Chances Are Omnibus (Gender Swap Fiction)

by P. T. Dilloway

  I see a cab approach from down the street. I push Mac away so I can wave frantically to it. I climb into the backseat of the cab and shut the door before Mac can get in. “Just drive,” I tell the cabbie.

  Chapter 3

  I haven’t had a drink at Squiggy’s in over four years. The last time I was eighteen years old, just a week or two removed from being a man. Maddy brought me to mourn my death—her father’s death. She got a lot drunker than I did and started to run her mouth; she pissed off Big Al the bartender to the point he threatened to blow off her knee caps. I got her out of there before he could carry through on this threat.

  Big Al is still behind the bar. He looks a little older and fatter than last time. “Bring me a bottle of whiskey,” I say. I reach into my purse for some money to slap down. “Make sure it’s the good stuff too.”

  “Sorry kid, but I ain’t into serving minors,” Big Al says.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” I grumble and take out my ID. As he studies it, I smile to mimic my picture. When I became a Chinese adult, Jake got my already forged ID remade to reflect my new look.

  “Either this is a hell of a fake ID or else you really are twenty-three,” he says. He hands the card back to me.

  As he gets my bottle of whiskey from behind the counter, I ask, “How old did you think I was?”

  “Sixteen, maybe,” he says.

  “I wish I were sixteen. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about getting married for a long, long time. But I guess I don’t have to worry about that anyway.”

  Big Al sets a bottle of whiskey in front of me. He pours out a double for me into a glass. I grab the bottle from him to fill the glass the rest of the way. Then I down it in one shot. “Holy shit!” I squeak as the alcohol burns its way through me.

  I can already feel the lightheadedness that comes first. By three drinks I’ll probably black out. This tiny, scrawny body doesn’t have a high tolerance.

  “You in some kind of trouble, sweetheart?” he asks.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Just lending a sympathetic ear.”

  “There’s a first for everything.” I motion to the bottle. “Go on and pour yourself one.”

  “Sure thing, toots,” he says. He pours out a double on the rocks for himself. He takes a more reserved swig from the glass. “So what’s eating you?”

  “You,” I say. When I see his puzzled look, I explain, “Men. When it comes to making a commitment you’re all a bunch of fucking cowards.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Big Al says.

  “Yeah, right. Have you even gone on a date after Betsy left you? Or are you still sitting up there with your stroke mags?”

  “Now see here, missy—”

  “You going to eighty-six me again?” Quicker than he can, I reach over the counter for the shotgun he keeps there. I don’t aim it at him; I just keep it on my lap. “It’s not very nice to shoot girls.”

  He puts up his hands and takes a step back. “Listen, sister, I don’t want no trouble. Take what you want and then leave.”

  “Yeah, see what I mean? You’re only tough if you got that gun. Soon as it’s gone, you turn to jelly.” I wave at him. “Put your fucking hands down. I ain’t gonna shoot you. I just want your sympathetic ear without the unsympathetic mouth.”

  “Sure, whatever you want.”

  “As I was saying—”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Jake asks from the doorway. He sees the shotgun on my lap. “Why do you have Al’s gun?”

  “He was going to give me the bum’s rush.” I pat the stool next to me. “Come on, drinks are on me.”

  I take Al’s glass and refill it before I push it over to Jake. I expect him to decline, but he drains the glass as fast as I did. He snatches the shotgun away and hands it back to Big Al. “How the fuck did you let a little girl like this get the drop on you?” Jake asks. “You shouldn’t even be serving her anyway.”

  “Hey, her ID says she’s twenty-three.”

  “Yeah, right. She’s twenty-one, but most of the time she acts more like she’s thirteen.”

  “I do not!” I say. I sound every bit of thirteen.

  “But that’s not anything new. She’s always been like that.” He takes my shoulder and pries me off the stool. “Come on, champ, let’s go have a drink in private.”

  We take the bottle with us over to a corner booth. Jake fills my glass a quarter of the way. He fills his up again. “In a way you’re lucky,” he says. “You get to start a whole new life. No more worrying about the mistakes of the past.”

  “What are you talking about? Does Tess know you’re here?”

  “No. I told her I had to go follow up a lead. That was after I had a little conversation with your daughter. Why did you send her over to me?”

  “She was already going over there. She’s doing this retrospective on Uwe Vollmer for her paper.”

  “Why the fuck is that little hippie rag of hers doing a story on him?” Jake pours himself another drink. I haven’t seen him this worked up in a long time.

  “What’s eating you? Vollmer’s ancient history. He’s locked up in the pen and they ain’t never finding that key again.”

  “Do you think I want to go through that shit again? It was bad enough the first time.”

  “What are you bawling about? We got him, didn’t we?”

  “You got him. The legendary Steve Fischer got him. But since you’re running around looking like some little schoolgirl, I’m the one everyone’s calling for the inside scoop.”

  “So what? It was twenty-five years ago.”

  “Yeah, sure, it was twenty-five years ago for you. It wasn’t your son who died.”

  I stare at Jake for a minute. “What are you talking about? What son?”

