The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  Pitying the taxpayers of Illinois, the prison doctor disallowed the estrogen pills that she had been swallowing since her nineteenth birthday, with the result that the aforesaid Judy Garland, whose legal name remained Frank Masters, watched her breasts melting away, her skin roughening and her face breaking out with stubble. To help her readjust to inborn biology, they housed her with men, who raped her day and night. By the time of her second suicide attempt the Department of Rehabilitation could well have congratulated itself on upholding reality; as for her lovers, one of them said: I guess you’re learning to like it, bitch.—He was right, as was the retired policeman when he for his part eventually convinced himself that he had made the transwoman who she was (why, she even glowed at his success!), because by then she felt most like a woman when things were done to her.

  9

  I was on my fourth rum and sodapop when she first encountered Shantelle, who instantly reminded her of the old ALL COLOR HARDCORE catalogue (stored in Marjorie’s closet) of AGGRESSIVE WOMEN WHO DEMAND TO MEET YOU! In payment for the occasional opportunity to be called, however sneeringly, and at the additional cost of degradation, abuse and violence, a female, or even just a stinking he-she with no right to flourish, Judy had long since given over every other valuable thing she owned: her childhood, her parents and much older sister who now all denied her, her name, such friends as she once used to have, and the list goes on like Francine’s inventory of cheap liquor now watered down and drunk so that replacements could be ordered—and it was only now, with this goddess called Shantelle, that Judy saw the possibility, like a nickel shining on a sidewalk, of being able to be her new self, without further cost, and with maybe even a gain, by snatching back broken rotten bones of what no longer belonged to her, while Shantelle conveniently ignored all that, having more worthwhile projects locked and loaded in her high-capacity cranium.

  Jittering somewhere between tipsy and shitfaced, the transwoman now announced to all of us: Well, my dream was always to be on television. I used to study so hard, hoping I could make the cut and be on a quiz show. But the truth is that I’d like to be Judy Garland. If I could look and act like her, I wouldn’t mind dying like her. I want everyone to see me and think of happy endings.

  Shantelle grinned and said: I’ll bet it pays pretty fuckin’ well, bein’ a star, even some shitty little TV star.

  I don’t care about the money. I just want the experience, said Judy, her desire as vertical and easily read as the Odd Fellows sign on Market Street.

  What experience? You ever been on television? You ever starred in a movie? You ever done a single fuckin’ thing?

  That’s not so nice, said the transwoman. I’d thought maybe you want to play. Well, you know what? I—I’m not going to play with you.

  Hey, Francine! Hey!

  Hey what? Why on earth is everyone in such a goddamn hurry?

  Pour Judy more poison, and I want a Cola and rye.

  That’s not your usual.

  Fuck you. Then gimme a Peachy Keen over ice.

  Seven dollars.

  It should be six.

  Well, it isn’t. Do you want to order or not?

  Whatever.

  Whatever don’t signify zippo to me.

  Here’s your stinkin’ seven dollars. Now, Judy, since I just bought you a drink we’re friends again.

  All right.

  And I’m gonna call you honey.

  Thank you. I mean, that’s really really nice—

  Honey, don’t every girl in this joint put on her own look?

  Sure. Every girl’s got her own face—

  But you don’t. You got Judy Garland’s face.

  Do you really think so? Oh, thank you, thank you!

  So you put on the Judy Garland, and Xenia does the Xenia, and Francine gets steamed up over Martina Navratilova. Now what about me?

  What about you? I mean, who do you want to be?

  I could care less. What I’m askin’ you, Judy, is what kind of face should I put on?

  For what?

  For money.

  You don’t need to think like that. You’re beautiful. I’d give anything to be as beautiful as you. Oh, Jesus, I’d give anything.

  What are you fuckin’ cryin’ for now?

  I don’t understand why you should come to me for advice. There’s lots of smarter prettier women you could talk to. I’m just nothing, and you’re someone who’s going places. You and Xenia both perform at the Pink Apple! Honestly, I . . . Do you really not know who you want to be?

