I’ll be listening in on your first three phoners. And then I’ll e-mail a full report to Marketing. You’re being timed as of now. You’d better get your headset on. Come on, Judy—chop, chop!
The auto dialler had already rung up the first prospect. Judy’s screen read HAGGERTY SAM / BRIANNA.
Hello? said a woman’s voice.
Um, is this Brianna Haggerty? said Judy. My name is Judy, and I’m calling on behalf of Kaiser Financial Services. I’m very excited to tell you about our new Schlieffen Plan—
The woman hung up. Miserable and embarrassed, Judy stared at the screen, which now read MARQUEZ IÑEZ / EVA.
Hello? said a woman.
Hi, said Judy. Um, I’m trying to contact Ms. Marquez on behalf of Kaiser—
Who’s this?
My name is Judy, and I’m calling on behalf of Kaiser Financial Services. I’m very—
What are you trying to sell me?
You see, Ms. Marquez, I’m very excited to tell you about our new Schlieffen Plan—
What? What the fuck are you talking about?
Well, my name is Judy, and I—
The woman hung up. Judy was close to tears, and already the screen was reading WONG TIFFANY.
This is Tiffany, said a no-nonsense voice.
Oh, hi, Tiffany; my name is Judy, and I’m calling on behalf of Kaiser Financial Services. I’m very excited to—
Are you a broker? asked Tiffany. Because I already have two brokers. I fire them all the time.
Not exactly, Judy admitted. I’m—
So you are a broker. As I said, I keep two of you around. Not just one, but two. So what can you possibly do for me?
Ms. Wong, I’m just here to inform you about our new opportunity.
So you’re not a broker. You’re just some peon cold calling me on behalf of this Kaiser Financial whatever. Are you even in America? You sound like you’re calling from the Philippines or something. Were you born in this country?
Yes, I was, said Judy. And, Tiffany—
Do not call me Tiffany. Do not ever call me again. Enter me on your do-not-call list right away; do you hear me?
Okay, said Judy. And I’m really really sorry—
Kendra pressed a button to disconnect the call. She appeared angry; Judy could not imagine why. Flinging both hands imperiously away from her head, she made herself comprehended: the transwoman pulled off her headphones and waited for punishment.
Judy, her tormentor began, what did you do wrong?
I . . . Well, on the first one maybe I didn’t put enough sincerity into my voice—
What else?
I thought I did a really good job on the second one, but—
But you failed. She hung up on you, Judy! That’s called failure. You had three failures in a row, and I’m going to have to write you up. Your last one was by far the worst. Judy, do you realize that you apologized for calling that woman, as if you were ashamed?
But what should I have said? She—
What should you have said? Did you or did you not waste all three sales prospects?
Well, I actually think they just weren’t interested. Because the first one said—
Judy, are you talking back to me? Clueless I can work with, but not insubordinate.
I’m sorry. I mean, I’m really—
In the world of sales, sorry doesn’t cut it, Kendra explained. Now get your headphones back on and work up your conviction. We’re going to jump right back up on that horse that threw us and—
No, said Judy, standing up.
Excuse me?
I quit. I’m sorry for all the . . . Goodbye!
Judy, you’re terminated, said Kendra into the collective silence of that call center whose every other pawn longed to do what Judy had just done. Nobody dared to look at her, but she knew herself to be the heroine of the minute. Perhaps it felt like this to be Shantelle and smash a bottle over somebody’s head. It felt, as Shantelle might have said, fuckin’ GOOD. And as soon as she was in the street, Judy raised her clenched fist and screeched with happiness.
Of course she proceeded straight to the Y Bar, where Sandra was informing Francine: He’s just somebody I met, so I haven’t seen him all that much, so, no, he’s not a teacher or a student or anything like that. I don’t want it to progress but I’m afraid that if I don’t see someone I’ll just get lonely again.
Running her hand through Sandra’s hair, the new arrival inquired: You’re talking about Louis, aren’t you?
