Synopsis: a college student with a talent for mimicry applies for a summer job at a Niagara Falls wax museum.

Like a Candle in the Wind
by Laurie S. aka l.satori

Part 1

CHAPTER ONE

One final cut and the editing would be finished! I pressed down on the stop button one last time at precisely the right instant. Finally! Done like dinner! I could exhale. The sixty-second commercial was complete. As I replayed the musical message one more time in the computer's DVD drive, I felt some satisfaction. My creative blend of famous voices and songs was sure to get me a good mark in my New Media: Production course.

The instructor had asked for a series of commercials to promote tourism in Niagara Falls. I think I had delivered -- with the help of my good friend Pete Winslow, a musical genius, who had provided me a great arrangement of one of Marilyn Monroe's most famous songs -- Diamonds (are a Girl's Best Friend).

A quick glance at my watch told me I had just enough time to make my noon appointment. I quickly popped out the disc from the Pioneer DVD 'burner,' gathered up my belongings, and headed out of the Niagara Community College Media Center.

Over to the bicycle rack by the rear door of the main building, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, and then I quickly unlocked the chain on my old Supercycle mountain bike. As I hopped on the saddle, I used my free hand to strap on my helmet and I was off.

After dodging a few vans in the parking lot, I headed down the Niagara Parkway. I was thankful that I wore a windbreaker as I rode into a strong headwind coming from the Niagara Gorge on a cool, overcast April day. Although the traffic was slow, I flew by the cars and sightseeing buses as I headed toward the town center. Nearing the Rainbow Bridge, I could feel the spray from the Falls on my face and in my hair.

At Clifton Hill, I turned up the street. As I passed the Haunted House of Horrors, an arcade, and some fast food restaurants, I thought about my impending interview in Clifton Hill -- the junkiest, ugliest, tourist trap in Niagara Falls. 'The Hill' or 'the Hole,' as some of the natives called it, was the armpit of the scenic seventh wonder of the natural world, but that was where I hoped to find a summer job. Tourism was the number one employer in town. Dollars took precedence over beauty, especially when the Canuck buck was strong against the American dollar.

I hopped off my bike and leaned it up against one of the bicycle hitching stands. After I took off my helmet and secured the lock, I finger-combed my flattened helmet hair, using the reflection from a storefront window to check my appearance. As I approached Robinson's Wax Museum, I glanced at my counterfeit Cartier watch. It was 11:58 as I walked up to the entranceway of the museum. I wasn't really sure I wanted the guide/security guard position, but I didn't want to be late and create a bad first impression. On either side of the double doors were posters of famous people who were honored inside.

A pretty girl at the ticket wicket told me to go on through to an office on the right. A few strides down a wide corridor led me to the reception area of the office.

I knocked on the open door. "Are you Mrs. Robinson?" I asked in a cheerful voice.

"Yes," she replied, as she extended her hand. "And you must be Roger Baker."

"That's right. I am here to apply for the job." She had a firm, warm handshake and a kind face. Somehow I'd expected her to be tough looking, like a carnival barker, given her place in the tourist industry.

"Please have a seat over here," she said, as she indicated a padded chair in front of her desk.

Mrs. Robinson appeared to be in her mid-forties. She had mid-length brunette hair, a friendly smile, and must have been a knockout when she was younger. She still had a great figure that looked nice in her white blouse and dark blue leather pants. She was a petite woman, just a little shorter than my 5' 6".

Mrs. Robinson retrieved my application from her desktop. Quickly she scanned the details on the form.

"I see that you worked at a fast food restaurant last year."

"Yes. I really enjoyed my job at Tim Hortons. I learned how to make a variety of sandwiches, operate a cash register, and how to serve the customers."

"Well, that experience should be helpful in this job because you will be meeting tourists all the time."

"I'd like to get into a job where I interact with the public. I'm a student at Niagara Community College right now. Eventually, I'd like to get into either radio or television."

"In what capacity?" She seemed to be actually interested in me. My boss at Tim Hortons hardly knew my name. He'd called us by the job we did. The fellow who washed the floors was called 'Bucket.' He called me 'Donut' and not because I looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

"I'd either like to become a DJ or radio announcer. Failing that, I'd like to become a radio producer." I didn't tell her that I really wanted to be in television, but I didn't think I was good looking enough to be in television. I always felt that being vertically challenged, having a slim, unimposing build, and lacking matinee idol looks would hold me back. I'd even dreamed of being an actor or singer before reality set in. As for radio, none of the stations I applied to had even given me an interview. All I got were emails thanking me for submitting the job applications.

"You have a flair for show business, eh?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact I was working on a television commercial just before I came here." I read some disbelief in Mrs. Robinson's expression. "Oh, it's not a real television commercial. It's for an assignment in my media course at the Community College, but I think it sounds really professional. The video aspect is, at least, original. In fact, I've got it right here in my backpack."

"That sounds interesting," Mrs. Robinson said, seemingly intrigued. Maybe she thought there was a possibility I might have some useful talents. "Could I please watch it?"

My interest in working in her museum had increased. "Certainly." Looking over at her office computer, I asked, "Is the DVD drive on that Dell in working order?"

"Yes."

I fished the commercial out of my green canvas pack. "Here." I passed the DVD to Mrs. Robinson.

She pushed off with her foot, using the rollers of her chair to slide a few feet over to the computer terminal.

The screen saver disappeared as Mrs. Robinson clicked open the disk drive and inserted the commercial. A few moments later, the computer reacted to the inserted DVD and came to life.

On the screen, a detailed modeling clay figure of Marilyn Monroe launched into a song and dance routine. Mrs. Robinson smiled as she watched 'Claymation Marilyn' perform Diamond's are a Girl's Best Friend. She strutted, she kicked, she pirouetted, she sang, and she moved her arms up and down and all around.

"This is really quite good," Mrs. Robinson said with a smile of approval. "How did you do the claymation figure?"

"I started with a wire skeleton, a doll figure, some plaster of Paris, and made a mould of the doll. Then, I fashioned the plasticine around the wire to make the body, legs, head, hands, and feet. The mould really helped to refine the features, especially the face. Although it took awhile, I was able to create a pretty good likeness. Actually, there were two almost identical figures, with slight differences in the face. One had the mouth closed. The other showed the teeth because I needed to show her singing."

"Very good! It's just like what we do here at the wax museum, although not as detailed."

"Also, I created a background poster. Using a digital camera mounted on a tripod, I took two photos of the American Falls from the Maid of the Mist dock. Then I took a series of action photographs of Claymation Marilyn. I alternated the dolls so that I could simulate the mouth opening and closing for her singing. Similarly I switched the background poster of the Falls so that it might look like the water was actually falling."

"That must have taken a long time."

"It did, but I enjoyed doing it. I tried to copy Marilyn Monroe's song and dance from the movie 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.' I had to move the arms and legs precisely to replicate a whole minute of the song and dance routine."

"Where did you get the music?"

"Actually, we weren't allowed to use any previously made recordings for this assignment. So, I had my good friend, Pete, create a karaoke version of 'Diamonds' on his synthesizer. I provided the macho announcer's voice and I also sang the song."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You mean to say that was you singing?"

"Yes . . . I can do a variety of vocal impersonations; both girls and guys. You know -- Jack Nicholson, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jim Carrey, David Letterman, Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, Britney Spears. . . ." It embarrassed me that I actually could do girls' voices better than the guys', although I didn't offer that opinion.

"But that sounded exactly like the real Marilyn Monroe."

"A kiss on the lips can be quite continental, But diamonds are a girl's best friend," I sang in a breathy, velvety Marilyn Monroe imitation. "A kiss may be grand, but it won't pay the rental -- on your humble flat, or help you at the automat."

Mrs. Robinson smiled with delight. "Impressive, but why Marilyn?"

"There haven't been too many 'Hollywood' films shot at Niagara Falls -- and only one entitled Niagara. Besides, I'm into old films. One of my high school teachers told me you needed to have a sense of the past and an eye for the future to live properly in the present."

She nodded and I continued.

"It didn't take me long to find Marilyn Monroe on the Internet or at the video stores. She was the biggest sex symbol in history."

"Do you admire her?"

"She had such an interesting life. I've memorized some of her quotes. She said, 'There was my name up in lights. I said, 'God somebody's made a mistake.' But there it was, in lights. And as I sat there and said, 'Remember, you're not a star.' Yet there it was up in lights.' "

"Wow," Mrs. Robinson said, "you sound just like her."

I shook myself. Sometimes when I thought too hard about a person's feelings while I tried to impersonate them, I actually felt their joy, or in Marilyn's case her sadness. I had empathy for her sadness. I wanted to be an entertainer, but my parents thought I should do something much less 'frivolous.'

Someone knocked on the open door of the office. I turned to see a tall, stunningly beautiful young lady, who was about my age, smiling, as she came in, and then looked my way.

"Sorry to interrupt Mom, but what's going on here? When I passed by your office a moment ago, I thought I heard Marilyn Monroe singing and just now I thought I heard her talking."

"You did, dear. . . . Well, that wasn't really Marilyn. It was the talented young man sitting right here."

A look of surprise graced the girl's gorgeous face.

"Heather, I'd like you to meet Roger Baker. Roger is here to apply for a summer job."

As I stood up, beautiful Heather smiled at me and held out her hand.

"Glad to meet you," she said. An unmistakable spark of electricity passed between us as we touched.

"My pleasure. . . ." I struggled to find more to say. All thoughts about the importance of the interview had become secondary to learning about HER.

I took a moment to carefully take her in. Heather was tall, lithe, and athletic looking. She wore a dark-red halter-top and tight fitting Calvin Klein jeans. She kind of resembled a brunette version of a young Daryl Hannah, without the Kill Bill eye-patch. Her beauty mesmerized me. Was it possible there'd been an extra friendly squeeze in her handshake?

"Oh, before I forget, Mom, the sales guy from Roswell Replicators is here."

"Darn it. He's late. He was supposed to be here an hour ago."

"He said he got tied up at Customs when he was coming across the Peace Bridge."

Mrs. Robinson headed toward the doorway. "Pardon me young fellow. I need to talk to this salesman. . . . Heather, could you show our new employee, Mr. Baker, around the premises, please?"

Did I hear that right? Had she said 'our new employee'?

"Yes, you have the job," Mrs. Robinson said with a broad smile. She must have read my mind.

"Great!" My face ached from my ear-to-ear grin. After talking to Mrs. Robsinson and especially after meeting Heather, landing the job carried huge significance. "When do you want me to start?"

"As soon as possible."

"Hmmm. . . . The final exams for my college courses end this coming week. Could I start next Saturday?"

"That would be fine."

Mrs. Robinson had left to find the salesman but Heather stood in for her and gave me a firm but gentle handshake to seal our agreement.

"Well then, shall we go for a little tour of the museum?" Heather asked.

"Cool."

Mrs. Robinson ducked her head back in the door. "Before you go, Heather, what's the name of the salesman again?"

"Here's his business card, Mom."

Mrs. Robinson glanced at the name. "Ben Sadler."

"Yes. You met him two weeks ago. Only this time, there isn't a big team of salespeople with him. I think he's the technical expert -- he's a sales engineer."

"Okay, thanks. Now, you show young, talented Roger Baker around."

Heather grabbed me by the hand and led me down the dark corridor into the depths of the wax museum -- it wasn't a tour of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.

CHAPTER TWO

I hadn't been in the wax museum since I was about eleven years old, so I wondered if I would form a different opinion of it now. Back then I had thought it was a dull, lifeless place. Sure there were famous people on display, but some of the faces didn't look real. I might as well have been looking at mannequins in the Hudson's Bay department store.

Touring the museum with Heather was bound to put it in a more positive perspective. The first section we wandered through was Movie Mania and the first wax figure to greet us was . . . Marilyn Monroe. Her lifelike statue wore a revealing white dress from the film The Seven Year Itch. She had worn it in that famous scene where she stood over a subway vent. The moving trains below caused an updraft that lifted her dress high above her legs, revealing her underwear. The 'Marilyn' wax figure actually moved in response to the updraft, trying to hold the billowing skirt down. At first I thought it might be a real girl, but when the wind suddenly stopped, the wax figure froze. It was an enchanting surprise, but at the same time, it was kind of spooky to have a visit from the ghost of Hollywood past.

"You've made a few changes. I don't remember 'Marilyn' moving the last time I was here," I said to Heather, who looked good even in comparison to a woman named the 'Sexiest Woman of the Century.'

"When was the last time you were in here?"

My silence shamed me.

"We try to keep it fresh," she said, absolving me with a smile. "We're always adding stars. Over the last few years we added Angelina Jolie, Sandra Oh, Brad Pitt, Jude Law, Heath Ledger, Johnny Depp, Jim Carrey and music personalities like Jennifer Lopez, Shania Twain, Justin Timberlake, Beyonce, Gwen Stefani, Britney Spears and Avril Lavigne. Also, whenever something happens locally, we try to make an exhibit for it. When director James Cameron was in Niagara Falls, we introduced Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet to the public."

"That happened around the time I last visited the wax museum." I had driven my bike past Cameron's boyhood home nearly every day on my way to high school.

And there it was, just a few steps past the New York street scene of The Seven Year Itch. Leonardo had stood at the bow of the Titanic and proclaimed himself King of the World. Then he helped 'Rose' (Kate Winslet) stand up on the wire rigging and spread her wings. In the background was a beautiful orange sunset above the breakers of the Atlantic Ocean. The display had it all. In fact, you could hear the waves and smell the salt of the sea air. Again, I was blown away. Definitely not dull and lifeless.

Heather beamed, showing her pride in her museum.

As we moved on, a few Japanese tourists posed for a photo in front of the Titanic display.

"Did you get to meet James Cameron?" I asked Heather.

"Uh huh. That was quite an afternoon. We had all sorts of press, radio, and television coverage. After all, he's probably the best-known celebrity from Niagara Falls -- an Academy Award winner for directing Titanic."

"I loved that film. There was such attention to detail."

"I agree. Attention to detail is important. Actually, it's the key to success of our wax museum. We have to make the wax figures exactly right or the illusion falls apart. People are willing to suspend their disbelief to the point of an ocean liner existing in a museum, but there's a point where they will no longer enjoy the experience. Unfortunately for us, they are more demanding every year."

I nodded. I'd read in my media books that everyone in communication was feeling the need to get better.

"I guess the museum got a lot of publicity from James Cameron's visit." I could hardly believe that someone as pretty as Heather was spending so much time with me.

"Yes, but I kinda wish we could get Celine Dion to visit too."

"I'd come to see her. I've never seen her in concert."

She pointed toward the next figure. "Another recent addition to our Music section is Avril Lavigne. Of course, she's really popular among our Canadian visitors. Also, we have others in our Canadian wing: Mike Myers, Pamela Anderson, Gordon Lightfoot, Kiefer Sutherland, William Shatner, Keanu Reeves, Matt Perry, and Eric McCormick."

Perhaps it was the lighting, but the Avril figure seemed to have a glow about her. My eyes became fixated on the dazzling pop music star. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but the Avril wax figure looked like she was alive, and ready to come over and shake hands with me. Or spit on me if she thought I was paparazzi.

"Somehow these wax figures seem to be much more realistic than I remember from my last visit," I observed.

"There's a reason. The technology has changed; and we can now produce much more exact replicas."

I looked into the deep pools of Heather's eyes. She was more beautiful than any of the stars on display. I was really looking forward to working with her. . . . Does she have a boyfriend?

"What kinds of technological changes?" I asked as I averted my eyes from my stare at her, which was getting impolite.

"We used to use nothing but wax, but now we make use of a thin layer of latex painted on the wax base to replicate the texture and color of skin. At our peak usage of wax as our sculpting media, we must have had the equivalent of 6000 twelve-inch candles contained within our three hundred or so wax figures."

"You must have worn out a lot of bees."

"I never thought of that . . . honey." We laughed.

"But speaking of changes, the salesman my mother went to meet is delivering a new machine that we will be using to make even more lifelike replicas."

"I thought the wax figures were created by hand?"

"Computer aided design has arrived in architecture, engineering, animation, and any artistic field you can mention. It can save a lot of time and money."

"Well, I think the Marilyn, Shania, Leonardo, and Kate figures look amazingly real."

"The 'state of the art' technology is the reason. Also, it saves us incredible amounts of time and money. You know how much time it used to take to make a new figure from scratch?"

"Haven't a clue."

"Six months. Even when I was small I loved to watch the craftsmen work. We used to make a clay sculpture from as many as two hundred photographs of a famous celebrity. That was the first step. Then we'd make plaster moulds from the sculpture and pour beeswax into the moulds. This would create a facemask. The bodies were fairly easy to do. We'd use fiberglass for the body with a thin layer of beeswax on the exterior. You can't use wax for the whole body because the weight of the wax would cause the torso to fall apart. In fact, we'd mix a little bit of rubber into the beeswax to make the 'skin' more durable. Next, we'd have to match the color of the hair and eyes. The hair always took a long time. All the strands at the hairline were put in by hand. For the teeth, if possible, we'd get dental casts to be absolutely accurate. Then, an artist would use oil paint to get the texture and skin tones precisely right."

"It sounds like a painstaking procedure."

