One fiancé is too many! But confusion is guaranteed or double your uncles!
Gigi needs help explaining herself to Noah!
(Author’s note: This story picks up the action several months after the events in Love Has No Pride and When You Wish Upon a Star.)
I placed my left hand on the white tablecloth, my ring finger displaying the blue sapphire halo trinket that Alastair paid a small fortune for from Cleave and Company, 1 Buckingham Place, London.
Elizabeth blinked, raised my hand to her right eye like a jeweler without a loop, and her mouth went agape.
“Speechless, you?” I snickered at her.
We were at a window table in Manhattan’s trendiest new Asian Fusion restaurant, Zhou Dynasty, nestled on the 39th floor of a building with an awesome view of the Empire State Building and the skyline beyond. Alastair and I had only been back in town the day before (December 13th) when Elizabeth unexpectedly invited us to dinner to celebrate my 58th birthday, which falls on the 15th.
“Hollywood pays well is what comes to mind. This must have cost—”
“No congratulations, Joanne and Alastair?” Alastair interjected, a smile trying to blunt the sarcasm.
“Of course, mazel tov, kids. This makes the ring Willard gave me look like it came out of a box of Crackerjacks.”
“Thanks for the dinner, E, but how did you know Alastair and I were in town? My sister?”
“Your sister?! She wouldn’t give me the time of day if my face was a digital clock. No, it was my dear daughter Joey who called and told me you and Al were spending the holidays in the city. Of course, the little imp didn’t tell me you and Alastair had gotten engaged.”
“Disappointed, Elizabeth?” Alastair asked, hiding behind his napkin.
“I’m over it. You won. I accept it. I am a little puzzled by Joey’s acceptance, though. Not to say you’re not a nice guy and all. But…”
“But what?” I posed, wary of what Elizabeth was thinking.
“Well, I didn’t think you swung that way, frankly. Giving it the old school try at an advanced age?”
“Elizabeth, that’s unnecessarily mean…and untrue.”
Alastair started out of his chair and turned to me. “Let’s go, Jo. It was a bad idea accepting her invitation. No matter how good the food is, it’s not worth her badgering.”
“Oh, sit down, Al. Let’s not act like children. I apologize. The food really is marvelous. I promise I’ll behave. Please, Joey?”
I gently pulled Alastair back down to his chair and squeezed his hand. “E will control her sociopathic tendencies at least until dessert, right?” Before Elizabeth could retort with her usual razor-sharp wit, a rather striking man in a chef’s apron approached our table and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Babe, are these your friends, Joanne and Alastair?” He reached out to shake our hands.
“Kids, this is Mark Sheldon, owner and executive chef of Zhou Dynasty. I texted the Times review to you, Joey. You could sense the reviewer drooling as he described the menu, right?”
“Nice to meet you. Elizabeth has told me so much about you, Joanne. You’re quite a remarkable lady—”
“Any bon mots about me, Mark?” Alastair said with a smirk. I kicked his shin under the table. “Oww!”
“Oh, definitely, Mr. Knowles. I’ve been looking into upgrading the production values on my YouTube channel and, since you’re in the business, I’d love to pick your brain.”
“Well, I’m only in town until Friday—”
“But, Alastair, you’ll be back next week. Maybe you two can get together for some brain-picking before Christmas.” I winked at Elizabeth, who smiled and mouthed “thank you.”
“Yeah, let’s get together next week. Have your girl call my girl.” He laughed a bit awkwardly.
“Sounds good! By the way, your orders will be ready in five minutes. Did you order the breast of duck with Asian soy glaze?”
“Guilty,” Alastair admitted.
“It’s my signature dish. I hope you love it…but I’m sure you will. Elizabeth, can you come with me? There’s a couple that would like to meet you.” He nodded in the direction of their table.
“Oh, really, who?”
He leaned down to semi-whisper. “Leonardo DiCaprio and his girlfriend.”
I gasped and Alastair squeezed my hand. “Don’t look! Be cool. These celebrities crave anonymity in public.”
“But you know Leo and he knows who you are too.”
“I’m a nobody to someone of his stature.”
Elizabeth rose from the table and took Mark’s hand. “I’ll be right back, kids. Talk amongst yourselves while I say hello to the patrons.” They walked away.
“Well, at least they’re not the only inappropriately age matched couple in the place.”
“Yeah, Leo’s date looks like a teenager.”
“I’ve heard of Chef Boyardee but it looks like Elizabeth’s gotten herself a Chef Boy-R-Toy.”
“You’re younger than I am too.”
“Three years, Jo! That kid can’t be a whisker older than 32.”
“Shhh. She’s coming back. Just zip it. Let’s have a nice, quiet dinner. O.K.?” Alastair “zipped” his lips, then kissed my cheek.
“Get a room, you two,” clucked Elizabeth as she sat down.
Alastair and I shared our two dishes: his breast of duck with Asian soy glaze and my sweet chili pork lettuce wraps with crispy rice noodles. Elizabeth rolled her eyes at our behavior, feeding each other spoonsful like over-the-top cute young sweethearts in a 1950s soda shoppe.
“Too bad Mark doesn’t include banana splits on the dessert menu. You two crazy kids would love that wouldn’t you?”
“Want a crispy rice noodle, E?” I asked, innocently.
“I’m good. Listen, what do you want for dessert?”
“Madam can suggest something, perhaps?” Alastair answered.
“My favorite is the coconut tapioca with lychee and pineapple—”
“Oh that sounds delicious! Alastair, let’s share one—”
“I thought so. Just coffee for me.” She gestured to the waiter, who rushed over, obviously in deference to Elizabeth’s status in the restaurant.
Elizabeth stared at me for what seemed like a minute but was probably only 10 seconds. Her face took on a serious look and she lowered her voice to speak directly to me, ignoring Alastair.
“I should have mentioned it to you when it happened but…well, things sort of went sideways last summer and…I got a call from Ralph Metheny about a month after I moved back to New York—”
“You mean Rafe Metheny?” interjected Alastair.
“It’s Ralph. R-a-l-p-h. He just called himself Rafe, as if we all couldn’t read—”
“That’s not true, E. His mother named him after his maternal great-grandfather, who was a Baronet in England. That’s the way it’s pronounced in Britain. He wasn’t trying to put on airs. Anyway, what did he call about?”
“You, actually. The poor guy’s wife died in January—”
“She was our age. I was Joanne’s plus one at their wedding—”
Elizabeth arched her eyebrow. “Really, Joey? You took Al to Ralph’s wedding?”
“It’s a long story, Elizabeth. What did Rafe want?”
“Your number. I guess he wanted to see you again. Maybe pick up where you left it. You know. When you rejected him.”
“I did not reject him. I told him we didn’t have a viable future together. I did that more for his sake than my own.”
“Cool story, bro.”
“She rejected me too back then. She wasn’t in a good place to think about a relationship. She’d just transitioned and just wanted to sort out her life first before making that kind of commitment.”
“Except Joey wasn’t in love with you since she was practically a toddler. No, she loved Ralph Metheny more than any person she ever knew…including me…including you, Alastair.”
“So, what did you tell him, already?” I blurted out, trying to steer the conversation to something practical.
“I didn’t think it was my place to give him your number. I did tell him you had retired from the TV business and was in LA writing a film script. I think he kind of slowed his roll after I told him that. He probably thought you’d be some lonely widow after Emily’s death, pining away for companionship in your declining years…”
“Poor Rafe. He was always so needy emotionally. He must have felt lost after Sarah died. A least he has his children to commiserate with. They must be in their 20s by now. What did Sarah die of?”
“Cancer. Anyway, that’s the last I heard from him. I assumed he would have gotten in touch with you by now. Although your sister is very protective of you. She liked him as much as she liked me. Not very much.”
“Alastair, I’m tired. Let’s forego dessert. I’ll make us a pot of tea at home. Thank you so much for dinner, Elizabeth. Say good night to Mark for us. The food was marvelous!” We hugged and, for a moment, I thought Elizabeth was going to kiss me on the lips but, instead, she bussed me on both cheeks.
On the 15-minute cab ride back to Alastair’s apartment in The West Village (I had put my house on The Island on the market months ago, deciding to move permanently to California), he checked his phone for messages while I reflected upon the hurly-burly of the last two weeks. I hadn’t expected Alastair to return home from London until the new year and was finishing up the re-writes to the script with Philippa, resigned to the belief that I had fucked up the whole relationship with him. He would return in January and ask me to move out of his guest house. At least with the money from the script, I’d have no trouble finding a house to move into, even with the sky-high prices of Los Angeles real estate. What I’d do after that, I had no idea. But I’d have good weather to ponder it in.
I found it odd when Philippa asked on the first of December if we could work at the guest house instead of her place, where we almost always worked because of her toddler Clarissa (Paul was often at meetings or at the studio). That day, she said, Paul was taking Clarissa to his mother’s house in Pasadena. It was the one free day he had in weeks. I told her I had no problem doing that and we had a nice vegetarian pasta salad for lunch with broccoli, olives, red onion, cucumber, and baby carrots. Parmesan and homemade dressing topped it off. Delicious.
We were in the middle of rewriting some dialogue in the third act when Philippa suddenly stood up, looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, and packed up her things.
“It’s almost 4! I need to get back home. Paul and Clarissa are probably on their way from Pasadena already.”
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“Oh, we’ll work at my place as usual. See ya!” She hugged me hurriedly and practically flew out the door. I heard her car tires screech as she drove off. Chuckling at her behavior, I went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.
I was pouring out a cup when the front door buzzed. Peering through the window, I was shocked to see Alastair standing on the doorstep, nervously holding a bouquet of pink roses. I opened the door.
“Delivery for Ms. Joanne Prentiss!” he declaimed, hiding behind the colorful and fragrant bouquet.
“Alastair! What are you doing back home? I thought—” He stepped in and kissed me full on the lips, placing the bouquet behind his back.
“I’ll explain but first, take the roses, please.” I took the roses, sniffed them appreciatively and went to find a vase.
“Sit down, Alastair. It’s good to see you. I hope you’re not here to evict me—”
“Yes, Jo, I want you out of my guest house tout suite.” He had put his arms around me from behind as I filled a vase with water from the sink. “I love it when I speak French to you, mi querida!” He kissed a line up my neck and started to nibble my ear lobe.
“That’s Spanish.”
“No, it’s the language of love, ma cherie—”
“You’ll make me spill the water!”
“I’m not letting go!” I finally put the roses in the vase and placed it on the side of the sink. Turning around, I looked into Alastair’s eyes.
“What’s this all about?”
“Like I said, I want you out of my guest house ASAP.” Playing along, I pouted and pretended to push him away.
“I’ll be homeless. Where can I go?”
“I want to take you somewhere we can watch the sunset. Have you seen Los Angeles from the roof of Griffith Observatory as the sun descends in the evening sky?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Come on, bring a sweater. There’s a breeze up there.” He hooked his arm around my waist and guided me toward the front door, only pausing for me to pick up my sweater. “We can talk as the sun sets.”
Alastair parked his black Porsche Boxter near the Observatory and ran around to the passenger side, offering me a chivalrous hand to help me out of the car without flashing the small crowd of visitors sauntering along the path toward the building’s entrance.
“I should have changed into some slacks—”
“No time. Sunset is at 4:45.” He took hold of my wrist and read the face of my tiny watch. “Good thing you got Lasik, Jo. How do you women manage with these teeny tiny watches? Anyway, we’ve got less than ten minutes before the sun goes below the horizon. Come on.” Maintaining his grasp of my wrist, we trotted to the external stairs that led to the West Terraces (upper and lower) and began to climb.
“Couldn’t we take the elevator?”
“This is quicker, trust me.”
Finally, we arrived on the lower terrace. Immediately, the imminence of sundown registered in my purview of the stunning vista before us: downtown Los Angeles, the Pacific Ocean, and everything in between. Alastair guided me to a relatively secluded spot on the terrace. There were other couples around, holding hands, embracing, whispering into each other’s ears. Then, it occurred to me that the terrace was notorious for its popularity as a location for marriage proposals (for those, I suppose, who found proposing in Dodger Stadium during a baseball game much too public). When I turned away from the view, I saw Alastair down on one knee, proffering a beautiful sapphire ring nestled in a blush pink, smooth leather Cleave and Company box. The glow of impending sunset shone on the tableaux and, realizing what was about to take place, I started to tear up.
“Joanne Prentiss, please grant me the great honor of being your life partner. Will you marry me?”
I couldn’t speak. Little gasps and squeaks were the only things that escaped my lips. My hands shook.
“No? Let’s put the last few months behind us. We fucked up royally. We both made rash decisions. Regretful mistakes—”
“Of course, I will, dear, dear Alastair. I love you. Yes, yes, yes!” We kissed and clung to each other’s lips like survivors of a capsized boat hanging on for dear life to floating pieces of timber. Eventually, Alastair slipped the ring onto my finger and we watched the sun disappear below the horizon, turning Los Angeles into The City of Night.
“I…I thought I’d ruined everything. That you’d never come back to me—”
“Jo, you’re the love of my life. You know that. How could I—”
I placed my index finger on his lips to quiet him. “Dear, sweet Alastair. Let’s go home. Our home.”
The next day, I proudly showed Philippa my engagement ring. She smiled, then faked a big yawn, waving my hand away.
“Well, of course, I’m the one who picked it out for Alastair. Men are so clueless about jewelry—”
“What? You knew all about this? You guys set me up!”
“I knew Alastair had to come back for GlobalNet’s year-end management meetings. Luckily, that BBC co-production in London finished principal photography earlier than expected. He had a couple of weeks to play with. That’s when he called me, right after Thanksgiving, and we got together on his plan to make you an honest woman.”
“Philippa, there’s no chance I’m pregnant—”
“Metaphorically speaking, Jo. He told me he would’ve proposed back in the summer, even after the…kerfuffle you two had. Unfortunately, he had the commitment to the projects in the UK. So, my sometimes-oblivious friend, he was always going to ask…”
“Ask what?” Paul had just walked into the room, followed by Clarissa, munching on a banana. Philippa and I exchanged looks.
“Men!”
“It’s officially your birthday now.”
I turned from the window overlooking the early morning streets of the West Village when Alastair placed his hands on my shoulders, massaging them while nuzzling the hair on the back of my head.
“Big day ahead of you. You should get some sleep.”
“Can’t. My mind’s swirling with thoughts.”
“Thinking about what Elizabeth said about Rafe wanting your number?”
“You’re not upset, are you, Alastair?”
“No. Rafe’s old news. You haven’t spoken in, what, 10 years, maybe more? Anyway, I never felt in competition with him. I mean, I know what he meant to you but…”
“It’s not true. What Elizabeth said.”
“About?”
“She said I loved Rafe more than anyone I’ve ever loved. It’s not true. You must believe me—”
“You were kids. You grew up together. But, like you said, there was no way it would’ve worked out as grown-ups.”
I caressed Alastair’s whiskered face and gave him a quick peck on the lips. I never thought I’d be attracted to a man with a beard. I was disappointed when Rafe grew one when he went away to study at M.I.T.
“I’m heating up some milk for you. A cup of that will make you go beddy-bye. It works for me. I’ve always been a trypto-fan. Don’t sneer. Puns are a sign of high intelligence. Have a seat on the couch. I’ll be back.”
“Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.”
When Alastair returned with a cup of warm milk and a chocolate chip cookie, I was already spooling the movie of my childhood memories with Rafe in my mind.
“Dip the cookie into the milk. You’ll be in la-la land in no time. I’ll see you in bed.” Alastair trudged off into the bedroom.
The cookie acted like Proust’s madeleine and the sights, sounds, even smells of that summer morning when Rafe and I were just 8 years old came back to me. A morning that changed the nature of our friendship forever
The summer of 1972 was a great time in my father’s life. He was on the verge of becoming Director of Structural Engineering for Metheny Architectural Design Inc. Rafe’s father was Matthew Metheny. Our families had become close in the last several years as my father worked his way up in the firm. So, I had been playmates with Rafe since our sandbox days. Port Jefferson being a small town of less than 6.000 residents, being the same age, we went through school from kindergarten to high school together.
Although my dad thought he was the reason the Metheny family spent so much time at our house during those years, it was really because my mom and Rafe’s mom had become close friends working as teachers at Port Jefferson High School. My mother taught mathematics and Rafe’s mother taught English. Dad had just installed an outdoor, in-ground swimming pool in our backyard that he was very proud of and expected every one of our friends and neighbors to be suitably impressed by it.
It was a particularly hot Saturday in July and the Metheny’s had arrived around mid-morning. While the adults and Rafe’s older sister Sally (she was 16 that summer) lounged around the pool and our dads discussed The Jets football team (in the middle of baseball season!), we were told to go change into our swim trunks.
“Wow, your mom looks great in a bathing suit. You’re so lucky to have a beautiful mom like that.”
We were in my room. Rafe had his swim shorts underneath his regular clothes so he was already set to jump into the pool. He looked at the poster of Joe Namath on my wall as he waited for me to change. Erica, my little 5-year-old sister, was running around in her “baby” bathing suit, a ball of energy. She tended to follow me everywhere…annoyingly.
“Dad tells me I look a lot like mom.”
“But you’re a boy. You can’t look like your mom.”
“Joey does look like mommy. They’re both pretty—” Erica blurted out while spinning around like a top.
“Stop spinning around, Erica. You’ll make yourself dizzy.” She stopped and gave me a contrite look.
“I’m sorry. Joey why don’t you show Rafe how you look in mommy’s dress!”
“Erica, don’t be stupid. Rafe doesn’t want to see that.”
“Yeah, I bet you look real silly.”
“No, Joey is beautiful. Just like mommy!”
“Okay. I’ve gotta see this.”
We went into my mother’s bedroom and I reached into her closet and selected one of her floral pattern peasant blouses that she rarely wore anymore. I pulled it over my head and it hung like a dress on me, the hem inches below my knees. Then I took a red plastic headband from her vanity and combed back my long blond hair. After taking a quick look in the vanity mirror, I turned around to face Rafe.
“See? Joey’s so pretty. Don’t you think so, Rafe?”
Rafe stood seemingly transfixed. I couldn’t tell by the expression on his face whether he was charmed or disgusted by this version of me. Finally, he spoke.
“Jeez, Joey, you look…like…a girl!”
“Betcha Joey’s prettier than your girlfriend.”
“I don’t have no girlfriend, silly.”
At that moment, Rafe’s mother shouted from the bottom of the stairs, “Boys, what’s taking so long? You only have less than an hour before lunch and then you’ll have to wait until late in the afternoon to go back in.”
“Coming, mom. Joey couldn’t find his favorite trunks. We’ll be right down.” He turned to me. “You better put all that stuff back. They’ll come up here if we don’t hurry up.”
“Just go out like that, Joey. Everyone will see how pretty you look.”
“Erica, don’t say anything to mommy about this, okay? It’s just something you and I know about.”
“Rafe knows now.”
“You won’t say anything, will you?” I had returned mom’s things to their rightful place and was running into my room to put on my trunks.
“No, of course not. It was just a joke anyway. Right?”
“Yeah, it’s something I gotta do to entertain my little sister, you know. She doesn’t have any playmates. The neighborhood’s got no girls her age and she doesn’t start school until the Fall—”
“Yeah, yeah. I understand. It’s our secret. Okay?” He offered his hand to shake. He didn’t meet my eyes when we shook. The rest of the day, Rafe would sneak furtive glances at me. One time I smiled and he, after bowing his head for a second, returned the smile. We had become secret sharers. Neither of us knew then what else we would share as we grew up.
The 15th was my birthday. We set out for my sister Erica’s house in Port Jefferson in the morning. Alastair complained all the way there. Ninety minutes of grousing about having to drive a Toyota Corolla when he wanted to rent an Audi. The day with Erica’s family was pleasant. Fred, her husband, enjoyed talking football with Alastair (they’re both lifelong Giants fans). Meanwhile, Erica and my niece, Kiana, admired my engagement ring and asked about celebrities I’d run across in Hollywood. Their monstrously large Maine Coon cat kept trying to sidle up to me. I threw her chew toy across the room several times but she retrieved it and wetly placed it in my lap again and again. I’m not a cat person, you can see.
We came back to the city, changed into more formal attire, and went to see “MJ: The Musical” at The Neil Simon Theater. Hottest musical on Broadway this season. Myles Frost won a Tony for his portrayal of the King of Pop. Like most jukebox musicals, it was light on story and characterization but the music and choreography was glorious. I think Alastair fell asleep during the second act just as Myles Frost in the MJ role started singing “Human Nature.” I did my best to keep Alastair’s head from tilting back and snoring. To be fair, I’ve fallen asleep listening to Alastair’s jazz records. There was an Oscar Peterson/Joe Pass album that…I’m not a jazz person, you can see.
Although I urged Alastair to take an earlier flight to Los Angeles the next day, he insisted on catching the red eye instead so we could go see the Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center, lit up in all its seasonal glory at night.
“Alastair, we’re both from New York. We’ve seen the tree many, many times over five decades.”
“Yes, but I’ve always wanted to see it with the love of my life.”
“Oh, Alastair, you sweet talking Romeo—”
“Well, Julianne Moore won’t leave her husband so I thought I’d ask you instead.”
I playfully swatted Alastair and several heads in the crowd in Rockefeller Center turned our way. Blushing, I hid my hands behind my back as Alastair laughed to show we were just kidding around.
“We should try skating in the rink down here. How good are you on blades?”
“Not as good as Julianne Moore, I’m sure. Text her. Maybe her husband’s out of town.”
“I do have her mobile number, Jo. Of course, I’d only use it for business purposes.”
“Do you want to ever walk normally again?”
Why do people wave at airplanes as they take off? It’s not that anyone on the plane can actually see you wave. But there I was, a bit tearful, waving at the dark sky outside the terminal windows. Alastair pretended he was upset at having to leave for that management meeting but I know it’s a weekend at the Palazzo Beverly Hills, a mansion situated on Billionaires Row in a wooded enclave. It features a ¼ mile private gated driveway, sprawling acres surrounded by breathtaking natural wildlife, views of the mountains and vistas, luxury white Scandinavian interior décor, a fully equipped gym, a glass domed opening roof perfect for viewing the stars at night, a swimming pool, a party-sized jacuzzi, and “romantic poolside cabanas.” I checked out their website. Poor Alastair. Yeah, right. Now, where did I put that rolling pin?
I was outside the terminal at La Guardia, phone to my ear, waiting to confirm my Uber when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man and a teenage girl in one of the exits, waiting for the skycap to push their luggage trolley through. It was Rafe Metheny. Decades older than the last time I’d seen him but he was still immediately recognizable.
He spoke first after our eyes met.
“Joey? Joey, it’s me. Rafe. Funny meeting you here.” He laughed as his daughter hardly took notice, scrolling through the texts on her phone.
“Rafe. How are you? It’s been—”
“Too long. I thought you were in LA. Elizabeth told me you had moved out there.”
“I’m here for the holidays. I’m with my fiancé. He just left on the red eye. He’ll be back next week. Business conference.”
“Did Elizabeth tell you?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to hear about Sarah. You must have been devastated when she passed.”
“Well, I’m still mourning. She was a wonderful partner. The best.” He turned to his daughter, whispered something, and turned back to me. “Joey, this is my youngest, Harlow. She’s a junior at Georgetown. We’re spending the holidays with my sister Sally and her family. Say hello to Ms. Prentiss, Harlow.”
Harlow looked up from her phone and her face evinced surprise. “You’re Joey? Dad talks about you a lot.”
“All good things I hope.”
“If you think calling you the love of his life a good thing—”
“Harlow! She’s being her usual acerbic self today. She wanted to stay in DC.”
“Now I’m glad I came. Aunt Sally’s mind will be blown!”
“Are you waiting for a cab, Joey?”
“My Uber doesn’t seem to be coming anytime soon.”
“Ride with us. That’s our Uber coming round the bend right now. Where in Manhattan are you staying?”
“We’re in the West Village, Perry Street.”
“Sally’s on The Upper West Side. You’re on our way there. Come on. Harlow, who are you calling?”
“Aunt Sally. I’ve got to tell her who we’re bringing with us.”
“No, Harlow. We’re just going to drop her off. I’m sure she has better things to do than spend the night after her birthday with a bunch of relative strangers.”
“Rafe, you remember my birthday?”
“Well, it’s an easy date to remember.”
Harlow had already barreled into the back seat of the Uber as the driver placed their luggage in the rear trunk.
“It’s cold, dad! Let’s go already.”
“After you, Joey.”
When we drove across the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan, Rafe turned to face me, his lips inches away from my ear.
“We had some great adventures in the city back then, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we had some good times.”
I thought I heard Harlow suppress a giggle. Perhaps it was a sneeze. After all, it was flu season.
I had fitful dreams that night after Rafe escorted me back to Alastair’s apartment door. He had the Uber wait downstairs; his daughter Harlow wasn’t too pleased with the delay. Rafe made some remark about how the West Village had changed in the 30 years he had been away, living in Silver Spring, Maryland and running his father’s architectural firm after he died in the late ‘90s. I thanked him for the ride share (he wouldn’t let me pay my half of the fare) and we awkwardly stood outside the door before we gingerly embraced and bid farewell. After pushing the button for the elevator, he turned around.
“Since we exchanged numbers, do you mind if I call you sometime? We’re both going to be in the city through Christmas—”
“Of course, Rafe. Alastair will be back next week. We should all get together for drinks—”
“I’d like that. It’s been, what, 25 years since I’ve seen Al? When you came to the wedding with Alastair, I could tell he was smitten with you, even though you said he was just a work friend. You never had a shortage of people smitten with you, Joey—”
The elevator doors opened.
“It was nice to see you again, Joey. Good night.” I waved and the doors closed.
Thirty minutes later, I lay in Alastair’s bed, staring up at the Pure White ceiling, unable to fall asleep. I prefer to keep a night light on (Alastair likes absolute pitch darkness). The ceiling turned into a projection screen as images from my childhood flickered across it. Bumping into Rafe and his daughter and sharing that brief cab ride triggered a mixed bag of memories. I slowly drifted off and dreamt.
Rafe and I were best buddies from the time we first shared a sandbox until my father’s alcoholism started to endanger his position as Director of Structural Engineering at Rafe’s dad’s increasingly successful architectural firm. And there were problems at home too. Dad’s roving eye and numerous dalliances with women in the office (single and married) was breaking up his marriage. Too often Erica and I were helpless witnesses to late-night rows and shattered crockery.
Serendipitously, the problems my dad had at work and my parents were having at home didn’t seem to affect Rafe and me. We walked to school and back together, had most classes together, and did what most little boys did together: ride our bikes, collect baseball cards, played sports appropriate to each season, and talked derisively about girls, especially those with tempting pigtails.
There were rare times when Rafe would ask me to dress up in my mom’s clothes, as silly as they looked on me: blouses covering me like full length dresses, high heeled shoes making me waddle unsteadily, floral pattern scarves that enveloped me like a Bedouin, clip on earrings dangling to my shoulders, lipstick smeared in a wound shape… Normally, it was spurred on by Erica, who was my little shadow. Rafe claimed he never asked me to play dress up, only agreeing so as not to spoil Erica’s playtime with her older “sister.” But I could tell from the look in his eyes that he enjoyed my little modeling sessions, nevertheless.
Mom and dad caught us unawares once. We usually held our little shows in the garden shed out back of the house. Rafe would nervously keep an eye out for my parents but they never chanced on us…until the one day my father came to the shed to retrieve our lawn mower. Mom had finally gotten him off the couch, drinking beer and watching another ballgame on TV, to trim our lawn which was starting to resemble the African savannah.
When mom arrived to see what was holding up my father’s impersonation of a lawn care technician, her jaw dropped and her hands tugged at her hair. Dad ripped the blouse off me and tore the colorful scarf almost in half. He slapped me hard enough to knock me out of mom’s high heel shoes. I almost fell on top of Erica but Rafe caught me just in time.
“Is that what your queer son sneaks around the house doing? Don’t tell me you didn’t know about this!” Mom started crying but dad was more concerned with another possible complication. He turned to Rafe and said, in an even tone of voice, “Rafe, kid, don’t go telling your dad about this. He doesn’t need to hear about Joey’s perversion. Okay? Mum’s the word.”
Rafe gave him a confused look. “Mr. Prentiss, we’re just playing around. You can blame me. I…I asked Joey to show me how he and Erica played dress up. I won’t ask him again. I promise.”
“I’m not blaming you, Rafe. If anyone’s to blame, it’s his mom. Always coddling him and turning him into a girl. Wipe that shit off your mouth, Joey! I’m sick of looking at you. All of you!” He stomped out of the shed, grumbling and waving his hands.
“What about the lawn?” mom asked the floor through sniffling tears. “What about the lawn?”
Unwilling or simply unable to address the matter with us kids, mom acted as if nothing had happened. The only hint that the thing had occurred was when she mowed the lawn herself, talking to herself as she pushed the mower around in circles. My father, predictably, forgot about the incident in his usual alcoholic haze and was away from the house “working late” most nights anyway. Still, Rafe and I avoided visiting each other’s houses for a good week and a half just to let matters fade from front page status. Then, for a while, everything returned to normal.
It was late summer. A month before Rafe and I would start middle school. We were 13. Well, actually Rafe had just turned 13; I wouldn’t turn 13 until December. Puberty had arrived with smoke and thunder for him within the year but I was still left waiting at the station. Along with the physical and emotional changes that came with this new stage in life, Rafe became more interested in athletic activities (which I reluctantly participated in just to remain close to him) but also, devastatingly for me, in girls.
Rafe’s current obsession was skateboarding, this new to the East Coast craze that every kid was taking up. His new pastime was spurred on by his father’s gift to the village of Port Jefferson of a skatepark annex to the local playground. A skatepark my dad nominally engineered as well.
Rather quickly, Rafe became one of the best skaters in Port Jefferson for our age group in the few months since the skatepark was officially christened by Matthew Metheny, our village’s most famous resident, one of that year’s finalists for the prestigious Pritzker Prize, awarded annually to the most brilliant architects worldwide. I remember my father, at the ceremony, hiding his bloodshot eyes behind Ray Ban sunglasses, suppressing an urge to upchuck his breakfast all over his rumpled midnight blue pinstripe suit.
Rafe and I both entered the skateboarding competition in August, registering in the under 16 age group. For a lark, my father took a great interest in my entry in the competition and spent weekends coaching me at the skatepark, rain or shine. Sometimes he even forgot the flask of cheap vodka in his pants’ back pocket. Sometimes. Although the alcohol on his breath made listening to his skating tips a trial, I was thrilled to have his undivided attention, free of his usual sneering putdowns about my “queer” tendencies. The truth was that I learned more about proper technique from Rafe than I did from dad. Rafe would just nod whenever my father “corrected” where he placed his arms or the amount of bend in his knees.
The day of the big competition, my father was cheering me on from the benches on the far side of the park, sitting with Rafe’s dad, Mr. Metheny, his boss. For one of the few times in my life so far, I saw him beaming with pride as he gave me a thumb’s up. I hoped I could at least end up on the medal stand but would be happy if I didn’t finish in last place.
The under 16 group went first. Three rounds of 45-second timed runs, graded on “overall impression,” not specific tricks, would serve to determine the two skaters in the final round. I survived the first round, doing the most elementary moves without a notable mis-step. Of course, Rafe achieved the highest score. A lot of girls from our recently graduated sixth grade class had come out to cheer him on. Rafe shyly waved to them as they applauded loudly. I watched him gain a little strut in his step as I fiddled with the long, unruly tresses beneath my helmet.
In the second round, I decided to add the most difficult trick dad and Rafe had taught me. On the way up the side of the course, I would jump off the board and turn in the air, landing back on it as I switched it around on the way back down the curving wall. I had finally mastered this move after weeks of practicing it. It was quite a shock to me when my feet didn’t find the board and I tumbled hard onto the floor of the course, my ankle buckling painfully. In between screams from me, I heard the crowd gasp and Rafe running toward me, flipping his helmet off, shouting for help.
“Joey, hold on. We’ll get you to a doctor. Hold on,” Rafe cried as he took hold of my shoulders. I didn’t want to make an embarrassing scene but the pain was unbearable. I hid my wet face in the crook of Rafe’s arm as I whimpered. Mr. Metheny had caught up to Rafe and was leaning down to look at my ankle. My dad had his hands on his hips, an angry look on his face.
“Stop crying, Joey. Be a man for once. You’re making me look bad. Didn’t we practice that move a thousand times? How could you fuck that up?”
“Shut up, Ross. His ankle might be broken. It’s starting to swell up pretty bad.”
“There’s a clinic a couple blocks away, dad,” Rafe said.
“Where are we gonna find a stretcher?” my father asked, reaching for the flask in his back pocket.
“I’ll carry him. You’re not that heavy, are you Joey?” Mr. Metheny carefully lifted me into his arms and the three of us, counting me, Rafe, and his dad, double-timed it to the clinic, leaving my father standing by himself, still fumbling for his flask. As we left the park, the concerned faces of the crowd swam in my fading consciousness. I must have blacked out from the pain.
It turned out my ankle wasn’t broken, just a really bad sprain. Rafe made it back to the park to finish up the competition. They had suspended play because of my injury. Of course, he dedicated his gold medal to me. The crowd, I’m told, applauded his gesture. I was on crutches when we started school some weeks later. Rafe started spending a lot of time with Kelly Richards, allegedly helping her out with algebra. It was a difficult time in our relationship. And Mr. Metheny never thought the same about my father after that summer.
Saturday morning, I was shopping for a Christmas gift for Alastair’s mother. We were going to spend Christmas Eve and Day at her house in Westport, Connecticut. I had almost decided on a turquoise Peruvian alpaca wool pashmina shawl wrap with 4-inch fringes when my phone notified me I had received a text. It was from Rafe.
Sally Metheny Novello lived with her husband Martin in an Upper West Side luxury apartment on the 27th floor overlooking Central Park. Martin was a semi-retired attorney specializing in trademark law. You can see he’s done well in his career. Because getting around in Manhattan is much easier by subway, I hopped onto the 7th Avenue line and rode the train to 72nd Street. I arrived at Sally’s doorstep a little before 7 and announced my presence by ringing the bell underneath their apartment number.
Rafe opened the door with a wide smile and an excited greeting. I handed him the two bottles of a dry Riesling from the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York that I’d picked up that afternoon. He took my coat and waved me into Sally’s well-appointed home.
“Sally’s in the kitchen. Dinner will be served in 15 minutes, she tells me. Let me introduce the brood to you.”
They were all seated in the living room. The television was on with the sound turned down. Some college basketball game.
“Joey, this is Martin. Of course, he looks a lot different than when you met at the wedding—”
“Thirty years will do that, Rafe. You look past your prime too. Hello, Joey, good to see you again. Happy holidays.” This started the round of handshakes.
“And this is Jordan, Sally and Martin’s son. His lovely wife Glynnis. And the twins over there watching the game, Billy and Bryce.” The twins, who looked to be middle school age, waved but otherwise kept their eyes glued on the TV.
“Where’s Harlow?”
“In the kitchen, helping her Aunt with the food. Sally’s a great cook. I’ve been telling her to get a cookbook published—”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a cook and a maid at least. Most of the people in this building probably do.”
“Sally worked until Jordan’s sister Patty was born. She actually likes being a domestic goddess. She’s house happy.”
“Is Patty in the kitchen too?”
“She’s in Paris right now. Covers European politics for Foreign Policy magazine. Sometimes the online sites will pick up her features if it’s a big story. You don’t read that kind of stuff, hmm?”
“No, I’m more of a cartoon strip reader—”
“Joey has a graduate degree from Columbia, Martin.”
Sally and Harlow walked into the living room. Surprisingly, Sally quickly embraced me. She held me at arm’s length and clucked her tongue.
“My god, you’re still gorgeous. I’m eight years older than you but you don’t look a day older than Glynnis here.” Glynnis’ mouth opened in shock but Jordan gripped her arm to keep her from retorting.
“You’re too kind, Sally. It’s good to see you again and you’re selling yourself short. You’re still that beautiful girl I remember sitting by our pool all those summers so long ago.”
“Gran, we’re hungry. When’s dinner?” The twins asked in unison.
“I told you we had a guest coming over and dinner was going to be a little later than usual,” Jordan remonstrated his sons. “You guys had a big lunch at Shake Shack. You’d think that’d hold you over for a while…”
“Harlow’s setting the table right now.” Harlow was standing behind her, smiling at me and Rafe in turn. “Harlow? Harlow, set the table. Please.”
A few minutes later, as we walked the short distance to the dinner table, one of the twins, I don’t know if it was Billy or Bryce, sidled up to me and whispered, “So, Harlow told me you used to be a man. I’ve got five bucks she’s pulling my leg.”
“She’s wrong. I’ve always been a woman.”
“I knew it! Who’d believe you were ever a guy?”
“Who’s up for dessert? Homemade pecan pie cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. Your favorite, Jordan.”
The twins practically jumped out of their chairs with excitement. Rafe, seated to my right, laughed.
“I don’t know where they put it. It’s great to have a fast metabolism like them. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to middle age spread myself…”
“You look fine, Rafe. The hairline’s a little higher but you’re still a hunk—”
“Nice try, Joey. I’m an old man. My son and his wife are expecting. Baby’s due in February. They’d be here for the holidays but travel’s kind of difficult, you know. But just think about it. I’m going to be a grandfather soon.” He shook his head.
“Joey, can you help me in the kitchen?”
“Of course, Sally. Lead the way. Excuse me, everyone.”
When I entered the kitchen, Sally was already cutting up the cobbler into squares and placing them on dessert dishes.
“Pour out seven cups of coffee, please, Joey.”
“Sally, why did you really invite me for dinner?”
“Rafe told me you’re engaged. Where’s the lucky guy?”
“He’s in LA for a weekend management meeting. Alastair should be back Monday night or Tuesday morning.”
“I remember Alastair from Rafe and Sarah’s wedding. Good looking young man. Very well-spoken. Wasn’t he married to that movie star?”
“Lulu Brooks. They split up about six years ago.”
“Show business people are very unstable. But you know that.” She turned to me, put down the knife, and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “Do you love him? Or are you feeling the years going by and you fear being alone?”
“Sally, you’re not my therapist. What’s it matter to you? You’ve never had a high opinion of me, as I recall. You called me a fag, a pervert, a homo, a tranny…and those are the nicer names you called me.”
“There’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Help me spoon it out and top off the cobbler. Put two scoops on the two for the twins. They’re insufferable but I can’t help spoiling them.” She turned back to me. “I’m sorry if I called you those things. I’m a boomer. We didn’t know about gender dysphoria—is that what it’s called? My mom thought you were “corrupting” Rafe’s morals. My dad liked you though. He thought your problems stemmed from your dad’s emotional abuse. Maybe that’s the case,”
“Like I said, you’re not a therapist. Not even an amateur one.” My voice got a little heated. “Thanks for the dinner. Give the twins my dessert.” I turned to walk away when Sally gently grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t go, Joey. For Rafe’s sake, stay. Hear me out. I’m not your biggest fan, I’ll admit to that. But Rafe has always loved you. Bumping into you yesterday at the airport, he was the happiest I’ve seen him since Sarah passed. He’s here through the holidays. And I assume you are too. Could you see your way to spending a little time with him? When you’re married to Alastair, the last hope he has will have died.”
“I thought this was all settled thirty years ago. I told Rafe I could never be the person he needed me to be. Would he have Harlow now? Would he be two months from being a grandfather?”
“Please consider it, Joey. Rafe means the world to me. I hate seeing him so miserable. You say Alastair’s not back until Tuesday? Martin knows Bob Wankel, the CEO of the Shubert Organization, and he can easily get Rafe two tickets for “Some Like It Hot.” It just opened this week! It’s sold out for like months in advance.”
“Rafe can ask me and I’ll see. That’s all I can promise, Sally. A lot of water has gone under the bridge.”
“That’s good enough, Joey. Just give Rafe a chance. I know you still feel something for him.”
“Hey, guys, the natives are restless. Where’s dessert?” asked Harlow as she popped her head into the kitchen.
“It’s coming. We better bring these out, Joey. Harlow, make yourself useful and put the cobbler on this tray. I’ll bring out the coffee.”
“Hey, dad, it’s snowing.” We all gathered around the large windows facing Central Park. One of the twins (again it was either Billy or Bryce) asked their father if his old sled was still in the apartment. When he was told that Sally had probably thrown it out years ago, the other twin asked Martin if they rented sleds in the park.
“I don’t think we’re getting more than a dusting, boys,” countered Rafe. “Not enough for sledding. Barely enough to make a decent snowball.”
“It’s starting to come down harder, dad,” Harlow interjected. “Maybe you should call Joey a cab now before the traffic gets bottled up.”
Taking his phone out, Rafe started dialing. “Harlow’s right. Better safe than sorry.”
Ten minutes later, as Rafe helped me into the Uber, he shielded his eyes from the falling snow and shyly asked me if I had any plans for the next day, Sunday. I shook my head.
“Keep tomorrow night open. I’m working on tickets for “Some Like It Hot”…if you’d like to see it with me.”
“Call me. Good night, Rafe. I had a good time. Tell Sally she should write that cookbook.” I closed the car door and waved to him through the glass. He stood there, oblivious to the heavy snowfall as the Uber drove away. Finally, I turned around in my seat, somewhat troubled by everything that had transpired that evening.
I tried to sleep in on Sunday morning but found myself looking out the window onto Perry Street and the city beyond, blanketed in at least half a foot of snow, at the ungodly weekend hour of 8 AM. The smell of El Pico Dark Roast wafted into my nostrils from the GlobalNet mug in my right hand. My phone rang. It was Rafe.
“Joey, it’s Rafe. Hope I didn’t wake you up. I took the chance since you’re such an early riser. Even on Sunday—”
“No, I’ve been up since a little after 7, Rafe. What’s up?”
“The whole sick crew is going out for breakfast in about 5 minutes so I thought I’d call you before you went out yourself—”
“There’s half a foot of snow on the ground, Rafe. I was planning on hibernating for the day. Maybe binge watch something on TV.”
“The twins are champing at the bit to play in the snow. Doesn’t everyone dream of a white Christmas? Anyway, Martin came through with the tickets to Some Like It Hot for the matinee this afternoon. Are you interested?”
“Wow, Martin must be good friends with Bob Wankel to get nine tickets to the show on such short notice—”
“No, Joey. It’ll just be the two of us. The others have other plans and Harlow is visiting friends from school who live in the city. Are you wary of spending time alone with me? I’ll understand if you decline. I just thought it would be an opportunity to catch up. I haven’t seen you in more than ten years—”
“No, it’s not that, Rafe. I was hoping to see the show while I was in New York. With Alastair…”
“Oh, well, I don’t want to step on Al’s toes. I’m sure he has his own in with the Shuberts, seeing he’s actually in the business.”
“Martin went to a lot of trouble to get these tickets, I suppose. Oh, hell, I can see it twice if it comes to that. The matinee’s at 3. Where and when do you want to meet?”
“Splendid. Why don’t I pick you up around 12:30? We can have lunch at Shun Lee West and have a nice postprandial walk in the winter wonderland of Central Park. Remember when our parents would take us all to lunch at the original Shun Lee Palace on the East Side—”
“I remember it fondly, Rafe. That’s when our dads were still speaking to each other—”
“And our moms. Well, only good memories, good thoughts today. You’re engaged to be married to a great guy and I’m spending the holidays with my extended family in New York for the first time in a very long time—”
“I’ll see you at 12:30, Rafe. Wear something really warm. The wind will be swirling in the park.”
“Right. Sunday in New York, Joey. Sunday in New York. I can’t believe it. See you in a bit.”
I decided to go back to bed and give myself another couple of hours of sleep. I drifted off with thoughts of Christmases past and visions of sugarplums danced in my dreams. Then there was the Christmas of my 15th year. The year my life changed forever. It might not have happened if not for the fact that Port Jefferson, my hometown, has a proud tradition of holding a Charles Dickens Festival every December, including semi-professional performances of a stage adaptation of A Christmas Carol. Other than being a busy shipyard in the last century and at one time being the residence of P.T. Barnum, the annual Dickens Festival was this quaint little seaport’s biggest claim to fame and putative tourism.
On the first weekend of December, the entire town turns out in Victorian Era garb to parade down East Main Street (renamed for the occasion Dickens Alley). And everyone in the community auditions for roles in the annual production of the Dickens classic. Up until the age of 10, every boy in the village wanted to be cast as Tiny Tim. Rafe was Tiny Tim when he was nine. He practiced limping for weeks in anticipation of the auditions. The biggest part I’d ever gotten was as one of the “other” children in the Cratchit family.
The exhaustive rounds of auditions always began in mid-October. Since the pool of stage hopefuls was pretty limited (the same people tended to audition every year), the play’s director and leader of the theater troupe, Barney Randolph, undoubtedly had already cast each part in his mind before even hearing the first horribly wrong-sounding London accent attempted. The small band of professional actors led by Randolph, of course, took on the main roles. The rest of us competed for the secondary parts. If you ended up with more than two lines, you’d get a mention in the local paper’s review.
Rafe and I had just started our first year of high school that Fall. Although we were still good friends, our lives seem to diverge more and more with each passing month. Beyond Rafe’s interests in basketball and baseball and with that little hussy Kelly Richards hanging around, there was precious little opportunity for me and him to spend much time together. Not the way we used to.
I found myself having more female friends than male friends in school. For whatever reason, they liked me more than boys did. I wasn’t good at sports or obsessed with getting to third base with girls like they were. But the girls didn’t fancy me as a possible boyfriend either. Maybe they sensed I was more girl than boy, especially since puberty hadn’t really arrived for me at the late age of 15.
But the biggest obstacle in Rafe and I being as close was the fact his dad had fired my dad just that past summer. For good reason undoubtedly. Dad was a bad drunk and it showed in his haphazard attitude toward work. With Metheny Architecture closing in on a mega-million-dollar contract to design new hotels for The Harriot Hospitality Group based in Washington, DC, having an unreliable head of engineering was a real hindrance. My father was still unemployed, claiming Rafe’s father had black-balled him in the industry by spreading lies about his “promiscuous” behavior with anything in a skirt. And my parents’ marriage was hanging by a thread. It was a toss-up as to which one would file for divorce first.
So, it was my dad who didn’t want to hear of me fraternizing with the son of his enemy. Mrs. Metheny, on the other hand, was still friendly with mom, my sister, and me. She would invite us to every social occasion involving her family or her husband’s company. Unfortunately, Kelly Richards’ father worked for Metheny Architecture too and she’d monopolize Rafe’s time at every barbecue or pool day that summer.
I was called back for the second round of auditions and had just finished my 3 minutes of cockney speech that sounded a lot like Bugs Bunny reading from A Tale of Two Cities. I thought Mr. Randolph had just wandered backstage to take a break when he approached me, a big smile on his face. Mom was standing by the coffee vending machine, chatting with Rafe’s mother, yawning between sentences. Rafe’s mom looked just as weary.
“Joseph, my boy. Another fine reading—”
“Thank you, Mr. Randolph. And you can call me Joey. Everyone does.”
“Alright…Joey. I have an idea. An idea that involves you.”
My mother quickly ran over, almost spilling her full cup of coffee. “I hope you’re casting my son in a decent part. You should have cast Joey as Tiny Tim several years. Now he’s outgrown it. So what do you have in mind?”
“Mrs. Prentiss, as you know, competition for these roles is intense. There are many worthy actors in our sleepy little village. Sometimes it’s just a matter of timing—”
“Two years ago, Joey badly sprained his ankle. He was on crutches for weeks. He limped into the next year. And you still didn’t pick him for Tiny Tim!”
“Let’s not rehash old grievances…however legitimate they might be. Today, a genius idea, if I say so myself, came to me as Joey was reading. Such a waste.”
“Waste of what?” I asked, becoming annoyed.
“Waste of beauty. You know, Joey, it’s such a shame you weren’t born a girl. You’d be Hollywood material easily.”
“Hey, you’re talking about my son. Who is definitely male. Admittedly very cute…but in a boyish way. He’s only 15. He hasn’t grown his man muscles yet—”
“Mr. Randolph, that’s very weird of you. Thank you but I’m auditioning for one of the male parts—”
“Oh no, you’re too…pretty for that. I’m casting you in the role of The Ghost of Christmas Present. It’s a stroke of genius. A woman in the role normally given to a man. It’ll certainly give our production a bit of advance buzz. Maybe this year The Times will finally send someone to review it. You’ll be famous, Joey!”
“Helen,” Mrs. Metheny interjected, “you can’t allow this. This will scar the boy emotionally for life, having to act in drag in front of the whole town. Mr. Randolph, whatever kind of perversity you big city theater people engage in, it won’t stand here in Port Jefferson. My husband—”
“I’d like to try it, Mr. Randolph,” I blurted out before my mother could respond.
“Are you sure, Joey? It could be very embarrassing. Think about all the kids in school. Do you want them to laugh at you?”
“They laugh at me now anyway, mom. At least I’d have something over on them. None of them are going to have as big a part as me. It’s not a big deal, mom.” She looked into my eyes and just nodded.
“Okay, Joey. But don’t go through with it if you change your mind between now and opening night. It’s alright. You wouldn’t be letting anyone down. You’ve got to be comfortable with this.”
“I am, mom. I am.”
“Joey, I’m really not a fan of you doing this. Why don’t you do something backstage like Rafe. He’s on the lighting crew. He says it’s fun being a tech. Or you could be assistant stage manager. You’ve got such a good memory; you’ll probably know everyone’s lines better than they do.”
“Well, that’s settled. Joey, come by after school tomorrow and we’ll measure you for wardrobe and see what Mrs. Crampton can do with some makeup and a wig.”
Mom and Mrs. Metheny were still animatedly discussing my questionable decision when Rafe came down from the rafters to ask me what the hub bub was about. When I told him that I was going to play The Ghost of Christmas Present as a woman, his face took on a look of grave concern.
“Joey, the guys in school won’t like that. You’re putting a target on your back. All the time you’re spending with girls, acting like you’re a girl yourself, always sitting with them at lunch…they’ll think you’re a fag—”
“Do you think I am?”
“No, of course not, Joey. Mom says you’re, how does she put it…you’re delicate. A delicate boy. I think Randolph’s off his rocker. Think it over, Joey. Save yourself a lot of trouble.”
“So what if boys get violent with me. Would you care?”
“You know I do, Joey. But I can’t be with you every minute of the day. Like I told you before, just watch your back.”
“What would I do without you, Rafe?”
Starting Friday, November 12th, and on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays through December 30th, there were a total of 30 performances of A Christmas Carol. I played The Ghost of Christmas Present in all 30. Although Meryl Streep would have nothing to worry about, my reviews turned out to be very respectable.
My character delivered the main message of Dickens’ story. You can hear the author’s own concern for contemporary morality in The Ghost of Christmas Present’s stern words of opprobrium to Scrooge:
“Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live; what men shall die? It may be that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust.”
To Mr. Randolph’s dismay, The Times did not send a reviewer but the local paper and The Long Island Press actually mentioned me, saying I was a young actress to watch in the future. Apparently, the reporters didn’t believe Mr. Randolph when he insisted that I was a 15-year-old boy named Joseph. The caption beneath the picture of Mr. Randolph on stage as Ebenezer Scrooge and myself as The Ghost of Christmas Present identified me as Joey Prentiss, gender ambiguous.
The situation at school was diametrically opposite. Instead of adulation, what welcomed me when I walked the halls of Port Jefferson High School was derisive catcalling and even a few mean, threatening looks from many of the boys. Rafe and a few of his friends (mostly sons of men who worked for his dad) kept the rabble at bay. The girls, for the most part, congratulated me on playing such a pivotal role on stage. Some confessed they were envious of how beautiful I looked in my costume, makeup, and wig. I even received a modest stipend from the village council (hypothetically everyone other than the theater troupe members were unpaid volunteers) because of the positive reviews and increased ticket sales.
After New Year’s Day and after the final performances on December 30th, my almost perfect world collapsed around me as my mother and I were summoned to Rafe’s house for a “discussion” with his parents. My dad was supposed to come as well but, as with other family matters, he’d opted out. He was probably driving around Port Jefferson and Bethpage going from bar to bar, drinking his problems away.
“Matt and I decided to wait until the play ended its run before having this talk,” Mrs. Metheny began. Mr. Metheny sat in his customary easy chair, a pained look on his face. Rafe was trying not to meet my eyes as he sat on the couch with his mother. “Helen, I’m very sympathetic to your situation. I know things between you and Ross are difficult. Matt tried his best to get through to him but…that’s not why we asked you to come over tonight.”
“I think I know what you’re going to say, Sylvia, but there’s nothing wrong with Joey. He’s delicate, like you’ve said before. He’s not gay. He likes girls. The thing with the play. That’s just acting. He enjoys acting…and he got paid a stipend for it. With Ross out of work—”
“Joey’s my best friend in the world, mom. You know that. There’s nothing strange about him. He can’t help it if he looks like that—”
“Rafe, be quiet. You’re too young and too close to the situation to understand. At the very least, Helen, you should get professional help for Joey before it’s too late—”
“I’m not crazy! I…I just like doing girl things sometimes. Maybe it’s because I’m so close to my little sister…”
“You don’t see Rafe dressing up like a girl because he’s close to Sally, do you? Helen, I’m no psychiatrist but it’s shameful how Joey’s had to grow up without any male role models. Don’t hate me for saying this but Ross is one sorry excuse for a man.”
“So, what do you suggest, Sylvia? With Ross being out of work, I can’t begin to afford to take Joey to a therapist. We’re barely scratching by on my teacher’s salary.”
“We’ve been friends for so many years, Helen,” Mr. Metheny interposed. “Let me help you find the right therapist for Joey. It’s something Sylvia and I would like to do if you’ll allow us. We’ll carry the costs—”
“No, Matt, we don’t want charity. And, for another thing, I don’t believe Joey needs therapy. It’s a phase he’ll grow out of. You know, his puberty hasn’t fully taken yet—”
“Mom, can you embarrass me even more?”
“I was afraid you’d say that, Helen. Given your laissez faire attitude on the matter, Matt and I think Rafe shouldn’t interact with Joey as often and as regularly as he has. For both their own good. We both work at Port Jeff High and you know Joey’s been the unfortunate target of derision and even intimidation. While we hope nothing bad ever happens to Joey, we can’t let Rafe get too involved with the whole situation.”
“We want Rafe to devote his time and energy to school, not to being Joey’s unofficial bodyguard,” Mr. Metheny emphasized. “I’m sorry, Helen, but Rafe’s on the fast track to M.I.T. We don’t want any detours. You can see our trepidation in the matter.”
My mother sprung up from her seat and took my hand. “Well, I think I know when we’re not welcome. Come on, Joey, let’s go home. Thank you for a notably unpleasant evening. Goodbye. We can let ourselves out.” As she pulled me out of my seat and led me to the front door, I turned back toward Rafe but his head was down, obviously avoiding having to meet my eyes.
For the next two years, Rafe and I mostly studiously avoided each other. Of course, in a small town like Port Jefferson and a high school class of just under 100, we did run into each other now and again, even had brief conversations. For his part, Rafe always apologized for his parents’ behavior but it was cold comfort. I had had very few friends, even among the girls, and now that Rafe and his cohort had ostracized me, I was an island at school. I kept my nose to the grindstone and studied hard, hoping that Columbia wouldn’t revoke my legacy status so I could afford a college education. I survived but won’t claim I actually thrived during my sophomore and junior years at school.
After a hearty lunch of Shanghai Soupy Dumplings, Bean Curd Puffs, Moo Shu Pork for Rafe, Singapore Curry Chicken for me, and pineapple slices for dessert, Rafe and I walked the two blocks to the entrance to the park at Central Park West and 67th Street for our postprandial stroll through the snow.
We hadn’t spoken much as we ate. I wasn’t feeling loquacious and Rafe seemed to be monitoring my mood very closely. As we trudged through the snow already made slushy by thousands of pedestrians, past the site of the old Tavern on the Green, now a Visitors’ Center, and crossing West Drive, where the finish line of the annual NYC Marathon is located, we followed the path along the north rim of the Sheep Meadow. Rafe stopped a young couple walking hand in hand in the opposite direction and asked them to take a photo of us with his phone. He offered to do the same for them and I stood to the side of the path, snapping pics of the wintry scene with my own phone. By the time Alastair returned from LA, the snow would probably be washed away by the rain forecasted in the coming days.
Continuing east as directly as the path allowed, we came upon The Mall, a formal promenade, lined with tall oak trees, with statues of Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Shakespeare at its southern end. The sight of snow partially covering the heads and shoulders of these literary giants struck a chord in my artistic sensibility and I aimed my phone’s camera lens at them.
“Do you ever regret not finishing your doctorate in English, Joey? You always loved literature and writing.”
“There was a time when I just felt lost. I was this close to ending it all. Discussions about what career I wanted to pursue were the furthest thing from my mind—”
“Yes, I know. Elizabeth. I’m surprised you still see each other.”
“That’s something that happened recently and I wasn’t the one who initiated the contact. It was her daughter Jocelyn. She kind of begged me to see her when I was in Boston last year.”
“I remember meeting her that time I visited you at Columbia. You’d already moved into her loft. I told you then she wasn’t right for you.”
“You were jealous. How could you know after a few hours one afternoon?”
We headed north past the band shell and arrived at the Bethesda Terrace, overlooking the beautifully tiled Arcade, the grand staircases, and the Bethesda Fountain (aka “Angel of the Waters”). As we stood in the shelter of the terrace, we could see the lake, the Loeb Boathouse to the east, and the Ramble directly across the water.
“I know I asked you so many times almost 30 years ago and even at the wedding—”
“Rafe, I gave you an answer every time. You just didn’t accept it.”
