Oliver smiled just as the rain started. The fat drops hit his head, but he didn't notice. He was already too far gone, daydreaming about all the possible ways he and the elf could save the world, given the right fantasy.
*~*~*
Waiting rooms always depressed Oliver. He was glad that he never had to see Doctor Rosenthal more than once a month to renew his subscription of testosterone and get a quick physical. The Sherbourne Health Centre, deep in downtown Toronto, was instrumental in helping him make the transition from female to male when he was still in high school. Now, nearly seven years later, most of his transition was over and done with, though he would keep taking testosterone for the rest of his life. His monthly appointments were more of a bureaucratic step to make sure he was okay, rather than an in-depth analysis of his thoughts and feelings about who he really was. Oliver had already done those years of trying therapy and lived to tell about them.
There were always so many hoops to jump through when you were transgender. See this doctor, then that one. Get on this waiting list, wait for an appointment, then wait even more. Buy this, save for that. Then there was the coming out process, which was another morass of complications and difficult word choices. But the Sherbourne Health Centre had been Oliver's lifesaver in the never-ending labyrinth. They were the ones who hooked Oliver up with better reading material (Hello, Kate Bornstein and S. Bear Bergman), had found him a better therapist who would actually write letters validating instead of pathologizing him, and had found him Doctor Rosenthal, an endocrinologist who actually cared about his well-being as a man. Oliver knew that his parents would eventually come around to the change, but his health as a trans man needed to be put first. Now there were no more surgeries he needed to shell out for, and he'd been on steady hormones for five years, the monthly visits to Rosenthal's sometimes seemed pointless. But Oliver knew that in the same way people looked at their homerooms in high school and smiled, he did the same with the rainbow-coloured rooms. This was where Oliver began to feel comfortable with himself so he could start pretending to be others again.
When Oliver arrived on Thursday, the room only had a couple seats left. He didn't recognize most of the people waiting. Many held magazines and twisted the spines, pretending to be somewhere else. Oliver figured these people were first-timers. That was always the hardest. Even if Rosenthal had a wonderful reputation in the trans community, along with Sherbourne Health Centre, it still didn't stop everyone from anticipating the worst possible response. Usually trans people did get the worst possible response. Oliver struggled for a moment about whether or not he wanted to reassure anyone in the room. But he remembered how he had been, waiting alone seven years ago, and he knew even given the best case of "transgender success" that he wouldn't have listened. So Oliver placed his headphones back into his ears and took a spot close to the magazine rack, next to a young girl who was called in shortly after he sat down.
Often, when Oliver listened to music, he arranged songs on separate playlists for his battles during a LARPing session. He tried to envision his own D&D movie, himself at the centre, and a kickass soundtrack to go with it. When a love song by a local Toronto band came on, he didn't flick away from it right away. Instead, the hurried beats of "On The Sly" by Metric made him think of the elven boy he had met a few days earlier. He shut off the music quickly, knowing he would just get too worked up and give himself away.
As he slipped his iPod back into his jeans, the door to Rosenthal's office opened. Oliver watched as a young woman with red, shoulder-length hair walked over to the receptionist. She murmured quietly as she checked in, flashing a smile as she gave over her health card. Afterwards, she scanned the room, looking for a seat the same way Oliver had done earlier. When she spotted the empty seat next to Oliver, their eyes met.
Oliver swallowed hard. He picked up the first magazine he saw next to him and tried to bury his face into it. Oliver sighed when he realized it was a parenting magazine, and sighed again when the girl moved to the other side of the waiting room. A new name had already been called out, and now she sat directly opposite him at the other magazine table.
Oliver's embarrassment, and intrigue over the new girl, only magnified when she retrieved an old, beat-up copy of Lord of the Rings from her bag. It was the third book, The Return of the King, too. The well-worn back meant she had read it before, and that she had gone back through the entire series to get to this point again. Oliver felt his heart skip in longing. The woman flipped a couple pages through it and then slid out her bookmark. She followed along on the page, her eyes wide, and mouth moving like it was a prayer or a song. Waiting rooms were used to hearing silent cries for help. But Oliver doubted if many were in Elvish.