  Jake needs another drink before he can tell me. We’ve exhausted the first bottle of whiskey so he gets another one. This time he drinks straight out of the bottle. “You didn’t know. No one knew. We hadn’t said anything yet. Tess wasn’t showing when it happened.”

  “When what happened?”

  “A miscarriage. It was a boy. We didn’t even give him a name. He was just so much biological waste to get tossed into the dumpster.”

  “Jesus, Jake, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  He ignores me and takes another hit from the bottle. “It was that son of a bitch’s fault! We were working such long hours to find him. The media had everyone scared half to death. It’s no wonder she lost the baby.” He slams his fist on the table. “I wasn’t even the one who brought him in! You put my name on the arrest record, but I wasn’t there. I was trying to calm a hysterical woman.”

  I lose my buzz as I listen to Jake. All the time we were partners, all the time we’ve been friends, and he never said anything about it to me. Tess never said anything either, though I guess now it makes sense why she and Jake never had another child.

  I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “At least you still had Jennifer.”

  “Yeah, our comfort and joy. Until the fucking cancer.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake. I never realized—”

  “Now everyone wants to go digging this shit up again. Not just your daughter either. I’ve already got calls from newspapers around the country. Even one in London if you can believe it.”

  “Just tell them to go to Hell,” I say.

  “Yeah, right. What happens when they start calling Tess about it? She’s going to be reliving that shit all over again.”

  “I’m sure she still remembers,” I say.

  “Maybe, but it’ll be worse when these weasels start pumping her for details.”

  “She can handle it. She’s a strong woman. She married you, didn’t she?”

  He smiles at that. “And she’s spent five years living with a pigheaded little bitch.”

  “Hey!”

  “What’s this I hear about you getting hitched to that doctor?”

  “Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you hear.”

&nbs
p; “I figured it couldn’t be true.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t see you as a blushing bride. You’re a sweet kid and all, especially with Tess, but you aren’t exactly marriage material.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing much. I just don’t see you getting married again.”

  I rear up to my full height—all five feet of it—and say, “For your information, I’m the one who wants to get married. He’s the problem. Chickenshit bastard.”

  “Christ, you’re more of a girl than I thought.”

  “That’s right, I’m a woman now, dickhead. See these?” I jiggle my little B-cup breasts for him. “Does a man have those?”

  “Fat guys do.”

  “I’ve learned to accept who I am, why can’t you?”

  “You can tell me all the stories you want, but I know who you are. If you convince this asshole to marry you, you’re going to fuck it up just like before.”

  “I love Mac. Don’t you get that?”

  “You loved Debbie too.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Why? Because you’re the cunt now?”

  I do something I’ve never done before; I slap Jake across the face like a woman would. I leave a red mark that probably won’t fade for a little while. “I thought I could count on you and Tess. I thought you cared about me.”

  “Maybe that’s why we don’t want you to do this. You’re not the domestic type. You can’t even keep your room clean without Tess badgering you about it.”

  “So what? Mac doesn’t need me to pick up his dirty clothes and cook his dinner. This isn’t the fucking fifties.”

  “You want to sit there and tell me you can come home to the same guy day in and day out for the rest of your life? You’re only twenty-three or twenty-one or however we count it.”

  “I love Mac,” I say again, though with less authority.

  “For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  “You got it real bad, I’ll admit that much. That just means you’re going to get hurt again.”

  “It’s not the same,” I say. “I’m different now. I’m more mature.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I look down at my empty glass of whiskey. “Debbie and I weren’t compatible for each other. There were things she wanted me to be that I couldn’t be.” I fortify myself with a shot of whiskey from the bottle. “She wanted me to be a hero, her Prince Charming.”

  “You were a fucking hero.”

  “But I was never very charming, let alone a prince.” I take another gulp of whiskey. “It’s not like that this time. Mac doesn’t expect anything from me. All he wants is for me to be myself. And he doesn’t have to worry about me getting shot by some two-bit hood—no more than anyone else in this city worries about that.”

  “Sure, all he has to worry about is you’ll go off on the odd vendetta or get kidnapped by some Chinese mad scientist.”

  “Ling is dead. So is Luther.” I put up my right hand to make a solemn vow. “I’m out of the action hero business now. I’m just going to be a humble clothes merchant and singer.”

  “We’ll see,” Jake says.

  I try to stand up, but my legs wobble, a combination of too much drink and the spike heels. I land on my face. It’s good I don’t have my glasses on or I’d have probably broken them. “Ow.”

  Jake is a little steadier. He helps me back to my feet. “Easy, kid. Hey, Al, call us a cab, will you?”

  “Whatever gets you out of my hair,” Al grumbles. Then we settle down to wait.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning I wake up to something pressed tight against me. I think at first it’s Mac. Then I realize it’s much too soft and hairy to be him. I open my eyes to see my stuffed monkey Pinky.

  At the moment Pinky’s face is wet from my drool. I toss it aside and then roll onto my back. I haven’t gotten really drunk in so long I forgot what a hangover feels like. It’s as if my head is a bongo drum someone is playing with a mallet. The rest of my body is heavy as concrete. I manage to get one hand over my eyes as I groan.

