Like so many Mexican women she had a beautiful brown face framed in shiny black hair. She had a well-proportioned, busty body with strong looking shoulders, arms and legs that were usually visible because she wore tank tops and shorts. I got the impression she was an athlete of some kind.
The four of us got along famously, laughing and joking in two languages, but because I was especially attracted to Bonita, I wanted to relate to her one-on-one, so I invited her to a concert with me at a popular venue called the Armadillo World Headquarters. Despite the loud music, we were able to carry on a conversation. It was a little stiff at first because this was the first time we were alone together, but it loosened up after a drink or two.
“I’m assuming you don’t have a girlfriend or wife, Mick. I think that is something we should establish early on.”
“Understood. I’m clean. I’m assuming the same thing about you.”
“Si.”
“Then I guess we can proceed uninhibited.”
“So tell me, Mick, just how uninhibited are you?”
“In what sense?”
“Sexually.”
I was taken aback by the directness of her answer.
“I don’t think I’m any more inhibited in that respect than normal,” I said.
“Have you ever cross dressed.,” she asked. “I mean with your pretty long hair, feminine features and slender legs (I was wearing shorts) you could pass as a woman if you wore the right clothes.”
As a macho man I wasn’t comfortable with being likened to a woman, or Bonita suggesting that I dress like one, so I shifted the focus of the conversation away from me and onto her.
“No offense, Bonita, but you have certain masculine qualities, and I mean that as a compliment – you look athletic. So, have you ever cross dressed?”
“On Halloween. My greatest fantasy is cross dressing with a man, but I’ve never met one who was willing. Would you be? Halloween is coming up. You’d make a great Ann Margaret with your long reddish hair.”
“And who would you be?”
“Elvis. With my dark features I’d be a natural. Those two were rumored to be lovers, you know.”
I wondered if that was what all of this was leading up to – making love while cross dressed. That wasn’t in my book of desirable fantasies. Was it in hers?
“We could buy your clothes at a thrift store. I’m a hair stylist so I could make your hair look like Ann’s. Oh, and you’d have to get used to wearing high heels – we’d be bar hopping.”
“Couldn’t I just wear flats?” The very nature of the question seemed to indicate that I was at least contemplating Bonita’s proposal that I cross dress with her.
“Ann Margaret never wore flats in her life. Her baby shoes were stilettos. Besides, flats aren’t very sexy. Nor are hairy legs – you’d have to shave.”
“This is beginning to sound like The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
“Exactly. That’s how we’d start the evening off. There’s an early showing on Halloween at a theater near campus, then we’d go downtown.”
Bonita was quite presumptuous about my participation in her kinky fantasy. I just couldn’t picture myself in drag. And I sure as hell didn’t want to shave my legs or wear high heels. And there was no way I could make out with a woman who was dressed like Elvis Presley, so I put an end to the conversation by telling her she would have to find somebody else, and that put an end to our evening together.
A couple of nights later I dreamt about being dressed like Ann Margaret, which was terribly disturbing because it turned out to be a wet dream. Had Bonita’s strange fantasy become mine? Was the thought of dressing like a woman a turn-on?
Feeling a little insecure about my masculinity now, I tested the notion hoping to put such a notion to rest. I went to a thrift store, bought a dress and heels and tried them on at home. I discovered that it wasn’t a turn-on after all, but I was intrigued by my ability to temporarily transition from one sex to another simply by changing clothes.
I was curious as to whether I could pull it off in public. The next time I met with Ramon, Maria and Bonita for drinks, I agreed to go along with Bonita’s Halloween masquerade, just for the hell of it. So, as the appointed hour neared I shaved my legs and practiced walking in high heels. Halloween afternoon Bonita came to my apartment, did my hair and applied makeup. I put on the stockings and garter belt she provided, donned the dress I had bought, and we went off into the night – first to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, then bar hopping on 6th Street. We started at the venerable Driscol Hotel where we sat on the veranda and drank, and Bonita was right when she predicted that I’d pass, for the waitress addressed me as ma’am and her as sir, although we did garner a second look or two. I didn’t talk much because my voice was too deep for a woman’s, but Bonita’s was relatively deep like Elvis’s was, so she ordered the drinks.
Emboldened by the alcohol, we continued bar hopping down the street. As we walked I got a dose of what it was like to be gawked at, and in one case whistled at by a man because apparently to him, I looked like an attractive woman. But when we passed under a street light it became apparent that I wasn’t a woman, and the man yelled “faggot!” We ducked into the nearest dimly-lit bar. It was in this bar that I was approached by a drunk man who blubbered sweet nothings in my ear while moving his hand up under my dress. When he discovered that I wasn’t a woman after all, he took at roundhouse swing at me, which I ducked. I grabbed Bonita, pulled her out the door, and we ran down the street. Not used to running in high heels, I twisted my ankle and fell flat on my face. I tried to get up but I couldn’t put any weight on my foot. Bonita hailed a taxi and directed the driver to take me to a hospital.
