Madame X

by Jasinda Wilder

  I laugh, but kindly. "No, unfortunately. The original is at the MOMA. That is a reproduction, but a rather excellent one."

  You move to the Portrait of Madame X. This one captures your interest for a few moments. "This is interesting."

  I do not comment. I do not talk about that portrait, or its relevance to my name. I do not talk about myself at all.

  Finally, you turn away and take a seat on the couch, extend your long legs and cross them at the ankle, fling an arm across the back of the couch. I perch on the armchair catercorner to the couch, a mate to the one in my bedroom. Knees together, legs angled to one side, ankles crossed beneath, red Jimmy Choos on display. That's a ploy, that display of my shoes. See if you look at them, notice them. You do not.

  Time to take this appointment by the scruff. "You are not what I was expecting . . . Miss Tompkins."

  A scowl, then. Curl of the upper lip, corners of your mouth downturned. Disgusted, derisive. "Name's George."

  "Explain."

  "Explain my name?" You seem truly baffled, then angry. "You first."

  Ha. Neatly parried. Point, Tompkins. "I am named for that painting." I point at the Sargent.

  "And I'm named for the state."

  "So your name is Georgia, then?"

  You give me a hard stare, eyes gone hard as jade. "Last person who called me Georgia ended up needing dental implants."

  I smile. "Noted."

  Another long, awkward silence. "So. How's this little program of yours work, Madame X?" A pause. "And do I really have to call you Madame X all the damn time? It's a helluva mouthful."

  "Simply 'X' is fine, if you prefer." I let some hardness enter my gaze. You don't look away, but I can see it requires effort. You have backbone. "I'll confess, George, that your case may require some . . . modification of my usual methods."

  "Why? 'Cause I got tits and a twat?"

  My lips thin at your vulgarity. "Yes, George. Because you are a woman. My methods are geared for men, and my clientele are, exclusively--at least until now--men. Or rather, boys hoping to become men."

  "What is it you do, then? Dad was pretty vague. Told me I had to come to New York and see you, and do what you told me, and I didn't have to like it, but I couldn't fuck it up."

  "That's all you were told?"

  "Basically."

  I chew on the inside of my mouth and stare out the window, wondering, thinking. "Your father may have been confused about the nature of my services, in that case."

  You lean forward, drawing your feet together, elbows on knees. "What are your services?"

  "Consider it . . . etiquette training, of a sort. Manners. Comportment. Bearing. Appearance, speech patterns, first impressions."

  "So you teach rich little assholes how to be less douchey."

  I blink and have to stifle a laugh. You really are funny. "Essentially, yes. But there's more to it than that. Bearing comes in to play a lot. How you present yourself. How the opposite sex perceives you. How you assert yourself, even passively."

  "How are you supposed to passively assert yourself?" you ask.

  "Body language, strategic silences, posture, eye contact."

  You stand up, pace away across the room, stand in front of the couch looking over at me, and then abruptly sit again. "And how exactly are you, a woman, qualified to teach guys how to be more manly?" You tilt your head. "I mean, that's really it, isn't it? Most dudes these days, especially the rich ones born with a silver spoon an' all that shit, they're just pussies, right? Not an alpha among 'em. They're all just cocky, smarmy, arrogant, pushy, conceited, self-absorbed, entitled little douche-guzzlers. Couldn't charm or flirt a girl into bed no matter how hard they try, so they rely on their wads of cash and fancy cars to do the work for them."

  "I sense bitterness, George," I say, deadpan.

  You laugh, your eyes brightening, head thrown back, a real belly laugh. You loosen. "You might say so. Been forced to pussyfoot around dickheads like that all my life. Dad had this idea that we had to fit in with the elite wealthy, since we have the same kind of money. 'Cept, we ain't like them. He's a rancher, an old-school Texas cowhand from the ass-end of nowhere who just happened to stumble into the oil business. I do mean stumble, too. Gambled the pink slip to his old dually against a hand of Hold 'Em. Got damn lucky, and won the deed to some land that just happened to have oil wells on it. Bing-bang-boom, a few good investments and a whole hell of a lotta luck later, we was rolling in hundos. But he thought he could buy his way out of being blue collar, which meant stuffing his hick ass into tuxedos, and me into frilly bitch dresses, and us going to fancy-dancy soirees. Problem there is, you can take the hick out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the hick. So we stood out. Them high-society boys, they sniffed me out real fuckin' fast. Knew I wasn't the kind of girl they was used to. Knew there was just . . . something wrong with me. And I had long curly hair then, too, and girly-ass dresses. But they still knew."

