Imagine the town I grew up in. There were over eight hundred people in it and only one was a cross-dresser; and that was my father. As with the other pranks he played on the town hall stage, the rehearsals at home went on for weeks before the show. The timing had to be perfect. Music and singing filled our house.
Imagine our New England town hall, with the large upstairs room that held a full-size stage and decorated set, where the selectmen and the moderator sat behind a table at town meeting, and where generations of amateur actors strutted their stuff before unbelieving audiences.
My mother and I entered and sat in one of the double wooden folding chairs set up end to end with all the others. The room was filling rapidly. I ran a finger along the chair to make the wooden slats rattle. The large curtain painted with woodland scenes loomed in front of us. "Oh the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd," I said to my mother, trying out one of my father's typical inversions.
Later I learned that my father's little skit had been the highlight of the evening's entertainment and it lived on in townfolk's memories for quite a few years. I also learned that a few people had been scandalized. They weren't accustomed to seeing men in drag or boys carrying whiskey bottles in our little town.
My brother Tom sat on the edge of the stage and played a couple of introductory chords on his guitar. The curtain went up and there my father sat in a rocking chair with a floor lamp on one side of him and a door standing all alone on the other side of him. He wore a tight red dress, with nylons, high heels and a beautiful blond wig. His cheeks were pink and his lips bright red. His character was very well developed, with the help of two grapefruit held in place somehow under the dress. He was a vision of beauty.
My brother Ted, wearing a sailor suit and hat, swaggered out from offstage and banged roughly on the door. His face was begrimed and he swung a bottle of Seagrams Seven whiskey in his hand. My father's sweet falsetto voice rang out through the hall: Who's that knocking on my door? Who's that knocking on my door? cried the fair young maiden.
Ted caroled back in the lowest and huskiest voice he could produce, though it hadn't been long since his real voice had changed: It's me, myself and nobody else, cried Barnacle Bill the sailor. Then he belched rudely to the back rows.
He took a swig of whiskey and reeled. The gorgeous falsetto voice sang back to him and the rough sailor voice barked back at her as they went on and on through all the verses: Won't you tell me where you've been? cried the fair young maiden.
I'm back from sailing over the sea. I'm all lit up like a Christmas tree, cried Barnacle Bill the sailor.
I'll come down and let you in, cried the fair young maiden.
Let's hear your feet upon the floor. Hurry before I break the door, cried Barnacle Bill the sailor.
If you're drunk you must stay out, cried the fair young maiden.
Oh whiskey is the life of man. I drink it from an old tin can, cried Barnacle Bill the sailor.
I looked around the hall. Most of the audience was lit up with laughter, but a few looked worried, certain older women in particular. I heard someone whisper, "I hope he's wearing underwear under that dress!" There were many more verses before they finally came to the end: Lips that drink will not touch mine, cried the fair young maiden.
Kissin's not what I have in mind. Now open the door, and draw the blind, cried Barnacle Bill the sailor.
The curtain banged down. The audience whistled and applauded. The curtain came up again and Ted was sitting in my father's lap with his arms around his neck. The curtain rolled down slowly and up again slowly. My father and my brother stood bowing side by side, my father with a grapefruit in each hand. The curtain went down again with a thud.
from SMALL TOWN TALES, copyright 1997, by Sidney Hall, Jr.