Out of the Closet

by Aimee Norin

  “Okay, we can’t stop you,” Fulton said. “It’s just that you just got back here, and we don’t want you to go. When can we see some more of you?”

  “You have a car?” Kathleen asked. “Oh, a bike. So you can come over all the time?”

  “And you can come visit, too,” Simi said with a quick look at Harry.

  “Sure,” Harry said.

  “I live here, now, Mom, Dad. The San Francisco area is my home, now.” Simi hugged her parents. “But I’m back, and I’m okay.”

  “It’s just over there,” Hila said, pointing across the bay. “My parents are a million miles farther.”

  “And not as friendly?” Oceanna asked.

  “I wish they’d visit,” Hila said, sadly.

  “You can visit here, Hila,” Kathleen said. “You know where we are, now.”

  Hila nodded.

  “And Harry, you take care of our little girl?” Fulton asked.

  “Like she was gold,” Harry said.

  “Mason,” Fulton said, sticking his hand out for a shake. “You take care now, and come back and see us if you ever get this way again.”

  “You bet. Good folks. Can’t get enough of those. Like to bring the family, too.”

  “No problem,” Fulton said. “And if you do, you can all stay here in this house. No reason to pay the hotels. You can stay longer if you don’t buy them a new Mercedes.”

  Mason smiled and nodded. “That’s true.”

  “Oceanna, thank you for helping her, bringing her here,” Kathleen said.

  They both teared as they hugged each other.

  “I wish my parents were so accepting. You don’t know the hell we face when they don’t.”

  “Yours weren’t?” Kathleen asked.

  Oceanna shook her head. “Dad is gone, and I seem to still embarrass my mom.”

  “That’s not your fault,” Fulton said. “No offense, but it’s hers.”

  * * *

  Mason and Oceanna sat with Hila on her third floor deck, enjoying together a dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread. The weather was perfect, again, not a breath of wind, and an area heater took the chill away.

  They watched a movie on T.V.: “Goodbye Charlie,” with Tony Curtis and Debbie Reynolds. Debbie Reynolds plays a womanizing man who is killed in the beginning, and is miraculously reincarnated as a sexy, adult female. At first, she’s scared and disgusted, but she adjusts:

  Tony Curtis runs into the room, worried, anxious.

  Debbie Reynolds walks slowly into the room, enamored with her new, female body. Her top is partially unbuttoned. She almost caresses herself. “My, my— Good ole Mother Nature. I don’t have to go see Brigitte Bardot movies any more. All I have to do is come home and pull down the shades.”

  Hila paused the T.V. for a bit, telling Mason. “That’s autogynephilia.”

  Oceanna nodded. “Of a sort, I guess.”

  “What?” Mason asked.

  “Loving to see yourself as female,” Hila said. “Like he’s doing—she, now. She’s getting into it, and it’s only been one night.”

  Hila started the D.V.D. again.

  On the T.V., Tony Curtis doesn’t know what to do with his friend. “What are you talking? Will you button your blouse!?”

  Debbie Reynolds leaves it open. “It’s wild. I feel so darn, well, feminine. In the bathroom, I had a sudden desire—came out of nowhere—to paint my toenails.”

  Hila spoke over the movie. “I’ll have go to work early in the morning. But you two can stay, shower, have breakfast, whatever, then let yourselves out when you’re ready to go?”

  “Thank you for putting us up, Hila,” Oceanna said.

  “Can’t take off for Kingman this late in the day.”

  Mason finished his spaghetti and turned in his deck chair to face Hila and Oceanna. “You two are good folks,” he said.

  “Thanks,” they both said.

  “Honestly, I don’t think other folks know that—folks like we have back home,” Mason said.

  “That’s true,” Oceanna said. “Most people—straights, gays, almost anybody—won’t spend the time to get to know us.”

  “I kinda wish something would happen to bring us together,” Mason said.

  “This little thing, our gender expression, is enough to keep them away,” Hila said.

  “Well, not little,” Oceanna said.