“We loved each other, didn’t we? You had already decided to transition—”
“I would have made you the object of ridicule and even disgust in business circles. His wife used to be a man! You’d have lost all the contracts your father worked so hard for so long to procure. You know how conservative the culture was. Still is.”
“Fuck capitalism. I told you then I’d walk away from the firm if that happened. I never gave a damn about my inheritance. Sally could have it all; I didn’t care.”
I turned into the cold breeze, away from Rafe’s eyes, and squeezed his arm. I hoped he couldn’t hear the choke creeping into my voice.
“I believed you, Rafe. And I loved you more than you’ll ever know. My heart was yours from the time we used to ride our tricycles down the driveway of your house. But I could never give you children—”
“Joey!”
“No, it’s not a silly little detail, Rafe. You deserved to have a family like any other man who married a cis woman. You’re a good father. I can tell from the way you interact with Harlow. And the way you talk about becoming a grandfather soon. I could never give you that.”
“Joey…I…” His voice trailed off into silence as he took me fully into his arms and gazed into my teary eyes. We embraced for a long time, just holding on to each other as if we could reach back through the lost years and be who we were 30 years ago again.
A half hour later, we walked past Strawberry Fields on our way to the 72nd Street exit. We would take the subway downtown to Times Square, emerge from the underground, and walk over to 44th Street where the matinee of Some Like It Hot at The Shubert Theatre was set to raise its curtain at 3PM.
After the cast of Some Like It Hot joyfully received its third and final ovation, Rafe and I meandered out into the slushy streets of midtown along with the rest of the theatergoers. Flagging down a taxicab, we had a brief discussion about where to enjoy a late dinner. I nixed the idea of going to Zhou Dynasty, having eaten there with Alastair just days ago on my birthday. We settled on Caffè Pedrocchi, closer to Alastair’s apartment in the West Village.
A lovely meal of Northern Italian dishes like Risotto con i Rovinassi (risotto with chicken livers) and Osso Buco (lamb shanks braised with vegetables, white wine, and broth) was still being digested as we walked the handful of blocks to the apartment. The question of whether or not to invite Rafe upstairs was answered when, serendipitously, I managed to hail a cab as it turned the corner of Perry Street and West 4th.
“I’d invite you up but it’s getting late and I’m bushed. Maybe we can get together later this week. I’m sure Alastair would love to see you again. Bring Harlow too—”
“Yeah, I’d love that. When is Al returning?”
“Monday night or Tuesday morning. Give me a call.” Rafe reached for me but I side-stepped him to close the passenger door, deftly blowing him a kiss while backing away from the curb. He waved and turned to the driver to impart his instructions.
The tryptophan in my cup of almond milk hot cocoa wasn’t doing the trick. Still unable to fall asleep, I remembered the soporific effect some of Alastair’s jazz records had on me, although when he played them, he wasn’t trying to put me to sleep. Sorting through his shelves of LPs, I landed on a Bill Evans album, Nirvana. Evans on piano and Herbie Mann on flute should mellow me out. I lay down in bed and listened to Satie’s “Gymnopedie” on Alastair’s classic Bang & Olufsen system set at low volume, tendrils of nothingness curling around my senses.
High School was an ordeal. After Rafe’s mother insisted we see less and less of each other, we grew far apart, only passing each other in the hallways, nodding to each other or briefly exchanging pleasantries. Rafe was always popular. He played all three varsity sports and dated all the equally popular girls. He took Kelly Richards, captain of the cheerleading squad, to the Junior Prom. I didn’t go.
That night, me and a couple of my female friends who didn’t get asked either, went rollerblading at the rink in Harborfront Park. There was a sparse crowd, undoubtedly because most of the kids of our age were at the prom. We had some contained fun skating around and around, trying hard not to keep crashing into each other as the sound system blared “Celebration” by Kool & The Gang.
“Why didn’t you ask anyone to the prom?” Maddie asked me as we took a break to slurp on a couple of Sprites through butterfly silly straws.
“Me? Maddie, most people think I’m actually a girl who’s pretending to be a boy. Everyone else thinks I’m gay. I’m not Mr. Popular.”
“You mean like Rafe Metheny? I think he’s got a thing for you. He just won’t admit it to himself.”
“Rafe’s not gay. We were best friends for a long time and then…well, our families don’t mingle anymore since Rafe’s dad fired my dad and my parents separated.”
“At least you get to spend summers in LA. Even if it’s with your dad—”
“And his new girlfriend. But she’s cool. I think she understands me better than my father does. Or my mother for that matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t go blabbing this around, okay? I’ll tell you but it’s not for public consumption. Can I trust you?”
“Of course, Joey. What’s so hush-hush?”
“She lets me dress up and we go out shopping together. She understands it’s a phase I’m going through. Like she’s real tolerant and everything. We keep it from dad. He’d blow a gasket if he knew.”
“Oh my god, Joey. Do you think it’s a…a healthy thing to do? I thought you said you’re not gay.”
“I’m not!” I threw my cup of Sprite with the silly straw into the trash bin and rolled out toward the center of the rink. Turning back, I started to warble “Celebration” at Maddie. Then I crashed into Cyndi, the other friend I had come to the rink with.
I was in the middle of reading the most difficult chapter of Joyce’s Ulysses, “Oxen of the Sun,” which recounts the protagonist Stephen Dedalus’ attendance of a party in a maternity hospital, told in parodies of various popular literary styles. I wasn’t making head or tails of it when my sister Erica bopped into my room.
“Mom says there’s a phone call for you.”
“I’ll be down in a minute. Did she say who?”
“Yeah, it’s Rafe. Wonder what he wants.”
“Hello?”
“Uh…hi, Joey. It’s Rafe—”
“Rafe who?”
“Cut it out, Joey. I called to…uh…to ask you something.”
“Make it quick, Rafe. I’m in the middle of my reading assignment for English class.”
“Joey, would you like to go see The Clash in the city with me? This Sunday?”
“Why aren’t you going with Kelly?”
“She and I sort of had a fight and…well, she can’t go.”
“Why ask me?”
“I just thought you’d like to go. You told me you liked them. Remember? We bumped into each other at the mall last month—”
“Yeah, you were shopping with Kelly. Did she get those ugly Jelly shoes she was looking for?”
“Nah, none of the stores carried them. They’re imported from Europe, you know. Anyway, would you like to go with me?”
“Is your dad letting you borrow the Mercedes?”
“He won’t let me drive it into the city. I can’t afford to park it in a lot and he says it’ll get stolen or stripped if I park it on the street. We’ll take the train. I’ve got the schedule and it looks like we can catch the last train at 10. Plenty of time.”
“So that’s what the fight was about?”
“Yeah, she thought I should have sprung for the parking. The tickets cost me enough as it is.”
“There’s really nobody else who’d go with you?” There was a long silence.
“I didn’t ask anyone else, Joey. I’ve been thinking about me and you. We used to be best friends. You want to see The Clash. I’ve got two tickets. Why not?”
“Are you sure your parents will let you?”
“They don’t have to know. They’ll think I’m taking Kelly. So, should I come over around noon?”
“If it’s alright with my mom…yeah, I’ll go with you. See you then, Rafe.”
“Oh, great, and I’m paying for the train too. Thanks, Joey.”
That Sunday, at exactly 12 Noon, mom called me down from my room. Rafe is nothing if not punctual. He was standing in the foyer, wearing a Clash t-shirt, and holding a plastic bag in his right hand. Mom was speaking to him, probably confirming when we’d get back from the city.
“Hey, Rafe. I’m ready! Let’s go.”
“Joey, I brought you something to wear. It’s a Clash t-shirt. I hope it fits.” He handed the plastic bag to me. I was a little disappointed he hadn’t gotten me a corsage. Silly thought, I know.
“Oh, thanks. I’ll go and swap out my polo shirt for this gnarly t-shirt right now!” I started to climb up the stairs to my room.
“Honey, you can change down here. Rafe’s seen you without a shirt on.” She laughed but I attacked the staircase two treads at a time.
I was surprised to see Rafe’s sister Sally sitting behind the wheel of her Ford Fiesta, parked outside our house, a look of utter boredom on her face.
“Sally’s driving us to the station?”
“It would’ve taken us 45 minutes to walk all the way to the station. Sally’s home for the weekend and she volunteered.”
After some perfunctory amenities with Sally, she stepped on the accelerator and we started on the 10-minute drive to the train station.
“Thanks for the t-shirt, Rafe. It was really nice of you to think of getting it for me. How did you figure out my size? It’s almost a perfect fit.”
“He didn’t figure it out,” Sally interjected. “He bought it for Kelly. No surprise that girls’ sizes fit you, Joey. Although Kelly would probably fill it out better up front.”
“Sally, Joey didn’t need to hear that. Sorry, Joey. I did buy it for Kelly…but you look really good in it. You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“No, Rafe. I like it. I’m not offended. I’ll wear it to school so Kelly can see what she missed out on—”
“Hey, little bro, mommy packed a little lunch for you guys.” She tossed a paper bag over her right shoulder at Rafe.
“Rafe, you told your mom?”
“She kinda found out. I mean, Kelly’s mom shops at the same Shoprite on Nesconset Highway. She wasn’t against me taking you.”
“Poor Joey she calls you, all the time.” Sally turned into the parking lot of the train station. “She’s really hopeful that spending summers with your dad might straighten you out.”
“Tell your mom I really appreciate her concern.”
“Let’s not get testy now. Anyway, your train’s due in half an hour. There’s a comic book store a couple of blocks that way while you wait. Have fun, kids. Call me from a payphone tonight and I’ll pick you up. If I’m still awake, that is.”
A few minutes before three in the afternoon, our LIRR train chugged into Grand Central Station, just a 10-minute walk from Bonds International Casino at Broadway & West 44th Street. Although the place (there were two shows today, one at 5PM, the late show at 10PM) didn’t open its doors until 4PM, there was probably a line of ticketholders from here to kingdom come already.
The day before, the Fire Marshals cancelled the show when double the 1,800-person capacity showed up, with or without tickets. Promoters had over-sold the 8 original dates and had to extend the engagement well into June so all the ticket buyers wouldn’t be ripped off. Hopefully, we would be within the first 1,800 in line so they wouldn’t turn us back and offer to exchange our tickets for a future date.
We settled in about a thousand deep in the ticketholders line. Sally was prescient in telling us to browse the comic book store near the train station. Copies of the latest issues of The Fantastic Four, Batman, Teen Titans, X-Men, and Daredevil kept us busy while we waited. Finally, with NYC Police watching nearby, they roped off everyone who came after the 1,800th ticketholder and let us rush into the venue.
It was a madhouse of screaming fans jockeying for position in a ballroom without seating. Rafe pulled me along as he dashed as close to the stage as possible. I just barely evaded some serious elbows to the face and ribs. Other blows, intentional or accidental, were parried by Rafe. We camped down about 20 feet from the stage and had to wait another 40 minutes before The Clash actually emerged from wherever they were sequestered.
The music itself was exhilarating and they played for more than two hours, going through a setlist that included every important song they had recorded since they burst on the punk rock scene in the UK in 1977: “London Calling,” “Train in Vain,” “(White Man) in Hammersmith Palais,” “Guns of Brixton,” “Charlie Don’t Surf,” “The Magnificent Seven,” “Police and Thieves,” and “Radio Clash” among the favorites. A five-song encore was highlighted their cover of Vince Taylor’s “Brand New Cadillac” and their own “Janie Jones.”
Outside in Times Square as the sun set in the sky, simultaneously exhausted and energized by the concert we’d just witnessed, we made a fateful decision. With my stomach grumbling, we could either walk over to the Blimpie’s across the street and split a meatball hero or, as Rafe preferred, we could head downtown to have a sit-down pizza dinner at John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street. Pizza it was. We hurtled down the steps of the subway entrance and took the first 1 train that arrived. Disembarking at Christopher Street, we walked the few blocks to 278 Bleecker Street.
“So, tell me truth, Rafe. How many girls did you ask before you got down to the bottom of the list and called me?”
“I didn’t ask anyone else. It’s the truth. Like I said on the phone, I’ve been thinking about you, about the times we had together. We were best friends, Joey.”
“The best. Like the two musketeers. Ha ha ha.”
“Three musketeers, Joey. I think there was always a third person with us all the time.”
“Who? My sister? You always thought she was a big nuisance.”
“No, I mean…you, Joey. You’re two people in one. There’s Joey, the scrawny little boy with the giant brain who shrinks from groups of people…a loner. Maybe a sad loner—”
“I’m happy and well-adjusted, Rafe. You’ve been reading Sally’s college psychology books, haven’t you?”
“Then there’s…there’s a beautiful girl hiding behind or inside that lonely little boy. I don’t know what to call her. Does she have a name. Her own name?”
I reached over with a napkin and dabbed some pizza sauce from the corner of his mouth. He held onto my hand with a grip that wouldn’t let go.
“Don’t, Rafe. You’re hurting me!”
One of the counter boys rushed over to our booth when he heard me yell.
“You alright, Miss?” Rafe released my hand and lowered his eyes to the table.
“Yes, I’m okay. We were just horsing around. Just got a little too rough.”
“You should watch your strength, man. You could have hurt the little lady.” He turned away when another patron called his name and left us in peace.
“You see, everybody sees it. When are you going to admit to yourself what your real self is?”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s not admitting who you really are. Maybe that’s why Kelly had a fight with you.”
“You don’t get it, Joey. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m not trying to denigrate you—”
“Like your mother?”
“I won’t make excuses for her but she’s a high school English teacher not a medical doctor. She’s not a bigot. She’s just a mother concerned about who her son associates with.”
“She thinks I’m a deviant. Yeah, we’ve heard this chapter and verse already. So, you must think I’m one too.”
“No, I’m trying to understand you. Maybe help you if I can. I’m only 17. A lot of stuff that’s going on in the world just confuses the heck out of me. But I know one thing. I…I like you. I care a lot about you. You mean a lot to me.”
“Well, you could have fooled me. Where was your caring the last two years?”
“You know my parents. And your dad wasn’t much help either. He almost ran my dad over that time in the company parking lot—”
“That’s a lie! Your father made that story up!”
“Quiet down. They’ll think I’m a wife-beater or something. Let me get the check and we’ll get out of here before that kid calls the cops. A little night air might calm you down.”
Sunday night in The Village is pretty quiet and the streets are fairly deserted. Working people have to get up early on Monday morning. The bridge and tunnel kids have to catch the last buses and trains. The ones with cars want to beat the traffic leaving Manhattan. We had to cross over to the east side in order to catch a subway back to Grand Central Station. The last train to Port Jefferson departs at 9:45PM. It was a little past 9 as we hurried through the confusing maze of streets and random alleyways.
“Slow down, Joey. You’re going the wrong way. We have to cross the street here.”
“Leave me alone. I can catch the train myself. Thanks for the concert. Let’s never do this again!”
He caught up to me and grabbed my t-shirt. I fought to get away from his grasp.
“Let go! I’m not kidding. I can get home by myself!”
“Hey, douchebag, leave the girl alone.”
Two older teenage boys were walking toward us, a few feet away from us, now coming closer.
“Mind your own business. We’re just having a discussion, man.”
“Hey, babe, come over here. We’ll protect you from this goon.”
“Yeah, it ain’t safe for a young girl like you to be on the streets at night.” The other boy grabbed me and held me in a vise-like grip, laughing as the first boy threw a right hand at Rafe’s jaw. He ducked out of the way and tried to rush to my aid.
“Hey, let her go!” The first boy two-handed the back of Rafe’s head and he fell almost at my feet.
“Jerry, this girl’s got no tits,” the other boy declared as he reached under my t-shirt. His other hand grabbed for my crotch and recoiled. “She’s got a dick too! She ain’t no girl!”
“Couple of fags, we got here. I hate fags!” He picked up Rafe by the shoulders and punched him flush in the face, his right eye already puffing up and reddened.
“Help! Help! Rafe!” I tried to kick him in every area of his body my foot could reach but the second boy was either wearing shin guards and a cup or just too drunk to feel pain.
“Come on, Jerry. It ain’t worth it. Some cop might come by.”
“Okay.” He tried to punch Rafe in the mouth but Rafe moved quickly enough to just catch a glancing blow. “Shit, I wanted one more shot. But fuck it. Let’s go. Drop that sissy, dude.” I was plunked onto the ground and they both tore off in the direction of West 4th Street.
It seemed like an eternity but after a few minutes, a single patrolman ambled by, spotted us and rushed to see what was going on. I was cradling Rafe’s head in my arms. He was moaning softly but his wounds didn’t seem that severe. A black eye and a split lip were the sum total. I was a mess. My t-shirt was torn in a couple of places (which might have seemed like a fashion statement for a punk rock chick) and my hair was a good impression of a badly constructed bird nest.
“What happened here, Miss?”
“We ran into a couple of punks, officer,” Rafe said, his delivery slow and painful. “They ran off a few minutes ago.”
“There’s no sign of them. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“I’m alright.” He managed to stand up and, still wobbling a bit, he leaned on my shoulder. “No need. My lip’s already stopped bleeding. And I’ll put a cold compress on this eye when we get home.”
“What about you, Miss? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just need a hairbrush and a change of clothes. Maybe if you can point us in the direction of the subway that can take us to Grand Central Station—”
“It’s just two blocks that way. Can you make it?”
With Rafe lightly leaning on me, we crossed the street and headed toward the subway.
After calling Sally from a payphone at Grand Central Station, we caught the last train to Port Jefferson and settled in for the two-hour ride. I bought a box of tissues and a comb at one of the kiosks in the station. Cleaned up the dried blood on Rafe’s face and combed my hair into a reasonable arrangement on my head. There wasn’t much I could do about his black eye but I found a two-pack of aspirin in a foil wrapper in my wallet (my mom probably put it there when I joked about getting migraines trying to learn algebra) and gave it to Rafe with a cup of water.
When the conductor came by to punch our tickets, we were asleep, our heads together, our breathing synchronized.
“Miss, excuse me. Tickets?”
I woke up with a start, realized it was the conductor, and held out our tickets for him to punch. He slipped them into the slot above our seats.
“Your boyfriend get into a fight, Miss?”
“Yeah, we got jumped by some toughs in the Village.”
“Looks like he got the worst of it. New York’s a dangerous place. Take my advice. The island’s a better place to raise a family.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
Sally picked us up at the Port Jefferson station a few minutes after midnight. She yawned through our quick explanation of how Rafe got his black eye.
“You’ve got a few hours to polish up your story, Rafe. Mom and dad are asleep. I’ll just nod if they turn to me for my two cents. I guess I should be a good sister this one time—”
“But it’s all true. It happened just that way.” I might have squeaked out that last part.
“You could avoid all of this if Joey didn’t look so convincing as a girl.”
“I’m not trying to fool anybody. People jump to conclusions.”
“Everybody, alright. Everybody. Owww!”
“Don’t touch it, Rafe. I can put some ice cubes in a towel and apply a cold compress to it. It’ll take 15 minutes.”
“Well, mom and dad are already asleep. What’s another 15 minutes?” Sally asked no one in particular.
I guess what happened that day rekindled our friendship. For the remaining month of school, we’d eat lunch together and walk to and from school together. We’d talk on the telephone often. He and Kelly grew apart until, ultimately, they officially broke it off. That’s when the jokes and nasty rumors started. But, really, were we that different from other close guy friends? It came down to the way I look. And I can’t help that. I am what I am. But I’m as confused as Rafe is about what I really am.
After school ended on June 26th, I left to spend the summer in LA with my father, per the agreement arrived at by my parents when they legally separated. As he promised, Rafe wrote to me every week and I looked forward to our senior year. After we graduated, we’d be geographically undesirable again, me at Columbia, he at M.I.T. in Boston. So, make hay while the sun shines.
Monday morning, wrapped in my warm terrycloth robe, I answered a video call on my phone from Alastair. Even for Alastair it was early. 9:30AM for me, 6:30AM for him. It looked like he was calling from his room at the retreat where GlobalNet had just held its year-end meeting.
“Good morning, Jo. How’s my bride-to-be?”
“Well, groom-to-be, I’m perfect except for one thing. I miss you. When are you back in my arms?”
“Jo, I wish I was there with you right now. Unfortunately, we’ve got loose ends that have to be tied up before Christmas. It’s a lot of agency hassles with some of the talent we’re looking to sign. One way or the other, Friday’s the drop-dead date. I promise to be in New York by Friday night. Mom wants to give you her official stamp of approval by Christmas Eve. You know she absolutely loves you to pieces but she wants us to spend Christmas with her.”
“I understand, Alastair. Business is business. But what is poor me going to do all alone in snowy New York City by my lonesome?”
“There are two tickets to Some Like It Hot anytime you want to see it. Take your sister Erica. You can have a day in the city together. Lunch, shopping, Broadway, dinner, the works.”
“That’s a good idea. I’m sure she’d love it.”
“We’ll talk, Jo. Just know I think about you while these tedious meetings drone on and on. I love you, babe. Can’t wait to see you again in the flesh.”
“Love you too, Alastair.” We disconnected.
I started to dial my sister when a voice call came in from Rafe. I was going to send it to voicemail but changed my mind and picked up. Oh, Rafe. What rough beast slouches to Bethlehem to be born?
(Author's Note: I apologize profusely for taking so long to post the latest chapter of this story. Real life has been quite bothersome lately and the energy to write ebbed to a standstill on certain days. However, I can see light at the end of the tunnel and hope to resume posting on a regular schedule. Thank you for continuing to read and I hope you comment as well.)
I had barely disconnected the video call from Alastair when caller ID displayed Rafe’s name on the screen. This was getting to be an everyday thing, after 25 years of interacting perhaps 3 or 4 times total. I accepted the voice call.
“Good morning, Rafe. What mischief are you up to today?”
“Oh, Joey, nothing too scandalous. Sally and Martin reminded me that Port Jefferson’s holding their annual Christmas charity gala tomorrow night—”
“I’d forgotten about that. Emily and I went once back in the oughts. Those tickets are awfully expensive. I usually just send them a few piasters online. Is it still being held at the Hyatt Regency?”
“Yep. The old place is still standing. They did do an extensive renovation in ’15 or ’16.”
“Wonder if it looks anything like it did when we had our graduation night party there. In the smaller ballroom, not the one they host the gala in—”
“I think about that night often…fondly, Joey.”
“Fondly? You had that big spat with Kelly Richards and split right after—”
“With you, Joey. I was just in a state. My parents had moved to Georgetown in D.C., they dragooned Sally into baby-sitting me for the last three months of school and she was royally pissed to have to do that. It was a 90-minute commute to her job in Manhattan. She had an apartment a 10-minute walk from her office. I was being forced to spend the summer in D.C. and then go to Boston for M.I.T. in September. And then Kelly picked a silly argument with me in front of everyone. I needed some fresh air. It’s a good thing you came along. We drove around town for a few hours, finishing off that six-pack between us—”
“That was stupid. We could have gotten killed or arrested.”
“I remember Sally had to miss a day of work because she lost sleep waiting up for you. She was afraid you’d had some sort of accident.”
“No, she was afraid our parents would kill her if I turned up dead or ran away, which I’d threatened to do when mom and dad moved to D.C.”
“The only thing I remember is waking up on old Mrs. Caruthers’ lawn. She was going to call the cops on us. I think she had a broom in her hand—”
“Yeah, the image of her brandishing that broom like a martial arts Bo Staff while wearing a ratty old bathrobe and bunny slippers is etched in my memory.”
“Rafe, I don’t mind reliving the good old days. Ha ha. But you were saying about the Christmas gala?”
“Right, well, Sally and Martin, once they learned Harlow and I were spending the week in the city, bought tickets to the gala for us. Basically an entire table for eight. There’re two seats not spoken for and I—”
“Thought about inviting Alastair and me? That’s very gracious of you…and Sally. But Alastair’s not returning from Los Angeles until Friday at the earliest. Business. As usual.”
“Sorry to hear that, Joey. Sally was especially excited to meet Alastair. Harlow too. But listen, how about coming anyway? It’ll be fun being back in Port Jeff after all these years and it’s for a good cause, right?”
“I’m in Port Jefferson several times a year, Rafe. Remember my little sister Erica still lives there?”
“Please, Joey. These galas can be deadly boring and even the food’s usually rather bland. We can spend the time catching up.”
“Alright, Rafe. How formal is this gala?”
“It’s not the Met Gala, Joey. A cocktail dress, maybe? Sally tells me she’s seen women wear pantsuits at these in recent years. Any old thing from your closet will do, I’m sure. Remember, this is Port Jefferson we’re talking about.”
“I’ll figure it out, Rafe. So when should I expect my carriage?”
“Your carriage will arrive at 5PM sharp tomorrow, milady. Oh, and, if I remember correctly, sweetheart roses are your favorites—”
“Oh, Rafe, don’t bring me a corsage!”
“It’s a must, Joey. A must! See you tomorrow.” He disconnected.
I had already planned on shopping on Monday afternoon but for Christmas gifts for Rafe’s family, not for a formal dress. It struck me the penultimate time I had been in one of the two Hyatt Regency ballrooms; we were advised to dress casually. The night of our high school graduation. The last night I would see Rafe until November of that year when he paid me a surprise visit at Columbia.
Our senior year at Port Jefferson High was a mixed bag. The incident that occurred after The Clash concert at Bonds International in Times Square changed our relationship. In some ways we became once again the best friends we had been ever since pre-school days. We ate lunch together almost every day, walked to and from school together, listened to records in my bedroom, watched him play basketball and football on the school varsity, and so on. But he still dated girls like Kelly Richards and his parents were icy cold to me whenever I came over to see him.
There was one confrontation of seismic proportions in early November. Rafe was taking an elective photography class and his term project was to create a photo gallery of Port Jefferson’s most interesting sights that could be used in a tourism brochure. His choice of model was…me.
It was a silly, reckless, stupid, dangerous…and, for me, impossible to reject proposition. Rafe assured me that no one would recognize me in make-up, styled hair, and fashionable clothes. Erica volunteered to be my stylist, unbeknownst to our mother. I don’t know where Rafe obtained the various outfits he had me wear but they were all high street items. Even down to the bras and panties. So, on an unseasonably warm Saturday, we wandered around town, changing outfits in the back of his father’s Chevrolet van. I felt simultaneously scared witless and magnificently liberated. I tried not to stumble too much in my sister’s low-heeled shoes and boots while being conscious of gently swaying my hips.
The funny thing about the whole day was, even when we came across kids from school or, in one case, our Chemistry teacher and his wife, no one recognized me. Rafe had to explain to everyone that I was a family friend from New York City who wanted to get into modeling. I said nothing and just gave them a mysterious Mona Lisa smile when they nodded at me.
Saturday had been the perfect day to do the shoot, not only because it wasn’t a school day but Rafe’s parents had planned to spend most of the day in the city visiting friends and running errands. We thought we could get away scott-free before they returned sometime in the evening. So, it was quite a shock when the van tooled up the driveway of Rafe’s house to find mom and dad’s car already parked there. My sister Erica was panicked. Rafe swallowed hard and advised us to sprint up the stairs to his room as soon as we stepped in the house. I knew this was a doomed strategy as soon as Rafe, allegedly an honor student, had proposed it. But, dressed as I was, I wasn’t in a position to argue.
We got as far as the middle of the living room when our thundering footsteps alerted Rafe’s mother, who came quickly out of the kitchen, her hand held up as a stop sign.
“Rafe and Erica, go into the kitchen! There’s some orange juice in the fridge. I want to speak to Joey alone. Now, please…” They gave me forlorn looks but did as they were told.
“Joey, sit down. We’re going to have a little talk, you and I.”
I sat down on the sofa, remembering to keep my legs together underneath my skirt. For good measure, I crossed my ankles and smiled innocently at Mrs. Metheny.
“Rafe told me he was shooting photos for his term project but I had no idea he would be using you as a model. My dear boy, will you do everything my silly son asks you to?”
“He was very persuasive, Mrs. Metheny, and you know I’d do anything to help Rafe. He was having a lot of trouble finding a girl to be the model—”
“That’s what he told you? I bumped into Kelly Richards’ mother at the Shoprite just last Tuesday and she was gushing about how beautiful her daughter was going to look in Rafe’s tourism brochure.” She placed her hand on my shoulder, felt the bra strap underneath my top, flinched, and replaced her hand to stroke it. “Do you want to be a girl, Joey?”
Fidgeting under her touch, I tried to sound convincing. “No, Mrs. Metheny. Not at all. It’s just that Rafe really needed a model and he was under a lot of time pressure and my sister said she could do my makeup and style my hair and she’d given Rafe my sizes and stuff and…”
“I’ll talk to Rafe, Joey. He has to stop this fascination with you, trying to turn you into a girl. It’s not normal. He has to stop taking advantage of you. I know he’s not doing it maliciously. We all love you. Rafe’s dad thinks so highly of you and how you’ve managed to keep your grades up despite the problems at home. Generally, you’re a wonderful influence on Rafe. I wish he was as serious about his schoolwork and his future as you seem to be—”
“Do you think Rafe is just pulling a prank on me, Mrs. Metheny? Because that’s not true. He knows I…I enjoy dressing up. And I’m not gay or anything. Honest.”
“Okay, I believe you, Joey. But this “dressing up” has to stop. For your sake and Rafe’s sake as well. It’s not something two young men should be doing. I won’t say a word about this to your mother or Rafe’s father. But I will have a talk with Rafe. Now…” She handed me a tissue. “Dry your eyes. Your mascara’s going to run. Go upstairs to the bathroom, use my cold cream to remove your makeup and change back into your normal clothes.”
I dabbed at my eyes, trying not to sniffle, and walked toward the stairs. Erica, who’d been eavesdropping behind the kitchen door, climbed up the stairs with me.
Rafe rang the buzzer on the door at five minutes of 5PM. I’d been ready for half an hour and opened the door to find Rafe holding out a box containing a wrist corsage of pink sweetheart roses, a broad smile on his still handsome face.
“For you, Joey. Pink roses to match your rosy cheeks.”
“Oh, Rafe. I told you not to give me a corsage. It’s not the senior prom—”
“Trying to make up for missed chances, Joey. I should have asked you to the prom instead of Kelly Richards.”
“Oh that would’ve been just ducky. Our mothers would have had us institutionalized. And everyone at school would’ve tarred and feathered us, dropped us right into The Long Island Sound. This was 1981 in Port Jefferson not Greenwich Village—”
“They’d never have suspected. You’re my prom date from New York City. You would have been the belle of the ball in taffeta.”
“Thanks for the thought, Rafe, but I’m not going to wear that to the gala. I’m 58 years old!”
“I’ve heard that 58 is the new 18—”
I put my overcoat on and picked up my purse. Pushing Rafe out of the doorway, I turned to lock the apartment door.
“I assume your car is downstairs.”
“Yes, milady, your carriage awaits. Are you sure you won’t wear this?”
When we reached his rental Beamer, I noted that the interior was empty of passengers.
“I guess everyone else is in Martin’s car?”
“Oh, yeah, you’ll see when we get to the hotel.”
“You didn’t comment on what I’m wearing, Rafe. Is it okay? I went a little conservative. Not festive enough for a Christmas gala?”
“You look fine. Port Jefferson’s not a social mecca like New York or Los Angeles. As long as the price tag’s not showing.” I swatted him on the shoulder as he chivalrously opened the passenger side door for me.
Less than two hours later, we had just checked our coats outside the Hyatt Regency Ballroom. The cocktail hour was already underway but Rafe took me aside before I stepped inside. He led me back to the hotel lobby and told me to pose in front of the Christmas Tree, brightly festooned with tinsel and lights. After snapping a burst of pics with his phone, I returned the favor and ordered him to do the same. He looked very handsome in his tailored blue suit, a classic look for an evening event like this.
When we entered the ballroom, we could hear Christmas standards being played with a soft jazz lilt by a quartet sequestered in a corner of the stage. Rafe and I looked to be late arrivals as all the tables were occupied, cocktail glasses tinkling amid hushed conversations. When Rafe pointed out our table, I realized I’d been set up…again.
“I don’t think the rest of our party is late, Rafe. What’s going on?”
“They decided to go see Some Like It Hot instead. Martin’s friend was able to get seven tickets for tonight. You know the show’s sold out through March of next year—”
“No, really, Rafe. Tell me the truth.”
“It was Sally’s idea. She wanted us to have some time together. And I agreed wholeheartedly. Don’t be upset, Joey. The gala’s nice and there’s dancing after the main program. Indulge me. It might be last time we spend together for a long while.”
“We’ve barely seen each other in 20 years and now you’re worried about not seeing me for a long while? We’re not courting, Rafe. I’m getting married soon. How would you have managed tonight if Alastair had returned from LA yesterday? Just stared daggers at him for four hours?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course, I realize you’re getting married. I feel the need for some closure between us. We used to mean a lot to each other.”
“That’s a geological age ago. We had our closure when you left to take over your father’s firm and moved to D.C.”
“That, remember, was your choice, Joey. Don’t say it was mine—” The waiter came to our table and asked for our cocktail orders. “The lady will have a glass of Chablis, slightly chilled. I’ll have a vodka martini.”
“I could’ve ordered for myself.”
“I know what you drink, Joey. Was I right?”
“Yes, but…oooh, you’re so infuriating sometimes.”
“Just sometimes?”
Throughout the evening, people kept stealing glances our way. Well, it was an odd sight. Two seats filled at a table for eight. They must have thought we were some kind of billionaire couple slumming at a charity gala in the sticks. I had to fight the urge to slump down in my chair. Rafe, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. He applauded at all the right moments in the opening remarks made by the Chairperson of the Port Jefferson Community Chest. I sipped my second glass of Chablis and tried to keep my yawns to a polite minimum.
The centerpiece of the program was a performance of a scene from the local Theater Three’s annual production of A Christmas Carol. I can never doubt that the universe has a way of speaking to you, perhaps announcing its inscrutable plans for you. Here I was, sitting in the ballroom of the hotel that hosted my high school graduation party, next to my first love, and they’re performing the scene from A Christmas Carol that most likely changed the direction of my life and, for all intents and purposes, tore that love from my very hands.
When Rafe recognized the scene as the one where Scrooge is confronted by The Ghost of Christmas Present, he looked directly at me, smiled, and mouthed “you.” For Rafe, it was an incident of minor import but for me, it was the event that forced on me the realization that Rafe and I could never be more than good friends, at least as long as I was Joseph rather than Joanne.
Dinner was served immediately after the Dickens scene (the audience gave the players a thunderous ovation) and Rafe and I chose the chicken rather than the fish dish. It was decent. Rafe joked we could go for pizza afterwards if we were still hungry. I seriously thought about going for pizza at that very moment. But Rafe said the auctions were the best part of the gala.
For a backwater town, Port Jefferson actually put up some impressive items for auction. A 14-day Mediterranean cruise with 6 ports of call was the top shelf item. The winning bid for that came to almost $22,000. I didn’t recognize the older couple that won. Not surprising. I haven’t lived in Port Jeff for 40 years. There was an autographed game-used football from some NFL quarterback who went to Port Jefferson High. That went for an amazing $2,000. There was pizza for a year from Bob’s Pizzeria on East Main Street. I nudged Rafe when that went up for auction but he didn’t bite, literally. There was a pair of paintings from our local celebrity painter, a new age primitivist, that ended up going for $5,000. A set of handmade wicker chairs and table that reminded me of the wicker chairs I had purchased at an estate sale the year before for my erstwhile house in Southampton. Other smaller items included a year’s membership in a popular health club in Stony Brook and four season’s tickets to New York Islanders hockey games.
A successful auction was had by all and the floor was cleared for dancing. Of course, Rafe took my hand and led me onto the dancefloor. The people who thought we were some celebrity couple made room for us, which just made me more self-conscious about how bad a ballroom dancer I was. Although Elizabeth and I did show out with the tango moves when she took me to that Argentinean restaurant in Los Angeles last summer. Truth to tell, she was the one actually dancing. I was being dragged around the dancefloor. In a sultry manner, nevertheless.
Rafe held me close as we slow-danced to the cocktail jazz that the band was playing. We said barely a word to each other, just moved to the music, our breathing the only sound that intermingled with the song the girl singer interpreted.
I thought about the night of our high school graduation party. The angry words exchanged between Kelly and Rafe as I stood by myself, an outsider, alone without a date, dressed even more casually than the most casually dressed members of the sports teams. I was startled when Rafe ran over to me and grabbed my arm. We exited the hotel and jumped into the car Rafe’s dad had bought him as a graduation gift. A steel blue Camaro Sport Coupe. As they say in all those B movies, we burned rubber, headed nowhere and everywhere at once.
Rafe stopped at a 7-Eleven on Nesconset Highway and bought a six-pack of Miller Lite. As we drove aimlessly around, Rafe unloaded all of his discontent to the night air. His parents had moved to Georgetown in Washington, D.C. because his father’s architectural firm had received a multi-million-dollar contract to design and build a dozen new hotels along the Eastern Seaboard for the world-famous Harriot Hotels company and their headquarters were in our nation’s capital. He was obligated to spend the summer in D.C. before attending M.I.T. in Boston, starting in September. He intended to declare engineering as his major. And he knew that I was headed to Los Angeles for the summer again to stay with my father and his girlfriend. In the Fall, I would matriculate at Columbia in the city. He almost screamed out that we might only see each other once or twice a year for the next four years at the very least. Given his emotional state and the six-pack of beer which he threatened to chug in record time while driving, I managed to out-chug him so he could stay relatively sober behind the wheel. When he reached for a can, I’d beat him to it. He really didn’t notice since he was in mid-rant. I was getting less lucid as the hours went by. I basically fall asleep when I’ve drunk a lot.
Sometime after midnight he must have stopped driving because I don’t really remember any more of that aimless rant-filled trip around the North Shore after we turned off the highway and apparently back-tracked toward town.
I heard a voice nearby muttering something I couldn’t quite make out. It took an effort but I opened my eyes. The sun was bright in the sky. It seemed clear I was lying on my back on wet grass. I turned my head slightly to the right and saw Rafe hovering above me. Finally, I could understand what he was whispering.
“So beautiful. Why are you so beautiful? It makes no sense. I love you, Joey…”
“Rafe? Rafe, where are we? Are we dead? Did you crash the car and kill us last night?”
“No, we’re alive. Good morning, Joey. I’ve got a hell of a headache.”
“It’s good we’re not dead. Remind me never to ride in any car you’re driving again—”
“We’re on Mrs. Caruthers front lawn. Jesus, how did we get here? It’s 6:30 in the morning. Sally’s gonna kill us. She must think we’re dead.”
“How can she kill us if we’re already dead? Where’s your car?” I got to my feet and looked around. It was a suburban neighborhood on a typical late Spring morning. I couldn’t see Rafe’s car anywhere.
“That’s a good question. We couldn’t have walked very far from it…before we collapsed on the lawn.”
“Hey, you young hoodlums! Get off my lawn! I’m calling the police!”
Mrs. Caruthers, a widow in her late ‘70s, was wearing a ratty old bathrobe and brandishing a broom like a martial arts staff. I didn’t doubt she knew how to use it. We ran like the wind off her lawn in different directions until I turned and saw Rafe disappearing from view. I changed course and caught up to him. I was always a faster runner than him.
Sally didn’t kill Rafe when we showed up at his house half an hour later but my mother read me the riot act. She would have been even more long-winded but I had to catch a plane to Los Angeles later that day. It would be a whole two months before she’d be able to finish her harangue.
Somewhere in the dizzying emotional cocktail of memories of graduation night mixed with the seasonal musical warmth of a Christmas standard, there appeared a space where I allowed Rafe to kiss me deeply and tenderly, carrying the force of missed opportunity and regret. I think I actually swooned for a brief moment, so much so that Rafe had to hold me up as the song ended.
“It’s late, Rafe. And a long drive home. Thank you for the evening. I had a nice time.”
“I had the best time, Joey. The kiss was worth waiting 30 years for.”
We stood still in the middle of the dancefloor, even as the band started another Christmas song, a jaunty rendition of “Jingle Bells” done Andrews Sisters style. I brushed Rafe’s cheek.
“You know this is all I can give you, Rafe. A kiss goodbye, dear heart. Our lives have taken divergent paths. My future is with Alastair. You have a grandchild coming and a daughter who still needs a caring father—”
“Shhh. Don’t spoil the moment we just had. Come on, let’s head back home.”
Rafe held my hand all the way to his car in the parking lot. The only time he let go was when we had to put our coats back on after retrieving them from the checkroom. And that was only a matter of seconds. I’m sure everyone thought we were a middle-aged couple acting like teenagers. Which was funny since, in reality, we never acted like this when we were teenagers. Rafe came closer to kissing me at the time than ever holding my hand.
Even this late in the evening, it was a nearly two-hour drive back to the West Side of Manhattan. I begged off any conversation on the trip home. I felt exhausted and drifted off to sleep in the passenger seat next to Rafe as he drove, having stopped whistling some old pop song when I emphatically requested he do so.
He didn’t stop talking though, even if his voice remained barely above a whisper.
“I’m glad you’ve found someone, Joey. I hope Alastair and I can spend some time together before Christmas. Listen to me, I sound like a father who wants to give his daughter’s date the third degree before he takes her out…”
I must have murmured something in reply, not sure if I was dreaming this “conversation.”
“I guess I acted like a protective father when you introduced Elizabeth to me that time I visited you at Columbia out of the blue. She and I took an immediate dislike to each other, that much is true. But you have to admit, in the end, I was absolutely right about her. She did break your heart…”
After the graduation night party and the kerfuffle of the early morning hours of the next day, Rafe and I didn’t see each other for several months. I spent the last of my summers with my father in Los Angeles while Rafe reunited with his parents in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. In September, Rafe began classes at M.I.T. in Boston and I moved into Columbia University’s Carman Residence Hall on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
For the next two years, Rafe would visit me at school once a semester for a few days at a time. Although Sally had married Martin by this time and lived in an apartment only a dozen blocks from the Columbia campus, Rafe always chose to stay in one of the Harriott hotels in midtown. He’d get his father’s secretary to book the rooms. Usually, because of his father’s relationship with Harriott, they were gratis.
During his visits, we would take advantage of the city’s innumerable cultural events and culinary hotspots. With a Gold Amex card in hand, money was no object. I had the sense he was trying to impress me, going further than one would for a mere friend, even of such longstanding.
Each time, I would ask him if he was seeing anyone. He would smile and just say he was “socially active.” In return, he’d ask me the same. I answered honestly that I had few friends in school, never mind any kind of social life. A girl had asked me out once to see a festival program of classic noir films but she transferred from Barnard to Bryn Mawr almost immediately afterward. My sister thought I probably drove her to it somehow. Another time I plucked up the courage to ask a girl I worked alongside in Butler Library out to see a Talking Heads concert. She smiled sweetly and declined my offer, saying, “I don’t swing that way but I hear Lori is a lesbian so you should ask her…” This girl had shelved books in the stacks side by side with me for months!
Outside of these semi-annual visits (I visited him once in Boston in the Spring of our sophomore year), our only communication was by long-distance phone calls and letters and postcards (collecting postcards was one of his weird hobbies). I had to work summer jobs in the city both to earn some extra spending money and to keep out of my mother’s way. She re-married during my freshman year. To a fellow teacher at Port Jefferson High School. A nice guy, but I figured one less brat under foot would be a welcome balm for the middle-aged newlyweds. Rafe, for his part, had to spend summers working in his father’s architectural firm. The plan all along was Rafe would work alongside his dad after college and one day inherit the firm.
It was a party I had no desire to attend, even though it was being held in the common area on my dorm floor. One of the guys was celebrating dropping out of school and there was music, dancing, all kinds of noise and frivolity going on. The door to my room was not thick enough to hold back the din of voices and rock music so, sighing melodramatically, I surrendered and wandered into the mob of celebrants. I decided to do the socially correct thing and congratulate Eddie Gleason on becoming a roadie and guitar tech for The Cramps, a “psychobilly” rock band led by a husband-and-wife team who went by the impossible names Lux Interior and Poison Ivy.
Eddie was surrounded by my other floor mates and girls I had never seen before. One of them, a blonde girl wearing an NYU t-shirt appeared to be detached from the lively discussion going on. I sat down on the sliver of space on the couch that was available and offered Eddie my right hand. Eddie pressed his finger into my cheek as he always did. He thought it was funny.
“Hey, Joey, nice to see you’ve decided to join the living.”
“I was trying to study but the racket got too loud. So, here I am. Congrats, man.”
“Joey, meet my lady, Elizabeth. She’s an English major like you, except she’s at NYU, a decidedly second tier institution of learning. No offense, babe.”
“No offense taken.” She nodded at me and turned to the girl behind her to re-light her joint. She took a drag and held it out to me. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
“No, thanks. I don’t partake.”
“Yeah, Joey’s a straight arrow. Well, he’s an arrow of some sort, I think. We can never quite figure him out. There’s beer on the table. Help yourself.”
“I’ll drink to your future success in music, Eddie.” I walked over to the table and picked up a can of Coors. “I’d prefer a Heineken but this’ll do, I guess,” I said to myself.
Elizabeth strolled across the room to the table, ostensibly to select a brew, but she looked straight at me, her head at an angle.
“You’re very pretty, Joey.”
“I’m a guy. Guys aren’t usually called pretty.”
“You don’t like being called pretty?”
“I guess I don’t mind.”
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Whoa, your boyfriend’s not ten feet away. He’s looking this way—”
“Ex-boyfriend. I’m not going on the road with him. He can throw his future away by playing at being a rock star but he’s not taking me down with him. I’m staying in school.”
“Good for you. Tough break for Eddie. If I were him, I’d rather stick with you than be a fuckin’ roadie for a couple of weirdos.”
“I think that’s a compliment. Thank you, Joey. I like you. There’s something…unique about you.”
“I’ve been told that before. But never in a nice way.”
“Let’s go back to my place. I’d like to show you the paintings I’m working on—”
“You mean etchings? Ha ha. That’s an old pick-up line.”
“Not interested? Don’t swing that way?”
“I’m not gay. People assume all sorts of things about me. They hardly know me.”
“I’d like to get to know you, Joey. Come on, let’s split this scene. It’s depressing the hell out of me.” I put my can of Coors, unopened, back down on the table. She did the same with her beer.
“What about Eddie?”
“Eddie who? Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the elevator. As the elevator doors opened, I could hear Eddie asking someone, “Where’s Elizabeth?”
Four months after I moved into Elizabeth’s loft apartment on Grand Street in the Tribeca section of downtown Manhattan, Rafe paid one of his semi-annual visits. I told him about my new address but he was dumbstruck when he emerged from the elevator to see Elizabeth and me standing there, hand in hand. Of course, I hadn’t mentioned Elizabeth to him.
By the time I placed the tray holding the demitasses of espresso and a plate of biscotti on Elizabeth’s antique coffee table, Rafe and she were deep in conversation. I felt ignored as they proceeded to interrogate each other like police detectives with a murder suspect. They were sparring over me!
As their animated discussion of me proceeded, Rafe would turn toward me now and again, a disappointed, almost hurt puppy expression on his face. Elizabeth, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about my relationship with Rafe, from early sandbox days to the present. She had never been curious about my early life in Port Jefferson. She did, however, wanted me to listen to her go on endlessly about her broken relationship with her mother. Having met her recently when her parents visited the loft during Spring Break, I thought she was a rather pleasant woman.
Finally, tired of being left out, I suggested we all go over to Chinatown and have dinner at Rafe’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Silver Palace on Mott Street. It was a 5-minute walk from the loft. We all agreed and walked west at sunset, three abreast, with me sandwiched between Rafe and Elizabeth. Of course, the two of them argued over the check until I surreptitiously stepped away and paid the cashier myself. Then they argued over who should leave the tip. I just placed a fiver on the table, got up, and walked out to get some fresh air. I should have anticipated this, shouldn’t I?
The next morning, I walked over to the kitchen area to find Elizabeth on the phone, talking to Rafe. When she saw me, she quickly ended the call.
“What’s going on? Was that Rafe?”
“Yes, I told him our plans for today—”
“I didn’t know we had “plans.” Rafe was just going to drop by around six and see what we wanted to do. There’s a Le Corbusier exhibit at MOMA that’s got all these detailed scale models of his most famous buildings—”
“Oh, mercy, Joey! That sounds like SO much fun! I told Rafe we’re going to see Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan at The Lone Star Café tonight—”
“When did you get the tickets?”
“Tickets? Silly boy. We don’t need tickets. Eddie and I used to get in all the time for free. We know the doorman. It’s Eddie’s uncle or cousin or something like that.”
“We don’t have to wear like Western outfits, do we? I mean Lone Star’s country music, right?”
“Leave that to me, Joey. I have the perfect outfit in mind for you. You’ll see.”
The Lone Star Café stood on the corner of 5th Avenue and 13th Street from 1976 to 1989. Known for the gigantic iguana on its roof, The Lone Star was the pre-eminent venue for country music and allied genres. The biggest country artists and some rock and blues giants performed there, giving the lie to the belief that New York City was not a serious market for country-inflected music. As with everything else in NYC, it drew celebrities from every field of human endeavor to fill the room on any given night. That night Willie Nelson was the headliner but special guests included Bob Dylan, The Band, and, for comic relief, Bill Murray.
When Elizabeth discovered that I had dressed en femme in the past, she was unexpectedly accepting. In fact, she encouraged me to do it whenever I felt the urge (which I insisted I rarely if ever did). I made the mistake of telling her that I had once spent the better part of a day traipsing around Port Jefferson in various feminine outfits at the behest of Rafe, whose excuse was that he needed a model for his school art class project. Her eyes glowed with the light of a thousand suns whenever I spoke about it. Meeting Rafe was the last piece of the puzzle for her.
“I can’t wear that, Elizabeth. I’m not a drag queen. Rafe will be very upset. You’re wrong about our relationship. It’s not sexual—”
“You could’ve fooled me. The heat between the two of you is palpable. Darling, that boy is absolutely in lust with you. Totally. I think he’ll just explode when he sees you in this outfit.”
“Don’t make me do it, Elizabeth. Please.”
“I’m doing it for you, Joey. It’s got nothing to do with me. You and Rafe need some closure. It’s time to shit or get off the pot. Excuse my French.”
“He’ll probably never want to see me again.”
“Well, that’s your closure for you.” She entwined her arm around my waist and started to change the part in my hair with her other hand. “And then you can forget all about him. He’s not right for you. He doesn’t love you like I do.”
The outfit Elizabeth forced me to wear was, sadly, one of those huge fashion mistakes of the ‘80s. A maxi-length skirt, wide belt and crew-neck top, all in pastel colors. I looked like a refugee from an episode of Degrassi High or a Brat Pack movie. I drew the line at a side ponytail. Elizabeth wore a sensible denim mini skirt. When I upbraided her about that, she shrugged her shoulders and said she wasn’t the star of the show tonight, I was.
In the final analysis, I didn’t feel that embarrassed when I saw Rafe in his get-up. Acid washed jeans! My God, did he have no shame? Of course, it didn’t assuage my fears of going out in public dressed like a teenage girl…again.
“What do you think, Rafe? Doesn’t Joey look nice? Just they way you like her to look—”
“Did you just say her?” I crossed my arms and my lower lip formed an unconscious pout. Seeing that, both Rafe and Elizabeth broke out in laughter.
“It’s not funny. Just say the word, Rafe. I’ll go and change.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Rafe. You know Joey’s been dying to dress up for ages. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”
“Joey, is this what you want to wear?”
“Well, would it upset you? Really, it’s Elizabeth’s idea.”
“You look nice, Joey. I like your hair parted that way.”
“See, I told you, Joey. Rafe’s all for it. Let’s mach schau! As they said to The Beatles in Hamburg. The first show starts at 9. We’ll have enough time to grab some dinner first.”
“We’re…we’re…going to a restaurant? Dressed like this? I thought we’d just hit the Lone Star and come back home for a late dinner. I can cook a steak for you, Rafe, if you’d like—”
“She’s the perfect little homemaker, Rafe.”
The doorman at The Lone Star palmed the twenty Elizabeth slipped him and waved the three of us in. Inside, a large crowd was already gathering in front of the stage. Some of Willie Nelson’s band were already warming up, although the show wasn’t scheduled to start for another 20 minutes. A few of the band members were holding conversations with people in the crowd. I recognized Paul Simon and Carrie Fisher right off. Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd were there, bottles of beer in hand. Robert Duvall and Dustin Hoffman were standing at the bar, taking in the scene. Rafe pointed out someone who looked suspiciously like Linda Ronstadt but I wasn’t convinced. There were other celebrities we probably didn’t recognize.
We hurried to position ourselves close to the stage. Willie came out promptly at 9. As he was strapping his guitar on, his gaze fell on me and he actually winked at me. I smiled and probably blushed. I was going to excitedly tell Elizabeth and Rafe that Willie had winked at me when Willie charged right into his traditional concert opener, “Whiskey River.” I’d never been a big country music fan but Willie had me bopping to “Whiskey River” like I was a line-dancing veteran.
About half-way through the first set, Rafe asked us what we wanted to drink. He was thirsty and was going to make a run to the bar for a beer. We told him we’d have whatever he was having and he made his way through the crowd.
“I’m going to hit the ladies’ room. Give my bladder some room for the beer. Wanna come?”
I shook my head. I was really into another up-tempo number from Willie, “On the Road Again.” Elizabeth slipped away and I found myself alone, an island in a sea of Willie fans. As if sensing my unease, Willie looked down and winked at me again. I smiled in return and forgot all about my worries, even though Rafe and Elizabeth hadn’t come back yet. Willie was already into the last verse of his big hit, “Always on My Mind.”
I was trying to find a line of sight to the bar and see what was holding Rafe up when I felt a man’s rough hand grab my left buttock. I turned around and was face to face with Lonnie Duffy, the actor who starred in the popular police drama, Glock on the Beat. His breath reeked of beer, at least two 40-ounces worth. I tried to slap his hand away but he had a strong grip.
“Hey, baby, looks like your friends left you high and dry. You know who I am?”
“Yes, I do and I’d like you to take your hand off me!” His other hand was trying to cup my crotch through the skirt.
“Let’s go make some music of our own. You look like a girl who’s up for some fun.”
“Hey, take your hands off…her!” It was Rafe, three bottles of beer in his left hand, ready to swing at Duffy with his right.
“Go away, junior. You lost your chance. She’s with me now—”
The three bottles crashed to the floor and shattered, spilling beer everywhere, including the other patrons. Rafe’s right cross landed solidly on Duffy’s jaw but, unexpectedly, he only wobbled for a second before popping back up to deliver his own jab to Rafe’s chin. That staggered Rafe but he put his head down and charged Duffy, wrapping his arms around him and driving him into the lip of the stage right in front of Willie Nelson. The band stopped playing and The Lone Star’s security guards rushed in to pull Duffy and Rafe apart. Quickly, the guards escorted us into the manager’s office. We were told that the police had been summoned. I took a pack of tissues from my purse and tried to clean up blood oozing out of Rafe’s split lip. The manager shot daggers at us with his eyes and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
The police arrived within five minutes and carted us off to the nearby police station where Duffy decided not to press charges, probably fearing the scandal would cost him his cushy TV job. I was going to press charges myself when Rafe reminded me in so many words that accusing Duffy of molesting me would be problematic for everyone concerned. That’s when I remembered that Elizabeth never returned from the Ladies’ Room. The cops allowed me my one phone call and I dialed the loft. Shockingly, Elizabeth answered.
“Elizabeth! What happened to you? Did you fall in or something? Why are you home?”
“What’s with the attitude, missy? You’re calling from Rafe’s hotel room, probably snug as a rug beneath silk sheets—”
“Elizabeth! Rafe and I are at the police station. You’ve got to come and pick us up. They’re being nice and releasing us. I’ll explain later. Just come pick us up.”
The next day, I accompanied Rafe to the train station. He was going to catch the 10:15 back to Boston. We stood on the platform and Rafe started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Me. I’m laughing at me. I’ve been blind. All this time—”
“Blind? Blind to what?”
“That you really don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you.”
“I love you, Rafe. As a friend. As a really, really good friend. The best. Look, you’ve come to my rescue so many times. I remember the time I almost fell off the monkey bars and you used your spider strength to hold on to me—”
“I love you Joey but more than as a friend. I don’t how but there must be a world where we can be together. You’re the most beautiful—”
The train rumbled into the station and I pulled Rafe back from the edge of the platform.
“Next time you visit, Rafe, I’ll cook you that steak I promised. I’ve gotten really good at cooking. Elizabeth doesn’t really cook…”
“Don’t argue with me, Joey, when I tell you. She’s not good for you. She’s got her own agenda in that squirmy mind of hers. She’ll break your heart one day and soon. I don’t know if I’ll be there to put back the pieces—”
“You’ll be there, Rafe. We’re best friends forever. Forever and always.”
“Take care, Joey.” He stepped into the train and didn’t look back as it pulled out of the station.
Years later, I was right. He was there to put the pieces back together. Elizabeth decided to sell her loft and use the money to pay for medical school. In the wake of that decision, our relationship ended. The fact that I had started to seek counseling in advance of transitioning was the last straw for Elizabeth. It had all been fun and games but now it was serious.
Rafe was a junior architect for a firm in New York City by then (he and his father had had a falling out of sorts) and was living on the Upper West Side. He offered a temporary place for me to stay until I could get a place of my own and I gratefully accepted. He waited for me on the stoop of his building. A friend for life.
Rafe woke me up when we arrived at Alastair’s apartment building. I had slept through the entire two-hour trip from Port Jefferson. I yawned and apologized for being a zombie.
“That’s alright, Joey. Having you sitting here next to me the whole time after the evening we had at the gala…just being with you again after all these years. You can’t imagine how much this has lifted my spirits. And just in time for the holidays.” He laughed.
“I had a nice time, Rafe. Thank you. I enjoyed myself too.”
