That don’t mean you can’t be pretty. That don’t mean you don’t already have a beautiful soul. Judy, I believe in you as a woman. I love you as a woman.
The transwoman blushed and said thank you.
And that’s a lovely white dress, said Francine.
Judy ran her finger around the rim of her glass, took a breath, chased her ice cube with the tiny red cocktail straw and asked: Have you seen Neva today?
2
It was almost midnight. Returning to the Reddy, she rang number 543 a second time, and no one buzzed her in, so she rang number 545.
Yes? came an insectoid distortion of Catalina’s voice.
It’s me, Judy—Neva’s friend . . .
The gratinged door made a bumblebee noise. Judy pulled it open and rushed upstairs, gloriously gleeful at being able to invade the unknown domicile of one of Neva’s women. She felt good because she looked good; she might even be nearly as pretty as a kiss-hematoma on our lesbian’s neck.
Catalina said: She goes out sometimes all night, so I don’t know—
Hi, said Judy.
Are you here for Neva or for me?
I’m trying to be a woman, and I want to be a lesbian.
Catalina smilingly said: I love trans people. My cousin is in the process right now, and that’s a whole story. But they, I mean, our family accepts them totally. And if you . . .
Do you love Neva?
I have no choice. Neither do you. Now why are you here?
I want to ask you: What if you had Neva’s power? Would you . . . ?
Catalina said: That sounds overwhelming. If I had like an actual power, I would wanna just erase the obstructions that men act this way and women act this way. I want men to be able to cry and there would be no more categories.
She yawned.—I think you’re not here for any reason, she continued. You made some excuse, in case Neva might come. But I have to work tomorrow in the supermarket. Goodnight, Judy.
Goodnight, Catalina. I mean, I, are you a lesbian?
The other woman nodded, waved once and closed the door. Judy went home and masturbated, thinking of Catalina. Long before her climax, Neva took over.
3
Mr. Khalid accepted her for the eleven a.m. shift at his Nepalese restaurant because that was where his probationers failed or not, with minimal risk to him. She arrived at ten-thirty, a hateful predawn hour which should never have been invented. What she heard first, last and in between was the singing hum of the fan in the fume hood over the grill. Mr. Khalid set her to sweeping the kitchen floor. Then he had her check the table settings. One knife and fork had switched places. Thus his standard trick, to monitor the carefulness of waitresses. Expecting to be tested, Judy spotted and corrected that anomaly.
Okay, said Mr. Khalid. You can eat.
Judy raided the buffet. Some things tasted strange, and many were fiery-spicy, but everything must be good for her. Why, how long had it been since she had eaten any vegetables? Proud of her new healthiness, she loaded up on salad and pickled plums.
What are you doing? demanded Mr. Khalid. Look now! Customer is here!
Judy leaped up. Nobody told her where to take her plate, so she left it there in hopes of nibbling at it. Above her dreamed a fat soapstone Buddha whose eyes had rolled up in his head like those of her ex-girlfriend Mikayla after she had smoked too much shatter. The noise of the fan increased in both pitch and volume.
Welcome, sir, said Judy. Please sit anywhere you like.
The customer picked a naugahyde booth. He sat down. Judy darted off to fetch the pitcher of water.—No, said the customer. I want beer.
Here’s our list, said Judy.
Taj Mahal, he said. Big size.
Judy rushed off to tell Mr. Khalid.
No Taj Mahal today, he said.
Returning to her customer, Judy said: I’m sorry, sir, but we just ran out. What’s your second choice?
Oh, forget it, he said. Give me water.
Now the air conditioner began throbbing loudly in a series of sickly strainings that tired Judy. The lights appeared to flicker, although when she glared at them straight on they turned into steady planetoids.
Here you go, sir, she said. Now have you decided?
The customer looked her up and down. He shouted: Hey, you, Khalid!
Yes, Mr. Mansoorian, he said, whitehaired and white-shirted.