"It certainly was. I made a pest out of myself until my mom taught me the basics of each phase . . . but there was one more critical step involved. We had to get the right costumes. Sometimes, with the co-operation of the celebrities and studios, we would obtain the outfits they'd actually worn in their films. Otherwise, we would make the wardrobes ourselves. Besides being time-consuming, the creation of the wax figure cost about $60,000 Canadian to do the complete, whole process."

"I never realized there was so much involved."

"Well, that was the old way. We have a new way of doing things now . . . I'll show you. C'mon. Let's go see Mom and that salesman from Roswell Replicators."

Heather led me toward the back of the museum. "We invested heavily in high tech a few years ago to keep pace with our new competition," Heather said on the way.

"You mean 'The Hall of Fame' up the street?"

"Yes. When they opened up, they took a big chunk out of our revenues and profits disappeared. There was a great deal of curiosity to see the new kid on the block. Tour buses that had directed tourists to us were getting kickbacks to steer them to 'The Hall of Shame.' "

In a corridor that led to an emergency exit, there was a heavy security door with a red sign that said, 'Private.' The green metal door was equipped with a number combination pad. Heather punched in four digits. The door buzzed while we heard the sounds of a locking mechanism releasing. Heather indicated that I should push on the metal bar that would open the hatchway.

Behind the green door was a large workspace that was used to make and maintain the wax figures. In the center of a high and spacious studio stood Mrs. Robinson and a gentleman in a white lab coat, who was working on a machine that looked like a prop from a science fiction film.

They both greeted us with sociable smiles.

"Hi Mom, I thought I'd show Roger our workspace."

"Glad you could join us," Mrs. Robinson said. Then, with a gesture of her arm, she introduced me. "Roger, this is Ben Sadler. He's the sales engineer from Roswell Replicators. Ben, this our newest employee, Roger Baker."

We shook hands.

Ben was a bald, bespectacled man in his late forties, with a strong grip. In appearance, he reminded me of my high school physics teacher, Mr. Johnston, whom we had dubbed the 'Mad Chemist' because of his volatile lab demonstrations.

"I've been showing Roger around the museum," Heather explained to Ben.

"I've been quite impressed by the life-like figures." I added, "They look so real."

"Well, that might be because of machines like this one." Mrs. Robinson pointed to the large chrome dome apparatus in front of us.

Ben touched the machine with obvious pride. "This is the Roswell Replicator II, our newest model can do much more than the original version."

"Such as what?" Heather asked, although I was sure she already knew and was asking only for my benefit.

"Well, so far, you have used the original version to make wax figures for your displays. The type II program can go a step further. We have a new compound that replicates human skin. It feels like real skin, it breathes like real skin, it is flexible, and can be used as a mask on live actors."

"You mean we could put a mask on a person and that person could pretend to be a celebrity?" Heather asked.

"That's right," Ben said. "In Hollywood films like Charlie's Angels, Austin Powers, or various Mission Impossibles, masks have been used to create alternate personas for the films' stars. Similarly, we could put you in a mask and you could walk around the museum looking like Bruce Willis, Jim Carrey, Charlize Theron, or Britney Spears."

"That opens up a lot of possibilities," Mrs. Robinson added. "A few of our wax figures move now, like Marilyn Monroe, but this could be much more interactive."

"Yes, instead of having the visitors pose for photos beside a wax figure, they could talk to the 'stars,' " Heather said. "Maybe the pop music stars could even perform songs."

"Kind of like a Legends in Concert show, " Mrs. Robinson suggested.

"Yes, there are many possibilities," Ben said. "The Roswell Replicator II can give you all this and more."

"More?" Heather asked.

"Yes, the facemask is only the start. We have special figure shapers and adhesives that can help alter your actor's body dimensions to make them even more convincing. Plus, on our Digital Video Discs, we have complete body dimension information, photographs, film clips, and biographical backgrounds to help you transform a normal person into a 'star.' "

"Can we afford it?" Heather asked.

Given what she had said earlier about the museum's finances, her question seemed right on target.

"As I see it," Mrs. Robinson said, "it's an investment we have to make."

"It will help your bottom line," Ben said with enthusiasm. "As I told you, I'm trying to convince the guys in the ivory tower to sink more money into my division. This new machine is a prototype; and unless I can demonstrate real world practical applications -- it could be the last of its kind."

"What about the voice?" Heather asked.

"Unfortunately, we don't have a voice changing device . . . but you can lip sync if you are going to put on an impersonation type show."

"Actually, we have a person on our staff who can do vocal imitations," Mrs. Robinson said cheerfully.

First Mrs. Robinson, and then Heather, and lastly Ben turned toward me.

"Yes, I suppose I can do imitations, but I don't look like anyone famous."

"The Roswell Replicator II can change you into any star," Ben said. "However, it works best with somebody who has the physical dimensions of the original star -- someone who is about the right height and thinner than the real celebrity."

"Why thinner?" Heather asked.

"It's much easier to add padding than it is to compress somebody's body shape."

"How about Marilyn Monroe?" Mrs. Robinson asked.

"Could you change Roger into Marilyn Monroe?"

What? Me looking like Marilyn Monroe?

"Yeah! That's a great idea, Mom!"

Great Idea? I couldn't even look at Heather. Did I strike her as that much of a wimp?

"Perhaps," Ben said, with a look of surprise in his expression. "How tall are you?"

"I'm 5 feet 6 inches," I replied without much enthusiasm.

"How much do you weigh?"

"Exactly 123 pounds on my bathroom scale this morning." At 123 pounds I was one of the smallest male students in my college.

Ben went over to the Roswell Replicator II. He moved the mouse and keyed in some information.

"It says here that Marilyn Monroe was 5 feet 5 1/2 inches in height. However, you're a little heavier than she was. She weighed 118 pounds and her vital statistics were 37-23-36 . . . Do you know your measurements?"

"I have a 26-inch waist. Yes, I know I'm skinny. I'm not sure about the chest but I take a size 36 suitcoat and my pant size is 30-32. My inseam is more like 31 inches, but cotton pants shrink when they're washed. Usually I have to buy pants with a 30-inch waist. I need the width for my hips. I find it really difficult to get clothes small enough around the waist to fit me in the Men's department. And I hate shopping in the Boy's section."

"I think we have a pretty good match here!" Mrs. Robinson chimed in. "A corset or a little bit of dieting and exercise will get that waist down to the right size in no time."

"Wait a minute! You can't be seriously considering turning me into Marilyn Monroe?" I checked Heather's reaction out of the corner of my eye. Being sized up as a grade A candidate to pass for a woman like Marilyn Monroe wasn't the kind of thing that would impress a girl like her . . . or was it? Heather's face was lit up with energy.

"Why not?" Mrs. Robinson asked, also looking quite excited. "You have the right physical dimensions. We know you can do the voice. And you're searching for a way into show business."

"Yeah, but if you haven't noticed, I'm a guy."

"We know that," Heather said kindly. "You’re a very good-looking guy. But look, if I tried to look like Marilyn Monroe, I'd be too tall and too heavy. Also, more importantly, I don't sound like her. So you are the logical choice. It's Kismet. The day you walk into our place, Roswell Replicators arrives with a new machine . . . and a new star is 'reborn'!"

Heather had said I'm good-looking.

"We can pay 'Marilyn Monroe' a lot more money than Roger Baker," Mrs. Robinson said wryly. "You could become our star attraction!"

From what Heather had said about the museum's need for profit, I could be a hero in her eyes.

"Would I really look like Marilyn Monroe?" I asked Ben.

"The Roswell Replicator II will make you an exact duplicate of the original. Marilyn Monroe's former husband, 'Jolting' Joe DiMaggio, if he were alive, couldn't tell you from the real thing."

The 'jolt' would be on him. No, I had to tell them before things got out of hand. "I won't do it."

"Why?" Heather said with more disappointment than I'd expected.

"It would be too embarrassing," I said, surprised they didn't see the obvious.

"If impersonating Marilyn is embarrassing for you," Mrs. Robinson asked, "why did you make the commercial for your class with you singing 'Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend' in perfect Marilyn voice?"

I blushed at the compliment before responding. "That was different."

"Different how?" she demanded in a friendly, yet persistent way.

"No one would see me singing like Marilyn. Without anyone seeing me, I wouldn't be humiliated."

Mrs. Robinson smiled broadly. "Then there's no reason for you not to impersonate her. No one would see 'you.' "

"That's right," Heather said. "Unless you chose to tell everyone, no one would ever know it was you under the costume. It would be just like Halloween and you'd never take off your mask."

I was trapped. Either I went along or run the risk of Heather thinking I lacked courage. "Okay, okay, but assuming this works and I play the role of Marilyn for the summer, I don't want anyone to know that 'Marilyn' is really me, Roger Baker. I don't want anyone, outside of this room to know our secret. Okay?"

"Do you want that in writing?" Mrs. Robinson asked, seemingly ready to agree.

"No, not really. But, if the secret comes out, I think it could ruin my life, so please don't tell anyone."

Ben raised his hand in an oath. "I wouldn't tell anyone. I need this to work to save my division. I wouldn't do anything to upset the apple cart."

"We won't tell anyone," Heather said with sincerity. "You could become our star attraction. It would be in our best interests to keep you happy."

"Well, what do you say?" Mrs. Robinson asked.

"C'mon, seize the day."

I couldn't pass up the opportunity for my Robin Williams impression. He was the teacher John Keating in Dead Poets Society. "They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you." I thought about the irony. "Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you, their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? - - Carpe - - hear it? - - Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary."

Heather, Ben, and Mrs. Robinson applauded me.

"That was wonderful," Heather said. "Robin Williams, right here in our museum."

"All right. Let's give it a shot," I said. The whole idea was absolutely insane! But so was I. There was zero chance that it would work, but I would look good in Heather's eyes for giving it a try.

CHAPTER THREE

The Robinsons didn't let any grass grow under their feet. Within five minutes they had me ready to try a transformation. Thankfully they agreed to give Ben and me some privacy.

After I stepped into the black rubber interior of the Roswell Replicator II chamber, the floor started to move on a turntable beneath the chrome dome. A red laser beam, mounted on a movable measuring standard, scanned me slowly from head to toe, combing over every nook and cranny of my naked body, creating a complete 3D record of my whole system from stem to stern.

When I stepped out of the chamber onto the worn plank board floor of the studio, Ben gave me a white terrycloth bathrobe to cover myself. Then I followed Ben over to the front of the high tech apparatus and looked over at the computer screen to see what had happened. There, on the display, was a 3D diagram of my body side-by-side with the 3D representation of Marilyn Monroe's form. Ben moved the mouse and left clicked the control. The Marilyn image was superimposed on top of mine on the display. Then, Ben compensated for the slight height discrepancy by punching in a vertical exaggeration factor of 1.015. This increased Marilyn's height a half-inch to bring her up to my height while expanding her horizontal dimensions by the same miniscule factor.

But Ben wasn't completely happy with the result. "You know, the half-inch difference in height is due to your legs. They are one-half inch longer than Marilyn's are. Let's try keeping the torso dimensions the same. The extra half-inch difference in leg length may be helpful because we have to hide your male genitalia and give you some female 'plumbing.' "

I nodded in dubious agreement.

"Also, see here," Ben said, as he pointed to my midsection on the panel. "You’re wider than Marilyn at the waist. We have to compress your stomach a little bit --- just give me a moment. I need to get a few things out of my box of supplies in the truck."

Ben's little walkabout left me all alone for a moment. Where were the Robinsons? I'd expected them back sooner.

While Ben was gone, I looked carefully at the representations of my body and Marilyn's. My chest was less prominent than Miss Monroe's was. Also, my genitalia stuck out like a sore thumb. My shoulders were slightly wider than hers, but, for the most part, our profiles matched. And my skinny legs were the same length, but needed a little padding. Overall, the resemblance was uncanny.

Facially, I would have to rely on the mask to alter any dissimilarity. Our foreheads were very comparable. Her cheekbones were higher than mine, but the good news was that my nose and jaw line were not so large that they would ruin the illusion. Thank goodness I had had my wisdom teeth out a few months earlier. My front teeth looked, as far as I could tell, very much like Marilyn's winsome smile.

'You'll do just perfect, Sugar,' I said/thought to myself. The tone of my voice and the choice of vocabulary surprised me. It was as if someone else had said it through me, but I did see a possibility for this to work if Ben's machine was as good as advertised.

I had to do something about my eyes. I'd need to get cosmetic contact lenses to turn my brown eyes blue-grey like Marilyn's.

When Ben returned, he handed me a cardboard box containing a number of different items. "I needed to get you a corset type of undergarment. And I thought you might want to look at the artificial skin material and the adhesive we'll be using."

"Yes. I'd like to see what the mask material looks like." I moved in close for a careful examination of what he'd brought.

"Well then, let's start with the 'skin.' It consists of two very complex layers. The bottom layer consists of interwoven collagen, derived from cattle, and, in layman's terms, a sticky sugar molecule that imitates the fibrous pattern of the dermis. The surface layer is made of flexible silicon. With the proper pigmentation, it can be matched to either Marilyn Monroe's skin tones or yours. I think that it would be better to match the artificial skin to your tones. For one thing, there isn't a major noticeable difference between your light skin tone and Marilyn's. Secondly, the artificial skin will not be used everywhere. A lot of your own skin will be exposed. So, we might as well go with what will work best."

"What's this?" I held up a translucent plastic bottle.

"That's a special adhesive that will be used to bond the artificial skin to either your skin or a Spandex corset. What is special about this glue is that it has a negligible scent and it is water-soluble when mixed with a special catalyst. You can soak in a bath tub all day long and it won't come loose until you add the solvent."

"Will I be able to sweat in this to cool off my body?"

"For sure, it will act like gore-tex to wick moisture away from your body and won't come loose."

It appeared Ben's company had things thought out.

He continued his explanation. "The proper pigmentation will allow us to seamlessly bond the artificial skin to your body without any detectable ridge or line. It's a Japanese product, Sokui Biosynthetic Glue, that is derived from rice. The rice material is porous and can be shaped or molded easily. The beauty is it's a natural product that will not cause any chemical damage to your skin and can be worn indefinitely. You soak the artificial skin in water, add the special solvent, the adhesive will liquefy and the mask or body panels will come off easily and quickly."

"And what is this nylon thing?"

"Please try it on, Roger. Although the 'corset' looks very thin, our special waist cincher is made from a super high strength Spandex. Basically, it's like the panty part of pantyhose, only it covers you all the way to your ribs. It will shrink your waist, flatten your intestinal area, and, unfortunately, crush your genitalia. You'd better do something about your testicles and penis or it will be painful."

Do something with my testicles and penis? I wasn't ready for that.

"What can I do?" I certainly don't want crushed nuts with my cherry sundae.

"Well, I worked with the U.S. government once and they had me perform a male to female transformation on one of their agents. Although I can't reveal much about the details of the case, I can tell you that a man can retract his testicles. Apparently, it's an old Ninja assassin's trick. Before they would do battle, Ninjas would put their family jewels out of harm's way to protect them. So, please give it a try."

I had noticed, on occasion, when I had . . . ah . . . masturbated, that sometimes one of my testicles would retract when I was extremely excited. It was time to recreate that odd feeling and see if I could retract both testicles on purpose.

"Did that government agent suffer any long-term damage?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Ben added, not making me totally comfortable.

After a few minutes of probing self-exploration, I had succeeded. However, it was not accomplished without a little bit of pain.

Ben then handed me a roll of a skin-colored fabric bandage. He told me to cut off a strip, pull my penis back and tape it to make it lie flat against the crotch area.

Ben explained how the male genitalia would be transformed into a facsimile of a female's private parts. A catheter would be attached to the penis and that a false, shallow vagina would be created. I would urinate apparently in the 'normal' way, but 'real' sex would not be possible unless more extensive modifications were made. I thought about asking further, but decided against it. After all, I didn't think I'd ever have to simulate sexual intercourse.

Then I slipped into the super-Spandex corset with the 'false bottom.' Although it was tight, it was not horribly painful. My waist had compressed to a more Marilyn-like shape.

Once more I stepped into the Replicator chamber. The red laser beam scanned over every crook and nanny of my reshaped body.

I stepped out of the chamber and looked at the comparison between my body and the Marilyn image.

"We can work with these results," Ben announced, confirming what I was seeing on the monitor. "We can make moulds of your body and Marilyn's body. This will work!"

CHAPTER FOUR

On the way home, I decided to stop in at the public library. Located on Victoria Avenue, the building was designed with nature as the theme. Water ran through it forming fountains and pools with hundreds of plants surrounding the rustic walkways. Also, the Children's Woodland Garden, located at the back, added to the garden/nature feel.

Near the entrance stood a row of computers. Typing in the words 'Marilyn Monroe' on the catalogue computer produced an overabundance of book titles. I looked at the Dewey Decimal numbers and jotted down numbers 791.43 and 927.92. They would get me in the vicinity of some of the biographies.

After browsing for a few minutes, I selected books by Donald Spoto, Eve Arnold and George Barris.

Then I hurried to the circulation desk, extracted my library card from my wallet, handed it to a librarian, and was processed almost immediately.

Stepping through the electronic scanning gate, I wanted to take a final glance at the Marilyn books before putting them in my knapsack.

"Hey Runt!"

'Oh shit,' I thought to myself. 'There's only one Neanderthal who calls me that. Maybe if I ignore him he'll go away.'

"Hey Runt!"

