Starring:
Ed Wood: Travis Bickle
The Amazing Criswell: Wizard
Kathy Wood: Betsy
Miss Vampira: Iris
Dr. Tom: Tom
Tor Johnson: Sport
Orson Welles: Charles Palentine
Bunny B.: Charlie T.
Conrad Booth and Paul DeMarco: cabbies
The Real Jews Are Black: the Hollywood Baptists
And featuring the late Bela Lugosi as Doughboy
Ed Wood walked out of the summer air, and into the damp, dimly lit garage. He passed by the off-duty cabbies cleaning cum off their backseats. Some were even cleaning off the blood. His movie career in a holding pattern, and his relationship with Delores Fuller ended, Ed had come to New York to blend in with the large transvestite community. He'd been on seven job interviews earlier in the day, and each one had rebuked him with extreme prejudice. Ed approached the dispatcher with false confidence and, armed with a toothy grin, handed his hack license over. The dispatcher seldom looked up, as he perused the checklist in front of him.
"How's your medical?"
"Clean."
"Driving record?"
"Clean--like my Angora sweater."
"You gonna break my balls? You gonna break my balls, you can take it on the arches right now." It was at this point that the dispatcher looked up, and saw that Ed was in full drag. Ed did make a rather attractive woman, with his wig and makeup.
"I'm sorry, sir. Just a joke."
"Says here you were a paratrooper."
"Yes, sir. Dishonorable discharge, June 12th, 1946, on a section eight."
"Really? I was a section eight."
"Confidentially, I even paratrooped wearing a brassiere and panties."
"You're putting me on," said the dispatcher, incredulous.
"No. I tell you, I wasn't worried about being killed, but I was terrified of getting wounded and having the medics discover my secret."
"So why you wanna hack, Ed?"
"I want a job where I can wear whatever I want."
"There's clubs for that."
"I tried them. I tried the clubs. They don't work," said Ed, exasperated.
"You moonlighting?"
"I--I just want to wear dresses while I work. What's moonlighting?" said Ed, puzzled.
"Alright, fill out this paperwork and check back with me at midnight--the freak shift. Maybe I'll have something."
"Great!" said Ed, through his winning smile.
May 10th
Thank God for the rain which has helped wash all the garbage off the sidewalks, and allowed me to wear my new silver-lamé raincoat, with pink tassels. Finally, a job where I can express the real me. I'm working long hours now. Six in the afternoon to six in the morning and I get to wear whatever I want for all of them. Six days a week, sometimes seven days a week, it's a long hustle but it keeps me shopping for new women's clothing. I can pull in three, three-fifty a week. Sometimes more, when I do it off the meter.
All the animals come out at night. Whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies...sick...venal...it's great! Unfortunately, someday a real rain will come and wash all the scum off the streets. But until then… I take people all over, the Bronx, Brooklyn, West Village, I take them to Club Probe, the Crankshaft, the bathhouses. I don't care. Don't make no difference to me. Some of the drivers won't even take Transsexuals, but I don't care. I go anywhere.
"Driver, forty-eighth and sixth, please," the businessman said, following the blonde-haired Negro hooker into the backseat. Ed scribbled in his trip chart, as the businessman continued to fondle his playmate.
"There's a big tip in it for you if you do the right things."
"Oooh, yeah, baby--" the hooker responded, with a giggle.
The businessman laughed a full-bodied laugh. "Oh--you've got a way."
"You gonna love it baby. I'll let you wear my panties, sugar."
"Oh, now you're talkin'. Oh, Driver, hurry up will ya?"
Ed didn't look at him, he just applied more gas. He drove through the open hydrant, but first rolled up the window so that his feather boa wouldn't get wet. At forty-eighth and sixth, the man dropped a twenty for Ed as a tip. The blonde dropped her silk scarf, and this pleased Ed even more.
Back in the garage, Ed cleaned the cum off his backseats. It was time to go home, but he knew he wouldn't. He walked into the Pink Pussycat Theatre on Eighth Avenue. He walked inside in full-drag and was immediately struck by the beauty of the girl at the counter. He approached her, fearful of how she would perceive him.
"Can I help you--uh--Mister?"
"Yeah, what's your name? Mine's Edward D. Wood, Jr."
"That's nice. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to know what your name is. Tell me your name."
"Give me a break," the girl said, callously.
"Look, I just want to know what your name is. I'm not going to do anything. Hey, what was the first movie you ever saw? Mine was Dracula! I had to sleep with the lights on for an entire month—"
"Do I have to call the manager?"
"No, you don't have to call the manager. I'm just asking--"
"Troy!"
"Alright! OK, um--Can I have a Chuckles--and uh, Ju Ju--Do you have any Ju Ju Bees? They last longer."
"What you see is what we got, you freak."
"Imperial Whiskey?" asked Ed, hopefully.
"Royal Crown cola's all we got. One-eighty-five."
Ed dropped his money, and walked away dejected, into the din of the darkened Porno Theater.
May 11th
Twelve hours of work and I still can't sleep. The days go on and on, and they don't end. All my life needed was a sense of someplace to go. I don't believe someone should devote themselves to morbid self-attention, while cross-dressing. I believe a transvestite should become a person like other people.
I first saw her at the Orson Welles Mercury Theater at Sixty-third and Broadway. She was wearing a pink angora sweater. She appeared like an angel hovering above the dunes. Maybe it was fatigue, or the indignities of war, or maybe it was "something else." She is alone. They cannot...touch...her.
Ed pulled up in front of the Mercury Theater, past the giant posters of Orson Welles. He would be appearing there live next month, and the entire theater district was a buzz. Dr. Tom, a chiropractor, and one of the volunteers for organizing the event, was on the phone holding a box full of buttons.
"Well, you delivered two boxes of what I believe are five thousand buttons, for Mr. Welles' appearance on the twenty-first. Now, all the ones we've had before, and Mr. Welles' trademark phrase is, 'This is Orson Welles,' and this is underlined. These new buttons have is underlined. That reads, 'This is Orson Welles.' Well, I think there's a difference. 'This is Orson Welles,' is not the same as, 'This is Orson Welles….' That's not right…. Look, we'll make it real simple. This bill you sent is not getting paid. This bill is going in the garbage, alright?"
Dr. Tom hung up the phone, as Kathy called to him. "Dr. Tom! Dr. Tom! Come'ere a minute."
"What is it, Kathy?"
"Check this copy before it goes to Mr. Welles, and find a photo Orson doesn't look fat in for the bumper stickers, and make sure that the press kits we're sending to the Hearst papers have the hundred dollar bills in them."
"Yeah, I was just about to do that."
"Dr. Tom--. Look over there. You notice anything?"
"No."
"That taxi driver in the wig is staring at us."
"How long has he been there?" asked Dr. Tom, not sure what Kathy was getting at.
"It feels like a long time."
"Well, I'll just tell him to move."
"Also, my neck is kinda stiff," said Kathy, craning her neck slowly.
"Alright then, I'll align you as soon as I'm back."
Dr. Tom marched out to where Ed was parked, but no sooner did he get to the cab, than Ed hit the gas and sped away. Dr. Tom stood in the afternoon drizzle watching the cab tear up the street, then walked inside and snapped Kathy's neck into perfect alignment.
Copyright © 2000 James J. Smith.