by Renee James
He makes a face at me in the mirror rather than repeating the mantra about commenting on an on-going investigation.
“So, what brings you to my chair, Phil?” I ask, changing the subject. It is kind of strange that he all of a sudden shows up here.
“My barber retired and I need a haircut,” says Officer Phil. “Everyone says you’re a great stylist.”
On a better day, that scant praise would make my soul glow, but today it’s just a smile and small talk.
October
BACK WHEN I WAS A MALE, seemingly a normal hetero type, married, in the mainstream of society, when someone or something bruised my male ego, I would stew and fret endlessly over it. I would lose sleep, sometimes for many nights. I would replay the incident over and over and over again, imagining different things I could have done and how the outcome would have been more rewarding. Or at least less humiliating.
Many of the actions I imagined myself taking were violent, inspired by books and movies about tough cops and revenge. I came close to violence once or twice, but always choked back the impulse because the two most likely results were so unpleasant to contemplate, to wit: I beat the crap out of the other guy and get sued, or I get the crap beat out of me.
The conflict was very emasculating. I felt like a real man would leave his adversary in a puddle of defeat, walking off into the sunset.
I’m recalling this with some irony as I soak in my oil-scented bath, running my fingers over my breasts and my genitalia. It is the latter that make me recall my male days. After all these months on hormones, my male parts are very small. My doctor told me I’m nearing the point of no return as far as being a functioning male again. He said I was effectively castrating myself. He didn’t say it unkindly. More like he wanted to make sure I heard him and understood what’s happening. I do.
The funny thing is, I don’t feel emasculated and I don’t feel like I’m castrating myself. I feel like I’m becoming what I’m supposed to be.
These changes feel good to me right now. I don’t hate my male genitalia, but I don’t really have a use for them, either.
But I still have fears. Fears that I will awaken some day and wish I was still Bob, the testosterone-driven guy who lifted weights and played football.
But I don’t need a penis and testosterone to feel the anger Bob felt. I feel it. I think of Strand with his evil smirk, inflicting pain on other people and enjoying it, getting away with it because he’s rich and powerful and no one wants to tangle with him. I keep having involuntary images pop into my mind of how he killed Mandy, his fist driving into her face with the sickening whack of a Mike Tyson left hook, blood splattering through the air. I see him slap her and hit her. I see him kick her. I see him heel stomp her beautiful face.
And in every scene I see him with that thin-lipped smirk, an expression of disgust for lower forms of life and of supreme confidence in his innate superiority.
I feel the anger alright. I lose sleep over what he has done and his unworldly pride at having done it and gotten away with it.
I have begun to think about revenge. And my biggest fear isn’t getting caught, or failing and facing retribution. It is the little voice in the back recesses of my brain that says a real woman wouldn’t think this way, and neither would a real transwoman on hormones.
***
CECELIA AND I ARE IN a very snotty dress store on Michigan Avenue. A saleslady is dutifully showing Cecelia some of their latest styles in formal dress ware. Cecelia is not the least bit concerned when the clerk icily comments that their sizes only go up to 12. She says it as an arrogant put down. Cecelia is a Size 2X at least and is ruining the image of the store.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Cecelia tells the lady, disregarding her veiled snottiness. “If I see something I want I’ll have it made for me. I’m rich and I prefer originals to these mass produced things.”
That is the fun part. The haughty witch blushes and purses her lips and resigns herself to showing more styles to Cecelia.
But the other aspects of the outing are tedious. We are objects of great curiosity to the others in this shop, and I hate being stared at. Also, I’m not into gowns and formal dresses. The only good thing about them is that they usually call for updos, my favorite art form. Not the cutesy little Spring Virgin dos you see at middle class weddings and high school proms. I like the big, slinky, sexy romantic styles.
I suggest to Cecelia that I wait for her in the coffee shop down the street, but she waves me off.
