The roller coaster strung
across the tabletop
like the rubble of tumbled arches,
graceful arcs broken to skew
into peaks and valleys.
An apparatus built of wire
with tracks formed
for a magic glass eyeball
to careen up, down, and around.
As the tracks for the orb
of the oracle,
it provided the launching pad
to divine the future
with the precision
of a bobsled team
hurtling toward destiny
like twins of intent,
swerving with each curve
and loop-de-doop
to see tomorrow today.
Bijou Theater and Hotel, Seattle
Winter Solstice 202__
The breeze reached like a corpse’s hand behind Jonathan’s long hair. He popped the collar on his peacoat as he approached a marquee that read: Madame Dodi’s Memorial. A crowd of mourners gathered beneath the Bijou’s neon-pink, art deco sign; flashing yellow lights circled it in the illusion of constant motion. It astounded him that, due to his recent marriage, he was now part-owner of this establishment.
He jostled through the Emos mingling with GenderQueers, Goths, witches, and other Bohemian types near the cream-tiled facade. A few who dressed as animals (the Furries) sat in a small circle on the sidewalk. They smoked and chattered beneath glass cases housing Pop Art posters advertising burlesque performances and sideshow oddities. A mound of flowers grew on the sidewalk inside a ring of black votive candles.
He’d heard the fortune teller died three days earlier. Her brutal murder sent shockwaves through the cosmos of Capitol Hill. She was a legend here; he’d been told so much about her since he arrived, he felt he knew her. Looking down Broadway, he thought about how the unknown killer could strike again anytime, anywhere. This unnerved him; he looked over his shoulder.
He forgot about that when he caught sight of the Blue Velveteen Dormouse leaning against the wall. He immediately perked up and stretched his stride. They called the mascot a dormouse because it was a mouse that worked the door—a bad pun. Unlike the dumpy Chuck E. Cheese uniform, the stretchy uniform set off his new husband’s six-foot-two frame. The long tail emerged from its britches where it naturally should, just above his well-developed butt.
Jonathan hurried up to him and gave him a big hug behind the podium.
“Hello,” Bigalow said from inside the costume. “Sorry, baby love, you’ll have to wait with the rest.” His voice was deep, like a soul singer. Just the sound of it could melt him. “Pain in the ass. I know.”
Jonathan held him tight for a moment before their embrace vanished into the air. They were in their starry-eyed honeymoon period. He had looked forward all afternoon to wrapping his arms around Bigalow’s broad shoulders. Their room was waiting for them inside. He tried to cover his annoyance at being marooned out in the cold. Maybe Bigalow had to stick to his duties? “No worries. I’ll hang here with you.”
“Feel free. I’m glad for the company.” Bigalow turned his attention to the guestbook on the podium. He had warned him that the Bijou was his livelihood ahead of time. This accomplished man, who was a competitive bodybuilder among other pursuits, adjusted his blue velveteen uniform. One of the sequins that wrapped his chest popped off and fell to the ground. Conversations fluttered to the sidewalk with the shiny little disc.
Whispers wafted through the crowd, carrying with them details of the medium’s death. “Tortured screams triggered her neighbor’s 911 call,” someone wearing fishnets, a spiked collar, and combat boots reported. Jonathan recoiled at the thought. Nobody deserved to go that way.
The smell of marijuana filled the air. A man dressed as a Steampunk scientist spoke. “They bashed her face in with a blunt object and cut out her tongue.”
Jonathan cringed. It hurt just to bite his tongue. Bile washed up in the back of his throat, imagining her pain and all that blood.
“Madame Dodi’s toenails were lacquered deep green the night they found her dead,” a girl said as she poked her black-chipped fingernails through her cobweb shawl.
A young man with a nose ring added, “The coroner’s report said her legs were tattooed with storks and sea life.”
“Her magic eyeball came from her grandmother’s side, going back to the Oracles of Delphi,” a male voice chimed in.
The speaker’s face was lost to Jonathan. All he could see was the man’s wrist as he fiddled with his silver charm bracelet while approaching the revolving glass door. Jonathan found him pretentious for some reason.