Sitting under the bright light of the emergency room in drag I became extremely self-conscious and wanted to crawl under the chair and hide. Despite having drunk quite a bit of alcohol I was sober now and fully felt the pain in my ankle. It had swollen as big as a baseball. Bonita tried to comfort me by lifting my leg onto her lap to keep the ankle elevated, but it continued to throb as if it were being pounded with a hammer. I suspected it was broken.
Finally I was called in for x-rays, and they revealed that the ankle was indeed broken. It was put in a cast and I was given crutches to help me walk, then they sent me on my way. We took a taxi back to where Bonita had parked her car, and she drove me home. Her kinky fantasy to get it on with me dressed as a woman was never fulfilled.
Because of the broken ankle I was no longer able to work as a landscaper. I hadn’t anticipated the injury, of course, so I hadn’t saved any money: I had lived from paycheck to paycheck. By next payday, I would be broke.
I had a box of macaroni and cheese, two cans of tuna in the cabinet, a jar of pickles and three beers in the fridge, and a half a tank of gas.
When all of that was gone, I hobbled around the neighborhood with plastic bags tied to my crutches picking up pecans that had fallen from the trees. As a last resort, I put a “For Sale” sign on my car. It sold fast and I was able to catch up on rent with enough money left over to buy a ticket on the train, the Texas Eagle running from San Antonio through Austin to Chicago with a stop in Springfield, Illinois, my home town. I wouldn’t be going back to Carbondale because I was no longer a student.
By the time I got back to Springfield I was starving and out of money. To eat I went to St. John’s Breadline. I had no idea where I’d sleep that night. I had lost touch with friends and I was too proud to ask my sisters for help.
Wandering around, I discovered a homeless shelter, but it was filled to capacity, so I was turned out onto the street. The weather was cold – I needed to find a warm place to sleep, like a church. I knew that some left their doors unlocked all night, which I discovered was the case with the First Presbyterian Church, where Abe Lincoln and his family had worshiped, according to a plaque on the big red double doors.
It was
ironic that a man resentful toward religion would depend on a church for food and shelter. That dependency would continue for as long as I was on crutches and unable to work.
After about two weeks I went to a free clinic to have my ankle checked out, and they determined it was time to remove the cast. I immediately searched for work, but it was winter there were no landscaping jobs so I took a job tending bar and slinging pizzas at a popular sports tavern called DiLello’s Tap. After a week of bartending I was able to rent a room upstairs, and I was back to living above a tavern again as I had when I was in high school. At least it gave me a mailing address. I soon got a letter from the Veteran’s Administration telling me that I had two years of eligibility left on my GI Bill and I needed to enroll in a college within the next six months or I would forfeit it. So I visited a relatively new local university (Sangamon State) to see if the credits I had earned at Southern Illinois University were transferable. Some were, so I enrolled.
Sangamon State was considered to be an innovative educational institution at which students, faculty and staff interacted like one big happy family in providing a unique academic experience.
Because I had majored in radio and television production at SIU and the Armed Forces Journalism School in the Air Force, I continued with that curriculum at SSU. I became a disc jockey on the campus radio station, earning work/study credits toward a degree.
In the meantime I continued tending bar at DiLello’s which earned me enough money to move out of the room upstairs and into a one-bedroom apartment, with enough left over to buy a clunker to get me back and forth between work, school and home.
While tending bar, I met a woman who had heard me on the radio. She recognized my voice and said I sounded like Clint Eastwood in the haunting movie Play Misty For Me. And like the woman in the movie played by Jessica Lang, she began to call me at the station every night to tell me how much she enjoyed listening to me, which I didn’t mind so much since my ego enjoyed the positive feedback.
One Friday night after my shift, she invited me to meet her for a drink at a downtown bar. Her request seemed reasonable enough, so I obliged. The woman was a little chubby, but she had a nice face that was highlighted by pretty hazel eyes. The conversation started off normally, but with each drink she became increasingly hostile.
“Glad you came,” she said. “Most radio guys are too stuck up to socialize with their listeners. The guy who was on before you wouldn’t give me the time of day when I called. At least you take my calls, even though you sometimes sound a little put off. I’m only trying to be your friend. It’s kind of lonely out here, but you probably don’t know what that feels like because you’re a celebrity.”
“Oh, I don’t think of myself as being a celebrity. I just play music. The musicians are the celebrities.”
“You don’t have to play Mr. Humble with me. I know you think you’re special, I can hear it in your voice. May I ask you a personal question, do you smoke pot?”
“On occasion.”
“I’ve got some really good shit. Wanna go to my car and try some?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
When we got to her car she loaded a pipe with what I thought was pot and handed it to me, then she lit it with a lighter. After drawing a few good puffs I handed it back to her. She declined, which I thought was peculiar because she had provided the pot.
I didn’t think much more about it, though, and I continued to puff on the pipe, trying to get high, but never did. It only made me sick to my stomach, so I excused myself, went to my car and drove home.
The next afternoon my entire face began to itch, and by the following morning my eyes and nostrils were swollen shut and oozing with pus, and my lips were puffed up and itching. I went to a doctor. He asked me if I had been standing near a yard waste fire.
