by Aimee Norin
“Reminds me of the one— Either of you hear about the transgender Scott?” Oceanna asked her tablemates.
“Not a bit of it,” Mason said.
Hila shook her head.
Oceanna continued. “She’s wearin’ a kilt, you know—”
“If she’s a woman, it’s a miniskirt,” Hila said.
“How short was it?” Mason asked Oceanna as if she were a talk show host, but before she could answer, he answered his own question: “I don’t know. If he’s a he, then it’s a kilt? And if she’s a she, then it’s a mini-skirt kilt?”
“You know how you can tell a male kitten from a female kitten?” Hila asked Mason.
Mason’s big cowboy hat wagged side to side. “No idea. Can’t tell ‘em.”
“You pick it up, turn it over, and if he cries it’s a boy, and if she cries it’s a girl!” Hila laughed at herself.
Mason laughed, stamped his foot and hit his knee with his left hand again.
Oceanna laughed a little, but was also stymied, middle joke. “Soooo?” she asked them.
“What?” Mason said.
“The Scott?”
“Oh yeah! She’s got a kilt on.” Mason was sure he got it right.
“So the Scott is wearing a kilt, and you know, traditionally—” Oceanna made a gesture toward her own groin area.
Her tablemates laughed at her.
Oceanna grinned at them. “And the tourist comes up to her and asks her, ‘Excuse me, please, but underneath that kit, is there anything worn?’ And the transgender Scott looks at her and smiles and tells her, ‘Oh, no, lassie! Everythin’s in fine working order!’” Oceanna slapped her screw and sipped the table. “I heard that joke without the ‘transgender,’ but I changed it for myself.”
Hila smiled at her and raised her glass. “Changing things is very trans.”
“Ha!” Mason said. “You two know: What do you call a promiscuous pony?”
They didn’t know.
“A little whorse!” Mason laughed all by himself.
“Ha ha,” his friends tried.
“Or, what kind of computer does a horse like to eat?” Mason asked, then without waiting for an answer he said, “A Macintosh!”
Oceanna and Hila smiled at him.
Mason clearly thought his jokes were fun, so he kept on talking—”
“I think you’ve had enough,” Oceanna said.
“Too much drinking? Nah! Just loosening up a little— Speaking of which, What does a drunk horse say? ‘I’ve fallen, and I can’t giddyup’!”
Oceanna looked at him sternly, to get him to slow down.
Mason responded by holding setting his drink down on the table, holding his knees with his hands, and laughing more quietly to himself.
“Here are your desert menus,” the server said, approaching the table. “You doing fine?”
“Great!” Mason told her.
The server left.
Mason couldn’t hold his laughter inside any longer. His face went white. His mouth opened as if in laughter, but no sound came out. He stamped his left foot, slapped his left knee with his left hand twice, and only then did he laugh out loud. “Aaaaaah! Haaaa!”
Oceanna and Hila started laughing at Mason, the way he was laughing.
“She just— You shoulda seen my wife at that one!” Mason wrapped up his laugh by shaking his head and drying his eyes. “Oh! Good times. I gotta share this with Derie.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called his wife.
The server came back to see what they want.
“Well, no more drinks, please,” Oceanna said. “But I will—Aye!” Oceanna looked like she was in pain looking at the delicious treats on the menu.
“Be strong, girl,” Hila said, patting her on the back. “Stiff upper lip, my dear.”
“I’ll— I’ll have one of those right there!” Oceanna said to the server. “There,” she said to Hila. “I did it.”
“And two more, please!” Hila said, indicating Mason and herself. “We’re celebrating.”
“I can see that,” the server said, leaving to get their order.
Mason hung up his phone and put it back in his pocket.
“That was Derie. She says hi and says I’ve had enough.”
“Yup,” Oceanna said in a country drawl.
“So, Mason said to them, “Hi. I’m Mason.” He stuck his hand out and shook the hand of each of them. “And you’re Osh, and you’re Hila. Right.”
“Right,” they confirmed for him.
