In Stone: A Grotesque Faerie Tale by Jeremy Jordan King

Author:Jeremy Jordan King [King, Jeremy Jordan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781602828124
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2012-11-01T04:00:00+00:00

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I had this theory that once a New Yorker meets a certain age, they go crazy. Not necessarily institution-worthy, but in a general curmudgeonly, looneytoons kind of way that sweeps them off to Lala Land. Years of New York-specific neuroses build up on top of the expected effects of old age to create geriatrics unique to the city. Women are usually more affected than men, although there certainly are some moon-bat males out there. One can recognize these individuals by their general disregard for people and personal space, the presence of laundry carts, broaches, paying in change, offensively bright scarves, sequined baseball caps, sunglasses, loud voices, large breasts, an unearned sense of entitlement, an affinity for New York baseball teams contrary to how much baseball is actually watched, oddly colored hair or a backwards wig/hairpiece, strange pets (put a hundred bucks on a pussy cat, though), china-doll makeup, rent control and personal stories about nights out drinking with (or nearby) Judy or Liza or both. I should also mention that their faces fall into two categories: plastic or au natural—but both painted as if they were starring in the original production of 42nd Street.

Basically, they are a dream come true.

Rita was the ultimate example of these women. She lived off Tenth Avenue in a building that would have been demolished to make way for condos if not for the sharp economic drop. Her apartment was on the top floor of a very wobbly walk-up, inhabited by more vermin than people. Judging by the deteriorating hoard of junk we met at the top of the staircase, it was clear she was the only living thing that ventured that far up.

The door was ajar (and by “ajar” I mean, there was only a beaded curtain in its place) so we crept in. Her apartment looked like the wall of an Applebee’s, but the neighborhood knickknacks were replaced with relics of Broadway’s glory days and props from long condemned theatres. “Why are you visiting this washed up old fool?” she asked from a back room. Cigarette smoke billowed out of the darkened doorway.

“Are you Rita?” Garth asked.

She sauntered into view, pointing to her clavicle that displayed a gold necklace that read, “Rita,” in a gaudy script. “That’s what it says, sugar. It’s just like the one Carrie wears. I, myself, think I’m more of a Samantha but it was a gift from a friend, God rest his soul.” I gasped at the sight of her.

Rita was the definition of an old queen. Her thinning hair was dyed Kool-Aid red and slicked back like a forties movie star. She wore black tights and a sequined top that just covered her lady parts. The heels on her shoes were higher than most drag queens’ and her kimono, dramatically draped from her shoulders, was cartoonishly Asian. It would have been fitting for her to descend a silver staircase and have a “With a Z” attached to her name. Sadly she had neither.

She looked at Garth again and grimaced.

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