  “Right. It’s a big part of who we are,” Hila said. “But it’s a little thing in society.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  Hila kissed the sleeping Oceanna on the cheek and rolled out of bed.

  An hour later, Mason crept into their room. Hila was gone; Oceanna was alone.

  “Time to get up, sleepy head,” Mason said.

  Oceanna stirred.

  “Got some miles to go, get all the way to Kingman today, I think.”

  Oceanna began to rouse.

  Mason went back to his own room to get dressed and sort his things.

  Hila had set breakfast out for them: eggs and bread, with a note on the fridge of suggestions inside.

  Oceanna cooked in silence, put the eggs on plates. Poured some milk from the fridge.

  Mason put both their bags by the front door in silence.

  They both ate.

  Mason broke the silence.

  “I feel sad,” he said.

  “I feel it, too.”

  “And why should I?” Mason asked. “All is well. I’m going home to a great family. You and Hila are great. Simi and Harry are great. Simi’s parents accept her—”

  “Which blew the hell out of me,” Oceanna said.

  “Yet I’m missing something,” Mason said.

  Oceanna picked up their dishes, rinsed them, put them in the dishwasher.

  “For me, it’s because this perfect weekend is over,” she said. “I think. It was like a big emotional hug to me the whole time, and now it’s over. Back to bigots, and Mom. I don’t want to label people as enemies, but, honestly, Kingman is like living behind enemy lines, for me. Hell, Los Angeles isn’t always a picnic, either.” Oceanna set the dishwasher to run and turned to face Mason, leaning on the counter top. “People claim they’re accepting,” she said, “but they’re really not. It’s superficial, politically correct or social-movement stuff.”

  Mason lowered his head. “There’s a chronic loneliness in transfolks, isn’t there.”

  Oceanna nodded. “Once they get past the honeymoon, yes. Deeper than other minorities can grasp. You know as much trouble as gays have in this world? They have a huge social support system compared to ours, and the LGBT thing is for show a lot of the time. It’s thin, in real life, in most places. Others smile and say nice things to our faces, but don’t invite us over, or when they do, it’s for curiosity or show or to prove a personal point. Gays don’t usually want us close, on a personal level, if you want to be honest about it. Most trans don’t even like each other. A lot of transsexuals melt away and claim we’re not doing the same kind of thing they are—which maybe we’re not.

  “Doesn’t sound like an admission that would be P.C. these days,” Mason said.

  “It’s not. But ideas come and go, and things like Simi, though rare on a relative basis, do keep happening.”

  “Are there transsexuals who do ally with transgenders?”

  “It’s confusing,” Oceanna admitted. “Because it isn’t just genital surgery. There are a lot of ways a person can choose to live with ‘traits of both,’ not just genitals, if you use binary thinking, which it seems most of the world do. They say ‘males’ and ‘females,’ as if those two sexes were distinct.”

  “Well, they do seem to be real things.”

  “What about intersex people? Genetic blends? Issues in utero? Body shape variations? A million kinds of transitions? What about all of us who don’t fit a mold like that binary ‘male’ and ‘female’ duality? What are we? That’s the problem with that ‘binary’ thinking.”

  “But you can’t ask peo
ple to give up the truth that males and females are real groups,” Mason said. I mean, it’s the basis of our existence: reproduction—”

  “—and my belief that gender is on a continuum is a transgender viewpoint, yeah, yeah.”

  Oceanna crossed her arms. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you about something else. Are you Simi’s friend?

  “Yes,” Mason said. “Of course. I’m yours, too.”

  “Really a friend? Or one who says so for now but fades away.”

  “Really, I feel,” Mason said. “I guess if you told me to get lost enough times, I’d leave, but—”

  Oceanna held up her hands for him to stop. “Okay. But it’s exactly that that I need to share with you. Being a good friend out in the world— Being a friend to a transperson can require some awareness that can help. I have to warn you about a problem, a dynamic that—isn’t crazy, but that muggles don’t expect.”