Finally I turned around to face 'the voice.'

"Yeah, I'm talking to you!"

"I heard you the first time, Nate, but I'm kinda in a hurry."

Nate Jackson, a schoolyard bully I had the displeasure of knowing since elementary school, looked at me with that ever-present menacing sneer on his face. His only talent was an over-active pituitary gland, which had made him bigger than any one else around him.

"What you got there, Runt?"

Nate's long, muscular arms reached over and snatched the books from my hands.

"Hey, it's a library. You don't need to steal books from me. Really, they've got shelves full of them inside."

"Well, well, looky here at these." Nate scanned the covers of the three biographies. "I knew you were a faggot. Marilyn Monroe, she's like the idol of all faggots."

"I'm not a faggot. The books are for school. I'm doing research for my college course." I didn't want to take the chance Nate might ever find out about my new role at the wax museum.

"Yeah right."

"What are you doing here at a library anyway?" After I said it, I wondered why I would provoke him.

"Oh, you think you're so smart 'cause you go to college?"

"I never said that. But I've never seen you here before." I wasn't sure if Nate had graduated from high school, but it was unlikely he would be at the library doing actual research.

"I'm doing some work here, Runt."

"Work? You work here at the library?"

"I'm doing the landscaping outside."

"Oh, you're maintaining the garden? That's cool. The garden here is one of the best in the city."

"It's THE best," he said with indignation. "Yeah, my cousin got me into working for the City of Niagara Falls. So I do the yard work for a lot of the public buildings and parks."

"Good for you. Now, if you'd be so kind as to give me the books back. I'm kinda in a hurry. Isn't it time for your shift to end anyway?"

Nate looked at the clock in the lobby. "Right. I just finished. I came in here to use the washroom . . . but do you remember what I did to you back in grade six?"

"What're you talking about?" I had a bad feeling about where Nate was going with our conversation. Most of the sixth grade had been something I purposely forgot.

"Remember when we were in the schoolyard at recess. I grabbed you up in my arms and tossed you into a garbage can?" Nate laughed. His smile had a mocking twist to it. "I think I'll just deposit these books in the trash container for old times' sake."

"Nate, I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why the hell not? Are you a man or are you a chicken?" Nate stepped closer to me and took a threatening stance. Even through his green coveralls, I could tell his muscles had tightened and he was ready for action.

"You work for the City. The books are public property. If you look up on the ceiling, beneath that black dome object is a security camera. I doubt that your employers would be impressed if you trashed their books."

"Huh?"

While Nate struggled to think things through, I quickly snatched the books back. "I'll see you when I see you." Hopefully never again. I walked away before Nate could decide his job wasn't worth not being able to bully people.

Since it was 'rush hour,' I stuck to the side streets as much as I could.

Although I tried to focus on the traffic and riding the bike, I couldn't get my encounter with Nate out of my mind. Had it been a preview of the grief I'd face as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator? If so, it was a bad omen.

Niagara Falls was too small a town for keeping secrets. Everybody knew your business. Sure there were millions of tourists in the summer time, but among the permanent residents, it seemed like everybody knew somebody who knew somebody. Would I be able to keep my Marilyn identity a secret?

Ten minutes later, I wheeled my mountain bike into our driveway, lifted the garage door, parked my bike, and locked it. All the while I brooded over my dilemma. In spite of the extra money I could earn as Marilyn, sticking to being a wax museum guide or security guy seemed like the best alternative.

Since it was around 5:15, I knew both my parents would be home. As I walked into the kitchen, Mom was placing the silverware at each plate, and Dad was already sitting at the dinner table, reading his newspaper.

"Hi Mom, Dad."

My dad glanced up from the Niagara Falls Review and nodded back at me, before resuming his reading.

"Roger, I was beginning to wonder if you'd make it on time for supper," Mom said.

"I would've phoned if I was going to be late. I stopped by at the library before coming home."

"So how did your job interview go?"

"It was great. I got the job." I put all thoughts of Nate and my other concerns aside, as best I could.

Mom gave me a congratulatory hug. "Good for you."

"Mrs. Robinson is a really nice person," I began. "She asked me a few questions about my work experience. Then I showed her some of the work I did for my media course, and she seemed quite impressed. So you're looking at a new guide for Robinson's Wax Museum."

"Is the pay better than at Tim Hortons?" Dad asked.

"I think it will be." I wasn't really sure how much I'd be making if my Marilyn Monroe experiment worked out as planned.

"You didn't ask?" My father peered above his reading glasses as he shuffled his newspaper -- shooting me a look of mild surprise.

"The pay will depend on my duties. I have to finish my exams first. Then we'll see what my job description involves." I quickly decided I didn't want to mention that I'd be dressing up as a girl. "But if things don't work out, I'm sure I can always go back to Tim Hortons. It's just that I want to try something else -- vary my work experience."

"It's too bad you didn't get an interview with the radio station," Mom said. "That would've been nice."

"Or with the Review, " Dad added, "although we're both pleased that you have a job lined up. It sure will help to pay your tuition."

"Not to mention my student loan." The extra money I could earn as an impersonator was tempting and suddenly seemed more important than any possible taunting from Nate.

My parents were ambivalent, at best, about the career path I had chosen. As a kid, I had wanted to be an actor or a singer. However, whenever I auditioned for roles in plays at school, I never got significant roles. The highlight of my acting career had been in the musical Into the Woods. I played a tree.

At Niagara-on-the-Lake, when I auditioned for a role in a Shaw Festival production, I never got a call back. When a movie production came to the Falls, I appeared as an extra. I was among the hundreds of tourists gazing at the Falls. However, the film production ran out of money. It was never finished, never released, and I never got paid.

After tryouts for Canadian Idol were announced, I traveled to the Metro Toronto Convention Centre in T.O. What a zoo! Hours and hours of waiting to get a number, a return visit a few days later for a brief thirty second shot at glory, and ultimate rejection because the day of the audition, I had laryngitis.

My parents had encouraged me to go to university to prepare myself for a respectable career as a doctor, lawyer, engineer, accountant, or even as a teacher. Pursuing media studies at community college was a compromise. They were pushing me to get good grades and shift to university in something 'solid.' Work as a female impersonator at a wax museum was hardly the big break I had hoped for and was potentially embarrassing for my dad as a minister.

"I hope you feel like having pasta tonight," Mom said.

I looked at the lasagna warming up in the oven. "It looks good and smells great." The Parmesan cheese was melting on the tomato sauce. My mom was a great cook. "Do you need any help, Mom?"

"I'd appreciate it if you'd pour some coffee for Dad and me. And get whatever juice you'd like from the fridge."

"Okay."

Mom placed a large salad bowl in the middle of the dinner table while I poured the coffee for Dad, and then Mom. I got out the chilled Tropicana orange juice.

When we sat down to eat, my father said grace. After all, he was Reverend Ian Baker of St. Mark's Anglican Church.

Mom was Ms Baker to her elementary school students and 'Charlotte' to everyone who worked with her for the District School Board of Niagara.

While we said grace, I wondered what people would think of my parents if it became public knowledge that their son was a Marilyn Monroe impersonator. I doubted that my parents, especially my father, would be pleased with the gender bending. Potentially, it could be a source of embarrassment for him. 'Your son is a drag queen?' At some point I had to tell Mom and Dad.

"…For what we are about to receive, let us be truly thankful. Amen."

CHAPTER FIVE

I returned to Robinson's Wax Museum early the next morning. It was a sleepy Saturday. I had exams coming up on Monday, so I was hoping that the morning fitting of my Marilyn Monroe mask would go smoothly. I needed the time to study.

Apparently, the body moulds and the artificial skin material of the mask needed some time to dry. Thus, I had not been able to see the results the previous afternoon.

I felt a little strange. The Robinsons told me to get rid of all of my body hair. Never before had I shaved away all the pubic hair around my crotch. Never before had I shaved my legs and armpits -- not that there was much to shave. I'd been ultra-careful with the razor. I used a lot of shave gel and I took my time. And after I washed away all the foam, I was shocked by how sensually stimulating it was to have such silky, smooth skin.

When I timidly stepped into the workspace at the back of the wax museum, Heather, Mrs. Robinson and Ben were all waiting.

"Good morning 'Marilyn'!" they all called out at the same time.

"Hi there," I replied softly, somewhat overwhelmed by their 'in unison' greeting. I was anxious and in a toe-in-the-water mood, while they were apparently eager to dive in.

"Are you ready to be transformed?" Heather asked. She had grown even more lovely overnight.

"As ready as I will ever be." My tone carried my lack of fervor for our project.

Heather came over and hugged me, an extremely pleasant way to start a work shift. "Don't worry, you're going to be great."

To tell you the truth, I looked forward to the upcoming ordeal. I really wanted to see if it would work, but I had not slept well. I kept thinking about 'being' Marilyn Monroe. My middle of the night tossing and turning conclusion was I could do it, but I couldn't expect it to come naturally.

Ben led me over to where a few Japanese shoji screens had been set up to provide temporary privacy. Behind the protection of the white paper panels, I stripped off my clothes, and then placed them on top of the screen's black frame. At Ben's urging, I put on the special corset, going through the very private penis preparation procedure I'd learned yesterday. When I stepped out into the workspace again, I felt completely naked -- especially in front of the ladies -- even though I was as modestly dressed as anyone on the beach. My skinny, corseted body must have been a weird sight to Heather and Mrs. Robinson.

Ben, looking much like a 'mad' scientist in his long white lab coat, led me over to the 'operating table' in his 'lah-bore-ahhh-tory.'

"Now this is going to take a little while," Ben said. "So, just relax."

"Maybe I can catch up on my sleep," I mumbled.

I settled back down on the padded table and looked up at the light gray rafters of the high ceiling. Part of me wanted the experiment to be a disastrous failure. That little segment of my brain would've liked nothing less than a totally crestfallen Ben to throw up his hands in despair, pronouncing me much too manly to ever look like a woman.

"Roger, I need you to turn over."

I grunted as I complied with his request.

"You know," Ben began, "technology is an amazing thing. If you really wanted to avoid using the corset, there's a new medical procedure that targets 'stubborn' body fat."

"Liposuction?"

"No," Ben said, "the latest is an ultrasound device developed in Israel called Ultrashape."

"What does it do?"

"It's similar to the ultrasound technology used to destroy kidney stones, except it blasts away the fat."

"Hasn't ultrasound been around for awhile?"

"Yes, but the problem in using ultrasound to eliminate fat was the possible damage to blood cells and nerve cells surrounding the fat. The Israelis have invented a sophisticated, precise, three-dimensional tracking system. The procedure will feel like a normal scan, with the transducer being gently smoothed across the stomach or love handles. The acoustic waves rupture the fat cell membranes. Then the liquefied fat is excreted naturally by the body. Unlike liposuction, the procedure is non-invasive."

"How come you know so much about Ultrashape?”

"Roswell is a huge conglomerate. We're hoping to become the North American distributor for Ultrashape."

"It sounds pretty amazing," I said. "If I understand you correctly, I could lose that hard to get rid of fat without dieting or exercise?"

"That's true, although dieting and exercise is still recommended as preparation for the procedure."

"Wow! Sounds like you've got a winner there. Every horizontally challenged person in the world will love it."

"Ultrashape isn't Roswell's property yet. We're still negotiating for the distribution rights. There's a lot of competition as you can well imagine."

I wasn't thinking of the corporate competition. Instead, I was thinking of what could happen if Ultrashape was combined with the Roswell Replicator. Then, almost anyone could get into a bodysuit and mask and become somebody else. Suddenly I had visions of 'Marilyn' starring in a remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Ben continued to work. Using the Sokui Biosynthetic Glue, he started to attach skin-colored 'panels' to my body and to the special Spandex corset. There were 'panels' placed around my rear end, my crotch, over my hips, on my legs, and on my chest. I was sure that I had been given womanly curves, although I did not have a good view of them yet, since I was lying supine.

It was surprising how quickly everything came together. Ben had planned his work well.

Next came the facemask. Ben spread his adhesive over my face and then the mask was pressed into place. The holes for the nostrils, mouth, and eye socket area fit perfectly. The 'skin' material felt amazingly thin and flexible. The mask covered the area from just below the chin and jaw line, over the face, up to the hairline. From there, the mask extended into a mesh, scalp cap covering my hair. A neatly fitted overlapping seam on the back of the ultra-thin scalp cap drew the mask together.

Ben stood back and proudly stated, "Use of the Roswell Replicator's face recognition software to create a perfect 3-D Marilyn Monroe mask to fit on top of your facial features is a marvel of modern technology."

I was in no position to judge. I'd hold my opinions until I saw the end product.

After allowing five minutes or so for the adhesive to dry, Heather began applying make-up to my face. She took about fifteen minutes to use eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, lipstick, blush, and finished by applying a 'mole' to my cheek with a dark pencil. Next, Heather delicately glued on false eyelashes.

I was not supposed to talk or move during the whole procedure. Ben said movement while the glue was setting would ruin the bond between the mask and my skin. This was particularly important at the edges of the mask, below the chin and jaw line, where the Sokui glue was used to blend the mask with the skin seamlessly.

Finally, I was allowed to sit up. A platinum-blonde wig was placed on my head, and attached to the scalp cap with matched sets of Velcro tabs sewn into the underside edges of the wig.

The transformation complete, I was led over to a full-length mirror.

There before me stood the sex goddess . . . Marilyn Monroe in her birthday suit! Even down to a false vagina -- although there wasn't any hair. My knees buckled slightly and I sucked in a great deal of air.

When I moved, she moved. When I turned to the side to look at my profile, Marilyn turned to the side . . . and what a profile! Her breasts were astonishing. Her waist was tiny, broadening out to what the boys in high school had called 'child-bearing' hips. What sexy legs! I looked over my shoulder at her cute rear end in the mirror and felt a twinge of pain as my penis tried to spring to life beneath its confinement.

Then I stepped up closer to the mirror.

Her platinum blonde curls framed the most famous face in the world: the high arching eyebrows, the sensuous eyes, the high cheekbones, the mole on the left cheek, and the pouting red lips. They had made me Marilyn Monroe in the flesh.

The warmth from Heather's body alerted me as she stepped up close behind.

I turned to face her, with her face inches from mine. Her arms encircled me and she hugged me warmly, snuggling cheek to cheek.

"You look wonderful!" she said breathed into my ear. "And you feel amazing!"

"You too," I whispered into her ear, so softly that Ben and her mother wouldn't hear. "You too."

CHAPTER SIX

All through the next week of studying and writing exams, I felt distracted by thoughts of my new job.

Who wouldn't be -- at the daunting prospect of impersonating Marilyn Monroe? In a way it seemed like I wasn't only going to impersonate her, but because of the amazing technological costume . . . I was actually going to become her. In the past, when I'd practice voices in my room recording them on my computer, I would allow my self to float into the person. That was my way of getting my mind into character. When I did women's voices I felt absolutely feminine. At times it would creep me out, even though no one was around. My new job would go way beyond a few moments of intense play in my room.

All through my childhood, I had been teased about being a skinny little kid. One time, when I was at the beach, a friend looked at my protruding ribs and cruelly called me 'xylophone bones.' I had been called a wimp, a coward, a nerd, a runt, an idiot, and a gay boy -- and those were just the names that I'm willing to repeat. There were times I was told that I looked like a girl. Some kids labeled me a faggot, even though I had never exhibited homosexual tendencies that I knew of. The taunting tore at my self-image. Maybe I was over-sensitive, but I always wanted to prove to the bullies that they were wrong. So, to suddenly agree to dress up as Marilyn Monroe went against my better instincts -- against every fiber of my being.

On the other hand, I knew that I had a gift of mimicry. My Dad preached often about the sin of wasting our talents, but would he support this particular 'nurturing'? Becoming an entertainer was a gamble. For every star, there were tens of thousands of wannabes. So far, my show biz experience was pitiful, but I was still hopeful.

My impressions had started back in elementary school, imitating my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Bond. Or, as we liked to call him, Bond . . . James Bond. Actually, he sounded a lot like the Elmer Fudd. He was easy to imitate.

I went on to work on imitations of cartoon characters: Inspector Gadget, The Jetsons, The Flintstones, Scooby-Doo and The Simpsons. I could do Fred, Wilma, Daphne, Scooby-Doo, Bart, Homer, and Marge. Inspired by shows like MAD TV and Saturday Night Live, I tried to imitate celebrities. I graduated to movie stars like Jack Nicholson, Jim Carrey, Tom Hanks, Eddie Murphy, Mike Meyers, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. Then somebody said I sounded like Madonna when I sang along to her songs. Consequently, I started doing singers too. My talent became a way of escaping. I wanted to be a comedian, a movie star, a hockey player, a singer, a radio announcer, and so on; anything but Roger Baker -- the skinny little runt.

The more success I enjoyed, the more I practiced. It compensated for being chosen last when teams were picked for football games. It made up for being bullied. When I was really good at imitating someone, my classmates treated me like a hero.

"Some time, Rock, when the team is up against it, when things are wrong and the breaks are beating the boys -- tell them to go in there with all they've got and win just one for the Gipper. I don't know where I'll be then, Rock. But I'll know about it, and I'll be happy." My Ronald Reagan voice needed work. His speech patterns had changed over his lifetime. It was hard not to always do him as he was during his last few years.

