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1924 was the year of that October night in Chicago.
Marshall didn't even remember what he was in town for; his occupation had taken him to many grand places over the years. But one thing he did remember was his taxi driver asking him if he wanted some liquor and offering the passkey to a speakeasy downtown.
Naturally, he went after night had enveloped the city.
At first, it was like most other secretive gin joints he'd been to. In the daytime, the front door opened to a dry cleaning service, but at night, the door downstairs to the cellar opened like a crypt and inside was a stage, a bar, and in the middle a floor fit for fifty or so. Before he'd even set foot into the room, he could hear the muffled music seeping through the gap between the closed door and the wood-board floor along, the piano dragging at a leisurely pace and a saxophone trilling with excitement. Stepping in, he could see, smell, and even feel the commotion of the moving bodies around, the floor underneath him bouncing with a set rhythm and heat permeating in the stuffy space from all the dancing.
He remembered sitting at a table in the corner, too tired for anything other than liquor. Maybe he was really tired that day because he had half a mind to care when the next jazz number came up and performers clad in flapper attires took to the convex, rounded stage. A crowd quickly gathered on the dance floor. The performers swung their stocking-covered legs in synchronicity to the music. The pianist was going ham on the keys. A trumpeter emerged from seemingly nowhere and started blasting an improvised tune into the night. Everyone was having a blast.
He remembered staring at the row of performers on stage, how something was slightly amiss. One of them had a gait different from the others. Maybe she was new to the gig and hadn't danced much in heels like this. But upon second glance—and he really had to look close from a seat so far away—the performer was not a "she" at all. Behind the makeup, the dress, and everything else, he was a man. Marshall had known that there were cross-dressing folks in these speakeasies, but this was the first time he'd encountered one himself. As these pubs were hidden away from law and order, the structured conventions of society began to blur and blend. The allure of illegal booze and party atmosphere had led men and women into the same room, unbound by the frigidity of genders for the first time in public history. It wouldn't be long before the idea of gender itself began to unravel.
It felt rude to stare, but he couldn't look away.
The man wore femininity like the laced black gloves that fitted over his forearms. The man wore flirtation like his smoky eyeshadow and bold red lips. The man wore glamour like the shimmering silver dress draping from shoulder to knee. Yet there was a certain shyness in his demeanor that the whole flapper getup hadn't smothered. For some reason Marshall found it exhilarating to watch him dance—maybe it was just because of the novelty. He took a sip of beer from his glass, still looking toward the stage.
The song ended with a shrill high note from the trumpet. The applauding crowd whooped and whistled as the performers and trumpeter took their bows and left offstage. The usual ambiance of chatter and clamor resumed, so Marshall went back to nursing his glass while blinking away the sleep in his eyes.
He'd nearly drifted to sleep when the scent of perfume and chocolate wafted into his vicinity. Turning towards it, he received a jolt of shock at the sight of the cross-dressing performer sitting across the table from him. From up close, Marshall observed the intricate patterns, beads, and sequins on his dress. His warm brown eyes were fixated on Marshall. The faintest coy of a smile played in his closed lips, waiting for Marshall to speak first. Feeling his mouth dry up, Marshall quickly swigged from the glass and wiped the dribble on his chin with the cuff of his shirt sleeve.
"What are you here for?" Marshall asked.
"You were staring at me the whole time," his voice was softer than what Marshall expected. "I took notice."
"I'm sorry."
"What for?"
Marshall lowered his gaze to his half-empty glass. "It's rude to stare."
From the corner of his sight, Marshall could see the man opening and then closing his lips. A minute passed in silence between them, and seeing that Marshall had no intention to make conversation, the man started to stand. Marshall wanted to stop him from leaving but was too ashamed to even look up at his face.
"You know, if you wanted a dance, you could've just asked," and he left.
Marshall could only glimpse at the man's back profile as he receded into the swarming crowd of party-goers. A flush creeped up his face, and he prayed it was the alcohol's doing. A song was starting up again, this time a solo piano ragtime, but Marshall could only think of the encounter that just happened. The man's soft, wan face haunted him like a dream. The scent of perfume and chocolate lingered like a memory.
