you get the part.

And…

…we got to meet that beautiful sister Miriam and her Xhosa accent. We got her a reading part too.”

Then, she made me understand that the acting role only pays Scale, which is like Minimum Wage for performers, but that I should really study the contract. “Once you understand all the legal mumbo jumbo and jargon, you’ll like it, I promise. But it’s heady as rocket science.” 

Afterwards, I hung out the whole afternoon with the Bunch of Queens, the series’ Production Team. We went Into the evening, shopping and talking shit about men and bad about people in general. 

Miranda says, “Don’t worry ‘bout trying to get a shuttle in this rain tonight, Girl! The Propmaster is sending you home in his car, Sweety. You got the part. We’re starting with ‘’The Captive Empress”. Handing me this script.” 

One queen sings, “Ooh! I wanna put my feet on that rug.” 

I didn’t get to see Papillon until after the book signing, after dark, when I was leaving. “That’s him over there. Goodnight Mr. Day!” Judy and the queens yell, across the gaming tent, dumping bags of glow in the dark cups into a giant shredder. I didn’t get to see the signing and we didn’t get to talk at all. 

Miranda says, “He ought to be at about half a shitonne of GITD Glitter, by now. When Propmaster Butterfly Boy over there finishes and leaves. Oh Miss Scrumptious. It’s gone be a hot mess, up in here! I’m gone take my shoes off and these pants. And…” 

The queens joined in chanting, “And kick up my heels!”

“…and this sequins, this fake hair, and this glitter, and these feathers and this garter, and this fake butt and these fake tits and… 

And kick up my heels!

…I is gone run around this bitch naked as the day I was born.” And they all fell out on the lawn laughing and wafting the scent of wet thyme and clover into the warm night air. 

Waving their blinking shoes in the air, then kicking them across the lawn. 

I was glad I didn’t get to talk to Papillon. I would’ve spent all my time trying to figure out how to apologize for how I treated him the last time I saw him and trying to figure out how to stop apologizing. I ain’t used to telling men I’m sorry that we had sex. And now that I know he’s as rich as cream, I want him again.

Miranda continues, “The contract template is in the back. The children have chosen you to be this season’s Queen of the imagined nation. Read it carefully! We start shooting as soon as we find a new male lead.” 

Sniggering, “Yeah! The last one started experiencing severe periods of psychosis the morning after he met the real man Periwinkle is based on in a bar. It was sad, but people tried to warn him. We still can’t stop laughing about it. 

As Judy hugs me tight before helping me into Muon, his electrified Newport green Newport sedan, saying “You are Truly Scrumptious, Miss Walker.” 

Thinking about Sister Sun’s description of Judy, the Line Editor’s unique brand of cute, I giggle for the first time all day. “Winsome is a more accurate description of that sexy assed wasp waisted, wide hipped, bubble butt, nerdy little Victorian Chinese Goth chick, behind them Sally Jessy Raphael glasses, blue hair and big assed headphones. I see why he keeps her living in another state.”

It’s tonight that’s hard. It’s raining hard! 

The streets are beautiful, empty and shining, flowers blooming in the trees. Riding home in the back of this super quiet car, scanning over this script. 

I’m realizing that I’m reading the intimate details of Papillion’s real life, his truth about his process and the drama behind how this whole thing was made real, the parks, the studios, the schools, the village. 

I’m remembering his scribbles, words and sketches, and that I was there with him before it all. 

I wanted to feel ashamed, cause all this could’ve been mine. Still, grateful that so far my experience with him was not in the story. I don’t want anyone to believe I could lose all they’d made over something so petty and vain. 

I didn’t want anybody to know what I had done to him, with him, and because of him. 

I wanted to feel ashamed, but I couldn’t. I whipped his little blue ass with my shoe ‘til the heel broke off in his arm. Right there on the curb outside the apartment he helped me find. 

Scruffy broke ass motherfucker. Why’d you have to love me?

Miss Dehr Whyte, his chauffeur asked me if there was any place I wanted to go before she dropped me off. Honestly, I wanted to be anywhere except where I was. I answered, “No, but, can I ask you a question? He’s still washing dishes, walking just about everywhere he goes, right? How can he have a big ass car like this and a driver?”

She says, “That’s three and a half questions, Sweety. And it’s okay. 

We don’t work for him. Papillon works for us. All the children, all the elders, all the mothers, all the caregivers. He serves his God and he works for food and he caters to the wealthiest people you’ve ever heard of. That’s it. And you know, sometimes making sure he’s happy is too much work for people. Some days, folk just tell him, flat out, ‘I don’t feel like doin’ that.’ And you know, he just smiles that sad little smile and says, ‘Okay’ and walks away. Happens more often than you’d think too. 

