by Renee James
“I’ve met him and I’ve seen him a few times since then.”
“Seen him? You dated him?” It’s really not a question so much as a statement, a conclusion.
“No,” I say. “I encountered him. Once at a party, another time in a bar in the theater district. And I cut his hair once, I think.”
“So you never dated?” He pulls out a notepad and poses, pen in hand.
“No.”
“You’re sure?” Again, it’s not a question. It’s a challenge. Like there’s something else coming.
“I’m sure.” But I’m not, of course. I’m wondering if they’ve found some proof that Strand and I were more than casual acquaintances. My heart is pounding.
“Be very, very sure,” says Hard Case. “We’ve got someone who says you two were an item.” He scribbles something in his notepad.
I will myself to remain silent. Hard Case waits me out, waits for me to crack and start jabbering. I don’t.
“We’re running down all kinds of leads,” he says. “Phone calls he made and received, emails, credit card charges, everything. If we find out you’ve been holding out on us it will go hard for you.”
He’s bluffing. We both know it. No one has told them I dated Strand. But it’s not a total bluff. They could find some connection to me in the paper trail. The flowers, maybe. I make a snap decision.
“I’m sure it will,” I answer. “Anything else?”
“What do you know about Strand being involved with a hooker named Mandy Marvin?”
“I know that was the hot rumor in the trans community when Mandy was murdered,” I answer. “I don’t know that to be a fact. I never saw them together.”
“Did you know this Marvin?”
“Yes,” I answer. “I did her hair. We were friendly but not close friends. She didn’t tell me who she was dating.” Exactly what I told Officer Phil.
“Dating?” Hard Case spits out the word with equal parts disbelief and contempt.
“Yes, she dated men, even when she was a hooker.” I look Hard Case in the eye. “A lot of young transsexuals do both, you know. They use prostitution to get the money they need to make a life for themselves, but inside they’re just like young women everywhere. They want to fall in love, get married, live happily ever after.”
Hard Case snorts contemptuously. He gets in my face again, his nose a few inches from mine, his head tilted back a little because I'm taller than him. "You did it, didn't you, you shit-eating faggot." He says it with a cruel smile on his face, his voice low and menacing. His partner can't hear him, but I can.
“What happened when you were growing up? Some of the boys tease you about being a queer? So now you're getting even? You get that sorry goon crippled in the alley, now Strand.” When he says Strand's name he pulls his fingers across his throat in a lethal gesture. As outrageous as his accusations are, his breath is worse. I can't stand breathing through my nose and I'm afraid I'll inhale something toxic if I breathe through my mouth. I hold my breath.
“Nothing to say?” he taunts me. “You did it. I know you did it. You know you did it. I'm giving you a chance to come clean. It'll go easier on you if you come forward now.”
I step back from him to take a breath of fresh air. He thinks I'm cowering and smiles a bully's smile, smug, nasty.
“Your thought process is as rancid as your breath, Detective.” Enough is enough. I don't have to feign respect for someone who treats me like shit. "I had nothing to do with the things you're talking about. And since you're accusing me of terrible things, I refuse to speak with you unless I have an attorney present. Please go away."
He closes his notepad. “We’ll get back to you. Don't even think about leaving town.”
“I’ll be heading to New York in a couple of weeks for a hair show,” I answer.
“Check with us first,” Hard Case says.
“Sure. Just send me the court order.” It’s not confidence I feel. It’s a deep, seething anger. I really have a thing about being bullied.
Wilkins glowers at me then nods slowly, knowingly. “Let’s see how cocky you are when we throw you in a cell with bunch of butt-fucking niggers from the south side.” Wilkins is black himself, so he uses the guttural racial reference to strike terror in my prissy white heart.
He flashes an ugly smile in my face. “Did I mention we found hair and skin samples in that apartment? The lab is doing a workup right now.”
He turns and leaves, the other cop following. . “We’ll be back.” Wilkins calls over his shoulder. It’s a threat.