The voice continued, ‘Its companion, the roller coaster apparatus, is the launching pad for the magic eyeball’s forecasts on TV. It was made by the great wizard, Tesla, who knew how to bridge science and magic. Before the contraption came along, it forecast via a crystal ball. No sound at all.”
A magic eyeball? Fortunes on TV? Jonathan pricked his ears.
“Professor. You’re on the list. Have a nice night,” Bigalow said.
An elegant elderly woman wearing a gray herringbone coat and brown boots came to the podium. Her commanding presence brooked no questioning.
"Miss Tyler, welcome. Proceed inside," Bigalow said.
A bald, bearded man wearing leather chaps and a harness approached.
“Ohhhh. You’re not on the guest list. Doors open in twenty minutes.” Bigalow’s cold voice mixed with the wind.
“Fantastic! Who wanted to attend the final rites?” The man huffed away with his cigar still lit and his ass hanging out.
“Don’t be mad,” the Blue Velveteen Dormouse called after him.
Despite the dark storm brewing over the fantastical Arabesque building, attendance exceeded Jonathan’s expectations. The memorial continued to attract new devotees and curiosity seekers in small waves. He stepped aside as Bigalow hooked the velvet rope behind him. As the mascot, his husband strutted among the fans to offer hugs, pat them on the shoulder, or pose with them for selfies. Sometimes, he pointed his palms upwards, or he scratched his head as if confused. He did a triple backflip then wiped the corners of his sand-dollar-sized cartoon eyes and returned to the podium.
“The private ceremony is over. You can all go in now,” the dormouse told the crowd as he unhooked the rope. The sun set while the wind picked up.
Jonathan joined them, pouring through the revolving glass doors into the warmth filled with the smell of fresh-buttered popcorn. Guests headed toward the bar. Some hung by the theater doors in the hotel lobby. A few went for shrimp cocktails in the twenty-four-hour diner.
His lover walked bandy-legged as he toted off the podium. Jonathan watched him disappear behind one of the Byzantine columns holding up the vaulted ceiling. He hadn’t realized before how hard he worked.
The 125,000-square-foot hotel had blighted the block with over two hundred boarded-up windows. Over the last two decades, Bigalow and his business partner, Eduardo, had resurrected it as an adult circus. Since reopening, the Bijou Burlesque had cultivated a community of patrons the size of a small town.
Jonathan knew Bigalow had taken years to painstakingly restore the rose-quartz and onyx lobby. That raised his admiration for him. The great hall served as a center for underground culture, inviting visitors to a realm of sultans and genies. Built in the 1920s, it had promised a million-dollar fantasy for a single dime.
Nothing said memorial more to the Bijou than decking the hall with enlarged glamour shots of Madame Dodi. Each image showcased a different side of the diva. Were these spectacles hung in the arches a bit much? But why not? It was the type of thing the Bijou was known for.
One banner showcased her in a gown with sapphire sequins like stars. She looked like a celestial being, draped in a sheath the shade of octopus ink. Her long lashes seemed to pop off the poster.
Stained-glass lights cast patterns on the marble floor as Jonathan walked toward the grand staircase. Amidst the clinking glasses and animated chatter, people only discussed Dodi. He joined the outskirts of a small group of drag queens and lit a Lucky Strike. He absorbed bits of their conversation floating with the cigarette smoke. Their opinions were a cupcake of adoration sprinkled with dashes of disdain.
“Poor thing. Lying in a morgue,” a devotee uttered. Her multi-colored hair added a festive note to the drab occasion.
A drag queen with thin red lips retorted. "A blessing, it seems, my dear Listeria. No need for a coffin. It would have to be a piano case.”
“Trivia, my dear, it would have to be a baby grand.”
“Who knows? She might be cremated. Not that the Bijou doesn’t have an ample supply of muscle-men like Bigalow to act as pallbearers,” Listeria said.
Jonathan pulled his finger over one of the sleek art deco inlays embellished with ancient glyphs and grape motifs. He wasn’t quite sure he appreciated her objectifying Bigalow that way. Yet, it came with the territory.
He flicked his cigarette over a nearby urn full of sand and butts. He didn’t know these people. He wasn’t the sort to rush up and introduce himself like a dog. He tended to be more feline. He figured, if he was supposed to meet someone important in his life, it would happen naturally.
