The speakers blared the final chorus of Irene Cara’s new hit “What a Feeling.” What a feeling indeed! There was something to the hits of this new decade that forced her body to move. Slipping in and out of the fluctuating cracks between dancers, she shook her head at the scent of sweat mixed with Aqua Net. A girl caught her eye. Oh, honey! What is with that hair? You trying to build a ladder to Jesus? Rocki chuckled as her heart sank into the pit of what used to be her stomach. If Jesus cared about me, I wouldn’t be forced to haunt this dive for God knows how long. Seriously, God. How long?
Grooving her way back to her former stage, Rocki contemplated the revelers on the dance floor: a whirl of black leather, bright mesh, and colorful blazers. A sequin dress flashed before her. Stylish. Not this new, painted on crap everyone wore nowadays. In her day, she had been glamorous. Today’s youth looked comical.
Flashdance gave way to “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and the revelers coupled off. Others made their way to the bar. Contemplating the dark stage’s splintered wood, Rocki realized why she hated this song. Its beauty became lost in the eclipse: what people could do to one another when they allowed their hearts to darken…
The stage had been abandoned six years ago, shortly after the incident and before new ownership. She spent long stretches of time on this stage: the one place that was still hers.
“Girls Just Want to Have Fun” elicited a smile. Rocki did want to have fun. Strutting back out to dance, she watched hot bodies shiver with cold confusion as she moved through them. That trick never got old. Getting down made Rocki want to shake off her wig. After six years, this damn thing was heavy! She wanted to lose the eyelashes too. The crusty glue grossed her out. But she was stuck with what she had died in. Been murdered in. If she couldn’t shake off the wig, at least she could shake off that unpleasant thought.
She scuffed towards the bar. Had she been alive, her gait would have ruined her fabulous platform heels. One of the benefits to being dead. Leaning against one end, she considered how to amuse herself. Right after her murder, she had enjoyed moving objects to scare the clientele. But that was cliché and quickly got boring. Each night, she challenged herself to come up with something more audacious than the last. After six years, she had spent her creativity.
Spotting a very masculine, unctuous man hitting on an outlandishly drunk girl, Rocki utilized her dress’s feathers to tickle his face. “Macho” tried to slap the irritation away. Rocki tickled faster. Brow furrowed, eyes widened, he whipped his head around looking in vain for the source. Rocki’s torment intensified until “Macho” repeatedly slapped his own face. “Drunk Girl” must have thought this was a game because she joined in slapping him. Rocki fell down screaming with laughter. Toxic masculinity is the worst!
That unshakable thought cheated her of all joy. Jack invaded her thoughts. Her twin. Partners in crime. As little kids, they had been thick as thieves. Inseparable.
***
Born as RockY three minutes before his brother, Rocki should have been the protector. But Rocky’s early penchant for dressing up in women’s clothing had horrified their virile father who vocally and violently disapproved of his “sissy” son. That made Jack the protector, until their father had enrolled them both in boxing in an attempt to “beat the pansy” out of his eldest.
At first, Jack’s protection had continued. But the day he came home with a black eye and busted nose, everything changed. Overnight, Jack’s shame metastasized, and he soon became Rocky’s greatest tormentor; protection turned to sadism. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Not that Rocky could blame Jack. Isolation as the butt of every joke and cruel comment, as well as spending seemingly half his life on the ground or backed up against a wall absorbing infinite punches and kicks was not a sentence his brother needed to endure. As much pain as Rocky’s longing for the return of his partner in crime produced, he wanted Jack to thrive. So he sucked it up, along with the punches, all the while trying to pretend he felt no bitterness.
****
On hands and knees, Rocki noticed “Macho’s” Sperrys and “Drunk Girl’s” Jellies. She wouldn’t be caught dead wearing either of those shoes to a club! Simultaneously, envy hit her. Plastic Jellies may be ridiculous, but they were at least more comfortable than six straight years in platforms.
Back on sore feet, Rocki noticed a closeted regular looking gaunter than usual. Instant recognition. That new disease killing so many. Her heart cracked. How long did he have? Would she even be able to welcome him when he crossed to her side? Or would she still be stuck haunting this club? Seriously, God. How? Long?