But don’t let him fool you, Honey. He’s got fleets of cars, Airships, boats and all kinds of things, villas, apartments, cottages and estates. All for us to enjoy. 

Oh and you know he can drive too. He likes old style stick shift manuals. No synchros. We took him out for track day a couple of weeks ago. He stayed on my bumper for twenty laps at over a hundred twenty miles an hour on the straights. He loves making stuff, and making sure everybody else has what they want, he just doesn’t care about owning things.” 

She looks back at me in the mirror and states, “You two used to be a thing. Right?”

I started feeling tricked and cheated out of my share of the whole damned thing. I had him and I lost him. I am ashamed of that. 

I confess, “A weekend. I’m an Umma Heyboo.” 

As she pulls off the freeway, I ask, “Can you stop at a Drive-Thru. I need to eat something as cheap as I feel right now.” 

I got a Bigass extra large number three combo and a blue Icee granita. 

Act 2: Oh Really?

Imaginary Friend Rule No. 10: Command Performances;

The Reigning Queen of the imagINed Nation may demand an imaginary friend’s presence for any social occasion at any time without warning or provocation.

Sitting in the window, listening to the rain in the darkness outside, reading through the Captive Empress. 

Thinking about this morning.

Knowing deep in my heart that I’d be the exact same way to a real man as the women in this story are to him. 

I couldn’t understand him still wearing the same old out of date clothes. 

Still living in that tiny bungalow in the Dead Zone, near the borders of Hamtramck and Highland Park. Still walking to and from work, still sleeping on a little pallet in that clay walled attic, like some monk. 

His studio was bigger and nicer than the place he lived in. 

I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I didn’t. 

I couldn’t, he was paid beyond my imagination. 

Still I’m wondering, wondering how could anyone be so cruel and mean to someone like Periwinkle. 

And how was he still filled with more joy than anyone I’ve ever known. 

I’m stuck at the part of the contract that I’m supposed to write for my character. 

I picked up my phone and dialed Miss Dehr Whyte. Then I bought tickets.

Papillon protested, but I made him meet me in the lobby bar of The Vinewood. I was taking him to dinner then to see Moodymann.

At the gate to the club Cakes, the Amazonian Dora Milaje type kneels down to my eye and says,  “Miss Thing…

…There is no VIP to…

…Trish! That is your narrow blue ass. Ain’t it? What you doin’ here? I ain’t seen you since…” 

Before Papillon could finish saying, “Hey Cakes! Benita came into my shop and shut me down. This is Cani, my date for the night. How are you?” 

The Giant womanly person was all over my date like a black leopard print blanket, “Hey Baby! Long time. How Are you?” She’s saying, “Oh Come on in girl. You with Mister Bubbles.” 

Periwinkle’s just saying, “…Thanks. You smell wonderful. Like always, but Cakes, you’re smothering me. Please.”

After a few seconds of blah blah between him and Cakes, the giant Nightclub bouncer. Papillon is off yelling, running to talk with the gathering of Dee Jays and musicians a few yards away. I’m a little warm right now. I just spent a thousand dollars to get us in here.

Standing close to seven feet and dressed like a warrior from Bartertown, in her chain mael, reptile and black fur, Cakes smiles over me, “I’m sure he’ll be safe with you tonight. You’re pretty. They don’t like real pretty ones here. Do your thing, but no more than two drinks in two hours for him, always two glasses of tap water between. And…

…If I see that Churchboy surface. You’re out. Understood? Thank you, Doll face.” I passed through and into the club.

When I catch up he’s barkin’ like a general, “Kenny! What up dough! I can’t believe that rapper, what hiz name, Not Gosling, Double Loon, Merganser, Teal, Scoter or something.” 

Somebody across the room yells, “Same as my name. Dude.” 

He says, “Yeah. Thank’s Drake! Whats hiz name. Yeah!” Drake says, “Whatever. Hater! Butterfly Boy. You’re such a Hater.” 

I’m heated, ‘cause, this is supposed to be a surprise for him. He knows everybody on the line up, the bouncer, the bartenders, the barbacks and the bussers. I could’ve got in here for free. 

Papillon continues, “Whaupdoh Mike, gimme a light Bro. Yo’ You still fighting disease and crime and bad E. D. M. gittin’ labeled Dee Troy Eat! Techno.”  Then says, “Drake. You are the only Drake I know, Drake. And that pasty pale stick figure with dodgeballs for breast was Penman’s most recent ex girlfriend, and she was on IRL News this morning.”