What do you mean, sending this he-she over here? You serve me yourself. Get this faggot away from me.
Judy smiled and stiffened.
4
Being nearly as unjealous as I, the retired policeman initially felt more than pleased with his sweetheart’s new confidence, and once actually said: Judy, you’re not only more feminine, but sometimes I even think you might amount to something—not like you’d pass your pussy polygraph; but whatever, bitch, whatever.—Needless to say, his praise delighted her, so she went on doing what she was doing—the perfect course, all of us would have said, except just maybe for the fact that what she was doing differed from what her patron and master supposed. Just as her namesake once married the known homosexual Vincente Minnelli in order, runs her biography, so that she could continue to have romantic flings with other men without feeling any guilt, so the transwoman began to erect a cloud-high dream castle of passions, employing the retired policeman as her safe cornerstone. And he began to get out of bed more; he hobbled all the way to the liquor store and back, as if he were five years younger!
They went to see Phantom of the Opera at the Castro Theatre, and while she sat there in the dark holding his hand she wished some monster would carry her away just as in the story. As it was, Neva would be her lucky star. The lights came on, and the organist took a bow. When everyone else began applauding, the retired policeman put his hand on her ass and said: Bend over like a good little bitch.—She did, and he clapped away: both palms on both buttocks. A gay couple raised their eyebrows. Now he was really whaling on her; somebody laughed and three boys grew uncomfortable and an old man proposed calling the police; it was almost as wonderful as the crowds and lines that waited to stare at Judy Garland and Andy Rooney in New York after The Wizard of Oz. But then he started getting those neuropathic pains in his legs, so she caught them a taxi and helped him upstairs. Soon she was unlacing his shoes and pulling off his pants while he lay on the bedspread, groaning with misery. Promising to be right back, she clipclopped over to the Y Bar to borrow three codeine pills from Francine.—Judy, he said, you’re the best girlfriend I’ve ever had, and I mean that.
She sobbed happily.
No, take one for yourself, he said grandly. Pour us each a triple to . . . First I’m going to chew mine up; I’m—oh, goddamn my fucking legs! Lie down next to me, Judy. Put your head on me. That’s . . . that’s so . . . No, pour me another shot.
That thrilled her . . .—and in time she even got to hear from both Victoria and Shantelle that some of us (I, for instance) envied her for the durability of that particular arrangement.—What’s your secret, girl? inquired Francine.
The transwoman thought awhile.—Because I’m never dissatisfied, I—
Because you know you’re a worthless stinking bitch! said Shantelle. Francine, honey, fill me up—two ice cubes max. And top off her poison. Judy, you skanky-ass crybaby, I’m teasin’ you! I’m pullin’ your fat old hairy old leg! I’m—
So you’re buying Judy a drink or not? said Francine.
You fuckin’ heard me.
Well well. Six and seven, and then you want extra Peachy Keen instead of ice? Yeah? So that’s three, so it comes to sixteen dollars.
Oh yeah? Then here’s twenty, and keep the change, because you know what? You’d better start saving for a face lift.
Francine looked sore. Then she laughed. Judy clinked glasses with Shantelle. Then the lesbian came in, deploying a hundred-dollar bill.
5
You’re drinking a lot, he said.
So are you.
Look, Judy, I don’t give a shit about your liver; I’m just curious as to how you can pay your tab.
Shantelle bought me a drink today.
Tell me another one.
But she did!
Why not? Everyone makes mistakes. And one stinkin’ drink was all you had?
She looked away.
Hey, bitch. You look at me. Now what about Neva?
She . . .
She’s dating you, so she’s paying you. Right?
J. D., I swear—
Shut up, he said. He sat up to recommence some of his world-renowned drinking and thinking, while she knelt before him, awaiting orders.
No, he said happily. There has to be some kind of fraud.
Why?
Because there always is. For instance, when you lie to me—
Honey, I only—
No. You cheat on me and steal from my wallet just because you can. We’re all the same. Don’t tell me Neva’s not one of us.
