Sara Coma

"I know what I'm doing. I'm a drag queen!" says Twinky while painting a purple lesion on his cheek, the darkest yet, like football player grease.
"I know, Twinky. But--"
"Uh uhhhh. Today, sweetie, I'm Sara Coma, Glamazon Activist, who will show ACT-UP the what for! Faster with those rhinestones."
I superglue them onto a powder blue hospital gown. ACT-UP is protesting a pharmaceutical company today and didn't want Twinky there in drag. So he's protesting them at their dawn demonstration.
From his groundlevel studio, a huge picture window faces the morningdark street--curtains opened wide as whenever Twinky drag dresses. The first businessmen of the day rush by.
"You think ACT-UP may have a point?"
Syringes dangle from each earlobe; he taps them like windchimes. "They forget who they're acting up for, I think." He slips on his stringy chemo wig--a platinum baldpatched ratnest. "And you? What's Sara Coma without her friend Kara Posi?"
"You know I can't miss work today." A lie.
"Next time, totally, huh?"
I help his lithe, eighteen year old body into the patient gown. "Would it make a difference if you were actually sick?"
"Does it matter?" He steps into bunny slippers. "Like, how would anyone know?"
"I guess you're right."
Doctor's bag in hand, he hoists his sign; bubblegum nail polish reads: SARA COMA IS FED-UP WITH ACT-UP!! "Ready!"
Businessmen continue by the window, through morning's sepias and purples, and sadly like myself will read about today in tomorrow's paper.





--Aaron Jason (1997)