Authors: Anthony Bidulka
from an abbey. Instead of Christmas muzak the
sound system was blaring club tunes from the ’80s
and ’90s. A definite party ambiance was being cre-
212 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
ated here. The brushed-steel and glass bar was lit
from above and below by multicoloured halogens
and around it were two women dressed to be
seen. Sereena, her chestnut tresses a cornucopia of
curls about her face, was wearing a champagne-
coloured pantsuit that seemed to be missing its
back, perilously high heels and a stunning collec-
tion of garnet jewellery. The other woman, whom
I did not know, had straight Titian hair that cov-
ered her right eye à la Veronica Lake (and some-
times Nicole Kidman) and also wore a pantsuit,
but of black silk (its back intact) and a black scarf
dramatically woven about her neck. She was
laden with diamonds that looked spectacularly
real and her lipstick was a vivid red.
“I’m pouring you a Red Apple,” Sereena called
out to me over Aretha Franklin’s “Who’s Zoomin’
Who?” Red Apple Martinis are equal parts gin
(Bombay if you have it), apple juice and red
Dubonnet. Or, as Sereena is wont to suggest and I
am hesitant to repeat, if you’re a woman or not a
sissy, substitute the apple juice with Calvados, a
distilled apple cider that burns the palate.
I looked at the strange woman and then at
Sereena and Jared and back at the woman, trying
to wordlessly request an introduction. They
weren’t taking the hint and I was becoming a little
testy. Daniel would likely be arriving at any
minute and I didn’t want him feeling any more
nervous about his first visit to a gay club than he
probably already was. And I couldn’t understand
why Sereena would have invited Jared and his
red-haired friend over for cocktails when she
Anthony Bidulka — 213
knew we had some sensitive work ahead of us.
“Sereena,” I said after I’d accepted my drink
and placed it on the bar top. “Could I speak with
you in the kitchen please?”
“Don’t be rude, Russell, we shouldn’t leave our
guests alone, especially when you’ve only just met
Clarissa.”
Finally a name. I gave Sereena a tight smile and
held out my hand to Clarissa. “Pleased to meet
you, Clarissa. You wouldn’t mind if I stole Sereena
away for a couple of minutes, would you?”
“Of course not.”
The music must have been too loud. It was
playing tricks on my hearing. I was certain that
the voice that came from Clarissa’s moist, ruby
lips was that of a man.
A voice I recognized.
A voice that belonged to…
Daniel Guest.
I stared at Clarissa’s face. Under close inspec-
tion and layers of cosmetics, it was all there. The
nose, the eyes (without glasses), the jaw. I looked
further down. The well-placed scarf was no
doubt concealing an Adam’s apple. Further. Wide
shoulders and, the most telltale sign, big square
hands. Clarissa
was
Daniel Guest.
It was an amazing transformation. Daniel was
an attractive man
and
a handsome woman—from
a distance. The choice of black and a pantsuit for
his outfit was genius, for both hid a number of
obvious unfeminine traits. The makeup and hair
were perfect. In a dark enough room and at a
polite distance, Daniel could be Rita Hayworth.
214 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
Until he spoke. His voice was deep and undoubt-
edly masculine.
The reconstruction of Daniel into a woman had
been the plan all along (if we were unsuccessful in
the parking lot with Sunny—which we were—
resoundingly). I had gotten the idea from the drag
queen we’d spotted at Colourful Mary’s. I knew
however there was no way I could pull it off con-
vincingly myself. I needed a woman’s touch. I
needed Sereena. So I was glad for the opportunity
to introduce Daniel and Sereena at the DGR&R
Christmas party and thereafter suggest the collab-
oration. Daniel had been surprisingly supportive
of the plan. It met all of his needs. It got him into
the local gay bar where he hopefully would spot
SunLover and it kept him incognito so even his
mother wouldn’t recognize him. And, like many a
gay man, I was guessing he’d harboured a long-
held desire to do drag, even just once, for the fun
of it. And by the smile on his face, he’d certainly
been having fun…and a few Red Apples.
“You had no idea it was me! Did you?” he
shrieked, sounding excited and maybe a little
drunk.
I shook my head in wonder as I surveyed
Sereena and Jared’s handiwork. Now I knew why
Sereena had sounded distracted when I’d called
earlier. “I really didn’t,” I admitted. “Actually, I
still don’t believe it.”
“We wanted to surprise you,” Jared said, with
a companionable elbow resting on my left shoul-
der. “Sereena mentioned what she was doing and
I just had to help. So she called Daniel and asked
Anthony Bidulka — 215
if he’d mind one more person in on the sham,
someone with behind-the-scenes first-hand
knowledge of the makeup secrets of the world’s
most beautiful fashion models. He agreed and
then the three of us thought it would be a blast to
make him up before you arrived.”
“The ultimate test of our success,” Sereena
added. “And succeed we did. Clarissa, you are
gorgeous. You make me want to be a lesbian or a
straight man. Preferably a lesbian.”
Daniel/Clarissa laughed and held out his glass
for more Red Apple. “I can hardly wait,” he
enthused. “When do we leave?”
