Kira Coplin - Pop Tart

With Sheryl off in Santa Barbara shooting a local fashion spread, the store was in my hands. I was taking full advantage of this, using the time to surf the web for other part-time jobs, when our first customer, a rather big-boned woman, burst through the door around noon doused in shades of pink.

‘Hi,’ I muttered, not looking up from pages of openings on myjobsearcher.com, ‘let me know if I can help you with anything.’ The way she clunked about–the heels of her strappy platform sandals resounding in thuds along the wood floor–roused my attention. Looking up, the annoyance on my face quickly morphed into confusion. Standing just a few feet away, testing shades of cream blush by swiping them on her forearm, was what most certainly was a man in drag. The flutter-sleeve chiffon top with a ruffled bodice and plunging keyhole neckline tightly hugged what was supposed to be a cinch waist. A white cotton miniskirt with pink accents like rhinestones and piping was paired with the incredibly noisy six-inch wooden-heeled sandals to accentuate long, smooth legs. As I caught her eye, she lowered her chin, as if trying to hide the lump in her throat was an instinctual reaction. Then, thinking better of it, she turned and smiled at me, almost shyly at first.

‘Are you finding everything you need?’ I asked, trying to stifle my surprise. She made her way over to the counter, slinging along her pink-and-white purse–which featured a mishmash of designs that included a Christian Dior signature logo, butterflies and flowers, and a bejeweled padlock at the zipper to top it off.

‘I’m Rita,’ she said batting her eyelashes. ‘I need to find a good red lipstick, and a new shade of foundation. Something a little darker, I’m done doing Jayne…I’m on to Hayworth. She’s got Spaniard in her like me, you know?’

Her warm and energetic demeanor rendered me completely comfortable, and I found myself giggling at almost everything she said. Periodically she’d say things like, ‘You can’t rush glamour, honey!’ Or ‘Every woman is a vamp until proven innocent,’ which would make me laugh even harder. We spent what seemed like an hour rifling through various shades of coverup, looking for the best products that would allow Rita to exaggerate her eyes in an attempt to play down at least a healthy portion of her masculine jaw, and me trying to convince her to give up lip liners that were darker than her lipstick. In the end, like any good transvestite would, she stuck to her guns and bought a deep plum shade to match with her classic red.

‘What’s all this?’ Rita peered at my computer screen and then down to a list of names and contact numbers I’d compiled for job openings in everything from retail to government, none of which were too appealing.

‘My parents are done supporting my creative endeavors,’ I told her. ‘So that means I need to find a second job.’

She picked up my notebook, gingerly flipping the pages with her surprisingly feminine hands, before stopping to point out one of my leads. I tried not to stare when I noticed the exact pearlescent white Invicta watch I’d been drooling over for months on her dainty wrist. ‘You’re not going to make the money you need serving up hash browns and waffles, I can tell you that right now.’ She was pointing to a listing for a deli just down the street.

‘It’s in Beverly Hills,’ I argued. ‘The patio there is always busy.’

‘Everyone knows, honey, that the real money is in cocktail waitressing.’ She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and flashed a huge grin. ‘Today’s your lucky day, girl.’ Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a business card and smacked it down on the desk in front of me.

‘The Queen Victoria, huh?’ I said picking it up. Beneath the embossed lettering were background images of cross-dressers that appeared as 1950s and Hollywood’s screen legends. In smaller type was what I had guessed to be Rita’s birth name, Jorge Vazquez.

‘That’s right, I’m the manager over there; we could probably use a little help. And a pretty thang like you. You’d do real well.’

‘Yeah–no thanks, I think I’ll pass,’ I smiled, trying not to laugh.

‘I know what you’re thinking, but it really is a lot of fun. Plus…you can keep on doing makeup–some of the best makeup artists count drag queens as muses. Think about it.’ And with that, Jorge, er–Rita, scooped up her purchases and headed out the door.

Not heeding Rita’s warning, I took the waitressing job at the deli down the street. Most days, like today, I started my shift there at 6 AM so that I could finish early enough to accompany Sheryl to bookings, watch over the store, and take the occasional odd job by myself.

It had only been two weeks but I was already hating my new schedule. Not only was I barely making any money, I was completely accident prone. I’d broken five glasses in the span of three days and in one morning alone I had forgotten two orders to boot. By the time I made it over to help Sheryl, I was already in a rotten mood. I could barely stand to listen to her as she shrieked into the phone.

‘Oh my God! Is that not cool, cool, cool?! Totally, totally–we will be there honey and don’t you worry about a thing–it’s on us, no absolutely, don’t worry about a thing!’ I became annoyed. Just listening to her I knew exactly what was happening and I did all I could to stifle my frustration.

I had been working with Sheryl for almost six months by that point and was always surprised, though I should’ve at some point probably gotten used to it, at her sheer excitement for absolutely everything and nothing. Just that morning she doubled over in joy at a most recent purchase: a gift for a friend’s baby shower.

‘And, if you pull on that right there,’ she said, showing me the glossy catalogue in her hand, ‘the diaper bag turns into a backpack! How cool is that!’ I had stopped trying to conceal my boredom months ago after a half-hour rant concerning Candle Belts, which are exactly as they sound–a decorative belt for your candle.

Part of me pitied Sheryl, while my other, more sympathetic half felt bad for feeling bad. She was, by all definitions, a very in-demand makeup artist in Hollywood. From spreads in Los Angeles magazine to booking the occasional job for a daytime drama, she did it all. Though she had very kindly taken me under her wing, I couldn’t help but notice her enthusiasm seemed to compensate for something, something I didn’t know. She had set up shop in one corner of a chic salon on Beverly Drive, though we rarely worked out of there, instead using it more for office space to schedule shoots, take meetings, and market her services than anything else. When people did come in for meetings, I was always blown away by her ability to make eyeliner, makeup brushes, and lip gloss sound so wildly exciting, but was almost certain that the people who left would never come back again. But shockingly enough, most did.

Here’s the thing, Sheryl was a divorced forty-something who left her cheating husband and McMansion in the Calabasas to become a swinging-single career woman in Beverly Hills. This was all, no less, inspired by an episode (her first, for the record) of Sex and the City on TBS. I’ve heard her quote Kim Cattrall from that episode enough to make my ears bleed. Perhaps I was a pessimist, but no one in her right mind could be that excited all the time, and I was just sort of waiting for her to crack…

‘I got you a gig!’ Sheryl shouted in a singsongy voice as she hung up the phone. I braced myself…I knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘Okay, well, don’t get mad at me…I told Nan Dressner we’d–well, you –would do her daughter’s makeup tomorrow morning. She’s walking in the “Women in Hollywood” fashion show. It’s a favor, so we’re not getting paid,’ she said, meaning I wasn’t getting paid. ‘But, oh-my-God Jackie! I mean,’ she continued, ‘the Dressners! They would be great people to know!’