Mike turns his hands over to show an easy dozen gas station/party store lighters in each, “Yeah Man. Any of these yours, put it back, Broham. If not, take one. I’m bout’s to bounce. Time for my set. Yeah and somebody else was doing that same shit back a couple weeks ago. Ran the Mt. Elliot French Road slip. We ain’t laughin Bubbles, it’s hard being an imaginary friend these days. At least you’re a specific color. We’re video game characters and endangered wildlife species. In Real Life. Give us a Break, Bro.”

Papillon says, “You know I love you all, but the conversion rate to cash. I just got upgraded to a range of hues and saturations. Man, Money is worthless. I gotta tax you brothers. I know I’m the asshole, but I gotta do my job. We had to pay a bunch of City departments, Tens of shittonnes worth of tokens, for GNN releasing that footage to the majors. They got enough for a vote. Studio don’t fuck with money! Kenny?”

Who says, “Alight! It was Penman’s ex and some Crank head, Studio reject, hooked on Sixtyeight. You know that I owe you one shit. Some tatted up piece of Mormon runaway from some Michigan Ave. strip club  in the nineties, Roni Sue Sumthinorother. Said, they torched T. J. N. S. and shot up a school. Did the Three Castle Run, Mt. Elliott Slip and the Tunnel to McArthur Bridge in one night.” 

He turns back to them, “Anyway, What hiz name that Double Loon, Wigeon, Teal, Coot, Duck, Eider, Grebe, whatever…

Papillon points into the crowd, “You know I love you too, but you’re real, Drake. And yeah, you’re a reality Nexus too. Like in the Movie. Paradise Lake is real. Bro. Real people ask you if it is real. Drake, the Red Rooster of Paradise Lake. Real money is cool for you, Drake. But you know…” 

…Dude, PAID somebody on the park’s payroll, some ridiculous sum, to stream that stupid, ‘IRL Detroit Shit! For Real? They’re RUNNING’ the Davison Donut from our childhood memories, from your childhood, Kenny! 

That was Darth Vader’s Family Estate Wagon number three? Graphite Powder Black, SS Four Fifty Four; Paxon Blower, Four Weber Two Barrel Carbs, Intercooled Twin Innercool GR turbos… 

…Shall I go on? 

I’m not sleeping Bro. Are you okay? 

People are doing it, in Real Life, with real people, in real cars, with real bullets, because the Virtual is Not Enough. 

They’re doing it In Real Life, because some chick in Frenzy got some kid Cranked on SoCoHol, going off lot, running Davison in real life. Because Falcon ain’t coming, Spawn ain’t Coming, Mantis ain’t coming and Batman is not coming to save real people and cops are cheap targets. Huh?

…Kenny, Baby. Are you okay? I’m not gone make yo set tonight. I’m leaving before the monster comes out. I know that’s alright with you and thangs. I’m on a date and I don’t want to forget this sister’s name…”

Kenny, says, “Yeah Man. Muthafucker wasn’t me, man. I traded that whip to Matthew, for this analog recorder and a warehouse of tapes and reels long while back. He loves all that ole Dee Troy Eat shit. The sistahs keep me sleeping fine and my hoes is making my money. Whatupdoh. Oh! And remember little incorrigible Mister ‘Nice monster under the little white boy’s bed…

…Niggah, you’re Matthew’s imaginary friend. 

Bubbles! You handle it. And niggah loves Davison Donut too.”

I get my hellos in when under the awning at the threshold from Dan’s backyard to Julie’s bar, he’s saying, “Kenny, meet my date, Mmm…”

“Moodymann!” I’m yelling, “You’re talkin to Moodymann like… 

… Oh niggah. I’m going beyond the veil with somebody tonight.”

He’s saying, “Yo! Look, Benita, came in my shop in Riot gear and told me to Shut the Fuck Up! 

Told me to go have a good time, possibly get my rocks off, maybe get some sleep. Now I’m up in here with… 

Moodyman turns to greet Periwinkle’s date, ME! Pimpmatically sayin’,

 “Excuse me…

…Umm…

…And just who is this Sexy Muthafukah? I’m Kenny, Papillon’s neighbor in real life. Nice to meet you, Umm.” 

At the exact same time, Outis Eelkõige, the guy who played the role of Periwinkle on screen for season seven, who’s presently picking his jeweled tooth with his jeweled pinkie and photographing himself in his phone’s mirror app, slips, bumps into me, pushes Papillon out the frame, while dickishly saying to the entire Ghetto News Network, Black Twittah and the world,

Dude says, “How you doin? I’m Periwinkle Bubbles,

Umm…And just who is this Sexy Muthafukah? 