  Oh, forget it. I’ll get me some black, black lipstick and vamp up my eyes until they scream.

  Did I hurt your feelings? I’m sorry. I never meant to—

  My feelings, honey? That’s rich.

  There’s a ninety-nine-cent store that sells black lipstick—

  I think I’ll put on my own Judy Garland. What do you say?

  Go ahead. There’s enough Judy for everyone.

  Well, you’re different. I thought I’d get a rise out of you.

  I have a book of pictures you could see. They’re all her. So when you’re thinking about dresses and doing your makeup—

  How long have you been into that shit?

  Since I was a kid. I mean . . . And it’s not shit. And I . . . What about you?

  What about me what?

  I mean, will you please please tell me a story about when you were a little girl?

  Honey, are you a retard or just bone dumb?

  Please, will you tell me? Pretty please, Shantelle; I swear I’ll be so grateful . . .

  All right, honey. Well, I remember feelin’ different. When I was really really young in a sandbox I remember knowin’ that I was different from them. Then a little girl thought I was a boy and I told her I was so I would get what I wanted. So we ended up in a closet kissin’. At age five! And at five I seduced a little four-year-old into bed and we was rollin’ around and they caught us and separated us, even though we were in the same house.

  Oh, I wish I could have rolled around with you . . . !

  And I remember standin’ in line with my aunt at a burrito place when I was really little and there was men standin’ around just doing what I was doing, and I remember relatin’ to them and feelin’ weird about them and knowin’ I was not supposed to feel that way. And I thought that because of the media or whatever stereotypes, women gotta dress more male to get women. When I was older and became a woman, hittin’ my nineteen, twenty-one, twenty-two, it became, no, I wanna wear makeup, sexy bras, play with my femininity. But I’m very in tune with both sides of me, and I . . .—Where do you live?

  At Post and Jones. We can go right now if you want.

  You’d bring me right into your home?

  Cross my heart I would. You’re being so nice to me.

  Francine, baby, would you pour Judy another and top me off?

  What do you mean, top you off? A shot is a shot regardless.

  All I want’s a couple more drops of rye in my drink, because you put too much ice in it. I didn’t even ask for ice and now it’s fuckin’ watery. Just a finger’s worth of rye, right here in the same glass, and I’ll even pay you two dollars.

  Wait until I rinse out Al’s glass.

  No, right now, bitch. Here’s your stinkin’ five dollars.

  You call me a bitch and I’ll throw your drink in your face.

  I didn’t mean it. It’s just that time of the month.

  I’ll bet you haven’t had a period since your great-granddaughter quit pooping out monkeys. Now look at me, Shantelle. You see this baseball bat? You ever disrespect me again and I’ll knock your teeth out, bitch. What do you say now? I’ll tell you what to say! Say: I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry. And you know what? Now I kind of like you.

  Fine. Let’s make nice. Here’s two straight sho
ts of rye, on the house. So we’re friends, right?

  Right, bitch! laughed Shantelle, throwing her glass at the barmaid’s head.

  Francine ducked and leveled her bat. The culprit doubled her fists. Judy was thrilled. And the retired policeman, who’d been sitting in the corner glowering at her for disrespecting him yesterday, stood up wearily to protect and serve: All right, Shantelle. You’d better go before she calls the law on you. That’s right. Just go.

  Shantelle spat on the floor, picked up her purse and walked out. In the doorway she turned around and stuck out her tongue. How she ever patched it up with Francine I never learned. (When I asked her, she explained: I’m that bad penny they talk about that just keeps coming back and back!)—Just now we supposed that she would be eighty-sixed forever. The transwoman, worried that it might somehow be her fault, burst into tears. At the same time she felt very, very excited.

  Hey, J. D., she said. Let’s kick back at your place.

  The retired policeman shook his head.