Listeria stood opposite another banner of Madame Dodi dressed as an opera singer. In the photo, the psychic wore a fire-engine red satin gown. A red rose adorned her upswept black hair. Her breasts mounded beneath a massive ruby necklace. Matching candelabra earrings dripped from her ears.
“Such a shame there will be no viewing. Her face appeared so lovely… in drag.” The small circle agreed as they clinked glasses.
Trivia lit a cigarette with a flourish. “She did manage to stir up a bit of controversy with her horndog behavior,” she said.
“A bit too handsy with the dancers. If you know what I mean.”
“Only when she’d had a few too many,” another drag queen said.
“So, like always, then.” Listeria laughed. “Ask Bigalow the Gigolo.”
Jonathan cringed. Obviously, he knew Bigalow was an exotic male dancer, the type of person people assumed didn’t have a soul. But there were boundaries. And his man was a lot more than that. He was a star producer. Jonathan pretended he hadn’t heard them.
###
Jonathan escaped into the empty grand theater adjacent to the lobby. Once inside, he pondered his luck going from waiting tables in L.A. while seeking an agent, to being here. He imagined himself center stage behind the three-story-tall, red velvet curtains. Light gleamed on the polished brass pipes of the Wurlitzer organ that sank below when not in use.
He loved the stage. As a classically trained ballet dancer, he saw it as a world unto itself. His mind filled with spectacles he could mount there. He spent a lot of time making up dances and songs in his head. At times when nobody was looking, he would occasionally try out their steps. Or he would sing a few notes from a tune he was composing.
“The auditorium served as the setting for Dodi’s final rites.”
Jonathan jumped and twirled around when he heard the voice behind him.
“She always chose the box on the left, second floor.” The New Orleans drawl came from Eduardo the Impresario. He was the other part-owner of the Bijou with Bigalow. With narrow shoulders and a svelte waist, he bore a fit, if thin, physique for an older gentleman. A wild cascade of grizzled dreadlocks crowned his head. A long collar led to a worn, debonair face with a prominent nose. He looked like a coyote in a black frock coat.
He wore an eyepatch. The wizard’s remaining gray eye stamped his authority on him. A bird—known to many as Charlie the Crow—perched on his shoulder.
“I’m afraid you caught me off-guard, Eduardo.” Jonathan looked up at him on the red carpet. Down slope of the slanting aisle, he had to look up at him, even though the impresario was much shorter. Jonathan surveyed the two tiers of balconies behind the old guy.
“Is everything okay with your honeymoon suite?” Eduardo asked.
“Other than being locked out of our room during the ceremony, everything’s been beautiful. Thank you. I regret I was not on the guest list.” Jonathan flipped his long black hair behind his shoulder.
The old impresario waved his hands in the air. “Of course, of course, my boy. Out of my control, unfortunately. I hope it won’t ruin your evenin’,” he said.
“I’m excited just to be here.” Jonathan forced a smile. They had only recently been introduced. They still seemed to be sizing up each other. Jonathan had a soft spot for Eduardo’s theatricality, but didn’t find him particularly warm. They called him a wizard, but Jonathan assumed it was just a marketing ploy. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being called “my boy.” He wasn’t his boy at all. He was old enough to drink and get married.
“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” The “wizard” acted like he smelled smoke and darted off.
“See ya!” Charlie the Crow cawed as they left through the swinging doors.
Jonathan knew crows could be trained to talk. He’d need more proof than that to believe Eduardo the Impresario was some powerful sorcerer.
###
After they were gone, Jonathan psyched himself up to face the crowd. He took long steps through the lobby toward the grand ballroom. He tried to be graceful and unobtrusive. Here and there, he spotted necks craning, covered lips no doubt whispering, and an occasional pointed finger. Was he being paranoid? Or were they throwing shade at him and Bigalow? So many people online, instead of being happy for them, harped on the age difference. So what if he was attracted to a more mature man?
He resolved not to let such dark thoughts ruin his happiness and sidestepped all of them. At the moment, he had all he’d wished for in life–the love of a beautiful husband, financial security, and a path to fame. He felt like the pearl in an oyster.