“Joey, Harlow is looking at some apartments on the East Side. She’s graduating in May and she’s hellbent on finding a job in the city. Would you have some time tomorrow to help us out? You know much more about the city and the East Side specifically than Sally or Martin. And, as you know, I’ve lived in Maryland for almost 30 years…”
“Where are you looking?”
“Harlow says 2nd Avenue—”
“Well, I haven’t lived there in 25 years so…alright, what time?”
“We’ll pick you up around noon. There’s a nice place we can have lunch…”
Within a two-block radius of St. Mark’s Place in Manhattan’s East Village, you can have your choice of lunch cuisine: burgers and fries, fish and chips, sushi, Korean BBQ, Shanghai soup dumplings, Margherita pizza, or a felafel sandwich.
Harlow, Rafe’s daughter wanted pizza, but since I was their guest for the afternoon as they looked at co-op apartments in the area (for Harlow after she graduated from Georgetown in May), I voted for Mamoun’s, where I had their delicious signature felafel sandwich.
Of course, I asked for baba ganoush rather than their customary hummus. Harlow and Rafe didn’t agree with me that baba ganoush was healthier than hummus. It’s eggplant vs. chickpeas. Eggplant contains nasunin, an antioxidant that improves blood flow to your brain. It is also high in Vitamin C, which supports your immune system. Baba ganoush is lower by 72 calories per cup than hummus as well. I let them chew on that!
Many of the buildings on either side of 2nd Avenue from St. Mark’s Place to East 10th Street have been recently renovated into co-ops and condos. A bittersweet result of the ongoing gentrification of New York real estate. When I had lived in the East Village, after rooming with Rafe in his one-bedroom West Side apartment for several months, it was a veritable ghetto. There were homeless squatters in Tompkins Square Park. In the late ‘80s, riots broke out as police clashed with squatters and protestors alike. In 1990-91 when I moved in, you routinely had to step over prone, semi-conscious people as you came home from work.
After lunch, like troops making serpentine maneuvers across a battlefield, the three of us spent two hours checking out the buildings on 2nd Avenue until we reached the intersection of the avenue and East 9th Street. It was the building I had lived in 30 years ago, now brand, spanking new co-op units. They escorted us to the model apartment on the top floor.
While Rafe and Harlow examined the shiny new components of the re-configured one-bedroom apartment, I took in the view from the windows overlooking the neighborhood. To the west, St. Mark’s Church stands, its grounds surrounded by aging willow trees. They might have been planted just about the time I moved out of this building. To the east, you can see the northern tip of Tompkins Square Park. Rafe suggested we stroll through the park after Harlow’s done looking at apartments. He assures me the park is now navigable, unlike in its squatter-filled days. The voices of Harlow, her father, and the building manager faded in the distance as my mind reached into its memory bank to view once again the panorama of the time when Rafe and I actually lived together. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. To quote an obscure British writer of the 19th century.
“I think I can get a job and find my own place in a few weeks. Thanks so much for letting me crash until—”
“You can stay here as long as you want, Joey.”
We were sitting on his sofa in the middle of his sparsely furnished West Side apartment. It was definitely not anyone’s idea of a cool, urban bachelor pad. The sofa was not one that pulled out into a bed and it was rather lumpy in spots. The thought of having to sleep on that for more than a few weeks was disturbing. That aside, I was grateful to Rafe for letting me stay in his place on such short notice. It had only been days since Elizabeth had “notified” me that she was selling the loft on Grand Street and my tenancy as well as my relationship with her was terminated. My sister Erica had driven me and my meager possessions across town. She screamed at me and took Elizabeth’s name in vain several times as we crawled through mid-town traffic.
“No offense, Rafe, but sleeping on this lumpy sofa is not my idea of 4-star hospitality.”
“Well…you can sleep in my bed. I mean, it’s a California king size bed. Sally bought it for me as a housewarming gift. It’s big enough to sleep three…comfortably.”
“That would be…kind of awkward, embarrassing even. No, Rafe…just…no.”
“OK. It’s a suggestion. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a really large bed—”
“Rafe!”
It took longer to find a job than I had anticipated. My faculty advisor, Professor Edwards, offered me a teaching assistant-slash-researcher position but the amount I’d make wouldn’t cover Rafe’s monthly cable TV bill. And, given the baleful trajectory of my life recently, I’d lost the desire to complete my doctoral studies and teaching, at any level, was beyond the pale.
While I looked for gainful employment, scoring an interview every other week or so, I made myself useful by “decorating” Rafe’s apartment. He was unexpectedly quite free with my use of his credit cards as I picked up some kitchen necessities, utilitarian furniture, a few cheap but stylish posters to place on his bare walls, and some cds of music I liked (well, I needed to listen to something while I dusted). There was the moment when I caught myself sorting through the tie racks at Barney’s. Not for myself but for Rafe!
It dawned on me that, in the space of less than a month, Rafe and I had morphed into something more than temporary roommates. My days were spent in a manner not foreign to the stay-at-home wives who lived in our building. I picked up Rafe’s dirty clothes, did the laundry, cleaned, dusted, squeezed melons and sorted through green beans at Key Food, sampled the charcuterie bundle at Zabar’s before buying (the counter man at Zabar’s called me Mrs. Metheny since I always used Rafe’s credit card. It would infuriate me until I got home and then, for a good ten minutes, I’d watch Oprah and just cry), and cooked Rafe’s favorite dinner at least twice a week (he really liked mac and cheese).
We did things couples would do. Renting tapes from Blockbuster and sitting shoulder to shoulder watching goofy French films, falling asleep from fatigue or boredom. Going to street fairs and buying silly hats or cheap jewelry to wear. One time, during the Sixth Avenue Street Fair on the Sunday before Memorial Day, because Rafe had his hands full with the African baskets I had insisted we buy, I fed him a Jamaican beef patty from one of the food stalls. The crowd around us chanted, “Kiss her!” Finally, Rafe bussed me on the cheek. The crowd then chanted, “On the lips!” Blushing, I grabbed Rafe’s arm and we moved quickly away before they asked us to do more.
I discussed these matters with my therapist, Dr. Kwan, in my twice-monthly sessions. She just nodded and made some quick notes on her legal pad.
“It’s not like Rafe is asking me to do any of this. It seems to just organically happen. I’m just glad I’ll be able to live on my own once I get a job.”
“Is that something you really want, Joey?”
“What do you mean, doctor?”
“It sounds to me like you’re not unhappy about your current living situation. In fact, you’re as chipper as I’ve seen you in the six months we’ve had these sessions.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m not having daily fights with Elizabeth. And rooming with Rafe is a lot less stressful than living with Elizabeth. Don’t you think that’s the reason, doctor?”
“The hour’s almost up. Let’s pick this up next time. If you secure a job by then, we can discuss your feelings about finding a new place to live.”
Then there was the issue of Rafe’s girlfriend, Rose Darling. Her full name was Rose Marie Heather Darling but preferred Rose Darling ever since her college roommate introduced her to the recordings of Steely Dan.
Rose was a Corporate Events Planner. At the time she was dating Rafe, she had just been promoted to Senior Planner for The Javits Center. The very model of the modern career woman, Rose was also stunningly beautiful. I could see why Rafe would be very smitten with her.
Due to their busy schedules, Rose and Rafe usually got together only once a week, usually on Saturday night. Dinner and a movie or a concert/show and then an overnight stay at Rose’s East Side apartment. About two months after I’d moved in, Rose accompanied Rafe home one Sunday morning with the express purpose of meeting me. Rafe had told her that I was a childhood friend who’d been “kicked out” by my ex. I would be staying with him until I got a job that would allow me to get my own place.
Of course, Rafe hadn’t bothered to tell me to expect Rose that morning and I was sitting at the kitchen table, having my second cup of coffee and munching on a slice of buttered toast, when they walked in.
“Joey, this is Rose. Rose, Joey.” I got up from the table and wiped my hands on my bathrobe.
“Pleased to meet you. Rafe, why didn’t you call me first? If I’d known you were coming, I’d have baked a cake. And the place must look a mess—”
“Oh, no. Rafe’s apartment has never looked as neat and clean. And those art posters. You must have picked those out. Rafe thinks impressionism is what Rich Little does. You know, impressions of famous celebrities. And the couch. It’s so tidy, you’d never believe anyone had been sleeping on it just hours ago—"
Rafe jumped in. “Joey doesn’t sleep on the couch anymore. It was killing his back.”
“So, where do you sleep? Don’t tell me on the floor in a sleeping bag—”
Again, Rafe interjected. “Well, you know my bed is a California king size. Joey’s a pretty small guy—”
“You…you two sleep in the same bed?” She kept her eyes on me. I tried to cover my embarrassment with my coffee mug.
“Oh, Rose, it’s no big deal. We’re old buddies. We even took baths together when we’d stay over at each other’s houses—”
“Yeah, when you were 3 or 4 years old. Not when you’re grown men! Don’t you think this is…strange? Curious? Odd...”
“I’ll be moving out as soon as I get a job—”
“You’ve been here two months already. Are you even looking for a job?”
“Hey, Rose, don’t talk to Joey that way. He’s my best friend. He can stay here as long as he wants. And it takes time to find the right job. He’s not going to deliver pizzas—”
“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now, Rafe. But I’ve got a meeting at the Center at noon and I need to change. We’ll talk about this. I’ll call you later in the week.”
Rafe leaned in to kiss Rose on the cheek but she was already pivoting to the front door. Within seconds she had let herself out, slamming the door behind her. I looked at Rafe.
“You could have handled that better, Rafe.”
“She’s that way sometimes. It’s o.k. Say, is there any coffee left?”
But it didn’t turn out to be o.k. Their relationship petered out over the next few weeks as they saw each other and spoke on the phone less and less. Ultimately, Rose used the excuse of her all-consuming new responsibilities as Senior Planner to call off their involvement. Rafe took it like a man, an indifferent man, that is. He shrugged his shoulders when I probed to see if he was hiding his hurt feelings. At the moment, it gave me a frisson to see his non-reaction to his broken romance with Rose. Was Rafe simply a cold fish after all?
The week after they officially split up, we had our weekly Blockbuster night. This time, I had chosen to rent the classic Truffaut film, Jules and Jim, again. Rafe had never seen it and, oddly for him, he didn’t yawn halfway through it and nod off before it ended. One of my favorite films, it is a heady brew of romance and tragedy, idealized love and its wretched reality.
The story revolves around a love triangle: Jules and Jim, good friends, both fall in love with Catherine, a mercurial beauty whose inability to remain in place emotionally dooms their lives. Although she marries Jules and has a daughter with him, Jim cannot forget her and, in an inescapable turn of events, the three enter a menage a trois, living under one roof with Catherine and Jules’ daughter.
A miscarriage and Catherine’s divided loyalties separate the trio as Jim turns to an old girlfriend, intending to marry and forget Catherine. A chance meeting in Paris some years later leads to Catherine desperately trying to rekindle her love affair with Jim. When he demurs, she drives the two of them off a bridge to their deaths. In the end, Jules is left alone to raise their daughter Sabine.
When the movie ended, I hid my face from Rafe. He pulled my hands apart and saw the tears rolling down my cheeks.
“Why?”
“Because. Because I can empathize.”
“With…”
“All three of them. I’ve been all three of them at one point or another. Stop looking at me, Rafe. I know I’m being silly—”
“You’re beautiful when you cry—”
“That’s stupid—”
“You look like Jeanne Moreau. No, you do. When you smile. You have the same crooked grin.”
“You’re telling me I look like a woman?”
“You are a woman. To me.”
Rafe moved his face closer, his lips pursed, eyes closed. I hesitated, then gave in to my feelings. Our lips met. It was a sweet, tender kiss. He knew I hurt. Not because of the movie we had just watched. For the years of not knowing who I really was. Even now, there was no certainty. I was like the Jeanne Moreau character, Catherine, unwilling or simply unable to choose between Jules and Jim. In the end, will I also destroy our lives like Catherine did? I separated my lips from Rafe’s and gently pushed him away.
“We can’t, Rafe. We shouldn’t. It’s not fair to you.”
“Why?”
“I can’t be to you what you need. Not now, maybe not ever.”
“I thought you were on the track to SRS. That’s why you’ve been seeing a therapist. To prepare you for transitioning. You’ll be a woman then. I mean, to me, you’ve always been—”
“I’m at the very beginning of the process, Rafe. There’s no guarantee that I’ll opt for the surgery. In the end, probably but… I’m not sure where I’ll be as a woman when I do. It’s a change in gender not necessarily in sexual orientation.”
“You mean you’re not attracted to me? You don’t have the same feelings I have for you? I love you, Joey. I’ve loved you forever.”
“I love you too, Rafe. I do. But I’m not sure I love you in that way. Not the way that you want. Or deserve. You deserve to have a wife and kids. To be like everyone else in society. You don’t want to be stuck with an…an oddity like me. I’m tired. I’m going to go to bed. We can talk with clearer heads tomorrow.”
Much later that night, I pretended to be fast asleep when Rafe finally slipped into bed. He kept his distance from me, lying almost on the far edge of the bed, facing away. After a few minutes, I could hear his rhythmic breathing. I had to fight the urge to turn and hold him close to me. It was an urge that transcended the physical. I loved Rafe in a way that neither he nor I could fully understand. For both our sakes, I knew I had to move out. Even if I had to deliver pizzas.
I redoubled my efforts to find a job. In the meantime, Rafe and I settled back into a less volatile domestic routine. I don’t think Rafe ever really accepted my reasoning but, in the next two months, we acted more like friendly roommates than potential lovers. For all intents and purposes, it was a happy time in our lives. Rafe was doing well at his architectural firm, having been promoted to project manager. He had decided not to work for his father after graduating from M.I.T. This led to bad feelings between the two but Mr. Matheny was not a man to hold grudges. Rafe was always welcome to return to the fold should he change his mind sometime in the future.
By a stroke of luck, I happened to bump into Eddie Gleason, Elizabeth’s old boyfriend, in Tower Records, shopping for cds. He was no longer a roadie for The Cramps but had carved out a career for himself as a jingle writer for an advertising agency. He proudly told me he was the one who wrote the jingle for that toothpaste commercial that runs seemingly a thousand times a day. After I told him about having split up with Elizabeth, I mentioned I was looking for a decent paying job. Remembering I was an English major with ambitions to write the Great American Novel, he gave me the name of the head copywriter at his agency. I contacted him and arranged for an interview. It was a bonus to discover he was also a Columbia alumnus. Perhaps my luck had truly changed.
To make a long story short, I learned they weren’t hiring in the copywriting department but there were opportunities in sales and program research in the TV networks from whom the agency bought advertising time. He gave me an entrée to someone at the FOX Network and, three weeks later, I was hired as a research analyst in the programming department.
Rafe was visibly dismayed when I told him. Add a month’s salary to the rapidly shrinking amount in my savings account and I would have just enough to rent a modestly priced apartment in the East Village. It meant Rafe and I had possibly six more weeks together. A rather subdued Rafe and I celebrated by having a veritable feast at Rafe’s favorite Chinese restaurant, The Silver Palace. Of course, even in a funereal mood, Rafe was able to put away two orders of General Tso’s Chicken. He also washed it all down with several glasses of Smith-Madrone Riesling, a Napa Valley white wine that goes well with Chinese cuisine.
I helped Rafe weave his way into the cab we hailed outside the restaurant. On the way home, Rafe made me promise to grant him a final wish before I moved into my new apartment.
“That’s weeks away, Rafe. Remind me then.”
“No, I’m giving you time to prepare for it.”
“Prepare?”
“You’ll see.” He dozed off as the cab turned up Broadway toward the Upper West Side.
It was a hot August night, to quote Neil Diamond, and Rafe and I were in line to enter S.O.B.s (Sounds of Brazil), the famous dancehall on Varick Street in The West Village. I would move into my new apartment on 2nd Avenue and East 9th Street on the first day of September. This evening of dancing to the salsa beats of Willie Colón was my parting gift to Rafe. The promise I had made to him weeks ago in that cab ride home. I had to prepare for it because Rafe insisted I dress up one last time for his pleasure. The outfit, the shoes, the hairdo, and makeup. My sister Erica helped out, going shopping with me and arranging for me to get the works done at the salon she frequented. Rafe wasted several rolls of film taking countless pictures of me throughout the evening. Joey stepping out the door of the apartment. Joey gingerly getting into the cab on the way to S.O.B.s. Joey half a block away from the entrance to S.O.B.s. Joey standing on line, waiting to go in. Joey trying to salsa dance. And so on.
The highlight of the night was Lonnie Duffy trying to pick me up. Again. Apparently, the star of Glock on the Beat, now in syndication after being cancelled, didn’t recognize me from the last time he tried to pick me up, seven years ago at The Lone Star. Rafe had taken a bathroom break so Duffy must have thought the coast was clear. He was much more laid back in his approach this time, trying to actually chat me up. I was about to remind him about our previous encounter when Rafe returned to the dance floor. Duffy took one look at him and, obviously, the weight of memory crashed onto his feeble brain, recalling the beating he’d received from Rafe years ago. He did a 180 and went off to hunt other game.
At the end of the evening, as we drank cups of chamomile tea to prepare for bed, I relented and allowed Rafe to kiss me good night. That turned into a real make out session and I let Rafe go to bed first, telling him I needed time to take my makeup off and put my clothes away. When I finally slipped into bed, he was out like a light.
After I moved out in September, we would try to get together on a regular basis but, as time went on, my new job started to dominate my life as Rafe’s job dominated his. By Thanksgiving of that year, we were tantamount to whispers in each other’s lives. Our answer machines were full of apologies for last-minute cancellations and work-related excuses.
In December, Rafe had an announcement to make and I dropped by his West Side apartment to hear it.
“Dad’s latest round of chemo didn’t work out. The doctors think there’s nothing more they can do. They give him six months—”
“Oh, Rafe, I’m so sorry.”
“The upshot of all this is that I’ve agreed to take over the company. It’s his final ask and mom’s too. I’m leaving for Silver Springs in two weeks.”
“I’ll miss you, Rafe. We keep moving away from each other, it seems.”
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Joey. We don’t have to be apart. Come with me. We can build a life together in Maryland—”
“Rafe, I—”
“Johns Hopkins is just 40 minutes away from Silver Springs. You can have your SRS there—”
“Your family won’t have me, Rafe. You know that. They’ve never accepted me. This would turn into a shitstorm. You don’t deserve that.”
“My father likes you. He accepts you—”
“Fine. The only one in your family who does and he’ll be gone in six months. I didn’t mean it to sound that way—”
“So, the answer is no?”
“I wish with all my heart it was yes, Rafe, but our lives are headed in different directions. It’s better if we part ways now. I’ll always love you, Rafe. I’ll never, ever forget you.”
We hugged. I kissed him. A kiss that would be the last between us for 30 years. And then I took the stairs down instead of the elevator. He waved goodbye, a forlorn look on his face. I ran down the stairs and out into the street, my eyes red and watery.
Rafe’s voice, thirty years later, calling to me. I turned away from the window. Turned away from the tops of the willow trees surrounding St. Mark’s Church. Turned toward Rafe and Harlow crossing the room toward me.
“Joey, I think we’re done here. Harlow really likes the layout and the neighborhood is greatly improved over what it was when you lived here—”
“Daddy, I’m supposed to meet Jenny for an early dinner and then we’re seeing Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at Lincoln Center. They’re performing the score live to go along with the movie! Thanks for your help, Joey! See you later, Dad.”
After she left, Rafe turned to me, a wry smile on his face.
“It’s a nice brisk day for a walk in Tompkins Square Park.”
“It’s not the most scenic park in the city, Rafe.”
“The only sight I want to see in that park is the sight of your face. We don’t have much time to spend together. Christmas is just a couple of days away. We can walk and talk.”
He extended his hand to me. I took it.
It was the second day of winter and the afternoon sun was already waning in an overcast sky when Rafe and I entered Tompkins Square Park. After his daughter Harlow had gone home to get herself ready for an early dinner and a special showing of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at Lincoln Center, Rafe proposed that we stroll through the park. As this might be the last chance for us to spend time together for a possible span of years, I acceded to his wish.
Rafe stopped at The Temperance Fountain and pointed out the sign board standing some feet to its side. A poster announced nighttime walking tours of the East Village that commenced at 6PM, Mondays through Saturday, right here at the Fountain.
“Do you have any plans for tonight?”
I shook my head no. He plucked his phone out of a coat pocket and looked at the screen.
“It’s almost 4. Let’s have afternoon tea at The Palm Court in the Plaza and take the walking tour tonight. It’ll be fun. It’s been 30 years since I’ve seen this part of the city after sundown.”
“The Palm Court? Even for afternoon tea, you need a reservation—”
“I confess, Joey. I made the reservation earlier this morning before we picked you up for lunch. It was Harlow’s idea—”
“What if I had plans for the afternoon?”
“I guess I like to live dangerously? In any case, I’ve never been so maybe I might have gotten lucky and met an attractive, unattached blonde who reminded me of you there.”
“You cheeky bastard!”
“Seriously, Joey, we’d better hurry. The reservation is for 4 and that gives us half an hour to get uptown—”
“You didn’t plan ahead and order an uber in advance?”
“Actually I did.” Looking at his phone. “In fact, our uber just turned left off the FDR Drive onto East 10th Street. It should be here in…2 minutes.”
“You planned an entire day out, didn’t you? Under the pretext of showing Harlow apartments in the East Village…”
“She is moving here after graduation and you did live here for a while…”
Afternoon tea at The Palm Court in the Plaza Hotel is not an ordinary coffee break at Starbucks. Indeed, it’s tantamount to afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace with the Monarch. The interior of the Palm Court resembles an outdoor café in Tangiers, with its ceiling-high palm trees, trellis detailing, and custom furnishings with cane accents. The stained-glass dome allows sunshine to highlight the sumptuous items on the menu.
We ordered the Plaza Signature Tea. A pot of Earl Gray from China, with bergamont and safflower petals. A selection of sandwiches including salmon, English cucumber, honey ricotta, and foie gras macaroon. Cherry and truffle scones. Pastries and sweets such as lavender macaron, strawberry and cream delice, lemon verbena egg custard, and chocolate Manjari black forest sable. All for $125 per person. For an extra $30 per person, a glass of Brut champagne could be added. I vetoed that, even as Rafe nodded devilishly.
“I don’t know if you recall, Joey, but Sara and I stayed here at The Plaza for two nights before we flew to Paris for our honeymoon—”
“I do remember that. Your mother and sister repeatedly mentioned your honeymoon in Europe during the welcome dinner. In fact, Sally made a point of telling me your entire itinerary, with details of your hotel accommodations. She even regaled me with a minute-by-minute account of how the women from both families took Sara shopping for her trousseau on Fifth Avenue.”
“I apologize for Sally. I didn’t know she’d been such a bitch to you at the wedding—”
“Well, you were kind of busy…”
We tucked in and, for the first 20 minutes, we allowed the classical music being piped in to accompany our meal and provide us with an excuse to not speak. Our eyes did a furtive dance and I felt myself blushing like a teenage girl admiring the cute dimples in her date’s whisker-free cheeks. Even now, forty years later, Rafe could make my heart melt when he flashed his goofy grin at me.
“I had serious reservations about accepting the invitation, Rafe. I was shocked that you’d even invited me in the first place. You hadn’t seen me since I had the surgery—”
“You looked even more beautiful than I imagined. I was so stoked to see you…finally as the woman I’ve always known you to be.”
“I was shocked your mom allowed you to invite me—”
“Well…she wasn’t happy about it. But you know who convinced her? It was Sara. She wanted to meet you. I guess I talked about you a lot.”
“Sara was a sweet girl. You made a great choice, Rafe. She gave you two wonderful children. And she was head-over-heels in love with you. I could tell.”
Rafe pulled out his phone and scrolled to a picture of his family of four in a gondola, on vacation in Venice, at least a decade ago.
I held Rafe’s phone in my left hand and took in the smiles on the faces of his family as they sat in the gondola, leisurely drifting down a canal in Venice. For a brief moment, I saw my own face in Sara’s place, laughing with joy, my arms around Rafe and Harlow. My husband and my youngest child. I had to take a quick sip of tea to clear my head. I didn’t want to start to cry.
“You must know how I feel, Joey. When you lost Emily. I wanted to come to the funeral but I was swamped with business shit. Sara offered to go in my place—”
“I understood, Rafe.” I returned his phone. “It’s not even five. What do we do for an hour before the walking tour starts?”
Rafe placed his Amex Black Card on the tray on which our check had been proffered. Our server almost clicked his heels when he saw it and gave Rafe an admiring glance.
“Are you a billionaire yet, Rafe?”
Laughing, Rafe answered my jab. “A few years ago, I would have said I’m working on it. Now, I’m looking at selling the firm—”
“What are you thinking of doing?”
“Traveling. Seeing the world. I looked at some brochures online for around-the-world cruises recently. I’d start small. Maybe a Mediterranean cruise. I might even buy a seat on one of Jeff Bezo’s spaceflights. Of course, it’d be a tragedy to travel alone.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble meeting someone new, Rafe. You’ve probably got half the single women in D.C. in cold sweats right now trying to figure out how to snag you.”
“The only woman I’m interested in is spoken for.”
“Rafe…I…” Rafe took my hand in both of his.
“I’m not a fool, Joey. I know my chance with you ended 30 years ago. I just wanted to spend some time with you before you absent yourself from my life again. Maybe in another 30 years, Joey, we’ll find each other in the same nursing home.”
“Or another life. One in which I was born female instead.”
“Do you believe in the multiverse, Joey? Do you think somewhere in another universe, Joey and Rafe are living happily –”
“With two kids, a two-car garage, a paid-up mortgage, nice neighbors named Bill and Sue, and a house convenient to shopping, medical care, and good public schools?”
“I’d like to believe that.”
“I hate you, Rafe Metheny! You paid $300 to see me cry my eyes out, didn’t you?” I shot up from my seat. Before I started to really blubber, I hurried to the Ladies’ Room. I ended up comically zigzagging through the room as one of the servers pointed me in the right direction.
We decided to wait for our uber back to Tompkins Square Park in the lobby of The Plaza Hotel. After refreshing my makeup, I had gathered my emotions enough to sit silently on one of the Chesterfield sofas in a corner of the lobby, to one side of a wall-length fixed window. Rafe was reading texts he’d received during the day while I listened to my “calming” music – Satie and Debussy. We avoided looking at each other but Rafe’s hand gently nudged mine and we interlaced fingers.
The music spurred memories of the time after Rafe left New York to take over his dying father’s architectural firm in Washington, D.C. I had moved to that tiny apartment on 2nd Avenue and was doing well at FOX, advancing from analyst to manager to director of Programming Research. Rafe and I tried to stay in touch but our work and his family issues made it difficult to physically get together. Over time, our contact dwindled to a phone call now and then and, perhaps, a semi-annual visit, specifically when Rafe’s business presented the opportunity to come to New York.
About a year in at FOX, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that our employee health insurance package had newly added transgender issues to its coverage. Rumor had it that this came about because the child of one of its highest-ranking executives was MTF trans. With some trepidation, I approached our HR department with my own situation. I was relieved to find that they were more than professional about it. They set me up with a therapist (who I found much easier to work with than my previous one) and an endocrinologist who prescribed a regimen of HRT for me. I began to undergo the Real-Life Test, gradually presenting in a more feminine mode. While it was not all smooth sailing, most of my co-workers and bosses accepted me as a transwoman. The best moment came when our owner’s son rode the elevator with me alone and did a double take when he saw me in a skirt and floral blouse. He invited me to lunch one day soon after and encouraged me to transition, saying that, unlike his father, he believed in the axiom, “live and let live.” I walked back to the office with a decided strut in my step. A little bit of acceptance goes a long way.
In 1994, after more than three years of HRT, I had GRS done at St. Francis Memorial in San Francisco. I spent almost a month recovering from the surgery in San Francisco. It was a painful time, made tolerable because my Aunt Lori came up from Los Angeles to stay with me and act as my caregiver.
Lori wasn’t really my aunt. She’d been my father’s girlfriend during the years he’d lived in Los Angeles after my parents separated. Lori was an unrepentant hippie chick, 20 years younger than my dad. My father demanded I spend summers with him and, early on, Lori discovered that I cross-dressed. She kept my secret from dad and we had loads of fun shopping for clothes and generally acting like two teenage Valley girls, although I was the only one under the age of 20. Even after dad died when I was in college, Lori and I stayed in touch, exchanging Christmas cards and being steady pen pals through the years. She lives in Riverside nowadays. She and her daughter are yoga instructors.
In the Spring of 1995, almost 4 years since Rafe and I had parted ways, I was shocked to receive a wedding invitation from Rafe. He was marrying a woman named Sara in June. From the looks of it, it was going to be one of those ballyhooed society weddings that receive a ton of column inches in the Sunday lifestyle section of The Washington Post. As I surmised, the wedding was being held at the D.C. Harriott Hotel, just a few blocks from The White House.
My first instinct was to politely decline. I was certain Mrs. Metheny would be relieved to know I wouldn’t be showing up to ruin her son’s gala wedding. I was also reluctant because Rafe had yet to see the “new” me. He had planned to visit me in San Francisco the year before but had to cancel due to “business” conflicts. I took his excuse at face value but wondered if he was ready to close the door on my chapter in his life. Certainly, I knew he felt I had rejected him when I declined to accompany him to Maryland four years before. But it was for the best. For him and me.
Alastair Knowles was a recent addition to the FOX universe. After winning an Emmy for his work with Ed Bradley on CBS’ 60 Minutes, the 28-year-old wunderkind had been recruited to be in charge of Non-Fiction Programming for our primetime network. Friends at CBS warned me he was a skirt-chaser. I scoffed and said he’ll do a 180 when he discovers I’m a transwoman. That is, if he even gives me a second look. But after six months working in the same building, seeing each other at meetings, running into each other in hallways and kitchens on several floors, we became…I guess the proper term would be…buddies.
It began with discussions of industry topics while filling our mugs with the bilge that comes out of those k-cup coffeemakers, moved to popular movies, comic books, strips, anime, music and finally graduated to our personal lives. At least once a week (when he was in New York and not in his office away from the office in L.A.), he’d drop by my tiny office to invite me to lunch. Sometimes it would be a hotdog from the street vendor across the street; sometimes it would be The Russian Tea Room or a pub like The Playwright on West 49th Street if it was a nice day for a longer walk.
The day after I received the invite to Rafe’s wedding, for whatever reason, it ended up on top of my desk when Alastair sauntered in just before noon.
“That’s a colorful envelope. Party invitation?”
“Oh, hi, Alastair. Yeah, sort of a party. It’s a wedding invitation.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Rafe Metheny.”
“Oh.” In exchanging our life stories, I had told Alastair all about Rafe. Sometimes I felt cheated because what Alastair told me about his life wasn’t all that dramatic. Basically, he was the only child of an English father and a French mother, who had moved to the States just a year before he was born. Alastair’s father, Robert Knowles, had been a political reporter for ABC and CBS until his death in an airplane crash in 1988. After an exemplary scholastic career culminating in a degree from Harvard, Alastair went to work at CBS News as a writer-producer, ending up as Ed Bradley’s right-hand man. He dated a lot of women but he didn’t deign to talk about his conquests. At least not with me.
After reading the invitation, he stroked his bearded chin and exclaimed, “Accept it. Go! You know you want to.”
“I don’t think so. I told you about Rafe’s mom. And his sister Sally. Oh my God. The other thing is…who would I get to be my plus one?”
“It’s a two-day thing, right?”
“Yeah, the welcome dinner is Friday night, the ceremony and reception are on Saturday.”
“No problem then. We’ll miss one day of work—”
“We?”
“Of course. I’m your plus one.”
“No, Alastair, I can’t ask you to come with me. I’ll check with my sister and she if she can trust her husband to watch the kids for a couple of days—”
“Nah. We’ll take my car. Your bucket of bolts will probably die somewhere west of Philadelphia.” He stared me down before I tentatively nodded yes, o.k., you win.
“Won’t your current girlfriend – what’s her name again? – be upset to see you going to a wedding with another woman?”
“Who? Amanda? We broke up. Last night. She was fun but exhausting. You know?”
“Spare me the details, Alastair.”
He handed me a pen and prompted me to reply to the invite. “Be sure to check the box for bringing a guest. Otherwise, I’ll have to share your hotel room. And my back is problematic so sleeping on the floor or in a chair just won’t do—”
Friday, June 16th, 1995, was a hot day in New York City. At 11AM when Alastair picked me up at my apartment on 2nd Avenue, it was already in the mid-80s Fahrenheit. He whistled when I emerged from the building in my summer frock, carrying my overnight bag. I was shocked to see Alastair had shaved off his beard. I whistled in return.
“So what’s with the no beard look, Alastair? You think these society girls will swoon over your clean-cut looks—”
“They normally do. But I’m not hunting big game. I’ve got the first prize right here in the passenger seat—”
“Save the sweet talk, mister. We’re just wedding buddies this weekend.”
“You’re a hard nut to crack, Joanne.”
“Legumes are that way, Alastair. Now, how long will it take to get to D.C.?”
“It’s 4 hours give or take 10 minutes on I-95. We have time to stop for lunch in Princeton.”
“You know places for lunch in Princeton? And I’m not having a hotdog, Alastair…”
Sitting in a booth in PJ’s Pancake House on Nassau Street in Princeton, New Jersey, about two hours after we left Manhattan, I remarked to Alastair that we were probably the oldest patrons in the room.
“Yeah, well, the university’s just a few blocks that way.”
“How do you know about this place?”
“My high school girlfriend went to Princeton. Whenever I visited her, we’d have breakfast here. The pancakes are really good.”
“Suppose I’m not in the mood to have pancakes for lunch?”
“I’m still trying to figure out what your real appetites are—”
“We’ve had lunch dozens of times—”
“Not talking about food.”
“Hand me the menu, will ya? Maybe I can get a green salad.”
“I’m really looking forward to meeting this Rafe character. Sounds like a real jerk. One of those rich kids full of entitlement. How could he even think of dumping someone like you. I mean, you’re the most remarkable woman I’ve yet to meet in this industry.”
“Some people would beg to disagree with you.”
“That you’re remarkable?”
“No, that I’m a woman.”
“None so blind as those who will not see, Joanne. Fuck ‘em. And fuck Rafe for dumping you.”
“I dumped him, not the other way around.”
“Technically. But he didn’t put up much of a fight, did he?”
“Alastair, you don’t know all the facts. It’s not all Rafe’s fault.”
I ended up throwing caution to the wind and had the burger and fries. I’ll go light on the welcome dinner tonight to make up for it. Rafe actually ordered a stack of pancakes. He said it was nostalgia.
It took us another two and a half hours to reach The Harriott Hotel in Washington. On the way, Alastair insisted on playing his mix-cds. Insisted because, after all, it was his car and he was doing all the driving. Some of the songs were, in my opinion, straight trash. A lot of Beastie Boys and hip hop and rap. But then there was a stretch of decent pop stuff I could actually enjoy listening to. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.
I didn’t ask him to but Alastair held my hand all the way from the parking lot to the hotel. I suppose he wanted to impress upon everyone that he was my “date.” Which came in handy when we walked into the lobby. Acting as official greeter was Sally, Rafe’s older sister. The look on her face when she saw me and then Alastair was priceless. Her jaw almost hit the floor.
“Hello, Sally. I see you’ve been drafted to be the official greeter—”
“Joey. You…you look…”
“I had the procedure done almost a year ago, Sally. I thought Rafe would’ve told you.”
“Did he? I guess he must have. It slipped my mind?”
“Sally, this is my friend Alastair Knowles. Sally is Rafe’s sister. You’ll meet her husband Martin at dinner.”
Sally took me aside and, in a whisper, asked, “Does he know about you?”
Alastair said in a loud voice, “Yes, I do, Sally. And it makes her extra special to me. I suppose Rafe wouldn’t agree—”
“Alastair, please. We’re guests here. Sally, it’s good to see you. It’s been years.”
“It’s…good to see you too, Joey. Do you still go by Joey?”
“It’s officially Joanne now but I answer to Joey too. Especially if it comes from a friend.”
“You guys should check in. The welcome dinner’s at 7 in the banquet room. You’ve got time to freshen up. Maybe even have a lie down. Are you in separate rooms?”
“Yes, Sally. I checked that box on the invite. See you later at dinner.”
Out of the corner of my eye, as Alastair checked us in at the front desk, I caught a glimpse of Rafe and Sara, apparently just now returning from rehearsal, walking toward the bank of elevators. They were chuckling over some joke Rafe had just made. His head swiveled when he heard Rafe say my name to the desk clerk.
I smiled. He took Sara’s hand and quickly approached. Before I could open my mouth to exchange greetings, he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me for dear life. Sara looked on, a confused look on her face.
“Joey! I’m so glad you came! Sally, look at Joey! She’s…she’s beautiful. You look marvelous.”
“I can’t breathe, Rafe.” He released me. “You look handsome as usual too, Rafe. Is this your bride-to-be? Sara?”
“Oh, yes, Sara. This is Joey Prentiss.” To me. “She knows all about you, Joey. She knows we’ve been best buds since we met in a sandbox.”
“Joey, I’ve wanted to see you in the flesh for years. Rafe can’t stop talking about you. You know, a girl can get a little jealous hearing how highly her husband-to-be regards you. And your back story is remarkable—”
“Remarkable is the word,” interjected Alastair. “Hi, Rafe. I’m Alastair Knowles. I’m Joanne’s plus one.”
“We work together at FOX. He was nice enough to agree to drive us down here. Rafe, you know what a terrible driver I am. 3 to 1 odds I wouldn’t make it past Philadelphia.”
“So you two aren’t…?”
“We’re workplace friends.” I looked down at the carpet, not wanting to look straight into Rafe’s eyes.
“We’re going up to our room and freshen up. You guys should settle in and do the same. See you at dinner. Let’s talk between speeches. O.K.?”
“O.K.? Joey?”
I turned toward Rafe’s voice. We were standing near the Temperance Fountain at the entrance to Tompkins Square Park. Apparently, the last hour since we sat down in the lobby of The Plaza had elapsed with me in a fog of remembrance. I couldn’t recall getting into the uber, the ride downtown to the park, even walking through the crunchy snow to the fountain.
“O.K. what?”
“We’ll do the walking tour on our own. Looks like they left without us. We got here five minutes late. Are you alright, Joey? You look a little dazed.”
“I’m fine, Rafe. Really.”
“You’re cold. It’s chilly after sundown. The wind whips around too.” He stepped close to me and wrapped his arms around me. “This’ll warm you up. Better?”
“Oh, Rafe! I’m sorry…”
“Sorry about what?”
I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t answer him. His shoulder muffled my sobs as he held me tight against the dark night’s cold wind. Rafe kissed the top of my head and sighed.
I handed Rafe a mug of hot chocolate as he stood by the windows of Alastair’s apartment, peering out onto Perry Street, seemingly deep in thought.
“Thanks, Joey.”
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“I don’t know if they’re worth that much. No, just flashing back to the wedding. That was the first official farewell tour.”
“First? I didn’t know there was a second—”
“It’s funny how Alastair ends up being there for both. Yes, I know he’s not here physically right now. But that ring on your finger announces his presence nonetheless.”
“It doesn’t mean we can’t stay in touch. We’re friends for life, remember?”
“I take back what I said at The Palm Court. I am a fool, Joey. A fool for giving up on us thirty years ago and still a fool today for thinking I could bring you back into my life…after all these years.”
“It was a decision we both made. Maybe not at the same time but eventually you accepted the logic behind it. Sara made a much better wife and partner for you than I would have ever been. You know down deep that’s true.”
“If you say so. I should have tried to find out. I was weak. I did what mom and Sally expected me to do. Take over dad’s company. Marry a nice girl, have kids, give mom grandchildren, bury my own hopes and dreams. You were always the stronger one between us, Joey. God, I folded like a house of cards, the first time I was tested—”
“Hopes and dreams, Rafe? You can’t begin to count the hopes and dreams I’ve had shattered in my life. I don’t know how I’m still here, mind and soul relatively intact.” I gently placed both hands on Rafe’s shoulders and looked up into his eyes. “We can’t re-litigate the past, Rafe. We can only make the best of the present. Sell the company, put those travel plans into action, reward yourself for the successes you’ve achieved…your family, the building designs you’ve made—”
“The cherry on top would have been getting back together with you. But it wasn’t meant to be.”
“What’s this about a second farewell though?”
“Martin and Sally have a country house in Kingston, upstate. They spend Christmas and New Year’s up there every year. Harlow and I are heading up there on Friday, Christmas Eve, with the rest of the gang. So…tonight’s the last time we’ll see each other for…who knows? Another couple of decades? I think my joke about meeting up again in a nursing home might turn out to be prescient.”
“That’s too gloomy by half, Rafe. Now that you’re taking early retirement, you’ll have enough time to see your friends more often. I’ve heard there’s things called airplanes that can take you anywhere in the world within hours. Or, better yet, drive across country, see the USA in your Chevrolet…”
“If that’s an invitation then I’m accepting. Are you sure Alastair won’t mind?”
“He wouldn’t try to stop me from seeing you, Rafe. He knows there’s a bond between us that’s way beyond any romantic suspicions.”
Rafe looked at the gold Omega Speedmaster watch on his left wrist as he placed the empty mug in his right hand on the coffee table.
“I guess this is good night and goodbye…for now. I’ve had a wonderful day, Joey. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and congratulations on your nuptials. Be happy, Joey.”
“I will, Rafe. It’s taken six decades but I think I’ve gotten it right this time.” I helped Rafe with his overcoat and walked him to the door. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and I followed him with my tearing-up eyes as he made his way slowly to the elevator, looking back over his shoulder twice. We exchanged waves as the doors closed.
The tryptophan in my cup of hot chocolate refused to bring on sleep. Almost two hours after Rafe left, I was still sitting in Alastair’s favorite easy chair, thoughts gnawing away at me. Thoughts about Rafe’s wedding. I could still hear the song Sara had the band play for the bride and groom’s first dance at the reception. I could still see Rafe and Sara slow dancing to it, her face a portrait of joy, his smile more restrained but still wide as he whispered in her ear something that made her giggle. Alastair, sitting next to me, grabbed my hand and squeezed.
The slow torture of conflicting emotions started at the welcome dinner on Friday evening. It was held in the Banquet Room of The Washington, D.C. Harriott Hotel. I’m sure they’d gotten a good deal for having the wedding weekend there, though neither Rafe’s nor Sara’s families had any worries about the expense. The hotel, located just a few blocks from The White House, had been built decades before Rafe’s father began designing for The Harriott Group. Still, you could tell by the presence of so many Harriott family members as invitees that there was never a question as to the wedding venue.
As is customary, there were speeches galore from both sides of the aisle. Rafe’s best man and Sara’s maid of honor actually used a PowerPoint presentation to accompany their comedic and “embarrassing” anecdotes about the bride and groom. I almost gasped out loud when one of the slides was a picture of Rafe and me on a playground seesaw when we were about 5 years old. Rafe’s best man, blessedly, did not identify me. The slide was just one in a series tracing Rafe’s childhood from toddler to teenager. Still, I unconsciously shifted in my seat so that I was out of the line of sight. Just in case someone like Sally might point me out to everyone.
After dessert and coffee, the guests mingled. Predictably, Rafe and Sara made a beeline to our table, with Martin and Sally in tow. After Rafe introduced me to our immediate neighbors as a childhood friend, there came the inevitable question.
“But why didn’t I see her in any of those photos? I certainly would have recognized such a pretty girl,” declared a woman from across the table.
“Oh, she was in a lot of those photos,” Sally interjected.
“I don’t recall seeing her. She couldn’t have changed so much from when she was a child,” stated another woman at the end of our table.
“Some people change a lot,” Sally teased. “Some people even change sex—”
Rafe put his arm around my shoulders. “Sally is being a little clumsy in trying to tell you that Joey here has transitioned to her true gender. She is now, as she always was meant to be, a woman. I’m very proud to have been best friends with Joey since we were knee high to a grasshopper.”
Everyone at the table seemed stunned. There was an awkward silence that lasted a full minute before one man directly across from me remarked, “You’re joking, right? She was a man?”
“Here we are in the capitol of the United States of America and the stench of bigotry seems to be gaining in redolence at this table—”
“Alastair, please. I don’t think the gentleman was disparaging me. Were you?”
“Oh, no. I was just…shocked. You’re very feminine. I would’ve never guessed. I apologize if you thought I was being offensive—”
“It was a normal response to an abnormal circumstance,” Sally pointed out. “After all, I think Joey’s the only transexual I’ve ever personally met.”
“I think they prefer to be called transgender these days,” the woman at the end of the table offered.
“Yes, that’s true. But it’d be fine if you just call me Joanne or Joey.”
Sara took hold of Rafe’s arm and nodded toward one of the other tables. “Darling, we should circulate. There’s the Hendersons and Uncle Walt waving to us.”
“See you tomorrow, everyone. Are you all taking the White House tour in the morning?” Rafe asked.
Everyone nodded. Before they all walked off, Rafe turned to me and winked. Sally caught the wink and frowned but Martin pulled her away before she could say something to Rafe.
I caught sight of myself yawning in the full-length mirror in my hotel room, wearing Rafe’s white dress shirt that I’d secretly kept all these years since the brief time we’d shared an apartment. I was halfway across the room to the bed when there was a knock on the door. I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand and read 11:12PM. Buttoning up my shirt, I went to the door and asked who it was, thinking it was probably Alastair.
“Joey, it’s Rafe. Can I talk to you?”
I opened the door, clutching the shirt around me, regretting not having availed myself of the robe provided by the hotel.
“Rafe, it’s late. What in the world—”
“Joey, so that’s what happened to my shirt.” I pulled him into the room and closed the door.
“How do you know it’s yours?”
“My monogram’s on the cuffs.”
“Oh. Do...do you want it back?”
“No, frankly, you look better in the shirt than I ever did.”
“What do you want, Rafe?” We sat down on the two chairs on either side of the bistro table. I made sure to pull the shirt tails down to cover my thighs. Rafe’s eyes widened.
“I’m still in love with you, Joey—”
“Rafe, you’re about to get married in front of almost two hundred family members and guests tomorrow. It’s a little late in the day literally to have second thoughts. Especially second thoughts about the two of us. We quit this “relationship” four years ago when you left New York.”
“Answer me honestly, Joey. Do you love me…still?”
“I’ll always love you, Rafe.” He reached for me. I parried his hands. “As a friend. A forever friend.”
“I’d rather marry you.”
“You love Sara, don’t you?”
“Well…yes, of course.”
“She loves you?”
“Yes…I mean…I don’t know. She might be marrying me for my money—”
“Rafe! Her father manages or owns half of the commercial property in downtown Washington. She’s worth more than you, for chrissake! She seems to be a lovely girl who’s head over heels in love with you. It’s over between us. In fact, there was never really an “us.”
There was a stricken expression on his face that slowly morphed into a pleading look. He slumped in his chair. I poured a glass of water for him. He downed half of it in one gulp.
“I’ve moved on, Rafe. As I thought you had. I mean, you’re getting married tomorrow!”
“It’s this guy, Alastair? Are you and he a thing? Is that who you’ve moved on to?”
“You asked for honesty. Okay. My gender has changed from male to female. Actually, I’ve been living as a woman for almost 4 years now, even before the surgery. But you know that. What you don’t know. What you never asked—”
“I’m sorry, Joey. Running the company pretty much took all my time. I’ve had at most two weeks of vacation in 4 years—”
“You’ve had enough time to meet, date, and get engaged to Sara, Rafe. We barely spoke on the phone for two hours total, never mind actually seeing each other.”
“I accept all the blame. I should have made the time. Prioritize our relationship. Even living in two different cities, it could’ve worked. And with your transition, my mother would’ve gotten on board. She would have…”
“You never asked whether I was attracted to men after transitioning. It’s not something you can control.”
“You loved me before you met Elizabeth. Our love was pure. Not dirty and perverse like your relationship with her.”
“I’m still sorting things out, Rafe. Alastair is just a friend from work. A good friend but that’s all it is. He talked himself into being my plus one. He’s got the better car.”
“So there’s still hope? I could call the wedding off. We could start over again. I’ll spend weekends in New York. I’ll do anything, Joey.” He got down on his knees before me. I turned my head away, sad to see him reduced to groveling.
“Get up, Rafe. It’s no use. We had our chance. We can go on blaming each other all we want but the stars just didn’t align for us.” I led him to the door. “Go back to your room. Go back to Sara. She’s going to be your wife now. Save all your love for her. Don’t hurt everyone by doing something rash, especially yourself.”
“If I can’t have you, Joey, then it’s all meaningless—”
“Don’t be melodramatic. You have a wonderful future with Sara ahead of you.” I gripped the door handle. “We’d only end in tears. You know that.” I opened the door and gently nudged him through. I kissed two fingers and brushed them against his lips. “Good night. Your life really begins tomorrow. Get some good sleep.”
I closed the door and sank to the floor, crying until I had no tears left to shed and drifted off to sleep.
The wedding ceremony was scheduled for 5PM and guests were not expected to arrive until 4PM, so after taking the tour of the White House in the morning with all the other out-of-town guests, Alastair and I lunched on Maryland Crab Cakes at the oldest restaurant in town, the Old Ebbitt Grill, and spent the afternoon visiting the Smithsonian Museum, then strolling the National Mall from one end, the Washington Monument, to the other, the Lincoln Memorial. We got back to the hotel with just enough time to change into our formal attire for the ceremony to be held in the courtyard.
The cocktail hour lasted from 6 to 7 and then the formal reception promptly started in the main ballroom. The newlyweds were introduced and took the floor for the first dance. The sight of Rafe and Sara moving slowly across the floor, smiling, whispering to each other, laughing, and giggling, reminded me of what I had told Rafe the night before. That they seemed truly happy in this traditional moment brought a smile to my own lips. But then a frisson of regret struck me as I realized a major part of my life was now behind me, forever lost in the temporal stream.
After the first dance, everyone was invited to join in on the dance floor. Alastair proved to be quite a nifty ballroom dancer. His French mother had insisted upon dance lessons for her son when he hit his tween years. After stepping on his feet the third time, Alastair advised me not to keep staring at Rafe and Sara.
“You keep dancing me toward them, Alastair.”
“That’s for Rafe’s benefit not yours. I still can’t believe he visited your room last night.”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you—”
“You snuck that tidbit in between bites of your crab cakes. I don’t blame him though. If it were me, I’d never give up on you.”
“Shut up and dance, Alastair. Oh, no, Sally’s moving toward us. Make a sharp left.”
Fortunately, they asked everyone to return to our tables. Dinner was served. They changed the seating so we were placed with a different group than at the welcome dinner. But apparently word had gotten around, most probably the source being Sally, that I was transgender. There was a lot of polite discussion of my “condition” until Alastair thankfully changed the subject. But, then, Alastair loves to talk about himself. He regaled our tablemates with anecdotes about everything from his Harvard days to working on 60 Minutes with Ed Bradley to the Emmy-winning segment he produced on the 30th anniversary of the release of The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction.”
“Did Keith Richards actually dream that riff and woke up to hum it into a tape recorder?”
“Yeah, he supposedly added the phrase, ‘I can’t get no satisfaction,’ and then collapsed back into a deep sleep. Ha ha.”
They cleared away our first course and replaced it with the main course. That ended Alastair’s monologue as we all dug into the grilled chicken with sweet summer vegetables. A boring but safe entrée. One of the guests at our table did have an alternate dish – beef brisket with mashed potatoes.
Toasts from the best man and the maid of honor interrupted our meal. Apparently, they had kept some material in reserve for the reception. It got the expected laughs and chuckles from the assemblage. Next, we applauded as the parent dances proceeded. Sara’s father quite adroitly led his daughter across the dance floor. Rafe’s mother openly cried as her son danced with her while the band played “Forever Young,” the Bob Dylan classic.
Once again, we were asked to fill the dance floor for another session of uncoordinated movement. This time they played more “current” music…for the kids. Now we were beyond the scope of Alastair’s terpsichorean skills. The selections from the band swerved wildly from “Cotton Eye Joe” to “This is How We Do It.” I had to show Alastair how to do it. I was glowing with lady-like perspiration when they wheeled the enormous multi-tiered wedding cake into the ballroom. After the cake-cutting with the bride and groom’s obligatory feeding of the first slices to each other, coffee and dessert were enjoyed by everyone.
As the final rite before the reception ended, all the eligible women lined up to receive the bouquet toss from Sara. Technically, that group included me but I chose to stand a bit off to the side, looking on with Alastair. Before Sara turned her back, she winked at me. Her toss went high and to the left, hitting Alastair smack dab in his face. He caught the bouquet as it bounced off, just before it landed on the floor. When he straightened up, holding the bruised bouquet, he blushed a deep crimson. Sara vigorously pointed to me. Alastair handed the bouquet to me. It was my turn to blush as the party applauded politely. I locked eyes with Rafe, standing behind Sara. He quickly turned away. As did I.
Rafe and Sara made their grand exit from the ballroom to applause and glow-sticks. It was almost 11PM when the guests said their farewells to everyone. Alastair and I fell in line with the guests who were ambling to the elevators, heading to their rooms on the upper floors. Stopping Alastair, I took him aside and suggested getting some air on the balcony. He nodded and took my arm in his.
From the balcony, in the cool breeze of a late Spring night, we could see the White House illuminated against the dark, just a few blocks away. I hardly noticed Alastair’s arm circle my waist as we pondered the evening skyline.
“Cold?”
“Actually, it’s refreshing. It was very stuffy in the ballroom. And the dancing got me a little…”
“Sweaty?”
“Women don’t sweat, Alastair. We glow—”
Sylvia Metheny, Rafe’s mother, emerged from the shadows. It was Alastair who first noticed her standing behind us. She had been watching us for a minute or two.
“Joey, can I speak to you?”
“Mrs. Metheny. Of course.”
Nodding at Alastair, “Alone. Please. There’s an alcove just over there. At this time of night there’s no one about—”
“Excuse us, Alastair. This shouldn’t take too long.” I gestured to Sylvia to go into the alcove. I followed.
In the alcove, Sylvia lit up a cigarette.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke indoors.”
“Are you going to call the cops on me?”
“No, of course not. What is it you wanted to say, Sylvia?”
“When Rafe wanted to invite you, I vehemently objected. It was Sara who insisted. I thought that was strange but I conceded the argument. I want to thank you for not disrupting the wedding—”
“Why would I do such a thing?”
“Do you know why Rafe rarely called or visited you these last 4 years?”
“Yes, he’s been swamped with work, running his father’s company. I understood.”
“That’s part of it. I made it clear to him I didn’t want you in his life. I wanted him to lead a normal life. With a normal woman.”
“I see. And I suspected as much. But to be honest, Sylvia, I never expected to be invited. Whatever was between Rafe and I ended years ago. I ended it. So, I was never a threat to your vision of Rafe’s future.”
“Oh, yes, you definitely are. He was going to take a month off from his work to help you recover from your surgery in San Francisco. I told him I’d vote him out of the company if he did. I still hold the controlling shares on the board.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“He wouldn’t stop obsessing about you so I set him up with Sara. She’s a wonderful girl. Matt and I became fast friends with her parents from the first day we moved here, right before you two graduated from high school in Port Jefferson. Sara’s perfect for Rafe. Perfect for his future.”
“I agree. I wish only the best for them. And I’m sure they’ll produce lovely little grandkids to fill your dotage with joy and delight. Are we finished? Anything else you want to say to me?”
“I wanted to tell you that I have nothing against you. I’m glad you finally resolved your gender issues. You look wonderful. Honestly, you’re beautiful. And your friend, your plus one, seems like a nice young man. I wish you happiness, Joey. I…was thinking solely as Rafe’s mother. He deserves the best life. The best. His father worked very hard to see that his children…he didn’t live to see it. It became my mission when he passed on. You see that, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t, Sylvia. But it’s all in the past. You have nothing to worry about now. Good night, Sylvia.” I turned to step out of the alcove.
“Please don’t hate me. Joey. I did it for Rafe’s sake.”
“Poor Rafe.” The only words I uttered as Alastair walked me to my room. I inserted the key card into the door lock and pulled down the handle.
“Would you like to talk about it? There’s some wine in the minibar. I’m a good listener.”
“No thanks, Alastair. I’d like to get up early tomorrow and head back to the city, if you don’t mind.”
“There’s brunch tomorrow morning. It’s on the itinerary. And it’s free—”
“I’ll come by your room at 8. I’ll buy you brunch in Princeton on the way back. Pancakes. Your favorite nostalgic meal.” I smiled wanly and opened the door. Alastair was about to say something when I entered the room and closed the door behind me.
Friday morning. Christmas Eve. Alastair had called the night before to tell me he was taking the red eye from LAX and would land at JFK at around 8:30. A ride through rush hour and he’d be at our doorstep at 9:30. I was drinking the last of my morning cup of coffee and surfing the net on my tablet, reading the latest posts from my favorites on Substack, when the doorbell rang at a little past 9. Excitedly, I rushed to the door, thinking Alastair had made better time than he’d expected. When I looked through the peephole, I was surprised to see Rafe standing there holding a small, wrapped package at his side. I opened the door.
“Rafe! I thought you were leaving for Kingston today. Come in.”
“Morning, Joey. We are leaving today. I stopped by to give you your Christmas present.”
“Oh, Rafe. I didn’t get you anything. You shouldn’t have—”
He handed me the small package. It was professionally wrapped with a lovely bow and ribbon.
“Open it. Harlow’s in the car downstairs. We’re double parked.”
I carefully unwrapped the package to discover a slim rectangular box with the Tiffany & Co. logo emblazoned on it. Inside the box was a black Tahitian pearl necklace. I held it up against the light.
“Rafe, these are expensive. I’ve seen these going for $10,000.”
“$12,500 to be exact.”
“Thank you, Rafe, but this is too extravagant. You really shouldn’t have…”
“Wear it to the Oscars when your screenplay is nominated.”