I feel a wave of terror pass over me. My heart almost stops. Could I have left fibers of my own hair in Strand's apartment? Wearing a wig? Could the wig hairs be traced to me? I wonder if there are wig hairs still in my apartment.
As I climb the stairs to my apartment, I realize there must be traces of wig hairs in my place—along with traces of hair from dozens of clients, maybe hundreds. Human hairs. Synthetics.
Halfway up the stairs I realize there isn’t enough time or money to collect and analyze all the hair and skin cell samples in my apartment or Strand's, much less match samples from one place to the other. Wilkins was running a bluff. And not even because he thought a degenerate fag like me had killed Strand. He did it just to fuck with my mind because I’m a degenerate fag and he can get away with it. My fear turns to anger. I’ve had it with people feeling like they can be cruel to me just because I look funny to them, or because they think I’m morally inferior. I’m sick of being bullied. I’m sick of bigotry.
Inside my apartment, I nuke a frozen dinner and inventory the contents of my purse. I find it. The business card for the LGBT advocate in the Cook County District Attorney’s office. I call her direct dial number and get her voice mail.
“Hi,” I say, “My name is Bobbi Logan. I’m a pre-op transsexual. I live in the Boystown area. I’ve just had a visit from a police detective who threatened to put me in a cell with a bunch of quote ‘butt-fucking niggers’ unquote. I gave him no reason to treat me like that. I answered all his questions. I feel intimidated and threatened by this individual. Are you someone who can help me with this matter?” I leave my work and home phone numbers.
If I haven’t learned anything else as a transsexual, it is a reaffirmation of the first thing you learn as a child playing dodge ball: ducking alone isn’t enough. You have to fire back now and then or no one will respect you.
Least of all, myself.
My next call is to Cecelia. Yes, Detective Hard Case tried getting in her face, too. Yes, she’ll get me the name of a good attorney from her attorney. No, she didn’t know about the LGBT advocate in the District Attorney’s Office. Yes, she’ll make the call and she’ll pass the number on to the other girls.
It feels good to fight back.
***
ONE OF THE CONDITIONS Marilee laid down was that I had to tell all to Camille because Camille is my counselor. “She can’t do her job if you hold out on her,” Marilee scolded me.
Camille’s normally placid demeanor evaporates as I confess. Her mouth opens, her eyes widen, a hand comes to her lips. I’ve never seen her react like this. It scares me.
“Bobbi!” she gasps. “You? You could do something like this?”
“I did chicken out at the end,” I say.
She shakes her head.
“Who have you told about this?”
“Just Marilee. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone else to have to deal with the guilt. Yesterday, it just came out during a chat. She registered me as a patient then made me promise to tell you. And she’d like you to call her.”
Camille is frozen in place, her hand still at her lips as if holding back something. She isn’t looking at me, isn’t talking. . I’m unsettled. Camille has been a counselor for a long time, and I know she’s dealt with all kinds of situations. For her to be so upset over this has me feeling like a monster.
“He was stalking me, Camille,” I say. “I didn’t have a choice othe
r than to die myself or get raped again. When I think about it rationally, it seems like I should have killed him. But I didn't. I’m not dangerous.”
She nods. “I know, Bobbi. Give me a minute.”
We struggle through the hour. She recovers her poise to ask most of the questions Marilee asked. She listens to my answers without expressing horror but it's obvious she's re-evaluating me, trying to decide if I'm some sort of sociopath beneath this transsexual veneer. We will talk again tomorrow. She’s still my counselor. But I don’t think she’ll ever see me the same way again.
Who would?
***
OFFICER PHIL CALLS my cell phone at 4:15. I startle as I read his name on my caller ID. Only a handful of people have my cell phone number, and he’s not one of them. Good God!
“That wasn’t the smartest thing you ever did, Bobbi,” he says. No “hi,” no introduction. He must be getting lessons from Cecelia.
“How did you get this number?” I shoot back.
“I’m a cop.”