  "Knew what, George?"

  You eye me. "Don't play, X."

  "You either." I eye you right back.

  You lift a shoulder in faux-laconic dismissal. "They knew I'm a dyke."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me."

  "Say what you mean, George, and don't be vulgar about it. That's the first lesson."

  "Whatever." You sigh. "They figured out I'm a lesbian. That clear enough for you? They could tell I'm a true-blue rug-muncher from Dykesville, Lesbiana."

  I roll my eyes. "You make jokes at your own expense, George. It's unbecoming."

  "Who's coming?" You quirk a corner of your lips up at your own joke.

  I harden my eyes. "George."

  "All right, all right." You hold up your hands palms out. "I know what unbecoming is. And yeah, I do make jokes at my own expense."

  "And not just at your own expense, but that of others who also have chosen your lifestyle."

  Your eyes blaze, and I realize I have erred. Your lip curls, your chin lifts. "Shows how much you fuckin' know."

  "My apologies, George, what I should have said was--"

  "It ain't a choice, you prissy bitch. You think I'd have chosen this? You think I'd have chosen to be gay? A gay girl from Lubbock, Texas? Really? A gay country girl from one of the least tolerant states in the damn country?"

  I let out a breath, slowly. I don't smile, exactly, but I let my eyes show my contrition. "I'm sorry, George. It's not a choice, and I know it. I merely misspoke."

  "You know what it was like, for me?" you ask. I shake my head. "No, course you don't. You couldn't. I never came out, not outright, you know? But they knew, even before I stopped playing dress-up for Dad. They knew, and they talked. I'd go to the parties and the get-togethers at the country club, and all that, and they'd hit on me. Like, what the fuck? Why? They knew I was gay, but still they hit on me? One of 'em, he cornered me in the ladies' room after a party one night, and he--tried to force his self on me. He was gonna fuck me straight, he said. Well, he was a pussy, and I grew up roping steer and breaking horses. Let's just say that it didn't go so well for him."

  "You dissuaded him from his efforts to force you into heterosexuality, I take it?"

  "I beat his ass into hamburger, is what I did. Knocked his teeth in, and I do mean that literally. I also stomped on his balls so hard I popped one of his nuts. And I also mean that literally."

  I cringe. "Rather effective, I suppose."

  You smirk. "Yeah, they gave me a real wide berth after that." The smirk fades. "Dad and me had a talk, after that. Guess he had a feeling something was different about me, but was hoping I'd meet the right guy and forget about it. Like it was a phase or some shit. Still half-hoping that even now, I think. That I'll suddenly go, 'Whoops! Guess I don't like pussy after all! Bring on the dick!'"

  I can't help another snicker. "George, be serious."

  "I am serious. That's what he thinks, back of his head. Ain't gonna happen, though. I told Dad, after I turned Rapey the Straightener into To
othless the One-Nut Wonder, I told him I wasn't gonna play his games no more. I wasn't a normal girl, and I was done pretending. He couldn't handle me just coming right out and saying I was gay. He'd have had a heart attack. So I just . . . told him I wasn't playing around no more, and he got it. Stopped wearing dresses, cut my hair, started going by George 'stead'a Georgia. But I was happier after that, and he could tell. I started showing an interest in his business, in the company. I'm all he's got, you see, since Momma died years back. And he ain't so young anymore. Wanted me to take over for him, and while I was playing at being good little straight girl, I wasn't havin' any of that. Now that I'm more or less out of the closet, I'm willing to help him with the business."

  "So why are you here, George?"

  You shrug and shake your head. "Hell if I know. I for real thought it was like corporate sensitivity training, or something like that. Like, how to turn down the butch when I'm around the bigwigs."