Rocki wanted to help. She had been helping her people before the murder. A member of the Imperial Council of San Francisco tasked with raising money for charities both specific to the gay community and all San Franciscans, she and her drag band: Rocki and the Huskettes had been regular performers. Their finale, ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” consistently brought the house down. Rocki’s swagger over the fact that she and the Huskettes were the best fundraisers on the Imperial Council couldn’t have been greater. Giving back to the only community that had embraced her for who she was meant everything.
Pat Benetar’s “Looking for a Stranger” brought Rocki back to 1983. Bopping her head to the catchy tune, she surveyed the barflies only to have the wind knocked out of her… if she’d had any wind that is. The man pulling up a stool was no stranger. Other than a few additional lines on his face, he hadn’t changed one bit. What is he doing here?
His presence spun her back to that 1977 dressing room.
****
Rocki primped her fabulous red feathered dress and the Huskettes preened in gold satin. One of the Huskettes had just made a joke. A hard knock penetrated their laughter. Thinking it was the stage manager, Rocki adopted her highest female voice, “Come in, darling.”
The door creaked. A voice, deeply male, shattered their gaiety. “Rocky…”
Silence.
Through false eyelashes the length of The Golden Gate, three pairs of eyes peered at this lost, nervous man.
Barely maintaining her brittle composure, Rocki broke the silence. “Jack. Did you come for a peep show?”
“I…”
“To get your digs in so you and your friends can have a laugh?”
“I want…”
“To…”
“I came to apologize, Rocki.”
Rocki’s accusations instantly died. She noticed Jack’s black eye and fat lip. The fists she hadn’t realized she’d clenched, relaxed. “What happened to you?”
“The guys were making jokes again. Years of jokes. I snapped.”
“You stood up for me.”
“Yes.”
“And paid the price.”
“Yes.”
A warmth Rocki hadn’t felt in two decades overran her. She hugged Jack, his stiff arms loose around her. “Aren’t you a bastard. I’m about to go on and my makeup is perfect. Stop making me cry!” Her embrace tightened. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
She felt Jack nod before he took a step backward, pulling a colorful plastic necklace out of his pocket. “I… uh… I brought you this.”
Rocki gasped. As five year-olds, Jack had stood watch outside their teenage cousin’s bedroom while Rocky stole two handfuls of her Popits beads. For months, he shut himself in their shared room and snapped them together in hundreds of different colorful arrangements. Rocky had cherished the feeling of their smooth exterior wrapped around his neck. He hadn’t stolen enough to layer the necklace, but even a single strand had turned him into a beauty queen. If only I had a matching purse, he often thought.
When the boxing lessons started, the beads had vanished. Rocky looked everywhere for weeks, before dejectedly giving up hope.
“I want to buy you a drink.” Jack’s offer halted Rocki’s reverie. “I thought we could toast before your show. I just… I don’t know what you like.”
Ten minutes later, Singapore Sling in her hand, the twins toasted their reconnection.
“I look forward to watching you perform.”
“I look forward to watching you dance!” Rocki interpreted Jack’s pale expression as his attempt at relinquishing his long-endured programming. “You’ve made my decade, darling.”
This set was the best performance Rocki and the Huskettes had ever given. Money for charity flooded in. Jack attempted to dance in the front row, his intense eyes locked on Rocki. But his gaze was something more than that Stiff Straight Man Trying To Let Loose Without Losing His Masculinity dance. Nonetheless, Rocki felt dizzy with joy.
By the time the sound system wailed the opening bars of “Dancing Queen,” Rocki’s dizziness was debilitating. She realized the feeling, now accompanied by severe nausea, went far beyond joy. Her hands had turned red. She feared her face had as well. One. More. Song.
Seeking out Jack’s supportive gaze for strength, she recognized that old sadistic expression. Confused dread shot through her. He wouldn’t have spiked my drink!
“You can dance
You can jive
Having the…”
Rocki collapsed as everything she had eaten that day forced its way into their act. The Huskettes rushed to her side. The music continued its roar. Then black. Silence.
****
Frozen back in 1983, Rocki studied her twin with trepidation. His defeated body language softened her. Jack’s soul now radiated… Is that despair?