He entered a two-story ballroom long ago converted into a tavern. Waitstaff dressed in red vests and black bow ties welcomed him. Mourners filled the barstools at the long mahogany bar. The atmosphere crackled with a lively energy. Haughty fairies with gossamer wings exchanged glances with sweater-wearing professors. Cosplay enthusiasts clamored for the bartender’s attention. Whiskey and ale seemed the order of the day.
He knew it would take him time to feel at home in his new city. It was a different energy from L.A., which had been entirely different from the suburbs of Detroit, where he grew up. He was in no hurry and had a single-minded purpose: his choreography. Bigalow held the door open for work on-stage and in videos. He edged around the crowded dance floor and sat at the bar.
“What will you have, Jonathan?” a red-vested bartender asked.
“A gin tonic. Charge it to my room.” The Anomalies were playing, one of his favorite bands. He couldn’t listen to music without imagining the dance that would go with it.
The music stopped. Eduardo the Impresario climbed onto the stage to address the crowd. "I must express my gratitude to such a grand assembly gathered today to pay homage to our departed colleague, Madame Dodi. She was an unparalleled legend who possessed the remarkable ability to unveil our future using her mystical eyeball. Can you conceive of anyone else who could show your future on television?”
The impresario paced the floor. He paused for effect and gestured. “We express our sincerest apologies for the locked doors. Before open admission, the Sect of Dionysus undertook a ceremonial ritual on her behalf.”
As a newcomer, Jonathan obviously could not attend. He wasn’t sure about Bigalow. He was intrigued by the idea of a ceremonial ritual and thought it was a great inspiration for a dance. Beyond that, he couldn’t understand why they were making such a big deal. But then he hadn’t been around to know Madame Dodi, either.
He had seen her only once—six days before. He recalled her emerging from a tent in the lobby. Her turban shone in the afternoon light beneath the onion-domed skylight. She had operated a booth at the bustling flea market held there on Sunday afternoons. He’d heard her remarkable fortune-telling skills ensured a steady stream of clients, eager for visions at one hundred dollars a pop.
Eduardo the Impresario took a deep breath. "Her untimely demise represents an egregious insult to our blessed magical community. Worse still, her magic eyeball and little roller coaster were stolen the night of her murder."
This was news to Jonathan. He folded his arms and scratched his ear. Bigalow had told him the eyeball and contraption were powerful magic. Anyone would want them. Madame Dodi must have been killed when she was robbed.
A passing waiter brandished a tray of drinks. Eduardo the Impresario snagged a whiskey. "I am aware of the rumors that have circulated regardin’ the treatment of her remains. All I can divulge is that, presently, she rests in the morgue as evidence. Now, my friends, please indulge yourselves. A toast to Madame Dodi! She instilled in us a belief in our destinies. May her magical essence endure, and justice triumph in her name."
###
A techno remix of The Beatles’ Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite! began to play. Calliopes echoed through the hall. Jonathan pictured an acidy circus act unfolding on Broadway.
Eduardo gestured toward the Blue Velveteen Dormouse. "We need you hostin’ cocktails."
“On it,” Bigalow answered. Jonathan watched his muscle-bound partner swagger away with his mouse tail swishing behind. On the way out, he pulled a full garbage bag from the trash can and replaced it with an empty one.
Jonathan found this whole mascot thing odd. He knew well ahead of meeting him in person that Bigalow performed as the dormouse; he’d seen videos on TikTok. But he’d been unaware of the additional hours of menial labor the man spent inside a head with mouse ears and whiskers. Maybe being a business owner was way more work than he’d realized?
A vivid spectacle unfolded above. Suspended high in the air, a woman with shoulder-length scarlet locks swung her body in an ever-widening arc. Two lengths of crimson silk cascaded from the ceiling to the floor, cradling her as she somersaulted above the stage. Petite and delicate, she possessed a captivating allure. Her ruby lips curled into a dazzling smile, while her nose added fox-like charm.
Known as Red Ballerina, in his mind, she resembled a tiny automaton. She had unwavering composure, never allowing her head to droop or her shoulders to sag. Clad in a matching tutu, leotard, and slippers, the aerialist exuded elegance and poise. Her scarlet locks flawlessly complemented her dance attire.