“I wish, Rafe.” I kissed Rafe on the cheek. “Thank you. Now, I feel guilty for not getting you something.”
“You already gave me my present, Joey. Just spending the past week with you. It was worth all the pearls in the ocean…and more.”
“Don’t, Rafe. Please don’t.” I wiped away a tear that was threatening to emerge. “Enough talk about the past.” I placed my index finger across his lips.
The lock on the door clicked and it swung open. Standing in the doorway, both hands holding luggage, was Alastair, a look of shocked surprise on his face.
“Alastair! You’re home.”
“Thank you, Rafe, but this is too extravagant. You really shouldn’t have…”
“Wear it to the Oscars when your screenplay is nominated.”
“I wish, Rafe.” I kissed Rafe on the cheek. “Thank you. Now, I feel guilty for not getting you something.”
“You already gave me my present, Joey. Just spending the past week with you. It was worth all the pearls in the ocean…and more.”
“Don’t, Rafe. Please don’t.” I wiped away a tear that was threatening to emerge. “Enough talk about the past.” I placed my index finger across his lips.
The lock on the door clicked and it swung open. Standing in the doorway, both hands holding luggage, was Alastair, a look of shocked surprise on his face.
“Alastair! You’re home.”
I rushed to him as he dropped his bags and leaped into his arms, crushing his lips with a big, overly dramatic kiss. Overly dramatic, yes, but I really was happy to see Alastair. I’d missed him terribly.
“Mmm. Now that’s what I call a welcome home. Is that who I think it is?”
“Yes, Alastair. It’s Rafe. He dropped by to give me a Christmas present—”
Alastair offered his hand to Rafe. “Hello, Rafe. It’s been almost 30 years since we met at your wedding. Elizabeth told us about Sara’s passing. My condolences.”
“Thank you, Alastair. And congratulations to you and Joey on your upcoming nuptials. When Elizabeth told me you and Joey were…do people still call it dating when it’s two mature adults? To be honest, I always thought you two belonged together—”
“Well, it took us 30 years and two marriages to other people to figure that out. You’re invited to the wedding, of course, as soon as Joey can tell me where and when this blessed event is going to take place.”
“Alastair, we talked about that. It’s going to be in Los Angeles after the new year in Philippa and Paul’s backyard. She practically insisted. She’s such a great friend. Who I never would have known had you not come back into my life—”
“Funny how some things remain in the past while others return…with a vengeance. Joey, remember when you and Elizabeth used to go on and on about Nietzsche’s theory of eternal return?” asked Rafe.
“We were comparing notes on our disparate disciplines, science and literature. She said Nietzsche’s Eternal Return reminded her of Poincaré’s Recurrence Theorem where dynamical systems will, after a sufficiently long but finite time, return to a state close to or exactly the same as their initial state…”
Touching the string of black pearls now decorating my neck, Alastair looked into my eyes and asked, searchingly, “Are there things in the past any of us might wish would return?”
I kept silent but conveyed my feelings about the scene playing out among us with my eyes in reply. Alastair seemed to understand. He backed away toward the door.
“You know, I haven’t had anything to eat in hours. They dish up a great breakfast at The Little Owl. Their bacon is to die for. I’ll order it to go. Rafe, you’ve eaten there, right? No? They used its exterior and the building for Friends. Their apartment? And the restaurant downstairs? It’s a five-minute walk from here. Grove and Bedford. Jo, can I get you anything?”
I shook my head and caught up to him at the door, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Good to see you, Alastair. I’m leaving in a few. My daughter’s double-parked in front of the building. See you at the wedding. I’m retiring as soon as the sale of my firm is finalized so a trip to the West Coast sounds irresistible. Especially to see two good friends tie the knot.”
The door closed shut behind Alastair and I turned to see Rafe on his phone, telling Harlow to find another parking space.
“I’m doing my best, Pookie. I’ll call you when I’m coming out.” He disconnected.
“Pookie?”
“Her gran…my mom…gave her a plush puppy dog when she was like three and, for a reason only known to her, she named it Pookie. We just started calling her that. She hates it. Of course, that’s why I keep calling her that.”
“Sit down, Rafe.”
“Sounds ominous, Joey.”
“Seeing you this past week. It’s been so…so wonderful.” I held his face in my hands. “You’ll never know how hard it’s been on me. It’s taken every fiber of my being to resist taking your hand and going off with you, Rafe. I would have followed you to the moon if you had asked…thirty years ago.” I shook my head and tried to smile. Tears began to fall. His eyes softened and he leaned in to kiss me.
We kissed tenderly. His passion grew and he gently pushed me back onto the couch. I pushed back and, as if a switch had been flicked, I disengaged our lips, sitting up quickly.
“No, Rafe, I’m committed to Alastair now. He loves me. I love him. We’re getting married soon.” Rafe traced the tears on my cheek with a finger. “What we had…if we had anything at all…belongs in the past. I don’t believe you can relive the past. No matter how much we want to.” Rafe shifted to the far end of the couch and his face was a portrait in anguish.
“I thought time was on my side, Joey. I thought I’d wait you out. Eventually, we’d get back together even though we were hundreds of miles apart. You never gave me that sign.”
“I did, Rafe. I never had one date or even thought about anyone else for three years after you moved to Washington. You never made a move. Then, when I had my surgery, I told you I’d be in San Francisco for a month, recuperating. Maybe I was too subtle by half but when you told me you were too busy…”
“I was swamped by company business. I couldn’t get away—”
“No, it was your mother, Rafe. She told me she threatened to basically disown you. At the wedding, after the reception—”
“She…she told you?”
“Yes, so I know the truth, Rafe. If you’d truly loved me—”
“Joey—”
“As much as I loved you. I loved you so much! So much I was willing to sacrifice everything we ever had together so you could live the kind of life your family wanted for you. A great career, a wife, children. To give Sylvia the grandchildren she so desperately hoped you’d give her…”
“Joey—”
“You can never imagine the betrayal I felt. I wasn’t planning to attend your wedding. I wanted to decline the invitation. Just check the box that would make you vanish from my life. You know who practically forced me to come? Alastair. Because he knew I would benefit from a real closure. He was right. And what Sylvia told me after the reception clinched it. In the 27 years since that July night in Washington, I’ve tried to keep thoughts of you out of my mind. I’ve been very successful. Then we bumped into each other at the airport…”
“I thought the universe was finally bringing us back together. Like it was fate. Kismet—”
“You didn’t need the universe to do that, Rafe. If it was truly in your heart.” Rafe stood up from the couch and began to put on his overcoat. “Please take the pearls back, Rafe. Give them to someone you might meet on that cruise you’re planning to take.” I handed the pearls back to him, along with the Tiffany & Co. case.
“I’d like to come to your wedding, Joey, if you’ll have me. I want to see you happy. I do love you. I’m just a coward. I’m sorry.” I embraced him one last time. There were tears in his eyes.
“You meant a lot to me, Rafe. I want you to know that. Go. Go before Alastair comes back and hears me tell you that I never loved anyone as much as I loved you.”
From the window that looked out onto Perry Street below, I saw Rafe emerge from the building. He stepped up to the curb, looked in both directions, and took his phone out. He called Harlow. It was a brief conversation. After replacing his phone in his breast pocket, he turned around and looked up, trying to find the window to our apartment. I backed away from the window and waited until Harlow arrived to pick up her father. I watched their car head toward West Street to start its 2-hour trip to Kingston in upstate New York.
Minutes later, Alastair returned, carrying his breakfast in a bag.
“So that was his daughter? She favors Sara a great deal. How did your…uh…discussion go?”
“I cleared things up with Rafe. Whether it was satisfactory for him, I don’t know. But I was brutally honest with him.”
He threw his overcoat onto the couch, which provoked a frown from me, and started to unpack the breakfast he’d ordered from The Little Owl, placing the reusable containers on our kitchen table.
“I’m starving, Jo. I’ve got two cups of coffee. Want one?”
“I’m fine, Alastair. I’m going to change and go for a walk.”
“It’s a little more than brisk out there, babe. Let’s stay in. I’m a little sleepy still. I can never get any good shuteye on a plane—”
“No, I need some alone time. Oh, dammit, if we had a dog, I could just say I’m walking it.”
“I understand. It must have been a real trial having to deal with Rafe these past few days. And his family’s no picnic in the park—”
Having changed into a sweatsuit, I grappled with my anorak coat as I swiped a piece of bacon from one of Alastair’s containers. I stopped to enjoy its crispy goodness as Alastair reached out to finish zipping up my coat.
“When I get back from clearing my head, I’ll make us a little lunch. Then we need to do some shopping—”
“Shopping? Why?”
“I got a beautiful pashmina for your mom but I haven’t had the time to get anything for Sylvère.”
“How much time have you been spending with Rafe?”
“Oh, shut up, Alastair. Help me out. Is he a drinker? Should we get him a fifth of bourbon or a bottle of Courvoisier?”
“He wouldn’t be a Frenchman if he didn’t enjoy a stiff drink now and again. I’ll text maman and see what brand he prefers. Good thinking, Jo.”
The drive from the West Village of Manhattan to Greenwich, Connecticut normally takes almost exactly one hour via I-95. However, it’s a genuine slog when you undertake that trip on Christmas Eve afternoon. Alastair’s maman, Ottilie, was serving a traditional French Christmas Eve dinner at 8PM, so there was no concern on our part of being late. We set sail for the bourgeois backdrop of Greenwich at 3:30PM after securing Sylvère’s alcoholic gift and arrived at maman’s doorstep at 5:20PM.
Ottilie, a sprightly 78-year-old, greeted us at the door, only a shawl across her shoulders against the winter cold. Before a word could be uttered by either, she wrapped her arms around her son, kissing both cheeks. The second they disentangled arms, she went straight for my cheeks, also to “faire la bise,” as the French say.
I had, of course, spent many hours, spread out over almost 30 years, in her company. She was always delightful, a woman of much grace and humor, stylish in her day, and almost certainly the very model of Gallic beauty. Having lived in the States for over 50 years, there was little trace of her Parisian accent. She had begun to lose it even before then. She went from the genteel streets of the 5th arrondissement to the halls of University College London, where she met her future husband, fellow undergrad Robert Knowles. After marrying, Robert and Ottilie moved to New York City where Robert went to work as a journalist in 1966. A year later, their only child, Alastair, came into the world.
She ushered us into the house and, waiting for us in the living room, was her partner of 25 years, Sylvère, another French expatriate who had been living in the U.S. for over five decades. A tall man, even in his late 70s, he was almost eye-to-eye with Alastair, despite the slight stoop in his posture. A hardy handshake accompanied by vigorous shoulder cuffing and then Sylvère’s eyes turned to me.
“Ah, my petite fleur, Joanne! Beautiful as ever. Joyeux Noël!”
.
“Merry Christmas, Sylvère. Always the charmer. And that’s more French words than I’ve heard you say in the 20 years I’ve known you—”
“Alastair, these American women are brutally honest. It’s not good for a man’s ego.”
“I’m sure maman has read you the riot act once or twice, Sylvère.”
“Well, she’s lived here for so long she’s almost completely American by now…”
“Old man, stop bantering and be a good host. Ask them to be seated. I’ve set out the tea service and some butter cookies called sablés. Alastair, did you know there’s a new French bakery in town? That’s where I found these.”
“Oh, dear, Ottilie, I thought you baked these yourself. The icing is so cute. Little Christmas trees and…uh…”
“Santa Clauses?”
“Papa Noëls,” corrected Sylvère.
“Put those presents under the tree, Joanne and Alastair. Next to the ones labeled for you two.”
“Ottilie, you shouldn’t have. Alastair and I are far from children anymore.”
“It’s a good thing you aren’t. I had my eye on a pink tricycle at FAO Schwarz that just screamed out your name Joanne but, alas, they were sold out.”
“Honestly, I could use the exercise. I’m getting a little tummy. Too many great restaurants in LA.”
“Nonsense. You look absolutely scrumptious, Joanne. In fact, I could make a fine meal of you—”
“Sylvère! I’m sorry, Joanne. You can take a Frenchman out of France but…you know what I mean. When you’ve finished your tea, could you come into the kitchen and give me a hand, sweetie?”
“Of course. I’d be glad to. Yum. These cookies are delicious.”
“Do you cook, Joanne?” Ottilie opened the oven and plunged a thermometer into the turkey roasting in the pan. She read the temperature, nodded, and pushed the pan back in, closing the oven door.
“A little. It’s not a lot of fun cooking for one.”
“But you and Emily had little Eliot, didn’t you?”
“Emily did most of the cooking. I did some baking back in the day. Eliot loved pies of any sort. Apple pie, sweet potato pie, lemon pie, blueberry pie. I baked them all for him.”
“I read in the newspaper where Eliot is dating Elizabeth’s daughter, Jocelyn, the doctor.”
“There’s more to that than I can say, Ottilie. What kind of glazing are you using on the turkey?”
“Oh, that’s Alastair’s favorite. Honey with Dijon mustard. Sweet and spicy. Just like Alastair.” She laughed and I laughed along with her, although I wasn’t sure what she meant by that remark.
“Help me prepare the Apéro, dear. That’s a French pre-dinner tradition, especially in holiday meals. Little bite-size goodies served with champagne. We have that in the salon. Afterwards, everyone migrates to the dinner table.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“See those blinis on that tray? The things that look like miniature pancakes. Yes, that tray. There’s some smoked salmon in the fridge. Put a sliver of salmon on each one and a dollop of sour cream. That’s in the fridge next to the…that’s it, sweetie. Chop up some dill and place a sprig on each one. Got it?”
“I’ve never had one of these.”
“They’re savory little bites of pure joy. Speaking of joy, Joanne. I’m so happy that Alastair finally proposed to you. I’ve always hoped he could find a true life partner. Someone who could return his love and devotion—”
“What about Lulu? They were happy for a time, weren’t they?”
“That woman? Don’t even mention her name to me. It’s a blessing they never had children.”
“If you’re hoping I’ll give you grandchildren—”
She took hold of my wrist to stop my chopping. “No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t have an insatiable desire for grandbabies. I want my son to be happy. To be loved and cherished as I did his father. And I know you will do that…for my boy.”
“He’s hardly a boy.”
“He’ll always be my baby boy.” Noticing my silence, she turned me around to face her. “Why are you crying, dear girl?”
“I’ve always wanted to be a mother. To have a child that came out of my womb. But the universe played a dirty trick on me and had me born with boy parts instead of my proper bits…”
Ottilie hugged me. “I know. I know, cherie. But that doesn’t make you less of a woman. In fact, you are the only woman my son has ever really, truly loved. He’s been in love with you for 28 years. You are woman enough for him. Now, I hope and pray he’s man enough for you.”
I wiped my eyes, smearing my mascara, I’m sure. “He is, Ottilie. He is. He’s shown me what real love can be.”
“Now that we’ve cleared that matter up, go and fix your make-up. It’s Christmas Eve. No time for tears. Only for smiles and laughter. And good French cooking!”
Sylvère put on a cd of music by French classical composers as we ate our Christmas feast. I looked at the track list on the back of the jewel box and saw familiar names: Satie, Debussy, Couperin, Ravel, Fauré, Berlioz, etc. It felt as if we were in a French movie from the last century. Perhaps a bourgeois family dinner between the wars in a house on the outskirts of Paris, Neuilly-sur-Seine or Maisons-Laffitte.
Ottilie is a great cook. It was the most sumptuous holiday meal I had ever eaten. We started with foie gras, placed gently not spread over toasts of baguette. Then we enjoyed bowls of sweet and creamy butternut squash soup, topped with grated cheese.
The main course, of course, was Alastair’s favorite, honey-glazed roast turkey. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Ottilie had filled the turkey with a traditional French chestnut stuffing. The turkey was surrounded on its platter by side items such as roasted potatoes, chestnuts, and cooked apples.
Dessert was heavenly. Crème brûlée in pristine ramekins that looked like glamor photos in a French cookbook. Alastair and I managed to pierce the caramelized topping without collapsing the entire surface. Sylvère was impressed. When I complimented Ottilie on the crème brûlée, I asked her if it were a family recipe.
“Oh, my dear, no. It’s from an episode of that Nigella Lawson series that was on cable TV years ago on the Food Network.”
As we waddled away from the dinner table to sink our bloated forms into the cushy depths of the living room couch, I made an executive decision. Going over to the Christmas tree, I pulled Sylvère’s gift out from under it.
“Instead of opening your gift tomorrow morning, I think it could be put to better use right now.” I unwrapped the bottle of Courvoisier cognac and presented it to Sylvère. He smiled broadly.
“I knew it was a good idea for Alastair to ask you to marry him. You’re a woman of refined taste, Joanne. Ottilie, break out the tulip glasses.”
“I’ll help you, Ottilie.”
“We’ll need some ice too,” Alastair added as Ottilie and I walked into the kitchen.
“Alastair, my boy. Cognac should always be served at room temperature and warmed in the hand. What did they teach in the fleshpots of Hollywood?”
“Obviously, not the proper way to drink cognac.”
“So, this wasn’t your bedroom as a child, Alastair?”
Alastair turned in bed to spoon me, whispering in my ear, “No. My folks bought this house after I went off to college. This is a guest bedroom.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“The walls are paper-thin. It’s Greenwich but most of the houses in this section of town were built post-war. A lot of young couples starting out in life after the war ended. Quickly built, economically built, you know?”
“You don’t think Ottilie and Sylvère suspect we fuck?”
“I know. I feel silly but, still, that’s my mother in the other room. It’s weird.”
“Didn’t you and Lulu ever stay here overnight?”
“No. Maman hated Lulu. She wouldn’t let her set foot in the house.”
“Why was that?”
“It’s a long story and one I’d rather not talk about. Maybe I’ll tell you someday…”
“We can be really quiet, Alastair.”
“You’re a wild one, Jo.”
December 28, 2022. Alastair and I had just flown home to Los Angeles from New York. The moment it seemed we got off the plane, Michelle Gravesend, the Chief Content Officer at GlobalNet (Alastair’s boss) texted Alastair to remind him that we were expected to be on the company’s New Year’s Eve moonlight cruise. In fact, we were expected to board the yacht in Marina Del Rey at least a half hour earlier than our guests, in order to help greet them at the dock.
“Me too?” I asked.
“As the co-writer of GlobalNet’s next international box office smash hit – and soon to be in pre-production – it’ll be the first time our guests will have the opportunity to meet and interact with you. Also, as my bride-to-be, I want to show you off to that insular community we like to call…Hollywood!”
“Well, if you put it that way.”
“You like me showing you off?”
“No. Meeting all these Hollywood types. Is Chris Hemsworth or Idris Elba invited?”
“I thought you were more into the Paul Rudd or Tom Holland type—”
“I’d settle for Jennifer Lawrence or Emma Stone.”
“There’s a better chance of either of those two playing you in the movie than dating you, Jo.”
“Wait. Really? You’re joking—”
“We’ve had some preliminary discussions with them, among others. Jennifer is very interested actually. At least her agent tells me—”
“I’m going to check with Philippa to see if you’re pulling my leg.”
“She and Paul are coming on the cruise too. Ask her then.”
“If Philippa were believable as a Caucasian blonde woman, I’d have her play me. After all, she’s a transwoman…”
“I floated the suggestion to Michelle that you play yourself. In the contemporary portion of the story of course—”
“Alastair, that’s sweet. But two things. One, I haven’t acted since I played the Ghost of Christmas Present when I was 15. Two, the character in the movie is just that, a fictional character. Granted, it’s based on me but—”
“I know. A lot of people would be up in arms at how they’re portrayed…even though that’s exactly how they thought and behaved. Some were unnecessarily cruel, others just ignorant.”
“I changed things around enough so that no one can claim it’s libelous.”
After a light brunch at Bacari’s in Beverly Grove, Philippa and I went to our 11AM appointments at Weal & Spoke, the trendiest of trendy hair salons in Los Angeles, on West 3rd Street, a short distance away. I figured on spending a good 4 hours there before I could declare my hair presentable for the New Year’s Eve cruise the next evening. Philippa, on the other hand, would probably be finished an hour or more before me. Her youth and lovely Eurasian hair would make her stylist’s work quick and easy. Blow drying all that hair would be the biggest problem. Volume is one thing Philippa had no issue with.
By the luck of the draw, we were assigned to chairs facing each other and our stylists started work simultaneously, giving us the opportunity to converse freely and easily a mere few feet across from each other. We didn’t have to shout.
“Jo, are you really going to invite Rafe to the wedding?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”
“If I were Alastair, I don’t think I’d want my bride-to-be’s “love of her life” making googly eyes at her all through the ceremony. I hope Rafe’s a teetotaler. Resentment and regret make for loud drunks—”
“Rafe would never do anything to hurt me or ruin such an important day in my life—”
“He married some other woman, Jo! That was bad enough.”
“We all make bad decisions, Phil. Not everyone’s as lucky as you were with Paul.”
“That’s true. So, now that you’re back in town…for good…we need to knuckle down on the wedding planning. We barely started putting together your guest list. Oh, by the way, Paul thinks he can get that jazz quartet we went to see in October to play at the reception.”
“Oh, I really liked them. Alastair’s a real jazz buff though. He’ll have to sign off on them. Are they still playing weekends at the Vibrato Grill?”
“I’ll check. Speaking of the Vibrato, I still can’t believe Herb Alpert was there the same night we were there.”
“Well, he owns the place, Phil. I wanted to go and get his autograph but he was preoccupied with an older couple at his table. I didn’t want to intrude.”
“Oh, that was Shuggie Brennan and her husband Bobby what’s-his-name.”
“Who?”
“Jo! You don’t know who Shuggie Brennan is? Hint, hint. She’s got something in common with the both of us.” I wracked my brain for a moment before it came to me. She’s the transwoman who had a string of hit records in the ‘70s and ‘80s. I must have seen her a couple of times on The Midnight Special.
“Oh, how dumb of me. You’re right. I should have recognized her.”
“Are you going to invite Elizabeth?”
“I guess I should. Maybe she’ll bring her daughter Joey as her plus one. I hope so. I wonder if she’ll still be with that chef guy when the wedding takes place.”
“You don’t think they’ll last until February or March?”
“Knowing Elizabeth? Nah, odds are against it.”
About two hours into our ordeal, Philippa and I sprang for coffee and banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery, up the street, for everyone. I ordered three each of the Red Velvet and Chocolate Hazelnut cups.
Sometime after 3PM, we waltzed out of the salon and our hair was perfect! The rest of the afternoon was spent at Philippa and Paul’s house in Los Feliz, playing with their daughter Clarissa. She complimented me on my hair. Smart girl! She had the makings of a couturier before the age of three.
Alastair and I were assigned the duty of greeting guests at the gangway ramp. With the cool breeze coming off the Santa Monica Bay on an ostensibly 50° Fahrenheit evening, I was shivering in my black strapless party dress. Alastair put his arm around my shoulders and that helped a little bit. That and nibbling on my neck.
Sadly, neither Idris Elba nor Chris Hemsworth showed up to be greeted by me. Apparently, mega stars in Hollywood have better New Year’s Eve parties to attend than the GlobalNet cruise that circled the bay from Point Dume in Malibu to the Palos Verde peninsula. The majority of the 100 or so guests were a handful of GlobalNet lead actors, co-stars, some other above-the-line production people, top tier executives, board members, and a major investor or two. Most of them knew Alastair by name if not by sight. Me, I was a new face and name. A few of the older gentlemen sneaked a kiss on the cheek rather brazenly. One of them even kissed Alastair!
Late arriving but a welcome sight were Paul and Philippa. We hugged and kissed both cheeks.
“It’s almost time for them to retract the gangway. Dinner’s about to be served, guys.”
“Mom couldn’t get Clarissa to sleep. She wanted to come to the party,” laughed Philippa.
“I have a sneaky suspicion your mom’s going to let Clarissa stay up to watch the ball drop at Pacific Park on TV,” Paul noted as they made their way up the gangway ramp.
Our late dinner was served at almost 10PM after the obligatory cocktail hour and mingling on deck. GlobalNet provided guests with a choice of four main courses: pan-seared chicken breast, smoked chili-rubbed Atlantic salmon (Alastair’s choice), Za’atar flat iron steak, and potato gnocchi with winter vegetables (my choice). Dessert was either chocolate toffee crunch cake or Spanish Basque-style cheesecake souffle. Unfortunately, Paul and Philippa were seated halfway across the room at another table with mostly other directors and writers and their spouses.
The main attraction at our table was a young actor named Trent Foster, who had just been Golden Globe-nominated for his role as a young Albert Einstein in the screen adaptation of the Philip Glass opera, Einstein on the Beach. Charmingly, he had escorted his mother to the party. She didn’t contribute much to the conversation at our table but was very effusive in her praise of the food.
“So, Trent, I never knew Albert Einstein was a surfer,” asked Alastair in a mocking tone.
“Poetic license, Al. I mean, how do you make the opera relatable to a general audience? We’re not producing this for a bunch of scientists and mathematicians. When’s the last issue of Scientific American that had a music review column?”
“Oh, Alastair, Trent had nothing to do with the adaptation. He’s an actor. He just reads the lines on the pages they give him. I thought you were very good in the movie. Especially when you recited poetry while riding your board on what looked like a tsunami wave,” I said with sincere admiration.
“Yeah, those lines were written by Christopher Knowles, a thirteen-year-old poet on the autism spectrum. Knowles is in his 60s now. Still in Brooklyn I believe. Say, Alastair, are you related to Christopher?”
“Uh, no. I am related to Chris Knowles, the comic book writer and artist, who did “Halo, An Angel’s Story.”
“No shit! I loved that comic book series—”
“Trent! Language, please.”
“Sorry, mom. Of course, it’s a little before my time. I wasn’t even born in 1996 when that first came out.”
“This souffle is just yummy! Trent, how’s the crunch cake?”
“Alastair, we’re having a little impromptu meeting at my table right now. Excuse us, Joanne. Everyone.” Michelle Gravesend, Alastair’s boss, stood behind Alastair’s chair, smiling her gracious host smile. “Go up on deck and enjoy the music. It’s a beautiful night.”
After making a brief stop at the Ladies’ Room, I joined the crowd on deck. On the way, I passed by Michelle’s table and everyone seated there was involved in an intense discussion. Alastair was seated to Michelle’s right. Surrounding them were Harold Leong, Chairman and CEO, George Hollander, CFO, Rick Baldry, Director of International Production, and Mary Legler, EVP of the Legal Department. I couldn’t help but notice Alastair didn’t look too happy about whatever they were saying.
I had planned to reconnoiter with Paul and Philippa, the only couple I knew at the party, once I was out on deck but they were hidden somewhere in the throng. I decided to avail myself of a glass of Chardonnay. While I was sipping slowly, keeping an eye out for Paul and Philippa, a young person of indeterminate gender approached me. They were incongruously dressed in a rumpled sweatshirt, torn jeans, and a moth-eaten ball cap. My first thought was: doesn’t the catering staff have to wear a standard uniform?
“Are you Joanne Prentiss?” Their voice trembled.
“Yes? How can I help you?”
They took off their cap and brushed their hair back in place. “I’m Marla Mulholland. You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Should I? Have we met?”
Their voice became squeakier and a torrent of words came out. “That’s my Twitch name. I’m the most streamed femboy in North America. I’m also on Only Fans but you have to pay to subscribe to that. I heard about your film and my friend who knows someone in the catering crew got me onto this cruise because they found out you were going to be here too. I’m really talented. You should watch my streams. Don’t let this get around but I’m really acting as this character of Marla Mulholland. It’s not the real me. I do it to get views—”
“Whoa, hold up, Marla, or whatever your real name is. I’m just the writer of this movie. I have nothing to do with casting.”
“But the main character is you, Joanne Prentiss. Wouldn’t you be the best judge of who could best play you on the silver screen?”
“That’s a fictional character. It’s not me.”
“But the character’s named Joey just like you. It’s you.”
“You’re too feminine looking to play the younger version of the main character anyway.”
“That’s no problem. I’m detransitioning. This whole femboy act is getting complicated.”
“You’re not trans or you’re tired of cross-dressing?”
“I have my doubts. It was fun for a while. And I was getting a lot of donations to my Twitch streams. But I do like acting! It’s what I really enjoy. The camera loves me too.”
“You’re very cute, Marla, I’ll give you that. But, like I said, I have nothing to do with casting.”
“Do you know Alastair Knowles, the production guy? My friend’s been trying to get in touch with him.”
“Is your friend an agent?”
“No, she’s my girlfriend. But she’s taking business classes at USC and plans on becoming one.”
“You need to get a real agent. They’ll be able to open up the channels of communication for you. It’s all about who you know in this town.”
“How do I get an agent?”
“Put together a reel of your best streaming bits. The ones that show off your acting chops. Then submit it to an agent who handles performers similar to you. Good luck. It’s the best advice I can give you.”
“Thank you, Joanne. You’re a sweetheart. Just the way I imagined you to be. I’ll do what you suggest. Since I’m here anyways, could you point out Alastair to me?”
“He’s in a meeting right now below deck. I don’t think he wants to be interrupted right now. Perhaps after midnight—”
“Oh, there’s Trent Foster! He’s absolutely dreamy, don’t you think? Thanks again, Joanne.” They walked quickly away toward where Trent Foster was standing, pointing at the sky, and surrounded by giggling women of all ages.
I turned to place my empty glass of Chardonnay down on the serving table when I almost crashed into Selena Portmanteaux, two-time Oscar winner and one of the grand dames of American cinema.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you standing there. Oh my God, it’s Selena Portmanteaux!”
“And you must be Joanne Prentiss.” She offered her right hand. We shook.
“I didn’t see you come aboard. And Alastair and I were the unofficial official greeters.”
“My husband Derek and I were…a little late. We arrived after the yacht had already departed.”
“How did you get on board?”
“A dinghy. We hired a dinghy. It’s a real struggle getting on board a yacht from a dinghy wearing a party dress and heels.”
“I can imagine.”
“Here, have another glass. Chardonnay?” I accepted the offered glass and took a quick sip.
“Well, you look stunning, nevertheless.”
“Thank you. So do you, Joanne. You’re very impressive…in the flesh. Your photos don’t do you justice.”
“Are you working on a GlobalNet project?”
“I hope to. You could help me out, Joanne.”
“Selena, you’re kidding. Me? Help you? I’m sure Michelle and Alastair would jump over hoops to get you involved with the network. How could I help?”
She took me by the crook of my arm and led me to the railing, away from the maddening sound of raised voices and clinking glasses.
“Your script is remarkable, Joanne. The best I’ve read in years. I need to play you—”
“It’s not me. It’s based on me but—wait a minute! How did you get your hands on the script? Philippa and I haven’t even gotten the final notes on it yet.”
“Derek plays racquetball with Harold Leong every Tuesday at the Athletic Club. They’re tight and Harold passed along his copy of the most recent draft. I read it immediately!”
“Alastair doesn’t know?”
“Harold’s his boss not the other way around. Come hell or high water, I’m playing you, honey.”
“I’d be incredibly flattered but, Selena, I would love to have the part played by a transwoman. Michelle thinks it could be a real breakthrough role for the trans community of actors—”
“Michelle’s a businesswoman, first and foremost. Not to humble brag but if I headlined this movie, you’d all be rolling in dinero, big time. My films have grossed a billion dollars in the last three years. I’m internationally known…”
“But you’re a cis woman. Sorry but you couldn’t portray the nuances of being a transwoman—”
“I’m an Oscar-winning actor, Joanne. I can inhabit the main character’s world, feel what she feels, behave the way she would, say the things she would say. Alright, here’s my proposition. Let me birddog you for a month, two months. Observe you. Learn about your life experiences from you. Get to know the people, places, and events that have shaped you. Better than reading a biography. Living alongside the subject herself!”
“What about your husband, Derek?”
“Joanne! I’m not proposing we engage in wife-swapping, for godsake,” she laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t be sharing your bed at night. Derek and I will rent a place very close by and spend as much time with you as possible. More like a 9 to 5 gig. With occasional overtime.”
“I don’t know what to say other than it sounds ludicrous on the face of it. I don’t think Alastair would go for it either.”
“He will. If he values his job. I’m putting together an agenda for Michelle right now. Harold is on board already.”
“I could pull the script from GlobalNet—”
“Let’s be real, Joanne. You can’t. They own it. They paid for it, lock, stock, and barrel. Happy New Year. Oh, there’s Trent Foster. He’s delicious, don’t you agree?”
“I think you’re older than his mom—”
“That could be a factor in my favor.” She walked away but not before turning to smirk and shoot me a playful cat wink.
I finally found Paul and Philippa at the other end of the deck. They were standing at another serving table filled with glasses of wine and champagne.
“Oh, there you are. I’ve been searching for half an hour.”
“We moved around a bit. Paul wanted to chat up some people about a project we want to do that…” Philippa cupped her mouth and whispered,”…we’re thinking of producing ourselves.”
“Yeah, don’t tell Alastair,” Paul implored. “Nothing against him, you understand.”
“We want to be the captains of our own ship, you know.”
“Well, good luck. I hope this doesn’t mean we won’t ever work together again, Phil.”
“Oh, no, Joanne, we’ll write together. I promise. I think of you as my older sister—”
“I’m old enough to be your mother. Even if it isn’t physically possible,” I laughed.
“Joanne Prentiss!” a distinct British accent practically bellowed. I turned and had to stoop down to see to whom the voice belonged. It was Felicia Framingham, the well-known British character actress and unintentional chat show comedian.
“Joanne Prentiss! I must speak to you!”
“Felicia, I’m delighted to meet you. I’m a fan. You were wonderful in the latest Star Wars movie—”
“That was Dame Maggie Smith. I’ve never been in a science fiction film. Hate those things. All those special effects and loud explosions. Not for me.”
“Lord of the Rings! You were marvelous in that trilogy—”
“You’re older than I thought! Those films were twenty years ago, my dear. Regardless, I must speak to you about this transgender movie that my agent keeps mentioning. I believe there’s a role for an actor of my age, as it were.”
“Yes, the epilogue of the movie is from the viewpoint of the main character when she’s living in an assisted living home…”
“Well, I don’t really know who you are. I’m halfway across the globe and I rarely pay too much attention to what transpires here in the States but my agent tells me this will be quite the cultural landmark when it’s released and…” She turned to Paul and Philippa. “I’m all for cultural landmarks. I’m a lesbian, you might know.”
“I’d be so honored to have you involved in the movie.”
“What’s more it would be convenient for me. I heard you’re going to shoot this in London at Pinewood.”
“That’s Alastair’s plan. We have a working agreement with them.”
“Oh, yes, Alastair Knowles. I knew his grandfather the baronet. He wasn’t too happy when Alastair’s father married that French girl and moved to the States.”
“I wonder if he would’ve been happy to see his grandson marry a transwoman.”
“He would have choked on his cigar. But we live in a different society now. At least I believe we’ve progressed. My nephew became my niece. She married the loveliest girl.” Again, she turned to Paul and Philippa. “I told her lesbians are the best. I did, most certainly.” She turned back to me. “I have the most adorable grandnieces now. Both in university. She had stored some sperm before her surgery. You know, for the bottom bits. You didn’t do that, did you, dear?”
“No, it didn’t occur to me that I’d want to have children back then. I suppose that was a miscalculation on my part. Emily and I could have had our own children—”
“Emily?”
“Yes, my wife. She passed almost ten years ago.”
“A modern Tiresias. Indeed. Well, I actually came over here to get a glass of champagne. Another example of synchronicity, don’t you think? Oh, look, is that Trent Foster? He’s a lovely young man. Reminds me of an American soldier I knew at Cambridge. Very nice to meet you all.” She walked briskly toward where Trent was last seen with more vigor than you could expect from an 80-year-old.
“I see you’ve met Felicia.” Alastair picked up a glass of champagne and toasted all three of us in turn. “Michelle asked me to send Paul and Philippa down below. She and some of the other officers of the company want to talk to you two.”
“What’s this about?” asked Paul.
“You’ll see.” He patted Paul on the shoulder. “It’s nothing bad. Now, get moving.”
They left Alastair and me alone and he led me to the railing.
“Jo, I just got new marching orders from top management.”
“Marching, as in…you’ve been fired?”
“No, honey. They could’ve just done that by text if they wanted. It’s something that’ll put a crimp in our plans for the near future.”
“Don’t say we’re not having the wedding—”
“Well, it might have to wait a couple of months.”
“Oh, Alastair. I can’t wait to be your wife…officially.”
“It’ll happen, I promise. But, first, we’re going to spend a few months in Paris—”
“Paris? Paris, France?”
“No, Paris, Texas. Of course, Paris, France. Old Alastair has been told to shepherd two co-productions with Gaumont. One of them is an international remake and update of Jules and Jim with dual dialogue tracks in English and French. The other project is still being decided. Probably an American noir from the classic period.”
“Rafe used to laugh at me for liking Jules and Jim so much. It’s such a masterpiece.”
“I guess you’ll never stop thinking about Rafe and what could have been.”
“I love you, Alastair. Only you.”
We kissed. I held onto Alastair for an eternity. The murmuring in the crowd got louder as they realized the yacht had returned to Marina Del Rey, timed so that the ball drop at Pacific Park at midnight, and the fireworks display could be in optimal view as it crossed the bay.
In a few minutes, 2023 arrived. There was a roar of exultation. Many among us looked forward to a joyful new year. Including Alastair and me.
A week before Alastair and I were scheduled to leave for France, I got a voice call from Elizabeth in the middle of the day. That surprised me. Elizabeth hated talking on the phone and, if it was something important, usually waited until the evening to make a call.
“Elizabeth? It’s a surprise to hear from you. You normally text.”
“Joey, I didn’t call to chat. Unfortunately, it’s Willard. He’s in a hospice in Seattle. The doctors tell him he hasn’t long—”
“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. Is it cancer?”
“Pancreatic. It’s why he resigned from consulting with The Children’s Hospital. Jocelyn thought she drove him away but she was wrong. He really did want to patch things up between them.”
“Thank you for telling me. Next time I bump into Joey, I’ll extend my condolences.”
“I’m calling not just to inform you about Willard’s dire condition, Joey. It has to do with a request Willard made. He wanted Joey and I to see him before he entered the final phase where he wouldn’t be aware enough to register our presence.”
“You must go, Elizabeth. He’s dying. Put aside all your enmity. Joey too.”
“I spoke to Joey last night and she’s clearing the next few days to go to Seattle. She’s apprehensive about it but…”
“He’s her father, after all.”
“He asked for one other thing, Joey. He wants you to come with us. He wants to see all three of us…together.”
“But why? What does any of this have to do with me?”
“I think I know. But please come, Joey. If only for the day. You could come and go in less than a day. Please.”
“I’ll come. I’m pretty much all packed up already so I could spare the time.”
“Packed up? You’re moving again?”
“No. Alastair has to work in Paris for a couple of months. We’ll be back and then have the wedding like we planned, just 3 months later.”
“Aren’t you the jetsetter. Always lucky in love, Joey. There was Rafe, me, Emily, and now Alastair. Whatever it is, you ought to bottle it and sell it. You could be a billionaire.”
“Text me the coordinates, Elizabeth. I’ll see you in Seattle.”
It was the dreaded office Christmas Party. By some cruel whim of Fate, I was the guest of honor. Not something I had expected or frankly welcomed. But there I was, dressed in a tasteful outfit appropriate (if a little too formal?) for the occasion, sitting by my lonesome at the bar of the huge conference room they had transformed into the proper seasonal mode. Speakers were blaring Phil Spector’s Christmas album. The Crystals’ La La Brooks was singing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” It was at that point General Manager Arnie Simpson came toddling toward me, a broad and devilish smile plastered across his, well, plastered countenance, his hand beckoning. Oh, God, he wants to dance. For 3 months on this assignment, he had acted like a lovesick teenager around me. For one, I had never solicited his attention and had comported myself in a totally professional manner. Secondly, at 58, I was a good 20 years his senior. And lastly, he doesn’t know I was born a boy.
As he made his way across the room, my life passed before my eyes. Or at least the past few months. I had elected Early Retirement from my position as VP of Marketing and Promotions for a rather popular (some say notorious) cable network. Only a month after settling into what I hoped to be my salad days on the South Shore of Long Island, an old colleague of mine asked me to come to Boston and help re-launch a local cable news channel his new employer had just acquired. So, I’d spent September through December setting up everything from a new social media array to a visually striking yet comforting color scheme for their studio. And now, like a conquering heroine, I was being toasted for what all the executives thought was a job well done. Timing is everything and that’s why my farewell send-off coincided with the office Christmas Party. Lucky me!
“May I have this dance, Joanne?” leered Arnie as the crowd hooted and hollered their encouragement.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” I demurred. Oblivious, Arnie grabbed my hand, pulling me off the barstool. And immediately spun me around like a wobbly top. He reeled me in as if we were tangoing. To Phil Spector? His paunch invaded my space, and I didn’t know if I was dizzy from being twirled by his deft dance moves or just queasy from his unctuous proximity. Then it happened. He threw me like a deranged Russian ice skater spinning his partner into a death spiral. My hand slipped from his grasp, and I went barreling onto the floor, landing in a heap.
“Owww!”
The crowd hushed and someone abruptly turned the music off. I grabbed my left hand and moaned in pain. Damn! I had broken off a couple of nails. The French Nails done at the salon the day before. Did this ever happen to Bella Hadid?
“Joanne! Are you hurt?” my personal assistant Cecily practically screamed in my ear. That was when my escape route from this sordid affair popped into my dizzy head.
“I think it’s my wrist. Feels like it’s broken.” Arnie had come around to help lift me to my feet. I cradled my left wrist, still mewling for effect.
“Cecily, take her to the emergency room, pronto! Take the company limo. I’ll call Isadore to wait for you downstairs.”
Cecily walked me out of the conference room as the sea of concerned faces followed my trail of moans. I tried to wave to them with my right hand, smiling nervously. And winced convincingly. Lesley Gore’s defiant lyric of triumph echoed in my brain: “It’s my party and I’ll cry (in pain) if I want to!”
“Listen, I’m not really hurt that bad. Forget about the ER. Just take me back to my hotel,” addressing both Cecily and our driver Isadore. Cecily punched me rather too emphatically in the arm, shaking her head.
“Oh no. I’ll be in hot water with Arnie if I don’t see that you get your injury taken care of. Look, you’re covered by the company’s insurance anyway.”
“Well, it’s probably not anything serious. It hasn’t turned blue and swollen up. How about you drop me off at the urgent care center near my hotel?”
“O.K. but if you get gangrene and have to get your hand amputated…”
“They’re not sawbones in urgent care. There are real doctors in attendance, Cecily. Well, I’m sure there are.”
As I walked into the Urgent Care Center, I turned to give Cecily as she stood by the limo a reassuring wave. Absentmindedly, I used my left hand. I grimaced with pain and Cecily started but I smiled to let her know I was alright.
After checking in with the nurse at the reception desk and declaring my particular ailment, I took a seat in the waiting area. There were maybe half a dozen other poor souls waiting to be attended to. Not especially busy for a Friday evening the week before Christmas. Holding my phone in my right hand, I figured I could use the time to read a chapter of Alastair Reynolds’ latest novel, Shadow Captain. My sister had gifted it to my kindle months ago for my birthday or was it a retirement gift? Whichever it was, she was always spot on with my reading preferences.
It was a good twenty minutes before it was my turn to be treated. I must have been an odd sight, sitting there in my $2500 Stella McCartney Houndstooth-print coat. Hopefully my lips weren’t moving while I read. However, a groan or two did escape my lips whenever I tweaked my left wrist. A young man who had come in some minutes after me gave me a sympathetic look while his girlfriend in the seat next to him mouthed “nice coat.”
“Joanne Prentiss? The doctor will see you in Room 3. Down the hall to your right.”
Oh, goody, I’m getting a real doctor. Do not fear, my dear left hand. No battlefield surgeon for you, my pretty. I sat myself on the examination couch, still wrapped in my coat and holding onto my Saint Laurent satchel bag. Then she walked in.
She was the spitting image of the woman who had been the love of my life, so many decades past, another lifetime ago. Quite literally. It was before I had transitioned. Before I had even finally decided that I couldn’t continue living a lie. That I was a woman, never a man, despite the troubling body parts that signified differently. I must have had a gob smacked look on my face. I couldn’t speak, barely breathe.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Petry. You don’t seem to be in much pain. Although the expression on your face…” She perused my registration form and looked up intently at me. “Ms. Prentiss? You look familiar. Are you by any chance related to Joseph Prentiss?”
“I was…sorry…Dr. Petry…but I was going to ask you a similar question.”
“Alright. You first. What’s your question?”
“You remind me so much of someone I knew many years ago in New York. More than 30 years ago. Are you related to Elizabeth Robbins? I know she’s a pediatrician here in the Boston area. Last I heard.”
“Yes. She’s my mother. Although these days she’s a painter. She retired from her practice a few years ago. But tell me. Are you Joseph’s sister? My mother mentioned he had a younger sister. Back in New York, of course.”
I nodded, hoping it might seem noncommittal. Then I changed the subject.
“Doctor, I think I’ve sprained my wrist.” I held out my left hand. It served as a stop sign for a conversation I had never expected nor was I ready to continue.
As she examined my wrist, eliciting a groan or two as she manipulated it, we talked about me. Surface things like what I was doing in Boston, the nature of my work with the cable news channel, my plans for the holidays. For her part, she told me she was a second-year resident at Tufts Medical Center, taking on the swing shift here for a friend who wanted to spend the holidays skiing in Colorado. I restrained myself from asking anything more about her or her mother. It wasn’t something I needed to explore at this point in my life. The memories were still scars. Even now I didn’t want to pick at that wound.
“Well, Ms. Prentiss, I don’t think you’ve got a sprained wrist. No swelling, no discoloration, not a lot of pain. I suggest you take 2 Advil if you feel any lingering pain in the next 48 hours. If you want, I can take a look at it on Monday. I’m here from 4 to midnight.”
I took an Uber home that night and collapsed onto the bed in my hotel suite. I’m not sure but I think I still had my black suede booties on.
Monday morning I was going to spend my last day at the office packing up a few things, making the rounds and saying my farewells. I managed to avoid Arnie until late in the morning since he was occupied by meetings. Meetings I no longer had to attend. Tuesday, I planned to check out of my hotel and drive the four and a half hours back down to Long Island to spend Christmas Eve at my sister’s house. With luck, considering the inescapable holiday traffic, I’d get there just in time to hear her husband complain the turkey was too dry as he set to his carving duty.
But Arnie appeared in my doorway at 10 to noon, smiling broadly, arms reaching toward me. Unfortunately for me, I was facing away from him and slightly bent over my desk, sifting through some hanging folders in a drawer. I had just turned my head to catch sight of him before he crushed me in a bear hug. Was he nuzzling my neck? Gahhh!
“I’m going to miss you, Joanne. Any chance you’d extend your deployment with us?”
“Fat chance, Arnie,” as I almost shoved him off me. He pretended to smash himself against the wall.
“You still mad at me for twirling you a little too hard at the party? You let go, you know.”
“You’re lucky I don’t report you to HR for harassment, Arnie.”
“I’m sorry, Joanne. I know I come on a little too strong sometimes. But you’re such a smart, beautiful and…”
“I’m old enough to be your mother, Arnie. Look, let’s shake hands, say farewell, good luck and, hopefully, we’ll never cross paths again.”
“Joanne?” Cecily was at the doorway. “Someone is here to see you. Jocelyn Petry? Umm, Dr. Petry?”
I thanked Cecily, told her to send my visitor through and pushed Arnie out of my office. He muttered something about seeing me before I left at the end of the day. I hissed under my breath and looked up to see Jocelyn about to knock on my open door.
“Ms. Prentiss?”
“Call me Joanne, Jocelyn. Sit down. What brings you here today. My wrist is much better. You don’t make house calls in this day and age, do you,” I laughed.
She was wearing a lavender cowl neck wool pullover and skinny jeans, her puffy jacket draped over her left arm. She was every bit as model pretty as her mother had been at the same age. I found myself unable to speak for a moment.
“Joanne, I’ve come to take you to lunch. I think we need to talk. At least, I need to. I realize you might not be…comfortable…”
I took her hand. “No, I’d love to do lunch. Let me get my coat.” I reached for my everyday cloth coat and linked arms with her, exiting the room.
We were in the Beacon Hill section of Boston, close to the Charles River. It was a brisk day but not arctic at all. You didn’t need a scarf or gloves. My suggestion since I knew the area better than Jocelyn did was a high-end restaurant about six blocks from the office that served up good standard American fare with a bit of a Mediterranean twist. I didn’t mention it to Jocelyn, but it was also notably LGBTQ friendly, something very welcome in a city I wasn’t that familiar with.
Our waiter resembled a 25-year-old Harry Potter with stubble. Yes, the round glasses but half a foot taller than Daniel Radcliffe. He took my order in 30 seconds but took his sweet time detailing the menu to Jocelyn. She just gave him that same heartbreaking smile her mother had shown me in our halcyon days. We both ordered the Cobb Salad. I asked for a glass of Chablis. Jocelyn preferred water.
“You’re staring at me. It’s a little…discomfiting.”
“You look so much like Elizabeth. I can’t get over it. It’s like she stepped out of a time warp.”
“I don’t think I look that much like her. She tells me I take after my father more.”
“Speaking of your father. It must be great working at the same hospital your dad’s at.”
“I wouldn’t know. Dad moved to Seattle after the divorce. Almost ten years now.”
I didn’t know Elizabeth had divorced Dr. Willard Petry. Nor did I know they had a daughter. My sister had vaguely mentioned a child, but I was pretending not to care when she told me that tidbit. Water under the bridge, you know. I tried hard not to let my face betray my thoughts, but Jocelyn pushed on.
“Mom told me she didn’t think you’d know. The two of you haven’t spoken in more than two decades, maybe three.” I began to sputter a response as I realized…
“She wants to see you. To, I don’t know, apologize? No, that’s not what I mean or maybe what she means. But she says she’d like to see you. If you…”
“I don’t know, Jocelyn. What is there to say? For either of us. We’ve moved on. I know I’ve moved on. And, anyway, we can’t undo the past. It is what it is. No matter what we…”
She took my hand. The good one. “Please, Joanne. You’re here in Boston and you’ll be gone tomorrow. Back to New York…”
“We may never pass this way again? A cliché if I’ve ever heard one.”
She passed me a slip of paper. On it she had written her mother’s address in Somerville, a suburb 10 minutes north of the city.
“Go see her tomorrow before you drive home. Please.”
We ate the rest of our lunch in silence. Still, I couldn’t keep from staring at her beautiful face. And tears began to well up in my eyes. To think, she could have been our daughter. My daughter. I had to look away, pretending to look out the window at Beacon Street, where to my surprise flakes of snow were drifting down with feathery delicateness.
“There’s heavy snow forecast for late tomorrow afternoon,” she said languidly as she speared a sliver of chicken breast with her fork.
“I’ve got winter tires on my car,” I said as I finished my glass of Chablis.
A light snow fell on the streets of Tribeca in Lower Manhattan that Christmas morning when we were 25, Elizabeth and Joey, the young hope of a nation. Well, that’s what our friend Cooper called us when he’d had a few bong hits. I was finishing my doctoral dissertation on James Joyce and the Modernist Novel at NYU. Elizabeth had one more semester in Columbia’s School of General Studies to complete the pre-med courses she needed to move on hopefully to SUNY Downstate Medical School in Brooklyn.
The airy loft apartment Elizabeth had bought with the inheritance from her grandmother gave us scant insulation from the winter cold. We were bundled up in sweaters and shawls, exchanging the Christmas presents placed under our tiny table-top tree. Elizabeth gave me a rare second edition of Joyce’s Dubliners by an American publisher in 1917 that must have cost several hundred dollars. I was almost embarrassed to give her my comparatively frugal present, a gold bracelet with a heart-shaped charm depicting the Rod of Asclepius, the medical symbol comprised of a snake entwined wooden staff on a six-armed cross. But she slipped it on her wrist, shed a tear and hugged me with all her might.
There was one gift left to open. She handed the rectangular be-ribboned box to me with a knowing smile. “Merry Christmas, baby,” she exhaled in a seductive tone. I opened it to reveal a long-sleeved green velvet dress with red and white holiday trim. It was in my size. “Put it on. A little makeup. A red flower headband to give you a pixie look. Black tights. Your biker boots are girly enough…”
An hour later, we were strolling arm in arm toward Kelly’s Tavern, a homey little Irish pub on the edge of Chinatown, to have Christmas brunch. Elizabeth’s borrowed cloth coat barely covered my knee length dress, and the boots looked a little clunky, but this was downtown Manhattan. Nobody noticed. “You look lovely, babe,” she murmured in my ear, my hair dampened by the light snow falling on it. I hugged her to me and almost purred. Or maybe shivered. It was cold.
The usual crowd was there. A lot of boho artist types, perennial students, even some middle-aged couples of every imaginable sexual identity. They knew us and accepted my…quirk? Kelly, the owner and barkeep, an expatriate Belfast former folksinger, of course, importuned me to play the creaky standup piano against the wall. “Joey! Joey!” they all chanted and proceeded to call out every Christmas carol or pop tune they could think of. I led the singing in my wavery countertenor that leaped into falsetto to the delight of the crowd. We ate, we drank, we sang our hearts out. Kelly made a mint that day as brunch rolled into lunch and on into the small of the evening. But he didn’t charge Elizabeth and me a single shilling. He even kissed me on the cheek when we finally toddled out of the pub. That didn’t shock me as much as the furtive pat on my behind as his eyes twinkled mischievously. Elizabeth laughed. I was happy.
Later that night, basking in the warmth of the love we’d just made and the wonderful Christmas Day we’d just spent, we lay in bed talking of cabbages and kings. I turned to her, softly nuzzled her warm neck and whispered my deepest secret.
“I had such a wonderful day today, love. Everyone saw me as I really am, and they accepted it. They validated me. The female me. The real me.”
“It’s cosplay, Joey. A little game between us. You like to cross-dress and I’m happy to indulge your…fantasies. It’s not real. You’re a man, my man.” She rolled over and feigned sleep. I looked out at the night sky as flecks of snow brushed the floor to ceiling windows of the loft, melting into slowly descending rivulets.
I started the process of transitioning shortly thereafter. My mother wouldn’t support my decision, saying my father would’ve been outraged if he were still alive, but my paternal grandmother gave me a hug and a generous check. After a few weekly sessions with a therapist confirmed my gender dysphoria, I was greenlighted to begin a regime of hormone treatment. My life was starting to make sense, but Elizabeth grew more and more distant. We never really argued or blew up at each other over my transition but the truth about her feelings came out the day she asked me to move out. She was going to sell the loft to pay for medical school and move to a smaller studio apartment in Brooklyn. I was no longer in her plans. She said all this with little emotion as if it wasn’t important what I thought of her decision. I said I still loved her. She cut me to the quick when she derisively told me, “I’m not a lesbian.”
It was difficult to complete my dissertation and go through my Real-Life Test while submerged in a paralyzing bout of depression. I decided to quit school and get a job. My grandmother’s largesse wasn’t going to stretch that far if I wanted to have the GCS. Fortunately, TV is an industry that requires little actual business knowledge, so I slowly climbed the corporate ladder of Cable Network TV and had my completion surgery when I turned 30. My sister wanted to keep me abreast of Elizabeth’s developments, but I tried not to care. She met a fellow medical student, got married, graduated medical school and moved to Boston. Oh, they had a child. My sister might have mentioned the child’s name. She thought it sounded like they named the child after me. Looking back now, it seems to me she always had a sardonic sense of humor.
I stepped out of my pure metal silver BMW and looked at the house in Somerville where Jocelyn’s mother lived. A gray three-story two-family structure probably built some time in the early 20th century. I had struggled to decide what to wear but finally put on a dark blue pantsuit, accessorized with Manolo Blahnik pumps and a floral embroidered designer bag. I draped my Stella McCartney coat over my left arm and pressed the doorbell.
The thought occurred to me as I waited that maybe she was out. After all, I don’t think she was expecting me, and I didn’t get the impression that Jocelyn had been convinced I would actually stop by on the way home. I was startled out of my musing when the door opened, and she stood before me. Apparently, she had had to walk a fair distance from the bowels of the house to answer the doorbell. I don’t know what I had envisioned. She was an older yet still beautiful version of my Elizabeth. Her hand covered her mouth as her eyes widened.
“Joey…I mean Joanne!”
“Hello, Elizabeth. Good to see you. Can I come in? It’s rather cold out here.”
She motioned me inside and took my coat. Her hand went to cover her mouth again as she stood in the foyer, stock-still, taking the image of me in, speechless.
“Your daughter must have told you about my misadventure at an office Christmas party…”
“Yes. Joey told me. I hope you didn’t mind I asked her to be a go-between.”
“So you did name her, sort of, after me. Your idea of a joke? I’m sure your husband wasn’t too happy about.”
“Come. Sit down. Have you had lunch?”
“Yes, an early one. I’ve a long drive ahead of me. I might just make it home by 6, 6:30. God willing—”
“And the creek don’t rise. You and your westerns. Coffee?”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
“Here you are dressed to the nines and I look a total mess. If I’d known you were coming—”
“I’d have baked a cake. You and your fifties pop songs.”
She walked away, presumably to her kitchen. “I was in my studio trying to paint. Sometimes the muse doesn’t want to visit me.”
I was in what they called the drawing room in an earlier century. Photos of family members festooned the walls. Mostly taken it seems at various vacation locales through the years. I saw the three of them in ski outfits on some slope, maybe in Vermont. Jocelyn looked to be in her late teens, perhaps 17 or 18. As I panned the line of photos, there was something odd. What looked like older photos showed Elizabeth and Willard standing or seated with a young boy in shorts, a baseball cap perched sideways on his towhead. The family resemblance was there. Did they lose a son? Was there a second child?
