Halfway Home by Paul Monette

the G-string and pasties. Tonight I want to leave on a grace note, mellow as Tony Bennett.
    "You always fall for the ones who remind you of the one you never got. I fell for Judas hard. I would've done anything for him. His little sister got thrown by a camel, and I raised her from the dead, but we kept that very quiet. I stole his dirty underwear. I watched him sleep all night. I knew they paid him money, and still I couldn't keep my hands off him. I think that's why he betrayed me, frankly, because I was one of those girls who love too much. It was really messy."
    I knock my head a few times against the cross, to show what a flake I am. "So now that I've got a second chance, my first commandment is: God shouldn't date. Only anonymous sex in dark alleys." I nod and give them a wink. "See you there. I'll be the one with the Shroud of Turin on my face. Peace and love."
    And I trudge off stage right, dragging the sins of the world behind me. They clap, all right, and there's even a whistle, but not much more than they gave to Lady Geek before me. Still, Mona is beaming as I come off, practically jumping up and down with excitement. She throws her arms about my neck and kisses my cheek with the lesion. "Welcome home, darlin'," she murmurs in my ear, and now the little audience raises the volume, applauding more vigorously. If nothing else, they approve the schlock reunion of Mona and me. I'm swept up in it too, I admit it. Mona disengages, and I turn to the crowd and throw a fist in the air like Rocky. They're almost cheering, for all the wrong reasons, but what the hell.
    Then I duck around the bleachers, and Mona goes back on to announce the next one. Immediately I set to work to dismantle the cross, undoing the toggle bolts. There's something deeply satisfying about storing your props just where they came from, ready for the next performance. As I work the crossbar loose, suddenly Gray is beside me, holding the stakepole. We don't speak yet because we're locked in the mechanics of the chore. He holds the two pieces as I crawl in under, then passes them to me one by one. Then the toolbox.
    Huddled beneath the bleachers I feel a rush of mawkish tenderness for my chosen profession, the bits of wood and hardware that turn a bare stage into ancient Judea. I peer out through the gap between the rows, right between somebody's legs, and see the next thing start. A young man in a dark suit is actually standing there with a dog, a bastard mix with an amiable air who sits nonplussed while the guy barks at him. This is not somehow a promising gestalt.
    I turn and crab my way out, knocking my crown askew on an unseen strut. Gray has a hand out to help me, and when I grip it and rise to full height beside him, he unexpectedly hugs me. Manfully of course, clapping his hands on my shoulder blades, not really squeezing at all. But it's still the first embrace that's ever passed between us, and I'm just as unexpectedly moved. It's over before I can properly hug him back, but he lets an arm rest on my shoulder as we head through the dark to the office. Behind us I can hear a veritable symphony of barking. Impossible to distinguish what's man, what's dog.
    As we enter the office Mona's crouched behind the desk, rummaging in the tiny Pullman refrigerator. "We don't exactly have champagne," she grumbles half to herself, as she pulls out old containers of cottage cheese and yogurt bubbling with mold inside. Then out comes a bottle of Miller Lite, and she stands triumphant. Gray points me into the swivel chair, then turns to close the door. Mona has scrounged three plastic champagne flutes from yet another groaning file drawer. She blows the dust out of each, sets them side by side on the desk, and starts pouring the beer.
    "Mona," I say, "sweetheart—a dog act?"
    She shrugs, unfazed. "It's supposedly an AIDS piece," she replies dryly. "I don't prescreen 'em. Maybe the dog's got AIDS." She hands me a flute of beer, mostly foam, then one to Gray. She