  Are you telling me it’s over? Oh, God! And I’ve been so kind to you . . . !

  Melba gives better blow jobs, he said, and we all laughed; even Francine couldn’t help but chuckle at our favorite self-hating transgender clown.

  Having scored her social triumph, Judy decided to go home for a good cry. She stopped at the corner market to pick up a family-sized bag of potato chips, a carton of cigarettes, a shrink-packed hot dog whose expiration date fell sometime during the still unimagined administration of President Trump, a fifth of Old Sailor, a pint of Old Crow for the retired policeman (whose memories were as dark and cold as the breasts of a bronze woman) and a two-liter bottle of SugarAid. Possessing all those treasures improved her mood. And at the corner of Post and Jones, Shantelle was waiting.

  That was how they became special friends. Being Shantelle’s special friend was special, all right, like thrusting one’s hand into a crocodile’s mouth. It worked out as in a fairytale.

  10

  Whenever the transwoman got teary-eyed over Judy Garland, this excited other women into their own tears; they valued her for this. And Shantelle did teach herself to declaim those famous words of Judy Garland’s: That’s what I’m supposed to be, a legend. In the end she decided to model her own look after Michelle Obama’s. The next step was to turn against Judy, who practically pissed herself for humiliation; it was almost as good as show night.

  After the departure of her next special friend Letitia, Judy grew literally half paralyzed with grief and dread. But then there came that certain wide old drag queen named Selene, who could have been a cement statue of herself, the way she raised one gloved arm in a wave like a cigar store Indian’s; behind her sat the lesbian.

  11

  Loving truth, Judy hoped that Neva would without being asked know to put her tongue as far into her mouth as it would go. Meanwhile she worried that Neva might despise her once she really knew her.

  And Neva said: Listen, Judy, you’re never going to feel good about yourself until you decide that certain things need to happen to you.

  I mean, certain things do happen, thank you very much! And they haven’t been good—

  What about when you decided to become a woman?

  It wasn’t something I decided; I always was and am a woman, and, frankly, Neva—

  Laughing a little, the lesbian said: And frankly, you’re pushing to get punished. But I’ll never lose my temper with you. Do you know why?

  Because you love me, said the transwoman obediently.

  Correct. Now bend over and I’ll spank you the way you like it. Tell me if it’s not hard enough . . .

  The lesbian asked more about her clients, so she told about the retired policeman, and the lesbian began rubbing her back and asked whether she still loved him, to which she replied that she did.—That’s very good, said the lesbian, rubbing lubricant between Judy’s buttocks.

  Thrilled and enthusiastic (not to mention fortified with Shantelle’s unhappiness pills), the transwoman worked so diligently, and accordingly collected such extraordinary tips, that in a mere four nights of sucking and swallowing on Jones Street she was able to deck herself out in the black skirt, black sequined top and high heels of the so-called “Garland” ensemble.

  The Reptile Sheds Her Skin

  Therefore, you must be in want while it is possible to fill you, and be full while it is possible for you to be in want, so that you may be able to fill yourselves the more.

  “THE APOCRYPHON OF JAMES,” bef. 314

  Only the most important things should be clothed in the honor of the symbol.

  FRIEDRICH CREUZER, bef. 1912

  1

  Meanwhile her master collated his information, as we say in the business. And just as an FBI agent who before his notes on the entrapped defendant reach the jury may “rewrite” certain passages in order to render his prey more convictable, so the retired policeman now patterned the data so as to give our precious Neva a certain slant. Either her driver’s licenses were false, or else Karen Strand’s high school yearbooks represented some other person. She had no juvenile record, but after thirty years her case files would have been destroyed, although her deviations might still inhabit a microfiche index in Vallejo, which he could probably trick his way into if he got off his ass and . . . Actually he felt very cheerful these days. Whenever the transwoman hit him up for money, he chuckled about disbursing undercover funds.