  “What?” Mason asked, concerned.

  “There may come a time when she ‘knows’ you’ve done her wrong, even when you may not have, and it could blow up, and you need to know how to navigate that storm.

  “Simi is new. She’s full of her honeymoon effect, and she loves everything. But there may well come a day when she shuns you, for no reason you can see—”

  “No, I don’t think she would—”

  “Yes, she likely will.”

  Mason looked at Oceanna as if disbelieving. “She seems pretty sound to me.”

  “She is. But she will experience years or decades worth of those daily diminutions I talked about—”

  “Yeah. Or dimunitions, the harder kind.”

  “Right. And over time, they’ll build up in her heart. She may learn that people say they’re kind when they’re not, really, or that they talk behind her back or that they seem to, or for no reason she can see they may—will—one day just quit being friends and leave. She may—will likely—learn to distrust friendships, including yours. If— No. More likely when that happens, she may stop contacting you or even reject you outright. Even if you didn’t do anything. From some slight she sees in you, whether you did it or not, because it is similar to a real slight someone else actually did to her—or even just because she’s shutting down a little inside, to protect her fragile heart. It’ll be hard for her not to make that kind of association, because, while you do need to guard against paranoid, you should also get to a place in life where you begin to learn from your mistakes. Right?

  “And you, on your end? You’re perking along fine loving her as a friend, you think everything is great, but she tells you off or disappears for no reason, and you don’t know what happened. And you’re thinking, ‘Well, she’s crazy any more,’ or ‘She truly doesn’t want me around any more.’

  “So I’m telling you about it now for then.”

  “Okay,” Mason said.

  “When that happens— What does it mean? What should you do?

  “When that happens, she’s not emotionally unbalanced. She’s not crazy. She’s not ‘falsely accusing’ you, either. Well, she is, but it’s not like that— She’s a good and sane person. It’s just that this can be the natural result of learning how people really do treat you—say one thing but do another—in a real, common, social experience of being this different.” Oceanna indicated herself.

  “So what can I do?” Mason asked, genuinely concerned.

  “That’s it,” Oceanna said. “When that day comes, when it happens—look for it—you’ve got to be there for her. I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”

  “Why not?” Mason asked.

  “Dude, because I’m sixty-three. And we’re talking about something that may be years or decades away.”

  “Oh. I forgot. So what should I do, anyway?” Mason asked.

  “Well, first, at this time, even when she still knows you’re friends, if you say you’re going to do something, keep your word. Value her and include her in your life, and include yourself in her life. Doesn’t need to be every day, but it needs to be consistent. Be a reliable friend.”

  “I’d do all that, anyway,” Mason said.

  “I think you would. But unlike most people, she’s got the problem—whether she knows it or not—of being a very different person many people will be false to. So you may need to accent this stuff. Always be a good friend. Always be reliable. Always tell her the truth, also, even if it hurts—gently, for sure, but don’t lie to her, ever. Never. Even about something she does wrong or right, or about her appearance, anything. So that later, when she questions things that were false from others, she’ll be able to admit you’ve been honest and true.” Oceanna smiled. “And when you do, hit her over the head with kindness at the same time. It’s not always easy to figure out what you should say or do, but you just continue being there with her as a friend. And it helps to admit now and then that you don’t know what to do, but that you’re trying to be helpful.

  “And second,”

  “Okay,” Mason said, paying attention.

  “Especially when that time comes that she rejects you or leaves, also always be there for her even then. When she crashes—be it ten years from now, twenty, or thirty—be there for her. When she melts down, when she tells you you’re a horrible or mean or self-centered, when she does something very wrong or annoying, when she tells you to get lost, or even when she just stops returning your phone calls, be there for her. It’s not personal. It’s part of dealing with life when you’re that different. So come back. Be persistent. Give her some breathing room, then re-invite her to something. Be a friend who understands she is a good person who is dealing with a hard life, and the lousy way people will often treat her. That’s all.

