I bought my best friend a singing telegram, a Pee-wee Herman impersonator. It turned out he was a transvestite meth head living in one room hung wall to wall with dresses. I know this because at the last minute he called, asking for a ride to the gig. He’d gotten into a fistfight with his lover who took the car. It’s open, he said softly, still curled on the couch, the eye of a storm of tulle. In the car, I pretended not to notice him covering a shiner as he reapplied his rouge, that the birthday balloons said, It’s a Girl!
Photo credit: Kate Farnady