  I let out a breath, stand up, pace away from you, past you to the window, stare out at the passers-by thirteen floors below. "I'll be forthright with you, George. I don't know what I can do for you. I suppose it depends on what you want. Normally, I don't pay a single thought to what my subjects want. They aren't really my clients, at the heart of it, you see. Their parents are. I am paid by the fathers of these--as you call them, cocky, arrogant little . . . pricks." I never swear. Never. But something about you has me twisted into a shape I don't recognize. "I am paid by the fathers to train the sons to present themselves in a more palatable package. I am not a miracle worker. I can't force a tiger to change his stripes, meaning I can't change the basic nature of my clients' children. But I can help them learn to disguise it, I suppose. A dishonesty, but one I am paid very well to engage in."

  "But I'm not your average client."

  "You aren't an . . . asshole." The word tastes strange on my lips. But not unpleasant. I wonder if I'll hear about my language later. I turn to face you. "And I'm not sure what I'm meant to teach you. Unlike the rest of my clientele, I would not have you hide your true nature."

  You seem stunned. "You--you wouldn't? Why the hell not?"

  I shrug. "There is a refreshing quality to your brand of brutal honesty, George. And you don't seem . . . entitled."

  "'Cause I ain't. Daddy and I came from nothin'. I grew up in a hundred-and-ten-year-old two-room shack on damn near five hundred acres. I grew up riding on saddles older than me, driving beat-up old trucks older than me, wearing clothes that didn't fit, eating beans and rice and nearly turned meat. We had acreage and a lotta head of horses and cattle, but that don't really translate into cash income all that well. I remember that life, X. I remember having just about nothing, and I know I didn't do dick-all to earn what we got. Daddy got lucky, yeah, but he busted his ass to turn that little piece of luck into what it is today. So no. I ain't entitled."

  "And that sets you apart, George. By quite a large margin."

  "I got a large margin for you, babe." You smirk, and wink.

  I suppose the conversation was turning a little too personal for you. "We return to the question at hand, then. What am I supposed to do with you?"

  "Hell if I know. All's I know is Daddy won't be best pleased if I go back to Texas without having finished this. I promised him I would, so I'm going to. He lets me be who I am and don't say nothin' about it. He don't ask any questions when I say I've got a date, as long as I keep my shit on the DL. And he don't tolerate anybody in the office or who he does business with to talk shit about me either. He's nixed deals because somebody got a case of loose lips about Mike Tompkins's queer daughter. So I guess I owe him something in return."

  "I'm just not sure what--"

  "Just pretend I'm a dude, X. Do what you do as if I'm just another client's asshole kid."

  "But you're not a straight male, or an asshole. And those are the kind at whom my methods are aimed."

  "Just . . . pretend, okay? Do what you do, the way you normally do it."

  I take a few steps toward you, pushing down my feelings, and drape my mantle of cold hostility over my features. "What I normally do is cut through falsity and pretense and attitude. If this is going to work, then you cannot question me."

  "Falsity? What the hell you talkin' about, X?"

  "First things first. Sit up straight. Quit slouching. And enough with the endearing Texas drawl. It's too much."

  "What's wrong with the way I talk?"

  "It's bourgeois, and makes you appear uneducated. If businessmen and -women are going to take you seriously, you must present yourself as competent, educated, and smooth. A bit of a drawl is acceptable, and perhaps even will give you a slight advantage, but the foul language and the nearly unintelligible manner in which you speak identifies you as nothing but a slouching, slovenly, foul-mouthed bumpkin from the backwoods." I ignore the angry gleam in your eyes. You want to play this game? Very well, then. Let us play. "Appearing as more than merely blue collar is about enacting a host of changes to your essential nature, Georgia. It's not about the clothes you wear or the car you drive, or the house you live in. Anyone can find a bag of money and buy nicer things. It's about learning to comport yourself with dignity and sophistication."

  "You think I sound like a bumpkin?" You sound almost hurt, George.

  "I do." I endeavor to slur, to drawl, to draw out my syllables and twist them, and to drop the ends of my words. "Y'all sound like this." It comes out: yaaaaawl sownd laahk thyiiiis.