She isn’t! You don’t know her.
Not like you do! How big’s her tongue? All right, Sherlock. What’s your shitty little hypothesis?
She . . . She doesn’t want anything.
From you? Come on. What does she want?
To make me happy, said his lover with dignity. He burst out laughing.
6
Neva has no parents, she told him.
Did she run away from home or bump them off?
They died.
Expressing nearly as much affect as a headless seated figure enveloped in stone robe-folds, he said: Let me guess. In a car crash. That’s the usual story.
Don’t you pick on her! I don’t have parents, either.
Of course you do. It’s just that they hate you for being a faggot, Frank.
Please don’t call me that name.
But that’s your legal name. You just get through life by lying about it.
I’m Judy now. My name is Judy!
Whatever. And your parents are dead and rotting, except that they live at 73241 Jacinto Way in Oxnard. Fish out that phone from between your phony she-male tits and call ’em up. I dare you.
I don’t want to.
All right, Frank. Let’s say they died in a car crash. Holding hands, when some big fat homosexual broadsided their bathwagon—
She burst into tears. Laughing, he took her by the ears and pulled her head into his lap. She began to suck his penis mechanically. He closed his eyes, waiting to feel something.
7
And she bears the women’s mark, she said. I promised never to tell you—
Then she wanted me to know, right? Who keeps secrets worse than you? So what the fuck’s a—
Only a woman can see it. And what it looks like, well, it’s kind of a little—
Stop. You saw it?
Yes, she said.
But you’re not a woman, Frank, so don’t that invalidate her bullshit?
I’m a woman.
Because Neva says so? And she buys you drinks. And she buys everyone drinks. What’s the fuckin’ world coming to? Now this witch mark, is it (lemme guess) a spiral, a fish, a Venus symbol or a—
A triangle, point down, with a—
Vertical line inside it. Right? Do you have any idea how old that game is?
8
Just as the lesbian in childhood could not bear to consider who she was, which is to say what was being done to her, so Judy had never constructed what the rest of us would call an independent self. The memory-stories of Sandra and Erin helped her; she could never get enough of little girls! (Even Judy Garland professed to believe in little-girl fairytales whenever she was corseted up.) And since Judy’s heart’s desire was girlhood, she cunningly pretended to babyness.
Until Neva’s appearance she had existed most vividly when seen through the contemptuously titillated gazes of others. But now that she possessed the beginning of a secret (the secret of happiness), she needed to conceal it in order to better cherish it, so she felt a vague drive to sequester herself. The petty impersonal dishonesties by means of which we all lived at the Y Bar, stealing each other’s pills, intercepting dates and paying out malicious accusations for what we hoped was true gossip, had in her case remained transparent or at least translucent to others—for how could a young girl more deliciously humiliate herself than to ensure that her friends’ parents caught her pulling down her pants? Had her frauds ever attained to slick proficiency, she would have missed out on the thrill of punishment. But as her Judy-ness finally began to cohere, she needed to feel it, in order to better believe in it. Around all of us she grew ever so slightly more quiet; that was all. Around the retired policeman she had behaved carelessly; now he was sniffing after her all the time, but so what? He could go fuck himself, because she had Neva, Neva, Neva!
She awoke so happy and confident, on account of Neva, that it seemed right to take herself out for coffee. Moreover, she had the day free, since Mr. Khalid had politely let her go. (She ran to Neva, who comforted her with a hundred-dollar bill.) That afternoon she might or might not apply to be a clerk at the Pack’N’Grin.—Smiling as widely as she could (and sweating with anxiety), she ordered whatever would taste sweetest—a buttered double chocolate latte with coconut syrup—and the middle-aged Chinese behind the counter, who looked to own the place, dropped the change in her hand from a distance of two inches. Well, that’s just how Asians are—extra clean, said the transwoman to herself. Who can blame them, when that’s how they are and I’m disgusting?—Once her dark and sugary drink appeared, she thanked the barista, who did not reply, and carried it to a long high table. She set her purse at her feet. Almost at once an elegant young woman whose T-shirt celebrated the technology company Smargle approached the adjacent seat.—Let me know if my bag’s in your way, said the transwoman, wishing so much to prove that she was good and decent and friendly.—I will, said the woman. She sat down, arranged herself, then said, as if she were bestowing some favor: You’re fine.