“This number isn’t listed. Anywhere. How did you get it?” There’s an edge to my voice. I can feel perspiration dotting my brow.
“It doesn’t matter. You have bigger problems anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m on my way to the gym. I look up and down the street to see if a squadron of police cars is closing in to bust me.
“Complaining about Wilkins. He’s been taken off the Strand case and he’s angry. He has a long memory. Plus it makes us wonder about you.”
“What are you wondering?” My relief is palpable.
“We want to know what you have to hide.” For the first time there is real menace in Officer Phil’s voice.
“That makes me wonder if you’re all a bunch of bigots,” I fire back. I can feel my face flushing with anger. “I answered every stupid question. He treated me like slime. He called me by my male name, he called me a ‘shit-eating faggot’ and my friend a hooker. He threatened to have me quote 'butt-fucked by a bunch of niggers,' unquote, his words. If you think I should take that from him or you or anyone else you can forget it.”
“I’m just telling you as a friend to be careful,” says Phil.
“Thank you, Officer,” I say. “I’ll just share with you that I’m not in a mood to be careful and neither is anyone else in the community. We’re pissed off that Chicago’s finest stand around and scratch their balls when we get beaten up or murdered, and now when some straight rich guy gets it you want to accuse one of us. Wake up Phil. In the history of Chicago no trans person has ever killed anyone. You’re just a bunch of complacent bureaucrats who think you can kick us around and make one of us a scapegoat for a crime you're too lazy to investigate. We aren’t going to take it anymore. . And Phil, I don’t know what you think you’re pulling here, but you know and I know I’m not the only one who complained. I know at least six other girls did, too, and if you keep this crap up it’s going to be dozens. And if going to the District Attorney’s office doesn’t get you off our backs, we’ll go to the media. . So here’s my friendly advice to you Officer Phil, stop with the intimidation.”
He’s silent for a minute. “Okay, Bobbi, I’ve done what I can. You're a good person and I don't want to see you hurt. I'm just saying, don't provoke people.” He hangs up. . I try to ferret out the significance of his call. There was something about his voice, the concern he had, that made me think he had good intentions. I resolve to be more diplomatic with the new detectives on the case, though I don't think they'll be wasting time in Boystown on the Strand murder.
And frankly, even if they somehow prove I was there, I wouldn’t back down on this stuff anyway. I’m sick of being treated like a lesser human being.
***
MY ANGER MUST SHOW. No one wants to be my kickboxing partner tonight. The instructor has to hold my kicking dummy. I attack with newfound relish. After a week of languishing in guilt and doubt, I come to class with as much fury as I had in the beginning.
It feels surprisingly good. Rejuvenating.
Yes, thanks to Officer Phil, I may actually get a good night’s sleep tonight.
I catch a glimpse of Thomas after my class. As I stop at a drinking fountain I can see him in the free-weight area. He winks but doesn’t wave. I give him a small smile. We’ve put our friendship on hold for a few more months. I don’t want the police finding a connection between me and someone strong enough to beat up a thug in an alley, someone who could have delivered the coup de grace on Strand. We can re-connect when the Chicago PD stops sniffing around the trans community for suspects.
I miss Thomas. I miss having that kind of friend.
***
MY PASSION IS COMING back. We’re nearing the end of May and I've put my lingering fears of being targeted for Strand's murder in a separate compartment in my mind. I know it’s there. I pass the door to the compartment every day, and the one next to it where the image of me as a kidnapper with murderous intent lies. I know what’s inside these compartments. But I don’t go in them very often. I know what's there and what it says about me, and I keep moving on.
Of all my emotions that were suspended after I learned about Strand's murder, my passion for hair came back first. I can even tell you the exact time it came rushing back. It was a couple of weeks ago. Things had been getting a little better for me, mentally and emotionally anyway, and I had this nasty old lady come in for a new style. She bitched about everything. Her hair. The salon. Her life. Having a transsexual do her hair. Chicago being taken over by blacks and foreign-speaking Mexicans, Chinese, Indians, and so on.