Man, she is so pretty. She wore a purple plaid shirt over her tiny graphic tee, with torn jeans and Converse shoes. There was a casual nature about how she sat and leaned back, both relaxed and utterly enthralled. She made the waiting room seem fun. Her small eyes were blue, set close together on her full heart-shaped face. Her nose was tiny, almost elven. That was when Oliver remembered again, like a sudden pang to his heart.
The elf Oakenshire. The Sam to his Frodo. This girl, with the same red hair and freckles on her skin, had to be related to him in some way. If Oliver had incidentally found Oakenshire's sister, then maybe he could find Oakenshire again.
Oliver put down the parenting magazine and rubbed his hands together. When he had worked up enough nerve, he crossed over to her spot in the waiting room.
"Hi," he greeted.
She raised her eyes from The Return of the King. "Hello."
"Can I sit here?"
She looked behind him, at his old spot. Someone had already come in and taken it, their hands shaky as they waited. She shrugged. "Sure, knock yourself out."
She grabbed her bag from the empty seat and slid it into her lap. Oliver knew that he couldn't correctly call the bag a purse. A purse was stylish, something that older women had. What this waiting-room girl had was still stylish, but more neutral than a purse. It was made of black fabric, with frayed edges around the straps. Something that had been homemade or purchased on Etsy. Oliver noted the patches on the side of the bag, too. The iron-on kind, usually given out at gaming conventions. There was an eagle inside a flame, along with another one announcing a new War Gaming faction that Oliver remembered reading about. More nerd culture, he thought happily.
"You play?" Oliver asked, pointing to the Cygnar patch.
"Yes," she said with a smile. She ran her finger over the yellow threading happily. "Do you?"
"No, but I have a few friends that do. I sometimes read their Privateer Press magazines."
"Neat. Are they good friends?" she asked, scrunching up her face again.
"Yes, why?"
"So you probably hear enough about armies to carry on a conversation?"
Oliver blushed. Was she flirting with him? This close to her, he could see her small smile and that she had a slight under-bite. "I guess. I mostly read the magazines for their painting advice, but yeah, my friends talk about the game tactics enough I'm sure I could at least fake it for a while."
"Good, because I could use some help planning stuff." She took out an iPad from her bag and began to flip through to a new game app. Oliver shifted in his seat, curious but also conflicted. She was really cute. Oliver had no issue dating men or women; he considered himself bisexual in most casual conversations, though most of his relationships had been with men. He really wanted to like this girl, but he had already wedded himself to the idea of Sam and Frodo, fighting the good fight together.
As Oliver listened to her explain her new army, the gaming convention she was headed to, and the advice she had been given on the Privateer Press message boards, he found his heart skipping a beat. She was sweet, smart, and really funny. She kept making small jokes, ones that Oliver didn't quite understand about Wargaming, but he could tell they were funny.
And clearly, Oliver thought, the two of them had the gender thi
ng in common. If this girl was waiting to see Rosenthal, it had to mean she was struggling with something, too. They could both relate to one another on that front, for sure.
Wait, Oliver thought for a second. What if the gender thing was more than just a coincidence here? What if the boy he saw LARPing wasn't her brother, but was the boy she wanted to be? What if they weren't two people, but one?
"Are you seeing Doctor Rosenthal?" Oliver asked, cutting her off.
"Yes," she said slowly. She didn't even remove her eyes from her gaming app on her iPad or explain herself any further. She flipped to another image of a warrior and posed her iPad screen towards him. "What do you think? This model kind of feels a bit too Hogwarts-y, but I like it."
"Why are you saying Hogwarts like a bad thing?"
"I'm not." She smiled again, meeting his eyes and she folded the cover of her iPad. "There is just a time and a place."