“All good things in good time,” Jared told him
looking at his watch. “Most serious clubbers are
barely waking up about this time. We can’t possi-
bly make our entrance for another couple of
hours. Until then, we’ll have drinks, pupus and
scandalous gossip!” He turned to me and said,
“And Anthony and Kelly and Errall will join us at
the club later. Don’t worry, they don’t have to
know anything about Daniel. We’ll just tell them
Clarissa is an old friend of Sereena’s in town for
the evening. You’re okay with that, right
Clarissa?”
“Except the part about being an ‘old’ friend,”
he said, hopping not-so-daintily off his barstool.
“There ain’t nothin’ old about me tonight!” And
right in front of my eyes, my accountant client
began to boogie on three-inch heels to vintage
George Michael.
“You sway, Mary Kay!” Jared yelled out, join-
ing in.
216 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
Sereena sipped her drink with deeply sucked
in cheeks and a smug look on her face.
I watched the scene and particularly Daniel.
Like many people in costume or behind a mask,
he’d become a different person. Livelier, more
carefree, more willing to smile wide and let loose
with a smart aleck remark or swear word. He
seemed freed. I couldn’t help but wonder which
character—the staid, uber-professional number-
cruncher or the wild, boogey queen—was closer
to being the real Daniel Guest.
Diva’s is the only gay bar in Saskatoon that has
stood the test of time. It is gay-owned, gay-run
and, although it welcomes the non-gay crowd, it
has held itself aloof from giving in to the allure of
the non-gay dollar as so many other gay establish-
ments do. Gay night-spots the world over attract
straight people who by simple intelligence know
that gay bars are the best place to have raunchy
fun and by sheer volume spend more dollars on
entertainment. Slowly the tide turns and what
was once a gay bar with lotsa gays and some cool
straights becomes a mixed bar with some cool
straights and some cool gays and eventually a
straight bar with lotsa straights and a few jittery
gays. In the short run you can hardly blame the
bar owners, most of whom are just struggling to
stay in business and make a buck. But in the long
run, it seldom pays off. Most of these bars go
bankrupt once all the gays are gone and the
straights realize it’s not so cool anymore and head
Anthony Bidulka — 217
out to find a new gay bar to convert. It’s a sad but
true vicious circle.
As the only sober member of our ABBA-like
group and officially on-the-job, I volunteered to be
the designated driver. It was well after 11 p.m.
before we managed to finish the last pitcher of
Red Apples, cover our finery with outerwear
appropriate for the frigid weather and pile into
my mother’s van. I parked on 3rd Avenue and led
my giddy group down a back alley in the direc-
tion of rumbling music vibrating off the walls of
surrounding buildings. We entered an unmarked
door under a rainbow flag into a long, wide
vestibule at the end of which was a chest-high
window kitty-corner to a locked door. Through
the window we could see a pretty woman in her
late forties giggling with a tough-looking coat-
check chick in her early twenties. Diva’s is a pri-
vate club and as none of us were members we
paid a reasonable cover charge and were buzzed
in through the door. The music we’d heard and
thought was loud in the alleyway hit us at full
high-decibel force. The music is the place. It’s
meant to overcome you, to drive you to physical
limits beyond exertion, to be the magic carpet that
takes you to the moon. Well—the music
and
the
poppers.
Stepping into a gay bar after midnight on a
Saturday night is much the same wherever you
are. It didn’t matter that this bar was in a small
Canadian prairie city and that it was minus thirty-
three outside and our vehicle would be covered
with ice when we finally decided to go home.
218 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
Inside was hot and dark, packed to the rafters
with people made up their best (or worst—
depending on the look they were going for), the
air smelled of sweat and smoke and other sub-
stances and amongst the crowd were, as always, a
bare-chested boy, a bald-headed woman wearing
a too-tight muscle shirt, a six-and-a-half-foot-tall
drag queen, a guy who danced on the speakers
and someone pretending to be straight for the last
time. It was an electric atmosphere where any-
thing could happen but rarely did. And still, as
always, the promise of it was more than enough.
Errall had already arrived and was saving a
table with two extra stools. The positioning was
good, near both the front door and bar and with a
nearly unimpeded view of the dance floor, giving
Daniel the best chance of spotting SunLover. A set
of stairs led to a second level loft with more tables,
a pool table, bathrooms and a drink rail that over-
looked the writhing dance floor. “People keep on
stealing stools!” Errall yelled over the noise of the
music. “I started out with enough but you’re late
and I was beginning to get dirty stares!”
Jared and I stood while Sereena and Clarissa
sat down.
“Sorry,” I said. “I had a hard time convincing
the royal family here to move their asses.” Now
that we were gathered with our heads close
together we didn’t have to shout as loud to be
heard. “Where’s Kelly?” I asked.
“Not feeling up to it,” Errall said, giving me a
look that said she was more than a little pissed off
about it. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and
Anthony Bidulka — 219
a simple low-necked blue sweater that looked
great on her. Her hair was loose around her face.
She put down her bottle of Pilsner and held out a
hand towards Clarissa. “Hi, I’m Errall Strane.”
Clarissa shook hands politely.
“Clarissa is a friend of Sereena’s in town for the
night,” I said.
“Oh, where are you from?”
“Ottawa,” I quickly lied.
Errall cocked an arch-shaped eyebrow at me,
meant to question why I wasn’t letting the lady
speak. She looked back at Clarissa, leaned in
towards her and said rather loudly, “I love
Ottawa. What part of the city do you live in?”
Clarissa pulled back and looked desperately at
me and then Jared and Sereena for help.