Blue Twilight by Jessica Speart

washed-up, out-of-touch, over-the-hill transvestite who doesn’t have my finger on the pulse of the club scene anymore. In other words, I’m just too damn o-o-o-old! ” Terri elongated the word in a long, drawn-out sob.
    “That’s totally ludicrous,” I scoffed, feeling highly insulted. Neither of us had yet reached the age of forty. If they thought Terri was too old, what did that say about me? After all, I wasn’t that far behind him.
    “Did you perform Cher and Madonna for them?”
    Terri nodded. “That’s the problem. They’re looking for someone who does Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera these days. For God sakes, can you imagine? I’d have to appear in chaps and a thong, with a snake wrapped around my neck, and grind away like a cheap espresso machine. Very classy, huh? They suggested I add Carol Channing to my repertoire and audition at a club that caters to an older clientele, instead. Carol Channing! What do I look like? Chopped liver for the geriatric set?”
    “They obviously don’t know what they’re talking about,” I tried to console him.
    Terri pulled the visor down and examined his face in its mirror. His fingers probed every little wrinkle.
    “I can’t even afford a face-lift these days. Not with that lawsuit hanging over Yarmulke Schlemmer’s head.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t need one, anyway.”
    However, I snuck a peek in the rearview mirror at my own face. How long would it be before I broke open my piggy bank, hoping to scrape up enough for a few nips and tucks?
    “I’m sure there are plenty of other clubs where you can work.”
    “Yeah. I hear they’re having a cattle call for mature transvestites to perform at a local senior citizens center,” Terri morosely responded. “Between Vincent, the lawsuit, and now this, I don’t know what I’m going to do, Rach. I needsomething solid to hang on to in my life or, I swear, I’m going to float aimlessly along, just wasting time.”
    Time. There it was. That terrible word. I could feel it ticking away inside me like a bomb ever since my mother’s death. It was a constant reminder that there was only a finite amount left, and I had damn well better make the most of it.
    I looked over at Terri’s expression and it nearly broke my heart. “Remember what you told me about having patience, Ter? Don’t worry. Things will work out.”
    He half-heartedly patted my arm and gazed out the window, appearing to be deep in thought.
    The San Francisco skyline faded into the fog behind us, much like an aging movie star taking refuge behind a thick, gauzy veil. Soon a tunnel came into view, its mouth painted in candy stripes like a colorful rainbow. Upon entering, we were magically transported into a California never-never land. We exited to find ourselves in Marin County, home of New Age consciousness, granola bars, wealthy stockbrokers, and aging rock stars. The headquarters for Birkenstock sandals loomed off to the west like the Emerald City, making me feel rather like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz .
    We continued north on Highway 101 through a landscape of rolling hills bedecked with gnarled oaks. Three huddled together in the mist, their contorted limbs transforming them into a trio of scheming witches from Macbeth .
    From there we sped through wine country, bastion of the good life, with its carefully tended vineyards, gourmet restaurants, and stylish homes, all paid for with great gobs of money. A quick turn onto Route 128 brought about yet an entirely different change of scene.
    A rural two-lane road wound through verdant mountains, its path so serpentine that my car squealed in delight ratherthan sensibly slow down. Soon the Ford was shush , shush , shushing from side to side with the proficiency of a downhill skier, twisting and turning in perfect unison with each hairpin curve.
    Paul Newman, Tom Cruise, look out. I drove with the giddy exhilaration of a newbie race car driver. The only thing that kept me in check was the