So when I showed up at Robinson's Wax Museum the following Saturday, I was both excited and full of doubt. I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing.

I met with Heather in the 'Studio,' as she liked to call it -- the large workspace at the back of the museum. Ben and Mrs. Robinson had turned the project over to the two of us.

After changing out of my street clothes, she propped me up again on the operating table, and then I went through the extensive transformation procedure once more. Although I felt a little uncomfortable that Heather was doing the whole procedure, she handled the 'operation' in a professional manner. Heather spread special adhesives over my body and face. The realistic looking skin-colored panels were bonded to my own features. A wig was attached and make-up applied. When I stood before a full-length mirror, I was overwhelmed once more by my amazing transformation into the diva of sex.

"Oh, I forgot one minor detail." Heather retrieved a small plastic case from the counter. "You'll need to put these contact lenses in."

I opened the small case and inspected the thin blue-gray films within their liquid-filled cup like enclosures.

Then Heather gave me a lesson on how to insert the lenses. Apparently she had experimented with cosmetic contacts before.

It was my first time wearing contact lenses. They felt like foreign objects in my eyes. I had to constantly bat my eyelashes -- but it wasn't an affectation designed to attract the attention of a love-hungry men.

"Just call me 'Blinky' Monroe," I grumbled.

Heather smiled. "You'll get used to it. After a short time, you'll even forget that you're wearing them."

Next, I tried putting on the false eyelashes by myself. Somehow, I got it right the very first time. Heather showed me that the key was not using too much glue. Checking in a mirror, I found I needed to use eyeliner to hide the adhesive.

The Marilyn illusion was absolutely amazing! My eyes had become her mesmerizing eyes. The wavy platinum hair with the widow's peak, the high cheekbones, the sensuous lips, the distinctive mole on the left cheek, and a body to die for -- I was the definition of narcissistic love.

"It's about time I looked like this. . . . " Why on earth had I said that?

Thankfully, Heather giggled. "Are you ready to put on some beautiful gowns?"

I had been standing with my arms crossed in front of me grabbing my shoulders. "As much as I admire my new body, I feel very uncomfortable without clothes on. I mean, I know I'm not really naked, but my eyes tell me something else." Could Heather see my deep blush through the artificial layers on my face?

"Let's try a few things," Heather said with eagerness that was infectious.

I found myself actually staring at my new wardrobe with fascination and desire.

"Yes . . . let's," I said in Marilyn's breathy, squeaky voice.

Heather jumped, and then caught herself. "Oh my. That voice is going to take some getting used to, but it's a good idea for you to get into your role."

Unlike the previous week, outfits had been prepared for me. The Robinson wardrobe staff had been hard at work sewing costumes during the past seven days.

My natural impersonation skills went into overdrive as I found myself talking and moving like I'd seen Marilyn do in all those old films. Heather acted professionally by accepting my new 'character' for what it was and not freaking.

First came the revealing white dress from The Seven Year Itch. The yards and yards of slippery fabric felt like a billowing cloud around my newly rounded body. Looking at things from the inside out, I could see how the dress showed off every bit of Marilyn's . . . and now mine . . . femininity.

The dress required that I wear a bra. "It feels good," I said, as the strange piece of clothing lifted the weight off my 'breasts' and eliminated the discomfort of them pulling against my chest skin.

Then I tried on the red-sequined gown from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. It was harder to put on because it was much less forgiving. When Heather pulled up the zipper in the back, it felt like they'd made it too small, but in the mirror I could see it was a perfect fit and looked very 'hot.' An urge came over me to purr like a kitten, which I fought back. There was only so much I wanted to subject Heather to.

"The gowns fit perfectly," I smiled at Heather as I imagined a woman would, waltzing out of a department store dressing room with a perfect choice, "and so do the high-heeled shoes!"

"The shoes are a women's size 8C," Heather said, "not the size 7AA that the real Marilyn wore. Your feet are slightly bigger than hers, but not so much that anyone will ever notice. In a pinch, you could wear her shoe size."

"No, no, you know what they say about a guy's shoe size?"

"I haven't a clue."

"No, the bigger the shoe, the bigger the 'package.' "

"Oh, that package."

"Yes, although I don't have big feet or a hairy chest, everyone calls me Sasquatch."

Her laughter was music to my ears. She had the kind of laugh that made you want to hear it again, every day for the rest of your life.

"If you can make a girl laugh -- you can make her do anything," I said to myself. Where had that come from? I normally would never think a thing like that.

Heather looked at my ears for a moment. "Speaking of size, I've heard the same thing said about big earlobes. We're going to have to have to pierce your Buddha sized earlobes." Heather had my face in her hands and turned me from side to side appraising my appearance.

My hands flew to protect my lobes. "Why?" My voice -- not at all squeaky -- had been a pure Roger Baker whine.

"All of Marilyn's earrings were made for pierced ears," Heather said. "The costume jewelry we've found for you is just like hers."

"I'm not going to do it. How would I explain that to my friends? People will see the gaping holes in my ears. That's too much to ask."

Heather took out her earrings and showed me that her holes weren't gaping, but I dug in my heels -- high as they were.

"I draw the line at pierced ears," I said, making sure she knew that was my final answer, "although I do like the jewelry you picked out. 'Real diamonds! They must be worth their weight in gold!' " I'd quoted Marilyn from Some Like It Hot, but my joke had gone over Heather's head.

"It's a good thing you like diamonds," she said. "If we have to staple them to your ears, you'll be wearing them."

I gave out a loud, Marilyn-like squeak and hid my ears with my hands, earning for me another of her perfect laughs.

"We'll figure out something," Heather said. "You're being so great doing what you're doing. I'll let Mom and Ben know that they shouldn't be so demanding." She stopped and took my hand. "I hope you understand how much your doing all this means to Mom and me. You could really help us draw in more customers, and we really need them." She squeezed my hand lightly before letting go.

I looked away and stepped out of the gown in order to change into a dancer's leotard; a stretchy ruby red Spandex material that hugged 'my' curvaceous contours. When I looked in the full-length mirror, in spite of my attempt to create a Zen moment of emotional detachment, I almost had an instantaneous orgasm.

Had Marilyn felt like that when she looked at herself? Why would've she, she wasn't a boy in a woman's body.

I wanted to spend the next few hours looking at Marilyn-me in the mirror, but we had to rehearse.

With the aid of several movie videos, a DVD player, and a giant television screen, I began to learn the dance routines. For the purposes of our first rehearsal, Heather was the instructor. Fortunately for me, Heather had taken dance lessons for many years. Her trim body hadn't been the result of aerobics classes. She had taken ballet, jazz, and modern dance lessons.

Heather had practiced the Marilyn Monroe dance routine many times already, having had a week to prepare. After a brief stretching warm-up, Heather led me through each step of the choreography.

Large mirrors had been set up along one wall of the Studio to help us master the dances.

It took me quite some time to get used to the high heels. In fact, after stumbling for the umpteenth time, Heather recommended that I take them home and get used to walking in them. Other than that, my body seemed to push me to move exactly like Marilyn's had. When I didn't think about what I was doing and went on a sort of autopilot, my dancing was at its best.

I had to adjust to learning the distinctive Marilyn Monroe walk. Rolling my hips was totally new. It was like a graceful stripper's bump and grind. Sexy, classy . . . and with more jiggles than a Hawaiian hula dancer. Working in front of the mirror I quickly found ways to make my new curves bounce -- ways that looked almost sinful.

We rehearsed Diamonds from the film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Also, we put some practice time into I Wanna Be Loved by You from the movie Some Like It Hot.

"Have you seen the entire movies," I asked, "or did you just look at the dance numbers?"

"I watched all of Some Like It Hot," Heather laughed. "Of course, I've watched it about ten times before. Mom loves that movie."

"I'm glad I don't look like either Tony Curtis or Jack Lemmon," I said.

"What do you mean? They were both handsome men."

"Uh huh," I said, in perfect Marilyn voice, "but I don't want to look like a man in a dress, like they did."

"You don't have to worry about that. We'll make sure you're perfect, no matter how long it takes."

Suddenly I felt like being a little silly. "It's not how long it takes, it's who's taking you," I said quoting Marilyn as Sugar in Some Like it Hot.

It didn't surprise me that Heather knew exactly what I was doing. She smiled broadly and fed me a line from the movie. "Look, are you interested in whether I am married or not?" She said it exactly like Tony Curtis had said it as 'Junior.'

"Oh, I'm not interested at all," I simpered as Marilyn had done.

"Well, I'm not." She had captured the hoity-toity fake nasal tones Curtis had used to mock Cary Grant.

"That's very interesting!" I said with the same excitement used by the gold-digging Sugar in the movie.

We both laughed and Heather once again embraced me, as one woman would do to another. This time it felt right and I returned her embrace as I thought Marilyn would have.

As we broke, I said another line from the film. "What is it?" Heather didn't seem to remember the scene so I added. "That fish hanging on the wall, what is it?"

That did it, she remembered. "It's a member of the herring family."

"A herring? Isn't it amazing how they get those big fish into those little glass jars?" I held my eyes wide open with the amazing innocence only Marilyn could portray.

"They shrink when they're marinated," Heather deadpanned, as Curtis had in the movie.

We laughed again as if we both were being tickled.

Then Heather's visage turned from a smile to a more serious look. "Although I've enjoyed the repartee, we need to get back to work," Heather said with authority.

"Ah, do we really have to?"

"Yes. All play and no work makes for a bad show."

"Wasn't it all work and no play . . . ?"

As the dance routine began to take shape, I felt encouraged by my reflection in the mirror. It was as if Marilyn Monroe had started to take control of my body. Roger Baker had never been as graceful as that wondrous woman in the mirror. I couldn't believe how well the rehearsal was going. After one solid hour of things Heather called step ball changes, pirouettes, turns, high steps, lifts and lunges, we were ready for a break.

"You're a natural," Heather said. "Are you sure you've never taken dance?"

"No," I replied in my breathy Marilyn voice, "but I've got an excellent teacher."

"Thanks."

"But you know, this whole thing is somewhat surreal."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, unreal. I look in the mirror as we're dancing, and I can't believe it's really me."

"I know what you mean. There have been times, when I look at you, I've had to remind myself that there's a guy named Roger behind the Marilyn Monroe façade."

My inner voice suggested that the spirit of Marilyn was moving me. It certainly felt as if someone else was guiding my muscle memory. The few girls who had agreed to dance with me had often been critical of my efforts. Why would I suddenly be able to learn a dance routine so quickly?

"Well, maybe I'm learning so quickly because I'm following your lead, but what would happen if you weren't here? Could I do it from memory? I don't know. At some point, I guess I'll have to try it on my own -- to see if I really know it."

"I wouldn't worry about that right now. We have plenty of time to get this whole show put together. . . . For one thing, we don't even have a proper venue ready for you."

"I was wondering about that. Where will I perform? Surely not here in the studio?"

"Hopefully no. I had a chat with my mother just this morning. We've been holding preliminary discussions with the owners of the building next door, but they want too much rent and they'd like at least a one-year lease. That would be quite a gamble. The other alternative is to put up a tent covering on the rooftop of this building. We could put in temporary seating. The advantage would be a fairly low cost. The disadvantage would be that it would be a fairly short season. Although, in truth, the only profitable season for the Museum is the summer. As you know, not many tourists come to see Niagara Falls in the winter. Although the new casinos have led to more visitors coming in the off-season, they come to gamble. I don't know if we could get enough gamblers to come to our show through the winter months."

"Will there be any other performers?" I wasn't eager to be the whole show, but I also selfishly wanted to be Heather's only white knight riding in to help out their financial condition.

"Oh, perhaps. We'll have to see about hiring some male dancers, but we have to keep costs down. However, we may need to hire several musicians."

"My friend Pete Winslow is terrific on the keyboards. With his synthesizer, he can sound like an entire orchestra."

"Good. We'll have to bring him in and see if it'll work out. . . . But I thought you didn't want anybody in on our little secret."

"We don't have to tell him either. That is, unless he figures it out."

"Okay. But won't he recognize you?"

"When I look in the mirror, I don't see any trace of Roger Baker," I cooed in Marilyn's little girl voice.

"I know there's a guy in that get up somewhere, but all I see is Marilyn Monroe too."

"What about other celebrity performers? Do you want to bring in Elvis or Elton John or Britney Spears impersonators?"

"Not yet, unless you have other voices you want to bring to life."

"I hadn't even thought about that." Heather was forgetting that I'd have to be a lot taller to fit inside an Elvis costume.

"I could use the Roswell Replicator to see if I could impersonate Jane Russell."

"That would be great!"

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"I guess when I dream, I'm not afraid to dream impossible dreams," I said, thinking of Don Quixote, Man of La Mancha.

"Neither am I. I'm willing to take risks."

"I can see that."

"You're a risk taker too," she said, with something that sounded like admiration.

The body panels held me from developing what would have been an embarrassing lump in my leotards. "Right . . . I guess we have a few things in common," I said hopefully.

"Agreed. But, enough talk. We'd better get back to work. We'll have to wrap it up within the next half-hour . . . I've got a lunch date with my boyfriend, Brad. He's been out of town for the last week, and I've been dying to see him."

Boyfriend? Brad? My head spun. Heather has a boyfriend. The romance I'd been imagining had taken a severe hit. "Then let's get going," I said trying to hide any trace of disappointment.

For the next fifteen minutes, we polished up the I Wanna Be Loved By You song and dance that Heather had choreographed. Then, we switched back to the Diamonds routine from earlier. Heather took the Jane Russell part. I could see real joy in her performance as we mimicked the dazzling production number from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I had to fake any joy, still reeling under the shock of her being attached to some guy named 'Brad.'

Heather glanced at her watch. "Oh Marilyn, I think it's time for a costume change."

"But I thought you said you had to meet your boyfriend," I replied.

"I think we'll have just enough time for this. I want you to change into that sexy sheer gown that Marilyn Monroe wore when she sang Happy Birthday to President John F. Kennedy."

"Okay," I said with a shrug.

While the movie DVD from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes kept playing, I stepped behind the Japanese rice paper screens and took off the dancer's leotard. The garment was so thin that it was almost transparent. After I slipped into it and stood in front of the mirror, I swore to myself that I would never wear it in public. It was scandalous.

"The body is meant to be seen, not all covered up." A voice inside me said. I was starting to talk to myself in Marilyn's voice.

"It's exactly the kind of dress the President had wanted to see me in," my subconscious admonished me.

Okay. Things were getting weird. I had never before identified so closely with anyone I was impersonating. On the other hand, I'd never been enhanced as I was by the panels and mask from the Roswell Replicator.

I shuddered, but then thought about ways to wear the dress that wouldn't be so bad. I took off the gown, and then put on flesh-colored tights so that at least Marilyn's private parts would be hidden from view. When I put on the gown again, I was pleased it appeared a little more modest, although the brown areas around my exquisite breasts were only partially hidden by strategically placed sequins. I knew from the Marilyn Monroe episode on A&E's Biography that Marilyn Monroe had been reluctant to wear the gown on the evening she sang to Jack Kennedy at a packed Madison Square Garden.

I heard some voices behind me. Heather's boyfriend, Brad, must have arrived.

Due to the active dance rehearsal, I needed to fix my make-up. I wiped away a little bit of smeared mascara, touched up the eye shadow, and applied some lipstick. This was the first time I had ever done it, but I had watched my mother do it many times. It wasn't at all like a totally alien act.

Finally, I pulled on my long white opera gloves. They were a nice classy 60's touch!

One last check in the full-length mirror. Perfect!

I stepped out from behind the screen and onto our 'pretend' stage once more.

In the middle of our rehearsal area was a blindfolded man sitting on a wooden chair. Beside him stood Heather, still dressed in her red dancer's leotard. She beckoned me to come over to her. The grin on her face begged me to play along with whatever she wanted.

She put her arm around my shoulder and whispered into my ear, "This is my boyfriend Brad Adams. It's his birthday today. Would you do me a favor and sing Happy Birthday to him as Marilyn?"

I was absolutely shocked!

Before I could give her an answer, Heather whispered again, "I'd like you to stand behind him. Then I want you to take off the blindfold and sing Happy Birthday. Don't worry! He won't move. I've told him that if he moves from that chair, you will end the performance. Touch him seductively on the shoulder, on the cheek, and then sit on his lap. Try to make him believe you're Marilyn Monroe and he's President Kennedy. Be just like Marilyn and tease the heck out of Jack."

Still in a state of shock, I nodded.

Heather scurried away to watch, hidden from view, behind the Japanese screens.

I stepped up to Brad. As I touched his cheek, Brad jumped a little, startled by the touch. I cuddled his cheeks for a moment with my soft gloves.

"Hello Brad," I whispered in Marilyn's sweet little girl voice. "I understand it's your birthday." I undid the knot and removed the blindfold.

"Uh huh." There was a look of shock and pleasure on Brad's handsome face when the covering was removed. He quickly looked around for Heather and appeared pleased, for some reason, when he didn't see her.

Heather had good taste in men. Brad was a real hunk! He kind of reminded me of a young Matthew McConaughey. Brad had a lean and muscular frame, but short, dark hair -- not the longer curly locks of Matthew.

