In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • In the Affirmative, and: Down to the Crossroads, and: Fame and Fortune
  • Denise Duhamel (bio) and Amy Lemmon (bio)

In the Affirmative

She said, “I do I do I do I do I do,” the cheesy ABBA saxophones playing in my head. The preacher rolled his eyes. Instead of a ring, I’d brought a shiny blue

pair of go-go boots I slipped on her bare feet. She giggled and kissed my ear. The congregation showered us with confetti: congratulations snaked around the room like a conga line. Meat-

less hors d’oeuvres, Polaroids, a bouquet of organically raised wildflowers awaited a lucky bridesmaid, her hemp gown decorated with hot pink Buddhas. My bride hit the parquet

dance floor and began to twist, monkey, watusi, do the swim. I had to follow suit in my aqua tux—the shimmy, the hitch hike, the pony, the ska, the shuffle—until the dj switched to swing. “Scusi,” [End Page 80]

said her big band Uncle Sugarfoot, cutting in and swooping his niece to the floor, her hair sweeping the hardwood as she basket flipped, unaware that I was being dragged around by her Swedish cousin,

Frida, a trail of sequins coming loose from her catsuit. The guests formed a circle, Blue Boots and me in the center— dirty dancing, then cake and garter. Enter the best man with a fire extinguisher. “That’s moot,

man!” said the preacher who realized our love was ablaze, flames brighter than the glare from his teeth shot out from our hearts. Who knew that underneath his glossy toupee, Pastor had a tattoo, “Praise

Dog!” It was his ode to a drunken night, dyslexic and blessedly removable. As the evening wound down, the rental hall, now a streamer-strewn, deserted ghost town, echoed with Stevie Wonder’s “Do I Do.” Blissed, we made our exit.

Down to the Crossroads

She’d always been a fan of the blues but Bessie Smith grated on her husband’s nerves. It wasn’t her famously copious curves— he liked those. Bessie was once even his muse

in a high school choreography project, “Women Who Rock Chattanooga.” That’s how he met a throaty diva who called herself Charlene, Queen of the Tennessee Stomp.” Viva Lady Day!” she’d say, using b-i-l-l-i-e for her combination lock [End Page 81]

at the gym. Now, his wife reminded him of the girl who bullied her way into his production, her spangly tights clashing with her striped leotard. On opening nights she’d curse him, start fist fights, hurl

tap shoes. “Hon, look who’s on Dancing with the Stars,” his wife says, “Wayne Newton!” But there’s Mean Charlene in a blue sequined tuxedo, twirling some dancing queen to Smith’s that’s a mannish-acting woman . . . npr’s

Terri Gross interviewed Charlene, now Charles Holiday, who sang a cappella: a skipping, twistin’ woman-acting man. He switched off the radio, turned to his wife. “Sweetie, we need a plan.” He traded her pumps for his loafers, her wig for his toupee.

Giggling, she rooted in the closet for the tux he’d worn on their wedding day and the costume sideburns from her Elvis-themed bachelorette party. A few more turns of the mascara brush across her upper lip—a moustache. Deluxe

rhinestone cufflinks twinkled at her wrists. She grabbed her harp and blew, a drag king angel. He tapped his foot, her heels marking the floor. “Baby, you don’t know how it feels to be drag (dressed as a girl)!” His wife drew an F sharp

and bent down low, wailing, “My man he loves my shoes, my girdle, my slip . . .” They yowled—his anima, her animus in star-crossed harmony. They strutted outside, got on the bus, and took their act to the strip mall’s BBQ and Blues. [End Page 82]

Fame and Fortune

We were like Rudolph and Hermie the Misfit Elf, trundling arm and arm across the tundra of Poets & Writers. Two Girl Wonders counting lines, finding rhymes. As for myself,

I wanted two book deals. She was more interested in the “process,” said it helped her sleep at night...

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