Oliver grinned. He spotted the nurse in pink scrubs walk around the back room. He knew she was ushering more patients in and out and that Oliver's time would soon run out.
"I'm also seeing Rosenthal…" he trailed off. "For a quick check-up, you know. It's mostly a formality now. And I think I'm up next."
"Oh." She folded her iPad back into her bag. "That's okay. You going to therapy after?"
"Probably not. I kind of grew out of it."
She narrowed her eyes and playfully asked him, "Grew out of talking about our feelings? Impossible!"
Oliver laughed. He wanted to ask her so many questions. Maybe she was seeing Rosenthal for another matter, unrelated to gender identity. The doctor was an endocrine specialist, so maybe she had PCOS or something similar. She didn't seem like a typical trans client to Oliver, or like most of the female-to-male guys in the room. She still had long hair and dressed in distinctly girl clothing, where the first thing most trans guys did was cut off all their hair and start dressing in men's clothing. That was what Oliver did, at least. She could be a trans woman, Oliver realized. Or she could be cis. This woman didn't have to be trans to go to Rosenthal, though it was his most common client.
But why go to talk therapy after, then? No one else would ever go to that unless they absolutely had to. Maybe it was family therapy. That could be why she was here. To support her brother, or someone else she knew.
Yes. That has to be it. Even though his mind raced with possibilities, Oliver didn't want to ask her who or how she identified. It always felt so transparent, especially in a context like this.
Instead, he felt around for his phone in the bottom of his bag, hoping to ask for her number—so he could talk to her brother. Brother only. Even if she was super cute.
"Um. Before I go," he said, still digging.
"Oliver Brook," the nurse called from the doorway, her eyes bright. She ticked him off as soon as he raised his eyes to hers. "Down the hall. Doctor Rosenthal is waiting."
Oliver nodded to her and then turned back to the girl next to him.
She grinned. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry to ask this. But do you have a brother?"
"No," she said right away. The disappointment was already etched across her face. She folded her hands in front of her, back stiff. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason." Oliver sighed. He felt his body tug towards the appointment door. At least there, he could anticipate the responses and know the right answers that the doctor would ask. He felt bad, knowing he had blown his chances with this new girl. She would already feel slighted, as if his attention was more than a rouse to get his spot—but to pilfer from the family tree.
"Oliver," the nurse reminded him. "We don't have all day."
"Sorry," Oliver said then turned back to the girl. Her small nose was down turned, already onto her book again. Oliver sighed. "You just reminded me of someone, that's all. Have a nice day."
She didn't seem to hear him as he walked away.
*~*~*
"I know, I know," Oliver said as he burst through the backstage door. He plopped his backpack down on the bench already littered with props. "I'm late. Let's save the lecture and get right to business, okay?"
Lydia pressed her dark red lips together as she delicately folded her arms across her chest. Andy, another actor in the play, was in her make-up chair already.
"Well, good morning, sweetheart. Or should I say afternoon?" Lydia said. "What makes you think we've all been waiting for you? The show must go on, even if one of our actors thinks he can go MIA."
Oliver laughed. He could already sense the playful tone in Lydia's voice. It felt like so long since he had heard it last.
"It is Waiting for Godot we're performing," Oliver pointed out. "I would have thought waiting is a virtue."
Lydia rolled her eyes and turned back to Andy in her seat. His face was brown, his nose painted on like an animal's. He was to be playing Lucky, the dog-like character in the play. This was one of the few attributes that Taylor, the director, had changed from the original play. Lucky was to be a literal dog rather than a slave-like character. Lydia put gel on her hands and ran it through his hair quickly, then tapped his shoulders to signal that he was done. "I don't know why this play is always performed. So depressing. But at least the dress rehearsal doesn't require much at all. Go forth, good Andy, and practice your lines."
"What lines? I'm barely there."
"So you better work on stealing the show," Lydia said. She touched his shoulders again, signally for him to leave.