Elizabeth walked in and handed me a cup.
“Question?”
“I’m sorry. Did Jocelyn have a brother? I wasn’t aware that you had more than one child.”
“No, Joey is an only child. Come. Follow me into my studio. I want to show you something.” I followed her through a long hallway before entering a large room in the back of the house that she had apparently reconfigured to be a workspace. There were canvases on easels, on the walls, and lying about on the paint splattered hardwood floor.
“It’s a mess.”
“Looks like our…your loft back in the day. When we first met, your loft was filled with canvases and art supplies. The medical books came later.”
“Joey is my only child. She’s transgender.”
It was my turn to be shocked into silence.
“She told us when she turned 15. Her puberty hadn’t kicked in yet, but she despaired turning into a boy, as she put it. Willard was confused, angry, resentful. Kind of disappointing from a pediatrician, no?”
I turned away. Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn’t want her to see me cry.
“I got her counseling, therapy. We got the best professionals in the field in Boston to confirm her dysphoria and she started hormone treatment at 16. I did everything I could do to help her, Joanne. I loved her as much as I loved…”
“Don’t say it. I’m glad you did right by her. She seems happy and well-adjusted. I like her a great deal. I would’ve been proud to be her…parent.”
“Willard wasn’t. We split when she started on hormones. He said it was a travesty he didn’t want any part of. His own child! Joey had her surgery when she turned 18, took a year off after high school, and when she enrolled in college, I quit my practice and went back to my first love, painting. Here, this was one of the first paintings I did back then.” She pulled a canvas from a group in the corner of the room and held it up.
“Painted from memory. Wonderful memories. I never stopped loving you, Joey.”
I took the painting from her and looked at it intently for some minutes.
“I was a coward, Joey. I was scared. Afraid I couldn’t give you the emotional support. I couldn’t. I wanted so badly to become a doctor—”
“It was a game to you. You let me dress up so you could get off on it somehow. When it became real, you saw me as a pitiful freak. You threw me out of your life, Elizabeth!”
She reached out to touch me, but I used the painting as a shield. I looked around the studio and saw a creaky standup piano pushed up against the far wall. I put the canvas down, walked over to the piano and sat down on the chipped wooden bench.
“This is the piano from Kelly’s. I wondered what happened to it when Kelly passed and his widow sold the pub. You bought it?”
“I understand now, Joey. What you went through. What you needed from me. I should have done right by you. By myself.” She sat down next to me on the bench. I turned to look at her and couldn’t turn away. I wanted to so badly.
“I play it when I’m stuck on a painting. Sometimes the muse returns after I play a Julie London torch song or Chris Connor jazz tune. I used to play for Jocelyn when she was down in the dumps. But I could never sing like you could. Play something. For me. For—”
“Old time’s sake? I’m afraid my left hand is out of commission. Can you play the bass notes? I can play chords with my right hand.”
“I’ll try.”
We played the piano side by side on the bench, she using her left hand, me using my right. And I started to sing one of her favorites from our time together.
I’ve had bad dreams too many times
To think that they don’t mean much anymore
Fine times have gone and left my sad home
Friends who once cared just walk out my door
Love has no pride when I call out your name
Love has no pride when there’s no one left to blame
I’d give anything to see you again
Yes, I’d give anything to see you again
She looked down, averting my eyes, when we finished. I got up and started to walk out of the room.
“Wait, Joanne. I wanted you to have something. It’s Christmas and I didn’t know what to give you.” She took a canvas off an easel that had been turned around to face the opposite wall.
“I still have the photo that’s based on. Here…on my phone.” I scrolled through to the original photo and showed it to her.
“We were good together weren’t we. I’m so sorry, Joey.” She dabbed at her eyes and sniffled once to collect herself. “Did you find love, Joey? Do you have someone?”
“You would have liked her, I think. She was an English professor at Columbia. We had 15 good years together. She had ovarian cancer. I took a leave of absence when it got really bad. Then I lost her. She wrote beautiful poetry.” I fell silent as my emotions broke through.
“I’m glad you found love again. Even though…”
“I have to go. There’s snow coming. Heavy snow. It’s gonna be hell on the roads in a few hours. Thanks for the painting. Merry Christmas, Elizabeth.”
She took my coat off the hook in the foyer and helped me into it. It was awkward with the painting and all.
“You’ll come back and see us sometime? Jocelyn would really benefit from your counsel—”
“Oh, she’s fine. She had the best mother in the world behind her, doing right by her child. Some of us are lucky that way. She’s fine.”
Her eyes implored me.
“We’ll see. I might come up this way after the channel is launched. Kind of a post-mortem. Who knows, maybe they’ll think I’m not such a genius after all. Goodbye, Elizabeth. Be well.”
I thought I heard her say, sotto voce, “I always loved you,” just before the door closed.
It was a quarter of seven when I finally reached my sister’s house in Port Jefferson on the North Shore of Long Island. It had been an arduous slog that included a ferry ride across the Long Island Sound from Connecticut to Port Jefferson. The snowfall had started to diminish sometime during the trek through Rhode Island and was now mostly icy rain. I cut the engine and reached into the back seat to haul out the two bottles of Chardonnay that was my contribution to the Christmas Eve feast, such as it was. The house was alight inside and outside. Fred, my brother-in-law, was a proud suburban burgher. He didn’t want his neighbors outdoing him in seasonal extravagance. I almost kicked over an inflated Santa Claus that was weaving in the wind as I navigated my way up to the house.
This year, my niece and nephew had come, bringing with them their own families. So, there was a table for the adults. Seven of us. And a table for the kiddies. Five of them, ranging in age from 3 to 9 years old. Fred complained about the turkey being dry again, but we silenced his remarks with wine and good-natured heckling. A good meal was had by all.
Later, I drove home toward the southeast tip of Long Island to my house in Southampton. The night sky was clear enough to show off its blanket of twinkling stars. I reflected on the day that was soon turning to Christmas Day. It was a day to put Christmases past, present and future in perspective. I thought of my sister, her husband and the three generations of a loving family with whom I had just shared a wonderful dinner. I thought of my partner Emily who must be waiting to reunite with me in whatever the afterlife is, if there really is one. I thought of Jocelyn, who had had the great fortune to be supported and championed by a good mother who, this time, chose to heed her better angels. I thought of Elizabeth, who redeemed herself by being selfless in giving her child unconditional love. She didn’t have to apologize to me. I hope she is in a place in her life where she can forgive herself. And finally, I thought of Joseph Prentiss, that lost soul who discovered herself after 30 years of confusion and frustration, becoming Joanne Prentiss.
My idea of how Joanne and Elizabeth sounded playing the piano and singing “Love Has No Pride” is Jane Monheit’s rendition here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bxwlmY6qAXE.
“Love Has No Pride” written by Libby Titus & Eric Kaz.
It was an ambush in broad daylight. Prince Jin Kwan had just emerged from the temple where he had sought spiritual succor from the Buddha, sitting barefoot and praying, as monks chanted and read religious texts. I, Tang Wu Dip, and the other three members of the prince’s royal guard stood by the open entrance of the temple, scanning the horizon for signs of our deadly pursuers, killers loyal to Prince Cao, Jin Kwan’s uncle, thirsty for the throne. The prince slapped us on our backs as he quickly walked through the portico out into the courtyard of the temple.
Suddenly the clear blue sky was rent with arrows in a parabola of sudden terror. Archers hidden by the rows of tall fir trees some 200-chi distant missed the prince but mortally wounded two of our number and caught another, Gam Wing, in his left bicep. Grunting with pain, he pulled the arrow out as blood pulsed down his arm. We ran back into the temple and found the rear exit in seconds. The three of us burst into the sunlight again and were greeted by the sight of half a dozen or more swordsmen, wearing Prince Cao’s colors.
We drew our swords and fought our way through the throng. Each swing of a blade missing its mark by mere cun, yet we did not emerge unscathed. I shielded the prince as well as I could but somehow my helmet was knocked off my head, loosing my hair, blood and sweat spraying the air around us. His left arm uselessly hanging at his side, Gam Wing suffered the worst of it. He shouted to us, “Take the monks’ horse! Run for it. Now!”
“There is only one, Brother Wing. What about you?”
“Go, take his highness. Don’t argue. Do it!”
The prince and I sprinted for the horse. I turned my head to glimpse Brother Wing dispatched by the sickening thud of a sword bisecting his helmet. For a split second I closed my eyes. But now only a short distance from the horse, I vaulted onto its back, gripped the reins, and extended my right hand to the prince, pulling him up to sit behind me. I kicked my boots into the horse’s flanks to impel it into a gallop that accelerated us away from the remaining swordsmen. Without a saddle, the ride was less than comfortable or secure. The prince wrapped his arms around my chest to keep from falling off the horse’s back. As he did so, he must have felt my small breasts underneath my tunic. I heard him expel his breath. We rode on through the forest in silence, but I knew my life would soon be irrevocably transformed.
Philip Chang woke with a start as his alarm clock sounded its electronic reveille at precisely 7AM. He groggily arose from bed, puttered into the bathroom, and performed his morning ablutions. Today would be a long day of writing, working on the story he had promised to conjure out of thin air for an old college roommate. Making toast and a cup of coffee for a quick breakfast, Philip tried to recall as many details of their dream as possible in the gossamer fog of morning. He typed quickly into his tablet as he drank, pausing to butter the slices of whole wheat toast.
Satisfied he had captured all the important plot points and details, Philip wandered into the backyard garden of his brother’s Echo Park house, west on Sunset Boulevard, a stone’s throw from Dodger Stadium. He was housesitting as older brother Christopher and his wife Annie were in New York City while his sister-in-law was starring on Broadway in a jukebox musical based on Taylor Swift’s most savage tell-off songs, Swift Revenge.
Philip smiled when he saw the cloud of nectar-seeking monarch butterflies hovering around the trellises of Mexican flame vines pitched along the borders of the garden. These colorful daily visitors had inspired the name of his story’s protagonist, Wu Dip, the Cantonese words for butterfly. He raised his cup to toast them just as he noticed, between the trellises and beyond the white picket fence, the presence of his neighbor, Mr. Posada. He was watering his plants with a garden hose, wearing his usual multi-colored golf shorts, lime green polo shirt, and Angels baseball cap.
“Good morning, Miss Chang. Looks like it’s going to be a really nice day. Clear skies, minimal smog, bit of a cool breeze…”
In the two months that Philip had been house-sitting, Mr. Posada and his wife Elena persisted in thinking he was female. Of course, Philip had never bothered to correct them. It seemed a trivial matter. He would be gone in another two months when Chris and Annie returned from New York. Philip waved and smiled. Mr. Posada thought Philip had a pretty smile. But why did she dress so androgynously? Elena conjectured Philip was a lesbian. Her husband was dubious.
Paul Flaherty, Philip’s roommate at Stanford a distant four years ago now, had texted him out of the blue two weeks ago. Surprised to hear from him, Philip could recall seeing Paul once in the last two years, at Christopher’s wedding to Paul’s cousin Annie in Santa Monica. After the rehearsal dinner, over a bottle of Bailey’s, they had rehashed some of the highlights of their time as suite mates in school (they shared a suite with two other students). Philip remarked wryly that Paul was the one with all the girls at his beck and call while he hunkered down in his room studying or listening to Bartok concertos. A propos of that, Phil asked Paul where his plus-one was? Was she coming tomorrow for the ceremony and reception? Paul laconically replied he was too busy at grad school to date these days. He turned the question around to Phil.
“No date. I’m not seeing anyone, and I didn’t think bringing a relative stranger to a wedding was a good thing to do. Paul, I should tell you something that I’ve only told the most important people in my life, family, close friends…even though I haven’t seen nor heard from you since we graduated—”
“Well, I’ve been really busy. Cal Arts is a really intense program to go through…”
“I’m not criticizing you, Paul. Just pointing out that you wouldn’t know what’s been going on in my life. Really heavy, serious things.” Philip paused, took a breath. “I’ve begun transitioning. I’m on a hormone regimen. If everything goes well and I get my GCS down the road maybe in 2 or 3 years, I will be externally what I’ve always been internally, a woman.”
Paul was silent, his face betraying only mild surprise. A slight smile came to his lips. “Wow. This is a bit of a shock. You…I mean…I don’t know. You always seemed too pretty to be a boy but—”
“You thought I was pretty?”
“For a boy. For a boy. I don’t recall ever thinking you acted girly, and we spent a lot of time together—”
“It took a lot of effort to tamp it down. I’d been trying to deny it for my whole life. But I can’t anymore. I’m a woman. Just not a born one. Soon, I’ll be able to live my truth. I’d rather die if I can’t.”
“I didn’t know, Phil. I didn’t know.”
“We’re still friends, aren’t we? This doesn’t change the way you see me, does it? I’ll still be Phil. Just with an exterior that matches my interior.”
“Of course. We roomed together for years. I still consider you my closest friend. You know, I felt really guilty that we hadn’t seen much of each other the last two years—”
“Much? You haven’t even sent me a Valentine’s Day card.”
“Huh? What?”
“It’s a joke. But, you know, you disappearing from my life seemingly without a trace was one of the things that made me think very seriously about my gender issues. I wondered if I were a woman all along, you’d have stayed in touch after graduation. Maybe more than that. Did you think about me, maybe in a quiet moment, these last two years?”
Paul stood up from the table and swilled the last of his Bailey’s. “Phil, I’m bushed. I gotta go through my texts and emails before I get my recommended eight hours of sleep. I’m heading up to my room. See you at breakfast tomorrow.”
After the wedding, Philip didn’t hear from Paul for another two years. Then, the text, followed up by a voice call, and finally dinner at Yangban Society, a new Korean fusion hybrid deli/supermarket in The Arts District of Downtown L.A. Philip knew the area fairly well as his brother Christopher’s old loft studio had been located a few blocks east of Yangban’s Santa Fe Avenue address. Very boho. Phil guessed it was an appropriate milieu for the recent Cal Arts graduate.
As they navigated their way to a booth in the back, Paul noticed the significant changes in Phil’s appearance. Although Phil was wearing his usual baggy sweater and pants outfit, Paul definitely saw a woman in the smile, the sway of the hips, and the confident gaze.
“Sorry I’m late. My neighbor tried to introduce me to her nephew as I was climbing into my car. She thinks we’re a perfect match.”
“Well, do you find him…attractive?”
“That’s an interesting question but, frankly, I haven’t got time for dating or romance. All that nonsense. I’ve got another two months in my brother’s house and if I don’t find a way to make some money, I’ll be homeless.”
“It’s a good thing then that I’ve got a proposition for you. A writing assignment. You’re in the Writers Guild, no?”
“In four years since I graduated, I’ve had two credits. One was for an episode of that anime rip-off on Netflix, Martian Schoolgirl Divas, and the other was for a re-write on that slasher film that bombed last winter, Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend. That got me a used Saab 900 and a Writers Guild card. I’ve got $150 in my checking account. So, yeah, I’m all ears. Go on.”
“As you might know, I studied animation at Cal Arts. About a year ago, a short that I made won first prize at a couple of film festivals. Well, long story short, I’ve got a deal with Paramount to produce 2 feature length movies.”
“Congratulations! You didn’t bother to let me know?” Paul gave Philip a quizzical look. “Oh, right, you’re really busy. Go on.”
“Anyway, the studio’s looking to do a co-production with a Chinese studio based out of Hengdian. Yeah, I know. Where’s that? Listen, they’re interested in an animated movie about a female character like Mulan, set in Imperial China, like the Song Dynasty or Ming Dynasty. One of those dynasties. And immediately I thought of you—”
“Why? Because I’m Chinese?”
“Well, that’s part of it. I wanted to work with a writer, you know, I could work with. It’s my first project and I don’t need to deal with ego-tripping hacks—”
“But I can’t even speak Chinese. My father was born in Minneapolis and my mother is Scots Irish from Pacoima. I know as much Mandarin as I do Gaelic, for chrissake. How am I going to write a Chinese movie?”
“Just write the script. They’ll translate it into Mandarin for Chinese audiences but worldwide it’ll mostly be in English. We just have to deliver the visuals. I’m not sure they’ll even want me to direct the actors.”
“Let me think about it over dinner. I’m hungry. I haven’t had a real meal like this in a while. My brother and his wife left the fridge bare before they left. Eating ramen every day after you’ve left school is downright depressing.”
“I’m having the galbi-style ribs and a gochujang rice bowl. The baked sea bream coated in chili daikon paste and toasted breadcrumbs is really good also. I’ve had that several times.”
Philip agreed to take on Paul’s assignment. He had a week to come up with the basic storyline. The Chinese producer planned to meet with Paul and Philip at The Beverly Hilton to listen to their story pitch. Phil thought this was an insanely short time to come up with a viable treatment for a multi-million-dollar film and told Paul that. But Paul just shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said, “I have the utmost confidence in your writing talent.”
Phil spent most of the following week in the UCLA library where his high school friend, Elspeth Wilson, was a librarian. Eight hours a day, he read histories of Imperial China and perused illustrations of daily life, royal costumes, and period architecture. In the evenings until the wee hours of early morning, he would sketch out ideas, character names, plotlines, and overarching themes. Paul called almost every night to check up on Philip’s progress. Phil was beginning to wonder if Paul wasn’t telling the truth about being too busy to have a social life. And then the day came when they tooled up the driveway of the Beverly Hilton in Paul’s Honda Civic, carrying briefcases that held random sheets of paper just to seem professional to the Chinese producer, Mr. Yin.
Mr. Yin was seated on the burgundy leather couch in his hotel suite. His assistant ushered Phil and Paul into the room and Yin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray he held in his left hand, motioning to them to be seated in the loveseat facing him. Philip was wearing a black suit that was cut rather snugly to his increasingly womanly figure. Two years of estrogen therapy had done its magic. Paul had opted for the rumpled young artist in a sports jacket look. When Mr. Yin discovered that Philip did not speak Chinese, he was disappointed. However, he continued in his slightly accented English, asking them to present their treatment. The loveseat forced Paul and Phil to synchronize their breathing, it was so close. Mr. Yin seemed amused. Philip cleared his throat and began.
“Once upon a time in the early years of the Northern Song Dynasty at the end of the 10th century, there lived a young woman named Wu Dip, the youngest of seven daughters of a retired officer in the Imperial Army, now a sorghum farmer in Northern China. Eager to honor the military legacy of her father and grandfather, she runs away to the capitol, Kaifeng, to join the Royal Guard, disguised as a man. Flash forward two years. Wu Dip is part of a 4-man retinue escorting Prince Jin Kwan, the emperor’s favorite son, to sanctuary in Chuzhou, five days ride to the East from the capitol, at the garrison of his uncle, Lord Feng. Prince Cao, whose bloodthirst for the throne of his brother, the emperor, has fomented a string of political assassinations in the span of months, dispatches a squad of killers to eliminate Prince Jin before he can reach safety. After stopping at a temple to pray for the Buddha’s protection, the prince and his retinue are ambushed. In the ensuing melee, Wu Dip and the prince barely escape, riding away bareback on a single horse. Wrapping his arms around Wu Dip to keep from falling off, the prince discovers Wu Dip’s secret…”
Mr. Yin was pleased by Philip’s presentation, although he did note a number of historical inaccuracies in his fable. Nevertheless, he was happy to give Paul and Philip the green light to complete a first draft. He set a deadline of six weeks, at which time he planned to return to Los Angeles for further pre-production discussions with Paramount. Mr. Yin asked Philip to wait in the hotel lobby while he spoke privately to Paul. It would just take a few minutes.
“Old girlfriend?”
“What? Oh, Philip? No, we were college roommates—”
“Hmmm. American higher education sounds a lot more pleasant than my years at Tsinghua University in Beijing. So, I didn’t know Philip could also be a girl’s name in your country. Is it short for Philippa?”
“No, it’s just Philip.”
“See you in six weeks, Paul. I look forward to the completed script. I think we have an international blockbuster on our hands, potentially. I’m excited.”
We were encamped on the edge of a shallow brook some 50 li east of Kaifeng. There was an hour of daylight remaining and since I surmised our pursuers were at least two hours behind us, they would have to camp for the night as well. If we left at dawn tomorrow, we could lengthen our lead on them. It was another good 4 days ride to the garrison in Chuzhou. They needed to acquire another horse or better yet two somewhere along the way. I had managed to fashion a makeshift spear from a small tree branch, sharpening it clumsily with my sword, and secured a dinner of wild pheasant, which we roasted over an open fire.
“You always seemed too pretty for a man. Even on a weeks-long campaign you never grew a beard. I supposed you were just an odd duck.”
“I will resign my commission as soon as we reach Chuzhou. I can go back to my father’s sorghum farm. If you do not execute me—”
“Don’t be overly dramatic. I’ll keep your secret. You’ve been an exemplary soldier. I do have one…uh…request, though.”
“What is it?”
“I would like to see you in women’s clothes. With floral pins in your hair, rouge on your cheeks, and Yuanshan eyebrows, you would cut quite a figure, Wu Dip.”
“I don’t imagine any of that would help me in a swordfight.”
“I was not talking about fighting—”
A single arrow ripped through the space between us. Before the hidden archer could re-load, I grabbed the prince and we ran to our horse, mounting quickly as another arrow missed our heads by the length of a man’s forearm.
“We need to get out of range. Across the brook, onto the other side!” More arrows followed us as the horse churned water with its thunderous gallop. Buddha must have answered the prince’s prayers as, remarkably, none of the arrows found their mark. There would be no sleep tonight. The presence of even one archer meant that our pursuers were very close by. We needed to find a hideaway and soon.
Over the next three weeks, Paul would meet with Philip, usually at Philip’s Echo Park house, every two or three days to read the latest completed pages of the script. Paul would give Philip notes on the spot, which he found helpful in a way no other editor or writing teacher had ever been. Often, Philip would find himself staring at Paul across the coffee table as he read from the iPad. His mind would wander, images of their time together at Stanford flitting across the screen of his thoughts. Had Paul really said he was too pretty to be a boy? Did he ever try to flirt with Paul? Over their breakfast table, across from each other, like they are now? But Paul liked girls. That much was certain. He would’ve been repulsed if he had revealed his holy of holies truth to him. Now that he knew, Paul seemed to act uber professionally. Philip was his employee, his colleague, an old friend at best. Philip felt sad about that. But what was there to do about it?
One day, after their latest session of editing and re-writing the script, Paul suggested they have dinner at Versailles, a hipster hangout that served Cuban cuisine, located on Venice Boulevard, halfway between Echo Park and the Santa Monica Pier.
“What’s the occasion?” Phil asked.
“Nothing, just hungry. And maybe just to unwind. I’ve got a lot of adrenaline going. The script is coming along really well. I’m starting to picture what it all looks like. After we eat, we can go back to my place, and I can show you some sketches I’ve been working on.”
“Your etchings, huh?”
“Very funny. Come on. It’s the kind of place you don’t need a reservation, but you never know. It’s really popular with hipsters. And then there’s the Cuban community as well.”
They both ordered the house special: the Garlic Chicken, a juicy roasted half chicken marinated in garlic sauce garnished with sliced onions. For appetizers, they shared the Sampler Plate: ham croquettes, stuffed and fried yucca, and corn tamales. They washed it all down with glasses of Cristal beer, the pride of Havana. The place was packed. The decibel level was so high, they ate mostly in silence. Occasionally, their gazes locked for a second, then quickly moved away.
“Miss Chang! We were just leaving and we saw you and the young gentleman having dinner here too.” Philip turned to face a smiling Elena Posada standing with her husband and nephew Rolando at her side. He nodded and returned her smile.
“Is this your boyfriend? I’ve seen him come by your house many times.”
“Oh, Mrs. Posada, you don’t—”
“Hi, I’m Paul Flaherty. And yes, I am her boyfriend.” Paul took Phil’s hand and squeezed it emphatically. “I hope to soon be her fiancé. If she’ll say yes.” He looked at Philip with starstruck eyes. The Posadas noticed.
“Well, congratulations, Miss Chang. You make a very nice couple indeed. Don’t they, dear?”
“Oh, yes, they certainly do,” Mr. Posada quickly replied. Rolando held his hand out to Paul.
“May I be among the first to congratulate you? And not a minute too soon. Miss Chang is quite a catch. I regret not meeting her sooner.” Paul shook his hand. They said their goodbyes and left the restaurant. Philip took her hand away from Paul, who was still squeezing it.
“Why did you do that? I was just going to explain—”
“I have a feeling they wouldn’t have believed you anyway. This way they’ll leave you in peace so you can concentrate on finishing the script. I’m nothing if not a man with a one-track mind, you see.”
“Now they’ll invite themselves to our wedding.”
“We’re getting married? I haven’t asked yet—”
“Oh, you! Let’s get the check and get out of here.” He reached into his pants pocket to pull out his wallet.
“It’s on me. Put that away.”
“I’ll pay for myself. Is this a date?”
“Look, consider it an additional advance on your salary. Or I’ll just expense it. We discussed the script, didn’t we?”
“For like a minute? Between appetizers? Okay. The next one’s on me. There’s a great sushi place on Sunset that just opened.”
“Our next date?”
“Stop it! Just get the check already.”
Paul rented a craftsman style house in Los Feliz. Built in the first decade of the 20th century, it displayed the signatures of a classic craftsman home: low-pitched gable roof, overhanging eaves with exposed rafters and beams, heavy, tapered columns, patterned window panes and a covered front porch. It was sparsely furnished.
“I moved in about six months ago. I guess I should think about adding some furniture, eh? I kinda lucked into a super cheap sublet. Some actor I’ve never heard of couldn’t get someone to house sit.”
“I heard you could make good money housesitting celebrity homes. Even more than being a dogwalker in New York City.”
“You brother and my cousin not paying you?”
“Hell, no. I told you, they emptied out the fridge before they left. Like the two of them aren’t swimming in dough. One’s a sculptor who just got paid millions for those stupid pyramids in front of the Netflix building at Sunset and Van Ness and the other’s an actor on Broadway.”
Paul showed Philip the sketches he’d been working on. Yes, he still used graphite pencils and a sketchpad. All digital artwork and animation begin with those two things. Philip was duly impressed by the depictions of 10th century China, soldiers in their leather and metal armor, noble persons in royal costumes, Buddhist monks, Northern China landscapes, and, finally, Wu Dip herself, both in military garb and dressed as a lady of high social stature. It was the portraits of Wu Dip that troubled Paul.
“I’m not happy with these sketches of Wu Dip. Somehow I’m not capturing my mental image of her.”
“There are loads of illustrations you can look at from that period. I went through a whole bunch at the UCLA library. Of course, a lot of it’s kind of stylized and not particularly realistic.”
“There are apps that can take paintings and drawings and turn them into realistic looking photo images, They can even inject movement into them. Maybe I can try using one of those apps. Still, I have to confess. I’m beginning to fall in love with Wu Dip. If only I could capture that mental image I have of her. I’ve tried. And I keep falling short…”
“Maybe you’ll dream of her. I do.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s never happened before with anything I’ve written but most nights I have these vivid dreams of Wu Dip and the story we’re working on. It’s like a live action movie version playing in my head.”
“You can’t just order up a dream, Phil. It happens or it doesn’t. I need to get this right. Wu Dip is literally the face of this movie.”
We arrived dirty and bedraggled from two days hard ride at the estate of Lady Su in Songzhou. Lady Su was the prince’s maternal aunt, the widow of a legendary naval commander. She welcomed us with hugs and tears. Seeing our condition, she bade us sit down to eat a veritable feast, served to us by her phalanx of servants. As we ate, she sipped pungent dark tea and asked us what twist of fate had brought us to this juncture. She was mildly surprised that Prince Cao had embarked on a reign of terror to eliminate possible successors to the throne. She had always suspected that Prince Cao had something to do with her husband’s death.
“Why are you dressed like a soldier, my dear?”
“Because she is, my lady. This is Wu Dip, my closest bodyguard. She’s saved my life innumerable times now.”
“A woman warrior? Well, now, that is a novelty. My late husband told me that there were women in the military during the Han Dynasty but that was centuries ago. You poor dear. Were you forced into this?”
“No, it is the legacy of my father and his father before him. We have served the emperor loyally and courageously. I am just continuing the family tradition.”
“Surely, you’re pretty enough to be the wife of a great and noble man. Perhaps even a prince…like Jin Kwan.”
“That is not why I serve the crown.”
“Jin Kwan, your charms are apparently insufficient to sway the heart of this wonderful girl who has, you say, saved your life innumerable times.”
“We could continue this banter interminably, my lady, but time is of the essence. Our pursuers are at most a day behind us. I have a scheme in mind that could see us safely to the garrison in Chuzhou. But we need your help with a couple of things. Firstly, let us borrow your carriage and two of your fittest horses. We can appear as ordinary travelers to any inquisitive eyes. Secondly, I want you to transform Wu Dip into a lady of high social standing. Clothes, hair, jewelry, what have you. Can you do that for us?”
“Of course, Jin Kwan. Come my dear. First, we must have you bathed and perfumed. I believe we might have the perfect dress for you…”
Evening drew near as Lady Su led me to the courtyard to present my transformed self to the prince. He was dressed as a wealthy merchant, someone not conspicuous in a horse-drawn carriage and not suspected of being a royal personage. His back was to us as he fed apples to the two horses tethered to the carriage.
“Jin Kwan, meet the Lady Wu Dip.” The prince turned around and his mouth fell agape.
“Hello, your highness. I feel a bit uncomfortable looking like this.”
“I’m very comfortable seeing you looking like that. Come my lady, your carriage awaits.” Instead of taking his hand, I tried to climb up into the carriage by myself, but the narrowness of my skirt impeded my efforts. He laughed and extended his hand again. This time I took it.
“God speed, my dear nephew. May the Buddha protect you and your beautiful bodyguard on your journey to Chuzhou. Are you sure it is wise to travel at night?”
“I trust in the Buddha, my lady. He will keep us safe. As for traveling at night, we have no choice. Our pursuers are only hours away. They will have us for breakfast if we wait until daybreak. Farewell!” He shook the reins to move the horses into a canter as we left the courtyard. I waved to Lady Su, who waved back, a wry smile on her face.
“I’ve got my sword strapped on and a long staff hidden under that blanket. In that dress, you’re unarmed. You must feel defenseless.”
“Dressed as a woman, I have the element of surprise. And I also have this dagger hidden up my sleeve.” The prince laughed uproariously as the lanterns on either side of our carriage illuminated the road before us.
With the deadline to submit the completed first draft of the script to Mr. Yin coming up within a week, Philip received some unsettling news. His sister-in-law’s Broadway show, Swift Revenge, had closed, not due to poor ticket sales but a fire in the theater. The police believe it may have been set by one of Ms. Swift’s former boyfriends or someone hired by one. Fortunately, there was no one in the theater when the fire occurred. Regardless, the show was suspended until a vacancy can be found at another Broadway venue. Something that could take months. While this was bad news in itself, the unsettling part was that Christopher and Annie were on their way back from New York. And take back their house.
When his brother and sister-in-law walked through the front door, Philip was prepared to leave, his worldly possessions stuffed into two backpacks and a duffle bag.
“Hey, Phil, what’s with the bags?”
“I’m going to crash at Paul’s house until I can find a new place—”
“You don’t have to leave, sweetie,” Annie cooed. Philip used to think it was grand that Annie always regarded him as a girl, but the cloying tone in her voice when she spoke to him annoyed her. He also thought it was a bit of an act that she put on to tease Christopher for having a trans little brother. “Chris and I would love you to stay as long as you want. You’re my favorite sister-in-law.” She giggled. Chris rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, bro, stay. Please. Annie made reservations at Nobu for 7PM. If we leave in half an hour, we can just about get in the door on time.”
“Can I go dressed like this? I’ll need a sports jacket, right?”
“Oh, sweetie, I’ve got just the perfect outfit for you to wear. Something I picked up in New York. We’re almost the same size. Come…”
“Whadda ya mean, outfit? And we’re the same size?” She took his hand, pulled gently, and he reluctantly followed her into Chris and Annie’s bedroom.
The first thing Annie did was set about brushing and styling Philip’s shoulder length hair to add some flattering volume to it. Then she sprayed it all into place. The head that Philip saw in the vanity mirror was that of a cute young woman. Reflexively, he raised his hand to feel his hair, but Annie slapped it away. “Don’t touch. Let it set!”
Then she told him to strip off everything, including his underwear. “Don’t be bashful. Believe me I grew up with three younger brothers. I’ve seen it all. Here, this bra and panty set is brand new. Hmm. I guessed right. You’re a 32A. Those hormones are doing their job, alright.”
Annie had Philip step into bell-bottom jeans and slip on a long-sleeve lace peplum blouse, which she zipped up in back. “You’re smiling. That’s a good sign. Here, sit down again and I’ll do your face.” Foundation, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, and, finally, a little lip gloss. Philip kissed the air in front of the mirror. He giggled and exclaimed, “It tastes like cherries!”
“Well, do you like what you see?”
“Yes, Annie, I can’t believe that’s my face.”
“The makeup only enhanced what you have naturally. You’re a pretty girl. Paul was always saying that. Even when you were a boy.”
“Really? I wish he would say that to me now. And I see him almost every day. I don’t think he’ll ever accept me as a woman. And, truthfully, I’m not…yet.”
“Paul’s not good at expressing his feelings. He’s a man. They’re problematic. Believe me, he’s got feelings for you. Now shoes! Let’s see what might fit you.”
The garrison was in sight, not more than 1 li away on the horizon, as Prince Jin Kwan drove the carriage at a deliberate pace. No need to rush. Our harrowing journey was almost complete. Tiny figures dotted the ramparts, watching, waiting. For us. We were days late. The prince turned to me and smiled. Sighing in relief, he said, “We’re home safe, Wu Dip. We made it.”
“Can they see us from the ramparts? Or do we look like ants at this distance?”
“There are too many trees between us. Once we reach the clearing, we can even shout to them. They’ll hear our voices echoing in their ears. Lord Feng will be relieved that we finally showed up. I can imagine he thinks we’re a lost cause by now.”
Suddenly, three horsemen emerged from among the trees and blocked our way.
“You almost made it, Prince Jin. Almost is not what you had hoped, I’m sure. You will unsheathe your sword, my lord, and throw it onto the ground…harmlessly, please. There are three of us and one of you apparently. The numbers are not in your favor.”
“I think I’ll keep my sword, my friend, just where it is. I might need it momentarily.”
“Are you in the habit now of hiding behind the skirts of a woman, my lord? I won’t think twice of slicing her throat if you will not cooperate. I have no pretensions of chivalry. Now, my lord. Your sword!”
I quickly reached for the dagger in my sleeve, pulled it out and, in one motion, threw it toward the talkative horseman. The point of the dagger stuck in the middle of his forehead, silencing him forever, and he slid off his mount like a heavy sack of sorghum from my father’s farm. The other two were shocked into paralysis. I reached into the back of the carriage and grabbed the long staff while the prince jumped off his seat, rushed to one of the horsemen still immobile in his saddle, and thrust his sword deeply into his chest. The last horseman watched in horror as the prince dispatched his partner. That’s when my long staff knocked him off his horse. The prince had the point of his sword at the would-be assassin’s throat when Lord Feng and a group of his regulars rode into view. They had seen the commotion from the ramparts, mounted up, and discovered we had the situation well in hand.
“I see we weren’t needed, after all. Good work, my nephew. We’ll want to make him give us some information about Prince Cao’s plans. Tie him up and take him away!” He dismounted and embraced the prince. He nodded toward me. “And who is this lovely maiden? Another of your many conquests, Jin Kwan?”
“No, my lord, this is Wu Dip, who has yet again saved my life for the umpteenth time it seems. You are my witness, uncle, if I ever ascend to the throne as emperor of the great Han nation, Wu Dip shall be my empress. Make it so, oh great Buddha.”
Philip and Annie stood in the garden sipping cups of coffee in the early morning sun. Monarch butterflies were swarming the trellises of Mexican flame vines for nectar as they did every morning. Mr. Posada was watering his plants with a garden hose, dressed in his multi-colored golf shorts, as always. He waved to them. “How are you two lovely ladies this fine morning?” They waved back. “Lovely as always, Mr. Posada. Lovely as always,” laughed Annie.
“Paul is worried. He can’t come up with a sketch of Wu Dip that comes close to his mental image of her. He says she needs to be extraordinary. More than just beautiful. He wants to express her inner strength, the beauty of her character, not just her face. He’s all sixes and nines about it.”
“But the script is finished, isn’t it? The film doesn’t go into production for months. By then, he’ll have it figured out.”
“We’re meeting with Mr. Yin next Monday. He thinks having a picture of Wu Dip would put the whole project over the top. And if the portrait isn’t awesome, what’s the point of producing it as an animated feature? You might as well just do it as live action. And that knocks Paul out of the picture. Maybe Mr. Yin would just pass on the whole idea.”
“I think I know what image Paul is trying to capture. I’ve got an idea. When are you meeting Paul again?”
“Tomorrow. We thought meeting outdoors might be a helpful change. The Exposition Park Rose Garden is a nice quiet, contemplative environment. I’ve done some productive thinking there in the past.”
“Let me make some phone calls and pull some favors. Don’t go anywhere, will you? This could be one of my most epic feats!” She rushed into the house. Mr. Posada shut off his garden hose and turned to Philip.
“I overheard you talking about the Rose Garden in Exposition Park. You know that’s right next door to the USC campus. Elena’s nephew is a grad student there. Going for his PhD in Economics. That’s all about money, that is.”
“That’s good to know.”
The sky was clear blue and the sun shone down in all its golden glory as Philip waited on one of the benches facing the fountain in the Rose Garden. He had told Paul to bring his sketchbook. Some people walked by and stared at Philip, making him uncomfortable. But he’d agreed with Annie that this was what he had to do, for Paul as well as himself.
When Annie showed him the costume she had ‘borrowed’ from the wardrobe department of Netflix studios, he blanched at her audacious scheme. Later on when he looked at himself in the full-length mirror, he was even more dubious. But Annie argued convincingly that this was exactly the mental image Paul had been trying to capture. Philip looked in the mirror again and smiled.
Paul strolled in to view, his head down, sketchbook in hand. When he looked up, he stopped in his tracks. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged. He did a sort of slow double take.
“Of course. Wu Dip. Of course. Yes, it’s perfect!” He grabbed Philip’s hand, pulled him to his feet and they both ran through the Rose Garden, past perplexed and bemused onlookers. Paul kept shouting, “Perfect! She’s perfect!”
I looked up at Joshua “Bone” Crusher, all 6 feet 6 inches of baseball muscle and grit, his 34 inch, 32 ounce Louisville Slugger gripped in both massive hands, the handle cocked a few inches away from his left ear. He was smiling but not really listening as I showed him his strike zone heat chart.
“You’re not looking at the chart, Joshua.”
“Call me Bone, sweetheart. Everybody does.”
I flinched, pursed my lips in frustration but said nothing, and jabbed my index finger at the tablet screen, touching the bright red areas that denoted where he made his hardest contact, barreling the pitch at the most critical inflection point.
“You know why they call me Bone, don’t you, babe?”
“Concentrate, Joshua. Please. Skip said you’re chasing pitches low and away. This shows you where you should be looking instead—”
“I’m looking at a hot zone right now.” He put the bat down and made a move to cup my ass. I wear one size too big fleece sweats to hide my embarrassing bubble butt. Embarrassing for a guy, that is. Because I’m a guy.
It seems all my life, people have mistaken me for a girl. The name my mom gave me doesn’t help. Evelyn. As in Evelyn Waugh, the British author. My mom was a high school English teacher in our hometown of Somerset, New Jersey. She died in an auto accident when I was 12. Some drunk driver crashed into my parents’ car on John F. Kennedy Boulevard coming back home from the Somerset Diner. It left dad in a wheelchair. He does okay, I guess. Smalltown lawyer who handles mostly real estate matters. He remarried to a really nice lady after my younger sister Debbie went off to college.
I’m a scrawny fellow. Only 5 feet 6 inches from my head to my toes. I guess the trauma of mom’s passing delayed my puberty or slowed it to a crawl. Whatever. Doctors tell me it’s nothing serious, just rather low testosterone levels. They didn’t even prescribe HRT for me. It’s annoying that my skin is smooth, I’m virtually hairless except for the unruly mop on my head, and I’m beginning to get kind of curvy in unlikely places. But it’s my cross to bear. Otherwise, things are hunky dory.
I started to slap Bone’s hand away from my rear region when Mickey, the owner’s 15 year old grandson and honorary Spring Training batboy, ran over to us.
“Evie, Brian wants to speak to you…in his office.”
“What about, Mickey? Did he say?”
“No, he just said to tell you.” He turned to face Bone. “Don’t mess with the merchandise, Bone. Skip says there’s a lot of media around watching practice today. Does the word harassment mean anything to you?”
“Kid, does the word mind your own business mean anything to you?”
“That’s more than a word, Einstein.” I gently pushed Mickey toward the dugout.
“Come on, Mickey. Let’s go see Brian. Wonder what he wants.”
“After you’re done with Brian, maybe you can show me some more hot zones, Evie,” Bone shouted after us. He gave a thumbs up to some of the other players hanging around the batting cage and giggled. It was weird hearing a 240-pound behemoth laugh like a little girl.
“My name’s Evelyn,” I muttered to myself. “Why does everyone call me Evie?”
“I think it’s a nice name, Evie. It fits you. Pretty name for a pretty—”
It was Richie Morrow, a pitcher who was a highly touted rookie in The New York Titans’ starting rotation this season. Opening day was still two weeks away. I had worked with Richie on our Triple A club in Somerset last year. He really took to the analytic data I presented to him. We increased the spin rates on his four-seamer and slider a minimum of 5%. Made a big difference. That’s why he’s here in Spring camp, poised to make his major league debut.
“Richie, you, of all people should know I’m not a girl—”
“Alright, okay, got ya. Woman. I’m not a neanderthal like Bone and the others…”
“Love to talk, Richie, but Brian wants to see me in his office. Now, if you’ll move aside, Mickey and I can enter the bowels of the stadium and confront the monster in his subterranean lair.”
He stepped back and waved us by. “Milady. Forgive me. What are you doing for lunch?”
“Mickey and I are going to Manny’s Home Plate for their crinkle fries.”
“We are? Yeah, Richie. See ya.” He stuck his tongue out. “She goes for younger guys.”
I didn’t get an MBA in marketing to get a job doing statistical analysis for a major league baseball team. It just happened. Of course, I had a baseball background. I played in high school and, even though I wasn’t good enough for varsity, I pitched on intramural teams in college. Due to my lack of size, I specialized in throwing off-speed stuff. The technical baseball term for it is “slop.” But I was a whiz on a spreadsheet with my background in statistical analysis. I researched pitcher-batter matchups and devised winning gameplans. My senior year, the head coach of the varsity team used my analytical breakdowns to get our school to the NCAA Division 1A regional finals. We lost but mostly because the coach wouldn’t take up my offer to pitch in the championship game. He scoffed at me afterwards but I’m sure my off-speed repertoire would have shut the other team’s lineup out.
After I finished my two-year MBA program, I was surprised to discover that my college coach had joined the coaching staff of The New York Titans. Furthermore, he had recommended to General Manager Brian Anson that he hire me for his analytics department. I was initially thrilled but exasperated when I learned he had urged Anson to hire me as much for my expertise as the fact that diversity was a major league initiative meaning hiring women for jobs in baseball would win a gold star from the Commissioner’s office. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I reported for work with The Titans’ minor league affiliate in my hometown of Somerset last summer and began delving out my analytical suggestions to the young prospects on the club, my star pupil being Richie Morrow.
The door to Brian Anson’s office was wide open. He was seated behind his desk, his mobile phone glued to his right ear while he was punching the keyboard on his laptop. At the moment, he was just nodding at whatever the person on the other end was saying. He looked up.
“Yes, Mickey?”
“I brought Evie like you asked, Brian.” He stepped aside and I waved, a silly gesture that reinforced everyone’s preconceptions about my gender. I had to stop doing things like that.
“Come in, Evelyn. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a sec. Getting notes on some players on the minor league fields across the street. Yeah, right. Hmm, that sounds interesting. He’s a problem, I know. Okay, call me later.” He disconnected and stared at me for a full ten seconds.
“You did a great job with the kids in Somerset last summer. Especially with Richie. He’s gonna be a star. Wouldn’t surprise me if he won Rookie of the Year this season. He said he owes a lot of his improvement to you—”
“He’s a smart kid. I just pointed him in the right direction. He’s got a great arm.”
“Well, you did such a great job we thought you’d do the same for the big club—”
“Thanks for the confidence in me, Brian. I try to do the best I can—”
“Unfortunately, Evelyn, we’ve come to a…an impasse. A bump in the road…”
“How do you mean?”
“I guess the veterans on the team aren’t connecting with you. The analytics I mean.”
“Once they see I can help them overcome their weaknesses, I’m sure they’ll come around. There’s always a period of adjustment with advancements in knowledge. It’s a process…”
“I’ll cut to the chase. It’s not your analytics they’re having a hard time accepting. It’s you.”
“Me? I find that hard to believe…”
“They see you as a distraction.”
“Huh?”
“They think you’re a girl!”
“Brian, you know I’m a guy. I never led anyone to believe I’m anything but. Just tell them. Make it clear if there are misconceptions.”
“I’ve tried. They don’t believe me. Half the squad thinks you’re a lesbian, the other half keep asking me if you’re single. This isn’t working out, Evie…I mean Evelyn.”
“Do you want me to go across the street and work with the minor leaguers again?”
“No, we’re fully staffed now. You’d be pushing our new hire out the door.”
“Reassign him. You’ve got five minor league teams, Brian.”
“It’s a her. You opened the door to women in the coaching ranks. She’s someone we had to outbid The Red Sox to get. Sorry, Evie, I have to let you go. We’ll give you two months severance and a very nice letter of recommendation. Maybe you can hook up with another team. I know the Dodgers are looking for a woman to hire…”
“That doesn’t really help me, Brian. I’m not a woman—”
“I don’t think most people would believe you. Anyway, it was a pleasure having you work for us.” He stood up and approached me with his hand held out to shake. “Just talk to Lenny before you clear out your locker. I’ve told him to have a check ready for you. Goodbye. Good luck.”
Stunned, I walked toward the clubhouse to clean out my locker, my head down, my eyes reddening despite myself. I almost collided with Richie as he came out of the clubhouse. He had changed into his civvies, I guess to go have lunch, foregoing the team spread of club sandwiches and protein drinks.
“Evie, watch where you’re going! Hey, are you crying? Did Anson yell at you? That fat bastard! He shouldn’t treat a woman that way—”
“I got sacked, Richie. I’m clearing out my stuff.”
“What? I’m going to talk to him. He can’t fire you—”
“It’s no use. The players say I’m a distraction. Anyway, you’re a rookie. Do you think Anson would listen to you?” I sat on the chair in front of my locker and stared ahead, trying to dry my eyes with my hand. Richie handed me a tissue.
“You can clear out your locker after lunch. I know a place out past the Causeway with the best Cuban Sandwiches in Tampa. I think you might need a cocktail with one of those paper umbrellas too. Come on, change into something nice. I’ll wait for you in the parking lot.”
Richie drove a cherry red Nissan Z sports coupe. I had to remind myself that Richie had been a first round draft pick, receiving a signing bonus in the seven figures. He was a rookie but wasn’t struggling on a typical minor leaguer’s wages. I had changed into something “nice.” Nope. Just my normal black t-shirt and black denim pants. I had also put on a totally unnecessary baseball jacket, considering it was in the 80s at midday. Richie was disappointed.
“I’ve never seen you in a dress or even a skirt. All this time I’ve known you. I was going to ask if you wanted to go with me and some of the guys to the beach on Thursday. The last off day before we break camp. Well, now…I guess you’ll be heading north.”
“I don’t think I’d want to hang around town. Got to start sending out my resume…”
“You have an MBA. You could get a marketing job, couldn’t you?”
“I guess. Brian said The Dodgers are looking for an analytics person. I’ve never been to California. My sister is working in LA for a sportswear company. She could put me up while I explore the opportunities out there. Problem is The Dodgers are looking for a woman—”
“That’s perfect for you! This might end up being a real break in your career.”
I looked out the window at the bay as we sped down the Causeway. This was so annoying. Everyone thinks I’m a woman. Brian and the front office all know I’m a guy. It’s just everyone else I meet. Do I have to drop trou and wave my dick at them to get it through their thick heads? I’m not mad at Richie. He’s been really nice to me. He’s not a moron so I wonder if he’s, as the Brits say, taking the piss out of me. I turned to look at him. A girl would find him cute. Not that it matters.
“Whatever happens, Evie, let’s stay in touch. I’ll miss you. You know, my parents keep wanting to have you over for dinner sometime. They say they want to thank you for helping me make the bigs. They’ll be sorely disappointed to hear you won’t be with the team anymore. If you don’t mind, can I still call you now and then? You understand my mechanics better than anyone…”
“Sure, Richie. Text me anytime.”
“I’ll do that.” He banged his hand on the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, shit! Why did they do this?”
I placed a hand on his shoulder and gently rubbed, keeping my eyes focused on the bay’s shimmering surface.
Six weeks later, still jobless, I sat at the breakfast table in my father’s house in Somerset, yawning as I poured Honey Nut Cheerios into my bowl. My stepmother, Consuela, had her laptop open on the table in front of her, trying to find a marketing position for me locally, most likely in Jersey City or New Brunswick, a manageable commute from Somerset County. My dad would nod now and again, wink at me, and take another sip of his coffee.
Staying with my parents meant I could make my severance payout last longer but I didn’t want to be a burden on my dad, nor did I want to intrude on their privacy. Consuela married my father after both of his children had moved out and she had no children of her own (she was a widow).
“No, sweetie, we’re not put out by having you stay here. We’re ecstatic really. Aren’t we, Consuela?”
“Yes, Evelyn, it’s a chance for me to get to know you better. And I can teach you how to cook. Your future husband will be glad I did.” She laughed.
“Now you’re trolling me. Dad, are you putting Consuela up to this? It’s not funny.”
“She’s only seeing what’s obvious. I have two beautiful daughters. There’s Debbie, who is my youngest, and then there’s you, Evie, my eldest. We’ve always known you were a girl. Up here (pointing to my head) and here (pointing to my heart).”
“Medical science doesn’t see it that way, dad. I’m just kind of a neuter—”
Dad squeezed my hand. “You’re my beautiful little girl. Your mother knew it when she was carrying you. That’s why she named you Evelyn…”
“But she named me after that British writer, didn’t she?”
“That’s what you assumed, Evie. No, Evelyn was your grandmother’s name—”
“Everyone called her Eve. I thought it was just simply Eve.”
“We were going to call you Eve for short too but when the doctors said you were definitely a boy…”
“Doesn’t change the fact I’m male not female.”
“You are what you are…inside, dear. You should think seriously of taking that step and transition,” Consuela advised.
I looked at my father. He simply nodded and squeezed my hand again.
“It’s a major step. Maybe I’m just something in-between, neither male nor female. Remember Doctor Slayton told us I was just having a delayed puberty and my hormones would sort themselves out eventually?”
“He was a quack. But when you turned 18, it was your decision and you weren’t sure…”
“I’m still not sure.”
“Oh, I keep forgetting to tell you. Debbie told me she wants you to consider interviewing for a marketing position in her company—”
“That’s in LA, dad. I still haven’t heard from The Dodgers—”
“You said they were looking to hire a woman. I’m sure they found out from The Titans that you’re technically male.”
“I’ll give her a call but I don’t see myself moving to California just to work for a sportswear company, an industry I have little interest in or knowledge of.”
“She misses her sister too. You two used to be inseparable. She depends on you a lot, especially after your mother passed. You were practically her second mother.”
“We’re not children anymore, dad. I can’t hold her hand into her thirties.”
There was an interregnum while we finished our breakfast, only punctuated by the news radio station Consuela liked to monitor for the weather before she left for her nursing shift at St. Thomas Medical. Dad worked out of his home office. He had a small client list and was semi-retired nowadays.
“Oh, I’m going to the Titans game tomorrow evening. Can I borrow the Corolla, dad?”
“Sure. Consuela can drive the SUV to work. She’s used to the modifications now. Why are you going to the game? I’d think the less you’re reminded of The Titans, the better.”
“Richie’s parents are coming to New York for the first time to see him pitch tomorrow night. He says they expressly wanted to meet me and take us all out for dinner after the game.”
“That’s very nice of them. They know you helped their son a great deal,” noted Consuela as she turned the radio down.
“There’s a problem, though. They all think I’m a girl. Even Richie who should know better. What do I do? It could be very embarrassing. Not just for me but Richie as well.”
“What are you thinking of wearing tomorrow night?” Consuela asked.
“Kind of what I wear normally. Maybe a long sleeve shirt with button-down collar and the navy-blue dress slacks. You know, the one with the extra room in the seat. I hope it’s not too tight. I’ve gained some weight recently.”
“No, no, chica. You have to look gorgeous for Richie’s parents. He wants to show you off to them. No, you need a beautiful dress to wear!”
“Like I have a beautiful dress in my closet? Or a dress period?”
“Look, my shift ends at 5. Be ready to go shopping, muchacha. We’ll hit Bridgewater Commons. At the very least, Macy’s will have some cute dresses.”
“Consuela! They’ll arrest me as a pervert!”
“A little makeup, brush your hair out, my sandals with the kitten heels, maybe some nail polish. You’ll look like a supermodel!”
“Dad, are you co-signing this?”
“It’s Richie’s parents. Just do it for Richie…and maybe yourself too. Look beautiful for them. It’ll be fine. It’s one night, right?”
What could I say? I was outgunned by my own parents. Oh, the humanity!
Consuela was actually rubbing her hands together as we marched toward the entrance to Bridgewater Commons, the biggest shopping mall in Somerset County.
“Come on, chica. The mall closes at 9PM. Hurry!”
There were three reasons I was dawdling behind her. One: I was wearing my sister’s sandals with the kitten heels, causing me to step cautiously lest I slip on the pavement and fall flat on my face. Two: I was out in public for the first time ever in makeup, a pink barrette in my hair, clip on earrings, a peasant blouse with what Consuela told me was a strapless bra underneath, and the black denim jeans that unintentionally showed off my bubble butt. Debbie’s ankle socks served as extra padding in the breast region and they chafed like hell. Three: my boy bits were tucked away through a weird procedure involving some hide-and-seek maneuvers and the medical tape Consuela had swiped from the hospital. She assured me I could still pee if I needed to. I think I did at the moment.
Consuela had “transformed” me in the first half hour after she had returned home from work. I didn’t complain (much) because I was desperate. Richie Morrow, New York Titans rookie phenom pitcher, had invited me to see him pitch tomorrow night…and he was bringing his parents along! Worst of all, they all think I’m a girl! Which I’m not. I’m a 24-year-old guy named Evelyn. But everyone calls me Evie. Even my own dad and stepmom.
“I’ve always wanted to play with a life-sized doll. Artie and I couldn’t have children and then the Iraq War took him away from me. I never had the good fortune to shop for clothes with a daughter. But…now, Evie…I get to do this with you!”
“I’m in your hands, Consuela. I have no clue about women’s clothes. Jesus, these socks are chafing my nipples.” A woman and her teenage daughter walked by at that moment, giving me odd looks. “I never knew my nipples were so sensitive.”
“My little girl is becoming a woman. Hurry, this way. We’ll start with a couple of bra and panty sets. Then some nice everyday dresses. Maybe one special dress for tomorrow night—if we find something suitable. You can pick up some pants and tops yourself when you get a chance. A couple of purses. An over-the-shoulder bag and a clutch for going out. Oh…and finally, two pairs of shoes, one with sensible heels and some pumps for when you go out dancing with your date—”
“Consuela! I’m doing this for one night. It’s just ONE night! I don’t need a trousseau!”
“Evie, what kind of young lady goes around all the time in baggy sweats and tennis shoes? There’s a time for every tomboy to grow up.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me into Adore Me, where a saleswoman immediately rushed to greet us.
“Ladies, how may I help you?”
“My daughter…Evie…needs some nice new bra and panty sets. She’s such a career woman that she’s neglected her wardrobe. You know how driven young girls are these days—”
“Oh, you don’t need to tell me. My oldest daughter is getting her MBA and, most of the time, she dresses like Bill Belichick. You know, hoodies and sweatpants—”
“Exactly! But Evie’s got a special evening tomorrow. Richie Morrow’s parents are meeting her for the first time and they’re going to dinner at some fancy schmancy Manhattan restaurant.”
“Richie Morrow, the baseball player? I don’t know anything about baseball but I’ve seen him on TV being interviewed. Oh my, lucky girl, you.” I glared at Consuela but turned to smile at the saleslady.
“We’re…uh…just friends.”
“Well, well. Let me show you something in your sizes.” She gave me the once over and clucked her tongue. “You’re a slender girl, aren’t you?”
“Eats like a bird. Girls are so body conscious. I don’t know why. Men like a little meat on the bone—”
“Consuela! Please…” Sotto voce. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“I wish my daughter had that attitude. She could stand to lose a few pounds. I think…Evie, is it? Evie is fine. Those pro athletes really go for the supermodel types. Come this way.”
As we exited Adore Me, me carrying the rather ostentatious bag filled with lingerie (everyone seeing me knows I’ve just bought some probably spicy underwear…I could just die), I asked Consuela why she didn’t allow me to pay for the items. Instead, she beat me to the cashier, using dad’s gold Amex card.
“Your dad and I know you have limited funds until you get a new job. He said to think of it as an investment in your future. You’ll need nice clothes in your new job, whatever it turns out to be.”
“I sincerely doubt I’ll be wearing a bra and panties underneath my suit and tie. Especially this itchy bra I’m wearing right now.”
“Walk faster, chica. We’ve got two hours before the mall closes—”
“And many miles to go.”
