by Roxy Harte
Climbing out from behind the wheel, I don’t cover her back up. She doesn’t deserve to be hidden away and I promise her we’ll hit the road later. God, I’ve missed Lola, but there wasn’t a need for a car in the city. The garage on the other hand…
“Guess it’s time to get to work.” The garage is a mess. Unswept. Tools out of order. Nothing put away. So unlike my dad not to have everything in its place. I hold my breath and pray a little when I push the button for the automatic garage door opener. After much groaning and creaking, one of the bays’ pulleys whirs to life, letting in a waft of fresh, warm air. The other two bay doors remain stubbornly closed, making fixing the doors one of the first jobs on my list of things to do. I walk over to inspect the frame and three teen girls walk by—their jeans tight, their tops tighter—and for a second I enjoy the view but then I remember I am not any younger just because I’ve stepped back in time. Seeing their schoolbags, I look away quickly. Jailbait can be nothing but bad news. The girls don’t stop looking at me though. I completely turn my back to them—the last thing I need in town is trouble—but I can still hear their whispers and giggles. It’s the question mark in their mind. Am I a very pretty boy? Or a not-so-pretty girl? In my plain jeans and t-shirt, small breasts that I have held trapped behind the confines of a snug ACE bandage, I do androgyny well.
“Freak.”
The jeer from my past sounds loud and clear in the present.
Great. A decade has made no difference at all. The word hurts. Still.
“Queer!”
I look hard at my reflection in the dusty window of the stubbornly closed bay door. And behind me I see the three girls. One stepped a little farther forward than the others. She looks like such a sweet thing in the haze of dirty reflection, but a bully is a bully. In New York I own the word queer. I’ve learned to embrace who I am and be proud of it. I educate people every day on LGBT relations, workplace ethics and how to stop bullies from ruining someone’s life.
I turn to face my teenage provoker and speak slowly and clearly. “Genderqueer is the word you’re looking for, I believe.”
“What?” she asks, looking younger than I’d first believed.
“Gender… Queer.” I rearticulate. “Also known as intergender, kind of catchall terms for other than male or other than female, for people who just do not fit into the gender binary.”
She frowns. “Gender what?”
“Binary. The world defines only two. Male. Female. Boy. Girl. Some people, like me, just don’t fit into that classification.”
“You’re a girl. Dressed like a boy. Anyone can see you’re a dyke.”
There’s anger in her voice and a fire in her eyes that makes me wonder who caused such fury. Certainly not me. I take a step nearer and it’s interesting that she stands her ground. I smile. “My name’s Danni and I am also a lesbian, but that has nothing to do with my gender.”
“Jen, we’re going to be late for school.” One of the girls behind her tugs her arm and it is uncannily eerie how identical they look. Not twins. Not even sisters, as the marked differences in their ethnicity make that improbable. But matching. Similar tops, hairstyles, identical jeans.
“Jen,” I say her name, meeting her gaze. “It’s okay to be different.” The third girl steps three paces back from her friends, distancing herself, but I don’t take my eyes off Jen. She’s the leader of this pack. If I can change her opinion of me, I can sway them all. There’s a look on her face. A challenge. She wants to say something but doesn’t. Without another word the three walk away. I’m an idiot. There’s sure to be repercussions from this. The wrong parent could turn the entire event around, even though they didn’t witness it, and make it seem as though I was the one bullying little girls.
“Going to reeducate an entire town?”
“If I have to,” I respond automatically without looking at the greeter. I know that voice.
“As I live and breathe, I never believed I’d see Denise O’Brian as the prodigal daughter, or should I say son?”
I turn to face James Farrell, once high school quarterback, class bully, archnemesis. Shrugging, I say, “I go by Dan now, or Danni.” I do not want to fight.
He tilts his head toward the pizza joint. “I own Yah Yah’s now and since we’re going to be neighbors I thought I should come over first thing, wave a white flag. I know when you left town there was a lot of speculation about who finally ran you off.”
“I wasn’t run off,” I say tersely. “I left for college.”
James holds up both hands in a defensive gesture. “I know that. The thing is, everyone thought I was responsible and looking back over the year before I can see where one might be led to believe that.”
“You were pretty vicious.”
“Agreed. And I hope you’ll accept my apology now because I truly am sorry.”
Is he going to cry? Oh god, don’t let him cry. “What happened, James? Why the change of heart?”
He shakes his head and wraps his arms around himself. “You won’t remember my cousin Sean because he was about six years behind us but he was a good kid. Happy. Talented. A good person. He’d have never hurt anyone.”
My stomach rolls. I don’t want to hear about whatever happened to Sean.
“This town, all the prejudices, all the hatred—it killed him. He was fourteen when he walked in front of a semi down on the Old State Route. Everyone said it was an accident but it wasn’t. He killed himself because he could never be a man. He didn’t want to be a man. He spilled it all out in his diary. He explained that he couldn’t bear for his mother to find him with a bullet in his head or with a rope around his neck. He’d hoped a big enough truck would obliterate the memory of him.”
“God, that’s horrible.”
“Change this town, Dan. Erase the attitudes. The girl I remember was tough enough to do it.”