Judy, would you mind? You’re messing up my hair. And I was having a private talk with Francine—
Guess what? I’m gonna buy you both a bigass drink, because I just quit and got fired at the same time from that stinking job—
Thank you, Judy. That’s very generous. Now could you please . . . ?
Where’s Neva?
I don’t know where Neva is. (Judy had never heard Sandra so annoyed.)
Hey, Francine! cried Shantelle, rising up out of the darkness. Turn up the TV. I wanna—
Now for Golden State news, said the television. A lesbian woman was assaulted by five people at a Krisp-O Chicken restaurant in Fresno.
Lesbian woman? said Shantelle. What the fuck’s wrong with lesbian?
If it doesn’t progress or deepen or something like that, I don’t know, said Sandra, and I am so terrified that Louis will just get frustrated.
Twenty-eight-year-old Melody Richards said she and her girlfriend had just ordered a double Fun Fryer when they were accosted by five other customers who began taunting her girlfriend Jordan, who—
I know that bitch! Shantelle boasted.
—prefers not to share her last name with us.—They said, you know, I had to keep my dyke ho bitch in check and like that, Richards told reporters. When she began defending Jordan . . .
Oh, my God, said Francine.
Oh, this is awful, said Sandra.
What? said Judy. What happened?
The group began pushing, shoving and punching Richards, knocking out several teeth and permanently injuring her right eye. Jordan said she struggles to keep her composure when she looks at her partner. It makes me want to cry every single time I look at her, Jordan said.
Maybe I actually don’t know her, said Shantelle. Francine, would you top me off?
Seven dollars.
This is so terrible, said Sandra. I feel like we should do something.
The two women told reporters that the lack of help from bystanders made the situation worse. It makes me fear just to walk down the street, Richards said. Fresno police have classified the attack as a hate crime.
Judy burst into tears and said: It should have happened to me instead, because I’m worthless. Sandra, honey, don’t you think I’m worthless?
7
Did you have fun with your bitch?
Hell, yeah!
What did you talk about? Or were you too busy chewing her oyster to . . . ?—and she saw in the set of his lips and the shining of his eyes his jealous anguish.
She said she’s an only child—
And when you do things to her, and she does things to you . . . , he began, almost crazed with grief, then sat down, massaging his chest. She knew better than to say anything. (Sometimes she wondered whether it would be more sensible just to stay home and masturbate than to keep seeing Neva. Like me, she was already foreseeing the end.)—But now she brought him back into control: Out of her purse came a fifth of Old Crow.
Well, he said, leaning painfully toward her; she closed the gap, so that he could kiss her.
Rising, she washed two glasses. He was already fumbling under the cushion for that baggie of bright green Narcodan pills.
She poured out the shots, while he gave them each two tablets to chew on.
All right, Judy, my sexy little eyes
and ears; what do you have for me?
Her driver’s license—
Oh.—With a licked forefinger and a scrap of napkin he cleaned the screen of her cell phone. Then he got that fat black heavy ballpoint pen of his, with the nearly effaced silver lettering from Dreamsavers Credit Union.
Nice picture, he said. Neva’s got glam even on a fuckin’ ID card. Karen Strand. No Neva. Well, that checks out. Date of birth, 1986. Do you believe that? She don’t look like twenty-nine. Maybe twenty-five. And the thing about her age is . . .
Is what?
How old do you imagine she really is?
Twenty-nine? Twenty-five?
Well, why does that stink? If you only knew what I knew! . . . Let me write down this shit—
And look here! she proudly crooned. Surprise!
Where was it?
Behind the first one.
Her old driver’s license, so fuckin’ what? Same picture, which is . . . Date of birth, 1964. Judy, you’re a good dog. Let’s hear you bow-wow.
Bow-wow! she chirped delightedly.
Want a treat?
Woof-woof!
My favorite degraded bitch! Did you know she actually was born in 1964?
But, J. D., how could she—
Exactly. So imagine her hooked up to a polygraph, maybe with a big dildo up her ass for local color, and you on the other end . . . What about cash?