“No, Evie, Macy’s is right around the corner, down the hall—”
I have to admit trying on dresses in Macy’s was kind of pleasant. When I first caught a glimpse in the full-length mirror in the changing stall, I didn’t recognize the reflection of the pretty girl smiling back at me. That was me! When I stepped out to show Consuela each dress, she sighed every time and exchanged beatific grins with the saleslady. For my part, I wished I had real breasts, at least a B cup, to do justice to the dresses. We went through a dozen or so dresses and outfits before settling on 4 dresses and a nice light jacket (that would come in handy tomorrow since it was still cool in the evening in early May).
Consuela talked me into doing a fashion show in full regalia for dad back home after we escaped the mall with our very lives (and a badly damaged charge account). Parading around our living room in high heels, a dress, and carrying a shoulder bag finally became too much. This was ludicrous.
“I’m sorry, dad. I guess I’m not much of a son. You probably think I’m mental or something.”
He looked up at me, placed his hands on the wheels of his chair, his voice choked with tears as he forced out his breath.
“Evie, you’re the spitting image of your mother when she was your age. If she could only see our beautiful eldest daughter now. She’d be as proud as I am.”
I rushed over and hugged him, our tears mingling. Consuela reached around both of us and joined in a group hug, her own tears dampening the blue fabric of my dress.
I decided to wear the blue dress with the floral pattern rather than the pale blue Swiss Dot dress. I was too self-conscious about my flat chest to wear the Swiss Dot dress first time at the plate, so to speak. I didn’t know too much about Richie’s parents but it’s always safer to assume they’re on the more conservative side. They wouldn’t want their son involved with some big city slut. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Leaving the house at 5:30, I calculated I’d arrive at the stadium in the South Bronx in just under an hour. It was difficult driving Consuela’s Corolla in heels; the pedals didn’t feel right under my feet. The game would start at five minutes past 7 so there’d be a half an hour to chit chat with Richie’s parents, seated in the players’ family section. I realized I had no idea what they looked like. I’d have to make an educated guess. Surely, they’d bear some resemblance to Richie. I parked a few blocks away from the Stadium. I know what you’re thinking. I live dangerously, don’t I?
I was about to pull out my driver’s license to show the security guy at Gate 3 when Lenny, the team’s comptroller, who had just arrived himself, waved the guy off.
“Mike, let the lady in. She’s a guest.” He turned to me as we walked down the corridor toward the ground level box seats. “Evie, quite a nice surprise seeing you. And you look brilliant. That color really flatters you.”
“Richie Morrow invited me. He wanted me to meet his parents. They’re here tonight.”
“I knew there was something between you two.” Conspiratorially, he lowered his voice. “I won’t say a word to anyone, much less the media. If his parents are ok with it, what’s the issue? Am I right?”
“It’s…it’s not what you think. It’s hard to explain—”
“Hey, this is New York, not East Dustbin, South Carolina or wherever Richie’s from. Even The New York Post won’t bat an eye. Listen, give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Morrow. I’m heading up to my office. Nice to see you, Evie. Good luck to you and Richie.” He turned away and pressed the button for the elevator. I headed for the box seats where the players’ families and guests sat.
Ask anyone who has ever been to a baseball stadium packed with fans just before the game begins and they will tell you that the first thing you marvel at is the sight of the greener than green grass that covers the field from foul line to foul line. Then there’s the anticipatory buzz of the tens of thousands of fans in the stands. And the three decks of stands jutting out against the night sky illuminated by massive light towers around the perimeter of the stadium. Football is a sport best viewed on a television screen. Baseball is an experience best appreciated in the milieu of chanting fans, players moving across a geometry of space bordered by white lines whose vector is infinity, and the crackling sound of bats striking balls that sometimes soar into the vault of night. There is poetry here. That’s why Evie loves baseball. But baseball, like the impassive universe we exist in, doesn’t love Evie.
A clean-shaven man in his late forties, wearing horned rim glasses, in a sport jacket and golf shirt, stood in the aisle, waving to me as I descended the steps.
“Evie! Evie Rivers! Over here!”
“Mr. Morrow?”
“Call me Howard. This is my wife, Sylvia. And Richie’s friend Bonnie.”
Bonnie took me by surprise. Unsmiling, she stood up from her seat next to Mrs. Morrow and gave me a limp finger wave. She was dressed to the nines. Her long blonde hair cascading to the bare shoulders of her skin-tight, spaghetti-strapped red dress, her wrists encircled by several jangling bracelets and her right hand clutching a Botta Venega leather purse. Mrs. Morrow warmly embraced me and we brushed cheeks, careful not to smear our lipstick.
“Bonnie, could you move over one seat? Let Evie sit between Sylvia and me.”
Reluctantly, Bonnie did as Howard asked. I scooted into the seat between Richie’s parents and started to engage Sylvia in some small talk. It turns out the Morrows really were from South Carolina, not East Dustbin though but the state capitol, Columbia. Howard was a Senior Manager in the Corporate Underwriting Department of Colony Insurance, “the nation’s second largest supplemental insurance provider serving 49 of the 50 states,” he proudly stated.
“We’re not in Hawaii…presently. But Sylvia thinks I should push upper management to have me open an office in Maui. Isn’t that right, dear?” Sylvia laughed and nodded.
“Richie tells us you really helped him with his mechanics. I don’t understand all the inside baseball terminology but he says you increased his spin rates?” Sylvia smiled to denote total ignorance of what that meant. So I explained it to her, in layman’s terms so to speak.
Howard stood up and surveyed the stands, looked at his watch, and asked, “Anyone for refreshments? I don’t want to miss Richie’s first inning. Better go now and avoid the lines at the concessions. Bonnie? Sylvia? Evie?” We all shook our heads. He sighed and went to get his beer. He got two steps away before Sylvia spoke up.
“Howard, wait a minute. On second thought, maybe I’d like a hotdog and an orange pop. I haven’t eaten since lunchtime. Bonnie?”
“I’m fine, Sylvia. No, thanks.”
“Evie? Are you hungry or thirsty?”
“I’m good. My stepmom says I eat like a bird. I better save my appetite for dinner later on.”
That got a rise out of Bonnie. “You big city girls go for that skinny look. I know Richie likes—”
“Some meat on the bone. Yeah, I get that a lot. Dad says I was a picky eater even when I was little. My sister ate enough for both of us.”
The Titans staked Richie to an early lead that he safeguarded with seven innings of 2 hit, shutout ball. When he left the game, the crowd gave him a standing ovation and he tipped his cap in our direction, smiling when he met my eyes. I waved to him and Bonnie gave me the side eye with a vicious sneer. Sylvia squeezed my hand. I felt like the slice of bologna in a whole wheat sandwich. We sat through the final two innings of the game with Richie’s parents receiving congratulations from and high fiving the other player’s families in our section, Bonnie scrolling through the texts on her phone, and me looking at the pics I had shot with my phone of Richie’s delivery during the game, checking out his stride and release points.
As the sell-out crowd filed out after the last out, the four of us made our way to the team’s locker room, where we patiently waited outside the closed doors for Richie to emerge after showering, changing, and speaking to the media. Most of the media, even some stragglers among the players and coaches had already left before Richie finally appeared, his hair still wet from showering and wearing a dark blue windbreaker and dress slacks.
He embraced his mother and patted his father on the shoulder, a wide smile creasing his face. I was standing some feet apart from the quartet, preparing to shoot some group photos of them. I’m sure they’d like photos of the evening since it was their first time seeing Richie pitch in person in the majors. Unexpectedly, Richie pulled me into an embrace.
“Thanks for coming, Evie. I hope my parents didn’t bore you to tears during the game. Did dad talk his usual back-office insurance talk?”
“Oh, no, Richie. Your parents are very nice and hospitable. The only shop talk was about you losing the release point on your slider in the middle innings. You got away with a few hangers.”
He acted surprised to see Bonnie and seemed reluctant to embrace her, even as she reached up to kiss him on the cheek, wiping the lipstick off with her thumb.
“Well, let’s go. I’ve got reservations for Zhou Dynasty. Man, I had Lenny go through back channels to get them. That place is hopping even after six months!” He took me by the arm and turned to his parents. “You guys can wait by the gate while I walk Evie to her car. You parked up on Jerome Avenue, didn’t you?”
I blinked with surprise. “How did you know?”
“That’s my Evie. Free parking all the way. Come on.”
Consuela’s Corolla was intact when we reached the spot on Jerome Avenue where I’d parked it almost 4 hours before. Richie expected the car to be up on cinder blocks with shattered side windows.
“New York’s not that bad, Richie. By the way, it was nice meeting your girlfriend Bonnie. She’s very pretty.”
He shook his head, an annoyed look on his face. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. We broke up our junior year at Clemson just before I got drafted by the Titans. I don’t know how she talked her way into coming with mom and dad.”
“Well, she acts like she’s still your girlfriend. She gave me the cold shoulder all night. And I’m not even trying to compete with her.”
“Really, Evie? I’ve been so busy with the start of the season and all, I kind of forgot to tell you I’m…I really like you. Maybe you felt the same?”
“That’s really sweet, Richie. But I’m still unemployed and I’m not even sure I’m going to be in this area moving forward. My sister keeps hinting I should relocate to the West Coast. And... well, there are other complications I’d rather not get into—”
“Is there someone else you’re seeing?”
“No, Richie. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
“Well, that means I’ve still got a shot, right?” We laughed, though there was an edge to his laughter that wasn’t in mine.
Zhou Dynasty was the latest trendy dining out spot in Manhattan, on the 39th floor of a commercial tower near the Empire State Building, with a spectacular view of the city skyline through its panoramic picture windows. The table Richie had reserved was by one of those windows. Rather pointedly, Richie sat next to me on my right-hand side. On my left sat Sylvia.
“It’s funny but the décor doesn’t look like a Chinese restaurant. But it’s certainly packed. And on a weekday evening too,” mused Sylvia as she donned her reading glasses to peruse the menu.
“It’s Asian Fusion, mom. The chef is a Caucasian dude. Lenny said the Sesame Chicken’s really good. Do you like Asian Fusion, Evie?”
“Can’t say I’ve had it before. But the Sesame Chicken sounds good to me. There’s a Chinese place in Bridgewater Commons that my dad loves to order from at least a couple a times a month…”
“You’d think you’d be more of a gourmand coming from New York. Maybe you’re just a small-town girl at heart?” Bonnie looked pointedly at Richie.
We all ordered the Sesame Chicken except for Bonnie who opted for the house special, the roast breast of duck breast with Asian soy glaze.
“This is yummy. Want some of this, Richie? I like my breast meaty and succulent, don’t you?”
Before Richie could respond, a bearded man in a chef’s apron who looked to be in his early thirties approached our table. At his side was a very pretty blonde woman in a tailored pantsuit who looked to be at least twenty years older. Perhaps his mother? There wasn’t a family resemblance though.
“Richie Morrow? I’m Mark Sheldon, executive chef here at Zhou Dynasty. And this is my partner, Elizabeth Greene. I saw your name on the reservations list and I just had to come over and meet you. And thank you for patronizing my establishment. Would you be so kind as to allow my photographer to take your picture later on? We’ll put it on our celebrity wall—”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sheldon, Ms. Greene. This is my mom Sylvia and dad Howard. My friend Bonnie. And my special friend and Shaolin master Evie. She made me the pitcher I am today.”
“I think I read about you, Evie. A woman baseball coach. Rare indeed. Mark tells me Richie is a sure bet to win Rookie of the Year. You must know your baseball—”
“Well, I’m between assignments right now. I’m sure he’s in good hands with the Titans’ pitching coaches.”
“Well, I hope you’ve all enjoyed your meals. And please become a regular. It’s good publicity for us. I’ve got some friends in the film industry who would love to get the rights to your bio. Especially if you pitch the Titans to a World Series this Fall—”
“Oh, Mark, I think Alastair’s going to change his number if you keep pestering him with movie ideas. I don’t want Joey giving me an angry phone call.”
“I see you’ve ordered the breast of duck. My signature dish. Did you like?”
“Oh, yes, it was scrumptious. I’m a bit more adventurous than the others at this table. I love to try different things.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Mark.
“By the way, your meal is on the house. My treat.”
“No, we can’t possibly accept. We didn’t expect our dinner comped.”
“Yes, I’m paying.” Howard patted his jacket breast pocket. “The dinner was my idea. I told Richie to pick the restaurant. We’re from South Carolina, you understand. We’re not fans of needless charity.”
“Alright, Mr. Morrow. I didn’t intend to offend. As you wish. And thank you for choosing to dine in my humble establishment. Good evening, ladies, gentlemen.”
“Ladies! To the powder room. Time to freshen up before we vamoose. Evie, coming?”
I had no choice but to follow them as they headed to the ladies’ room. It would be the first ladies’ room I’d been in since my sister had that pigeon drop a load on her head at Bridgewater Commons when she was six and I was eight. Mom rushed us into the ladies’ room in Macy’s to wash the glob of bird poo out of Debbie’s hair. Apparently, the women who were lounging there had no qualms about allowing an eight-year-old boy into that feminine inner sanctum. I was impressed with how clean it was. And how it smelled a lot better than any men’s room I’d been in.
Since I was there anyway, I decided to enter a stall and do my business. In no time, I felt relieved. Carefully replacing my various bits of clothing and making sure everything was presentable, I emerged from the stall to discover Sylvia had already left. Bonnie stood alone at one of the sinks, re-applying her lipstick. She turned to me when I stood by the next sink.
“Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes, Evie.”
“Excuse me?”
“That act you’re putting on. I can see through it. Maybe you’ve got Richie and his parents bamboozled but I’m not buying it.” I shuddered, contemplating her circumlocutions and what she was about to accuse me of.
“I…I’m not putting on an act. What are talking about?”
“Oh, come off it. Look, Richie’s a rube to you but he doesn’t deserve some New York City sophisticate taking advantage of him because he’s their ticket to fame and millions.”
“What?”
“I know all about you WAGs. You set your sights on some up-and-coming pro athlete who’s all set to sign a 9-figure contract and you con them into thinking you love them. They’re suckers for skinny bitches who are more worldly wise than country bumpkins like them.”
“Bonnie, you’ve got the wrong idea about me. I’m not “after” Richie. We had a work relationship. I coached him. That’s all.”
“I see how he looks at you and treats you. Like I’m invisible. Like I’m not even here. You’ve got him hooked! Well, listen, little girl, go away. Far away. Or I’ll blow your scheme. Richie and his parents won’t think you’re so charming then, will they?”
“You’re insane—”
At that moment, I noticed Elizabeth Greene had come in. Catching the last part of our “discussion,” she quietly sat down on the couch and faced the mirrors above the sinks.
Bonnie lowered her voice and half-sneered, “Just think about it, Evie.” She fluffed her hair one last time and quickly exited the room. Elizabeth stood next to me, her arms folded beneath her breasts.
“It’s difficult being trans.”
“How did you know? I mean, I’m not…trans. This is all a huge misunderstanding—”
“I have some experience with trans people in my life. In retrospect, I didn’t really cover myself with glory in the way I treated them in the beginning. But they say age brings wisdom with it.”
“I’m not trans. People just refuse to see me as male. Even my own father thinks I’m a girl. He’s been trying to convince me that I am trans.”
“Listen to your own internal thoughts. It doesn’t matter what other people believe. Even your father. I see a beautiful young woman. And from what I’ve read about you, a very special young woman. If it’s your destiny—”
“Maybe you’re right. But I’m not sure.”
“You’re fortunate. You present convincingly as female. Bonnie is so convinced, she’s ready to scratch your eyes out over that overgrown jock. Are you interested in him?”
“No, not really. I’m not gay…or would that be straight? I’m confused about the whole thing.”
“My advice, for what it’s worth, is leave that one alone. It’s got too many sharp edges and where you are right now, it’s better to avoid unnecessary flesh wounds. Are you looking for another gig in baseball?”
“I think the ambiguity about my gender makes it unlikely I’ll catch on with another team. I’d be victimized by a double bias: against women and transgender. I’ve got an MBA in marketing.”
“Pursue that. If you need a lead, I’ve got some friends in corporate circles here in the city and Boston.”
“Thanks, Ms. Greene. I’ll think about that.”
“You do that, Evie. Good luck and remember what I said.” She went into one of the stalls and closed the door. I checked my makeup in the mirror one last time and walked out of the ladies’ room.
While Richie’s parents and Bonnie sat in his car, Richie walked me to my Corolla, parked half a block away.
“Richie, I had a really nice time tonight. And your parents are a hoot. I don’t think I’ve ever learned as much about insurance underwriting or Spanish Moss as I did during the game and dinner.”
“I’m glad you had a good time. Knowing you were sitting in the stands gave me extra adrenaline. That was the best game I’ve pitched since Opening Day.”
“Richie, I’m going through a lot of changes right now. I’m looking for a job. I don’t even know what industry I’ll be working in. Probably not baseball. I can’t just stay in my dad’s house forever. My sister wants me to move to the West Coast. I don’t know. Maybe it’s not the right time for us to get involved.” His face betrayed his disappointment and he turned away for a moment.
“You don’t have to sugar-coat it, Evie. I get it. You don’t feel the same way I feel about you. I’m a dumb jock trying to dance in your world. You’ve got an MBA, for God’s sake! Who am I kidding? You’re way above my league. It’s okay.”
“Richie, it’s not that. You’re a wonderful, talented guy. I’m not worthy of you, if anything. It’s just…you want someone who can give you everything a woman can. I don’t…I don’t think I’m able to do that right now. Maybe ever.”
“You’re not making sense, Evie. You’re talking in riddles. Let’s stay friends. Things can change. For both of us. Just let me know when you get that new job or if you decide to move out west. Stay beautiful, Evie.” He closed the passenger door and headed back to his car. Strapping myself in, I released the handbrake and turned the ignition.
It was close to one in the morning when I collapsed onto my bed, kicking off my Steve Madden kitten heel sandals, too tired to properly undress. I figured I’d be out cold within minutes. But my phone notified me I had a video call. It was from my sister Debbie.
“Evie, I tried calling you a couple of hours ago—”
“Sorry, Debbie. I was unavailable.”
“Yeah, I was worried so I called dad on the landline and he told me you were out on a date with that baseball player. He said you were meeting his parents. Is there something as your sister--I believe I am -that you need to tell me?”
“Nothing, Debbie. It was just a huge misunderstanding. The guy told his parents I’m a girl.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he thinks I AM a girl and he wants to start dating me. You can see that would be a problem.”
“Whatever, Evie. These things seem to happen to you a lot. Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something.”
“I’m really tired, Debbie. It’s past one in the morning here.”
“I am well aware of time zones, sis. Anyway, the reason I called is I got you an interview with my company. They’re looking for a senior staffer in the marketing department. It’s set for Friday—”
“This Friday? Debbie, that’s three days away—”
“Consuela says you went shopping yesterday so you’ve got some wardrobe choices. Maybe you could get your hair done today.”
“I’m not going to interview in a dress, Debbie. I’ll have to take my good suit to the cleaners.”
“But you have to wear a dress, Evie!”
“I’m afraid to ask. Why?”
“Because I told them you’re my sister. They’re expecting a young woman named Evie Rivers.”
“Oh, Debbie. HR will immediately see I’m a guy. In a dress no less! It’s stupid.”
“Evie, I’m in Human Resources. I’ll intercept your paperwork before it gets entered in the system. Switch the M to an F and voila, Ms. Evie Rivers, marketing associate. Ipso facto.”
“I don’t think that means what you think it does. Anyway, they’ll kick us to the curb when they eventually find out. Then we’ll both be out of work.”
“No, it’s foolproof, Evie. Trust me. Look, if you do a great job – which I’m sure you will – they’ll never consider firing you. So your gender’s ambiguous. So what. Big deal. Hey, it’s LA, not the boonies.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll do it but I just want to tell you something.”
“What, sis?”
“You’re insane!!!!”
“I don’t disagree. I booked you a flight out of Newark on Thursday morning. I’ll email you the particulars. Oh, this will be so much fun!”
“Good night, Debbie.”
“Good night, Evie.”
It’s 8 in the morning on a Friday in May. I’m riding with my sister Debbie in a van driven by Otis Mellons, heading due east from Debbie’s apartment building in Alhambra, a Los Angeles suburb, to the offices of Debbie’s employer, Sisters Sportswear, located near the Alhambra/San Gabriel city line. Otis services all the plants in their offices. That explains the overwhelming earthy, organic aroma emanating from the back of the van. Bags of plant food, fertilizer, and potting soil surround every kind of office plant you can imagine: Philodendrons, Ficus, Ferns, various Palms, Rubber Trees, Corn Plants, and the always popular Weeping Fig.
“I can’t believe you live and work in LA and you don’t have your own car, Debbie.”
“You know I’m a terrible driver, Evie. Besides, Otis has been available to drive me to work on most days—”
“You’re lucky Otis just happens to live in your building AND waters the office plants twice a week—”
“He does more than just water the plants, Evie. Otis has a botany degree from UC-Riverside.”
“You never told me you had such a pretty sister, Debbie.” Otis turned to wink at me. “If you get this job, I’m thinking I might be available five days a week to drive you to work. Maybe I could show you around town on the weekends too.”
“The plants and potting soil coming along too?” I laughed.
“No,” he laughed nervously. “I’ve got an Acura I drive for personal stuff.”
“Richie drives a Nissan Z—”
“Richie who?”
“Never mind, Otis. It’s some baseball dude Evie broke up with just before leaving New York—”
“Debbie! Broke up? I wasn’t even dating him.”
“Richie Morrow? You dated Richie Morrow? Wow, he was named Pitcher of the Month in April. He could win Cy Young and Rookie of the Year in the same season! Why would you break up with him?”
“We weren’t really compatible.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, he’s a guy…”
Debbie pointed out the building to the left as Otis slowed down to enter the parking lot.
“We’re here, Evie. Ready for your interview?”
We thanked Otis for the ride and went around the building to go in through the front entrance. In the lobby, the security guard at the desk greeted Debbie as the VMS tablet scanned the QR code in the email invitation on my phone. Grabbing the visitor’s pass that was quickly printed out, I followed Debbie through the turnstile.
“Stop flirting with every guy you meet, Evie. It’s annoying.”
“I’m not flirting! I have no interest in Otis at all.”
“Well, he certainly seemed to be interested in you. Just stop it. Whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Hey, he just said he’d give us a ride every morning if I get this job. You should be thanking me.”
At that moment, just before the elevator doors closed, a young man in a business suit, carrying an attaché case, hurried in. He pressed a button for a floor above ours and turned to nod to us.
“Ladies. Nice day. Do you work at Sisters Sportswear?” He looked straight at me. I shrunk imperceptibly, backing into Debbie.
“Not yet. I mean, I’m interviewing today—”
“Well, I hope they give you the job. You’ll certainly brighten up my morning elevator ride if they do. I’m Kirk. You’re…”
“Her name is Evie. My name is Debbie.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. The elevator opened onto our floor.
“Let’s go, Evie. It’s our floor. Nice to meet you…uh…Kirk.”
“My pleasure totally—” as the doors closed off the rest of his sentence.
“I think he’s new. Never seen him before. You know, he was staring lasers at me all the way up. I love a man in a nicely tailored business suit.”
“I don’t. Anyway, no one’s here yet, Debbie. Where is everyone? It’s past nine—”
“They’re pretty lax about the hours here. People stroll in whenever, they leave whenever. As long as they put in their 35 hours, not counting lunch. And we can choose to work a 4-day week if we want. So you work 8.75 hours a day instead of 7. Cool, right?”
The office was divided into cubicles, its perimeter lined with the office plants Otis maintained. The walls were emblazoned with cartoon portrayals of men and women playing a variety of sports from soccer to baseball to football to hockey to tennis and golf. A giant logo above the executive offices at the far end read: Sisters Sportswear – Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves.
Since my interview was scheduled for 10AM, Debbie and I wandered into the kitchen area, which turned out to be the size of a cafeteria, to have breakfast. There were a dozen tables with chairs for 40 or more. A handful of employees, all women, were munching away on stacks of pancakes and crackling bacon. There was a chef behind the counter, whistling a Metallica song. He turned around and waved at Debbie. When he saw me, he wiped his hands on his apron and approached our table.
“Debbie! Good morning! And who is this lovely young lady?”
“Oh, Lyle, this is my sister Evie. She’s interviewing for that marketing position.” Lyle shook my hand, placing his left hand on top of mine.
“Well, good luck, Evie. You’ll certainly be a lovely addition to our workplace. In the meantime, is there something special you’d like for breakfast? I can make some delicious breakfast tacos for you. Ten minutes max.”
“Yum. Sounds good. Thank you.”
“I’d like that too, Lyle,” Debbie called after him.
“I know what you like, Debbie. You’re a pop tart fan. I’ll put two in the toaster for you.”
“Just stop whatever it is you’re doing, Evie.”
“I’m not doing anything. I swear.”
I was sitting in Debbie’s cubicle outside her boss, the HR director’s office, shooting the breeze with her and Otis, who was making the rounds, watering the plants. Debbie and Otis were discussing the benefits of aspidistra as a house plant.
“It would be perfect for you. It tolerates neglect very well.”
“Is my sister neglecting something or someone else, Otis?”
“Well, let’s just say, I hope it doesn’t run in the family.”
“Drop it, buster. Evie doesn’t date…uh…guys…who…uh…you tell him why you don’t, Evie.”
I was about to answer when some young woman who I assumed was an executive assistant by her haughty demeanor suddenly appeared at the entrance to Debbie’s cubicle.
“Ms. Rivers? Evie Rivers. Not you, Debbie. If you’ll come with me. They’re ready for you.”
As we took a circuitous route to the executive offices, I noted that everyone, including my sister, the assistant, and everyone else in the place was dressed extremely casually: sweats, ripped jeans, t-shirts with various school or team logos front and/or back, and sneakers. I felt distinctly over-dressed in the white linen jacket and blue floral print dress I had bought just this week at Macy’s. Now I understood why Debbie looked at me askance when I finally came out of the bathroom after managing to not make my face up like a clown this morning. It wasn’t the mascara. But she didn’t utter a word.
At the door of the COO’s office, two women who I surmised were the eponymous sisters of Sisters Sportswear were just leaving. Misty and Christy Connors were two of the most famous and highly decorated female soccer players in North America if not the world. Born a year apart but looking nothing like twins, the Connors sisters were co-captains on two World Cup winning teams and a Gold Medal Olympic side. Misty, the elder, was a goalie; Christy was a striker. They stopped when they saw me approaching, slightly to the side of the assistant. Unsurprisingly by now, they were both wearing workout togs emblazoned with the logo for The California Surf, LA County’s women’s pro soccer club.
The assistant introduced me to them and returned to her desk. After shaking hands, I assumed they were going back into the office with me.
“Oh, no, dear. We’re heading out to the stadium. Practice starts in half an hour.”
“Oh, sorry for the brain fart. Debbie told me you owned The Surf. But, if you’re leaving right now, who am I interviewing with?”
“Our little brother Chuck, the COO. We leave all the hiring and business stuff to him. He’s really smart—”
“For a man, that is.” They both laughed. I smiled cautiously.
“All jokes aside, Chuck is a really good judge of character.”
“Yeah, you can’t believe all the applicants who falsify their resumes so they can work here.”
“Well, sis, after that write-up in Women’s Business Monthly, no wonder. We’re sizzling hot right now.”
“Good luck…Evie, is it? Maybe we’ll see you back here soon.” They walked briskly to the elevators. I waved but they never turned around to see. Knocking on the office door, I heard the clop-clop of what sounded like flip-flops approaching. The door swung open and I was met by Chuck Connors, looking like a member of a Beach Boys tribute band: wearing a gray Newport Beach t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts.
“Evie Rivers, I presume?”
“Chuck Connors, I presume?”
“Well, presumptions out of the way, have a seat while I peruse your resume. Debbie gave me a copy of it yesterday but I haven’t had a chance to look at it. Oh, you can toss me that nerf football. Unless, of course, you like sitting on prolate spheroids.”
I flipped the football to him. He deftly snatched it out of the air and tossed it onto the floor.
“Can’t say I’ve had much experience with prolate spheroids. Baseball’s my sport, as you can see on my resume.”
“MBA in marketing from Rutgers. Impressive. And yet you worked as an analyst-slash-coach for the NY Titans’ AAA affiliate in Somerset.”
“I pitched in high school but didn’t make the varsity in college—”
“Softball, right? I heard MLB was trying out women from softball to see if it can translate to baseball. So, why leave baseball?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, baseball left me. Seems the major league players weren’t too receptive to me telling them how to hit or pitch better.”
“Yeah, sucks that there’s so much anti-women bias in sports. With two older sisters in the industry, I see the hurdles they’ve had to jump over to be taken seriously as team owners and sportswear entrepreneurs.”
“Your sisters said they leave the business stuff to you. Do you have an MBA?”
“No such luck. On-the-job training all the way. I’m just starting to get the hang of the way this industry works. My background is in contract law. I was planning on becoming a sports agent when my sisters retired and decided to start Sisters Sportswear. Funny thing is I’ve never actually practiced law a single day. But knowing contract law does come in handy.”
“So you wanted to be a sports agent? You don’t look the type. You know, fast-talking, arrogant, ambulance-chasing personalities…”
“Honestly, I wanted to be a point guard in the NBA. I was on the varsity at UCLA.”
“Really? I’m not much of a college sports fan. Were you good enough to be drafted?”
“Drafted? No, I barely got off the bench. 12th man on a 12-man team. At least I got a free ride on my degree. Our parents made out pretty good. All three of their kids got full athletic scholarships. They took advantage too. Did a lot of world travelling when we were in school.”
I pointed to the framed photo on the wall. Chuck turned his head.
“The guy your sisters are groping. He’s not another brother, hopefully.”
“No,” Chuck laughed. “That’s Misty’s husband, Clark Ruskin. He owns the LA Drillers, you know, the new NFL franchise in town. Biggest investor in the company AND the soccer team.”
“How did he make his billions?”
“Waste management. I think he collects industrial trash and dumps it in some Nevada landfill. Must be legal. Or he makes regular payoffs to the local authorities—”
“You don’t seem to like him very much.”
“You’ll see for yourself. He makes infrequent visits to the office. Roving eye. I guess you’ve noticed that, besides me and our chef Kirk, there’s only 2 other men working for the company. Misty and Christy insisted on giving women preference for job opportunities. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that—”
“Uh…sure. There’s no such thing as over-compensating when it comes to giving women a fair shot when you consider all the discrimination—”
“Just last month, I interviewed someone for your prospective position. It turned out she was a he. Imagine that? Had me completely fooled! Then our HR department did some digging and sussed it out. Debbie is one heck of a detective. Phew! I almost hired her…uh…him. Can you believe someone would go to those lengths just to get a job?”
I shook my head and tried to look as puzzled as he did. I even let out a small giggle that sounded more like a burp.
“You had a few of Kirk’s breakfast tacos, didn’t you? I avoid those. Too early in the day for that shit. Pardon my French. Now, here’s what we do.” He reached into one of the piles on his messy desk and pulled out a handful of 8 by 11 sheets of paper. “These are sample sheets with the kinds of athletic wear we make. Some are generic, some are custom made.”
I looked at the pictures of the models and couldn’t help but gasp.
“That’s Debbie! She never told me she did modeling—”
“Misty and Christy thought she’d be perfect to model some of our lines. Excuse me for saying this but, honestly, I think you’re even prettier than your sister. If you get the job, you might consider doing some modeling for us too. Of course, you’ll get paid—”
“You’re joking, Mr. Connors.”
“No, no. You’ve got…”it.”
“Well, whatever “it” is, I can assure you Debbie’s got it, not me.”
“We can agree to disagree, no? Anyway, we’re trying to expand our business, grow our consumer base, develop relationships with the whole spectrum of pro sports franchises. But I’m not an idea guy. We need someone who’s got some clever ideas and knows how to market them. Have you thought about how a company like ours could grow?”
For the next 45 minutes or so, Chuck and I threw some ideas against the wall, so to speak. Some of them stuck, others slid to the floor, leaving a trail of brainstorming slime. Although Chuck paid close attention to my ramblings, he did look out the window wistfully several times. He struck me as very bright but, somehow, not fully committed to the business. A square peg in a round hole. No doubt he idolized his sisters but there was no sign that he loved making sportswear. Finally, he stood up and reached out his hand.
“I’ve never done this. Hiring someone before the interview is even finished. But, Evie, you’ve sold me. With your background in marketing and sports, you’re perfect for the position. I love some of your ideas. Can you start Monday morning?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” I jumped up from my chair and shook Chuck’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Connors. I’m sure I’ll enjoy working here.”
“Call me Chuck. As you’ve probably already noticed, we’re all rather informal here. And one more thing, Evie?”
“Yes…Chuck.”
“You might want to dress a little more casually on Monday. You look nice in the dress but we want everyone on our team to be comfortable. Helps the mind loosen up. Okay?”
When I told Debbie Chuck hired me on the spot and would start Monday morning, she practically jumped into my arms, which made for an embarrasing display before I extricated myself from her grasp. She signed off her computer and tidied up her desk, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
“Come on, girl, let’s go celebrate with a Boujee lunch!” She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the elevator.
“Whoa, Debbie. Aren’t you going to tell your boss you’re leaving early for lunch?”
“It’s Friday. I’m not even supposed to be here. 4-day week. Remember?”
In the elevator, I was reminded of the fact Debbie didn’t own a car.
“Are we catching a bus to this Boujee lunch?”
“Nah, Otis is waiting for us in the parking lot. He wanted to stick around just in case Chuck hired you on the spot.” Debbie grunted in unladylike fashion. “He never does that for me. It’s like a miracle when he agrees to pick me up once in a blue moon after work.”
“I’m sure the restaurant staff will get a good chuckle from seeing Otis drop us off in his van.”
“Oh, he’s having lunch with us. He’s paying. His treat. And then, after lunch, he’s taking us to the mall to go shopping!”
“Shopping?”
“Well, duh, you’re over-dressed for the office. It’ll be so cool. Shopping for clothes with my sister!”
“I’m your brother!”
“Shhh! Not anymore, sis. You’re a big girl now!”
Otis drove us to the Nordstrom Rack on South Figueroa in Downtown LA and insisted on following us around as we shopped. While we looked over all the casual clothing on sale and heavily discounted, Otis gave us a running commentary on the selection and placement of plants throughout the store. He asked one of the salespeople if the manager was available to discuss the topic. Sadly for Otis, the manager was not.
Dad had sent some money to Debbie’s Venmo account so, with nary a financial care, we campaign marched through the battlefield of Nordstrom’s casual wear department, achieving some hard-fought victories with cute outfits just perfect for the laid-back Sisters office.
Just before Debbie was ready to slam the door to our apartment shut on poor Otis, who had paid for our lunch, driven us around town and home, and ultimately carried the spoils of our shopping spree from his van to our doorstep, I thanked him profusely while shaking his hand. Impulsively, against my better judgement, I gave him a light peck on the cheek. His eyes lit up and he was about to say something when Debbie slammed the door in his face. She turned to me with an annoyed look.
“Stop it. Just stop it!”
“What? He was nice enough to buy us lunch and drive us—”
“That’s what guys are supposed to do, Evie. It’s in the instruction booklet. Girl, you’ve got so much to learn about being a woman.”
Debbie dragged me out of bed (I was sleeping on her couch for the time being) early Saturday morning. She had picked out an outfit for me to wear. Where were we going?
“I go to the Dog Park in the Arts District most Saturday mornings. You have 20 minutes to get ready. The buses in LA are few and far between especially on weekends.”
“Unless you’ve been hiding it in your room, I’m not aware that you own a dog. Why are we going to a dog park?”
“You’ll see. Vamos, vaga!”
“What?”
“That’s what Consuela used to say to me when I overslept on school days.”
We took two buses to reach the Arts District from Debbie’s building on Eastlake Avenue. The 78 to 1st Street & Broadway and then the 30 to 1st & Vignes. After half an hour on two buses, we still had to walk 10 minutes to arrive at the Dog Park. It was underwhelming. It looked like an empty lot, devoid of grass (for ease of clean up), smack dab in the middle of a warehouse district. There were a few dogs and dog owners scattered about. Debbie led us to a bench and handed me a pair of sunglasses.
“What are we doing here, Debbie?”
“It beats dating apps, Evie. You can see the quarry in the flesh. Think about it. Young, single, eligible artists who own dogs. It’s like manna from heaven. Talented AND sensitive!”
“You’ve never heard of starving artists, Debbie?”
“You’re a cynic, Evie. Look, he’s here again.”
“Who? Where?”
“That cute guy with the bulldog. I’ve seen him a couple of weekends recently. He’s always alone so he doesn’t have a girlfriend or wife.”
“Maybe he’s gay?”
“Shhh! He’s coming over.” Out of the side of her mouth, she half-whispered, “Don’t flutter your eyelashes at him.”
“We’re wearing sunglasses, Debbie.”
“Good morning, ladies.” He nodded at Debbie. “I’ve seen you here before.”
“And why haven’t you said hello before today?”
“I figured you were waiting for someone, like maybe your husband or boyfriend. Why come to a dog park if you don’t own a dog?”
I laughed and swung my leg at Debbie’s foot, striking her a glancing blow.
“Owww! I…love dogs. My landlord won’t let me keep a dog so I go to the park here to watch them run around, communing with nature—”
“You live nearby?”
“She lives in Alhambra.”
“That’s a long way to go to watch dogs run around. Aren’t there dog parks closer to home?”
“Better breed of dogs here.” I gave Debbie a side-eyed glare.
“And who is this?”
“That’s my sister. She just moved out here from Jersey this week. By the way, I’m Debbie. She’s Evie.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Juan.” He shook our hands. He held onto to mine extra-long. Debbie noticed. I felt Juan’s bulldog rubbing up against my calves. It wasn’t a particularly enjoyable sensation.
“Rico, stop that. I’m sorry, Evie, but he seems to have taken a shine to you. He’s usually pretty reserved when meeting new people.”
“Unlike my sister, I’m not much of an animal person. It kinda freaks me out when the little critters get touchy-feely.”
“Does that extend to critters of the human kind as well?”
“Are you flirting with my sister, Juan?”
“The only one who’s flirting here is Rico and I don’t think our species are compatible,” I joked.
“Are you an artist, Juan?”
“Well, Debbie, what makes you think that?”
“It is the Arts District,” Debbie said in an arch tone.
“I have no artistic talent at all. Can’t even draw a straight line to save my life. No, I’m an agent trainee in the Film & TV Department at CAA. I’m living in my brother’s loft on East 4th. He’s an animator for DreamWorks. You ever see Kung Fu Panda?”
“Do you represent anyone really big?” I asked.
“Well, the agent I’m training with handles Margot Robbie and Nicole Kidman. Lots of other TV actors as well.”
“My sister has done some modeling for the sportswear company where we work,” I nudged Debbie, who was pretending to be shy.
“Really, I can see why. You’re both very pretty. You don’t model, Evie?”
“No one’s ever asked.”
“If you’re interested, Evie, I could set up something with my boss. She’s always looking for new talent. Just get some headshots done. A couple of commercial shots and a couple feature shots. You probably don’t have a reel she could look at—”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“It’s a little inside baseball for show business—”
“Baseball I know.”
“I can explain it to you. Maybe over dinner sometime?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. We’ve just met and you’re asking me out on a date…”
“Don’t think of it as a date. Think of it as career counseling. Take off your sunglasses, Evie.”
I did as he asked. He formed a frame with his hands and whistled.
“Oh, you’re special, Evie. My boss will jump at signing you up. I can’t believe you’ve never thought about acting. Here’s my card. Can I have your number as well?”
After perusing his card (it looked legitimate with the CAA logo embossed on it), I punched my number into his phone.
“We’ll talk. Right now, I’ve got to go. Taking Rico back home and then off to the health club for a racquetball match with Brick Lawson. He plays the pimp on NightTown, the hit show on GlobalNet. No, never seen it? You should catch it. Binge watch it!” The last part was shouted at us as he trailed Rico scurrying out of the dog park.
Debbie’s face was a burnt orange mask of irk. Is that a noun? I’m making it one.
“Even the stupid dog was trying to hump your leg. I’m not taking you to the dog park anymore.”
“I’m not doing anything. I swear.”
Otis drove us to work on Monday morning, my first day at Sisters Sportswear. After dropping us off in front of the building, he drove off almost immediately.
“Not even a goodbye, good luck on your first day?”
“Otis normally doesn’t drive me to work on Mondays. He’s got an early morning job in Santa Monica on Mondays. It’ll take him an hour to get there. He’s going to be late.”
“No wonder he booked it the second we got out of the van.”
“He didn’t even wait for his thank you kiss.” She rolled her eyes.
I was just about finished filling out all the forms they make you complete on your first day on the job. Every time I had to check the box for gender, I flinched, hoping Debbie wouldn’t get us both in trouble if and when they found out I was really a guy. But she assured me that she could handle it. I told her Chuck had mentioned the applicant who was found out—by her—just recently. She smirked and said if she didn’t want to find out, they’d have never known. Ipso facto, they’ll never discover the truth about me. I don’t think ipso facto means what she thinks it means.
“Evie?” The officious assistant was standing outside my small corner office. “There’s a meeting in Conference Room A in two minutes. Everyone’s supposed to come.” Before I could answer, she had disappeared. Now, where the heck was Conference Room A? And where was Debbie?
Luckily, there was a column of people marching toward the room in question. I just fell in line. When we entered the room, it was like no other conference room I’d ever seen. First of all, it was twice the size of a normal conference room. Secondly, there was no conference table, no chairs, and the floor was a green carpet with gridlines resembling a football field. In fact, that’s what it was: a miniature football field.
In the middle of the room, switching a nerf football from one hand to the other, stood Clark Ruskin, Misty’s husband, and part-owner of the company. Chuck was standing off to his left, his eyes meeting mine, a goofy smile on his face.
“Good morning, everyone. Chuck suggested I drop by to boost company morale.” There were scattered snickers. “I don’t come by often but when I do, I love to build some organizational unity by playing a little touch football with you all. Friendly competition and teamwork are the foundation of any thriving human undertaking. In sports and in business. Chuck, you and I will captain the sides. Since I’m not familiar with the football skills of everyone in the company, I will defer to Mei Ling, our super-efficient office manager—”
“Executive assistant, sir.”
“That’s right. Executive assistant. Sorry about that. Mei Ling will draft my team. Since my team won the last time, Mei Ling, please proceed with our first pick.”
“Evie Rivers, please stand next to Mr. Ruskin.”
“Wait. What? I’m not good at football. Believe me.”
“It says on your resume that you coached baseball for The New York Titans—”
“Oh, we’ve got a ringer. Good choice, Mei Ling.”
“Baseball not football, Mr. Ruskin.”
“Same difference. An athlete’s an athlete. I played lacrosse in college. Chuck here played basketball for UCLA. It’s all about eye-hand coordination. Stand here…uh…Evie.”
Reluctantly, I found myself standing next to Mr. Ruskin, looking across the “field” at Chuck, who was trying to cover up his giggling while simultaneously shrugging his shoulders in my direction. Within five minutes, both teams were chosen. Five against five.
The rules for Ruskin’s modified touch football game were pretty simple: two 15-minute quarters, 4 “downs” to try to score a touchdown, two hands were needed to qualify as a touch, the quarterback for each team had 5 seconds to throw the ball, and there were no punts, kicks, or runs with the ball.
Chuck won the coin toss and his team started the game. It took four passes but Chuck’s team scored a touchdown on a nice one-handed catch in the end zone by Janet, our webmaster.
“Evie, I’m going to throw a bomb to you on first down. Looks like you’re quicker than anyone on Chuck’s team. Line up on the right side, hold up for a couple seconds, then release and I’ll hit you on a fly route. Got it?”
I nodded. Mr. Ruskin clapped his hands together and we lined up. It took 5 Mississippi before he hoisted the nerf football my way. Just before I reached up over my left shoulder to catch the ball, Janet’s left hand passed in front of my eyes. I didn’t see the ball hit me on my left temple and I stumbled in the end zone, crashing into the white board at the far end of the conference room. A glancing blow on the head knocked the lights out for me.
When I opened my eyes, a minute or two later, everyone was standing around me. Chuck was cradling my head and looking to see if my eyes could focus. Mr. Ruskin had his hands on his hips, a look of concern on his face. Debbie was calling my name from somewhere to my right.
“Evie, Evie! Are you okay? You went limp for a minute there.”
“Richie? You gotta lay off those sliders down and away.”
“Who’s Richie?” Chuck asked Debbie.
“An old boyfriend,” Debbie answered.
“Hey, we still got three downs left. She’ll live. Let’s resume the game.” Mr. Ruskin clapped his hands and looked around at everyone.
I was substituted out of the game by Mr. Ruskin. Unable to continue playing due to wooziness and a nasty little cut on my forehead, Debbie tapped in for me while Mei Ling helped me into the Ladies’ Room to administer some First Aid. Which made me giggle since Mei Ling was an administrative assistant. When I told her the little joke I was laughing at, she indignantly corrected me: “I’m an Executive Assistant.” “Same difference,” I muttered.
The Ladies’ Room was a vision in pink, mauve, and turquoise. It reminded me of the seraglios depicted in those sword and sandal movies Italian studios produced by the truckload in the ‘50s and ‘60s.
Mei Ling sat me down in a comfy armchair facing the mirrors above the bank of sinks against the far wall. She began to clean the cut on my forehead with a cloth soaked in tap water, dabbing at it gently (it stung but I tried to smile through it), before applying some Neosporin.
“Before you ask, Evie, I’ll tell you. I passed a first aid course and I’ve handled all the minor scrapes and bruises that our office staff have suffered. I know what I’m doing.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it, Mei Ling. Can I ask you a personal question?”
“If you’ll keep your head still while you ask…of course. Now please face forward and don’t move!” She began to wrap a bandage around my forehead. A lot of bandages. A whole lot.
“Your name is Mei Ling but you don’t appear to be Asian much less Chinese. How did you come about that name?”
“You have great powers of observation—”
“I did until you bandaged my eyes.”
“I told you not to move your head! Now look at what you’ve made me do.”
“Here’s an idea. Let’s forego the bandage and you just give me one of them there band-aids. I can put it on myself—”
“I shouldn’t let you, considering you’ve never taken a first aid course—”
“But I have. It’s noted in my resume—”
“Oh, yes, your resume. Look, Evelyn…you may have pulled the wool over Chuck’s eyes but I’ve got my eyes on you. Two to one odds your resume is a tissue of exaggerations and outright lies.”
“It’s passed muster with the HR department—”
“Ha! Your sister Debbie can doctor all the papers and no one would know. But don’t rest easy, Evelyn. I’m on your case. I’ll unearth whatever you’re hiding from everyone. Don’t think you can just shake your pretty ass at Chuck and Mr. Ruskin—”
“I have absolutely no interest in either of them. Maybe you do—”
“I’m just thinking of the welfare of the company. Your band-aid skills suck, by the way.”
“Never mind. You never answered my question. About your name—”
“Okay. Okay. Look, Miss Nosey Pants, someone must have told you I was raised by a single mother. An unwed mother! Sneer. Go ahead. I get that kind of attitude all the time. I’m past it. I’m not going to let you people win!” She broke down in tears. I reached out to her as she turned away, patting her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Mei Ling. I swear I didn’t know. And I don’t look down on you at all.”
She swiveled her head around and there wasn’t a trace of tears on her face. Angrily, she slapped my hand away.
“I was a difficult birth. They had to give mom an epidural. When they asked her what she wanted to name me, she was so groggy that she couldn’t enunciate properly. She told them “Marilyn” but they wrote down “Mei Ling.” Mom was so scattered, being left to take care of a baby by herself at the age of 17, that she never bothered to correct my birth certificate. Later on, she even thought the name was quite “creative” on her part.”
“Oh, I can see why she wanted to name you Marilyn. Your blonde hair and fair skin. Marilyn Monroe—”
“No, she was a big Marilyn Manson fan. She wanted a boy too. You couldn’t possibly understand but I’ve always wished I could have been born a boy instead. Maybe then my mother would have actually loved me.” If only she knew. It’s safe to assume she doesn’t have a clue as to the real secret I’m harboring.
Sitting at a table in the cafeteria, I ate lunch with Debbie and Janet. Kyle, our company chef, had prepared a delicious and varied menu: caprese and Caesar salads, spicy sriracha fish wraps, chicken Caesar wraps, spinach tortilla wraps, and for vegan tastes, smoky grilled guacamole and grilled broccoli salad. I was kidding when I asked Kyle if I could get a doggie bag to take a little bit of everything home with me.
“Just drop by before you leave for the day. I’ll put together something special for you.” He winked at me before going back to the kitchen.
“My sister doesn’t realize her own girl strength. Just tamp it down a little, Evie. These men are bewitched by your charms,” Debbie said, with dramatic emphasis for Janet’s sake.
“Listen, Evie, I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean to make you stumble and fall like that.”
“Janet, it’s nothing. You were just playing good defense. I’m not really hurt. Just a small cut. Anyway, it worked out well for Mr. Ruskin’s team. Debbie scored four touchdowns!”
“I was always the better athlete in the family. Sports just wasn’t my main obsession like it is for Evie.”
“Yeah, you were boy-crazy from the age of 11. Still are.” Turning to Janet, I asked her about Mei Ling.
“What’s the deal with Mei Ling? She seems a little off…know what I mean?”
“You better watch your p’s and q’s around her. She thinks she actually runs the company. Chuck’s really laid back and the sisters aren’t even around that much. They kind of leave day-to-day operations to her. She’s run some people out of here on a whim. Didn’t Debbie tell you?” I gave Debbie the side-eye. “The person you’re replacing was sort of dating Chuck for a while. Nothing really heavy but…she became Mei Ling’s “project” until she had her fired by Misty and Christy. She dug into her past, her present, and even read her future like a psychic. Like a bloodhound picking up a scent. But you’ve got nothing to hide, right?”
I nodded innocently and then threw myself into my salad, feeling beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I’m going to have to change my band-aid after lunch.
Most of the week through Wednesday was spent getting to know my staff of three (a manager, a junior associate, and an assistant) and being introduced to all the other people in all the other departments in the office. Chuck was mostly out of the office, meeting with current clients (the Big Ten College Basketball Conference and Major League Soccer) and prospective new clients (the LPGA and exploratory talks with MLB and the NBA). He told me on Wednesday morning, just before he headed out to meet with promotions people from The Lakers, that Misty and Christy would be in on Thursday morning to speak to both of us about my new marketing ideas, a few of which I discussed with Chuck in my interview. I gulped and told Chuck I’d give him a bullet-pointed memo with my list of ideas when he came back to the office at the end of the day. Kyle personally brought me a thermal carafe of coffee and two red velvet cupcakes when I was typing up the memo on my laptop.
“That’s so nice and thoughtful of you, Kyle. Thank you!”
“Don’t thank me, Evie. Chuck told me to do it before he left this morning. Of course, all you have to do is ask and I’ll give you anything your heart desires…Princess.”
“Princess? Why are you calling me that?”
“Well, whenever Chuck goes out of his way to make requests like that…for someone other than himself…it’s a sure sign that that someone is going to be a pretty, pretty important person in the company. And I like my job.”
“Oh, Chuck’s just being nice. I’m a newbie here.”
“That’s not what Mei Ling says—”
“What did she say?”
“Oh, gotta get back to the kitchen. Enjoy your coffee and the cupcakes!” He almost sprinted away.
Otis picked Debbie and me up after work and drove us back to our apartment on Eastlake Avenue. Debbie was babbling about her day and Otis was playing his favorite music from a thumb drive, ignoring her complaints about today’s lunch menu, her boss’ ripped jeans, and Mei Ling giving her odd looks every time she passed by her cubicle.
Debbie and I had just barely entered our apartment and dumped ourselves like 100-pound sacks of flour onto the couch when the doorbell rang.
Too tired to get up, Debbie yelled in the direction of the front door, “Come in! The door’s unlocked.”
“I can’t. I’ve got both hands full. It’s me, Otis!”
“I’ll let him in,” I told Debbie, who hadn’t given any hint she was about to move. Otis strode into the room, hidden behind a potted indoor plant that was almost four feet tall.
“I thought you girls could use a housewarming gift…like this aspidistra.”
“Two things, Otis,” began Debbie, as she rose to her feet from the couch. “First, I’ve been in this apartment for almost a year so it’s a little late for a “housewarming” gift—”
“Well, Evie only moved in last week—”
“Second, you’ve already filled the apartment with plants. None of which I actually asked you for. Thanks and everything but they’re giving off so much oxygen, I have to escape to the bedroom to clear my head.”
“With Evie sharing the bedroom, it’ll be perfect if I put this in there.” He took a step toward Debbie’s bedroom.
“Otis, I’m sleeping on the sofa here, not the bedroom.”
“I thought you sisters would be sharing a bed, just like you did when you were little munchkins in Disney Princess pj’s.”
“Get that image out of your head, Otis. You’re disgusting,” Debbie declared.
“As soon as I can save enough for a security deposit, I’ll be looking for a bigger place. Sleeping on a sofa is probably going to kill my back.”
Rubbing her hands together, Debbie squealed with joy. “We should start house hunting this weekend. Everyone’s renting in Echo Park these days—”
“Who’s everyone?”
“You know, all the young professional types.”
Still holding the aspidistra in his two hands, Otis interjected, “I’m thinking about getting a place in Echo Park myself. If we pool our resources, we could rent a house with two…uh…three bedrooms and some sizeable acreage. I need room enough for a greenhouse.”
“Otis, just drop the plant over there by the bookcase. And thanks, but Evie and I have to go out in a few minutes so…could you leave now?” She winked at me. I just nodded at Otis and gave him a friendly smile.
“Where are you going? I can drive you—”
“In the van?”
“No, in my Acura—”
Pushing him toward the door, Debbie shook her head. “No, Otis, thanks but no thanks.”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Night.” Debbie exhaled, her back against the front door.
“Add that to your list, Evie. House hunting. And a new car.”
On Thursday afternoon, Misty and Christy Connors and I were seated in a semi-circle facing Chuck, as he fidgeted in his chair behind his messy desk. We were listening to the sisters talking excitedly about the ESPN 30-for-30 profile of themselves they had just screened in the cable sports network’s headquarters in Bristol, Connecticut. The mini documentary traced their soccer careers from high school days in suburban Maywood, California through collegiate heroics at UCLA, two World Cup titles for the USA, professional seasons in Europe and North America, and, finally, owners of The California Surf and Sisters Sportswear.
They passed around pictures from the program, tittering as they pointed out how young and naïve they looked in their high school kits.
“When is this scheduled to premiere?” asked Chuck.
“Next month, they told us, right Christy?”
“The end of the month. The last Thursday. In primetime, unless the NBA finals are still going on. Then they’ll play it after the game ends. Which might work out better since we’ll have a dynamite lead-in—”
“We need to be able to exploit the free publicity that’ll give us. Front of mind awareness makes for the best kind of recency. That’s why I asked Evie to sit in. She’s got some new ideas for brand lines that I think could really help us increase market share by a factor of two, maybe even three.”
“Well, let’s hear these ideas, Evie. Christy, when are we supposed to be at practice?”
“Shit, sis, we’re supposed to be at the stadium in half an hour.”
“Evie, you’re on. Give us your best 10 minutes.”
I cleared my throat, looked down at the notes on my laptop screen, and tried not to rush my words, which I sometimes do when I’m nervous.
“From going over your current client list and what Chuck has told me you have on the front burner in terms of prospective new clients, it occurred to me that you haven’t really exploited the fact that you’re a female-operated business that could more intensively target your natural consumer base…women and their children.”
I took a swig from my water bottle before continuing.
“It’s fine what you’ve done with Women’s Soccer, Tennis, and Golf, but the real goldmine is in the four major men’s sports—football, baseball, basketball, and hockey. I propose we take advantage of servicing the promotional efforts of these sports with customized team logo shirts, jerseys, caps, what have you that are sized and designed for women and their children, both male and female. Male fans are obsessed with replicas of their teams’ uniforms but women and, especially, young girls want to express their fandom in a more, shall we say, fashionable manner. We can begin with t-shirt giveaways on Mother’s Day games in baseball and soccer. Iterations of these designs can then continue to be sold online, at the stadium, and brick and mortar stores—”
“It’ll set us apart from all the other sportswear companies. We’re targeting a specific, underexploited demographic. And the fact that the Connors sisters are the women behind this allows us to parlay your fame and notoriety into legitimacy with these sports entities.” Chuck crossed his arms in front of himself and leaned back in his chair, confident in his assessment of my proposal.
Misty and Christy exchanged looks of approval but were silent for a full two minutes. Finally, Misty stood up and addressed Chuck and me.
“We like it. Isn’t that right, Christy?” Christy nodded agreement and also stood up. “Let’s do this. Prepare a presentation on this, filling in more details, some projected costs, possible revenue streams, a preliminary game plan on how to approach the marketplace with these ideas, who to approach first, etc. I can get Clark to come to the office on Wednesday and we can all decide on whether it’s feasible. Okay? We have to book it to the stadium. See you next week.” They left Chuck’s office and I took another two swigs from my water bottle.
“You did good, Evie.”
“I almost had a heart attack. My heart was beating like a drum. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Well, you looked calm, cool, and collected. Now, we have less than a week to put this presentation together. You have the bright ideas but I can provide you with the ballpark numbers in terms of dollars and cents. I’m going to be traveling tomorrow so we’ll have to get together on Saturday. Let’s do it at my house. It’s a lot less antiseptic than the office and I’ve got a really nice ocean view.” He laughed. “Seriously, it’s a better environment for brainstorming. So, first thing, buy yourself a nice quality wetsuit and I’ll pick you up at 5:30 in the morning on Saturday—”
“I feel like Chico Marx in The Cocoanuts about to ask, ‘Why a Duck?’ So, here goes: Why a wetsuit?”