  On one exceptionally undiabetic afternoon he even dropped in at the Y Bar, hoping to quiz the lesbian—who was absent. He overheard Francine telling Sandra: My dad told me in high school, when this gay friend who was clearly gay said hi, my dad said to me, don’t talk to her; she’s clearly bad. I was gay and he didn’t want to believe it.

  I’m sorry, said Sandra.

  At that time, if you were gay, you must’ve been a man hater. The thing was . . . What’s up, J. D.? Your usual?

  A double.

  These days your usual is a double.

  Then make it a fuckin’ triple.

  Nine dollars. Happy hour price.

  That makes me so happy I could just shit.

  Two men in hunting clothes sat watching female mud wrestling on the wide television. Francine poured his Old Crow. One hunter said: I’ve never shot an AK. I’d like to. They’ve got history.—The other stared up at a grinning and very muddy girl, so the first one accordingly continued: And they have a beautiful, you know, that four-one-six that the military uses, but I’ll bet they’re payin’ twenty-five hundred dollars apiece for ’em.—Said the retired policeman to himself: Whatever.

  Selene’s special friend Samantha remembered him, so what the hell; he did his duty, buying her that famous wine cooler with the maraschino cherry and the two ice cubes (six dollars), then kissing that wrinkled, white-powdered, man-smelling cheek beneath which a flat silver earring as big around as a boxer’s fist tepidly shimmered.

  Is Neva one or two percent as sexy as you? he inquired.

  Oh, you’re so full of shit, Samantha said, stalking away pretend-angry. Then she came right back, like a skittish cat who prefers to be petted, but only on its own terms.—Thus Samantha, the old star, testy, generous and sometimes vicious, whom everyone would idolize after her death. He knew not even Judy would remember him.

  Hey, Francine! Another wine and cherry for Sam, and whatever our sexy little Sandra wants.

  Thirteen dollars.

  Thank you! cried Sandra.

  Don’t mention it, jailbait.

  Thanks, J. D., said Samantha. You in a cheating kind of mood?

  Oh, all the time, Sam. Now listen. You say I’m full of shit. What about Neva?

  Nothing wrong with her.

  Nothing at all? Not even her tight little . . . ?

  I’m sorry to disappoint you.

  She’s never lied to you, or been— />
  Lay off, J. D.

  Just then the transwoman came in, and the retired policeman, feeling inexplicably discomfited, stood up.

  2

  Now came another of their hatefully meaningless scenes. It started there and continued all the way down the street to her apartment; he had not intended to pursue her; but the instant she, in grief and dread from his imprecations, turned unthinkingly right toward her place instead of left toward his, and he as unthinkingly followed her, she determined to flee him, which naturally turned into his clutching her arm as she helped him wheeze upstairs to the elevator.

  She unlocked her door, and he threw himself down on a chair heaped with dirty laundry. Gazing around until he had caught his breath, he said: Once a pig, always a pig. Right, Frank?

  She flushed, and for once the flush was angry.

  I know what you’re thinking, he said. You want to be rid of me. Right?

  Stop it, she whispered, gazing out the window at a white-shrouded corpse-sleeper beside which a dark hooded figure maniacally flashed a glowing blue cell phone, shaking it like salt while Shantelle and a man in a white cap strolled behind him hand in hand; then came an unknown girl, and then possibly Xenia, who last year had been minding her own goddamned business, playing tranny rap at the volume appropriate for proper appreciation, when her downstairs neighbor called the police, who directed her to step out and speak to them, which she did, asserting her rights with sufficient enthusiasm that they decided to handcuff her. Due to shoulder surgery from 2011 she could not bend her shoulders back but they forced her arms anyway, put her in a squad car, then released her to chase after the Richmond Rapist. Her right shoulder and wrist were never the same, so she wanted to sue, but we all talked her out of it because we knew that people like us (myself excepted) will never win.—Even after the putative Xenia’s vanishing, Judy kept looking out the window.