"Happy birthday to you," Marilyn sang slowly and seductively. I stroked Brad's neck and squeezed his upper body as I wrapped one leg over his shoulder, resting my high heel between the V of his parted legs. "Happy birthday to . . . you." I switched my position again, sitting on his lap and putting my arm around his waist. My other hand reached up to touch his lips. "Happy birthday . . . dear Brad." I undid Brad's shirt and, raked his chest hair with glove-encased fingernails. "Happy birthday . . . to you."

Everything I did felt right, including when I concluded by delicately nudging my smooth soft cheek up against his cheek, and then turning slightly and kissing Brad gently on the mouth.

Instantaneously, I knew I'd pushed it too far. Brad responded by wrapping his gorilla arms around me. Then he clamped his lips upon mine. I resisted as vigorously as I could, but Brad was much bigger and stronger. He could suck face like a vampire vortex. Brad's tongue pushed through my teeth and probed my inner sanctum. I gave up struggling against his superior strength. A moment of passion stretched to what seemed like a minute of unadulterated embarrassment! I could feel his penis spring to attention, pushing into my upper thigh while I sat sidesaddle on his lap.

I should have known better! I knew what it was like to be a guy turned on by a beautiful girl. I had had a bit of experience at wishing and hoping and groping and probing!

When Brad relaxed his hold momentarily, I broke the kiss. I pushed him away and sprang to my feet; so angry I wanted to slap him!

"That was some birthday kiss!" Brad exclaimed with a self-satisfied smile. "I don't know who the hell you are, but you can kiss me anytime you want!"

"Even a blind man would know who I am, Brad." Guys could be such pigs!

"She's our new star attraction!" Heather called out as she stepped out from behind the cover of the screens.

I turned to face Heather as she advanced toward us.

"I'm sorry Heather, but I couldn't hold off your boyfriend."

Heather eased my fears with her smile. "Don't be sorry, hon. You did exactly as I asked. . . . As for Brad, I should have known he couldn't keep his hands off you."

"Well, what did you expect me to do? I thought she was your idea, so I didn't want to ignore her. And when a girl kisses me, I do the polite thing and return the kiss."

I was afraid that Heather was going to embarrass Brad with the truth -- that the sexy girl Brad just kissed was really a guy!

"A kiss is fine Brad, but violating a complete stranger is tacky, even for you." Heather paused to gather her thoughts. "I was hoping you could show some self-discipline! I was hoping you could resist her. I was hoping you could be faithful! However, the French kissing, Brad, was taking the entertainment a step too far! "

Brad countered with an attempt to blame Heather for putting "some sexy bimbo" up to singing Happy Birthday to him.

Heather accused Brad of having wandering eyes and hands.

Brad complained about Heather being too high-maintenance.

While the two argued, I slipped away to my dressing area to sort through my disjointed and troubled thoughts.

CHAPTER SEVEN

One last check in the mirror proved to me that my new image was flawless! I was getting much better at gluing the mask and appliances onto my body and putting on make-up. Over our two-week period of preparation, my comfort level had grown to the point that I now had confidence in my impersonation. After all, everyone would know I wasn't the real Marilyn Monroe. All I really had to do was avoid a huge gaff that would remind them too much.

Another thing that helped build my poise was that I had taken some time to do more research on Marilyn. I had looked at many photographs of her on the Internet. There were a lot of sites. Mostly I was interested in her make-up. I wanted to perfect the way she looked -- er -- the way I looked being her. I'd even read a little bit about her personal make-up man, Allan 'Whitey' Snyder. He told a story on one site about doing Marilyn's make-up for her funeral. If I had time in the future, it would be interesting to meet with him and learn his make-up secrets, although I wasn't even sure if he was still alive.

Someone knocked on the door of my newly constructed dressing room.

"Come in, please," I called out in my Marilyn voice.

When the door opened a crack, a voice called out, "Are you decent?"

"Would you prefer me to be indecent?" My banter with Heather had come to the point of open and pleasant teasing. I'd never had a friendship with anyone so quickly that had developed to be so strong.

I was just finishing my transformation with a final touch of Chanel No. 5 on my wrists, the perfume Marilyn wore. A reporter had asked her what she wore to bed. She had replied, "Why, Chanel No. 5, of course." All I knew was that its scent made me feel enchanting.

"Hi!" Heather said cheerfully as she stepped inside.

She was dressed in a body-hugging dancer's leotard, but there was something wrong with her complexion. "What happened to your face? It's all red and puffy."

"Remember I said I might give the Jane Russell impersonation a shot?"

"Uh huh."

"Using the Roswell Replicator, yesterday afternoon, I had Ben come in and do a full work up for me."

"The whole process? Three dimensional mapping, mask, body panels, wig, artificial skin, and glue?

"Yes.

"So what went wrong?"

"I have very sensitive skin. Apparently I'm allergic to the artificial skin. One of its layers is made from bovine collagen."

"And your skin reacted to the collagen?"

"My face ballooned like the Goodyear blimp."

"Did you go to a doctor? Are you on any medication?"

"Yes, the swelling has gone down, but mostly it's just a matter of time. The calamine lotion has helped a little. It seems to cool things down."

"Are you allergic to other things?"

"Pollen, dust mites, cat fur, and food such as prawns, nuts, and peanuts."

"Peanuts?"

"I'm extremely allergic to peanuts. Even touching a peanut can cause hives. If I ingest peanuts, I start to cough and wheeze. I have difficulty breathing. I can go into anaphylactic shock. It can be life threatening."

"So what precautions do you take?"

Heather held out her right arm. "I carry this medic alert bracelet. In my purse, there is an EpiPen. I can jab myself with the needle containing epinephrine. Also, I'm very careful about what I eat."

"What if I ate something like Reese's Peanut Buttercup? Would that affect you if I breathed on you? Or kissed you?”

"Yes, it could."

"I knew somebody in high school. He almost died when he tried to eat a chocolate bar. He didn't know it had peanuts in it. There was no indication of it on the package label."

"Usually I can smell it or sense it. But, no matter what I do, I just have to be aware of the danger."

"Okay, I'll avoid peanuts from now on. That's too bad the Jane Russell suit didn't work out. I would've liked to have seen you as a full-figured gal."

Heather smiled. "You may look like Marilyn and sound like Marilyn, but I have to remember there's still a Roger Sasquatch under there."

I looked down toward my crotch. "It's more like Roger's Sasquatch squashed," I said in my own voice with a painful grimace.

Heather laughed. "I don't know where you hide it."

"Believe me, it's not easy." I avoided the 'It's hard' pun.

She clearly wanted to change the subject. "How do you like your new digs?"

"It's great! I love the changes. Lots of mirrors, space for costumes and make-up, a luxurious bathtub -- a star couldn't ask for any more. And I love the fact that you've got this hidden, well-ventilated walk-in 'closet' for drying out the masks and appliances." A lot of changes had taken place in the days since my encounter of the rude kind with Brad.

"Well, the studio space isn't going to be needed as much, now that we have the Roswell Replicator II to create the wax figures."

"Still, I know all these changes have to be expensive."

"Yes. We've invested a lot of time and money into this project, but I guess if it doesn't work out, we'll have a tax loss claim for Revenue Canada. But you know, things are starting to fall into place. I think this is exactly what we needed to revive the Wax Museum. Ever since 'The Hall of Fame' wax museum opened up, our business has gone down hill."

"But you've got a location advantage. They're further away from the Falls."

"True. But they've really hurt our bottom line. If the investment in the latest Roswell Replicator and our Marilyn Monroe Show doesn't pan out, we're in big trouble."

"Well, we'll just have to make sure it succeeds." I smiled at her and touched her arm. I'd learned during the last week that touching was an essential part of consoling others.

Worry etched Heather's face. I would work even harder to make sure the Robinsons hadn't spent their money foolishly on our project.

"Have we got the full cast and crew ready to rehearse?" I asked.

"Yes. Finally, we've got all of the personnel assembled. Your friend Pete is on the keyboards. We'll see if he can make that synthesizer sound like a full band. I'm going to take the Jane Russell role in the Diamonds song and dance routine, although I'm not going to be her identical double. Also, we've got an experienced person to handle the lights. And we've got a veteran stage manager who has got all the video screens, microphones, and sound equipment set up and ready for your performance."

"Wonderful. I can't wait." I gave her a hug. I was getting more used to being involved in a girl-to-girl hug. My breasts sort of bounced strangely off Heather's. "Thank you for everything you've done." Strange feelings, but wonderful!

"Don't thank me yet. You haven't made the climb from here on the ground level up to the rooftop. When you have to do that three times a day in high heels, you might not think you're being treated like a superstar."

"I promise not to complain. Besides, I'm more concerned about performing to the best of my ability. That tent that you've erected on the rooftop must have put you back a ton of money."

"Yes, but we didn't have enough room inside. Besides, have you ever seen Cirque du Soleil? They do all right every summer in Toronto in a tent."

Within a few minutes, we were ascending. Two new wide staircases on either side of the new stage had been constructed to allow easy access from the second floor to the rooftop of the building. I resolved to take off my high heels and use slippers in the future. Marilyn had said, "I don't know who invented high heels, but all women owe him a lot." She hadn't been talking about comfort.

As we approached the Big Top Tent, I could hear the familiar refrain of There's No Business Like Show Business. I remembered that Marilyn Monroe had a part in that film, although most people remembered Ethel Merman for the title song. Marilyn had sung After You Get What You Want, You Don't Want It Anymore, but not very many fans remembered that one.

The Big Top was quite impressive. Its beige-colored waterproof canvas canopy rose three stories high, and spanned an area that could hold an audience of seven hundred people. Much to my relief, the enclosed space had an air-conditioning system. It would be going full blast during the summer months.

Heather assembled the new crew. She introduced Tom Austin, the lighting man; Gord Mountford as the sound technician/stage manager; and my buddy Pete Winslow on the synthesizer.

All the guys seemed star-struck! I had never seen Pete Winslow lost for words before, but he was virtually unintelligible. I tried not to show any sign of recognition when we were introduced. With the incredible disguise I was wearing, the only way Pete could possibly identify me was from my voice. He had heard me do my Marilyn voice on many occasions and if he'd closed his eyes and listened he'd know who I was. Given his demeanor, there was no fear he was going to quit staring any time soon.

Heather was the director, and she had all the sheet music ready for Pete to play. She had worked out the lighting and sound set up before hand. She had a wonderful feel for the whole process of producing a show. Heather prepared well and made decisions based on information gathered from many sources.

One of the first things we had to resolve was the use of wireless microphones and transmitters. To be able to sing and dance properly, we didn't want to be encumbered by microphones, although we could use very small microphones, with transmitters the size of cigarette packs. Nonetheless, they wouldn't fit into a figure-hugging gown very easily. One possible solution, suggested by Gord, was to use a large hand microphone that had both the microphone and transmitter in one unit. That was fine for some numbers, but the dance numbers were another matter. We considered lip-synching for the dance numbers. It was something we needed to work through.

We began with three songs from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes: Diamonds, Two Little Girls From Little Rock and Bye Bye Baby. While Heather and I sang and danced, Tom controlled the lighting from his position at the far end of the Big Top, beyond the tiered temporary seating. Sitting right beside Tom was Gord. He set the sound levels. During the first song, once or twice we had trouble with terrible ear-splitting sound feedback, but it was soon fixed.

By the end of the second song, Pete Winslow had proved to Heather that he was a musical genius. His fingers flew across the keyboards. He compensated for any changes in tempo that the performers created, and made the synthesizer sound like a big band -- as advertised.

For the next hour of rehearsal, we put in a lot of perspiration, but for me, Heather was an inspiration. She was such a dynamic, charismatic person. I was consumed by lusty thoughts; she was so close and yet so far. To her, I suppose I was just another co-worker -- and a female one at that. Besides, she already had a boyfriend. Now, if only I could be Harry Houdini instead of Marilyn Monroe, I could make Brad Adams magically disappear.

After rehearsal, I soaked in a warm bath with the special solvent for ten minutes. Magically, the Sokui adhesive bond loosened and the body panels came off just as Ben had said they would. The Marilyn mask fell away just as easily. After placing the various body parts on plastic-coated wire frame drying racks, I changed back into my Roger Baker secret identity. It felt good to be back in my own skin.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Later that evening, I borrowed my dad's old Ford Taurus to go over to Niagara-on-the-Lake. Pete Winslow had a steady gig at the Niagara Country Club Inn. Overlooking one of the oldest golf courses in North America, the Country Club Lounge was a cozy venue located in 'the prettiest town in Canada.' Pete's uncle owned the Niagara Country Club Inn. A little nepotism never hurt any member of the Winslow family.

The Georgian style architecture of the sprawling historic Inn, beside the lush green fairways, made for an impressive setting. Also, the town of Niagara-on-the-Lake was, by itself, a tourist attraction. Situated where the Niagara River flows into Lake Ontario, this lovely old Victorian town has been a Mecca for sightseers for a long time. Visitors have fallen in love with the Shaw Festival, the winery tours, the quaint shops on Queen Street, a multitude of historic buildings, and the scenic Niagara parklands.

From my seat near the sliding glass doors of the Lounge, I could see, in the fading light, the immaculate green of the 18th hole beside the gently lapping waves of Lake Ontario. The Lounge was a 1950's era addition to the Inn. The wood paneled walls of the cavernous room were decorated with photos of club members posing with tournament championship trophies. The golf memorabilia was mixed in with photographs of celebrities who had visited the Niagara Country Club -- mostly NHL hockey players and Shaw Festival actors. I looked around, but noticed no celebrities among the current evening's gathering. Mondays rarely attracted large crowds. Some of the Inn's guests probably had dropped by in search of entertainment after a full day of sightseeing -- or golf.

Pete played mostly ballads. He had a mellow voice that lent itself to the styles of many pop stars. Pete played the hit songs of singer-pianists from the 1970's and onward -- Paul Williams, Carole King, Stevie Wonder, Barry Manilow, Carly Simon, Al Stewart, Vangelis, Marvin Hamlisch, and Elton John. His synthesizer could sound like a grand piano for Carole King's soulful You've Got a Friend or he could make it sound like a full band for Al Stewart's soaring Year of the Cat -- complete with saxophone solo. Pete's voice was capable of great range too. He had a habit of phrasing the lyrics in much the same way as the original singer. I don't know if it was intentional, but Pete was like a human jukebox. He knew so many songs -- not just the musical arrangements, but the lyrics too.

Pete was to music what Bubba Blue was to shrimping. According to Bubba, in Forrest Gump, there were countless ways to prepare those succulent pink delicacies from the ocean. "Shrimp is the fruit of the sea. You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sauté it. Dey's uh, shrimp-kabobs, shrimp Creole, shrimp gumbo. Pan fried, deep-fried, stir-fried. There's pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich."

Whereas Pete Winslow had an amazing Memorex for songs and lyrics, I had always been a movie buff. I often liked to entertain friends and classmates by imitating actors 'doing' their famous lines -- including obscure Bubba Blue.

While Pete tinkled the ivories, some of the aging Baby Boomer crowd would come up and request their favorites. They'd put a loonie, a toonie, or a blue five-dollar bill in a large pickle jar on top of his vintage Wurlitzer synthesizer. Pete was able to get the people into a good mood. I had a feeling Pete was headed for fame and stardom beyond the 'Golden Horseshoe' -- as they called our area of the world.

Someone requested Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Water. Pete's skill in performing that tune moved me tremendously. The song transported me to a completely different state of mind.

"When you're weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all.
I'm on your side, oh, when times get rough and friends just can't be found,
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down…

"When you're down and out, when you're on the street,
When evening falls so hard, I will comfort you.
I'll take your part, oh, when darkness comes and pain is all around,
like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down.

"Sail on silver girl, sail on by.
Your time has come to shine, All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine, oh and when you need a friend, I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind."

At the very end of the song, it amazed me that Pete could hit the high notes of the closing refrain "I will ease your MI…I...IND."

Then, when Pete followed it up with Mrs. Robinson, the theme song from the film The Graduate, I really got caught up with the music. One key phrase, especially, grabbed my attention.

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio,
Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.
What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson.
Jolting Joe has left and gone away,
"(Hey hey hey, hey hey hey)."

My mind started to ramble. Joltin' Joe DiMaggio. Mrs. Robinson. Marilyn Monroe?

That got me to thinking about our rehearsal earlier. It had gone so well. Pete fit in like he had been there practicing with us from the very beginning.

Then it struck me. I held up my right wrist to my nose. The scent of Chanel No. 5! What was I going to do? Pete would smell it on me.

What was the cliché? Necessity is the mother of invention? I quickly poured some of my Coca-Cola onto a napkin. Then I placed the damp napkin on my wrist. I hoped the Coke would dilute the scent. About nine hours had passed since I applied the perfume. Maybe the fragrance had dissipated enough that it wouldn't be noticeable. Fortunately, I had only dabbed the perfume on my wrists. Otherwise, I would have looked even stranger holding a wet napkin up to my neck or ears.

After a few minutes of soaking in the pop, my fears subsided. Pete went on to play Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World. It was one of my all-time favorites that we sang in elementary school. Pete did it so well. I soon forgot about Mrs. Robinson, Joltin' Joe DiMaggio, and Marilyn Monroe.

Near the end of his first set, even I summoned up the nerve to make the trip across the plank floorboards, in front of the onlookers, to request John Lennon's Imagine. Pete gave me a wink as he launched into the spirited intro. I could feel the mood change as the tune reverberated through the high-ceilinged clubroom. Pete deviated from his usual Memorex take. Instead, he gave a spiritual blues version of the Lennon classic. In my opinion, Pete's interpretation was even better than the original.