  “When I get ahold of her for a quiet talk, I’ll also tell her: When she decides at some time you’ve been horrible to her, when she believes it in her heart, when she ‘knows’ it with all her mind, she needs to make a focused effort to be gentler than she thinks she should—because you may have been good, only seemed to have been hurtful, when you were really operating in a normally good way as you might with other people. Which is the problem, because she’s not normal. She’ll know you need to be slammed. And maybe you do? Maybe you will hurt her sometime? People make mistakes. But it’s also very likely that it just feels that way to her, and she needs to take it easy with you.”

  Oceanna smiled at him, threw her paper towel in the trash and headed for the door. “So, what do you think you’ll be able to do?”

  Mason looked worried but confident. “Where there’s a will there’s a way. Thanks for the heads up. I just happen to know her parents, too. Please don’t worry; I’ll stand with her.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  Mason closed the door to Hila’s house and locked it with her key. He tried the door; it wouldn’t open—locked shut, a barrier against good times within. He stared at the door a second.

  “We can come back, any time,” Oceanna told him. “I’m texting Hila, telling her we’re leaving.”

  Mason nodded. He pushed Hila’s key under the door, back inside, and they turned to head to their bikes on the short driveway.

  “Oh, I have to pee,” Oceanna said to him.

  “What? I just—”

  “Kidding!” Oceanna slapped him on the arm.

  “Ha,” he said back to her. “Good thing. I can see what kind of trip this is gonna be,” he teased her in return.

  Mason stuffed his small bag in his right saddlebag, and Oceanna stuffed hers in her left. They both opened up their boot and put on their riding jackets.

  Mason sat on his bike sidesaddle, temporarily, turned it on and played with his G.P.S.

  Oceanna’s 2011 Ultra Limited did not have G.P.S.

  “Long drive back,” Mason said. “619 miles from here. About nine hours.”

  Oceanna blew out a little air. “I’ll do my best, but I bet I peter out by five or six. I’m a little tired after this weekend. You could go on if you wanted to, though.”

  “We
’ll take it as we go,” he said. “No problem.” He took out his cell phone and called his wife, filling her in.

  “Just be safe,” Derie said to him from the other end. “Don’t wreck because you’re pushing it. Get back here in one piece.”

  “Okay,” Mason said. “See you maybe tomorrow. Not sure yet. It really has been a great trip—memorable as the dickens. Take me a long time to share it all—” Mason turned to Oceanna, “I can tell it all?” he asked her.

  “Yep,” Oceanna said, nodding. “As far as I know. They’re open about it.”

  Mason turned back to his phone. “Tell Jason ‘hi,’ and that Daddy has good stories for him, okay? Love you.”

  He smiled into the phone, hung up, put it into his pocket, and sat on his bike looking at the day. “It’s beautiful,” he said to Oceanna, who was sitting on her bike beside him. “Couldn’t ask for better weather for a good ride.”

  “That’s for sure,” Oceanna said.

  The sky was blue overhead, with remnant stratus clouds to the west. It was cool to the skin, but not cold.

  “It’s been a nice stay here,” Mason said. “Lets make it a nice trip home as well.”

  He held out his hand.

  Oceanna slapped it smartly.

  They both went to the rear of their bikes.

  “You might want some of these for the wind noise,” Mason said, giving Oceanna a couple of ear plugs.

  “Thanks.”

  Oceanna carefully squished the earplug into a smooth cylinder, not kinking it, which would let noise through, then pulled her ear back a half an inch and inserted the entire thing into her right ear canal. Same for the left.

  Mason did the same.

  They both removed a helmet from the boot, put on their helmets then riding gloves, closed the boot, mounted and started their bikes. They both had stock pipes on their Harleys—not too loud—but the throaty rumble echoed off surrounding homes nonetheless.

  They both plugged in their sound-system cables: one connection above the gas tank, the other on the left side of the helmet.

  The 2014 Ultra Limited wasn’t all that different in general layout from the 2011, so they looked like the—one amber and one blue—Bobbsey Twins, from a distance.