What?
I said, what about her fucking cash? Where is it? Don’t tell me it’s all in that crappy little sealskin pouch. Next time she’s bending you across her bed, feel under the mattress!
I don’t know if it’s there. And if she catches me—
All right. She gives everybody pills, right? Every night’s fuckin’ Christmas at Karen Strand’s—
Maybe she doesn’t like that name.
A name’s just a name, Frank. But some names are true.
Humiliated in Skirts
I don’t associate Frances Gumm with me—she’s a girl I can read about the way other people do. I, Judy Garland, was born when I was twelve years old.
JUDY GARLAND, 1951
This thing that you are is a sin against creation . . . I shall never be able to look at you now without thinking of the deadly insult of your face and your body to the memory of the father who bred you . . . In that letter you say things that may only be said between man and woman, and coming from you they are vile and filthy words of corruption—against nature, against God who created nature. My gorge rises; you have made me feel physically sick . . .
RADCLYFFE HALL, 1928
1
Of course even Judy, who pretended to remember the first moon landing and sometimes liked to tell stories about her flitterdancing years when Tenderloin Tessie, none of whose pubic hairs had yet turned from gold to silver, was the hostess at the 222 Club, had herself been almost young, once upon a time, and before that she had even been pretty just as a young woman is; before that, which is to say before Steve became Stephanie and Karen turned into Neva, there lived in Cleveland a certain Air Force lieutenant’s son named Frank Masters who dated girls to get his parents off his back but made sure that the dates went nowhere: I can still see sad, wholesome Christine, tall, thin, boring and bespectacled; she compromised and more, but never achieved carnality. Born in 1966, the year when Judy Garland said: I think I’m interesting; I have a perspective about me; I’d like to expose a lot of people who deserve it, he tried to be as demure as Judy Garland smoothing out her dark blue sailor suit, but never got good enough.
When he was eleven he began playing doctor with Christine and Roxanne and the other Stephanie who had been born female; at sixteen he got initiated by nineteen-year-old Don, who was sometimes secretly Denise and dreamed of visiting Dr. Morrow, who six weeks after Don’s twenty-first birthday would sell Denise the best lady parts she could ever own; it was Denise who gave Frank a special copy of Dr. Morrow’s circular:
To the typical female, whether genetic or transsexual, the most important sexual organ is the clitoris.
Frank was not certain what a clitoris was. He felt too ashamed to ask Denise. Meanwhile Dr. Morrow continued:
Don’t be satisfied simply to have a hole which can serve as a vagina for sexual intercourse.
Just as the twelve-year-old Judy Garland could already sing as if she were a woman whose heart had been hurt, so Judy’s half-born namesake knew how to live hurt-hearted, longing to be so sweet and vanilla and smooth in her spanglebra, spanglepanties and long black wristguards, and if possible darkhaired with a black choker buckled tight around her throat, but above all slender, tall and young. (He assured Christine: Sleeping Beauty is my favorite princess of all time.) Born too early in too hulking a body to ever emulate the half-boyish look of kd lang, Frank clutched at the rich femininity of Dolly Parton, which could practically be eaten like ice cream. Yes, he clutched, but that grand tree upraised its branches; such fruit was not, or at least not yet, for him. And so young Judy felt lost in her youth, outspreading her big pale fingers against the wall. She kept whispering out of Frank’s lips: If I could only be somebody . . .
Who can say why this withdrawn, dishonest little boy was not hostile, in which case his lies, then his threats, might have matured into rape and murder? Fortunately for society, he was self-hating like Karen Strand.