I tuned her out and worked in silence. I didn’t really want her to come back, but I also didn’t want to be distracted by her jabbering. She was one of those ladies who, even in her mid-seventies, had beautiful thick hair in an elegant silver-gray color. Even though I had no use for her as a person, her hair was special and I fell in love with it as soon as I touched it.
I gave her a gorgeous bob, one of the best I’ve ever done. Precise, stylish. With a sassy angle moving forward, like a young movie starlet. It worked. She looked like a socialite heiress who still enjoys a good romp in bed, maybe with a youthful lover. I actually forgot for a moment what a nasty person she was. She did too. She actually smiled and said she loved it.
Maybe she’ll come back, maybe not. Angry people like her are really unpredictable. But from that time on, I have been back in the groove, enjoying my work, enjoying my customers.
This weekend has been a passion extravaganza. I’m in New York at the biggest hair show in the U.S. SuperGlam upped my deal. Not only am I on stage twice a day for their big shows, I also spend two hours a day at their exhibit doing updos on the floor where visiting hairdressers can cluster around and ask questions.
This has been the greatest gig ever.
My backcombing technique has gotten much better from all the coaching I’ve gotten from Evelyn and the hours of practice I’ve put in. I pull a lot of people into the booth. People see my “after” models posing in the area and see me turn a strand of flat, straight, limp hair into a puff in the blink of an eye, and they are hooked. Getting straight, fine healthy hair to hold a tease is one of the biggest challenges in hairdressing.
A few stop in to see what gender I am. I'm tall and broad shouldered, but I’m working in a hot mini-dress, fish net stockings, black platform sandals, and a revealing T-top. The gender mystery deepens when they hear my voice. I’m using a microphone and a single-amp speaker that’s just loud enough for my corner of the exhibit, and passersby catch a few syllables. Like my shoulders and my size, my voice doesn’t ring true. Some stop and watch, because even in New York transwomen as obvious as me are rarely seen in public. Some walk away faster for the same reason.
The ones who stay are fun. We have a running banter. They ask me where I’m from, how I got the idea for this or that style, how I lock in the backcombing, how I do my backcombing technique, what kind of customers I have in my own salon, do I dress like thi
s for work, are my colleagues okay with me being trans, how often do I do updos, what do I charge?
The time flies by.
As I finish my last show and start packing my tools, one of the ladies from the crowd lingers and approaches. I recognize her. She’s tall, maybe 5’-10” in flats, a trifle heavy but with a sexy bosom and a pretty face. She has short dark hair worn in a spiky fringe. It sets off a round face with full lips, pretty eyes, and a devilish smile.
“I loved watching you work,” she says, extending a hand for a handshake, “I’m Jen.”
I smile and shake her hand. She asked several questions while I worked. I remember liking her for her animated interest. “I enjoyed your questions,” I say.
“So who’s going to do your updo and get you out on the town tonight?” she asks. Her smile is warm and suggestive. I think she’s making a pass.
I'm so off-balance by her question I can only smile stupidly and shrug my shoulders.
“Can I take a shot at it?” she asks.
“I’d be flattered.” Words come to me at last.
“One condition,” says Jen. “Afterward you let me take you to dinner.”
Wow, twist my arm. In this city a hot dog and fries costs you a house and a firstborn. I smile and agree, sitting in the styling chair. Jen goes to work with my tools.
***
WE MAKE QUITE an entrance at a Soho restaurant. Me in a radical-chic updo formed from masses of curls and grand puffs of teased hair. I’m in a cocktail dress; it’s black, form-fitting, and stops a few inches above the knee—Fifth Avenue-sexy, even on me.
Jen did a costume change, too. She’s wearing a suit that is masculine but somehow projects her femininity at the same time. We are an odd couple, she being butch and me being girly in a lumberjack kind of way. . This being New York, we drew lots of stares. New Yorkers are uninhibited about these things. Jen enjoys the attention, she tells me. She dressed for it.