Chances Are Omnibus (Gender Swap Fiction)

by P. T. Dilloway

  A smile comes to her face as she recognizes me. “I remember you. The thrift store, right? You were looking around at the men’s clothes.”

  “That was me,” I say. My face flushes with embarrassment.

  “That outfit looks like it’s working out for you.”

  “It is, thanks.”

  “And now you’ve come for more?”

  “Yes.” I motion with my head to Tess. “My aunt and I are doing some shopping.”

  “Oh, this is your aunt? It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Grace Meredith. I run this place, such as it is.”

  “It’s a lovely shop,” Tess says, her voice dry. I’m not sure if she just doesn’t like Grace or if she’s annoyed I kept from her that Grace and I already met.

  Grace hops off her stool and then comes around the counter. She takes my arm to show me rows of T-shirts. Most of them are for bands I’ve never heard of or elections I never voted in. “Everyone nowadays is selling ironic T-shirts, but these are the real deal. See how faded some of these are? That’s not because I sit around here washing them for hours like some of these shysters.”

  I go through the racks, but don’t see anything that catches my eye. “Don’t you have any plain ones?”

  “I should have known. You’re not the ironic type, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a functional girl.”

  “That sounds right.”

  “That’s fine with me. I think I got some things that will be up your alley.” She shows me another rack of ordinary T-shirts and blouses. I find a few in my size. I try to stick with neutral colors: dark green, dark blue, black, and white. Nothing pink. Maybe I’ll be stuck as a girl for the rest of my life, but that doesn’t mean I have to dress girly just yet.

  There are some jeans too. I pick out a pair of bellbottoms that along with the dark blue T-shirt remind me of Debbie when we first met. All I’d need to do was get my hair feathered and dyed blond like a wanna-be Farah Fawcett. I feel myself edge closer to a breakdown at the thought of Debbie, which always leads me back to Maddy.

  Grace pats me on the shoulder to snap me out of my daydreams. “That looks really sharp,” she says. “You’ve got a great sense of style.”

  “Or lack of style,” I say.

  “Style is supposed to suit the individual. This look you’ve got really fits your personality. It’s straightforward, no-nonsense—”

  “Functional?”

  “Right. You don’t mess around, do you?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Tess joins us and nods in approval. “You look very nice, dear.” She insists I buy at least one dress. “You need something for church,” she says.

  I consent to let Grace show me some dresses fit for church. I settle on a white one with a floral print; the skirt goes down to almost my ankles. “That will do nicely,” Tess says. Then she clears her throat and turns to Grace. “She’s going to need some…unmentionables as well.”

  Grace smiles and nods. “I know what you mean. We keep that stuff in the back. And don’t worry, they’re not vintage.”

  The panties come in a plastic bag, six to a pack. Without me saying anything, Grace picks out the least lacy ones—functional underwear. I take these without a word. Then I catch her staring at my chest. My face turns warm. Is she checking me out?

  She is, but not the way I think. “You look like you’re a C-cup,” she says. “A thirty-four-C I’d say.” She rummages through a rack of bras until she finds a plain white one. “This looks about right. You should go try it on to make sure.”

  “Oh. Right.” I start to feel queasy again, but not from my period. This is just old-fashioned nervousness. I’ve never put a bra on before. I couldn’t even take them off when I was with Debbie. The first couple dates in the backseat of my car, I had to let her take the damned thing off after my fingers couldn’t get the knack of it.

  I take a deep breath and then go into the little changing room. It’s about as big as a phone booth, with barely enough room for me to turn around. Grace guesses right about the size of it; it fits securely to my chest without constricting me. The problem as always is to hook it in the back. I try three times without success. In the mirror I see my face reddening.

  There’s a knock on the door. “Do you need any help, sweetheart?” Tess asks.

  “I’m fine,” I squeak. The tears I held back before start to come now. I want my old body back! My nice, simple man’s body, where the hardest thing was to tie my necktie. Being a woman is so complicated. Complicated and annoying. I think of what Dr. Palmer said and once more the terrible reality hits me that I might be like this forever.

  The hormonal storm passes after a couple of minutes. “Stacey? Are you all right?” Tess calls out. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “I’m fine,” I mumble. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I look myself in the eye and try to stare myself down. I can do this. I’ve caught hundreds of criminals; I can put on a fucking bra. With renewed determination I reach back. This time I hook it together securely. Then I put my T-shirt on over it.

  I make sure to wipe my eyes before I step out. I’m sure Tess and Grace can still see how red they are. “How’d it fit?” Grace asks.

  “Great,” I say. “Just great.”

  “We’ll need six more in the same size,” Tess says.

  “Not a problem.”

  The bill comes to nearly three hundred dollars. I put a hand on my pocket before I realize I don’t have any money. I don’t have anything, not so much as a bus pass. I remember what Jake said, that I’m no one except to him, Tess, and Dr. Palmer. I’m just a plain young woman in a city with millions of them.

  “I’ll pay you back,” I whisper to Tess.

  “Nonsense, dear. It’s my treat.”