“I’ll just be a few more minutes,” she says. “I already know I don’t want anything—this is just to make the nasty bitch sweat. Then we’ll do lunch, my treat, and I’ll catch you up on the latest gossip.”
***
AS WE WAIT FOR OUR delicate seafood salads, Cecelia leans in conspiratorially and puts one hand on mine.
“I found out who the main suspect is in Mandy’s investigation,” she says. “I know where he works and where he lives and we’re going to get to know him this afternoon. That’s our entertainment.”
I start to object.
“It’ll be fun,” she says.
I’m dubious.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “We won’t follow him very far. I know his after-work routine. We’ll leave him when we get near my church.”
Inwardly, I groan. Cecelia is active in a church that caters to the spiritual needs of gay and trans people. I was shocked at how serious she was about religion. She is so skeptical about everything else, who would ever have thought she would give her heart to a leading man who had died two millennia ago and whose biography was written by people who spent way too much time in the sun?
She reads my mind. “Don’t worry, I’m not dragging you to a service,” she says. “I want you to come to a Trans Advocates meeting.”
I nod my head okay with more than a little resignation.
The Advocates spearhead our community’s political action activities. They work on the local and state level and synchronize with a national headquarters on federal issues. It’s thankless work and very few girls participate. Six is a big meeting.
For me Trans Advocates is a moral imperative that I’ve been ducking. I should do my part, but I have so little time as it is and, frankly, the work is brutal. It’s not just time consuming. You end up visiting politicians’ offices to tell our story, usually to twenty-two-year-old staffers who are absolutely mind-fucked by the presence of a man in a dress talking to them. Definitely not my forte. Or my calling.
***
WAYNE ICOTT DOESN'T LOOK like someone who would beat up transwomen. He is a wiry, smallish man, maybe 5’-9,” with an Errol Flynn mustache and sideburns. He looks something like the young Sonny Bono, but in today’s clothing and not nearly as cute. His dark blonde hair is neatly trimmed. He’s wearing gray slacks and a navy blue blazer with a striped tie. He’s trying to dress like an up and coming corporate middle manager but it’s not working. The tie is a little too wide and the knot is a big, old-fashioned one. The colors in his shirt and tie have the faded look of aging fabric; he has a blue on blue on blue theme going and it’s boring. He doesn’t look like a rising corporate star, that’s for sure. He looks nerdy. He’s a little creepy, but I just can’t imagine him as a violent type.
He’s an accountant, Cecelia tells me. He works for a bank. He has been there for nearly twenty years doing pretty much the same thing.
“From what I’m told,” says Cecelia, “the boy has the personality of a tree stump. He just crunches numbers and goes home at night.”
The way she says it, it’s easy to picture him having an obsessive fantasy life, since he doesn’t look like someone who has a real life at all.
We follow him to the El, then north to Boystown.
“He’s divorced. He was married for a few years and the two of them called it quits. I’m guessing they had to wake up wifey to tell her it was over,” says Cecelia.
When he gets off the train he walks a few blocks to a popular bar that
draws a mixed crowd of gays and straights. He stands at the bar and orders a drink, looks around a little. We take a corner booth, out of his line of sight. I can't help but stare.
The longer I stare at him the more convinced I am that he’s just your average john. He gets a prostitute to get laid because he’s between lovers right now, or because he’s got some kind of fetish only a hooker will go along with.
When Cecelia goes to the ladies room, I get up and go to the bar, like I want to order a drink. I stand next to the nerd. The bartender is working on an order. I look around, my eyes finally falling to rest on Wayne. He’s looking at me.
“Hi” I say, smiling at him. “How are you today?”
His eyelids raise a fraction as he makes me as trans.
“I’m great. How about you?” he answers. He smiles, too. It’s kind of a cute smile.
“I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got,” I say.
He blushes. I hadn’t intended the double entendre but it’s out there now, so I wait to see where it goes. There is a brief, awkward silence as he tries to think of something to say.