“But I’m all confused as hell. I don’t mean to be—”
“I know,” Oceanna said. “You’re great. We’re just outside a lot of your experience.”
“But I know things. I have a T.V. I see the news.”
“Read the papers?” Oceanna asked him.
“What’s a paper?” Mason asked. “Even in Kingman, things are going internet. But I confess I’m not picking up on some of this. Can I ask if I don’t offend? I don’t want to offend.”
“It’s true,” Oceanna told Hila. He doesn’t. He’s a good egg, a friend. Looks after Simi better than any two other people could, and she’s so new she needs it.”
The server came back with their deserts. There were smiles all around.
“This is great, doll, but I don’t remember ordering—”
“We helped you with that, dear heart,” Oceanna said.
“Oh, these are free? I like free food,” Mason said.
“Yeah, sure!” Oceanna was being sarcastic. “Calorie free, remember?”
“Well, thank God for small favors,” Mason accepted. “Thank you, doll,” he said to the server, who smiled at him warmly and left the table.
“So okay?” Mason asked them.
“Sure,” Oceanna said.
“Okay,” Hila said.
Mason leaned in to them both. “I think I get the basics. But what I don’t understand really, is why? How does that work, I mean, why choose a lifestyle when there’s so much crap, obviously, that people are willing to dump on you for it? I’m seein’ ‘em dump crap, and I’m against that. So I wonder why you’re willing.”
Mason looked back to Hila, then to them both.
Oceanna looked at both of them and seemed to find it difficult to answer.
Mason tipped his hat to them both. “They won’t while I’m around, though, missie,” he said to them.
“I’m sure of that,” Oceanna said.
“You’re a good guy,” Hila agreed.
Oceanna thought, then said, “I— It’s hard to describe to someone if we’re trying to fit this lifestyle into a binary world of black and white, strictly speaking males and females, where males are manly and want to be and females are womanly and want to be.”
Mason looked at her earnestly, no sign of drinking.
The deserts went untouched.
“Because the world isn’t really that way.” Oceanna’s creased brow made it clear she was being serious.
Mason looked like he was thinking. “Okay.” He held out his hand to Oceanna and Hila in acknowledgement. “But I—don’t understand what you’re saying. I mean, in my experience, most people are just men or women.”
“A lot of people go through their lives without seeing trans issues,” Oceanna said. “They’re everywhere but because it’s not wanted, people cover it up. People with needs cover it up; people who don’t want it cover it up—”
“Like me, sweetie,” Hila agreed. “In my culture, I could have been killed.”
“Here, too, honey,” Oceanna said. “Happens here, too.”
“Everywhere? So we have trans issues in Kingman, too?” Mason asked.
“Certainly,” Oceanna said. “Anywhere, whether you see it or not, it’s part of human beings. It’s the way people are—only a small percentage that would be noticeable, even if it were allowed, but still, it’s there.”
“Here in San Francisco, yeah,” Mason said.
“Here, we are open about it, is all,” Oce
anna said. “And some people move here for that freedom, so there’s more of it here. But it’s everywhere, to some extent.”
“It’s like music,” Hila said.
“Right!” Oceanna said. “That’s it.”
Hila elaborated. “Most people naturally enjoy some kind of music, but people like all kinds.”
“Some music is more popular that most people like,” Oceanna said. “Then there are other kinds that fewer people like, but it’s all still music, and variation in listening is natural or humans.”
Hila continued. “And sometimes a person will go through years liking rock, only to switch to country later, and then maybe classical. Or maybe even nothing for other years—”
“God forbid it’s rap,” Mason said.
“See?” Oceanna smiled. “There you go.”
“What?” Mason asked.
“Music to some is noise to others, or even painful to hear,” Oceanna said.
A Latin couple at the next table had been listening. The woman piped in with her two cents worth. “So the question is, ‘Should rap listeners be forced to listen to country music?’ I mean, if it’s not hurting anyone?”
