I enter a large cluttered room in an old building.
Everything is old, dusty, and worn. My first thought is of decay. The room looks like what might happen if an antique store were abandoned for years. As I enter,
a young smiling African American man hands me a polished knife with a black handle from a drawer and tells
me to use my knife to lock the door. He
and his friend go upstairs.
I have my own knife strapped to my calf. It is a
large shiny hunting knife with a light wooden handle and polished steel accents. I use the knife he
gave me to lock the door. It is tricky. There is no handle to the door but a hole with a rotating lock mechanism inside. After several tries I get the mechanism to lock into place.
I
understand that this building is a kind of temporary lodging for those who have none, the downtrodden. There are several floors above this room with rooms like a hotel. There are several young gay men hanging out by a group
of three dilapidated couches. They are talkative with each other and very animated. I try to ask them about the rooms upstairs
where I can put my stuff but they do not seem to understand what I am
saying. It is as though they do not understand the words room or space.
I sit on a chair and pull a cover over me. I am cold.
Each of
the boys leaves the space in turn and returns dressed in stylish drag. In the end, they are all dressed in solid white drag with true blue accents: pale white makeup
with blue eyeshadow and blue lipstick, chiffon platinum white bouffant and beehive hairstyles each with a single blue stripe, sparkling sequined white dresses with blue shoes and blue nail polish. They take turns posing with each other. They are fishing for a
specific complement but I'm not exactly sure what they want me to tell them so I say that they all look
fabulous. That seems to satisfy them.
I wake
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