Frank saved up his allowance to buy Family in Skirts, She Humiliated Me in Skirts and Panty Discipline, which arrived in beige envelopes whose return address was Specialty Productions, Los Angeles; he masturbated to a grainy photo of a stern tall T-girl in a black corset who was whipping a man’s hairy bottom; meanwhile he kept worshipping Judy Garland, whom Time magazine called one of the more reliable song-pluggers in the business; he wanted a girlfriend who looked like her. His father, whose ignorance had until now been a blessing, punished him for wearing lace panties which he had stolen from the neighbor’s clothesline; as a veteran of degradation (which was usually inflicted either in the garage or the basement, because the father himself felt sickened while doing it, by the cowering boy, his sobs, his naked bottom and then his hideous screams), Frank anticipated the pain, his throat tightening with fear as they went downstairs; the worst part, even more unpleasant than pulling down his pants before his father and the avid listening silence of his mother upstairs, was the hard cruel revulsion etched on his father’s face; then his father commenced beating him deeper and deeper down into a furry sack of darkness until Frank had thankfully lost sight of himself; and nearly half a century later, long after his parents had retired to Oxnard, California, and the lesbian had died, with the Y Bar sold into smithereens and Shantelle in another bad place (remembering that night in the multileveled parking garage in Los Angeles where her second virginity had been taken from her by four teenaged black boys who afterward at least did her the favor of calling her a red-hot niggah), on a certain foggy Thursday afternoon when Judy, as Judy, was helping her widowed mother clean the house for the real estate agent, she found the device her father had required for what the mother called a “prostate massage”; there came an instant when she nearly ran ravening to punch her big fists through windows and then throw the dildo in her mother’s face; instead, because Judy was raised to meekly please, she sighed and dropped it into the garbage bag. Speaking of garbage, when Tales from the Pink Mirror entered the mailbox, Frank (who now preferred to be called Frankie) was still at band practice, and unfortunately the envelope was torn.—What is this shit? his father roared. What the hell is wrong with you, you goddamned little pervert? This time I’m really going to beat it out of you, at which Frankie looked up into his mother’s face, not in hopes of help, which was hardly likely to come his way, but simply because he had been wondering what she felt on these occasions; her composed yet vaguely excited face was the most literally sickening thing that he had ever seen. That was when he graduated from being stripped and whipped to bein
g punched in the face and chest. Both parents could hardly contain their loathing for him then, on account of his high-pitched effeminate screams. Fortunately, in place of creepy Christine he now had a girlfriend named Marjorie who loved him so much that she agreed to receive future packets from Specialty Productions. In the mimeographed catalogue accompanying Schoolgirl in the Secret Service he discovered an advertisement for a Hip Helper. Watch him marvel at your great new shape. Thinking it peculiar that no her would marvel, Frankie swore the delighted Marjorie to secrecy, then asked her opinion on a strictly hypothetical experiment. She very sweetly replied that if he were to model for her in his Hip Helper, she would utter nothing but compliments. Just as they were completing the mail order form (again Marjorie agreed to take delivery), her little brother Marvin came in without knocking, hoping that Frankie would join a three-part game of Chinese checkers. The boy was incurious; he didn’t even notice the brochure about female mimics: These lusty ladies will have you throbbing with desire. Order today! Longing to take Marvin’s penis in his mouth, then blushing and feeling sick, Frankie played one hasty game, then returned to Marjorie’s bedroom where she sat giggling over his catalogue. Now: Padded Bikini panties in stretch lace and stretch tricot. Available with Derriere Pads.
The next time Marjorie presented him with a beige envelope, he knew that she hoped for him to open it in front of her, in order to continue being included in his joyful secret, but he apologized, invoked schoolwork, rushed home, leaped into bed (his father was at work and his mother at the grocery store), then masturbated to Fated for Femininity. Afterward he thought: I love Marjorie. I really do. She’s the only one doesn’t call me a freak. Someday I’ll marry her. But I sure would like to meet a girl who favors Judy Garland; I wouldn’t care even if she had a male organ or . . .
His parents happily, even gratefully gave him permission to stay out late with Marjorie. He overheard his mother saying: Thank God he’s growing out of it—
He took Marjorie to a vampire movie in which the leading lady somehow resembled Judy Garland. Marjorie fell sweetly asleep on his shoulder. That was when he realized that she bored him.
The Lucky Star Page 25