  Even my eyes feel sore and gummy since I left my contacts in all night. I’ll have to get up and take them out as soon as I get back to the land of the living. I promise myself not to get that plastered ever again.

  After a while I manage the strength to look over at the clock. It’s almost noon. Shit. I should have been at the store hours ago. Not that anyone will notice. Still, maybe it’s a sign I’m as irresponsible as Jake and Tess think. Well, why shouldn’t I be? It’s not like I’m getting married any time soon.

  I throw off the covers to find I’m clad in a nightgown. Since I doubt I had the wherewithal to change last night, I assume Tess did it. I suppose it’s all right since she’s already seen me naked when I was ten years old. She helped Maddy and I bathe back then, though she never scrubbed us below the waist.

  I stagger downstairs to find Tess in the living room. “Hello, dear,” she says too brightly. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really. Is there any coffee?”

  “I’ll make a fresh pot.”

  While she does that, I collapse on the couch. It’s too damned bright in here so I close my eyes. I grope around until I find the remote. The TV’s too loud, until I turn it down to the point it’s almost muted. God, what the hell was I thinking? At twenty-three Steve Fischer would already be up and back to work; he’d just need a few pints of coffee and some aspirin to be right again. This body is not suited to binge drinking.

  I hear Tess sit down on the couch. She pats my leg. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Terrible.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. Jacob told me things didn’t go so well with your doctor friend.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. I just want some fucking coffee. Unless that’s too much to ask.”

  “You’re not so old I can’t wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “I’m not so old that you won’t undress me either,” I say. I take a handful of my flannel nightgown.

  “I didn’t think you’d want to wake up in a dress covered in vomit,” she says.

  I’m too weak to keep myself from breaking down at that. It takes a lot of effort for me to sit up and then slide up against Tess. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You were being nice again and I was being a little shit—like usual.”

  “It’s all right. It’s his fault. How anyone could break such a sweet little heart is beyond me.” We’re both crying now. After a couple of minutes she helps me to my feet. “Come along. I’m sure the coffee is ready.”

  I drink most of the pot myself, without any cream or sugar. As I do, I tell Tess about last night. Or at least up to the point where I went to Squiggy’s. I doubt Jake told her anything about what he said about the Vollmer case or her miscarriage.

  “I thought he really loved me,” I say. “But I guess he doesn’t. At least not enough.”

  “Then he’s a fool. You’re a wonderful girl.”

  “A wonderful girl too young to get married, right?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I should have listened.”

  “You shouldn’t be ashamed, dear. Not for being in love.”

  “Thanks.”

  She rubs my back. “Why don’t you go take a nice hot bath? It’ll help you feel better.”

  “OK,” I say. I probably need a bath after the night I had, which apparently included throwing up all over myself. No surprise given how much I drank. When I get up, I give Tess a hug. “I love you, Grandma.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart,” she says and then she leads me upstairs to run the bath.

  ***

  Though I try not to take any medicine that might interact with the FY-1978 still in my blood, I pop a couple of aspirin once I get into the bathroom. I take out the contacts and put in a few eye drop
s to help with the soreness. Then I sink into the warm water. I put a washcloth over my face to block out the light. I could probably fall asleep in here for a few more hours. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  Except after a few minutes, Tess knocks on the door. “Stacey? There’s a man calling for you.”

  “If it’s Mac—”

  “He says he’s from the Waverly Supper Club.”

  “Oh, shit,” I mumble. In a louder voice I say, “I’ll be right out.”

  With a towel around my wet body, I take the phone from Tess. “Hi, Mr. Wendt!”

  “We were expecting you for rehearsal a half-hour ago,” he says.

  “I’m so sorry. I had a little emergency, but don’t worry, I’ll be on my way just as soon as I put down the phone.”

  “You better be,” Mr. Wendt says. “If you don’t show up—”

  “I’ll show up! I promise, sir.”

  “Good.” He hangs up on me.

  “Are you sure you should be leaving so soon?” Tess asks.

  “I have to,” I say. “I have a gig tonight.”

  I bolt past Tess, into my room. I don’t bother with hair or makeup; I can do that stuff later. I just throw on a T-shirt and pair of jeans. Through the door, Tess says, “Would you like a ride, dear?”

  “The train will be just as fast,” I say. That’s usually true with the traffic in this city. I stick my head out the door. “I could use a lift to the station, though.”

  “Of course, dear. I’ll get my keys.”

  Tess remembers to grab my purse, which apparently I left in the living room. Once I’m on the train, I take out my phone. I see six voice mail messages. I scroll through them and see they’re all from Mac. There are text messages too, a dozen of those. Ten are from Mac. One is from Maddy. She asks, “Where r u? Dr Mac is buggin out. Call me.” The other message is from Grace. It is even shorter; it asks only, “R u OK?”

  I reply to Maddy and Grace to say I’m fine and I have a gig at the supper club. I promise to call Maddy as soon as I can.

  The messages from Mac I erase.

  ***

  The Waverly Supper Club is the kind of place you’d see in a ’30s gangster movie. Rows of tables face the stage, with some white vinyl booths for the VIPs. There’s enough room on the stage for an entire big band, though I don’t need that many musicians. I usually just have someone on the piano to accompany me.