I like your shoes.”

Without thinking, I say, “Thank you.”

“Outis Inparticular says, “So, you gonna keep them on when you fuck?.” 

Without thinking, I say, “I might.”

All the DeeJays ask, “Niggah! Did dude just use your only other pickup line? Niggah. Damn.”

Papillon says, “Oh, No! Not again.”

Before I can finish saying, “Again? Whachu mean, again!”

Cakes catches the stumbling Papillon, straightens him up and bows over his shoulder, asking, “Did you just say that you are Periwinkle Bubbles?

Butterfly, take your date and get out.

You don’t want to see this.

And your friend Periwinkle here got the tab for the house tonight”

Papillon says, “Okay. Bye! I’ll see y’all on the lot. I’m supposed to be having a good time. I ain’t and I ain’t trying to make Cakes do her job tonight. 

So, whoever sees him first, warns Penman. When I see him, Doesn’t matter when…

…two thousand years from now or in two weeks when I really want to. I don’t care.

Pendragon Hedgeman will never be one of us, but I’m going to do some shit to him only an imaginary friend can do.

Tell him his evil twin is looking for him.

Reaches back to grab my hand, “And yes Baby, Cakes is a she. She’s just a whole lotta woman. With a fabulous library and the most adorable boite à bijoux apartment. And, No! We ain’t fuckin’ no. Cakes is Therianthrop. We ain’t never. She’d have to eat me to become a woman again. She loves me too much for that…” 

I got loud, “What! I came to see Moodymann. I ain’t going nowhere. I spent damned good money to get up here. And what do you mean again?” 

He walks out saying, “Okay. You spent money? Real money? Yeah Okay. Bye.”

I stayed, I got fucked up, I took Dude behind the curtain and did all kinds of things to Periwinkle’s body and completely forgot Outis Inparticular ever exists.

In the morning Miss Dehr Whyte is waiting at the curb to take me to the studio, as we walk out, he’s saying, “I’m going to catch a cab back to my car. I left it at the club.”

I’m struggling to remember that I just fucked Dude here. 

She says, “Hello Outis. How about I drop you off at Julie’s, it’s on the way. Good morning Umm…

…Mister Bubbles wants to meet with you before we start shooting. He’s in the car. Is that alright?”

Dude, started twitching as he greeted the red head Amazon. 

When she opens the car door, Outis sees my date from last night, saying, “Julie said your card was maxed out with your tab still open for about half a shittone of Glitter. You can work it off bussing in Dan’s backyard and DJing for the Cornholers on Wednesday and Sundays for the rest of the season.” Dude snaps. “You! You’re the incorrigible Mister Periwinkle Bubbles? Who am I? I am a figment of my own imagination. I am a make…” Miss Dehr Whyte dropped him with a two piece. One in the ribs and one on the chin. 

As Papillon says, “Good morning Miss Walker. I see you’re staying in character and getting plenty of practice.”

When we drop them off on Vinewood and Buchanan, Outis is sayin’, “Why are we getting out here? My car is on Second and Seldon.”

“Really. That’s nice.” Papillon smiles, “Okay, In order to get back to being me again. I have to go back to Square One. And because you’re me, you have to come along. My childhood home was right there. I walk this way to work now and then. It’s about a five mile hump. Quit playing.  Papillon smiles, “Shut up and start humping’ Niggah. Before I have Miss Dehr Whyte slice you up with my main gauche. You thought that you could get away with pretending to be me in public? Around my friends.

But first! We got to stop at Penman’s House.

Turn right at the light, right again, right on McGraw and right again to get on the freeway.”

The sky changes from rainy gray to a hellish overcast red as Miss Dehr Whyte closes his door and walks around the car. Soon as she closes her door I hear a gunshot and we drive toward an army marching across the blinking traffic light at the corner. In the rear view mirror the horizon is ablaze and dark. We turn right at the brown brick school building, then right again at the next corner and back into the rainy gray morning after…

…Umm. What’s his name?

Copy #6667AB

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In the back seat alone, I fall asleep reading.

The next thing I know I’m getting out of the car at this lake cottage.

I’m about to throw this book and this contract out the window and say fuck it.

Thinking, why do I have to spell it out for him? A real man just ought to know how to treat a woman. 

An hour later Papillon’s walking through the door with a Thank you bag full of snacks. Smelling like the woods and cigarettes.

When I remember Rico, the sexy ass waitress in the French maid uniform calling Papillon,  ‘Trish’.