Bodies, bodies, bodies
CW: bombing, mass shooting, SA
On Saturday, I performed in a variety show, backing drag artists with live vocals. I sang a song about sex and danced around in tiny sequined shorts. When I bounded off the stage, I fell headfirst into the cluster of friends that stood directly in front of my pedestal for the entirety of the number. A few more songs passed by before Maddie whispered (in the only way you can whisper when a live Chappell Roan cover is happening mere feet away) that the U.S. had bombed Iran.
My mind started connecting dots before I could eloquently respond (well, as eloquently as one could respond when a live Chappell Roan cover is happening mere feet away). Instead of saying anything, I said nothing at all.
The topic didn’t resurface until I was in the car on the ride home, when an old group chat with friends lit up—first with news, and then with lighthearted jokes. I recounted the way Maddie had told me. I mentioned the pounding bass. Someone replied with, “It’s like that picture of Bush finding out about 9/11.” We continued toward home.
On the drive, we passed two flying police officers. Then another cluster of two. And three more. And then I stopped counting. I turned to Lucy, remarking, “This is the kind of response you see for a shooting.” She asked me to check Google. Instead, I headed toward a local Facebook group, where minutes earlier someone had reported a mass shooting—around seven minutes away from my prior performance. I repeated the headline to Lucy.
We got home shortly after (home being Maddie’s apartment). After a quick change and a few half-seltzers, we hit the streets again. The first and second bars went off without a hitch. We clinked drinks and loosened up after each sip. Someone called for bagels, and we ate before turning back toward home (still Maddie’s apartment).
On our last block, between bumping shoulders and rowdy laughing, someone asked the void, “Should we help her?” Before looking around at all, I asked, “Help who?”
My eyes landed with everyone else’s on the young woman (we’ll call her C) splayed out in a parking lot. C’s cheetah-print skirt was pulled to her belly, revealing bare skin. Her cheeks were blown out, eyes rolled back. I moved to her side while Tonya gently covered her and not-so-gently shook her awake. C didn’t respond. I called to my right about 911. Someone said I should call, so I did. I have done this approximately a million times (or maybe more like thirty). I told the operator our cross-section, how we found her, why we were worried. I tried to sound brave.
When emergency personnel arrived, and all their questions had been answered, we left C behind and started the beeline back to Maddie’s. No one said much of anything until we hit the cemetery, where we crossed to return to bed. The walk through drew out conversation between the four of us.
I dreamt of bodies all night.
I started writing this piece in my head on the walk home to Maddie’s last week and I’ve just had a chance to get it all on virtual paper.
Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring. Thank you for loving me.
I love you too,
HM