Andy hopped out of the chair eagerly. He nodded, very briefly, to Oliver as he passed him by. Oliver stood in the backlight, watching as Lydia moved some of her materials on her vanity before she raised her eyes to Oliver again.
"Now what are you waiting for, Mr. O?"
"Nothing. I've just missed you is all." Oliver walked over and sat in the chair. "You're always so much easier to talk to about gender things than Rosenthal. I swear he's a good doctor but at least half-robot."
Lydia smirked before she stood behind Oliver. She swung a smock around his neck and tied it up at the back before she started to get him ready for dress rehearsal.
The Heart Art House's local performance of Waiting for Godot was the main reason Oliver didn't go to therapy anymore. Well, that and he didn't really need to. As soon as Rosenthal had signed off that Oliver was okay to have chest surgery, Oliver had gone back to his first love of theatre. From Hedwig and the Angry Inch to Sweeny Todd and Cats, Oliver didn't care what show was going on, so long as he could be a part of it.
Oliver's musical career, however, had ended with testosterone. The hormone had made his voice drop only months into taking it, which meant his singing voice was also altered. He didn't lose too much sleep over it, though. He had moved onto some more serious theatre pieces, like Shakespeare and Edward Albee. Now he was part of the Waiting for Godot, an Irish revival—and a somewhat queer retelling. The majority of the people on staff at the community theatre were gay or lesbian. It had only been within the past few years, when Sherbourne Health opened up close by, that more and more trans people began to do community works. Oliver and Jordan, both trans men from Rosenthal's office, were playing the two male leads Vladimir and Estragon from the play. Lydia, the make-up artist, and a few of the stage crew were also trans.
Aside from doing stage work, Lydia often did tutorials online for trans women and their makeup. She was a bit of a celebrity in the trans community because of this. Not that she would get regularly recognized; it was a quiet celebrity presence that followed her in online and transgender spaces. She could easily get over a hundred retweets and reblogs without batting an extra-long eyelash, and random people would want to know her opinions on trans issues, but she wasn't getting autographs when she went out for coffee. Not that she would have minded.
Oliver and Lydia had met—where else?—in therapy. They both hated regurgitating their feelings and had stood at the back, sipping bad coffee, and exchanged jokes until they could get the doctors to sign off on their forms. There was even a little healthy competiti
on between them. Bet I can get my unwanted parts lopped off before you! Oliver had won that bet. But Lydia was used to the trans men winning the battle before most transgender women could get out of the doctor's office. Eventually, she had gotten her own way. Now, beyond the therapy door their friendship had started at, Lydia and Oliver were drawn together because of the arts—as all good and queer friendships should, Lydia would joke.
"Now that your cute butt is sitting right where I need you," Lydia said, pumping up the makeup chair to her height. "I can make you pretty. Or handsome, whatever you prefer."
Oliver smiled weakly and nodded to her in the mirror. He watched as she ran her fingers through his hair, combing some of it back into a slick style. Vladimir and Estragon were hobos in the play, but a particular brand of hobos from the 1930s, who needed to look authentic and absurd. There had been talk of making the characters queer and setting the story in a modern timeline, but the director, Taylor, thought that would be too much. Better to have queer actors and set designers than to completely take over the show. "God knows," Taylor had said, "we'll do that anyway."
The show was due to open in about a week. This was the final dress rehearsal before then, until they were thrown up onstage by themselves. Oliver was used to the limelight, but that didn't mean he still didn't shake with anticipation.
"So how was your doctor's appointment, dear?" Lydia soon asked. She made eyes with him in the mirror, lifting her manicured brows. "Other than robotic, which we all know about Doctor Rosenthal."
"Fine."
"Then why the long face? It's not good for your genes. Testosterone will change you, age you. Such an aggressive hormone." Lydia smiled. Oliver didn't. Lydia twisted her fingers through her long, marvellous hair and sighed again. "Oh, sweetie. What's on your mind? I see the gears going, but I don't know if anyone is home."
The Good Guys Page 2