“Look, James, I’m just here to run my dad’s garage for a while. I don’t want any trouble.”
“If I remember right, trouble always found you, and how you choose to deal with it will sway folks’ opinions. What I just witnessed impressed me. You know what to say to people. I wish Sean could have had the right words to say. It might have saved him.”
I watch him walk away before turning my face to the sky. It’s bright blue and not a single cloud in sight. “Is this a test? Trying to see if I can hold on to who I really am? Even here?”
I survived this forsaken place once. Barely. I’m not afraid anymore. Thank you, New York City. Thank you for making me hard and tough. Thank you for letting me bring my big, bad dyke all the way out of the closet.
A small huddle of women walk by—power walking by the look of the knee-length shorts and bright-colored jogging shoes—and I turn on my full-blown, lusty dyke-on-the-prowl vibe. They all look to the pavement but not before I catch a few blushes and giggles. It’s taken a little work, but I know how to work an entire room of women, I can make jaded femmes swoon. The sheltered women of this town don’t have a chance. “Ladies. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
They keep walking, not acknowledging, and I get tickled when not one but two look over their shoulders, taking in every inch of me.
I think it’s still fairly obvious that I’m technically a girl. My cheeks are too smooth for a man. My chest is flat, but not flat enough. Nice biceps though. Big. I flex just to make sure they didn’t deflate on the long-ass bus ride. I need to find a gym.
Two more women walking on the sidewalk approach and I start wondering about how dead the town really is. I hate to think that everyone took up exercise this morning just to see me, even though gossip does fly at the speed of light around here. Or at least it always did. Yoga mats slung over their backs make me believe walking by wasn’t spur of the moment.
I nod and wink as they pass by.
“Morning,” they say, and then their eyes widen a little.
“If you need any car repairs, I’ll be here every day.” Is it wrong that I like their confused expressions
? I don’t mind the gaping anymore. Once I hated that the garage was on the main drag, caught between the schools, post office and the pizzeria and hardware store…but the city changed me. I like challenging people’s perceptions and I can see that being back in a small town might have serious consequences.
“Oh. My. I’ll keep that in mind,” one of the ladies replies. “Do you have a business card?”
“I’m Danni.” I point to the sign—Danny’s Garage—but my hand drops, remembering just why I’m here. “Just remember the name.”
I watch the women duck into the neighboring building.
There’s a yoga school next door? I take a closer look at the buildings nearby. A coffee shop? And an artsy café? Perhaps this town is ready for change.
Three more women toting yoga mats approach and pass. More gaping, blushing, giggling and flirting. Okay, the flirting is purely on my part, but hey, I am who I am. I might have to join this yoga class…
A shrill voice pulls my attention away from the yoga hotties. “Denise O’Brian? Is that you? Is that really you?”
Oh. No. Mrs. Morrison. I can’t believe she’s still alive. She seemed ancient a decade ago. She leaves the sidewalk to cross the asphalt to where I’m attempting to coax the bay doors into submission. She’s a very large woman and I worry she might be headed to a yoga class. I’ve always thought she looked a little like a bulldog, long in the cheeks and stubborn across the brow.
When she reaches my side I smile. No point being rude, even if she did call me Denise.
“I heard about your papa. Terrible times, dear child, but you’re here now and your mother will have your strength to carry her through what grief may come.”
Hey, he’s not dead yet.
“I just wanted you to know, if there’s anything I can do…”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morrison, but I’m sure there’s nothing—”
“I know I’m old as dirt, but I can still bake a pretty fine casserole, or loaf of homemade bread.”
My mouth waters. She did always make the best bread. Always took blue ribbons at county fair, if I remember correctly. “I couldn’t impose.”
“You know, Denise,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “it wouldn’t be an imposition if it was barter.”
“A barter, you say?” My curiosity is sufficiently piqued and there is the promise of warm, homemade bread on my mind.
“There’s so much that needs done around the house since the mister passed. I sure miss his company if only for his ability to get things done. Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss our quiet evenings on the porch following supper. We could talk for hours.”
I hate to interrupt her reminiscence, but I really have a lot to do and I need to get rid of her. “The only day I close the garage is Sunday. If you wouldn’t be offended too greatly, I could stop by then and see what needs to be repaired.”
“I think you’ll find I’m offended by little.”
“And please, call me Danni. It’s kind of a nickname and I prefer it.”
“It’s a date, Danni.”
Whew. I sigh with relief when she’s finally back on her way. For a town that’s supposedly dead…and it isn’t even noon…the sidewalks boast rush hour.
I think about food when my stomach growls but hate to take the time to eat, so go back to sweeping instead. It’s after three when I look up at the clock again.
Wiping my face, I step outside. I’m almost defeated. Hours of work have made little difference. Then I see the car across the road has its hood up, steam rolling off the radiator. I cross the road to see if I can help, suspecting it’s one of the yoga students.
“Give you a hand?”
“No sir. Not unless you have a spare thermostat shoved in your pocket.” The man straightens and looks at me. His double take is obvious.
“I could order you one. Have it here first thing in the morning.” I hold out my hand. “My name’s Danni, currently filling in for Danny Senior at the garage.”