“Do you come here often?” he asks.
Maybe the worst pickup line in history.
“Oh, you know,” I say. “I go to other places more. But I like to come here sometimes.” I want to get him talking and get a sense of how he relates to a transwoman, not that there’s much parallel between beautiful young Mandy and me.
He smiles and blushes, looks at me for a moment, then at his drink. If I didn’t know about him, I’d bet what’s left of my family jewels he is a computer geek. He can’t think of anything to say.
“How about you?” I ask, trying to give him a conversation thread he can work with. “Are you a regular here?”
He shifts his gaze back and forth between me to his drink as he answers. “Well, I usually stop in here once or twice a week. I hit some other places too.”
We prattle on in small talk until Cecelia returns. “Well, well, well,” she says, looking at the two of us, “What have we here?”
“Hi Cecelia,” I say. “This is…” I look at the nerd. “What did you say your name is?”“Wayne,” he says.
“Cecelia, this is Wayne. Wayne, Cecelia. I’m Bobbi.” I smile brightly and he smiles back. Cecelia seems miffed that I’m talking to him. She nods at him without smiling. Icott keeps a pleasant look on his face as he tilts his head upward to greet Cecelia. She towers over him like a basketball player talking to a Lilliputian.
“We need to get going, Bobbi.” She turns abruptly to retrieve her things from our booth.
“Oh, too bad,” I say to Wayne. “I think I would really enjoy getting to know you.”
He smiles. There's an eagerness to his reaction. He’s definitely interested.
“I’ll be at the Pink Baton and some of the other bars Friday night,” I say. “Look for me.”
He beams.
“Or just come in and let me give you your next haircut,” I say as I hand him one of my cards.
Outside, we walk briskly north on Halsted, our heels clicking on the sidewalk like snare drums pounding out the rhythm of a marching song. Cecelia is frosty. “What was that about?”
“Just curiosity,” I say. “I just couldn’t picture that guy as a violent type.”
“And now?” says Cecelia.
“Now I absolutely can’t see him hitting anyone. He might get off on something kinky, but he’s not violent. He didn’t beat Mandy.” There is nothing about the nerdy Mr. Icott that fits the image I got from Marilee's description of her violent client but I can't share that with Cecelia without violating a trust.
“You know this from a five-minute conversation at the bar?” Cecelia exclaims. “It takes psychologists months to find out something like that.”
“It might take months to find out why they do it, but I’ll bet most psychologists get a strong feeling pretty fast about whether or not someone is dangerous. This guy isn’t dangerous. I’d bet on it,” I say.
“You have bet on it, Bobbi,” says Cecelia. “That murder suspect knows who you are and where to look for you. Oh yes, I saw you give that schmuck your card. What are you going to do if he starts following you home from work?”
“Ask him to buy me a drink…?” I smile, trying to take the edge off our conversation.
“Very funny,” says Cecelia. “This is serious. These people aren’t to be trifled with. Not Icott. And certainly not Strand.”
I must have reacted to Strand’s name without knowing it, because Cecelia stops and stares at me. “Please tell me you have not had contact with Strand,” she says, her eyes so intense it's scaring me.
“Well, you introduced us!” I say it defensively. “Since then he’s sent me flowers, asked me out and even came in for a haircut once.”
“So you went out with him?” She says it like I had committed a crime.
I nod yes.
“How was it?” she asks after a short silence.
“Awful. A colonoscopy would be more romantic.”
“Bobbi, he is a bad man. Do you hear me?" Her eyes are shining with concern, her voice taut with worry. "He is a bad, bad person. As in evil. Don’t ever be alone with him ever again! He’s a violent, dangerous, cruel man,” says Cecelia. “This is not speculation, Bobbi. I know this. For an absolute fact, apart from anything to do with Mandy. I’ve known him for twenty years. Do not be alone with him!”
“No problem,” I answer. “I can’t stand the bastard anyway.”