" . . . You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one . . . "

A song or two later, Pete ended his set with a crowd favorite -- Stevie Wonder's I Just Called to Say I Love You.

After a smattering of applause, Pete thanked the small but supportive gathering. He pulled his lanky frame up from his bench and strode over to my table.

"Hi Roger! Good to see ya."

"Great set, Pete. Imagine was fabulous! Brilliant! You always knock me out with your talent. The human jukebox -- Pete 'Wurlitzer' Winslow!"

"Oh, I don't know if I've ever deserved that nickname," Pete said in his typical 'ah shucks' manner. He looked just like a modest Chuck Norris when he did that.

"When you did Elton John's Your Song, you sounded exactly like him."

"Well, thanks again," he said sheepishly. "It's my favorite Elton John number."

"Your Song is great, but I prefer Candle in the Wind as my favorite Elton John tune."

"Which version? The one for Princess Di or the original Goodbye Norma Jeane?"

"Either one. They're both great."

"Yeah, I agree. They are classics . . . but, some day I'd like to do my own material. I hope in the not too distant future my own compositions will make me rich and famous."

"I'm sure that will happen someday soon," I said as I gave Pete a slap on the back. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure can, buddy. Actually I should buy you a drink."

"Any time you feel the urge -- just go with the flow."

Pete laughed. That was one of Pete's charming traits. He laughed easily and often. "I love the new gig at Robinson's Wax Museum. Thanks a million, Roger, for giving me that lead."

"Well, after all, I am working at the 'candleworks' as a guide. I heard they were looking for a good musician and you're the best I know." I could see from Pete's happy expression that he truly was thankful.

A waitress stopped at our table to take our order. I asked for a Coke again while Pete opted for his usual Labatt Blue. The pretty young lady, Sandra, already knew what Pete liked.

"So how's your new gig working out?" I asked.

"Great! We had our first rehearsal today. You just wouldn't believe what we're doing there!"

"Oh, like what?"

"We have a great tribute act!"

"A tribute act?" I had to watch what I said, but I was super curious as to his impression of Marilyn.

"Yeah, you know, a tribute act, like Elvis Presley impersonations."

"Oh, not another Elvis impersonator. 'I'm all shook up.' "

"No, not Elvis. We have an incredible girl who is a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe."

"Really?"

"She is drop-dead gorgeous. I swear I can't tell her from the real thing. It's as if Marilyn Monroe came back to life and is singing and dancing at the wax museum in Niagara Falls."

"There's no such thing as a true-to-life Marilyn Monroe impersonator."

"Until now, there hasn't been anyone who could come close. But the Marilyn Monroe I saw today looks exactly like the real Marilyn. Not only that, she sounds the same, moves the same, and also has that special charisma that few performers have."

"Like you would know," I said skeptically. "You weren't even born when Marilyn Monroe passed away."

"But everyone has seen a Marilyn Monroe film. Her pictures and posters are still around. I tell you this person that I saw today is absolutely amazing! She is Marilyn Monroe -- the ultimate sex symbol!"

"You say she sounds like Marilyn and moves like Marilyn?"

"Yeah. We were rehearsing some song and dance routines from her movies."

"You did songs from old musicals?"

"I was provided with sheet music for all the songs. The whole set-up is amazing. We've got a huge rooftop canopy, a new stage, and stairway entrances. You've probably seen it. We've got seats for seven hundred people or more. We have large video screens set up to entertain the crowds when our live performers do their costume changes. We'll show clips from those vintage musicals. But, I have to tell you; I couldn't take my eyes off this Marilyn look-alike. She's the real deal!"

That made me feel warm and tingly inside. "Thank. . . . What about my boss, Heather Robinson? Isn't she involved in the show too?"

"Oh yeah, Heather was there. She actually did the choreography, the direction, and the producing. She's really hot too! Heather's a real talented, energetic dynamo!"

"But you say this other performer looks like Marilyn Monroe?"

"It was like Marilyn got cloned! You know, like in that old movie Jurassic Park, they used the DNA from dinosaurs and brought them back to life. Well, somebody must have dredged up Marilyn Monroe's DNA. This girl is amazing! I stood three feet away from her. She oozed sex from every pore! She's so gorgeous, when I was introduced to her, I almost came in my pants."

I laughed at his gross remark. "Well Pete, I think you must have 'waxmuseumitis.' That deadly strain has drained your brain of all rational thought."

A young couple, locked in an embrace, brushed by our table, momentarily disrupting our conversation. After they passed by, I continued, "Also, you're seeing clones everywhere -- Jane Russell, Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, the dinosaurs from Jurassic Park . . . Never mind about John Lennon's Imagine. The next song I request will be Judy Collins' Send in the Clones."

"Okay, clown around all you want. But see her for yourself. Drop by the rehearsal tomorrow and watch her. I'd be willing to bet you that this Marilyn will knock you out!"

"I'll drop by sometime, but I can't tell you exactly when." How could I manage to be two people at the same time? "I guess 'til then, I'll have to take your word for it. This 'Marilyn' must really be someone special."

"You've got that right . . . but you know, I find it a little strange that you were working on a 'Claymation Marilyn' commercial for one of your college courses. I mean, I played Diamonds as the background music for your mock commercial. And here I am, a month later, playing the same song for a new tribute show. I didn't even have to look at the sheet music."

Would Pete put two and two together and discover that Marilyn Monroe equaled Roger Baker?

"Yes, by the way, that Diamonds theme was great! It helped me get an A+ on that project. So, thanks for all your help. It's also one of the reasons I thought of you when the accompanist role came up. As they say, 'what goes around comes around.' The Law of Karma."

"I guess good things happen when you do a good deed."

"Now you sound like a Boy Scout. By the way, where did the Robinsons find this girl? Do you know?"

"Well, I heard she came in to interview for a summer job. It coincided with Heather Robinson's plan to offer some live entertainment at the wax museum. Heather took one look at this Marilyn look-a-like and asked her if she'd be willing to audition for the tribute act. And the rest, as they say, is history."

Pete repeated that story just the way Heather and I hoped he would. But I knew, in the future I needed to expand on the made up background or 'legend' for my Marilyn character.

Sandra, the waitress, returned with our drinks. I had a ten dollar bill ready for her and told her to keep the change.

"Thanks for the beer, Roger."

"You're welcome."

"A toast to good times!" Pete said as he raised his beer stein.

"To good times!"

Our glasses clinked together. Then we both took sips from our drinks.

"You know," Pete continued, "it's great to hear about somebody getting a break and taking advantage of it. Sometimes I think luck is more important than talent. But when you have that rare combination of talent and good luck, well those are the people who become superstars."

I considered Pete's comment for a moment. I looked around, through the beer and darts atmosphere of the Lounge. My jaw must have dropped in amazement! The young couple that had passed by our table -- the guy was Brad Adams, Heather's boyfriend! But -- the gorgeous redhead he was groping and probing was not Heather Robinson!

Handsome, rugged Brad, casually attired in dark blue Dockers and a tan-colored Nike golf shirt, had hungry eyes. The redhead, dressed in a white halter-top with tight black pants, was stacked, and did I mention she was hot?

"What is it?" Pete asked as he turned around to see what I was seeing. "What are you looking at?"

Brad and his girl were all lovey-dovey. Then Brad and his date were necking. Brad was tonguing her to death. The open mouthed kiss! I squirmed in my seat at this revolting reminder of Brad's sleazy passion. I wondered if he enjoyed the invasive kiss with Marilyn more than the kiss with the redhead? Next Brad was trying to give her a hickey on the neck. He could have been auditioning for the part of vampire number one on a 'Buffy' revival. If only a sharp wooden stake would magically appear in my hand.

How could Brad do this? Heather is an angel. She doesn't deserve a philandering reanimated corpse like Brad.

On the other hand, behind every dark cloud is a silver lining. If Heather and Brad were to split, I might have a chance at a relationship with Heather.

"Oh," I said, unable to say anything because 'I' didn’t know Brad, "I just think that public displays of affection are kind of . . . "

"Ghetto? Trashy?"

Pete knew how to push my laugh buttons. "No, even in the city slums and trailer parks, I think they learn manners. Maybe vulgar or sleazy would be more like it."

"Well, what do you expect? Niagara's known as the honeymoon capital of the world."

I didn't want to even think about Brad, it just burned me up. I needed to change the subject. I didn't want to let Brad's cheating heart spoil the evening. "Hey Pete, speaking of vulgar displays, I've been working on a new impression. Wanna hear it?"

"Sure, little buddy," Pete said, seemingly intrigued by the 'vulgar' description.

"You've seen Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan?"

"Oh no, you're gonna do Borat?"

"Remember at the beginning, Sacha Baron Cohen introduced movie audiences to that little known country of Kazakhstan?"

Pete nodded.

I launched into my loud, high-pitched Borat braggadocio. "Jagshemash? (How are you?) My name uh Borat. I like you. I like sex . . . is nice! This is my country of Kazakhstan -- is locate between Tajikstan and Kyrgyzstan and assholes, Uzbekistan."

Smiling broadly, I made arm gestures, pointing to the imagined Uzbeks.

"This my town of Kuzcek. This is Urkin, the town rapist." I pointed in the direction of Brad Adams. "Naughty naughty. Over here our town kildergarten. And here, live Mukhtar Shakhanov -- our town mechanic and abortionist."

As Pete sipped his beer, he laughed. The beer spewed out his nose.

"This my house. Entry, please. . . . He is my neighbor Nursultan Tuyakbay. He is pain in my assholes. I get a window from a glass; he must get a window from a glass. I get a step; he must get a step. I get a clock-radio; he cannot afford. . . . Great success!

"This is Natalya." I imagined Borat in a passionate kiss with a sultry blonde. "She is my sister. She is number-four prostitute in all of Kazakhstan. . . . Niiice! This is my mother -- she oldest woman in whole of Kuzcek. She is uh forty-three. I love her. And this -- my wife Oksana. She is uh boring. . . . "

At this point in the film, there was an angry exchange in the Kazakh language between Borat and his wife. In the subtitled translation, Oksana compared Borat unfavorably to a skinny piece of shit and suggested he do something useful like dig his mother a grave.

I continued with Borat's tour. "This is where I live. . . . My bed . . . and this is a VCR recorder and this uh play cassettes." I waved my arm toward Pete's synthesizer.

"Now I show you outside from my houses. My hobbies: ping-pong . . . sunbathe (in a lime-green slingshot thong) . . . uh disco dance . . . and on weekends I travel to capital city and watch uh ladies as they make uh toilet."

With a big smile, Pete held up his hand. "High five!" We slapped hands together.

It was the first time I had tried out the Borat Sagdiyev impression. It felt good!

"That movie was disgusting," Pete began, "and so funny!"

"I felt a little guilty when I laughed at some of the sick sexual humor. I just couldn't help myself."

"Me too -- 'the town rapist,' as if every Kazakh town had one."

We both looked in the direction of Brad Adams. He was still kissing his girlfriend passionately.

I shook my head, signifying my disapproval.

Pete shrugged his shoulders and then he checked his watch. "Roger, you are an amazing mimic. I wish we could continue chatting, but I have to take a washroom break and then it's back to being the Piano Man." Pete gulped down the remaining contents of his beer stein and pushed his chair back from the table. "I'll talk to you later, 'Rocket' Roger."

My nickname dated back to our childhood days watching the Toronto Blue Jays when Roger Clemens won two Cy Young Awards, although I was never much of a pitcher. I used to try to imitate Clemens' Texas drawl when he was interviewed on TV.

"Later, piano player," I replied with a friendly salute.

While Pete visited the facilities, I returned to the continuing saga of Brad and his new playmate. It was like watching a nauseating soap opera -- As the Stomach Turns. I know that was an old familiar twist on the soap opera title, but Brad's lewd display was no Guiding Light for proper behavior.

For a moment, I was tempted to stick around and spy on the two lovebirds, but the longer I watched the public debauchery, the angrier I got, so I decided to leave. I walked over to the waitress, Sandra, stuck five dollars in her hand, and asked her to refill Pete's glass -- the beer stein perched on top of his classic Wurlitzer synthesizer, right beside the 'bread' jar. When I walked out of the Niagara Country Club Lounge, the fresh night air revived me back into the world of the unBrad.

Somehow Brad Adams would pay for what he did.

CHAPTER NINE

All through rehearsal the next day, I couldn't help but think of that scumbag Brad. It was tearing me apart. Whenever I would look at Heather, I felt like blurting out the truth.

I was so distracted by my dilemma that during the Diamonds dance routine I actually fell down doing a spin that I had performed countless times before.

Should I tell her about Brad and his cheating ways? I wanted to tell her, but nobody likes a snitch. Also, she might have wanted to kill the messenger. Another factor to consider was that I had seen Brad in my Roger Baker guise. Brad didn't even know Roger, his accuser. I know that was a tenuous excuse. And . . . I wanted Heather to get rid of Brad, so that I would have a shot at a relationship with Heather, but I couldn't persuade myself to be a snitch.

I remembered coming across a line Marilyn Monroe said to actress Shelley Winters. "Wouldn't it be nice to be like men, just getting notches in your belt, having affairs with the most attractive men . . . and not getting emotionally involved?"

After the rehearsal had finished, I didn't hang around to talk with Heather as was my usual habit. I withdrew quickly to the dressing room on the ground floor. I ran the bath water, removed my wig, clothes and make-up, and then hopped into the bathtub. I soaked myself for ten minutes, letting the special Sokui Biosynthetic rice glue dissolve with the aid of the special solvent, while I pondered my moral dilemma.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, I hung up the special girdle and the prosthetic attachments to dry. I quickly donned my Roger clothing and left the museum as quickly as possible.

Whenever life would get me down, I'd try to get out for a nature walk. I'd go down by the river along the Niagara Recreation Trail. It was a beautiful 56-kilometer route, stretching from historic Fort George (Niagara-on-the-Lake) in the north to the town of Fort Erie in the south. The Niagara Gorge was a spectacular sight. The Niagara Parks Commission kept the parkland in immaculate condition. I'd see the Falls, the Maid of the Mist bobbing through the swirling rapids beneath the Falls, the rainbows cast by the spray of the Falls meeting the bright sunshine, and so much more.

At other times, while at home, I'd go up to my bedroom and crank up the stereo. I'd put five of my favorite CDs into the CD player, lie down on the bed, close my eyes, and contemplate the meaning of life. Enya, the Moody Blues, Supertramp, Springsteen, Tina Turner, and the Doors -- the classic oldies my parents grew up on, they'd do the trick. There was a state somewhere between consciousness and dreaming that was pure bliss. At these particular points, right on the edge, I could 'jump' out of my physical body and elevate my consciousness to the ceiling of the room and look back down at my prone form lying on the bed. I was afraid if I wandered too far away, I wouldn't be able to return to my physical body. Consequently, I never let my mind stray too far.

So, I'd hear the Moody Blues proclaim the psychedelic guru "Timothy Leary's dead. No, no, no, no. He's outside, looking in. He'll fly his astral plane." Or did he fly his ass through flame? "Takes you trips around the bay, Brings you back the same day, Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary."

I didn't need drugs to get high. To be truthful, I've never even tried hallucinogenic drugs. My dreams and my meditative music sessions were enough to lift me out of my painful existence.

Besides, it has been proven that music does improve the mind. For some unknown reason, math students who listen to Mozart prior to a test do better than students who don't.

At other times, I'd read some books on philosophy. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was one I picked up. It got me into reading some of the works by the Dalai Lama of Tibet. The Art of Happiness was a good guide to a more fulfilling life. Then I went on a movie-renting binge. I saw movies like Lost Horizon, The Razor's Edge, Seven Years in Tibet, Kundun, Little Buddha, and Monty Python's The Meaning of Life. I even read Shirley MacLaine's Out on a Limb because I couldn't find a movie version of it. I went on a search for enlightenment I guess because love had eluded me.

However, none of my usual remedies for depression seemed to have any appeal today. I wanted to try something else beyond contemplation and introspection.

On my way home from the wax museum, I passed by a psychic's home. I had passed by many times. I thought someday, I'd like to try it, to see whether it had any value, or if it was a scam. The lure of the unknown spiritual underworld called out to me. The sign on the railing of the veranda, above the small front lawn, advertised 'Genuine Psychic Readings.'

I was so depressed. Brad, a dirty rotten scoundrel, did not deserve a beautiful angel like Heather. But another voice told me that all psychics were scam artists. Nevertheless, I succumbed to the temptation.

When I entered the converted two-story Victorian home, there was an 'office' to the immediate left of the entrance hallway. Actually, it was the waiting room. There was another room that could be accessed from the waiting room. Since the waiting room was unoccupied, I considered leaving without having seen anyone. The psychic must have been busy with a client. I was filled with doubt.

Just as I turned to leave, a middle-aged lady peeked into the office from the middle room of the home.

"One moment please. I'll be with you in one minute. We're just finishing up in here. Okay?"

"All right," I replied. I sat down on one of the padded rattan armchairs. The waiting room was kept neat and tidy. From the front window, through the Venetian blinds, I could see the street traffic that generated a constant stream of noise. On another wall was a bookcase jammed with dusty hardcover books. Beside the shelves was a cork bulletin board display with photographs.