“You’re a woman, right?” The man doesn’t take my hand or introduce himself. He stumbles over his tongue a few times before managing, “Sorry. I thought. Well, you know.”
“I’m over it. No apologies.”
He slams the hood down and walks away, keeping his eyes on the pavement. That didn’t go so well.
“You’re just striking out all over town, aren’t you?”
I turn around and find James standing in the doorway of Yah Yah’s. The smell wafting from inside is heavenly.
“Ah, that was nothing.”
“Wouldn’t say Bill’s a nothin’, unless it’s nothin’ but trouble. I’d keep my distance from that one if I was you. Keep your cash register locked. He’s not above helping himself.”
I frown. I wouldn’t have thought that about the soft-spoken man I just met.
“So, did you come out to protect me?”
James shrugged. “Maybe. I also have a pizza fresh out of the oven if you’re interested—sausage, pepperoni and pineapple.”
“How on earth could you remember my favorite kind of pizza after all these years?”
“Are you kidding? I worked here after school all through high school. This was you and your dad’s special order every day for four years.”
“Not Sundays.”
“On Sundays too if your mom hadn’t expected you at the dinner table.”
“Probably.” I laugh and follow him inside. It seems so bizarre to be talking to James without fearing harm. Can anything stranger happen?
* * * * *
Four hours later, I’m asleep on my feet. Two days on a bus, an entire day trying to wrestle some semblance of manageability out of the mess my father left behind in the garage and in the process discovering two outstanding work orders, which explained why there were two vehicles parked outside. The tune-up and brake repairs were a piece of cake compared to the nightmare of the bay doors, but I now have two out of three actually functioning.
I could use a cold beer, or three, but instead I drive to the hospital.
I’m informed there are only fifteen visiting hour minutes remaining and I assure the woman at the desk that will be more than enough time, then argue with myself I shouldn’t have come for five of them as I stand outside his room.
Stepping through the threshold, I’m taken aback. Not by his appearance, though it’s bad enough, but by the tenderness in both my parents’ eyes as they stare at each other. I’m honestly brought to tears, seeing such deep love.
I’ll never know anything even close to what they feel for each other. Sure, they bicker all the time, but when it matters most—times like now—they’ve always been there for each other.
I’m intruding. I should go.
My mother is suddenly standing beside me. “He’s on a respirator still. He can’t talk. But I know he wants to see you.”
I turn away, putting my back to him so he won’t see the tears streaming down my face. “How do you know?”
“Because if I was in his place, I’d want to see you.”
My shoulders shake as I fight to control the tears, the sobs fighting to break free. “God, Mom. This is bad.”
“It’s bad. It’ll get better.” She hugs me. “He needs to see you.”
“Not yet. I’m sorry, Mom. Now isn’t the time. I’ll see you at the house.” I run away.
I’m so good at running, and I hate myself for that.
Chapter Three
Baggage
What was I thinking?
I stand looking at the sign above the garage. Danny’s now reads Danni’s.
Okay, it was a stupid move and as I watch a drip of paint slide down the sign, making the “I” looked pained, it looks like crap. I should clean it off before it actually dries…
I don’t. I stand watching it drip bright red, as if it’s bleeding, as if it’s mimicking the hurt lodged in my heart.
Red paint was all I had on hand, and it was an impulsive move. I didn’t mean to make any particular statement, but
the sign definitely makes a statement. The red paint, superimposed over the original black, now gray with age, definitely says something—maybe about my state of mind, or lack thereof.
Of course I had to paint the entire name, I couldn’t just change the “Y” to an “I”.
I didn’t mean any disrespect. It looks like disrespect, I’ll be the first one to admit it, but that certainly wasn’t my intent. I just had to do something. After seeing Dad in the hospital, it was either do something or keep running, leave town round two, and this time never look back.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
Dad isn’t going to recover from this. He might make physical improvements, but he’ll never come back to this garage. I know it, and Mom knows it if only she were brave enough to face it. I think that’s why she originally asked me just to sell the place.
But I can’t do that.
This garage has always been more home than the house I grew up in—and I’d forgotten that—until I stepped inside and took a deep breath. Everything I’ve been feeling but kept locked tight behind the wall of the new me burst free last night. I’m not my father’s son, but I chose to become Danson? Pretty obvious I was feeling the lack of heritage—that I felt robbed of my heritage just because of the gender I was born with—and I was trying to claim it anyway, make it mine in any way possible.
It was easy to become someone else, especially a writer, life coach, motivator, educator. All that took was passion. Passion, anger, same thing. I have plenty to spare on all counts.
I won’t quit being those things, but there’s still room for the one thing I’ve been denied. This garage. The reason I left in the first place.
* * * * *
“What do you mean, send the rest of your stuff?”
I knew better than to call my roommate Shade on a Sunday morning. He’s never at his best before noon, but on a Sunday? I wasn’t thinking. “That’s it, that’s what I mean.”
“Have you lost your mind? Come on, Dan. You hate Kansas. Get some sleep. I know you haven’t slept, I can hear it in your voice. Sleep. Then think it through before you make any decisions you can’t reverse.”