He downed the rest of the glass in one go and stood up so quickly it nearly made him lightheaded. He briefly scanned the room and found a small group of the performers from before sitting at a round table just left of the stage. One of them was the cross-dresser, sitting with his back turned to Marshall, a long churchwarden pipe in one hand and gesturing in speech with his other. Whatever he said, his words made some of the other women performers giggle.
Marshall made a beeline for their table, walking as fast as he could with all these people in the way. A couple of the women performers noticed him as he approached, halting from the conversation. By the time he stood directly behind the cross-dresser's chair, nearly every woman at the table was gaping at him silently. The only one who hadn't noticed was the man himself—still engaged in a vivid conversation with the empty air—until one of the women tapped him on the shoulder and pointed behind him to Marshall.
Bewildered, the man swiveled around in his chair and locked eyes with Marshall for the second time that night. Marshall fought the urge to sink into the ground as the man's powdered face inadvertently wrinkled in displeasure for a moment before he schooled it into an expression of curious compliance.
"What are you here for?" the man parroted Marshall's earlier words.
Marshall could feel his face heating up, skin suddenly sensitive to every wrinkle of clothing on his body. He licked his lips nervously and spoke, hoping his voice wouldn't betray him.
"The…the offer you made earlier," he stuttered, "I'd like to take you up on it."
Some of the women shared a knowing smirk and one patted the man on the back, mouthing something with a reassuring look while the man nodded. Taking one last drag from his pipe, he sighed out the white smoke long and deep before handing the pipe off to another woman. He rose from his seat and smiled at Marshall, offering a gloved hand for him to take. Marshall held it gently, remarking in his mind how the other's hand was smaller than his, warm even through the satin fabric.
When they found a space on the dance-floor, Marshall shifted his hold on the man, maneuvering them so the other's palm rested on his own, a hand on Marshall's shoulder while Marshall's free hand was on the other's waist. Marshall held him like he held a woman, yet it didn't feel awkward at all. They swayed and stepped in time to the music, the act as natural and seamless as breathing.
Marshall spun the man, holding his hand over his head, watching the silver fringe tinsels on his dress flare out like rays of light radiating from a star. Marshall dipped him, one hand clasped tight with the other's and one hand firmly supporting his back as he went, swinging down until the ground was an inch away before swinging him back up again. They laughed together like teenagers. Marshall pulled him close in an embrace, scents of perfume, chocolate, and a hint of tobacco swirling around him like the strongest liquor he tasted that night. The place on the dance-floor was loud enough that they could only hear each other's voice when spoken nearly mouth to ear.
"What's your name?" Marshall asked.
"Sean," the voice next to his ear sounded, "what's yours?"
"I'm Marshall," he paused, "were those women your friends?"
"The performers? Of course! Well, they're more like sisters. They're all older than me, and they all help take me under their wings in this whole gig."
Marshall held him back by his shoulders, carefully looking at Sean's face for the first time. The make-up had made him look much older, but it wasn't that hard to imagine that underneath, Sean was perhaps even a couple years younger than he was. Sean wasn't short, but even on heels, Marshall still had several inches gained on him. As a silent admission to himself, Marshall thought he rather liked this arrangement. It meant that Sean had to look up towards him with his warm, dark eyes.
"Can I ask you something, Sean?"
Sean nodded.
"Do you like being a part of this gig?"
Sean looked to the side furtively then back to Marshall. "I do."
"Why?"
"I can be whoever I want in here," Sean gestured to the room. "We're all free to express ourselves and do as we wish. I only wish—" he bit his painted bottom lip "—that we could do the same out there too."
Marshall felt a terrible squeeze in his chest and didn't know what to make of it, so he hugged Sean close and kissed his brown hair in reassurance. A leisurely jazz began to play, and a duet of male and female singers took to the stage. Marshall led Sean on a much slower dance, hand in hand, swaying in each other's arms unhurriedly. Marshall could gauge that the whole speakeasy had settled down, lulled to gentle stillness by the smooth voices in song. He turned back to Sean to find him still looking at Marshall with that faraway look in his wide eyes, red lips slightly agape without conscious thought.