Now the transwoman was feeling the tiniest bit humiliated.
The young woman from Smargle said: Excuse me, but I see my friend. Would you mind moving, please?
But, said Judy, this chair was free, and you said—
Wrinkling her nose, the young woman said: I don’t have anything against the homeless. But you need a bath.
Judy turned red. She gulped her coffee and stood up. The young woman was calling to her friend: Lainey, Lainey! Over here! This seat has just opened up.
There being no other seat, Judy stood before the counter, wondering whether she was obligated to order another coffee as the price of taking up space. The young woman and her friend were talking about something intellectual. Judy stood eavesdropping:
When Louise Allen talks about lesbian idolification . . .
But when Judith Butler writes about what it means to her to speak as a lesbian—
. . . If there is actually such a thing as consumption of cultural reproduction—
Well, did Judy Garland perform our sexuality or not?
Escaping from that place, then not knowing what else to do, she crossed the street to the station, bought a ticket and boarded the underground train. It was commuter time. Seeking a niche where she would not overly obtrude herself on others, she swam between two women, at whom she politely avoided looking, then reached up and across them to grab hold of a sticky wooden bar. Wondering whether she could someday really truly, as Neva had intimated, learn to resemble the tall and mannish tennis star Martina Navratilova, whose sweaty light hair flew up whenever she slammed the tennis racket forward in her big hand, the transwoman felt pride and pleasure in her own grip. Now the train began to hiss and hoot along. At the next station, a crowd oozed in like a syrupy collo
id whose elbows, briefcases and purses resembled broken objects of a flood’s intentions, and so a short young woman had to place herself below the transwoman’s arm. She looked uneasy. Judy wondered: Is it my imagination, or do I stink, or is there something about me that’s just ick?—To distract herself, she looked leftward, discovering a pretty woman who stood squished in place, within touching distance as a matter of fact, and her pink young ear glistened and shone so deliciously that Judy entertained herself by imagining licking its inside whorls, round and round, devouring every atom of wax that she could; this restored her to good spirits, and at the next stop she squeezed her way out, with many an unacknowledged excuse me.
I must actually stink, she told herself. That’s why nobody’s nice. I should be dead.
But she did not want to feel dead.
She decided not to try out at the Pack’N’Grin. Piggy’s Pack and Ship was hiring at ten dollars an hour, under the table. Xenia had charitably shared this intelligence. The transwoman, whose own public demeanor expressed a certain waxiness, which many people found more repellent than pathetic, making her all the more isolated, forced herself into the attempt, flushing red even before the manager said: Judy, we’ve filled the position.
So she continued down her quotidian career path. In other words, she asked the retired policeman for money.
He pulled off his spectacles.—How much do you need?
I don’t know; I’m sorry; I’m sorry!
Will you default on the rent again?
Maybe. Unless—
Unless you put more life into those blow jobs. And you know what? Your breath stinks.
Actually, I feel like I stink all over, and that’s why people—
Gimme a goddamned break. You hit me up for money, and I also have to be your psychiatrist? Judy, why don’t you move in with me?
You mean, you still want me?
Yeah.
Even even after I . . . ?
Shut up.
But, J. D., the thing is—
You do stink. All over. Get down on your hands and knees and crawl. I mean it. Crawl around like a fat little Judy bug. You ugly cockroach!—her thighs quivering as he spanked her.—Here’s eighty dollars. That’s all I’ve fucking got. Scuttle off and spend it on your Neva bitch.
The Lucky Star Page 20