“Ha ha. I love the Marx Brothers. I think we have similar taste in comedy. I bet you’re a Monty Python girl. Eh?” I just blinked. “I live near Newport Beach and I try to surf most weekends. I’m a California kid, Evie. The lure of the ocean, you know?”
“I’ve never surfed before. Maybe I’ll just sit on the beach and watch you—”
“I’ll teach you to bodysurf. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
“But 5:30 in the morning?”
“Best waves are right after sunrise. And they don’t allow surfing after 11AM. Anyway, ask Mei Ling to give you a corporate credit card. Charge it to the company. Right. See you Saturday morning, bright and very early.”
“You mean Marilyn?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
When I told Mei Ling that Chuck wanted her to give me a corporate credit card, she didn’t believe me (naturally). After confirming with Chuck over the phone, she reluctantly handed me a card and told me to put my John Hancock on the sign-out sheet.
“People think there’s no credit limit on that card but there really is. Any purchases you make will be closely scrutinized for legitimate company reasons—”
“By whom?”
“Me.” Her eyes burned into mine, her lips curling into a sneer.
“You need help,” I muttered as I walked back to my office.
“That looks nice on you,” Chuck said as I stumbled out of the darkness into the passenger side of his Honda Passport, still only half-awake at 5:30 in the morning. I was wearing a white full-length cardigan cover-up over my newly purchased wetsuit.
“What? This old thing? No, really, it’s my sister’s. She said it’s light but covers everything nicely.”
“Well, it fits you perfectly.”
“Fits?” I laughed. “I’m as flat as the surfboard you’ve got latched onto the roof rails of this car. My mother was small-breasted. As far as I can remember. She died when I was 12.”
“Sorry to hear that. It must have been tough for you and Debbie, growing up without a mother. Here,” he handed me a cup of hot coffee. “This’ll wake you up. We’ll eat after surfing. More like brunch than breakfast.” I yawned, my mouth an open chasm. Too late to stifle it.
“Sorry about that. Wasn’t too ladylike, was it?”
“You yawn beautifully. Just like everything else you do.”
“Chuck, just drive. How long will it take to get to the beach?”
“At this time of day, with no traffic? 40, 45 minutes at the most. What kind of music do you want?”
“Whatever you like. Surprise me.”
“Okay, you asked for it.” He pushed a thumb drive into the player.
“Surf rock? How predictable.”
“It gets me in the mood to ride the wild surf. You know, waves can reach 30 feet high at The Wedge—”
“You’re not going to get killed before I even finish a week on the job, are you?”
“There’re lifeguards on duty. And the biggest waves don’t happen until late September when they have the annual competitions. Waves are pretty tame this time of year.”
“Just wake me when we get there—”
There were only a handful of surfers there when we clambered down to the beach from where Chuck had parked behind the pavilion. The Wedge was at the very end of the Balboa Peninsula and at the mouth of Newport Harbor. The jetty and the harbor mouth produced the massive waves that made The Wedge one of the most revered locales for surfers and surfing aficionados. The sun had barely risen above the horizon when Chuck handed me the bag with all our towels and other beach paraphernalia and ran into the surf, his surfboard aimed at the waves. With both hands full, I found a spot and placed my bodyboard down on the sand, fins up as Chuck had advised, spread out a beach blanket, and gingerly sat down to watch Chuck’s water follies.
While I rummaged through the bag for some suntan lotion, one of the lifeguards walked over and started to chat me up.
“You’re new. I’ve never seen you with Chuck before—”
“I work with Chuck. We’re not, you know, seeing each other—”
“Nice work if you can get it. I’ve heard of working from home but working from the beach?”
“It’s not what it looks like. He said he has to surf before he can get down to work. What’s it to you anyway?”
“I’m Everett. That’s Willie up on the tower over there.” He pointed behind his left shoulder. “The two of us handle this end of the beach. And you’re…”
“Evie. Nice to meet you, Everett.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way but when I was in elementary school, they’d make fun of me by calling me Evie…like a girl’s name. Like your name. I mean, it’s a nice name…for a girl.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be watching out for drowning victims?”
“Willie’s got me covered. I’m on a short break. Need some help with the lotion? There are places it’s hard to reach.”
“I’m wearing a wetsuit. I was going to put some lotion on my face. I think I’m fully capable of reaching my nose.”
Chuck emerged from the water, climbing onto the beach with his board under one arm, trotting toward us.
“Hey, Everett, how’s it hanging?”
“Hey, Chuck, just chatting with Evie here. She a virgin?”
“What?” I spluttered, almost poking my eye out with a lotion covered finger.
“He means new to surfing, Evie. Not that…other thing.”
“Yeah, I mean, the way you look, I wouldn’t think you were, you know, that kind of virgin.”
“Keep digging.”
“Oh, hey, my break’s over. Back to the tower. Be careful kids, water’s kind of choppy today.”
“Evie, want some bodysurfing lessons?”
“Do I really have a choice?” Chuck shook his head and held his free hand out to me. I slipped swim fins onto my feet and picking up my bodyboard, I waddled after him into the shallows.
For the next hour or so, I had my first surfing experience. Chuck showed me how to place my prone body onto the board in the most hydrodynamic arrangement: both hands gripping the nose of the board, elbows on the board not off in space, my lower belly right on top of the tail, and my legs and feet remaining together like a mermaid’s tailfin. We paddled out to where we could stand in the water up to a little above our waists and sat on our boards, waiting for one of the subsiding waves to push us toward the beach.
I’m a fairly good swimmer, unlike Debbie, who only goes to the beach to model skimpy bikinis and get ogled by boys, never getting wet. So, it didn’t faze me when half of the time in the beginning, I would be tossed off my board by the force of the waves crashing into the shallows. Each time, I’d get up, wade into the water up to my waist, get back in the saddle on my board, and anticipate the next wave coming in. I started getting pretty good at riding the surf. I wondered if I’d ever dare to try doing what Chuck did, attacking 20-foot waves while balancing himself on his surfboard with the stoicism of The Silver Surfer from Marvel Comics. I looked to my left and Chuck was smiling at me, giving me a thumbs up.
We took a breather around 9AM, toweling off and laughing at some silly Monty Python skit Chuck had memorized word for word.
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise…surprise and fear—”
“Excuse me for interrupting your delightful rehearsal. I take it you’re Torquemada, the notorious Grand Inquisitor—”
“No, Cardinal Ximenez—”
“Cardinal Ximenez? Of course, Francisco Ximenez de Cisneros. He’s a later Grand Inquisitor. He’s barely mentioned in Sabatini’s history of the Inquisition. Perhaps there’s been some recent scholarship. After all, it’s been decades since my college course in—”
“It’s a Monty Python sketch.”
“Sorry, I’ve never heard of this Monty Python. Intriguing name for a history scholar, though.”
I had stopped laughing at Chuck’s spot-on Michael Palin impression. Long enough to take a good look at our pedantic interloper. He was a bald man in his late 40s with a full beard, wearing an incongruous ensemble of a pinstriped blazer, faded jeans, a light blue button-down shirt, and moccasin slippers. Strange outfit for beachcombing. Rather, he looked like he’d stepped out of his room in the Hyatt Hotel just up the peninsula and gotten lost on his way back.
“Let me introduce myself. I’m Daniel Dantley, the film director.” We gave him blank looks. “Well, I’m in pre-production for a new series on GlobalNet. You’ve heard of GlobalNet? Good. It’s a sequel to a movie I directed almost a decade ago, Newport’s a Beach. It was nominated for a Golden Globe.” More blank looks. “The new series is going to pick up the lives of the main characters ten years down the road. So I’m doing a little location scouting. Things haven’t changed that much in ten years. But I’m looking to cast new faces, new talent. Besides the original actors are asking for the moon in salary. GlobalNet’s got a tight budget on this one. TV is downscale from theatrical, you know? Guess you don’t. To get to the point, I couldn’t help but watch the two of you for the better part of an hour, frolicking in the water. Such a cute couple you make. Are you together?”
“We’re co-workers,” Chuck answered.
“You know where I can get a job like yours? Just joking. I love filmmaking. It’s my raison d’etre…” He was silent for a few second. “Have you ever considered acting? I have an eye for talent and you two would be naturals to play Rick and Suzy, ten years after.”
“Believe me, Dan, I’ve no desire to act. I’m quite happy doing what I’m doing.”
Turning to me, Dantley asks “And what about you? You’re definitely pretty enough.”
“I’m flattered but I’ve never even thought about acting. I probably wouldn’t be very good at it. I get nervous in large groups of people. I don’t like people staring at me.”
“That surprises me but whatever. How could I get in touch with you should I insist on getting you to change your mind?” He laughed. “Your business number is fine.”
“Go ahead, Evie. It might be a good opportunity for you. Can’t hurt to look into it.”
“Really, Chuck? You wouldn’t mind?”
“A lot of people have a side hustle these days.”
I dipped into my purse to find the CAA card Juan Moskowitz had given me at the dog park. I figured this Dantley character is never going to call me anyway. He’ll forget about me between now and tonight’s cocktail hour. Just in case he does pursue this, he can speak to Juan. People at CAA will know if this guy is the real deal or a nutjob.
“He’s my agent.” I gave Dantley the card. “Juan Moskowitz. CAA. You’ve heard of them?”
“Of course. I see you’ve been playing coy with me, Miss…uh…what’s your last name?”
“Rivers. Evie Rivers.”
“Oh, I’m meeting someone at 10 back at the hotel. Please excuse me but I better make my way back. I’ll be in touch, Evie.” He hurried away.
“I think the CAA card scared him off. He can’t be who he says he is, right? Is there a sanitarium near here?”
“Yeah, probably an escapee. Ha ha. But how’d you get an agent at CAA?”
“I didn’t. Debbie and I were hanging out at a dog park in the arts district when this young guy tried to pick us up. He gave me this card. I haven’t heard from him and I hope I don’t. Debbie likes him though. Thinks he’s cute.”
“Let’s get some more surfing in before they shut it down at 11. Ready?”
We picked up our boards and, as before, I waddled after Chuck into the water.
We washed the sand and sea salt off our wetsuits and out of our hair, standing underneath the outdoor showers by the pier. Then we changed clothes in the public restrooms. I almost followed Chuck into the men’s rooms before correcting myself and going in the opposite direction. Chuck smirked at me. He thought I was worn out from bodysurfing and a little dizzy.
By this time in the morning, the beach was pretty crowded and I had to wait for an available stall. I did get a few compliments on my wetsuit. Two girls asked me where I bought it. Another asked me how long I’d been dating Chuck. I was starting to turn red with all the attention and me being an ersatz female in their midst. Although, I had to admit I’d become very convincing as a woman over the last two weeks. Maybe dad and Consuela are right. I’m a girl. I’ve always been a girl it seems.
Chuck recommended having brunch at the Hyatt Regency up the peninsula.
“I’ve eaten there a few times. The Huevos Rancheros is pretty good. If you like seafood, you could try the ceviche—”
“That’s raw fish!”
“Or not. You can always order a burger.”
Out of the corner of my eye as I climbed into Chuck’s car, I thought I saw Mei Ling sitting in a dark blue Honda Civic, parked in a corner of the lot. I poked Chuck in the shoulder and directed his eyes toward what I’d seen.
“Is that Mei Ling? In the blue Honda. Does she live around here? Is she an heiress or something? What’s the average rental around these parts?”
“There’s no one in the car.” I looked and he was right. I could swear she was sitting there just 30 seconds ago. “And, as far as I know, she lives in North Hollywood. That’s a long way from here.”
“I guess I really am wasted from surfing all morning.”
“You need some food. A little caloric intake at the hotel will get you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again. You’ll need some energy for the work we’ll be doing in the afternoon.”
I leaned back in my seat and exhaled. Chuck maneuvered out of the crowded parking lot and turned right onto East Balboa Boulevard. In the rearview mirror I saw the blue Honda following us a hundred yards or so behind. The driver hid their eyes behind sunglasses but the cornsilk blonde hair made me certain it was Mei Ling. Isn’t this usually when the Bernard Herrmann score creeps in, with its foreboding half-diminished minor 7th chords?
I could see the audience filing in on the green expanse beyond the patio of The Hyatt Regency Resort Hotel. Chuck and I were waiting for our brunch orders but the delay was understandable. The hotel café was packed. Add the Jazz Festival attendees to the normal weekend brunch crowd and you get some highly stressed waitpersons.
“With the Jazz Festival going on this weekend, how did you imagine we could finagle a table for brunch?”
Chuck took off his Ray-Bans and chuckled before answering. “My parents were regulars here. They had brunch or dinner at this hotel almost every weekend when my sisters and I were growing up. It sounds conceited but I just have to show them my handsome face and they give me a table with the best view—”
“Your parents. Are they still…”
“No, they were killed in a car crash on the PCH coming back from Santa Barbara after Labor Day about six years ago. Five car pile-up. The police think it was a collapsed suspension on the car in the rear of the pile-up.”
“I’m so sorry, Chuck. I didn’t know. Did you guys live near Newport Beach?”
“Corona del Mar. Just down the coast, about a 10-minute drive from here. I still live in the house. My sisters, of course, have their own homes now.”
“This area is so…so—”
“Expensive? Yeah, lots of nouveau riche AND old money.”
“Which one are you?”
“Old money. My grandfather’s company built like a million tract houses after the second World War all over Southern California. My dad was a gentleman scholar. He was an archivist at The Huntington Library in San Marino. Medieval British manuscripts was his particular field of study. Chaucer and Old English bawdy humor.”
We ate mostly in silence, peering out at the festival crowd now and again. Some jazz band I wasn’t familiar with was warming up. They played something I’d heard before but couldn’t tell you the name of it or who originally recorded it if my life depended on it.
“Breezin’ is the name of the song. You’ve probably heard George Benson’s version of it. But it was written by Bobby Womack and first recorded by Womack and Gábor Szabó—”
“I like jazz. Well, some of it. Like smooth jazz.” I stopped babbling. “You must think I’m a real ditz. Guess the only things I’m knowledgeable about are baseball and marketing…”
“You’re a charming woman, Evie. Honest, smart, and very pretty. Excuse me. That was inappropriate—”
“Oh, no, I’m…flattered. No one’s ever told me I was pretty.”
“I can’t believe that. I take back the “honest” part.”
“No, it’s true.”
“You must have been the cutest little girl. I can picture it, just looking at you now.”
Trying to change the subject, I asked what I thought was a random question.
“You live alone? In a big house like that? I mean, unless your parents lived in one of your grandfather’s tract houses…in Corona del Mar, of all places.”
“I’m not married or cohabiting with anyone, if that’s what you’re wondering—”
“Just curious. I didn’t mean to get personal.”
“I’m not offended. Actually, I’m glad you broke the ice. May I ask you the same question?”
“Currently, I’m living with Debbie—”
“I know that. Mei Ling told me that you were involved with Richie Morrow, the pitcher on The Titans. You two still together?”
“That Mei Ling is a real gossip monger—”
“She showed me the articles in The New York Post online.”
“Just because we’re in a photo together…”
“Okay, let’s not discuss that any further. Maybe one day you’ll see me as someone you can safely confide in and tell me what caused the break-up—”
“We didn’t break up…I mean, we were never together…in that way. Oh, the chocolate banana bread looks so yummy. Let’s order dessert.”
Despite his outwardly nonchalant, surfer dude demeanor, Chuck was a pleasure to work with. He had a real grasp of the financial parameters of his sisters’ business and the sportswear marketplace. While I spit out my selling concepts, he adroitly plugged in dollar figures that made it convincingly feasible to project a successful outcome.
The brainstorming session lasted until early evening when I told Chuck I had enough to put together a strong presentation for Clark Ruskin the following week.
“Are you hungry? I could just drive you straight home but there’s a really nice place on the waterfront on the way back called The Rusty Pelican. The best surf and turf in these parts. And that’s saying something—”
“Well, I am starving. As long as they don’t actually serve their namesake…”
As Chuck pulled his other car (a snazzy iridium silver Lexus RX) out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of Mei Ling’s Honda Civic parked a hundred yards away across the street. She should really wear a babushka when she’s out tailing people. Her cornsilk blonde mane gives her away every time.
I spent all of Sunday on Debbie’s couch aka my bed, writing the presentation on my laptop, my notes from Saturday’s session with Chuck spread out on the floor in front of me. Serendipitously, Otis came by in the morning to take Debbie to go picking at the weekend flea market in Topanga, northwest of Los Angeles in the Santa Monica Mountains. They left in his van. Enough room in the rear to bring back some gnarly vintage end tables or shabby chic dressers. When we find a bigger place, I’m not taking Debbie’s flea market finds with us.
When the new work week started, I discovered that my manager, Dulcie, was a whiz at graphics, taking my words and visual ideas and turning them into a PowerPoint deck that made Chuck whistle when I showed it to him. Now, it was a matter of impressing Clark Ruskin well enough to have him and Chuck’s sisters give us the green light to take it on the sales road.
I ran into Mei Ling on Wednesday morning as she was straightening up the smaller conference room where Chuck and I were scheduled to do our dog and pony show for Clark Ruskin and the Connors sisters in fifteen minutes. She was inserting a thumb drive into the usb slot of the room’s sound system, just about to press play when I cleared my throat.
“Did you have a nice time shadowing me on Saturday?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Evelyn.”
“And what’s the idea of spreading rumors about me and Richie Morrow?”
“It’s a matter of public record or don’t you pay attention to the news media?”
“I don’t know what you have against me, Mei Ling, but can we just agree to keep out of each other’s way?”
“Part of my job as Executive Assistant is to make sure this office runs smoothly. That includes the vetting of any employees who might cause harm to the company…or its officers.”
I was about to sputter some kind of acerbic rejoinder when she pressed play. A second elapsed before the first notes extruded from the room’s speakers.
“What the heck is that?”
“Mr. Ruskin always requests we play this when he has a meeting in this office. It’s inspirational music, from the soundtrack of Inception, the Chris Nolan film.”
“Inspirational? We don’t need no stinkin’ inspiration—”
“It’s not for you. It’s for Mr. Ruskin. His therapist says inspirational music puts his mind in the right frame to think productively. That’s how he was able to give up smoking.”
“Tobacco?”
“No, weed, silly.”
Chuck and I got through the presentation with nary a misstep, notwithstanding having to gnash our teeth as the music periodically rose, swelled, and fell. Mr. Ruskin approved. At least we believe so. He mostly sat back and smiled beatifically at us, paying closer attention to the music than the recitative that Chuck and I had rehearsed for hours the day before.
Hands were shaken, smiles exchanged, even an unexpected hug from Mr. Ruskin. Oddly, he didn’t hug Chuck or even his own wife Misty. The three of them walked briskly to the elevator and disappeared as if in a puff of smoke.
“That went really well, don’t you think? Mr. Ruskin didn’t say much though…”
“He’s the strong, silent type. Mostly silent. Except when he’s talking about football. We’re going to send this over to Freminger. They do all our corporate sales videos. Have Dulcie work with them on it. She’ll like spending some time outside of the office. But the video won’t be ready for a while. In the meantime, I’m going to set up our first sales call. See if you can tailor that pitch toward The Dodgers. I’ll try for a meeting first thing next week. Won’t be the first time you’ve been in a major league stadium, right?”
A frisson ran down my back as I remembered I’d sent my resume to The Dodgers a couple of months ago. I hope they don’t put 2 and 2 together. Oh, heck, who am I kidding? Too late to turn back now. But wait a minute, the marketing department probably has very little interaction with baseball operations. They might not even realize who I am.
“Good job, Evie. Thanks for making me look good in front of my sisters and Clark for hiring you. I should take you out for dinner later this week to celebrate. I mean, your department. All four of you.” He patted me on the back and went back to his office. I smiled at his praise but when I looked up, I saw Mei Ling, arms akimbo, giving me the stink eye.
I was still basking in the afterglow from that morning’s “inspirational” presentation when Kyle, our handsome chef, prepared a special afternoon tea for me and my tiny department. Earl Gray tea and blueberry scones, warm and buttery. A voice call came in on my phone. It was from Juan Moskowitz, the agent trainee from CAA whom Debbie and I had met at the Dog Park two weekends ago.
“Hello, Juan. The answer is no—”
“Wait, I haven’t even asked my question yet—”
“I’m not interested in modeling. Now, in the future, or ever. I’m quite happy in my current career. Today was a great day for me, in fact.”
“This isn’t about modeling, although I still think you should re-consider. CAA handles a lot of supermodels like Bridget Lanier, Molly Trask, Zalika Olanrewaju…”
“No means no, Juan.”
“I’ve heard that before, Evie. I’m pretty persistent.”
“I’m in mid-bite on a delicious blueberry scone, Juan. Get to your point already.”
“Daniel Dantley, the film director, called me about you. Said you told him I was your agent. Now, that’s not really official…but I’m more than overjoyed to represent you. This Dantley dude is casting for that new GlobalNet series and he thinks you’re perfect…ly hot. We’ve got him on the hook, Evie. This could launch your acting career!”
“Oh, that old guy? At the beach? Yeah, I gave him your card so he’d leave us alone—”
“Us? Who’s us?”
“Chuck Connors, my boss. He took me surfing at Newport Beach. It was a lot of fun but exhausting—”
“You work for Chuck Connors? And he took you surfing? Wow, you move fast. You told me you haven’t been in town for more than two weeks. Be careful with Connors. He’s dated dozens of actresses and models, a lot of them repped by CAA too—”
“It’s really none of your business but Chuck and I have a work relationship, nothing more. I really don’t care who he’s dated.”
“Anyway, just thought I’d warn you. Here’s the thing. This Dantley guy is the real deal. But it’s a GlobalNet production and they have final say on casting. You have no credits, no demo reel, not even some pro shots. You’re going to have to do a cold audition in front of the GlobalNet people. So, here’s my plan on how to get that audition—”
“Juan, I’m not interested in acting.”
“Your stars have aligned perfectly, Evie. There’s a charity event to raise funds for The Children’s Hospital on Sunset. A lot of entertainment and sports entities buy tables for it. CAA has three tables. I’ve been asked, I mean ordered, to attend. GlobalNet’s going to have a table as well. And Alastair Knowles, the head of production, is odds-on attending.”
“What’s this have to do with me?”
“Well…you could meet Knowles, make a solid impression, maybe even schedule that audition—”
“And not that I have any desire to meet this Knowles guy, but would I just crash the party without an invite or ticket?”
“No, you’d come…as my date?”
“What? Is this some deranged way of asking me out?”
“Well, yes, I mean no. You’d technically be my date but unofficially you’re also my client. You see? Knowles sees you at the CAA table and is more conducive to considering you for Dantley’s series—”
“I don’t have anything to wear to something like that! Even if I wanted to go…”
“I thought about that, Evie. And I pulled some favors. My dad used to work for GlobalNet in their legal department and, through him, I got the costume mistress at the studio to fix up an evening gown, or whatever you girls call it, for you. She can do the fitting and have it ready by Friday, perfect for the charity gala. I’ll pick you up at your office in an hour. See you then!”
He disconnected. I stared at my phone, unbelieving. Did I just accept a date with Juan and a fitting for an evening gown to boot? I didn’t recall the word “yes” coming from between my lips. Dulcie looked at me, puzzled by my expression and my end of the conversation she’d just overheard.
“You act too, Evie? You didn’t tell us that. Wow, that’s one thing Mei Ling didn’t find out about you. Oops, I wasn’t supposed to mention that…”
“No, I don’t act too. That’s just some crazy guy I met at a Dog Park. He’s an agent trainee at CAA. He thinks he can get me an audition for a show on GlobalNet. Like I said, he’s crazy.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Evie. You’re beautiful.” She lowered her voice. “I think you’re prettier than Debbie. Don’t tell her that, please.”
When a really cute young man comes calling at an office full of mostly young women, there’s bound to be a lot of rubbernecking, wide-eyed gazes, and a sound cloud of variants of “who is that?” So it was when Juan Moskowitz strolled down the hallway as I was gathering my things together to leave the office with him. Debbie stood by my side and waved at Juan when he approached us. She whispered, “I officially hate my sister.”
“Hey, Evie. Debbie. Are you ready to get fitted for your party dress?”
“I don’t know how you talked me into this—”
“Don’t fight it, Evie. You’re going to be a star!”
Juan and I walked to the elevator like running a gauntlet. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed us as Juan kept his hand gently positioned on the small of my back. We passed the ever-vigilant Mei Ling, arms akimbo once again.
“Leaving early, Evelyn?”
“It’s okay, Mei Ling. Chuck said I could. Have a nice evening…shadowing me.”
“As if. I’ve got better things to do.”
“We’ll see.”
It’s a half-hour drive from the Sisters Sportswear offices to the Sunset Bronson Studios where Juan’s co-conspiratorial costume mistress waited to fit me for the evening gown she had chosen from the infinite racks of dresses stored in the costume department. I was nervous, of course. How intrusive would this fitting be? Would I have to strip naked? That would be problematic.
After the perfunctory greetings and introductions, Juan left me alone with Peg Somersby, a somewhat heavy-set woman in her early 60s with a faded hippie glory fashion sense, flower print bandana and all. Taking my hand, she smiled and said, with a distinct British accent, “Don’t be nervous, dear. Is this your first gala?”
“First and hopefully last.”
“Really? Why do you say that?”
“Juan talked me into this. I’m not looking to be an actress. Some crazy old dude wants to cast me in some drama series—”
“Oh, yes, Daniel Dantley. Eccentric bird but talented. You should be flattered. He’s a fine judge of screen talent. Now, if you’ll just go behind that screen and strip down to your bra and panties. You’re not going commando, are you?”
“Peg, I should just lay it all out in the open. You see. I’m not your average, normal woman.”
“None of us are, dear. There’s an actress whose name shall not escape my lips who can only have sex while dressed in a clown suit, honking a horn when she climaxes—”
“No, I don’t mean that kind of…boy, that’s weird. I mean I’m not nearly the woman people think I am—”
“No one can live up to other people’s expectations all the time. Nobody’s perfect.”
“I’m a man!”
“Oh, that’s what you mean. Well, it does come as a bit of a surprise but, sweetie, in 40 years of dressing and undressing hundreds of actresses, you’re not the first trans girl I’ve seen nor probably the last. You wouldn’t believe some of the big names who had a little extra down there but no one ever found out. You’re very beautiful, Evie. Your secret is safe with me.”
“So you won’t tell Juan, will you?”
“I’m thinking he’ll find out sooner rather than later himself. After all, the two of you are dating, no?”
“No, I keep meeting men who want to date me. And all I want to do is have a career doing what I got a degree in, marketing.”
“That could be a problem. You know, you could just say no to these men. I’ve heard it works most of the time.”
“You’re right. I just have to put my foot down. Enough with this rubbish.”
“That’s the spirit, girl. Now, please strip down to your underwear. I’ll also see if I can find a better fitting padded bra for you. You wouldn’t believe how many big-name actresses are--”
Chuck wanted to take the marketing department (all four of us) to a celebratory dinner at the trendy new bistro at the edge of Venice and Santa Monica, Coucou, on Friday night. I was about to explain why Friday was a no-go when Dulcie spilled.
“Oh, Friday’s not a good night, Chuck. At least for Evie. She’s going to that gala for The Children’s Hospital at the Beverly Hilton with her boyfriend Juan Moskowitz. He’s an agent at CAA.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, Dulcie.”
“So you’re following up on that director fellow’s proposition? Good for you. Good luck with that. Of course, I’d rather you not get the part and continue working for us but when Hollywood calls—”
“Chuck, I’m just doing this as a favor for Juan. He’s sort of a friend of Debbie’s really. He needs a date for the gala and he wants to network with the people from GlobalNet. I’m just an excuse for him to lay some pipe for future dealings—”
“Evie, you might want to re-think using that phrase.”
“Oh my god. I didn’t mean THAT!” Covering the spreading blush on my cheeks, I exclaimed, “That reminds me. I have to pick up my dress for the gala tonight.”
“I’ll drive you over there. The Sunset Bronson Studios, right?”
“You don’t have to do that, Chuck.”
“No, I do. How else will I get to see you in the dress you’ll be wearing to the gala?”
“I’m not modeling the dress for you, Chuck!”
“I’m driving you. Quid pro quo.” Chuck crossed his arms in front and smirked.
Debbie, laughing, slapped me on the back. “There you go, Evie. Ipso facto.”
“I don’t think that means what you think it does.”
I didn’t expect to be surrounded by paparazzi and the full panoply of media when Juan and I set foot in the Beverly Hilton Hotel. I tried to double time it toward the ballroom (wearing heels that made that very risky) but Juan pulled me back to allow the cameras to capture our likenesses for the teeming millions around the world. Juan had to shout to answer their questions like “Who are you?” and “What have you been seen in?”
While Juan was in his element, smiling and keeping a tight hold on my arm, I almost cowered from the cameras and the shouting media morons. The photo that made the rounds online and in the trade papers showed a frightened young woman escorted by a self-assured, grinning soon-to-be wunderkind of the agency machine.
Just my luck but the captions all pointed out my “come hither” look. Truthfully, I was dazed by all the lights and the shouting. I was close to puking my guts out. Fortunately, I was able to hold it down until we made it to the CAA table to which we were assigned. After chugging half a glass of water, I had to make small talk with the other people at our table, including Margaret, the senior agent Juan was training under. She asked me a lot of questions that I attempted to answer as evasively as possible. Her husband looked so bored, I thought he was going to fall face down in his gazpacho. Meanwhile, Juan was scouting out the room, searching for Alastair Knowles. He wasn’t at the GlobalNet table. I pulled out my phone and called up the live stream of the event to check for late arrivals. The only problem was I had no idea what Alastair Knowles looked like. Suddenly, Juan practically screamed in my left ear and pointed at the screen of my phone.
“That’s him. That’s Alastair. These Hollywood types always like to be fashionably late.”
There he was, walking leisurely up the drive toward the hotel entrance, hand in hand with his wife Joanne Prentiss.
There was an hour of speeches, interspersed with some genial stand-up comedy from Rip Seward, star of the sitcom Baby Mama’s Family on GlobalNet. He had risen to fame in a number of hip-hop comedy films in the ought’s with a brand of humor not safe for family viewing. Now cast as the harried father of the baby mama in the title, he was perceived as a stern but loving parent whose daughter has moved back home as a single mother with a child of her own.
A number of film and TV stars gave brief testimonials about their support for the Children’s Hospital but the most heart-rending and inspirational speeches were given by the doctors who practiced there in the various departments. The most compelling one for me, as you can guess, was the speech given by Dr. Jocelyn Petry, a pediatric endocrinologist. She worked with adolescents who were experiencing severe gender dysphoria. As she recounted some case histories of patients who touched her beyond her professional involvement with them, I was on the verge of tears, my own feelings erupting as she spoke. The audience did not react to her with the solemnity they had evinced with other doctors’ anecdotes. There was a lot more loud eating and conversation going on and I was getting annoyed. Juan noticed my discomfort.
“Something wrong? Yeah, it’s strange they included this. They’ve gotten a lot of push-back from donors on this new department. Not too popular with the crowd here tonight either.”
“It’s not that. Personally, I think it’s really nice that these kids are getting some serious medical attention. I wish…I mean it must be so confusing being dysphoric when you’re that age…or any age. I know someone who must have been going through that in their teens.”
“Really? Can’t say I’ve ever met a trans person. Would be very interesting. Even fascinating. By the way. She’s dating Eliot Bradshaw, the Laker that won the Sixth Man Award last season.” He nodded his head in the direction of the Lakers’ table. Bradshaw was sitting there giving Dr. Petry his full attention while the others busily devoured their dinners. Now I remember seeing them come in on the live stream just before Alastair and his wife.
She left the stage to tepid applause and walked back to the Lakers’ table but stopped when she reached the GlobalNet contingent and hugged both Alastair Knowles and his wife Joanne.
“Oh, yeah, Alastair’s wife Joanne is Eliot Bradshaw’s stepmother. Previous marriage.”
“They’re producing a semi-autobiographical film about Joanne’s life. She’s a transwoman,” interjected Margaret as she sipped her Pinot Noir. “When she was still a man, she lived with Dr. Petry’s mother. After she transitioned, she was married to a woman, Eliot Bradshaw’s biological mother. Now she’s married to Alastair Knowles. Just recently. Honey, didn’t they have the wedding in France?” She nudged her husband, who just shook his head before knocking back the last of his wine.
For those inclined, there’s always dancing at these galas. After the speechifying was over, the dance floor was cleared for all the willing couples to show off their terpsichorean skills. Juan pulled me from my chair as soon as he saw Alastair and Joanne begin to trip the light fantastic. Moving awkwardly to the cocktail jazz being played by a live band, Juan maneuvered us across the floor until we were an arm’s length from the pair.
“Alastair? Alastair Knowles?”
“Yes? I hear voices, Jo. It’s the beginning of the end.”
“Mr. Knowles. I’m Juan Moskowitz. With CAA? Daniel Dantley contacted me about a client of mine. Evie Rivers.” He nodded to me but kept leading me in our desultory box stepping. “He’s very interested in casting her in his new series on GlobalNet—"
“Yes, I do recall Danny mentioning someone he ran across on Newport Beach. Bodysurfing. Was that you?” He looked straight at me. I gulped.
“Well, yes, but it’s all a misunderstanding. I’m not an actress. Never wanted to be. I was just out with a friend learning how to bodysurf.”
“Some friend. Chuck Connors, Alastair…if I may call you that.”
“Ah, Chuck. Yes, God’s gift to Hollywood starlets. I’ve told you about him, Jo, remember?”
“Lots, Alastair. So, are you dating? Boyfriend, girlfriend?”
“No, I work for him. At Sisters Sportswear. I’m Director of Marketing.”
“Evie would love to audition for a part, Alastair.”
“I would? No, I mean, I wouldn’t. Not interested in acting.”
This is where Juan showed me his “dipping” move. As I was bent over backwards, my hair almost touching the dance floor, he whispered quite emphatically, “Yes you do. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Lana Turner was discovered sucking on an ice cream soda in Schwab’s. You just got discovered bodysurfing on Newport Beach. Same difference. Ipso facto.”
“I don’t think that means what you think it does.”
Suddenly, I saw the upside down (in my p.o.v.) face of Alastair Knowles hovering above me.
“Better let her up, Juan. She’s turning beet red. All the blood’s going to her head.”
Juan pulled me straight up, woozy and stumbling. I stepped on Juan’s foot, stabbing his arch with the heel of my shoe. He yelped with pain. Well, Peg had advised me to put my foot down and I certainly did.
“When the two of you finally come to some sort of meeting of the minds on this, you can call my assistant at the office and make an appointment for an audition. We’re going to try to cast this epic within the month. To be honest, I think you have serious potential, Evie. Don’t you think so, Jo?”
“I can’t put my finger on it but, yes, she has something. Something ineffable.”
“And she’s…oww…beautiful. Don’t forget…oww…that! Come on, Evie, I need to sit…oww…down.”
Juan put his arm across my shoulders and I helped him limp back to our table. The pain in his foot didn’t stop him from talking a blue streak of winning bravado.
“That was so easy, Evie. And thanks for playing hard to get. It always pushes their buttons when you act like you’re not even interested in getting cast. Most of the time people crawl on their bellies like a snake to beg for a chance. When you seem like you don’t even give a shit, it kills them. Nicely played, babe.”
“Juan, I really don’t care. And I’m not going to go to this audition. I’m busy enough as it is with my real job. Let’s just let it go. You’ve impressed Margaret tonight and even Mr. Knowles. Isn’t that enough?”
“They’re out of earshot now. You can drop the act—”
We bumped into another couple on the dance floor. Before looking up, both Juan and I apologized profusely.
“Evie? Funny seeing you here.” It was Clark Ruskin! And he was dancing with Mei Ling!
“It’s even funnier seeing you here…dancing with Mei Ling.”
“Misty couldn’t be here. The Surf are playing in Vancouver tonight. Mei Ling was kind enough to give up her Friday night to accompany me to the gala. We’re at the Drillers’ table. Why let a $3,000 seat go to waste?”
“I’ll buy that for a dollar.”
“You won’t tell anyone about this, will you, Evie?” implored Mei Ling, the fake vulnerability oozing from her sad expression.
“Shoes on the other foot now. Quid pro quo. You stop trying to dig up something on me and I’ll keep my lips zipped about this little affaire de coeur. Shake?”
Reluctantly, she shook my hand. But those steely blue eyes never blinked.
“Man, you’re a bear to deal with. I’d hate to get on the wrong side of you,” Juan declared, still wincing from the arch I stabbed with my heel.
Moving him to the other side of me, his dead weight starting to noticeably drag the padded bra Peg loaned me down my right side, I continued to help him to our table.
“You’re pretty strong for a girl. Did you ever play any sports?”
The morning after the charity gala, Debbie literally dragged me out of bed (actually the couch).
As I landed on the floor with a dull thud, still wearing the outfit I wore to the gala, I protested groggily.
“Let me sleep, Debbie. It’s Saturday. Where’s the fire?”
“Otis is going to pick us up in an hour. We’re going to Six Flags Magic Mountain!”
“I don’t wanna go! I wanna sleep!”
“You can’t. On the way to the park, you’ve got to tell me all about the gala. Like did you hook up with that GlobalNet dude?”
“Who? Alastair Knowles?”
“Yeah…”
“Oh, him, yeah, Juan’s supposed to call him to schedule an audition for me—”
“Oh, wow! My sister’s going to be a TV star!”
“No way, Jose. I keep telling everyone. I have no interest in acting—”
“Cover your mouth when you yawn. It’s not ladylike—”
“Well, neither am I—”
“The only person who doesn’t think you’re a girl is…you.”
“So why are we going to Six Flags? Why not Disneyland? I’ve never been. We went to Disney World when mom was still with us…”
“Do you really want to sit in a teacup and have puppets warble “It’s a Small World” in your ear? Or have pirates shout blue material at you like “Hey, nice hooters?”
“Between you and me, Debbie, I don’t have any hooters.”
“The point is Disneyland is for kids. Six Flags has real amusement park rides! Adults can have mature fun—”
“I’m a scaredy cat, Debbie. You know that!”
“That’s why it’s so much fun. Everyone needs to let out an ear-splitting scream now and again. It’s a lot like sex! You can wait until you become a mother to go to Disneyland with your kids.”
“O.K., O.K. I can see you’re getting carried away with this. I’ll go shower and change. I’d appreciate a bracing cup of coffee waiting for me, dear sister.”
“Oh and just go light on the makeup. You don’t want to dazzle Otis too much.”
On the way to Six Flags in Valencia, a 45-minute drive north of Los Angeles, Debbie and I sat in the back of Otis’ Acura, checking each other’s makeup and discussing my encounter with Clark Ruskin and Mei Ling at the gala.
“So, are you going to really sit on this and not tell Misty what her husband’s been doing while she’s out of town with The Surf?”
“We shook hands on it. As long as she quits trying to find a gotcha on me…”
“She thinks you want to get your hooks in Chuck.”
“Why? It looks like she’s Clark’s sidepiece—”
“There’s no future in being a sidepiece. Before you know it, you’re tossed out on the side of the road. Now, being Mrs. Chuck Connors is quite another thing. She probably thinks she could land a spot on The Housewives of Newport Beach.”
“Somebody should tell her I’m no threat to her. I just work for Chuck. He’s not my type. He’s a guy.”
“Girl, you couldn’t tell by the way these guys all salivate over you.”
“Debbie, I swear I’m not doing anything!”
My mind, not to mention my hair, was frazzled by the time I wobbled off the Superman: Escape from Krypton rollercoaster ride. Debbie and Otis laughed at the terror of riding the 100 miles per hour cars that reached an apex of over 400 feet above the ground, while I tried closing my eyes on the way down and screaming. Otis told me it held the world record for height and speed when it first opened more than 25 years ago.
“You girls are so chicken. You know there have only been a handful of fatalities on these coasters? Man, I’d love to ride the Formula Rossa in Abu Dhabi. That one goes up to 150 miles per hour!”
“I think I’d rather sit in a teacup and have pirates shout rude things at me.”
The thrilling Superman rollercoaster notwithstanding, the attraction that compelled Otis and Debbie to cut short my beauty sleep was the tower that was attached to it. The Lex Luthor: Drop of Doom. They secure you in a harness on an eight-seat open-air gondola that then ascends slowly up to the top of the tower, some 400 feet above the ground. There, you sit in anticipation of the long, precipitous drop as your hands tighten their grip around the over-the-shoulder restraints. To add to the feeling of impending doom, when Superman: Escape from Krypton and Lex Luthor: Drop of Doom operate simultaneously, the steel framework tower that supports both rides sways as much as 2 feet from side to side.
The evil voice of Lex Luthor roused me from my state of attentive immobility:
“Today is your lucky day, today your life changes forever. And this may very well be the highest point of your insignificant existence!"
He laughed maniacally and then a brief period of silence preceded the sudden free-fall to the bottom.
I screamed all the way down.
The following week, Mei Ling and I circled each other warily in the office. But the fact that I knew her dirty little secret kept her out of my way. That didn’t stop her from shooting glares at me every time we passed each other. Apart from that small nuisance, I felt much more at ease and really threw myself into perfecting the presentation to The Los Angeles Dodgers that Chuck had arranged for Friday morning of that week.
With Dulcie at the helm of the laptop, Chuck and I rehearsed the presentation all day Thursday, completing four dry runs until we felt able to do it in our sleep. Chuck told us to meet him for breakfast at the café across the street from our office at 9 on Friday morning. We’d ride in his Audi e-tron for the 20-minute drive to Chavez Ravine where Dodger Stadium was situated for our 10 o’clock appointment.
When we walked into the conference room deep in the bowels of Dodger Stadium, we had a surprising member of the audience awaiting us. Magic Johnson, legendary Los Angeles Laker who had a minority stake in The Dodgers as well, was seated at the conference table along with members of the Dodgers’ marketing team. After introductions were made all around, he came over to Chuck while Dulcie and I set up our gear.
“Chuck! I was hoping to see you at this presentation. How’s Clark and your sisters?”
“Great, Magic.” They shook hands. At 6’3”, Chuck still had to crane his neck to look Magic, 6’8”, in the eye. “So what brings you out here on a Friday morning? I didn’t know you were on the Dodgers’ marketing team.” He laughed warmly.
“When I heard about Sisters Sportswear pitching a custom line of promotional apparel for The Dodgers, as an interested party with The Lakers, I wanted to get a preview of what you’ve come up with. The Lakers are always pro-active in expanding our demographic. And I was told that Evie Rivers was your marketing head now—”
“You know of Evie?”
“Hey, the front office here was seriously considering hiring her as a special instructor…until they got word, she took a job with your company.”
“I didn’t know that. She never mentioned it. I thought she was through with baseball.”
I chose that very moment to interrupt.
“Chuck, we’re ready to proceed.”
The presentation went over swimmingly with the marketing team. They were especially enthusiastic about the custom apparel giveaways for Mother’s Day, Memorial Day, The 4th of July, and Labor Day that specifically targeted women and children’s styles and sizes. In addition to these one-offs, they were impressed by our concepts for bespoke year-round apparel that could be sold in Dodgers Team Stores and ordered through their website.
While Chuck made further arrangements with the Dodgers’ marketing team, Magic cornered me in the hallway just outside the conference room.
“Evie? I already spoke to Chuck about having you guys present to The Lakers. Maybe we can set that up for next month some time?”
“Oh, sure, we’d love to pitch The Lakers.”
“So, why are you working for Chuck and his sisters? You know, Brandon told me that they were just about to ask to interview you when they heard you’d joined Sisters Sportswear.”
I was gob smacked. I had no clue. I thought they had just tossed my job application into the circular file. After all, I hadn’t heard from them in more than six weeks. Not a word.
“I didn’t know that. I guess the timing was all wrong. But I’m happy doing what I’m doing with Sisters. Chuck and his sisters are nice people to work for—”
“The funny thing about it is Brandon could’ve sworn your application said you were a guy. He asked around and everyone told him you’re a woman…which, of course, you certainly seem to be.” He scratched his head. “Someone, somewhere, made a mistake?”
“I…I guess so. Funny but things like that happen to me a lot. It’s my name. Evelyn. It can be a man or a woman’s name.”
“Brandon told me if I got the chance to invite you out to the Stadium tomorrow. He’d like to meet you in any case. The game’s at 4 in the afternoon so drop by around 11AM. If you’d like to, you can work out in the cage, meet some of the players. So, wear something appropriate. Nothing with Titans colors though.” He laughed and shook my hand.
Magic slapped Chuck on the back as they passed each other in the doorway of the conference room.
“Did Magic tell you he wants to set us up with The Lakers next month?”
“Yeah.” I looked lost in thought.
“Something the matter?”
“No, he invited me to work out on the field tomorrow morning with the team.”
“Well, that sounds exciting. Mind if I tag along? I’d love to meet Mookie and Clayton on the field. Don’t tell ‘em I’m a Padres fan.” He pressed his index finger to his lips.
“Magic told me Brandon Gomes, the GM, was going to ask to interview me right about the time you hired me…”
“Guess I’m lucky we beat them to you. Is that how you feel?”
“Of course. Just surprised, that’s all. I thought they’d rejected me out of hand—”
“Let’s get back to the office. I just called Kyle. Pizza for lunch! You didn’t know we had a pizza oven installed in the kitchen, did you?”
It was the first time I had ever set foot on the field in Dodger Stadium. Although it was five hours before the game was set to begin, most of the team was out there, shagging flies, fielding grounders, and taking batting practice inside the outdoor cage. Some of the pitchers were throwing in the bullpen beyond the left field fence. Brandon Gomes, the Dodgers GM, was standing by the batting cage and offered his hand when I approached, with Chuck off to my side.
“Evie? Nice to finally meet you. Chuck, good to see you again.” He turned to me. “So, the guys in our development department said you did some great work with Titans players down on the farm last year. Our analytics group heard good things about you as well. But I was tied up with the start of the season and didn’t get around to contacting you until you’d already taken this job with Chuck. It’s a shame, the timing between us was off. You’re the kind of coaching talent we look high and low for.”
“I love baseball, Mr. Gomes. It’s my first love. But when the Titans let me go, I…the opportunity to work for Sisters Sportswear was too good to turn down. At least I’m finally putting my MBA to some use.”
“I’ll say,” interjected Chuck. “Evie’s a dynamic marketer. Just the right person to join our team.”
“Well, good luck, Evie. Take a turn in the cage if you want. Would you mind giving some free advice to some of our players? They’re really hyped to speak to you. Here’s Mookie, right now.”
Mookie Betts, the best player on the Dodgers, strolled over, bat in hand.
“Mookie, this is Evie Rivers. She’s the one who coached the pitchers on that AAA team in Somerset to a league-leading 3.24 ERA.”
“I did hear about you. From Richie Morrow when we played The Titans in New York last month. We could use another set of eyes on Nick Palumbo. He’s struggling a bit and the coaches are kind of stumped. They might have to send him down if he doesn’t straighten out soon.”
Brandon pointed to the bullpen in left field. “He’s in the pen right now with our pitching coaches. Maybe you could take a look?”
“Well, I really need to see the analytical data on him as well as just check out his mechanics—”
“They’ve got all that. I’ll introduce you. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind getting some input from another source. O.K?”
I nodded and Chuck and I followed Brandon out to the left field bullpen.
As I analyzed the spin rates on Nick Palumbo’s 4-seam fastball, slider, and sweeper, George and Greg, the Dodgers’ pitching coaches, filled me in on Nick’s season so far, his recent loss of command and a nasty tendency to give up long home runs. At the same time, I watched Nick throw his pitches. Nothing wrong with his velocity. The kid could throw hard. I immediately noticed his landing foot was pointed toward first base instead of in line with home plate. That made his arm drop into a three-quarter, almost sidearm delivery instead of straight overhand. That made his slider move horizontally across the zone rather than vertically downward.
We were able to show him on our tablets the flaws in his pitching motion. He practiced his windup and delivery with a towel rather than a baseball, easier to see the angle his arm made as he “threw.” Chuck had been standing off to the side, watching as I worked with Nick and his coaches.
“You’re really good, Evie. I used to pitch in high school. I was so bad that my coach told me I should concentrate on basketball instead.” He laughed. “Maybe if I’d had someone like you to coach me, I could’ve stayed the course with baseball.”
“Did you try to play basketball professionally?”
“Clark tried to get me a place with an Italian club but they signed a kid from LSU instead. There was an offer from a team in Tel Aviv but, by that time, I’d decided that it wasn’t in the cards for me. I mean, I didn’t want to be playing basketball in Belgium or Croatia when I was 30 years old.”
“You had a lot more choices than most other kids. If basketball was the only thing you were good at—”
“A lot of people think that exactly. My sisters included.”
“But you have a law degree.”
“I’ve never actually practiced. Passed the bar on my third try. Started working for my sisters instead. It was Clark’s idea really. Where would I be if Clark hadn’t married my sister?”
“Do you really have to work, Chuck? I mean your parents left you quite an inheritance I’m sure—”
“You must think I’m just some empty-headed playboy heir. An air-headed heir.”
“I’ve heard some things.”
He threw his hands up as if in surrender. “Guilty. You got me. If you didn’t know me well, that’s exactly what you’d think. Can’t blame you if you do. I am trying, Evie. I envy someone like you. You’re skilled, dedicated, sure of your abilities. You know who you are and what you want to be.”
“Do you think so, Chuck?”
“Sure. You’re a self-starter. I’m glad I’ve met you, really.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret.”
“What’s that?”
“I have no frickin’ idea who I am or what I really want.”
“Don’t shit me, Evie. That’s impossible.”
“No, it’s true. Everyone wants me to be their idea of me. My parents and my sister want one thing. Juan Moskowitz, who I didn’t even know two weeks ago, has a whole career mapped out for me. Baseball general managers think I should coach. Even you. You want me to be your marketing maven—”
“I want you to self-actualize. Only you know who you really are and what you really want in life. From where I stand, you’re doing pretty well—”
My phone rang. It was Juan.
“Hello, Juan. Are you calling me from the Dog Park?”
“No, I’ve been working the phones all morning. I asked my brother to walk Rico. I’ve got some exciting news, Evie.”
“Oh, no. What is it now?”
“That Knowles guy is tough to pin down. But I finally got you an audition for that Dantley project. You’re penciled in for Wednesday afternoon at the studio. I’m sending you the pages and some notes on the character you’re reading. It’s a major part, Evie! Dantley’s really pushing for you. All the details are in the email. I won’t take no for an answer. This’ll make both our careers! I’m sending it right now. Speak to you soon!” He disconnected.
“Problem?”
“Yes, someone won’t take no for an answer.”
“Juan?”
“Why do these things always happen to me?”
“Someone up there likes you?”
“There’s less than ten lines for my character in the whole scene, Debbie.”
My sister thoroughly chewed the last bit of her sausage before swallowing, then followed that with a draught of orange juice. She stifled a burp before remarking, “That’s great. You can memorize that in your sleep—”
“That’s what I thought too until I checked with Juan. It’s not like a table reading, Debbie. It’s going to be filmed. The “audition” is really a screen test. In costume and everything!”
“Ooh, that sounds exciting. Your first appearance on celluloid. I wonder if they’ll allow you to have a copy. An mp4 file on a thumb drive—”
“You don’t understand, sis. The majority of the scene involves a lot of smoldering silence and…and kissing—”
“You’ve kissed a guy before.”
“Never!”
Debbie stared me down.
“Well…elementary school doesn’t count. Willie Dawson thought I was a girl because he saw me wearing your sailor blouse on the way to rehearsal for H.M.S. Pinafore in 4th grade.”
“Oh, come off it. What about Richie Morrow? You spent a whole summer coaching him last year. Betcha had some hot smooching sessions, you two—”
“A lady doesn’t tell.” I shook my head and pointed a finger at her. “Nothing like that ever happened.”
“So, do you know who’s in the scene with you?”
“Juan said it’s the lead actor. Some guy named Trent Foster—”
“Oh my frickin’ God! Trent Foster! I hate you, Evie! How does this keep happening?”
“What?”
“You’ve become a stud magnet! It’s not fair!”
“Who is Trent Foster?”
“Only the hottest triple threat entertainer in show business right now. He’s got a Grammy for his last album, a Golden Globe award for his last movie role – I can’t believe you’ve never seen Planet Raiders III: Pleiades One More Time --, and streams on Twitch—”
“Sounds like a busy boy.”
“And he’s sooo dreamy!”
“Maybe I can get them to use you as my stunt double so you can kiss him. I couldn’t care less—”
“Don’t even kid about that, Evie.”
“The screen test is on Wednesday. We’ve got all day today to rehearse the scene. You can read Trent’s lines—”
“Uh-uh. Otis and I are going to Riverside and check out the guided tour at the Citrus Park. He wrote a paper on orange groves in Southern California for his senior thesis. And they hand out free samples…”
“I guess I’ll just hug and kiss myself. Pretend it’s “dreamy” Trent Foster. Anyway, I thought you weren’t really into Otis. You’re spending a lot of time together.”
“He’s goofy and all…but he’s sweet and sort-of cute. And, most importantly, you’re not interested in him in the least.”
“So, Chuck tells me you’ll be out of the office all day on Wednesday. Something about a screen test at GlobalNet Studios.”
I was on my way to the ladies’ room when Mei Ling sauntered by. She had apparently just exited Chuck’s office.
“Yes, it’ll probably end up leading to nothing much at all. I mean, I’m not an actor. Just doing it to help out a friend who’s trying to become an agent—”
“Oh, your boyfriend…uh…Juan, right?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not dating. I met him in a dog park. It’s a long story…”
“Well, break a leg, as they say in show business.”
I was about to turn the door lever when Mei Ling muttered loud enough for me to hear, “And I mean, break a leg. Two while you’re at it.”
“I think it went really well. They were really impressed with your knowledge of the history of semi-pro rugby in Southern California. I had no idea Boris Karloff was a seminal figure in establishing rugby in Los Angeles.”
We were halfway on our return trip to Los Angeles from San Diego. The traffic on I-5 was sparse on this Tuesday afternoon and we’d probably make it back to the office before 4PM. Our sales manager, Buzz Feiten, was at the wheel. A 30-year veteran of the sports apparel business, Buzz had worked for Nike, Adidas, Reebok, you name it. Every sports organization up and down the California coast was on a first name basis with him.
We had just made a sales call at Major League Rugby’s newest franchise in San Diego. The one-hour presentation, with supplemental slides especially prepared for the meeting, was a smashing success. I called Chuck immediately afterwards and relayed the good feelings. Buzz was already working on arranging a sales call at Major League Rugby’s national headquarters in Dallas, Texas.
“I had no idea either until I looked it up on the internet. But, you know, a lot of British, Australian., and even American celebrities are huge rugby fans. Like Daniel Craig, Russell Crowe, Samuel L. Jackson, Matt Damon, The Rock…did you know Taylor Swift too?”
There was an interregnum of silence as we passed through San Clemente and Dana Point, punctuated by bent notes on guitar and growling vocals broadcast over Buzz’s favorite blues channel on Sirius-XM. I went through the texts on my phone, including Juan’s reminder that he’d pick me up early tomorrow morning at 8 so I could go through costume and makeup before the actual screen test at 11AM. I felt pretty sure I’d memorized my lines. The issue was how I’d make it through the lip locking with “dreamy” Trent. The phlegm started to build up in my mouth.
“So, may I ask a personal question? If you don’t answer, I won’t bring it up again. It’s just that some people don’t have an issue with an old duffer being nosey, while others take exception (long pause) Are you a lesbian?”
“That’s pretty personal, Buzz. Before I answer…what makes you think I am?”
“Well, that outfit you’re wearing. It’s not your typical Ann Taylor business suit. It sort of makes a statement if I’m reading it right.”
“Oh, this old thing? No, Buzz, I’m not making any kind of statement. It’s something my sister picked out for me. You know, Debbie, from HR? She’s the fashion maven in the family. I’d just as soon wear sweats and a baseball cap—”
“The same with me, ha ha. Well, I’m totally ignorant when it comes to women’s fashions. I’m not too concerned with what they have on. More interested in what they take off—”
“Buzz, this conversation is veering off into a troubling detour. Maybe we should just listen to the radio and keep our eyes on the road, eh?”
“Sorry, Evie. You’re not going to report me, are you?”
“No, Buzz, no harm, no foul. Let’s just put this all behind us, o.k.?”
“Sure, sure.” He turned the radio up and started to tap his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat.
Peg Somersby’s smiling face greeted me as Juan led me to the Wardrobe Department of GolbalNet Studios. We hugged and Peg gave out a low whistle.
“Looking good, Evie. You’ve done something with your hair? And nice job with the makeup. I can see I’ll need to do very little to make you screen ready.”
“Thank you, Peg. It’s a steep learning curve trying to look like a girl—”
“What does that mean, Evie?” asked Juan as he wandered through the room, answering texts on his phone.
“Juan, dear, why don’t you leave us ladies to our own devices. There is such a thing as a lady’s modesty, even in this day and age.”
“Oh, well, sorry. I’ll go and see if Alastair has gotten in yet. I’ll see you later, Evie.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
“Have a seat, Evie. There’s something I noticed last time you were here that I need to take care of.”
“Umm, what’s that?”
“Your ears aren’t pierced—”
“So?”
“You can wear a wider variety of earrings, like hoops and the pretty dangly ones that sway when you move your head in a sultry manner. Clip Ons will tend to soften your lobes due to the constant pressure and they’ll lose their structure and elasticity.”
“That makes sense but I’m not a big fan of pain.”
Peg ripped open a bag of cotton balls and applied some isopropyl alcohol to one ball. She dabbed most of my ears, especially the lobes, with the cotton ball.
“This is to disinfect your lobes. Don’t want any bacteria getting into the holes in your lobes.”