“It appears as if you’ve been exposed to poison ivy smoke.”
Then it hit me. The so-called pot I had smoked from the pipe of the woman I had met for drinks was actually poison ivy. No wonder she didn’t partake. I’d been set up by the sadistic bitch. She had it in for disc jockeys.
Monday night I got a call from a woman requesting the song Poison Ivy by the Coasters. She ended the call by laughing madly.
CHAPTER 8
Besides my internship at the radio station to fulfill the requirements for a major in Communications, I took a Beat Literature course to earn enough credits for a minor in English. It was conducted in the home of the instructor Randy Randazzo. Randazzo had managed to persuade Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the Beat poet, to come to Springfield from San Francisco for a lecture at the university, followed by a spaghetti dinner at Randy’s house for the poet and the class.
When I met the affable poet, he extended an open invitation for me to visit his City Lights Book Store in San Francisco. When the spring semester ended, I took him up on it. In the spirit of the famous Beat author Jack Kerouac’s classic On the Road, I decided to hitchhike to the City by the Bay, because I couldn’t depend on my clunker of a car to get me out to the west coast and back. I couldn’t afford to fly and I didn’t like traveling on buses and trains that stopped frequently. And if I spent most of my money on transportation getting there and back I wouldn’t have enough money to rent a place in San Francisco for the summer. Hitchhiking was the frugal thing to do.
Consulting an atlas, I determined that the best way to go would be down Interstate 55 from Springfield to St. Louis, west to Denver on I-70 and north to Cheyenne on I-25, where I’d catch I-80 to San Francisco.
On a sunny, late spring afternoon, I left, with a backpack and sleeping bag in tow.
I got rides to St. Louis with a variety of people who were apparently adventurous too, or they wouldn’t have stopped for a long-haired stranger like me.
I was surprised that one of them was with a middle-aged woman with a little black poodle sitting on her lap. The dog growled when I got in.
“Shhh, Fritzy,” the woman said.
He sniffed at my arm, and decided I was okay. At least that’s what the wagging tail seemed to indicate.
“I’m going to St. Louis,” she said. “I hope that’ll help.”
“Sure will. Thanks.”
“Is St. Louis your destination?” she asked.
“No. I’m on my way to San Francisco, but I’m going to Denver first, on I-70.”
“Oh, I can get you to 70 just west of St. Louis. I live out that way.
“My grandson lives in California, San Jose. He’s an attorney. Hah, he has a pony tail too.” She chuckled. “I can’t imagine a lawyer with a pony tail, but he does all right. They’re pretty liberal out there. I’m not as liberal as he is. It doesn’t run in the family,” she volunteered. “My guess is that you’re a liberal.”
“I am now, but I didn’t used to be.”
“What changed you?”
“The war.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those protesters.”
“No. I’m too laid back for that. I oppose the war passively.”
“Like in passive resistance?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Does that mean you’re a draft dodger, like that boxer Cassius Clay was?”
“No. I got drafted.”
“Did you have to go to Vietnam?”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m opposed to the war. I experienced it first hand.”
“You have a right to your opinion. But I’m in support of the war if it’ll stop the spread of Communism.”
“That should be left up to the South Vietnamese people to decide, without interference from us,” I said.
The woman smiled. “In that case I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree. Right Fritzy?”
The dog barked.
As we crossed the Mississippi River I looked down at the brown water moving swiftly under the bridge as we crossed into St. Lo
uis. I was reminded of the Lewis and Clark expedition, initiating the United States’s westward expansion beyond this great river, all the way to the Pacific Ocean. The sleek, stainless steel Gateway Arch gleaming high in the sky ahead symbolized this.
After a few more miles the woman informed me that her exit was coming up. “When I let you out, just walk over to the ramp across the way. It merges back onto the interstate.”
The traffic was heavy and moving fast. One big rig after another blew past. If someone had slowed down to stop they’d surely have been rear ended. That didn’t deter a guy in a jalopy from coming to a sudden stop on the shoulder about 20 yards down the road. I ran after him and hopped in.
“Toss your stuff in the back,” he said. “Where ya headed?”
“Eventually, San Francisco.”
“I can take you as far as Kansas City.”
I noticed he was drinking a can of beer. Part of a six-pack sat on the seat between us.
“Want one? They’re still cold.”
“Sure. I’m pretty thirsty. Kind of hot today. Thanks. You live in Kansas City?’
“No. I’m just going there for a going away party for a friend of mine who joined the Navy. Gonna send him off with a rip-roaring hangover. I’ll have one too.”
He took another swig of beer, and so did I.
He was driving pretty fast, and weaving in and out of traffic. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t gotten this ride.
“Goin’ to San Francisco, huh? That’s where my buddy Jake ships out from – to Vietnam. Hear it’s pretty bad over there.”
“Yeah,” I concurred.
“You been there?” the guy asked.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, why don’t you come to the party? You can fill Jake in on what to expect over there. It’s going to be dark pretty soon, you could crash on his couch and take off again in the morning when it’s light out.”
The Forgiven Page 4