"What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stranger"

The letter was a hand written invitation, a rarity these days and the lettering was as artful as the message.

"You have been selected as a witness to a unique and powerful event. Only twenty guests have been invited to this private viewing. If you choose to decline, please give this invitation back to the bearer of this letter.If you choose to attend simply keep this invite on your person and follow the attendant to the Red Room."

Without hesitation I stood up and kept the envelope. I gave a quick and regal nod to the Baby Waiter and said "All right then, let's go." Baby Waiter got up off of bended knee gave another deep bow and started away. Gordon was at my side in an instant.

"What is going on? What is happening? Are we leaving the apartment?" He hissed at me as he followed. Some of the guest were still watching us with curiosity as we made our way across the oceanic "apartment". Referring to this palatial residence was like calling The Breakers a cottage. Still some people do and these people were the ones that did. Understatement and restraint were the earmarks of good breeding and although a part of me appreciated this, the coarser and more honest part of myself wanted to give a big Bronx cheer at Gordon's unconscious phoniness.

"Did you get an invitation?" We hurried after the messenger, a set of ornate and gilded doors at the very end of the room his obvious target. On either side were flanked two granite faced guards. Although they were deceptively dressed in crisp tuxedos there was nothing of the servant about them. They exuded a blank faced, sinister and simmering power. One nodded cordially and silently held out his hand for the envelope. His hand was the size of a ham hock.

"What are you talking about"? demanded Gordon the look of confusion on his face a now constant companion. I stifled my amusement. I love secrets and felt giddy with excitement as the guards swung open the doors in unison. Did they practice?

"I don't know yet but I will soon. And I'll be sure to tell you."

I stepped into a darkened room leaving a perplexed Gordon behind. There were others in the room, their backs turned to me and facing a small raised stage. A few glanced behind them as they heard my arrival but they expectantly turned their attentions back toward the platform. Not a chair was empty. The seats were french antiques, impossibly delicate and uncomfortable. I imagined all the asses before me, a long line of long suffering and long ago dead people shifting as I was on this plank of aristocratic wood. The thought was oddly comforting.

I was diverted from my own musings as the stage lights suddenly sharpened into a blinding flare of white. As one sense temporarily left me the other, my hearing, sharpened. I heard only silence. Not a rustle or a whisper. The lights dimmed again and the rich burgundy curtains smoothly pulled open to reveal the other half of the stage which was empty. The audience sensed movement at the same moment and we all looked up. From the ceiling a figure was being lowered, arms outstretched and legs straight behind them looking a bit like a figure on a cross being lowered face down. It was a woman and she was NOT on a cross. She seemed to be suspended by chains. Or...hooks? I was very close to the stage and had an intimate view of this strange ceremony. The woman was suspended from silver chains as though she were a jewel.

The foot lights illuminated her as ahe descended over us, hovering slim and nude. She was pale and had one long black braid coiled over her shoulder like a cozy black snake. I knew immediately that it was Queenie and stood up with the rest of the audience who began to applaud spontaneously. As my eyes adjusted I could see four strapping young slaves manipulating the ropes. Queenie swayed gently above us like a mote of dust. I moved closer so I could watch her face which was as smooth and tranquil as a stone angel. Indeed, she was hanging by hooks which had been inserted through the back of her upper arms, through the flesh of her shoulders and both of her calves.

And so she hung. And hung. And hung. I surreptitiously checked the time on my cell phone. Fifteen minutes had already passed and nothing else was happening. Why had I been invited? What was Queenie trying to say? That she was more daring, worthy of worship or more dedicated than myself? But dedicated to what? If this made her more superior than myself then so be it. She and I were clearly motivated by different things. Let her keep the glory, the mystique of her own legend. I was more interested in survival, adventure and to follow my own curiosity to see where it would lead me. It lead me here as just another member of her audience. I shifted restlessly in my seat. I knew if I left now that I would be noticed and it would be considered rude. I had already committed an earlier faux paux. So I resentfully stayed seated.

Another ten minutes before the curtains closed and the lights were raised.
Queenie received a standing ovation which she deserved because after all it WAS an amazing feat of self discipline and theatrics. But I no more understood the desire for this pain and self mutilation that I did those who put in grueling hours and suffering to run the marathon. I admired it all from afar and only for a moment. I had no need to emulate it.

Suddenly I was struck by a sense of mischief. As the audience rose and filed out I rummaged through my evening bag to find a pen a few other items. I flipped over the invitation and wrote BRAVO! Then I left behind a bottle of Advil and a small sewing kit that I had found earlier in my hotel room.

I figured she would need them more than I did.