  "Got news for ya, missy." You stand up, pushing off the couch with violence. "I ain't never gonna sound all hoity-toity like you."

  "Clearly. But is something approaching correct grammar too much to ask for?"

  You pace, run a hand through your hair. "I won't ever sound like you." It comes out flat, unaccented but lifeless.

  "Keep the drawl, but eradicate the poor grammar."

  "That ain't--that won't be easy."

  I nod. "Better. You'll still sound like yourself, but more . . . acceptable in formal situations." I wave a hand at the condo. "Situations such as this, for example. This is supposed to be a formal client/service-provider scenario. We are not friends, Georgia. We are business associates. And I've lost count of how many times you've used the F-word alone."

  "I told you, my name is George."

  "To your friends, perhaps. To your dates. At home, or at the bar. But in the boardroom? Your name is Georgia." My tone leaves no room for argument. "Be Georgia. It will simplify things exponentially in professional situations."

  "You're asking a lot, X."

  "Businessmen are an easily confused lot, Georgia. They understand numbers and money, P-and-L statements, stock assessments. They do not understand a businesswoman named George. They'll spend the entire meeting trying to figure out what to think, how to talk to you. Are you a man? A woman? They won't know. And that will detract from the point of the meeting."

  "So I've gotta go back to pretending to be a prissy bitch woman."

  I shake my head. "No, Georgia. Just . . . present them with something even remotely approaching the familiar to them. Wear a business suit. Even a man's suit, if you prefer. But have it tailored to fit you . . . properly. You don't have to accentuate your female anatomy, but also do not attempt to hide it. Unless you're going for a transgender appearance?"

  You frown. "I--no. I'm still a female, but . . . I'm not a girly-girl. I don't wear dresses. I don't do fussy hair and makeup and heels. I like men's clothes."

  "Do you bind your breasts?" I ask.

  "No."

  "Will you?"

  "Probably not." You hesitate. "Tried it, a few times. I hated it."

  I pause, formulate my thoughts. "You have to find a medium, then. You don't have to mitigate your sense of self. That's not what I'm asking of you. But if you want the men of the business world to accept you even slightly, you have to pay a little deference to the way things are for them. It's unfair, perhaps, but it is reality. There are women in positions of power. CEOs, CFOs, presidents.
But it is still a man's world, Georgia. And if you wish to play in it, especially in the upper echelons, then you have to play the game."

  "No. I don't. I am who I am, and they can take it or leave it. I ain't gonna change who I am just for a bunch of stiff-necked old dangly ball sacks."

  My eyes close slowly. "Georgia. I'm not asking you to--"

  "Yes, you are!" You take several stomping steps toward me, stare hard at me. "Change the way I talk, dress different. Be different."

  "You said you wanted to do this? Well . . . this is what I do, Georgia. I remove the pretense. I cut through the shit. Which, in this case, is the confusing way in which you present yourself. Are you trying to be a man? It seems sort of that way, but not entirely. And in the boardroom, business discussions will be forgotten in favor of wondering what they're supposed to think you are. My suggestion is to present yourself as . . . androgynous, I suppose you could say. A male business suit, not a woman's power suit. An expensive bespoke suit, but tailored to accommodate your bust and hips. Sleek, slim shoes. A watch in dark leather with a sleek profile. Let your hair grow a little and sweep it back from your face."

  "So you want me to dress like a metrosexual guy, basically."

  "If that's the term you wish to use, then sure. It's an appearance that could go either way. The point is, it's professional. An appearance befitting the head representative of Tompkins Petroleum. Dress how you wish on your own time. Speak how you wish, do what you wish. Your personal life is your own. But when conducting business--when on the clock, so to speak--portray yourself a businessperson. And I use the gender-neutral construction intentionally."

  You perch on the arm of the couch. "Won't they still be wondering whether I'm a man or a woman?"

  "Yes. But if you use correct grammar, do not curse and use vulgarity or crude expressions, and dress professionally, and if you prove that you know the business and demand to be respected and taken seriously, those questions of your gender will eventually cease being as important. They'll still whisper behind your back, of course, but if you demand it with your appearance and your behavior, they'll be forced to treat you as an equal when it comes to business."