“Exactly,” a male couple at another table said, both of them. The brown-haired one added, “For some people to try to make others live the way they want them to, that’d be fascism.”
“Liberty is the American way,” his black-haired partner agreed. “Hitler, now there is a good example of intolerances of difference.”
“Or the governor or Texas,” Oceanna said.
“Makes me sick,” a blonde man at a third table added. “Those statements likening homosexuality to alcoholism, like they’re both genetic—he gives them that, as if he’s being kind—and then says but they can fight it just the same and live hetero lives like they should, at least on the surface—”
“I know,” said the black-haired man at the 2nd table. The look on his face was sickening.
His partner reached out to him. “And we help society, you know. It’s not just that we’re here wasting oxygen and food. The judiciary, manufacturing, teaching, diplomacy. You don’t think there are gays in the military, because they keep it quiet? Of course they do; they just don’t want trouble.”
“True,” his partner said. “Like, I was in the military, and I never told them I was gay. And I had a security clearance. The Air Force didn’t even know: I learned years later that four of us in my area were gay. They were selecting for gays in their intelligence community, without even knowing it!”
“Maybe—what?” The Hispanic lady at the first table asked. “A skill set? Brains? Digit span? Pattern recognition?”
“I don’t know. But it was something, because four of us were. And we did good work in there.”
Yet a fourth table joined the conversation. A woman spoke up to the man in the cowboy hat. “And my wife used to be an assistant district attorney at a small county in Nebraska, and they never knew.”
“Because she didn’t tell them?” Mason said.
The lady nodded. “But the point I wanted to share is that it was there and they didn’t know about it. She knew she’d be hurt, and she was miserable. People hate things, put people down for things, then there’s less of it? No. It just hurts people and people have to leave or keep quiet.”
“It’s oppression,” the blond man said. “We don’t go for that here in San Francisco.”
“Because liberals move here,” said the brown-haired man.
“No, because San Francisco is the lefter most major city in the lower 48,” said the black-haired man.
“What about Seattle?” his brown-haired friend said.
The black-haired man played with his phone. “No. Seattle is 122.333 west longitude, and San Francisco is 122.417, which makes it the most ‘left.’”
They smirked at each other in fun.
Mason sat back in his chair and tipped his hat back. He blew a little air through his lips. “I was just thinking about back home.”
“Wondering who’s what?” Oceanna asked.
“Yeah,” Mason said.
“We just want to live,” the black-haired man said.
“Here, here,” the lady at the fourth table said, raising her glass in salute.
Oceanna stood for a toast, speaking loudly enough for nearby tables to hear her. “Here’s to people getting to live their own lives—without hurting others, but also without being hurt by others. And here’s also to the importance of being yourself, as much as it is important for other people to be themselves.”
Half the restaurant raised a glass and sipped with the toast, including Mason.
People returned to their meals.
“And where in the world is Simi?” Mason asked his table.
CHAPTER
14
Mason slept on his back with his bare right leg on the back of the couch. A pillow was under part of his head; a blanket partially covered his mid section.
Oceanna slept with Hila in the bed in the next room. Hila was draped over Oceanna’s side.
Oceanna picked up the remote and turned on the T.V.
Hila stirred, but Oceanna kept the sound low so as not to disturb Mason in the living room.
The female newscaster was talking about an airplane—a Cessna?—that landed on a freeway.
“Is that a Cessna?” Oceanna asked Hila.
“I’ve no idea,” Hila said. They looked more closely. The plane had a long nose, large tail, and the wings were on the bottom.
“I thought all Cessnas had the wing on top?” Oceanna asked.
“I don’t know,” Hila said, sleepily. “But if Connie says it, it’s because that’s the way the copy came.”
“You know her?”
Hila nodded. “I’ve met her a couple of times. I’m in marketing. She’s a good egg.”
Connie continued on the T.V. morning news. “And Amy Adams gets some news this morning after she gave up her first class seat to a soldier. After squaring it with the airline and meeting with the soldier briefly, Amy took the soldier’s seat in coach, and the soldier rode first class all the way to Los Angeles—”
“Now that was nice,” Oceanna said.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s what it is. Simi looks like Amy Adams. I’ve been having trouble placing her,” Hila said.