There was a shuffle of feet on the hardwood floor in the next room. The lady I had seen earlier and an elderly gentleman emerged.

"Okay John, I'll see you two weeks from today at the usual time."

"Thank you. Goodbye," the man said as he made his way out of the waiting room. A few moments later, I heard the door close.

"Welcome. My name is Dolly Shearer. And your name?"

Should I give her my real name? IF she was a psychic, wouldn't she know when I lied? "My name is Roger Baker."

"Please come into my office."

She led me into the next room. The middle room was a cozy space. It had very little natural light, as the large stain-glassed window behind Dolly's desk looked out to the side wall of the next house three feet away. However, the cheerful flowery wallpaper helped to brighten up the chamber.

I sat down on another padded rattan armchair.

I studied Dolly for a moment. She had curly medium length red hair and looked to be a well-preserved fifty-year old. Dolly was slightly shorter than I was and she wore a creamy white knit-top with a green-gray tartan skirt or kilt.

"Well, I suppose I should tell you a little about myself since this is your first time here."

I nodded.

"First of all, I am not like your stereotypical psychic. I do not read palms and I do not look into crystal balls. Also, I charge $70 for the first visit and all subsequent visits as well. Usually a session will last twenty minutes, but the first session usually takes longer."

I nodded again.

"Feel free to interrupt me at any time if you have a question. Now, I have a flash card in this video camera. It has been running since we sat down. At the end of the session, you will have a recording of our discussion or I can send it to you over the Internet. So, you will not have to take notes. Also, later on, you can consult the recording any time you wish."

I shrugged my shoulders. Would there be any value to this session at all?

"You seem to be a person of few words today."

"I am not sure what to expect in this reading."

"When I was a young girl, it took awhile for me to realize that I had unusual abilities. . . .You see, I can sense auras around people. I didn't realize that other people couldn't do this."

"What do you mean by auras?"

"Have you ever read The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield?"

"No, but I have heard the title before."

"Okay, here's what is suggested in that book. Hold your forefinger and thumb close together. Close one eye. Then look at your digits carefully. Your perception will be a little fuzzy. You will see a kind of outline around the edge of your skin."

I held my thumb and forefinger close together, following Dolly Shearer's lead. Wow. I could see an aura. "Yes. I see it."

"Now, when I see an aura around people, the aura is much bigger and brighter. Also, it has colors. And it can expand or shrink according to the person's energy level."

"When you look at me, what colors do you see?"

"You have three strong colors. You have a yellow, then a green, and a blue aura. Also, in the last minute, the auras have gotten stronger or larger. You are more energized than when you were simply nodding your head. . . . Now your aura is shrinking again."

I shrugged. "What does this mean?"

"In your case, one thing I can tell immediately is that you are in excellent physical health."

A doctor could tell me that.

"Also, you have a strong inner conflict that is tearing you and your aura apart."

"How do I know that you aren't just reading my reactions, my body language, and working off those keys?"

"All right. That is a possibility with most psychics. Then let's look at the proof within familiar culture. Have you ever taken Tai Chi classes?"

"No."

"Translated from the Chinese, Tai Chi means harmony of the energies. Through a series of movements, the energy flow of the body or chi is enhanced. Health is promoted and the well being of the person improves. Also, you will note that Tai Chi is practiced together with others. The flow of energy is enhanced by a group of people working together. Also, it works even better outdoors on the ground or soil. Tai Chi is enhanced by the earth's energy."

"Is Acupuncture at all similar?"

"Yes. There are key points on the skin that can be stimulated with needles. Acupuncture helps to free energy blockages and stimulate the body's critical energy flow. Moxibustion and Acupressure operate under a similar theory. There are certain key points or nodes in the body. Chinese medicine evolved differently from western medicine. The Chinese did not do autopsies and dissect human organs. The chi, the body's healing energy, can also be enhanced by herbs like ginseng."

"So what has this to do with auras?"

"Practitioners of Tai Chi, Moxibustion, Acupuncture and Acupressure can sense the energy. They can feel it. But, I can see the energy as an aura around the body."

"How might I be able to feel it?"

"Perhaps you could take Tai Chi lessons. Or, you might be capable of feeling it now. If you know a family that has a young baby, offer to hold the youngster for awhile. I think you might be able to feel the baby's strong chi. Just contrast that to helping an elderly person across the street. You will sense a much weaker energy field emanating from an older person."

I could just picture myself testing the auras of babies and old women. "So what about when you get sick? How does that affect the chi or auras?"

"The auras shrink. They don't have the same healthy glow. The chi becomes weak. As I said before, the chi and auras are the same thing. It's just that they can be sensed in two different ways."

"Then how about some convincing proof from my own experience?"

"Okay. You have been to live theater, or perhaps you have performed in front of an audience yourself."

I nodded.

"When a charismatic performer connects with the audience, you can sense that connection. There's a subtle perceptible change within everyone. It is almost as if the performer is sending out a strong invisible signal from his or her heart. And this outpouring of love or energy or, call it whatever you will, is being sensed by the audience. And the audience sends back its energy. It feeds the performer. The audience-performer interconnection can build and strengthen, but it is a fragile link that can change almost instantaneously and be felt by everyone at the same time. . . . And you know this to be true because you, as an artist, have felt this on many occasions."

That caught me by surprise. "How did you know?"

"Because you have tremendous energy. I have only seen this strong an aura among real showmen. Real stars. You have that kind of aura."

"But nobody knows who Roger Baker is. I am not a star."

"You're an actor. You're headed for stardom. It's your destiny, but you have an unbelievably strong duality within your personality. That conflict is tearing you apart. You are hiding a great part of the self. You need to unify your spirit and let the performer grow unhindered by false restraints and unnecessary stress."

"You must be more specific. I don't want to reveal my innermost thoughts and secrets unless you can give me proof that you have genuine powers."

"All right. Do you have a piece of jewelry that you wear all the time? A watch or a ring perhaps?"

"I have a watch."

"Okay. I need to hold it. I can get impressions from it."

I took off the silver counterfeit Cartier and handed it to Dolly Shearer. Dolly clutched the watch face in between the fingers of her right hand. She closed her eyes.

"I see that you have a very strong female side to your personality and it has been growing in strength. . . . Also, there is a beautiful young lady in your life. You yearn for her, but she does not return the feeling. . . . And yet, you think she loves the other half of your personality. You think she loves your female side, but rejects the male side. . . . Her name is Heather. Am I right?"

Right on. She was right on. I could only nod. How did she do it?

"I need something else of yours. You don't wear this watch all the time. Perhaps you could wear a ring from now on. If you were to wear a ring full-time, that would help me get a more complete reading on everything that's happening to you."

"I'll consider it."

"There is something else I should mention."

"I hope it's something good."

"You have a kindred spirit. She has been around you at all times lately."

"A relative?"

"No. This is somebody you admire greatly; somebody very close to you. However, she died a long time ago."

"Uh huh."

"You feel a strong connection to her. Some of the things that troubled her are also troubling you."

"Yes." I needed to know more.

"For example, many people admired her. Yet, she felt very lonely and unloved, primarily because of a troubled childhood."

"Yes. I think I know what you mean and whom you mean, but can you tell me her name?"

"She has several names -- one of which you share in common. Your last name. She wants you to continue on this path. She believes that you will resolve your conflict soon."

"Keep going." That was incredible! Baker! My name and her name.

"This spirit doesn't believe you're ready to see anymore at this time. She believes you must keep seeking the truth. We must conclude this session now. I have another client waiting in the next room."

My head spun. I wanted to know more, but already felt like I'd heard too much. When Dolly handed me the flash card video recording of our session, I stuck it in my wallet. I was going to analyze my session as soon as I got home.

CHAPTER TEN

When I arrived at work the next day, Mrs. Robinson was in her work studio, which was where the entrance to my dressing room was located.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully.

"Good morning." I engaged the kickstand of my Supercycle mountain bike and leaned it up against a wall.

"Hi Roger!" Heather called out from the far end of the workspace.

I waved hello.

Mrs. Robinson had a tube of glue in her hand. Apparently one of the wax figures needed some maintenance work.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Occasionally there's some vandalism." Mrs. Robinson didn't look very happy. The Jim Carrey wax figure had been placed on top of a worktable.

"It looks okay to me."

"I believe a jacket is missing. Also, the pinky finger fell off when the thief removed the jacket."

The detached finger lay beside Jim Carrey's right hand.

The Jim Carrey figure had stood in the fabulous Bruce ALMIGHTY display. Jim, as reporter Bruce Nolan, was aboard a mock-up of Niagara Falls' Maid of the Mist tour boat. The humorous scene, shot at Niagara Falls, was one I had used in one of my New Media: Production course commercials.

"Come here, Roger," Mrs. Robinson said. "I'll show you on the computer monitor."

Mrs. Robinson set aside the tube of glue. She played with the keyboard and mouse of the Roswell Replicator II for a moment and opened a picture file. Photos of the wax museum display for Bruce ALMIGHTY appeared on the screen. Also, there were stills from the actual movie. A side-by-side comparison with the wax museum display demonstrated that the museum's model was incredibly accurate.

"We definitely need to replace the jacket," Heather said, as she peered over my shoulder.

Bruce Nolan, as portrayed by Jim Carrey, wanted to be the new anchorman of WKBW Eyewitness News, replacing the retiring Pete Fineman. While Bruce was on the tossing deck of the Maid of the Mist, surrounded by the roar of Niagara's Horseshoe Falls, the station delayed switching to the 'live report' to announce the coveted anchor job had gone to Bruce's rival, Evan Baxter, played by Steve Carell.

Bruce waited in his multicolored umbrella hat and green waterproof jacket until co-anchor Susan Ortega 'threw' to a stunned and severely disappointed Bruce Nolan. He did what in the news industry is called 'a Walt Disney' -- Bruce froze solid: a deer in the headlights. The raging cascade's fury provided a stark contrast to Bruce's stone cold silence. Finally, he came out of his coma to interview elderly Irene Dansfield, whose mother rode on the tour boat's maiden voyage 156 years ago.

I picked up the umbrella hat and microphone prop from the worktable. What better time for my well rehearsed Jim Carrey impression?

"Hi Susan, Bruce Nolan here aboard the Maid of the Mist in fabulous Niagara Falls, New York. First off, let me just add another congratulations to Evan Backstabber … pardon me -- bastard -- Baxter rather. It is good to see what someone with real talent can do when great opportunities are given to them instead of me." I quoted the movie with a maniacal smile and a forced laugh.

There were happy grins on the faces of both Heather and her mom.

"Anyway, I'm here with Katharine Hepburn's mom. Tell me, why did you throw the blue 'heart of the ocean' jewel over the railing of the Titanic?"

I shoved the microphone in front of Mrs. Robinson. She was substituting for the bewildered old woman, Irene Dansfield, onboard the Maid of the Mist. Of course, she didn't know what to say.

"Did you feel bad at all letting Leo Di Caprio drown while you were safe floating on the big door? Could you have taken turns, or were you just too afraid to freeze your BIG FAT ASS OFF?"

I mugged for the imaginary camera.

"Well, I guess that's how life is, isn't it? Some people are drenched, freezing to death, on a stupid boat, with a stupid hat . . . while others are in a comfy news studio, sucking up all the glory! Oh well, no big deal." I wrenched off the umbrella hat and pretended to crush it.

"Oh, look, it's the owner of the Maid of the Mist! Let's have a talk with him, shall we?

Come on in here, Bill." I grabbed the forearm of Heather, pretending she was the owner. I steered the reluctant Bill/Heather toward the imaginary camera.

"No, no, no, come on, let's have a talk. . . . Bill, you've been running the Maid of the Mist for twenty-three years now. Tell me: Why do you think I didn't get the anchor job?"

Bill was supposed to say a line, so I moved behind Heather and did the voice for Bill, holding my right hand in front of Heather's mouth, flapping my thumb and fingers like they were my mouth opening and closing in unison to the words. "Hey man, I don't want any problems."

Then I moved back to Bruce's position beside Heather.

"Is it my hair, Bill?" I shook my head violently like a dog trying to rid itself of water.

"Are my teeth not white enough? Or like the great Falls, is the bedrock of my life, eroding beneath me? Eroding! ERODING! Ero-o-o-o-ding! Ero-o-o-o-ding." The prolonged meltdown was reminiscent of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz.

"I'm Bruce Nolan, for Eyewitness News. Back to you, fuckers!"

Mrs. Robinson and Heather started applauding.

Then Heather opened her arms to me and we hugged. "That was great! You're such a good mimic."

Mrs. Robinson put her arms around both Heather and I. "You have so much talent," Mrs. Robinson said. "You're really funny. I am so glad I hired you."

In the film, because Bruce Nolan's tirade culminated with the ultimate 'F-word' expletive, WKBW (Wimpy Kiddy Baby Whiners) decided to play the Trump card: 'You're fired!'

"Thanks for the compliments." I looked at the smiling faces of Mrs. Robinson and Heather.

"Hmmm. If this Marilyn Monroe impersonation doesn't work out, you might give stand-up comedy a shot," Mrs. Robinson said. "Jim Carrey started out in stand-up doing impressions."

"Alrighty, Mrs. Robinson, I'll keep it in mind," I said in the Jim Carrey voice. "In the meantime, I'll just get back into my Marilyn body, mask, wig, and dress and try to revive her career."

I began walking toward my dressing room.

"Any idea of where I can find a duplicate jacket?" Mrs. Robinson asked of Heather.

The jacket was one of those hard to define green shades. It had a hood and was waterproof.

I stopped for a moment and turned around. "Perhaps you could try Hudson's Bay, Eddie Bauer, or Tilley Endurables."

"Endurable? This kind of headache I don't need to endure -- as if I didn't have enough troubles already."

Mrs. Robinson seemed to be under a lot of stress. Heather gave her mom a consoling hug.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After a complete run-through of the whole program with Heather, Pete, and the technical crew, we seemed ready.

Tomorrow would be a dress rehearsal, so we needed to go through costume changes. I'd be wearing three different sets of costumes. To put my mind at ease, Heather told me her mom had volunteered to be my dresser. That made me feel really good. The boss, Mrs. Robinson, would be my dresser! Also, it was a big relief knowing that I wouldn't have to worry about someone accidentally discovering my deep dark secret.

Heather carried on about how ads had been placed on CFAL, a local radio station. She had contacted newspapers in Hamilton, Buffalo, and Toronto. The mayor and other local dignitaries had been invited. She had hired a camera crew to make a DVD recording of our stage act. A banquet hall had been booked for a party for the staff. Heather had all the angles covered.

At times like this, I felt lucky to have fallen into a dream job -- to be an entertainer and to work with such a lovely person! Was she even aware of what impact her presence had on me?

Heather and I retreated to the ground floor studio where my transformation room was located and reviewed the whole rehearsal from start to finish. There were a few minor timing concerns. Pete had been great in responding to the visual hand signals we had worked out for our cues. The wireless microphone problem had been resolved. For the dance numbers, we settled on use of a Velcro strap around the upper thigh. The small cassette size transmitter would be strapped to the inner thigh, just below the crotch. The cut of the gown hid the upper thigh and for the opening dance numbers, we didn't have to do high leg kicks. For other routines, we could use the old wire microphone set up that Marilyn Monroe would have used.

We went through each song, each dance routine, and all the technical aspects of lighting and sound. Intuitively I knew that Heather felt something was missing. Call it a sixth sense, but sometimes I had a sensitivity to reading people's emotions or even their inner thoughts. She had something on her mind that needed to be spilled.

Heather got up from her chair and slid back the closet mirror panel behind her. The gowns we would be using in the show were all hanging there. There were two copies of each of the four sets of costumes. Heather had said I might need more of the white dresses so that we could rotate them through the cleaners -- and that one would be hard to keep spotless.

Heather took down the gown that Marilyn Monroe had worn the night she had sung 'Happy Birthday' to John F. Kennedy at Madison Square Garden.

"Marilyn, could you try this gown on, please?" Heather asked. "Let see how it hangs on you."

"Sure thing, Heather." I stripped off my dancer's leotard without hesitation. Heather had seen Marilyn 'naked' many times before.

I put on a nylon body stocking first, and then slipped into the whisper thin, diaphanous gown, pulled the body-hugging material over my bountiful bosom, and I looked into a full-length mirror. If I hadn't put on the body stocking, you could have seen my nipples right through the gown material. If you looked closely, you could have seen . . . .

"That is such a sexy gown," Heather gushed. "There are very few women who could do justice to it."

I looked in the mirror and examined my body as objectively as I could. The male side of my personality was turned on by it. The female side admired the perfection of its form.

"It is spectacular."

"But, I think there's still something missing."

I looked around me for whatever it was she meant. "You mean the accessories like the jewelry? I can put it on if you like."

"No, that's not what I mean."

"Then what?" I didn't have a clue where she was going.

"It's about Marilyn's personality."

"Uh huh."

"Marilyn had a 'Je ne sais quois' sex appeal that nobody else could duplicate."

I loved it when she talked French . . . or any other language. I thought about what Marilyn has said in an interview. "It's often just enough to be with someone. I don't need to touch them. Not even talk. A feeling passes between you both. You're not alone." I felt like that about Heather.

"Je ne sais quoi means I don't know what in French." Francais had been my worst subject in High School.