###
Jonathan noticed all the tables and barstools were claimed. The dance floor began to fill up with awkward elbow-y people. Still dressed as the dormouse, his husband hopped on the bar and began dancing to the pulsating rhythms of "Human Behavior" by Björk.
Jonathan felt proud watching him undulate to the drum beats. Bigalow unbuttoned his spangled jacket to reveal his broad caramel torso and tight abs. He dropped his shoulder and pulled off a sleeve, revealing a sculpted bicep. The other sleeve followed. His body was the perfect balance of rugged and fine.
As Bigalow stripped, Red Ballerina twirled above the small stage. Her aerial act amplified the sublime tension that soaked the room. Spotlights bounced around, occasionally intersecting. Their beams cast shadows of the dancers on a distant wall.
In another corner of the bar, a fire-dancer juggled blazing batons in high spinning arcs. The juggler caught the torches with ease, then tossed them high in the air. In these moments, their performances seemed part of a larger production that thrilled Jonathan.
Caught up in the whirlwind of his dance, he didn’t notice the policemen until one grabbed Bigalow’s ankle. Jonathan saw him nearly topple and fall off the front of the bar, then bounce back on his toes.
The police badge shining in the spotlight seemed to momentarily blind him. His perfect physique stood tippy-toe as he squinted, his stomach impossibly small. The Inspector (the personification of skepticism with a neat white Afro and mustache) stood next to the mahogany bar, signaling for Bigalow to descend.
“What on Earth?” Jonathan thought in alarm. The music stopped. Bigalow did a backflip off the counter. He landed barefoot in his blue Speedo at the policeman’s feet.
The Inspector pursed his lips, his dark eyes brimming with suspicion. “We’re taking you to the precinct station for questioning.”
Jonathan was stunned. This came from nowhere.
Bigalow took his dormouse head off, revealing the beautiful, blue-eyed African-American man he’d fallen in love with.
“For what?” Bigalow asked as he stood tall and looked around. Light bounced off the sweat on his shaved head.
“Yes, Inspector Goodenough, for what?” Eduardo the Impresario asked from five feet away. A circle cleared around them.
“It’s regarding the death of Madame Dodi," Inspector Goodenough answered.
“This is outrageous!” Bigalow crossed an arm over his face. The cops approached like sharks as he pulled on his pants.
“We have an eyewitness who places you in this costume at the scene of the crime.”
The room hushed. Jonathan’s brain couldn’t fully register the meaning of the event. At first, he thought it might be a prank by Bigalow’s friends on the newlyweds. But once the policeman mentioned murder, it produced a shellac of realness. Every hair and thread seemed crystal clear to him as he pushed through the crowd to be nearer his husband.
Bigalow was a crowd idol; the bystanders backed him one hundred percent as they began murmuring dissent. Some jeered at the police, their allegiance to the underground on display.
Jonathan felt grateful when a man yelled, “He’s not Madame Dodi’s killer. You pig-faced idiots!”
“I’m innocent. I swear it,” Bigalow shouted as he pulled on his blue-spangled jacket.
"Don’t worry, Bigalow, I believe you," Jonathan yelled. A policeman held back the young dancer as he fought to reach his husband.
“You are being arrested for suspicion of the murder of Madame Dodi. You have the right to an attorney. Everything you say may be used against you in a court of law,” an officer said.
“Bigalow no!” Jonathan yelled. The crowd booed as his thoughts spun. How could they be arresting the man he loved?
His husband tried to shrug away two officers who grabbed his arms and marched him out the door. The taller of the two carried the dormouse’s head as if it had been chopped off in an execution.
Jonathan followed to the sidewalk beneath the marquee. Fierce winter wind from a raging storm clawed at them. Bigalow bowed his head while the rain sheeted down, his blue eyes caught in the flashing light.
“Jonathan,” he cried. “Meet me in jail!”
The newlywed started to chase the patrol car as it pulled away. The collar of his husband’s sequined coat sparkled in the cruiser’s back window. Jonathan ran full-tilt at it halfway down the block. But it was going too fast in the pouring rain. He forced himself to stop as the adrenaline wore off. His hair and clothes were drenched. Tears blurred his vision.