The Wangs vs. the World(65)

“I like to bite,” he whispered to Dorrie.

“Your tongue is purple,” she whispered back.

A white man in blackface and a black man in paleface did a very serious, very silent magic act together, facing each other instead of the audience and mirroring each other’s tricks. A woman dressed like a champagne bottle—if a champagne bottle was also a man who was going to be presented to Louis XIV in court—tap-danced. An old cabaret star who had once had a top-ten disco album shook her sagging breasts at the audience, and they clapped and cheered with such genuine appreciation that Andrew started to think that maybe he had misunderstood what it meant to be hot.

With one last shimmy, she walked out into the audience, breasts bare, ripped metallic tights pulled up to her navel, sweat dripping down her face, and stopped in front of Andrew and Dorrie. Dorrie shook her head and smiled. The woman nodded and extended her hand. And then Dorrie was onstage singing a duet. She had a high, sweet voice that made Andrew want to cry. It was just their two voices, no instruments, not a sound from the audience. They sang some old southern folk tune that felt like it belonged a million miles away from this midnight circus in the middle of this ruined town, or like it was born right there. Maybe he was being enchanted, like George Clooney was by the river sirens in O Brother, Where Art Thou? Maybe Dorrie was some New World Circe. Did Odysseus have sex with Circe? But then who was the other woman? A guardian, maybe. A shapeshifter, a changeling, a temptress whose charms were inexplicable, undeniable. Andrew looked down at the drink in his hand. Was that absinthe?

“And now, a comic interlude from my young companion.” Andrew looked up, surprised. The song was over. Everyone had clapped and clapped and so had he. Now Dorrie stared straight at him. “It’s a rite of passage, Andrew. You have to get up onstage your first time here.”

Oh. Okay. Like Rocky Horror or something. Okay, okay, okay. His notes for the new stuff were still in his pocket, and people he was sure he hadn’t met were shouting his name. He didn’t have the right props for the finale, but he’d think of something in the moment. He was about to climb up onto the stage but then thought that he’d better get his drink, so he ran back to his seat and scooped it up and held it high, which brought another cheer. There. The crowd was on his side already, and there was no douche emcee like there was in Austin—these people weren’t clueless Texans, they were artists, and maybe he was, too.

The stage was a long rectangle of old boards put together by someone with a lot of nails and not much building skill. Andrew stood on a board that creaked under his feet and looked for Dorrie in the direction of their seats, but it was hard to make out any single person in the glimmer of the crowd. He looked down at his notes. Was his handwriting always that bad?

Energy brings energy, Andrew reminded himself.

He had gone skydiving once, trying to prove to himself that he could fall out of the sky without dying. Ten thousand feet in the sky, legs dangling off the side of the plane into nothingness, the instructor strapped to him said, “You decide when we jump. When you’re ready, just lean forward.”

Andrew leaned forward.

“Most comedians are miserable bastards. They didn’t get enough attention as kids, either because they were annoying or because they had shitty parents. Probably both. Me? Well, I’m the opposite. I’m almost too well-adjusted. I was athletic—All-American in track. Girls like me.” Someone in the audience whistled. “No, I mean it, they really, really like me. And, worst of all, my family’s rich—or, at least, they were when I was growing up. My dad hugs me, and not in the bad way. All I want is some shit to get upset about so that I can be a legit comedian already!”

He peered out into the dark. Were people laughing?

Was the stage moving?

No matter. The show must go on. It must go on!

“I considered doing a whole act about how good I have it, but then I figured that would never work. So instead, I went with the obvious . . .”

Pause, he told himself. Give it a moment. Make the audience invest in your act. He spread his arms out.

“Yep, I’m Asian.”



Andrew opened his eyes.

He was still drunk. Seriously, that must have been absinthe. How did he get back to the hotel? This bed was so nice. This was probably the best hotel they’d stayed at so far. It must be the next morning. He’d never been drunk for so long. Where was everybody else? Did Gracie know he was drunk? He smiled and felt the corners of his face tugging up. Then he frowned, just to even it out. He rolled over onto his side.

“Hello.” Dorrie. His heart jumped. What was Dorrie doing here? She was wearing a men’s pajama top, silky and maroon. Her eyes were olive now. How did it feel to be made of so many colors? Copper and olive and blue and pink and cream, like a box of crayons. Like a tropical bird.

“Cool pj’s.”

“Thank you.”

“So . . .”

She laughed. “Do you remember anything?”

“I remember you. But how did we end up back in my room?”

She laughed again. “You think this is your hotel room? No, darling, this is my room. My house, actually.” She switched on the bedside light.

Andrew looked around him. Solid. That’s how the room felt. Like every piece of furniture had been in here for a thousand years and was just settling down for a thousand more. “Oh yeah, of course.”