Screams at the distinctive intro to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.” The barflies converged on the dance floor, but Jack gave no indication he noticed.
They told him, “Don’t you ever come around here”
“Don’t wanna see your face, you better disappear”
Jack’s tough bully facade had shattered. His searing pain penetrated her soul. The ostracization had been horrendous. For both of them. Jack had tried to adapt, and in doing so, not only betrayed his twin; he betrayed himself.
You wanna stay alive, better do what you can
So beat it, just beat it.
Jack had loved his queer brother. But he couldn’t protect. He had to survive.
They’ll kick you, then they’ll beat you
Then they’ll tell you it’s fair.
Rocki identified an emotion she thought her powerful, hardened brother incapable of: guilt.
Jack trudged towards the deejay. When he returned, Rocki’s composure unraveled at the iconic opening bars of “Dancing Queen.” The bartender placed a Singapore Sling in front of Jack. He tossed a few dollars from his wallet on the bar, revealing a sachet of white powder. Jack surreptitiously emptied it into his drink. He lifted his glass. Horrified, Rocki recognized this echo of their dressing room toast. She punched the glass out of his hand. Girl’s still got mad poltergeist skills. Red liquid flowed from the bar onto Jack’s lap. “Son of a bitch!”
Handing him several napkins, the bartender offered another drink. Jack shook his head and immediately turned away. Are those tears on his cheek? Jack never cried!
She followed his distraught steps into the men’s room and waited as her twin hid himself in a stall. A thought. The Popits beads. She hadn’t been able to look at them in the six years since Jack’s ultimate betrayal. They had remained hidden in the dark recesses of her bra. Now the act of running them through her fingers overwhelmed her with memories and conflicting emotions. She recognized the most prominent one: empathy. If ghosts could cry, black mascara would have streaked her face.
Rocki gently nudged the necklace under the stall door. A tentative hand reached down and gathered it. Bursting through the door, Jack’s head moved side to side, eyes wide with expectation.
“I’m sorry honey. You can’t see me.”
After searching every corner of the men’s room, Jack’s fallen face accepted defeat. He held the beads to his mouth before gently placing them in his jacket pocket. A souvenir of their unbreakable bond, which had never ceased to lurk beneath the ugliness and pain.
Rocki watched Jack breathe deeply. She followed him out of the men’s room, sashayed to The Tubes’ “She’s a Beauty,” and accompanied her twin into the San Francisco night.
Professional Judge’s Feedback
2nd Place, Round 2, NYC Midnight Short Story Competition 2022
“Wow. this was a wonderful, very moving story. I sure like what you did with the prompts. You created two dynamic characters in Jack and Rocki, with much depth to them both. I love the way Jack wrestles with his (former?) brother’s queerness, at times being an ally and at other times, a rival. Great depth shown here. I love the way you used the Popit beads to bridge the gap between the once brothers. And I thought it was really interesting at the end of the story, that Rocki becomes freed from being tied to the club, in what I assumed was her new role in being the protector of her brother. Just fabulous!.”
NYC Midnight Judge No. 2014
“Oh my gosh, this was a very original, heartfelt story. Your premise was intriguing and clever, and your characterization was excellent. Rocki was a fascinating and endearing ghost. I loved her tricks as a ghost, such as moving objects, until she decided “that was cliché”. The tickling of the Macho man was hilarious, especially as the girl joined in and started hitting him. You wove the backstory about Rocki’s home life and relationship with Jack into the story very skillfully. I liked the description of Jack visiting and seeming to be wanting to reconnect, before Rocki realized that he’d drugged her. I was stunned at the revelation that Rocki suddenly understood how Jack had also suffered, and how he had “betrayed himself” by attacking his brother. My heart hurt at ” If ghosts could cry, black mascara would have streaked her face.” I thought the ending was beautiful, as Jack knew that Rocki’s spirit had been there, and Rocki was freed to move on out of the bar. This was a very clever, skillfully written story. Very well done.”
NYC Midnight Judge No. 1943
“Anchoring the core of the story to the emotional bond between the characters was an excellent way to elevate the ghost story genre beyond its common tropes. This was a heavy tale filled with a tremendous sense of heart.”
NYC Midnight Judge No. 1991