Oceanna’s phone rang on the night stand. She unplugged it and brought it to her ear, cradling Hila in her other arm. “Simi, good to hear from you. You still alive?”
Hila stirred and kissed Oceanna on the shoulder.
Oceanna looked around. “I think so,” she said into the phone. I don’t know, I’m not in the living room.”
Oceanna craned her neck a little, but there was no way to see from there. “It’s early. You gonna have breakfast?” Pause. “Both of you? Great. Glad. I think, maybe we should meet here at the Marriott at maybe nine o’clock? That will give us plenty of time, I’m sure.”
Oceanna looked at Hila.
Hila nodded.
“Okay. See you then. Are you married, Simi?” Oceanna asked into the phone, teasing Simi. “Pregnant?”
A giggle could be heard from the phone.
“Okay. Bye.” Oceanna hung up the phone and climbed out of bed. “Bout time to get up,” she said to Hila.
Hila rolled over.
Oceanna walked into the bathroom and caught Mason getting into the shower.
“Beat you this time, Osh!”
Oceanna, Hila and Mason ate at the bar at Mel’s Drive-in again.
Oceanna had pancakes.
Hila had eggs and toast.
Mason had his down before anyone saw what it was.
“Look at those great pictures of George Lucas on the walls. Server?” Mason flagged one passing behind the bar. “I didn’t notice those in here before. Is that Ron Howard there in that one?”
“Yeah, sugar. Those are pix from when Lucas filmed ‘American Graffiti’ several years back. Part of it was set at Mel’s.”
“Way cool! Look
at that,” Mason said.
Hila looked at Oceanna. “Noob,” she said with a broad smile. “Mason, you are refreshing to be around!”
“You, too,” he said., sitting back down on his stool. “I get a little drunk last night?”
“Oh, yeah,” Oceanna said.
“A bit,” Hila said.
“Sorry ‘bout that—”
“No! You’re a gas,” Hila said.
Mason nodded. “You two slept together last night?”
People next to him laughed at his embarrassment.
“Sorry, again” he said to Hila. “This is gonna be my day.”
“No problem,” Hila said with a chuckle. “I want people to know I get laid sometimes. Once a year, at least.”
“So what are we going to do with Hila?” Mason asked. “In the parade? Harry’s got a bike.”
“Hila can ride with me,” Oceanna said. “On the back.”
“Again,” Hila said.
“Register last minute?” Mason asked.
Harry rode into the Marriott’s porte-cochére on her black Heritage Softtail with Simi on the back, pointing up ahead to the left, where the other bikes were parked, including Simi’s.
Mason, Oceanna, and Hila had checked out of the hotel and were in various stages of packing their belongings on the bikes.
“Simi!” Hila called, going over to her for a hug.
“So you didn’t ax murder her last night?” Mason asked Harry.
“I did something to her, but it wasn’t that,” Harry said, getting off her bike.
Oceanna walked over to Simi for a hug. “You’re not a virgin any more?” she asked.
Simi looked to Harry and blushed again.
“She does that all the time,” Harry teased, smiling. “Beat red, like a little tomato.”
“I got your stuff out of the hotel. Here it is.” Oceanna handed Simi a bag. “You’re showered?”
Simi put her bag in her bike’s right saddle bag and buckled the leather strap on it.
“That’ll do for the parade,” Harry said. “So we got four bikes and five people?”
“Hila’s with me,” Oceanna said. “Maybe we can hope for Mason and me, abreast on our Ultras and you two abreast on your Softtails?”
“You can hope,” Harry said, “but who knows how it’ll work out. Organizing three to four hundred bikes who haven’t practiced together is no small task. Our best bet is to show up at the same time, get through registration together on Steuart St., and then ride together—closely—down Market the block or two to where they’ll park us in these columns.”