  Grace clears her throat. “If you’re looking for a job, I could use another hand around here.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I can’t pay more than minimum wage, but you get a discount on the clothes too.”

  “We’ll have to think it over,” Tess says. “I’m not sure Stacey is ready for that yet.”

  Grace nods. She reaches beneath the cash register for a business card like the one she gave me before. “You can call me anytime. If I don’t pick up, just leave a message on the machine.”

  “OK,” I say and pocket the card.

  “At the very least, tell me how the clothes are working out for you, all right?”

  “I will.”

  With that we leave the store, armed with four shopping bags. I look back; something tells me I’ll return soon enough.

  ***

  We don’t go very far. Just down a block to a greasy spoon like Rosie’s. The woman who waits on us is about as old as Rosie, though not so sunny. “Specials are on the board,” she says. “See anything you want?”

  “I’ll just have a coffee,” Tess says. “Two sugars and one cream.”

  “I’ll have the same,” I say.

  With a huff the waitress saunters off to eventually fetch our coffee. Tess lets out a weary sigh. She looks ready to curl up on the booth seat and go to sleep. “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “I’m a bit tired.”

  “Looking after a kid is a lot of work.”

  “It’s not your fault, dear. I’m worried about Jacob. I know he’s hiding something from me. I can always tell when he’s keeping a secret.”

  I know what secret Jake is keeping: my real name. So I guess it is my fault after all. “Don’t policemen keep lots of secrets from their wives?” God knows I kept plenty of secrets from Debbie. Then again she wasn’t all that interested to hear my stories about fighting crime in the city after Maddy was born. By then my job no longer sounded like a television show and just another job, same as a window washer or garbage man.

  “Yes, but there’s something different about this. He’s been acting very evasive.”

  “He probably has a good reason.”

  “I’m sur
e he thinks he does.”

  “But you don’t agree?”

  “There’s no way I can know without knowing what it is,” she says and yawns. “Did she go all the way to Colombia for the coffee?”

  “Maybe she’s unloading it from the burro.”

  We laugh more than is deserved at this crummy joke. The waitress picks that moment to return. From the way she glares at us, she knows we were talking about her. “Here’s your coffee,” she says and slams down both cups. “You want anything else?”

  “Not now. Thank you,” Tess says. She takes a sip of the coffee and then makes a face. I sip mine and make an identical face. The coffee tastes like motor oil that’s been burned for a couple thousand miles. There’s not enough cream and sugar in the world to erase that taste.

  Tess drinks hers anyway. “Those are some nice clothes you bought,” she says to change the subject from her husband. “That dress is really pretty. Did your parents ever take you to church?”

  “They weren’t very religious.”

  “Did they at least get you baptized?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t remember much from back then.”

  “I’ll talk to Reverend Crane on Sunday. I’m sure we can arrange a baptism if you want one.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. If I do get baptized then in the eyes of the Lord I’d be Stacey Chance for all eternity. I shiver at that thought. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Of course, dear. It’s not something to take lightly.”

  I take another sip of coffee—or try to. I turn away so Tess can’t see my reaction. Out the window I see a coffeehouse across the street, a grungier version of Starbucks called Kozee Koffee. It can’t be any worse than this shit. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I say.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some real coffee.” Then I remember I don’t have any money. “Can I borrow a couple of bucks?”

  “Here you go, sweetheart,” Tess says. She hands me a ten.

  To get across the street I have to weave around a lot of slow cars. I get honked at once and cussed at in three different languages. I flip them off as I wind my way over to the coffeehouse; I hope Tess didn’t see me.

  The place smells about as bad as the coffee across the street tastes. It’s dark inside; only a pair of dim overhead lamps provide any light. I don’t see anyone behind the counter at first. With my luck I caught them on a break.

  “Anyone here?” I call out.

  “Just a moment!” a woman’s voice says back. From the sound of it, she’s on the floor behind the counter. I get confirmation of this when she pops up like a whack-a-mole a moment later.

  The girl is about my age with hair the color of pink cotton candy. There’s a ring in her nose, another in her left eyebrow, and a half-dozen more in each ear. Despite all of this, I know the girl’s face.

  It’s Maddy.

  Chapter 21

  Maddy doesn’t recognize me. Why should she? The last time she saw me I was a thirty-eight-year-old man. I had a beard back then, until it became so gray I had to either dye it or shave it; I chose the latter. There’s no reason at all she should recognize me as an eighteen-year-old girl. No reason at all—except that I’m her father. Shouldn’t there be some special bond that tells her who I am?

  “What can I get you?” she asks.

  I trip over my own tongue until I spit out, “Coffee.”

  “What kind? We have lattes, cappuccinos, espressos, frappes, or just plain old boring coffee. We also have tea—hot and cold—and juice.”

  I can tell there’s going to be no tearful reunion here. If there are any tears it’ll just be me because my own daughter doesn’t recognize me. I force myself to take a deep breath and then say, “Cappuccino. Two. To go.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I can’t help but stare at Maddy as she works. She’s so different than she was at ten years old. So different even than her high school picture. What’s happened to her in the last couple of years? The father in me wants to grab her by the collar and drag her back home so she can get that shit out of her hair and all those rings off of her face. Nose rings are for steer, not little girls.