"Right. Marilyn's sex appeal was hard to define or explain. Even so, we need to try to get you to emulate it."

"That will be very hard to do. Remember, I've only been a girl for a short time."

"Well, some of it can be learned. And it can develop too. I think we can improve on what you have now."

When Heather looked at me with her doe-like eyes, she always made me feel so special.

"You know, Marilyn Monroe had a special quality that few other Hollywood stars could project. It was that sexual attraction that she could turn on. People could sense it. It is one of the reasons she became the most popular movie star in history." Heather tried to pull me into a different mindset -- an emotional one. She relaxed her body and spoke in a more seductive and playful tone. "Marilyn had a kind of hard to explain appeal -- there's just something about her that makes her likable on the movie screen. It's not just the fact that she was beautiful." Heather looked at me with hunger in her eyes. "Well, I have a theory on that. I think people can send out signals or vibrations that affect others. I think Marilyn Monroe had a golden glow about her, an appeal, a gentle radiance -- and people could sense it."

"I don't know that I've ever experienced it, except maybe with you." Oh jeez, I hadn't meant to blurt out that. When I got in Marilyn mode I sometimes became too candid.

Heather smiled at me. "I like you to. We've become good friends."

Good friends. The last thing any boy wanted to hear from a girl.

Heather got right back to business. "When you see a live theatrical performance, you can sense when a performer establishes a link with the audience. It isn't about just the appearance, the expression, the voice -- there's an allure about the person. Marilyn Monroe personified glamour. Seductiveness. Love. People liked her immediately. They adored her."

"But how does a performer develop it?"

"I think you look, sound, and move like Marilyn Monroe. The rehearsals have gone so well."

"But?"

"You need to work on one tiny element."

"What's that?" I hoped she didn't think my 'element' was tiny.

"Sex appeal."

Sex! "That's a pretty tall order considering I'm a guy imitating the sexiest woman in history."

"Believe it or not, right now I think you have enormous sex appeal as Marilyn."

"I do?" I had thought I looked pretty good in the mirror, but it made me tingle to hear her say it.

"However, I think you just need to become aware of your allure -- and enhance it."

"How?" Maybe the Roswell Replicator had a button we could push to add a little sex to my performance.

"First of all, you have to believe you're sexy."

"Okay." I do believe. I do believe. Was that mantra from The Wizard of Oz or Peter Pan?

"You can communicate sexiness by means of body language. Through subtle gestures and nuances, you can be very enticing."

"Well, as Marilyn, I have noticed that Pete, Tom, and Gord treat me completely different from the way I've ever been treated as Roger."

"Yes, they sometimes seem overwhelmed by your beauty. When I'm the other girl in the room, I can tell you that you're too much competition for me."

"Not for you, Heather. My goodness . . . you're lovely." My hands flew to my mouth to stop me from saying anything else that was clearly stupid.

Heather giggled. "Marilyn, sometimes I love you to bits. You take the nicest parts of Roger and blend them with a bit of Monroe magic and it all comes out sweet."

My head reeled. Had she just paid me a compliment, or Marilyn, or Marilyn-me?

"If they only knew the truth," I replied with a laugh.

"Actually, I felt extremely jealous when Brad stuck his tongue in your mouth."

"I'm sorry. I should've been more careful." I touched her hand and pleaded with my eyes for her to forgive me.

"It wasn't your fault. It was simply one of my bad ideas that went entirely wrong."

"I didn't enjoy that at all." I considered again telling Heather about the Niagara Country Club Inn and Brad's date with the redhead.

"Seriously, when you're Marilyn, you have to forget that you're a boy. I think when you meet people as Marilyn -- if we want this impersonation to be as successful as possible -- I think we have to work on your interactions with other people. You have to exude sex appeal, vulnerability, and intimacy."

"Kinda like the way you do?"

"Thank you, but I think all attractive girls have had some experience at seducing guys." Heather nudged me with her shoulder and gave me a come-get-me look.

"Uh huh, I think you're very seductive." I thought she was drop-dead gorgeous.

Heather put her arm around my waist and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"Now what do you think?"

Think? "I'm a pushover for you. Do whatever you want with me."

"Oh c'mon. You're no challenge at all."

"All right. I'll resist your advances."

Heather paused for a moment, as if considering her choices. "Let's try this again. Only this time, I want you to be the seductress . . . but there are two rules. You can't touch me, and you can't say anything."

"Challenge accepted." What did I have to lose?

I smiled and looked down at my voluptuous curves, taking a personal inventory of what I had to work with -- which was plenty. I moved up closer to her and willed my body to be soft, cuddly, and inviting. I thought only of loving Heather with a smoldering, burning passion. I looked into her eyes and dreamed intensely of how gorgeous she was. Of her perfect sensuous body. Her soft supple curves. Her intoxicating scent. I thought of how beautiful a union with her would be -- soulmate to soulmate.

And then it happened. Heather wrapped her arms around me lovingly and kissed me deeply.

"I think you've got it," Heather whispered. "I think I just turned lesbian."

CHAPTER TWELVE

On opening day, Heather and I stood nervously in the wings offstage, fully made up, and dressed in our costumes for the first number.

There was an air of excitement under the Big Top. The Rooftop Theater was jam-packed with seven hundred eager spectators.

I looked at gorgeous Heather. She had used her make-up skills to imitate Jane Russell's face and had additional padding to give herself a 'full-figured' silhouette under her glitzy red sequined gown. The dress was slit down the middle, with a flesh colored fabric from the neck to the waist, separating 'Jane's' prominent breasts. I should have known it wouldn't be too hard for someone as sexy as Heather to mimic a movie star . . . with or without the Roswell Replicator.

'Jane' showed lots of leg. There was another tantalizing slit down the left side of the gown. The shoes were matching red high heels. Four 'diamond' bracelets over the left sleeve, two bracelets on the right, a diamond brooch at the top of the leg slit in the dress, and a dazzling diamond necklace completed the look of the evening gown. Her long 'Jane Russell' tresses held up a matching red cap topped by a white feather headdress, with the plumes combed from left to right. The complete ensemble was a replica of the costume from the film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I was dressed in the exact same attire.

At precisely noon, Pete struck up There's No Business Like Show Business and we began. From there, I think I did the whole show on autopilot. It all seemed to go by so fast.

At first I consciously oozed sex toward Heather, which was easy given how I felt about her. As the performance went on and the audience showed their love for what we were doing, I started to romance them. 'Sex is part of nature. I go along with nature.' Where had that thought come from?

We began by marching on stage together singing the opening line, "We're just two little girls from Little Rock" and continued on, followed by Bye Bye Baby. I didn't have to think at all about the dance moves. We had rehearsed so well and so often. Even Tom, Gord, and Pete, in spite of far less preparation time, hit all the cues. The lights, the sound, and the music were perfect!

Then, while Heather and I exited stage left to change our costumes, the video screens took over.

A scene from the 'Gentlemen' movie flashed to life. Young Mr. Augustus Esmond, played by Tommy Noonan, came backstage, calling on Lorelei Lee, played by Marilyn Monroe. Gus was supposed to be the son of a wealthy businessman. Lorelei Lee was a gold digging showgirl. When Lorelei greeted Gus with a hot kiss at the dressing room door, he stood there for a long time -- with a stunned, stupefied look on his face. Dorothy Shaw, portrayed by Jane Russell, quipped, "I don't know what you do honey, unless you use Novocaine in your lipstick."

Backstage, Mrs. Robinson helped me change costumes. My hot sequined gown from the opening numbers was off in less than thirty seconds. Together we pulled on my pink, off the shoulder sheath gown, with a wide bow or 'bustle' at the back, plus long velvet opera gloves. Within two minutes, I was all ready for the next number.

The video screen faded to black. Pete struck up the chords of the introduction. I entered stage right, strutting in time to the military cadence of the Diamonds opening.

"The French are bred to die for love.
They delight in fighting duels.
But I prefer a man who lives
And gives expensive jewels.

"A kiss on the hand
May be quite continental,
But diamonds are a girl's best friend.

"A kiss may be grand
But it won't pay the rental
On your humble flat
Or help you at the automat.

"Men grow cold
As girls grow old,
And we all lose our charms in the end.

"But square-cut or pear-shaped,
These rocks don't loose their shape.
Diamonds are a girl's best friend.

"Tiffany's!
Cartier!
Diamonds! Diamonds!
I don't mean rhinestones!
But diamonds are a girl's best friend!"

Music by Jules Styne and lyrics by Leo Robin, it was a timeless classic. My favorite Marilyn Monroe song! The audience loved it too. The intense vibes going back and forth between them and me nearly knocked me over. It wasn't quite sex, but it wasn't quite NOT sex.

Another video interlude entertained the audience while I changed into the most famous dress in cinema history. The scene with Tom Ewell from The Seven Year Itch came on screen.

Before I knew it, I was back on stage. I stood on a New York City sidewalk, clad in a classic white dress. Suddenly, a rumble of a subway passing below street level caused a strong breeze to blow up through the street grate. I stood above the vent. The strong breeze caused my dress to billow up. I stood with my legs apart, my arms akimbo, holding the sides of my dress down; struggling to protect my modesty. The white skirt billowed like a parachute in the wind. My legs and panties were fully exposed! I closed my eyes, smiled, and enjoyed the feel of the breeze on my gorgeous legs.

The affect on the audience bounced back and forth between them and me and I sighed, which caused them to 'ohhhh.'

Then the city set, on top of a huge turntable, slowly rotated, hiding me from view. The crowd burst out with thunderous applause!

Next, Jane Russell took over. Heather sang and danced to Ain't There Anyone Here for Love? Unfortunately, we didn't have a bevy of male studs to pose as members of the U.S. Olympic team, but Heather sang it hot and sassy to the guys in the front row. It was a huge hit.

When I returned to the stage, I sang Do It Again from the film French Doll; River of No Return from the movie of the same name; and After You Get What You Want, You Don't Want It Anymore from There's No Business Like Show Business.

As I strolled off the stage to a rousing ovation, Heather came back and did some audience participation schtick. She asked the crowd where they were from. There were many that had come from outside of North America. People had come from all over the world -- from Europe, Australia, South-East Asia, and the Middle East. You name a continent -- they were all covered -- except for Antarctica.

When she asked, "Who's celebrating a birthday today?" she got all sorts of responses. One friendly guy from Miami, traveling with his wife, was honoring his 75th year of blissful existence. Heather asked him to come onstage.

I came out behind him, dressed in my diaphanous gown. The audience gasped when they saw what I was wearing and guessed what I was going to do. I poured my heart into singing a sultry sexy version of Happy Birthday, using the kind gentleman as my 'Jack.' He grinned with delight throughout the song as I focused pure lust on him. When I kissed the birthday 'boy' on the lips to conclude the song, the audience exploded!

I curtsied several times as they gave me a standing ovation. The gentleman, no fool, gave me a celebratory hug, and kisses on both cheeks.

Next, we brought up to the stage a young couple celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary. I launched into Bob Hope's signature song Thanks for the Memories. Marilyn had sung that song for JFK as well. And this time, when I embraced the couple, Heather joined in too.

Then I concluded the set with My Heart Belongs to Daddy from Let's Make Love, the one that starred Yves Montand. Finally, I waved goodbye, with both hands over my head in a way that drew full attention to my curves.

The audience went wild. They stood and applauded for at least a minute straight. They wouldn't let me go.

It felt wonderful. I was absolutely flying on air. My body tingled all over. It felt better than multiple orgasms.

Mrs. Robinson and I set some sort of time-lapsed record for changing clothes so that I could return for an encore wearing a dazzling gold evening gown. I sang my final song from the movie Some Like It Hot.

"I wanna be loved by you
Just you and nobody else but you
I wanna be loved by you alone
pooh pooh bee doo!

"I wanna be kissed by you
Just you and nobody else but you
I wanna be kissed by you alone

"I couldn't aspire
To anything higher
Than to fill the desire
To make you my own
paah-dum paah-dum doo bee dum, pooooo!"

This time when I blew kisses to the audience and waved goodbye, I wasn't going to return until the two o'clock show. The lights came up, signaling the end of the performance.

From start to finish, the complete show had lasted one hour and ten minutes. Just over an hour to change me completely. 'I'm very definitely a woman, and I enjoyed it.' I thought, as I walked down the stairs in my high heels, as if I'd worn them all my life.

However, Heather and I weren't finished yet. We stood near one of the exits and shook hands with the audience as they filed out. Over the next twenty minutes, we received heart-warming compliments from virtually everyone who took the time to talk to us.

"The lady at the ticket wicket said your show would last seventy minutes," a young man with impressive biceps said -- his girlfriend didn't look as eager to talk with me. "You were right on time."

"I've been on a calendar," I replied, using a Marilyn line, "but I've never been on Time."

A woman in her sixties looked me over like I was an organism being examined under a microscope. "When I was young I used to dream about being you."

Again I answered with a Marilyn quote, "Dreaming about being an actress is more exciting than being one."

Everyone laughed at whatever I said. I could've read the phone book and they would've thought I was witty. All I had to do was look at where on my body the men's eyes were focused to know what they were thinking. I probably should have been repulsed, but instead I did what Marilyn would have done and I played with them.

Some of the more audacious men actually asked me out and one 'gentleman' even proposed marriage, but the most outrageous comment came from a daredevil who suggested that I join him in a barrel ride over Niagara Falls.

"Silly boy, I'm Marilyn Monroe -- not Kathleen Turner." I hoped they would get the oblique reference to Romancing the Stone. They laughed; whether they got it or not, I'll never know.

A man, who had been waiting patiently for twenty minutes while the line shrank, introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Steve Chapin." He extended his hand; and I shook it lightly. "I'm with the Toronto Times. I am a feature writer. Would you mind if I asked a few questions?"

"No, not at all. I'd be happy to answer your questions."

For a reporter, he seemed a little tentative. Perhaps he was intimidated by Marilyn's beauty. He was perhaps thirty something, average height, with a heavy beard, and suffering from a mild case of middle-age spread. Why have a six-pack when you can have a keg?

"Well, could we start with some background questions?"

"Yes. Go ahead."

"What's your name?"

"Marilyn. Just the first name. It's my stage name. My real name I'd like to keep private. If you'd like, you can call me Norma Jeane."

He grinned. "I understand. Where are you from?"

"At the present time, I am living in the Niagara area." He could be fun. "Are you going to be one of 'those' reporters?"

He stared at me in surprise. "What do you mean?"

I struggled to remember the full Marilyn quote and delivered it as she would have. "Some people have been unkind. If I say I want to grow as an actress, they look at my figure. If I say I want to develop, to learn my craft, they laugh. Somehow they don't expect me to be serious about my work."

He looked at me in a way that said he definitely knew where my quote had come from.

He laughed. "Marilyn, it's great to have you back." He then went on asking his questions.

"Is this your hometown?"

"Well, I have spent most of my formative years here or at least in this vicinity. Also, I spent a few years out west, but I consider Niagara Falls to be home now."

"Where did you go to school?"

"I attended Niagara Community College."

"What did you study there?"

"I was in the Communications program."

"So, how did the students at your school react to having a blonde bombshell in their midst? You must have been very popular on campus."

"Actually, when I'm not performing, I try not to attract attention, Mr. Chapin. In fact, I doubt that you'd recognize me out of make-up."

"Are you saying that without make-up you don't look like Marilyn Monroe?"

"Let's just say that part of this," I indicated by outlining my head and body with my arms, "is an illusion. But which part is real and which is an illusion, I will not tell."

His eyes nibbled at my figure so I threw him another line Marilyn had said. "It's all make-believe, isn't it?"

I wiggled my hips a bit as I made an adjustment in the way my gown hung, that hadn't been needed. Remembering what Heather had taught me I tried to think of the reporter as a sexual partner -- for Marilyn. I proceeded to seduce him.

"Have you performed elsewhere as Marilyn Monroe?"

"Actually, this is the first time I've ever performed in public. I'm trying to find myself as a person, sometimes that's not easy to do. Millions of people live their entire lives without finding themselves. But it is something I must do. The best way for me to find myself as a person is to prove to myself that I am an actress."

"Did Marilyn say that?"

I tried my best to look perplexed, "I just did . . . didn't I?"

"Nicely done. You have a lot of potential, young lady."

"Thank you."

Heather had been listening patiently. She stepped in at that opportune moment.

"Marilyn, we need to take a break. We need to prepare for the next show. In a few minutes, the staff will be letting in ticket holders. We need to review our performances and change costumes."

"I'm sorry Mr. Chapin, but I have to go. Perhaps another time."

"Thank you. I enjoyed your performance."

I nodded acknowledgement of his compliment and smiled seductively. I then reached out and straightened his tie, and then kissed him lightly on the cheek, enough to leave a little lipstick. As we left, I worked that distinctive Marilyn walk.

Once we closed the door, Heather and I giggled and hugged like best girlfriends, which I supposed we were at that moment.

"Amazing! How did you remember all those Marilyn quotes?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "They just were in my head when I needed them."

When I sat down in front of the dressing room mirror and took some deep breaths Marilyn Monroe's reflection looked back at me. Wow! I had a hard time believing it wasn't just a fantasy.

"I guess I am a fantasy." Another Marilyn quote! Where were they coming from?

THE END OF PART ONE OF A THREE PART STORY