"Why do you look at me like that?" He mused lightheartedly.
"I'm sorry," Sean immediately averted his gaze, "it's rude to stare."
Marshall found Sean's amusing habit of repeating phrases rather precious. Removing his hands from their positions on Sean's body, he lightly cradled Sean's jaw, guiding him to look back up into his eyes.
"No," his voice was barely above a whisper, "no it's not."
Marshall thought he saw Sean blush behind his makeup. Sean slowly backed away from Marshall's touch—and Marshall letting him go— before gingerly gracing his own hands across the places on his face that Marshall's hands had been a few moments prior.
"It's rather warm in here," Sean said, "I'd take my gloves off, but I wouldn't want you to feel how clammy my hands are."
"That's alright," Marshall replied, "you could wipe them on my handkerchief." He fished out the small piece of folded cloth from his pants pocket and handed it to Sean. His initials "M.M." were embroidered on one corner of the white fabric.
Sean swiftly removed his gloves and gave them to Marshall to hold. He then shook his hands and wiped them with Marshall's handkerchief. He was about to return it to Marshall when the latter refused, saying that he should keep it for the night in case he needed it again. Sean tied the cloth on one of his dress straps, and Marshall, not finding a nearby table to place Sean's gloves, stuffed them in his pants' pockets with a mental reminder to give them back when Sean returned his handkerchief.
They danced and danced for what felt like hours on end. Marshall's movements weren't fatigued in the slightest and neither was Sean's. They matched each other beat for beat, step for step, touch for touch. It was like Sean could read Marshall's mind. He knew when Marshall was going to spin him, dip him, or sweep him off his feet. It was the best synergy Marshall had with anyone on the dance-floor. They danced until the live music was replaced by a spinning record player. They danced until the party-goers complained of sore feet and weary limbs. They danced until even the blacked-out drunkards had woken from their slumber and shuffled home along with everyone else. They danced until it felt like they were the only people in the world.
It was when the bartender began wiping down the counter-tops after all the glasses had been put away, and the only folks remaining in the speakeasy were staff or stragglers that the two dancers finally relented from each other's hold. Marshall placed a hand on his heaving chest while Sean dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief.
"That was fun," Sean said between heavy breaths.
"Yeah," Marshall could only heave in response, “don’t you need me to walk you home tonight?”
A guilty look flitted across Sean’s face. “I usually go home late, so no one has to know about…” he trailed off, but Marshall knew what he meant. There were two different worlds inside the speakeasy and out, with different rules and expectations, different roles to play. It now seemed unfathomable that anything as wonderful as Sean would become taboo the moment they step out the door that served as the barrier between the two worlds. Marshall’s heart ached for Sean’s predicament.
“But where would I find you again?” he asked Sean.
“You can find me here, tomorrow or the day after, like how I’m here today. You should come by again.”
Marshall thought of the restless nature of his occupation—a traveling businessman, always on the hustle. Who knows if he would still be in town by tomorrow night?
"I'm not sure I could manage that," he admitted to Sean.
"Oh, promise me you would!" Sean took Marshall's hand in both of his, willing Marshall to look at him.
And how could Marshall possibly deny Sean with that look in his eyes?
"I promise," he cupped Sean's cheek with his free hand.
Sean's face broke into a smile that Marshall would never forget.
"Thank you, Marsh! I can't wait to see you again!"
"Likewise, Sean," and with that, Marshall let go of Sean's hand, letting them slip away as he left. Grabbing his jacket on the coat hook by the door, he waved goodbye to Sean, who blew him a kiss, before disappearing into the dry-cleaning storefront and beyond.
It wasn't until he had walked a couple of blocks from the speakeasy, autumn wind rustling his hair, making him shiver and shove his hands into his pant pockets that he touched something unfamiliar. His memory suddenly shifted back to Sean, with the handkerchief tied on his dress strap, swinging as he danced.
I forgot to give him back his gloves.
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