Impersonal expression

A thin layer of white fog drifted across the black platform stage and rolled under a velour curtain. The warm vapor curled around his feet. He knew it was time.

Emerging from the darkness, six feet of muscle and soft skin were covered in a mass of bright fuchsia ruffles. He could have been in a show on the Vegas strip. No doubt his outfit was inspired by Lady GaGa’s latest picture in Vogue.

His glossy blonde hair was straightened, then curled, then hair-sprayed so that it appeared like a halo around the sides of his foundation-covered cheeks. Maybe he was born with this beautiful complexion. Maybe it was Maybelline.

For him, it probably was Maybelline.

The DJ gave him a slight nod, and his plump lips, coated in a layer of coffee-colored lipstick, began to mouth the lyrics of a remix of the Beatles’ “Can’t Buy Me Love.”
* * *
Most days, you’ll find James Aldrich sipping coffee instead of classifying it as a shade of makeup.

Typically, Aldrich is lathering hair and trimming bangs at The Best Little Hair House in Indianapolis, the salon he has owned for the past 16 years. When he wipes the last bits of freshly clipped hair off customers’ shoulders, he said he always watches them stare at their new reflection in the mirror.

He’s just given them a little present: a new attitude and way to see their beauty, which is amplified through a simple change.
* * *
During weekend nights, Aldrich is the one who changes, like a chameleon turning from forest green to candy-apple red. Aldrich, known as Miss Montana Melons, is a drag queen performer at Uncle Elizabeth’s Nightclub on West Third Street in Bloomington.

Originally from Waverly, Ind., Aldrich moved to Indianapolis when he was 18 and has been performing at drag shows since age 21. He currently performs with the West End Girls, who take the stage every Friday at 10 p.m. at Uncle Elizabeth’s.

Donning his tight-fitting velvet dress and the glimmering jewelry that covers him from his Adam’s apple to his cleavage, he recreates the magic of 1930s Hollywood and the dazzling showgirls of Las Vegas.

Like David Copperfield’s white-hot magic, he provides the biggest illusion.

As a young gay man in the ’80s, he said he saw drag queens who stunned audiences with their ability to sing and entertain. He said the queens he knew were good people, always involved in the community.
* * *
His wide eyes scanned the room as his smile gleamed at the chairs full of middle-aged men cradling bottles of cold Budweiser. Most were wearing jeans and cotton T-shirts. He was dressed to impress.

As the tempo kicked up a notch, he turned his back to the audience and dropped his fuchsia coat, revealing a navy blue velvet dress covered with hundreds of pink rhinestones. The dress hugged his curvaceous hips and DD breasts. He looked like a human disco ball.

His hands glided over his bosom, stroking his flat stomach and sliding down his hidden thighs. While none of his skin was showing, his outfit left little to the imagination.

The clapping and hollering sounded like thunder, producing the perfect tempest. He became the storm chaser, pushed by his own adrenaline and chasing the intoxication he received from the crowd.

Some nights, when it’s slow, he said he falls into a void of boredom. On Sept. 9, that was not the case. He let himself become absorbed into his character, saying goodbye to his five o’clock masculinity and hello to his midnight femininity. That night, he said he planned to win someone’s attention. 

Looking to his left, he spied his first fan of the evening waiting for him at the edge of the stage. Maybe he would be the one.

A man in his 20s wearing a camouflage trucker hat and a sweatshirt with a cream and crimson IU logo smoothed the crease of his folded dollar bill. Placing the faded green single between his loosely clinched teeth, he tilted his head back and waited.

Floating to the left side of the stage, Aldrich gently placed his long fingers on the man’s slightly stubbly cheek and lowered his neck in a sweeping motion. Face to face, he bit the edge of the dollar and slid it out of the man’s mouth. Blindly placing the bill into his hand, he kept his gaze steady.

Three seconds of hypnotic, bass-blaring beats passed before he kissed his admirer. People clapped and shook their heads; booming laughter mixed with deep guttural shouts of “Heeyy!” and “Right on!” from the men seated at the bar. Maybe they got a rush. Maybe they were jealous.

Everyone was entranced by the thrill of his costumed body, but he needed to concentrate. Some drag queens let liquor fill their mouths and form a haze of triviality around their shimmering eyelids. Only one cocktail for Aldrich tonight. It’s his job, and he takes it seriously.

Arms outstretched, he swayed his hips rhythmically to the music and stood in the center of the stage, flamingo pink heels tapping the carpet beneath him.

As he repeated the chorus “Can’t buy me love, can’t buy me love,” he thought about how he was ending his performance with a fitting image that challenged the song’s message: He let money buy him love — or, at least, that’s what he led them to believe.

He closed his eyes as he mouthed the last words, his white eye shadow covering the fragile layer of skin between his eyelashes and eyebrows. Taking a deep breath, he let the sweet euphoria of his performance sink in.

“Let’s give a big hand to Miss Montana Melons!” the emcee squealed.
* * *
At 42, Aldrich said he isn’t tired of dressing up and performing for audiences in Bloomington as he has done for the past 21 years.

“I love the impersonations and the illusion,” he said. “Because underneath it all, I’m just a big, old, bald-headed man.”