  But she’s not a little girl anymore. She’s older than I am. She’s free to do whatever she wants, pierce whatever she wants. Even if I were still a man I couldn’t force her to do anything.

  When she bends down for something, I see a tattoo on the small of her back. One of those Chinese characters. A “tramp stamp” as they’re less-affectionately known. Is my daughter a tramp? Is she sleeping around with someone? Does she have a child? Am I a grandfather?

  A hundred other questions flit through my head while she makes two cappuccinos. I can’t ask any of them. How can I? I’m just a stranger to her. Maybe I always was.

  “Here you go,” she says. “Two cappuccinos. Just be careful, they’re hot.”

  “I will,” I mumble.

  “Do you want a carrier for them?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  I’m about to turn and walk away, defeated. Then she throws me a lifeline. “Did you buy those clothes from Grace’s?”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “I shop there all the time. She’s got such great taste.”

  “She does. She picked this out for me.” I think of what Grace said before I left. “She offered me a job there.”

  “No way! Are you going to take it?”

  “I might.”

  “Well if you do, maybe you could share your employee discount with me.”

  I smile at this. “I guess I could. If she lets me.”

  “She doesn’t have to know,” Maddy says. She leans forward as if someone might hear us. “It could be our secret.”

  “And maybe you could give me a discount on coffee.”

  “I could.” Maddy extends her hand over the counter. “My name’s Maddy Griffith.”

  Griffith? That’s Debbie’s maiden name. She must have changed it after the divorce. Whose idea was that? “Stacey Chance.”

  “It’s good to meet you, Stace. You mind if I call you that?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say, though I really want her to call me Daddy like she did when she was little. For now this will have to do.

  ***

  I return to the diner, where Tess dozes in the booth. Her eyes shoot open when I set the cappuccino in front of her. “Oh, how sweet of you.”

  “Just thought you might like a decent coffee.”

  “That’s so thoughtful. Thank you.” She takes a sip of the coffee and nods. “That’s wonderful. Just what I need.”

  We leave our used motor oil on the table and set out for the car. I ask Tess to wait outside Grace’s store. Grace sits behind the counter and reads her enormous textbook. “Back so soon?” she asks. “Clothes not working out for you?”

  “They’re fine,” I say. “I decided to take the job. If you’re still offering it.”

  “That’s great.” She snaps the book shut and then drops it on the counter with a thud. “So when can you start?”

  “Tomorrow, I guess. Unless you need me sooner.”

  “Tomorrow works for me.” She reaches beneath the counter for something. It’s a couple sheets of paper. “You’ll have to fill this out to make it all nice and legal.”

  I take the papers from her. It’s a job application. The first line is easy enough; all I need is my name. The next box stops me cold. I need a Social Security Number. I could probably use my old one, at least for now. The Feds might have a problem with it in a couple of months, especially if Steve Fischer is declared dead by then, which he certainly will be unless Dr. Palmer comes up with a cure for me.

  “Could I take these home? My aunt is waiting outside and she’s kind of tired.”

  “Sure. Just bring them back tomorrow. Be here at nine if you can make it. I should be up by then. If not, knock really loud. OK?”

  “OK.” I fold the papers up. “Thanks a lot for this. You don’t know how much it m
eans to me.”

  “It’s no problem.” Before I can leave, Grace comes around the counter to give me a hug. “You’re not my employee yet so that doesn’t count as sexual harassment.”

  I laugh at this. It might be fun to work for Grace. And it’ll allow me to see Maddy every day. At least whenever she works. That’s a lot more than I’ve seen her for the last twelve years.

  Chapter 22

  Jake is less than supportive of my decision when I tell him in his study. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hisses. “You can’t tell Maddy. She’ll never believe you.”

  “I’m not going to tell her. I just want to be around her more.”

  “She’s not your daughter, Stacey.”

  “She’ll always be my daughter. No matter what I look like.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he says with a groan. “Yesterday you were so hot to go and kill Artie Luther and now you’re taking a job at a dress shop?”

  “It’s not a dress shop. It’s a clothes store.”

  “A women’s clothes store.”

  “Well I am a woman in case you hadn’t noticed. You’d rather I were working at the S&M store down the road?”

  “I’d just like to know what the fuck you’re doing. Is this the hormones again? All that estrogen got you going batty?”

  “I’m not going batty.” It doesn’t help my case when I start to cry again. Eventually I have to get a handle on these damned hormones. Maybe after all this FY-1978 leaves my system it’ll even me out. Or maybe I just need more practice at being a woman. “What if things were reversed? What if you were the one turned into a woman and it were Jenny working at the coffee shop?”

  “We’re not dealing with hypotheticals here. We’re dealing with reality.”

  “None of this is reality. It’s all crazy.”

  “True.” Jake puts a hand on my knee. “This isn’t a good idea. I know you love Maddy, but this is only going to hurt you in the end.”

  “I don’t care! This may be my only chance to get close to her. I’m not going to let it slip away. If you don’t understand that, then the hell with you.”