***
MY INNER RAGE ABOUT Mandy’s murder is fueled by every snotty comment from a customer, every double take from a passer-by on the street, every sneer from a waiter or a sales person.
And the memory of how Strand treated me is on a continuous loop in my mind, made even more painful by the realization that Strand was the only man who ever came on to me as a transwoman. I am so pitifully sex-starved I gave myself to him like a star-struck groupie.
Some of my dreams are still violent, but a change is taking place in the violent scenarios. Increasingly, I’m moving from being the victim in these dreams to becoming the perpetrator, and my victim is Strand.
What bothers me about this is not that I have violent, vengeful thoughts, but that this is such a male reaction to things. It makes me wonder who I really am. Would a real woman dream of such personal, bloody vengeance? Would a real transwoman?
I am plagued by two obsessions, day and night. Getting even with Strand for Mandy and me. And doubts about my inner femininity. All of my transsexual friends are angry about Mandy’s murder and the ineptitude of the police investigation, but none of them have violent obsessions about it. At least, none of them talk about it. I wonder once more if I am really transsexual, or it I’m just a pathetic mess of a male destined for even greater misery by becoming a woman.
And I worry that if Mandy’s murder is never resolved, if it's okay to kill people like her and me, I will never sleep through the night again. As it is, I sleep for maybe two hours each night before my angry dreams waken me. I eventually get back to sleep, but I spend the night napping and waking, napping and waking. I get just enough sleep to make it through each day, but I never feel relaxed or refreshed.
Before my father disowned me he told me what it was like to be an infantryman in Vietnam. Long sweeps in the jungle. Constant tension. Ambushes and booby traps. Treacherous villagers. Enmity between career soldiers and draftees. Sleep deprivation. Bad food. Heat. Frustration. Fear. His tour was a year-long nightmare, he said.
He was explaining the My Lai Massacre to me, how a company of regular Americans could riotously murder dozens of unarmed civilians, mostly women and children and old men. It came up in a high school history class and I asked him about it. “I could have done it,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, after he told me what it was like to be there. “We were in a nightmare. Always scared. Always tired. Always mad. It makes you crazy, living like that. Anyone could have done it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.�
��
I was two years old when he shipped out. When he came home he was moody and withdrawn. He hardly talked to me even before he knew I was queer. In fact, that was probably the closest moment I had with him, that brief point in time when he told me about Vietnam.
I think about that now because I feel like I am having a parallel experience. I feel like I’m in a nightmare that I can’t get out of.
***
CECELIA AND I are having a late dinner at a place called Slim’s, a near-north eatery with a few hundred items on the menu, none very good. She picked the spot, but she picked a cheap place because I’m picking up the tab. I called the meeting.
I get my money’s worth quickly. As the hostess leads us to a booth, I catch sight of a waitress staring at us. The look of disgust on her face is unmistakable. Her mouth opens, her lips curl, her eyes frown slightly. As we settle into our booth, the hostess pauses in front of the waitress, who curls the fingers of one hand into a fist and looks skyward. I can’t hear what they are saying, but it’s pretty clear that she’s our waitress and she would rather stick nails in her eyes than make us happy to be here.
These are the confrontations I hate, although right now I’m fascinated to see how Cecelia handles the situation.
The waitress comes to our booth and drops menus on the table. Without looking at us she starts rattling off the special of the day in a mumbled monotone that is completely unintelligible. . Her face is so sour you'd think she had a mouthful of lemons. We are an affront to her dignity. Her mumbles end with, "What would you like?" Like there's a fire she has to get to.
She is almost a parody of a waitress. Overweight, too much makeup and poorly applied. Decent haircut, but colored a ridiculous shade of red. Pink lipstick that tries to be feminine but comes off as white trash. And she’s grossed out by us?
Cecelia looks up when the mumbling stops.
“Let’s start over, honey,” she says. “Do you have a name?”