“That’ll make it spic and span but it’ll still hurt like hell—”
“When the alcohol dries, I’m going to put this little ice pack on your earlobe.” She showed me the tiny 3” by 3” packets. “You leave it on for 5 minutes. You won’t feel a thing after that. We’ll do one ear at a time. Meanwhile, we can sit and talk. Any nerves, honey?”
“I’ve got my lines memorized but that’s not the part that makes me nervous.”
“Hold that against your ear, sweetie. So what part makes you nervous?”
“The kissing part.”
“You’re so pretty. I’m sure you’ve done your fair share of kissing and being kissed.”
“I’ve never kissed a boy! You have to remember, Peg, this…this girl thing is something very recent for me. I don’t think I’m going to like being kissed by Trent Foster.”
“You’d be one of the very few girls who wouldn’t.”
“That’s the thing, Peg. I’m not a girl.”
Peg took the ice pack away and brought a disposable piercing gun into view, already loaded with an ear stud.
“This’ll take a second. Don’t flinch. Close your eyes if you want, silly girl.” She squeezed the gun and the stud was snugly in place. “See, that wasn’t bad at all, was it?”
“No. I didn’t feel anything. But it’ll probably hurt like the devil for days when the ice wears off.”
“It takes about six weeks to fully heal but if you clean the area two or three times a day, you’ll be able to then swap your ear studs out for whatever pretty earrings you want.”
Peg then placed an ice pack on my other earlobe, cupping my hand over it.
“Now, girl, back to your issue with kissing Trent Foster. Are you gay?”
“Gay as in attracted to men or gay as in attracted to women?”
“Or you could be bi. Plenty of people are wired that way too.”
“I’m so confused, Peg. I mean, I’ve never been a woman before.”
“Methinks you’ve always been a girl. You just didn’t realize it until now.”
“My dad, my stepmom, and my sister tell me they’ve always regarded me as a girl. I was just born with the wrong equipment, so to speak.”
“Why don’t you give it a try and see how you feel? Trent doesn’t have cooties. If I were 30 years younger, I’d gladly trade places with you. Umm, that’s a delicious thought.”
“I guess you’re right. I’ll probably fail the screen test anyway. After today, my show biz career will just be a blip on the radar of my life. I mean I’ve never even thought about acting. Ipso facto, it’s not going to happen.”
“I don’t think that means what you think it does, dear.”
I stood on the soundstage, peering into the shadows where Daniel Dantley, Alastair Knowles, Juan Moskowitz and the production crew sat on director’s chairs or held their equipment at the ready. The camera operator was holding an Arri Alexa 35, the most expensive digital camera in the industry, list price over $75,000. There were boom microphones suspended above the set. A recording engineer sat with a sound mixer, fidgeting with his studio quality headphones. Cables and cords were strewn on the floor in serpentine patterns out of camera range.
The set was made to look like the interior of a lower middle-class home, faded colors and aging, out-of-date furnishings lending an air of decay to the room. There was an uneasy silence on the set until Trent Foster stepped into view, smiling as he waved to the figures in shadow. The description Debbie had given me was all too true: Trent looked like a cross between James Dean and Keanu Reeves. And the swagger to go with it.
“Trent, good of you to finally show up,” noted Dantley acerbically.
“Sorry, Dan. Traffic. Hey, Alastair, good to see you. Been a while.”
“A pleasure working with you again, Trent. Newport: The Series is going to be a big hit for GlobalNet. I have a sixth sense about these things.”
“Trent, this is Ms. Evie Rivers. The ingenue of the hour. I discovered her frolicking in the surf at Newport Beach. Now, how’s that for serendipity? The universe works in mysterious ways—”
Trent extended his hand and I shook it, remembering to keep my wrist limp…like a girl’s.
“Welcome to the industry, Evie. I’m sure we’ll work well together. Dan is a noted judge of talent. He likes to tell people he discovered me too.”
Lying through my teeth, I gushed, “It’s my pleasure entirely, Trent. I’m a big fan of yours. You were so good in Planet Raiders II!”
“You mean Planet Raiders III? II was the one with Reb Thompson, the has-been I replaced in III.”
“Oh, I meant III. I’m so bad with numbers.” With the back of my hand against my forehead, I intoned in a bad Southern accent, “I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers.”
“She’s a natural,” Dantley said to no one in particular. Juan gave me a thumbs up.
“Dan, can we get on with it? I’ve got a lunch meeting across town.”
“Yes, Alastair, let me set the scene for…uh…the scene. Now, Trent is playing Dack Salinger, the MC of Newport: The Series. He’s the only son of real estate magnate Lucas Salinger. Dack is your typical unmotivated rich kid. He doesn’t work for his dad. He spends his days surfing and his nights driving around aimlessly, seeking cheap thrills and loose women. He’s the bad boy of Newport Beach, a—”
“Dan, please. We all know the series bible. Just confine yourself to the specific scene at hand.”
“Very well, Alastair. I do get carried away when I talk about this project. Sorry. As I was saying, Dack has learned that Margo Evans, played by Ms. Rivers, his high school sweetheart, and the most popular couple on campus, has returned to Newport after almost 10 years. Why she left to attend a college thousands of miles away has never been explained, not least to Dack, who’s been pining away for her ever since. He comes to Margo’s parents’ house in the poorer section of Newport in the hopes that she has returned for good and to rekindle their relationship. O.K. everyone ready? Roll sound. Roll camera. Speed. Slate it!”
The assistant camera called out the scene and take numbers, shouted “Mark!” and then clapped the sticks together.
“Action!” Dantley shouted as Trent moved forward toward me, seated on the couch.
“Margo! I came as soon as I heard from Frick that you’d come back to town—”
I stood up but kept my distance from Trent.
“Dack, I didn’t expect to see you. I’m only in town for a few days. For the funeral…”
“I’m sorry about your father, Margo. My dad told me about the accident on the construction site in Costa Mesa. If there’s anything my family or I can do to help out—”
“We’re not a charity case, Dack.”
“So, you’re not back for good?”
“After the funeral, I’m headed back to Philadelphia.”
We stood ten feet apart, staring at each other. Silent. Slowly, as the camera zoomed in on my face, tears started to run down my cheeks. My mask of stoicism crumbled. My arms went limp. I started sobbing. Trent rushed to me and put his arms around me, trying to comfort me.
“Margo, I can help. My dad can give Frick a job. There’s always a lot of maintenance work on his properties. It’s the least he can do for your family, after…after everything.”
“Frick is too proud, Dack. He hates your father. He’d never work for him.”
“What about us, Margo? I don’t know why you left and why you’ve never come back. Almost ten years. I kept asking Frick about you, told him to get you to answer my texts, emails…I even sent you an actual letter. Years ago now. You never did. Why?”
I held Trent tighter and buried my face in his shoulder, my sobbing subsided. But I didn’t answer him. Just held him tighter.
“Is there someone in Philadelphia?” I shook my head. He took my head in his hands and slowly drew my lips to his. We kissed long and tenderly.
“Cut!” shouted Dantley, jumping off his chair. “Bravo! You two were marvelous! You totally captured the emotional subtext of the scene. Alastair, was I right or was I right?”
I disentangled myself from Trent, after he gently removed his lips from mine. He kept his eyes trained on me. Finally, our arms separated. I felt light-headed. I must have stumbled because Trent moved to keep me from falling over.
“Are you o.k.?”
“I’m...I’m fine. There must be a wrinkle in the carpet. I’m a bit of a klutz, Trent.”
“That’s not what I heard. You coached baseball for The Titans. I read your press clippings online.”
“Evie, you’re going to be a star! You’re a force of nature. Trent, we’ve found your co-star.” Dantley gathered both of us in his arms and we group-hugged. Juan gave me another thumbs up.
“Evie, that was certainly quite a performance. We’re going to finalize our casting the week after the 4th of July. So I’ll be in touch with Juan. I’d say your chances are pretty good. Well, kiddies, I have to go. Dan, I’ll speak to you this afternoon. Bye, all.” He left the soundstage.
“Evie, I’d like to go and have a drink with you but I’m on a flight to San Francisco tonight and there’s a lot of packing I have to do. Let’s get together once you officially get the role…which is almost certain you will. You’re quite the thespian. It’ll be a joy to work with you. Dan, keep me in the loop on any developments. “Parting is such sweet sorrow. That I shall say good night till it be morrow.” He doffed his nonexistent hat and left by the side door.
“Hamlet?”
“Search me,” Juan replied. “He’s one goofy guy, that dude.”
“Maybe acting is something I’d like to pursue, after all. There was a moment in that scene where Trent and I connected on an almost cosmic level.”
“Yeah, I saw him sneak in some tongue on that kiss.”
“You’ve been staring blankly at the wall for an hour. I was afraid your eyes might roll back in your head and you’d lose consciousness—”
“Did you say something, Debbie?”
“You know, you’ve been really quiet about the screen test. It was like pulling teeth to get any details about it from you. I gather it went really well. But most of what happened I got from Juan. There’s nothing wrong with your appetite. You scarfed that pizza in three easy bites. So you’re not coming down with anything.” Debbie felt my forehead. She still had some pizza sauce on her hand. I hardly noticed. “What’s bugging you, Evie?”
“I think I’m in love.”
“With Chuck? Juan? Richie Morrow?”
“No, silly, Trent. Trent Foster. He’s simply…wonderful.”
“Oy vey.”
“What’s bugging you, Evie?”
“I think I’m in love.”
“With Chuck? Juan? Richie Morrow?”
“No, silly, Trent. Trent Foster. He’s simply…wonderful.”
“Oy vey.”
“Don’t you think he’s cute?”
“It’s not that, Evie. He’s way above your skill level. You don’t have the game to play in his league.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He’s real Hollywood, Evie. You have no idea. He dates only super-models. I don’t want you to get hurt, sis.”
“Well, I’m wasting my time thinking about him anyway. First, I’m not going to get the role. After all, I’m not a professional actor. Second, and most importantly, I’m not a woman. I think he’d want someone with a…a—”
“You can have your equipment refitted…”
“That’s not going to happen overnight, Debbie. If at all.”
“I thought you were beginning to convince yourself that you’ve always been a woman. It’s something me and dad have been telling you forever.”
“I’ll admit it’s been fun being perceived as a real woman. A lot of fun. Except for the shoes.”
“Stick with Chuck. He’s a really nice guy. Trust me. Don’t believe Juan. He’s an agent. They make a living off making shit up for publicity’s sake. CAA always tries to hook up their new talent with celebrities like Chuck. He’s only had like one serious relationship in all the time I’ve worked there. And the girl broke up with him. He was moping around the office for weeks.”
“So why haven’t you gone after him yourself?”
“Because…because,” her cheeks turning bright red. “I like Otis,” she said in a whisper.
“I knew it! Sis, what’s the gameplan? Has he hinted anything? Do I hear wedding bells for you in the near future?”
“Well, when we go to swap meets in the valley, he’s always asking me what kind of house design I like. Ranch-style, Craftsman, Victorian, Greek Revival, Colonial, mid-century modern—”
“I’m going to be an aunt before I know it. Or is it a cross-dressing uncle?”
“Stop it, Evie. You are and always have been double X to me.” We hugged and decided to watch the penultimate episode of Silo’s first season before hitting the hay. Debbie’s a big sci-fi fan.
On the way out of the office on Friday afternoon, looking forward to the long weekend ahead leading up to Tuesday, the 4th of July, I literally crashed into Chuck as we rushed into the elevator just as its doors closed. Laughing, we disentangled our briefcases and I innocently brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes with my fingers.
“I guess I should put more product in my hair. Thanks. Say, do you have plans tomorrow morning?”
“Other than sleeping in, no.”
“You looked like you had a decent time surfing last time. Want to get some more reps in?”
“I don’t know, Chuck. I’d just slow you down. I’m in shallow water while you’re out riding the wild surf—”
“You’re athletic enough, Evie. I’m willing to wager you could be tackling 20 footers in no time. It’d be a waste of a really nice wetsuit not to continue the surfing lessons. It’s definitely a good fit.”
“I think you just want to see me in a tight wetsuit.”
“Anything wrong with that?”
“My sister’s in HR or don’t you remember?”
“She’s the one who told me you wanted to try some more surfing—”
“Just like her to set me up like this.”
“So, is it yes? I’ll pick you up at a more civilized time. How about 8AM this time?”
“Alright. As long as you bring coffee and donuts with you.”
“You’re my kind of girl, Evie. You really are.”
When we exited the elevator, Chuck patted me on the shoulder before turning toward the side door leading to the parking lot. “See you bright and early tomorrow!”
I walked out into the still bright, sun-splashed afternoon and crossed the street to wait for the bus that would take me back to our apartment in Alhambra. Seriously, I needed to get myself a car. Especially since Debbie and I don’t ever leave the office at the same time. She’s out promptly at 5 and Otis picks her up in his van. Me, I’m still in my office working on presentations. The only person still in the office most nights when I leave is Mei Ling. No, she’s not a diligent worker. More than once, I’ve crossed paths with Clark Ruskin as he stealthily arrives to pick up Mei Ling, thinking the office is empty.
In between sorties into the surf, Chuck and I sat on a beach blanket, shooting the breeze. I chugged some coconut water from his sport canteen as he told me that our chef Kyle had given notice. He’d scored a sous-chef position at a new restaurant in Silverlake.
“Sucks. Kyle is a really great cook. Misty wants to recommend the chef for the soccer team. Seems she’s not keen on all the travel and all the down time between seasons. Want in on the taste test next week? Misty tells me she’s a whiz at Mexican fusion dishes.”
“Sure, sounds good.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’ll find out if you’ve got the role next week. Look at you. I’m sure they’ll choose you. So, how is this going to work?”
“What do you mean?”
Laughing, he took a swig from the canteen. “What do I mean? How are you going to fit in working for us in your shooting schedule?”
“Are you going to fire me?” I asked, timidly.
“No, of course not. That is, if you want to continue with us. You won’t be shooting all year long. Juan told me he thinks principal photography might only take 3 months total. You could be part-time for 3 months and full-time the rest of the year. If the show gets picked up for another season, we’ll adjust your schedule accordingly.”
“What if – and I’m not saying it’s what I want to do – I get other roles? Like feature films, let’s say.”
“Have you asked Juan to put you out there for more work?”
“No, no, not at all. But he’s told me he’s already gotten calls. GlobalNet gets a lot of ink in the business. Everyone’s anticipating this series because of Trent and, well, if I get cast in it—”
“They’ll want the hot new actress in town. Yeah, I guess that’s how it works. It’s your life, Evie. I can’t tell you how to live it. It’d be disappointing if you had to quit. And personally…”
“I…I’d like to stay friends. If…if I had to leave. I mean, how am I ever going to tackle those 20 footers if you’re not there to keep giving me lessons?”
“It’s a deal.” We stared at each other for a good minute before Chuck jumped up and retrieved his surfboard. “Want to hit the surf again?”
“I’m still pooped, Chuck. You can do this round solo. Catch me on the turnaround, o.k.?”
He trotted into the strandline, holding the board above his head with both hands. I was still thirsty. After taking a last swig of coconut water, I lay back on the blanket and closed my eyes. Someone cleared their throat rather loudly. I opened my eyes and was startled to see Trent Foster looming above me.
He wasn’t dressed for the beach. Standing on the sand in his bare feet, wearing a white shirt with rolled up sleeves and faded jeans, a jacket tossed over one shoulder, he pointed the sneakers that he held in his free hand at me.
“Funny meeting you here, Evie. Danny wasn’t kidding when he said you were an actual surfer girl. Who’s the dude?”
“I didn’t know you were a part-time beachcomber as well as being a matinee idol, Trent. Well, that dude is my boss, Chuck Connors. He’s been giving me surfing lessons.”
He knelt down beside the blanket.
“You look good in that wetsuit.”
“A fashion critic as well. You’re multi-talented.”
“I sing and play a mean guitar too. But enough about me. I live around the corner. Right by the golf course.” He nodded behind him and to his left. “Your sister told me you were on the beach this morning. She wasn’t that cordial. Her friend, this goofy-looking guy, wouldn’t even let me in the door.”
“You probably caught her at a bad time. Anyway, what’s up?”
“It’s kind of a favor I need. It’s almost 11:30. How about we talk about it over lunch? There’s a place down Balboa that makes a great open cheese sandwich. And mojitos to weep over.”
“I don’t think so, Trent. I’m here with Chuck. I can’t just up and leave to have lunch without him. Why don’t you just tell me what favor you need?”
At that moment, serendipitously, Chuck trudged up the beach toward us.
“Evie, who’s this?”
“What’s good, Chuck? I’m Trent Foster.” He extended his hand.
Shaking Trent’s hand, Chuck asked me, “Rested up, Evie? Time to get in the last round. They’re closing off the beach any minute now.”
“I need to speak with Evie about the show. I live nearby and her sister…Debbie, right...she told me she was surfing here at The Wedge. I was going to take her to lunch to go over the details.”
I shot Trent a look. He shrugged his shoulders. Neither of these gestures eluded Chuck.
“Evie, why don’t you see what Trent needs to go over with you?” Turning to Trent. “I take it, it’s a foregone conclusion they’re casting Evie in the show.”
“Oh, absolutely. There was never a question after she aced the screen test. Danny was in seventh heaven. Alastair couldn’t believe you’d never taken acting classes.”
“Well, since the two of you have already decided for me, I guess I’ll take you up on that lunch invite, Trent.” I picked up my bag and swiped away the sand on my legs. “Trent, can Chuck come along?”
“Oh no, Evie. You and Trent don’t need me as a third wheel. Show biz stuff is kind of over my head anyway. You kids have fun. I’ll pack up and go home. I’ll text you before the 4th. See you in the office next week.”
Trent walked me over to the showers to rinse the sand off my wetsuit.
The patio of the restaurant overlooked the beach and as the waves noisily crashed onto the shore, we ate and drank. Trent never once mentioned the “favor” he needed to ask of me. I learned a great deal about his childhood in the wilds of suburban Pacific Palisades. His house was two blocks down from where Carol Serling, Rod’s widow, had lived until she passed in 2020, and a half a mile away from North Rockingham Avenue in Brentwood, O.J. Simpson’s former address. His father is a corporate attorney. His mother, a retired tennis instructor. An only child, he took piano lessons and worked as a catalog model from the age of 5 until he underwent puberty. He asked very few questions about my background. He did compliment me on my looks and my acting skills…repeatedly. Normally, I’d be rather impatient by this time, feeling my time being wasted. But his eyes were simply…mesmerizing. I examined his lips closely as he spoke but only half of what he said sank in. Trent was one beautiful male specimen.
Finally, as were about to finish off our mojitos, I asked him what the favor was. He laughed, feigning embarrassment, and signaled to the waiter for our check.
“Looking at you made me forget all about it. You really do have a special beauty, Evie. Like nothing I’ve ever seen in a woman.”
“Trent, please.”
“Yeah, well, Pacific Palisades holds an annual 4th of July parade and celebration – with fireworks, music, marching bands, skydiving, etc., etc. – and, wouldn’t you know it, they asked me to be Grand Marshall this year. I guess I’m the latest celebrity to actually come from Pacific Palisades. It’s not The Rose Parade but the whole town turns out for it. I couldn’t turn it down. My mom would kill me. Mom and dad get to ride in the car behind us—”
“Us?”
“You’re not doing anything special on the 4th, are you? As Grand Marshall, I can have someone ride in the lead car with me. I’m not married and I’m not seriously seeing anyone at the moment. When we did the screen test, I knew I wanted you in the seat next to me during the parade. There’s a pre-parade lunch too. And there’s a live band and fireworks in the evening…”
“We hardly know each other, Trent.”
“This might sound corny but I feel like we’ve known each other forever. Maybe in a former life, we were married or lovers.”
“No, it’s not corny. I…I feel the same thing. Not to be insulting but I’d never seen any of your movies or TV shows before we did the screen test. Yet, I feel a strong attraction to you.” I giggled. “Debbie said you were a babe magnet. Right now, I feel like a pile of iron filings.”
“Your sister is right. And you are a babe. So, will you accompany me?”
“Of course…as a favor to you.” We clinked our empty glasses.
“To the 4th!”
The car service dropped me off at The Community Methodist Church on Via de la Paz in Pacific Palisades at 10 past noon. They were holding the VIP luncheon there. The parade would start at 2PM, go up the Via de la Paz, turn right onto Sunset Boulevard, make another right onto Toyopa Drive, and conclude on Ocampo Drive. Trent’s parents greeted me at the front door of the church.
“You must be Evie. I’m Conrad Foster and this is my wife, Trent’s mom, Eloise.”
“She’s a little doll, Conrad! Trent couldn’t stop talking about you all weekend.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Foster.”
“Oh, please, Evie. We’re Conrad and Eloise. I have a feeling we’ll get to know each other very well in time. Won’t we, Conrad?”
Smiling broadly, Trent appeared behind his parents.
“Let Evie breathe, mom and dad. Evie, come over here. I’ll introduce you to some of the VIPs. And they want us to pose for some photos.”
I shook hands with the actor Eugene Levy, Honorary Mayor of Pacific Palisades since 2021, the pastor of the church, two Los Angeles City Councilpersons, members of the Chamber of Commerce, the local Fire Chief, the Police Commanding Officer for West L.A., and Roger, the Fire Department’s mascot Dalmatian. Roger licked my face as well.
It seemed like everyone gave a short speech, toasting each other with glasses of orange juice, cracking jokes that would have made Bob Hope groan. After Trent’s parents and Trent himself spoke, Mayor Levy read a brief bio about me and then invited me up to the dais to say a few words. Unprepared to say the least, I stuttered out some platitudes about the 4th and recounted a short anecdote about the time my dad took us to New York City to view the Macy’s 4th of July Fireworks Spectacular. I said I’m sure that Macy’s pyrotechnic display won’t hold a roman candle to tonight’s festivities in Pacific Palisades. Levy guffawed. He actually guffawed. In summation, I added, “Go Dodgers!” for no apparent reason. I did get a smattering of applause.
Everyone along the parade route knew who Trent was. Their own favorite son. I got a lot of quizzical looks. One boy, around 11 or 12, screamed out to me, “Who are you?” I smiled and executed my, by this point in the parade, well-practiced semi-circular wave of the wrist at him. He stuck his tongue out at me. I returned his gesture with my own raspberry.
After the parade, everyone relocated to Palisades High Stadium, where several bands played live music and the audience had their pick of cuisine from a line of food trucks parked along the perimeter of the field. I was biting my way through an ear of corn, listening to Conrad and Eloise extol the virtues of their boy Trent, when I noticed that Trent had removed himself from our company. That’s when someone on stage announced that we were in for a special treat. Trent Foster was going to team up with the band and sing for us! The crowd hooted and hollered. Eloise put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly about two inches from my right ear. The vibrations were enough to compound the pain the studs in my earlobes were already giving me at the moment.
Throughout his performance, even as he roamed the stage, exhorting the audience to sing along, he kept making eye contact with me, visible even in the gloaming of evening. I decided not to mention to him afterwards that a) I’m not a California girl and b) in fact, I’m not a girl. But he certainly made me wish I was a biological woman. At the moment, sitting with my prospective in-laws, having ridden in a parade car down Sunset Boulevard next to him, and treated like a porcelain doll by the elders of his community, I was ready to have his children.
As if following a script from one of those goofy Elvis movies from the ‘60s, Trent’s parents managed to “lose” themselves in the crowd during the fireworks show, allowing their son and I to sit alone on the blanket, peering up to watch the loud, colorful mid-air detonation of explosive payloads. As I followed the arc of a mortar as it burst into a chrysanthemum pattern, my face mushed into Trent’s. We laughed and then Trent took my head in both his hands. Looking into my eyes, he planted a big, wet kiss on my lips. He tried to stick his tongue down my throat but I coughed and spluttered.
“Sorry, I got a little too excited,” Trent said sheepishly.
I replied by taking his head in both hands and returning his wet kiss, probing his mouth with my tongue. He started to simultaneously grope my chest and my buttocks. Now, one of those sectors of my body could stand some groping, the other couldn’t. I decorously pushed his hand away from my putative breasts and interlaced my fingers with his. We continued our French kissing until they played The Star-Spangled Banner. When Trent’s parents returned to our locus on the blanket, Trent shielded me from view as I wiped my face and lips, straightened out my clothing, and raked my fingers through my hair. Smiling, Eloise winked at me.
“I had a wonderful time, Trent. I’m glad I didn’t let the parade pass me by.”
“Evie, you have a way with words. Do you mind if I borrow that line for one of my songs? I need to write another five songs for my next album. It’s kind of a mash-up of EDM, hip hop, and speed metal. The four I’ve finished already are on my Twitch and YouTube channels. You should give it a listen. Tell me what you think.”
I reached for the door handle and turned to say good night. That’s when Trent planted another big, wet kiss on my open mouth. I swooned, despite my resolution to damp down the heat between us. After all, there was no way this could end well. I must implore Trent to remain professional. I will explain to him that the volatility of a romantic relationship between co-workers such as we might become would negatively affect our performance on screen. We should be rational about this. Think of our careers.
“Oh, Trent, I think I’m falling in love with you!” Wait a minute! Who just said that? Stupid girl!
“Evie, I already have. Feel my love, my love.” He placed my hand on his crotch. I jerked my hand back as if receiving an electric shock. Thankfully, my head began to clear. In an even tone, I announced that it was late and I had to go. Turning the door handle, I quickly stepped out of the car and blew Trent a kiss as he drove away.
Upstairs, I tried to tiptoe my way through the unlit living room, trying not to bump into the furniture and wake up Debbie in her bedroom. Relieved that I had successfully crossed the room, I flopped down on the couch.
“Owww! You sat on me, Evie!”
“Debbie! What are you doing on my couch?”
“I fell asleep watching TV, waiting up for you.”
“You’re not our dad, Debbie. There’s no curfew for adults—”
“I was worried that you might let Trent Foster violate you—”
“Debbie! Really? I’m not a helpless innocent. Nothing like that happened. I rode in the parade and we watched the fireworks display. That’s all. He drove me back home. He…he was a perfect gentleman.”
“I was worried more about your behavior. You told me you were in love with him. That’s a dangerous proposition, sis.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not in love with him.”
“Good. You’ve come to your senses.”
“But I wouldn’t mind having his babies.”
“Evie!”
I was a mess on Thursday morning, two days after the 4th. Late to work by a good hour because I had wasted half the morning looking for my black patent leather closed toe pumps with two-inch heels. It dawned on me finally that I’d left them in the bottom drawer of the desk in my office. Debbie had already left in Otis’ van so I had to take the bus.
Launching myself out of the elevator, I sprinted as quickly as my tight pencil skirt allowed but slowed to a leisurely, slinky gait when I passed Mei Ling’s desk outside Chuck’s office. I tossed my dark auburn locks and bade her a good morning. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Once in my office, I retrieved the pumps from the bottom drawer of my desk and swapped out my sneakers for those torture devices. The only reason I put them on today was the sales call I had to make in the afternoon with our sales manager, Buzz Feiten. We were making a presentation to LPGA executives at the Palos Verdes Golf Club, an hour’s drive from the office. If the meeting goes well, we would be on track to visit their headquarters in Daytona, Florida to possibly finalize a deal. Road trip!
Due to my misadventure with the shoes this morning, I had not finished doing my make-up. Specifically, my eyelashes needed to be sorted out. I was starting to get fairly competent at it with the help of my sister and Peg, the wardrobe lady at GlobalNet Studios. Still, it was early days. Taking my hand mirror out, I applied some lash serum to my top lashes. Debbie tells me a daily application accelerates the growth of those bad girls. A steady hand is optimal.
The eyelash curler is next. Peg tells me my top lashes naturally grow out and down so I need to use the curler. Finally, I apply mascara. Again, a steady hand is absolutely necessary.
Just as I was checking the job I’d done on my lashes, Buzz cleared his throat, leaning against the door jamb of my office.
“Those lashes really make your eyes stand out. I’ll bet you whip your boyfriends into shape with those lashes—”
“Buzz, don’t you ever knock?”
“Sorry, I was mesmerized and I forgot to. I’m heading out to Rancho Cucamonga to see the people from The Quakes. Do you have a thumb drive with our minor league baseball presentation on it? I kinda misplaced mine.”
I got up from behind my desk and bent down to retrieve a thumb drive from the bottom drawer of the lateral file cabinet next to the window.
“That’s one hell of a view you got there.”
I handed the thumb drive to him.
“Oh, yeah, you can see the San Gabriel mountains on the horizon.”
“The mountains? Oh…the mountains. Yes, nothing like seeing the wonders of nature to show a man the true joys in life.”
I gave him a puzzled look.
“I’ll be back to pick you up at…uh…2, 2:30. Make sure you bring the golf presentation—”
“All of the presentations are on my laptop. Don’t worry.”
“And get the golf samples from Mei Ling. She’s got the keys to the stockroom. See ya later.”
The instant I sat back down at my desk, my cell phone rang. It was Juan Moskowitz, my putative agent.
“Hello, Juan. What’s the word?”
“Hey, Evie. Just got off the phone with Alastair Knowles and you’ve been cast in Newport: The Series! Congrats, girl!”
“Wow, Juan, I never thought I’d actually get the part. I’m shocked—”
“Pleasantly, I hope. You’re my first client! The execs here at CAA are dumbfounded. When I told them I met you in a dog park, they thought I was joking.”
“So, what happens now?”
“I’m negotiating your contract. Maybe sometime next week, they’ll have you come in to sign it. Do you have a lawyer?”
“Not really. Oh, wait. My boss Chuck is an attorney. He knows about contracts. You know, he told me he wanted to be a sports agent before his sisters started this company—”
“That might be a conflict of interest, Evie. After all, you’d be leaving your job if you sign this deal. He probably wouldn’t want you to leave—”
“Oh, we talked about it already. There are ways I could do both, sort of part-time between production dates. I mean, I wouldn’t be shooting all year round, right?”
“Evie, this isn’t going to be your one and only acting job. Danny and Alastair think you could be the next big thing. You’ve got the looks and that special something. We all agree. It’s just not something I can put my finger on…”
“You better not.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Anyway, how much are they paying me?”
“Sorry, Evie, but since this is your first gig, they’ll try to keep you close to the SAG-AFTRA minimum for lead actors in an hour-long TV program. I’ll do my best to boost that somewhat. Parenthetically, I’ve put you in for a SAG card. You should get it pretty quickly. GlobalNet’s a big name in the industry.”
“Juan, just tell me what the number is—”
“The minimum’s only 12K an episode. They’re planning on 13 episodes in season one. That’s…let’s see…that’s $156,000 total. My first counteroffer will be 250 thou. Maybe we’ll meet in the middle somewhere. I can also ask for certain perks that are not monetary in nature. Anything you’d like in your trailer or dressing room?”
“Well, a large bowl of M&Ms would be nice—”
“Got it. Do you need to exclude any particular colors?”
“No, I’m all for diversity.”
“Oh, yeah, two more things. Are you on social media? Instagram, Tik Tok, Twitch, etc.?”
“I’m not even on Twitter…anymore.”
“I’d advise you to get on as many platforms as possible. Your fans will need to interface with you on a daily basis. It’s what everyone does these days. Also, think about starting your own Only Fans—”
“I’m not doing porn, Juan!”
“No, you don’t need to do nudity. Bikini pics are fine—”
“No, Juan…I can’t.”
“Well, think about it. It’s another revenue stream. You’ve got an MBA, girl, it’s all business.”
“What’s the other thing?”
“Trent Foster. He’s been asked to participate in the celebrity softball game at the All-Star Game in Seattle next Monday. He wants you to go with him.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he needs some hitting tips. I don’t know. He didn’t say. All I know is he told me he’s dropping by your office to talk to you about it. I’m giving you forewarning. Listen, Evie, watch it with this dude. He’s a real player. I don’t want to see you get hurt—”
“Oh, Trent’s a really cool guy. I met his parents on the 4th. They’re nice people. You people in show business think the worst of everyone. Not everyone’s a pervert.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard—”
“La la la la. I’m not listening!”
“Okay, Evie. Just be careful. I’ll keep you posted. Bye.”
I was beginning to think what Juan told me about Trent dropping by was him just winding me up for some reason. A quarter to noon and no Trent…yet. That’s when I heard a cacophony of feminine voices from the other end of the office. I walked to the door and opened it to find Mei Ling about to knock on my forehead. Her fist stopped an inch short of the bridge of my nose. Flinching, I jumped back and almost lost my balance.
“Mei Ling! What’s going on out there?”
“I was about to tell you that Trent Foster is here to see you—”
“Thank you, Mei Ling. I was expecting him. You should have just escorted him back here. Or pointed him in the right direction?”
“I took him to the lunchroom.”
“Why the lunchroom?”
“He looked hungry. It’s almost noon. And everyone in the office wanted autographs—”
“That’s what the ruckus is about.”
I pushed Mei Ling out of my way and walked quickly to the far end of the office. I entered the lunchroom and saw Trent sitting at a table, surrounded by a gaggle of women, some of them waving legal pads, others clicking photos with their phones. All of them raised a high-pitched din.
Trent spotted me at the entrance to the lunchroom and waved.
“Evie! Help me! I’m a little overwhelmed here…”
“Ladies! Ladies!” I put two fingers between my lips and let out a loud whistle. That did it. They all turned their heads my way. “Trent promises to sign everything and take all your selfies—”
“I will? Evie—”
“Just give Trent and me a few minutes. Then he’s all yours, ladies.”
A cheer rose up from the girls as they moved away from Trent, forming a corridor for me to approach. Kyle, who was in his last weeks as our chef, pointed to a table in a corner of the lunchroom. Taking Trent’s hand, I practically dragged him to it and sat us down, our backs to the crowd.
“Evie, your co-workers are like a pack of she-wolves! Thanks for rescuing me.”
“Oh, poor Trent. The drawbacks of being a heartthrob. Boo hoo.”
“Lose the sarcasm, Evie. When all your guy fans drool over you, you’ll probably be thrilled. GlobalNet has millions of subscribers, you know.”
“I still can’t believe I got the part. Frankly, I almost peed myself during the screen test, I was so nervous.”
“Wow, that adds a little…uh…stimulation to the scene we did. You’re going to be wild to work with, Evie. So, listen, why I’m here. MLB invited me to participate in the celebrity softball game at the All-Star Game on Monday—”
“I can give you some hitting tips. There’re some batting cages on Venice Boulevard we could use—”
“No, but thanks. I’m good. I mean, I played varsity baseball at Pepperdine so softball will be a cinch. What I’m asking is…have you ever been to Seattle?”
“No but I’ve always wanted to visit.”
“Come with me. It’s just a couple of days but we’ll see some of the nightlife and I’ll get you an AB in the game. After all, you’re a soon-to-be celebrity.”
“I don’t know, Trent. I’ve already missed so many days of work. It’s one thing for Chuck to let me do the screen test but to miss a workday for a date—”
“I’ve got an idea. Just tell Chuck you’re going to the All-Star Game to talk up Sisters Sportswear. Execs from every major league team will be there. It wouldn’t be a total lie—”
“But what do I wear? I’ve got a very limited wardrobe. I’ll look like a fangirl who snuck into the stadium to stalk you.”
“I thought of that. I talked Peg into putting together a few outfits for you to wear. After all, you’re going to represent GlobalNet when they see you in Seattle. They already leaked your casting to the trades—”
“I hope the New York Post didn’t pick that up. They’re always taking things out of context and spreading unfounded rumors—”
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity, Evie. Anyway, go see Peg on Saturday morning. She sounded really enthusiastic about it when she agreed to do it.”
“Well, it’d be a thrill to go to the All-Star Game. And I’ve always wanted to visit Seattle…”
“Is spending a couple of days with me only third on your list?”
I must have blushed because Trent gently laughed and touched my cheek. My God, he does have the most expressive eyes. A girl could get lost in them.
“Now, go and sign those autographs and take those selfies. After you’re done, come by my office and you can take me out to a proper lunch. I’m up for sushi. Let’s go to Yumami.”
“That’s in Lincoln Heights.”
“Well, hurry up then. I’ve got to be back in the office by 2.”
“Do I get a kiss at least?”
I smiled and pointed to my cheek. Trent kissed me smack on the lips instead, holding my head securely. The girls hooted and hollered. I left the lunchroom and caught a last glimpse of a horde of squealing women swarming poor Trent.
Peg rushed forward and hugged me the second I walked through the door. She was wearing her usual gypsy-cum-hippie ensemble and looked like a middle-aged Stevie Nicks performing at Woodstock. We did the obligatory “faire la bise” and then she held me at arm’s length.
“Evie Rivers, you angel! Congratulations. You’re going to be the biggest star! Just you wait and see.”
“Peg, this is my sister, Debbie and her friend Otis.” They nodded at Peg and she gave them both a little wave of her hand. “Otis was nice enough to drive us over here.”
“I’ve got the cutest outfits ready for you, Evie. Try them on.” She pointed to the rack behind her. “Do we want Otis to see the unveiling, as it were?”
Debbie pushed Otis toward the door. “Babe, go sit in the van. This won’t take long.”
“Peg, have you given any thought to office plants like Dracaenas or Philodendrons? Green is good! I can give you a free consultation—” Debbie slammed the door shut.
“Try this on first, Evie. Debbie, help your sister.”
“I’ll show you how to tape yourself up for the halter top. But I went with summer whites mostly and a little nautical theme because it’s Seattle. You can keep the accessories too, honey. Trent told me it’s all covered in his contract under expenses. By the way, how long do you think you can keep Trent from discovering your…your—”
“Fringe benefits?” interjected Debbie.
“Well, I insisted we get separate hotel rooms in Seattle.”
“Just keep an eye on your alcohol consumption, sweetie. Resistance is futile once you knock back a few of those girly cocktails.”
“Evie’s got the liver of a champion,” Debbie snorted.
“That’s not the organ I’m most concerned about,” Peg pointed out, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose as she straightened the flared bottoms of my slacks.
Sunday evening in Seattle. The celebrity softball game was on Monday afternoon just before the home run contest. The All-Star Game itself was on Tuesday night. Trent had booked us on a 10PM flight back to Los Angeles on Monday night. I was a little disappointed. I’d never seen an All-Star Game live on site. Just on TV. But I’d promised Chuck I would return to the office on Tuesday. We were pitching The Lakers on Wednesday and we needed to run through the presentation at least two or three times.
We landed at SEA Airport in the mid-afternoon on Sunday, picked up our car rental, and drove into Seattle to check into our downtown hotel. We went to our separate rooms and freshened up for an early dinner in the Capitol Hill section of the city. I showered and changed into my halter-top outfit with the flared bottom pants. I think Trent just took a nap and a dump, in what order I’m not sure.
Chophouse Row is a mixed-use development established in 2015. The site was previously an automobile repair shop. Now, it houses approximately 15 businesses amidst apartments and office spaces. Since it was still bright outside at barely 6PM, we decided to have dinner at one of the restaurants with a patio at the far end of the Row.
Since the Row was only a few blocks from our hotel, we walked. I was very self-conscious about my boobs, or lack thereof, in my halter-top. Even with the light jacket covering most of my top, I felt ridiculously exposed. I must have been absent-mindedly fidgeting with my artfully manipulated “breasts” because Trent noticed.
“Are you pleasuring yourself in public?” laughed Trent as he slurped his oysters.
“What? Oh, no. It’s this halter top. I’m not used to wearing tops like this.”
“Can’t be that much different from a bikini—”
“I’ve never worn a bikini.”
“You’re kidding. I don’t believe you. Come on! Well, you’re going to be in bikinis a lot in the series. A lot. Newport? It’s a beach, literally.”
“I’m going to have to go to the ladies’ room and adjust myself. Excuse me, Trent.” Flustered, I jumped off my chair and went to look for the ladies’ room. Trent’s confused expression was cute but, finally, he shook his head and returned to slurping his oysters.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I found the ladies’ room devoid of ladies. My reflection in the mirror was not a reflection of how I felt. Apparently, the halter top looked to be perfectly tidy and configured correctly. I checked the athletic tape that was pushing my breasts together and it was secure. So, I told myself to calm down. I needed to stop fussing about it. After a final pat or two around the sides of my top, I freshened up my lipstick and washed my hands.
“Back out there for the second act, girl,” I told my reflection in the mirror. Two young women entered, laughing. They came to a dead stop when they spotted me by the sink.
“Look, Natalie, it’s that girl with Trent Foster!”
“Are you an actress or a model?” asked the other girl.
“Neither at the moment. I’m in sportswear—”
“You’re trippin’, girl. That’s a Valentino pantsuit if I know my haute couture…and I do, right, Natalie?”
“So, how did you meet Trent?”
“I screen tested for his new series on GlobalNet.”
“Tell us. Is he really packing down there?”
I stood there, my mouth agape, as they waited with expectant expressions.
“Really, girls, that’s such a gross thing to ask—”
“Oh, Natalie, he must be huge! You’re a lucky girl! Are you into group stuff?”
“Excuse me? What about your dates. You had guys at your table. I saw you.”
“We can lose those clowns if you’d like. Where are you guys staying?”
“We can meet up at your hotel later tonight.”
I bolted for the door and didn’t look back.
It was two hours later that evening. Trent had insisted we return to our hotel after dinner. On the walk back, he divulged his plans for the night. There was a ‘70s disco night at Neumos, the leading music venue in the city. It was a one-night-only theme show that tours North America year-round, presenting disco dancefloor bangers of the decade from ABBA, The Bee Gees, KC & The Sunshine Band, Donna Summer, Cher, Elton John, Queen, and others. Not surprisingly, these well-attended events inspire a lot of people to show up replete in ‘70s fashions and hairstyles. Which is why Trent presented me with a garment bag that contained my “costume” for the night, including a Little Orphan Annie wig. His costume reeked of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. At least it got me out of my uncomfortable halter top outfit. On the other hand, we got some odd stares from passersby all the way up Pike Street on the way to Neumos.
My initial trepidation over the security guy scanning my Driver’s License (which clearly denoted my gender as male) was assuaged when he waved me in almost immediately.
“Boy, these guys don’t scrutinize IDs very carefully. I mean, suppose someone was pretending to be a different gender—”
Laughing, Trent ushered me onto the vast dance floor. “They don’t give a fuck about that. Half the people here tonight are probably cross-dressers. It’s Seattle. It’s Capitol Hill. They’ve got LGBTQ+ colors painted on the crosswalks. As long as you’re legal drinking age, they really couldn’t care less.”
“What do you think of cross-dressers or…or trans people, Trent?”
“I’ve never met one…that I know of. Have you?”
“Generally speaking though. Do you have an opinion about them?”
“Never given it much thought. Hey, look, the show’s about to start. Get down and boogie, Evie!”
We danced the night away. Although most of the music was unfamiliar to my ears, I found myself enjoying the sensuality of it all, the physical abandon that it engendered. Trent knew all the dance moves. When everyone tried to form lines to do the Hustle, I lost one of my shoes. In fact, I just missed conking a guy on the back of his head by a few inches. Trent had to wade through the crowd to retrieve it. Then, when I bent down to put the shoe back on, someone behind me bumped into my butt and I started a chain reaction like a stack of dominoes. When I got to my feet, they were arguing over who the clumsy idiot was that started the cascade in the first place. Trent figured it was a good time to take a break and get a drink. Remembering Peg’s warning, I stayed with the well drinks like rum and coke while Trent guzzled vodka martinis. I sipped my drink slowly, catching my breath between forays onto the dance floor. Around 11:30PM, the crowd started to thin out and the DJ was signaling the closing of the show. I decided we shouldn’t tempt fate by walking back to our hotel, so I ordered an Uber, as if Trent was in any condition to weave his way back anyway.
I helped Trent into his room and halfway carried him to the bed. Taking off his shoes and sunglasses, I pulled the blanket over his snoring mouth and turned on his air conditioner. It was an uncharacteristically hot July night in the Great Northwest. I made my way back to my own room, removed my makeup with a cotton ball and baby oil, changed into my extra-large Titans t-shirt, and slipped into bed, falling fast asleep almost immediately.
When Trent and I arrived at T-Mobile Park in the SoDo section of Seattle (South of Downtown), the celebrity softball game was a mere 15 minutes from starting and Trent was nursing one heck of a hangover. He had difficulty changing into the uniform they handed out to all the celebrity players and was the last one to emerge from the clubhouse out onto the field. Kevin Hart and Jake Gyllenhaal flanked Trent in centerfield, periodically glancing at him with worried looks. Trent’s sunglasses were more to conceal his bloodshot eyes than to shield them from the afternoon sun. The one ball hit toward him in the first inning eluded his dive and he lay motionless on the grass for a full minute while Kevin and Jake called time out and got him to his feet. At the end of the inning, Trent had a brief confab with his team’s manager, Jimmy Fallon, and came over to where I was sitting in the front row of the stands.
“Babe, you gotta go in for me. Jimmy said it was okay. I’m going to go and sleep this off in the clubhouse. Let’s see if they have a uni that can fit you. Oh, my head hurts.”
After seeing that Trent was comfortably asleep on the couch in the trainer’s room, I changed into a uniform and made my way through the corridor leading to the visiting team’s dugout when I heard someone approaching from behind. I turned to look.
It was Richie Morrow. I had paid so little attention to baseball in the last two months that I didn’t expect Richie to be selected to the All-Star squad. Rookies rarely are but he was having a great season. We last exchanged texts over a month ago. I just assumed he’d forgotten all about me.
“Evie, what are you doing here? How did you get into the celebrity game?”
“Richie. Long time no see. It’s a long story. I’m subbing for Trent Foster.”
“Trent Foster? Yeah, he’s three sheets to the wind if you ask me. But how is he connected to you that you’re subbing for him?”
“I came to Seattle with him. He asked me to.”
“Oh, I…I didn’t know. Evie, I’ve been really negligent about keeping in touch—”
“Richie. I’m in centerfield. They’re waiting for me.”
“Sorry.” He stepped aside. “We’ll talk after the game. Okay?”
I waved in reply but started to run. I was excited to be back on a ballfield. Even if it was just a silly celebrity softball game.
After figuratively bumping into Richie Morrow on the way to the dugout, I literally collided with Jimmy Fallon, our team’s player-manager, as I sprinted onto the field.
“Hey, we’re playing softball, not football! Are you Evie? Trent said you’ve actually played before—”
I pulled my cap further down on my head and nodded. “Yes, skip. Well, baseball. I’ve never really played softball—”
“Whoa! A regular bad news bears, eh? You kinda look like Jodie Foster—”
“Believe me, skip, I’m nothing like Jodie.”
“Whatever. Get out there. You’re centerfield.”
We trotted out to the field. It was then I noticed that T-Mobile Park was almost filled to capacity with fans. The retractable roof was open, letting the late afternoon sunlight shine in all its early summer glory on the verdant grass. Jimmy went to first base as I settled into my defensive stance in centerfield, midway between Kevin Hart in left and Jake Gyllenhaal in rightfield. It was the top of the 2nd inning and Felix Hernandez, a retired Mariner great, was tossing slo-pitch to the visiting team. The game was scoreless. Ryan Howard, another retired ballplayer (a Phillies all-star in his prime), awaited the first pitch of the inning in the batter’s box. I moved back, almost to the temporary fencing they had installed at Little League distances solely for the celebrity softball game, respecting Howard’s powerful 6’4” frame.
Felix, although a Hall of Fame level pitcher in his time in the bigs, turned out to be eminently hittable, tossing from the softball circle, 43 feet from home plate. He gave up two runs, including extra base hits from Bad Bunny, JoJo Siwa, and Donovan Mitchell, a current NBA player. With two outs, he loaded the bases again with consecutive walks to Jennie Finch and Joel McHale. With The Miz, a superstar wrestler with bulging muscles and a decent swing, coming to bat, I positioned myself two steps from the fence, giving myself space to jump up if I had to. And I did.
The Miz sent a humpback pop fly toward the centerfield fence. I launched myself into the air and the ball nestled into my outstretched glove. It was the final out of the inning. The crowd roared and my teammates gave me high-fives as we returned to our dugout.
In the dugout, Kevin slapped me on the back. (Unnecessarily hard I might add) We sat next to each other on the bench as Felix walked by.
“Nice catch. I thought it was gonna clear the bases.” I smiled in reply, fidgeting with my cap.
Kevin stared at me for a long second. “So, you’re Trent’s new girl? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around—”
“Trent’s new girl? Well, I’m certainly a new girl. It’s only been a couple of months.”
“You a model, an actress?”
“I’m in sportswear—”
“Everyone’s a comedian! I didn’t ask you what you’re wearing. I can see that. What do you do?”
Skylar Astin, known for his character Jesse Swanson in the Pitch Perfect movies, interjected from the other end of the dugout, “She’s been cast in that new GlobalNet series that Trent’s starring in. Based on the movie Newport: It’s a Beach.” He smiled and waved.
Jimmy Fallon stopped in front of us and offered me a stick of bubble gum. “It’s Trident. I’d offer you some chewing tobacco but they want to keep the dugouts clear of puke before the home run derby tonight.”
“I’m good. I’m afraid I’d just swallow it if I had to slide headfirst like I normally do.”
“A regular Pete Rose we got here. You’re up third this inning. Go pick out a helmet.”
“You can use mine. Don’t worry. It doesn’t have cooties like Jake’s,” laughed Kevin as Jake Gyllenhaal walked by, chugging a bottle of water. He winked at me. I blushed and wondered why I’m suddenly noticing how attractive some guys are.
They had allotted an hour and a half for the game so when we came to bat in the bottom of the 4th inning, it was our last chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Behind 3 to 2, there were two outs and a runner on first base (Zach Lavine, another NBA player and native of Seattle) when it was my turn at bat. Jennie Finch, Olympic gold medalist, had come in to pitch for the save. Normally, it would be huge advantage Finch but, as this was slo-pitch, it was reminiscent of the tee-ball games we played as 4- to 6-year-olds. Still, Jennie could put a wicked spin on the ball, making it drop out of sight as it crossed the plate.
She got me to swing and miss on two of those spinners and I was down to my last strike when she left one up in the zone. Muscle memory kept my head down and still as I kept my hands back, swiveling my hips and timing the hanger just right. I barreled the ball and sent it screaming (well, not actually) over the leftfield fence. It was a walk-off home run! I rounded the bases as the hometown crowd exulted. Jennie tipped her cap as I approached home plate. I jumped on the plate and was immediately subsumed in a human cloud of my teammates. To my surprise, Trent came out of nowhere and hugged me, trying to lift me above the scrum.
“Trent! You look fine. You’re not hung over at all, were you?”
“Evie, it was my way of getting you into the game. And here you are, player of the game! You won the game!”
“Put me down! You tricked me!” I chased Trent around the field. We were both laughing and the crowd lapped it up, thinking they were watching romantic hi-jinks between a matinee idol and the newest ingenue. Finally, Mina Kimes, one of the ESPN reporters covering the celebrity game, signaled to us to stand by her and be interviewed before a national TV audience. A jubilant Jimmy Fallon was right next to her, beckoning us to come over.
“Evie Rivers, walk-off hero with a two-run homer in your team’s last at bat. Before I ask you the usual questions about what you were looking for and what you hit, I have to ask…who are you? You weren’t among the names on either roster.”
“I never planned on playing in the game. I’m sort of Trent’s guest.”
Trent leaned into Mina’s microphone. “Evie is a brilliant actress who’s co-starring with me in the new GlobalNet series, Newport, streaming this Fall. And quite a ballplayer, as you can see.”
“You know, Mina, from the very moment she crashed into me coming onto the field today, I had the inkling she was going to be our MVP. If she’s half the actress she is as a ballplayer, we’ll be seeing a whole lot more of her in the future, on TV, in movies, magazine covers—” babbled on Jimmy as Trent snaked his arm around my waist and snatched the cap off my head, allowing my hair to tumble down to my shoulders.
The rest of the interview pretty much passed me by as I was overwhelmed by the crowd, the camera, and the moment. I was relieved when Trent and I finally got the chance to change out of our uniforms and into our civilian clothes. The Mariners’ training staff was kind enough to allow me to use the shower in the trainer’s room…a chivalrous gesture for my privacy. JoJo Siwa was loud in her protests over my preferential treatment. “She’s not the only woman here, man!”
As Trent and I hurried out of the stadium, our luggage in hand, headed for the rental car in the parking garage and hoping to elude rush hour traffic on our way to the airport, Richie Morrow caught up with us just before Trent pushed the exit door bar.
“Evie! Evie! You’re leaving?”
“Richie. I have to be back at work tomorrow morning. Our plane takes off at 10. It’s almost 7 now.”
“I was hoping we could spend some time together. I mean, you’re going the miss the game tomorrow. They tell me they might give me an inning—”
Trent took the luggage from my hands and started out the door. “I’ll wait for you at the car, Evie.” I turned back to Richie.
“I’m so happy you’re having such a great season. You’ll forgive me for not answering your texts but I’ve been really busy. New job, moving to LA…”
“Trent? Are you and he…is he?” I shook my head. “So, you’re acting now? You look…so good. I always thought you were pretty but, my God, you’re beautiful!”
“We’ll talk, Richie. After the season, either you could visit me in LA or I could see you in New York.”
“Don’t forget me, Evie. Promise.” I reached up and caressed his cheek, surprised how soft my hands had become as I felt the bristles dig into my palm.
“I won’t, Richie. Good luck tomorrow. Don’t drop your arm on your sweeper. Remember.” I pushed the exit door bar and gave Richie one last finger wave.
“Are you always acting, Trent?” I looked at Trent as he took his earbuds out and turned to me. We were flying business class, scheduled to land at LAX sometime before 1 in the morning.
“How so?”
“You asked me to ride with you in the 4th of July parade. You insisted I come with you to Seattle. All of this was just to get some free publicity for your new TV series. I’m not even signed to a contract yet—”
“That’s a mere technicality. Your agent will haggle with the producers. It’ll get done. And I do have feelings for you, Evie.”
“Do you really? What if I had botched the screen test? Would you still have invited me to the parade and Seattle?”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Evie. Like Danny says, there’s something very special about you. It’s a bonus that I’ll be working with you but I am attracted to you. A great deal.”
“Juan warned me you were a player. We should just keep our relationship professional from now on.”
“Is that how you feel? Maybe you’re the one who’s acting. I thought you and I had a certain electricity between us. My mom is already planning the wedding. She’s convinced we’re a match made in heaven.”
“We hardly know each other, Trent. You absolutely know very little about me.”
“Oooh, a woman of mystery. So, do I get three guesses as to what your big secret is?”
“You’d never guess.”
“You’re really a man!”
I almost jumped out of my seat but managed not to scream. The stricken expression on my face alarmed Trent.
“Calm down, Evie. I’m joking. Don’t count that as a guess. Let me think—”
“Let’s drop it, Trent. I’m going to use the free wi-fi and check my texts. Go back to listening to your own beats.”
“Maybe I can get Tim Henson to lay down a solo for this track,” he mumbled as he replaced the earbuds. “Is he with CAA? Can you talk to Juan about hooking him up with us?”
The unforeseen consequences of Trent’s handiwork started to bleed into real life when we landed at LAX. The moment we stepped off the escalator to enter the terminal meeting area, we were deluged by a veritable sea of cameras. Correction: I was the target of all this attention. Trent gleefully passed through the throng almost incognito. Even before I could catch up with him, a small but persistent group of fans asked for my autograph. Apparently, in the three hours I was in the air, I had become a national celebrity because of my softball heroics. And Trent had added the imprimatur of television ingenue to boot.
“Trent’s parents say you’re engaged already!”
“Did you break Richie Morrow’s heart?”
“Will you be singing on Trent’s new album?”
“Are you ever going back to baseball?”
“Are you a natural brunette?”
“Are you secretly dating Jake Gyllenhaal on the side?”
“Are you a Republican or a Democrat?”
I walked into my office on Tuesday morning and found a soft-boiled egg snugly sitting in a solitary egg cup on my desk. Before I could call the kitchen and ask Kyle if he had placed it there, Mei Ling showed up in the doorway, cutlery In one hand and a plate of whole wheat toast in the other.
“I figured you wouldn’t have had time for breakfast. After all, you landed at LAX after one in the morning. How much beauty sleep did you really get? And getting enough sleep is crucial for a growing girl like you.”
“You shouldn’t have, Mei Ling.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem. Are you going to crack that egg or should I do that for you?”
“I can do it myself, Mei Ling. Now if you’ll let me eat in peace… Thanks for your thoughtfulness. It’s appreciated—”
“I only wish I could do more—”
“I’m sure you do. Close the door behind you, please.”
Our presentation on Wednesday to The Lakers went very well. I think a tentative agreement had already been reached by the time we played the short promotional video that the production house had delivered to us the day before. The first half hour of the meeting was monopolized by Magic Johnson singing my praises to the roof. Of course, everyone in the meeting had either seen my softball exploits live or replayed on social media. Magic had even arranged to show a video of my arrival at the airport and the ensuing chaotic scrum of real and ersatz journalists, autograph-seeking fans, and Trent Foster sneaking past camera range in dark glasses and a smirk.
The Lakers’ marketing staff asked more questions about Trent Foster than the custom sportswear the Sisters brand was offering. Chuck seemed miffed but didn’t interrupt as I answered as much as I could, given I had only known Trent for little more than a week. Everyone, including Magic, hugged me as the meeting ended. They perfunctorily shook hands with Chuck. By the end of the session, Chuck was an afterthought to the Lakers contingent. The head of marketing, a youngish man with a headful of dreads, made a grand gesture of handing me his business card. He asked me if I liked Kool & The Gang. They were appearing at the Hollywood Bowl on Friday and Saturday nights. Did I want to go? I stumbled over my words before Chuck interceded and said we were going to be late for our lunch meeting across town. Chuck took my arm and we walked quickly to the elevator.
“Thanks, Chuck. I didn’t want to reject the poor guy out of hand like that,” I said as we sat in his car, five minutes later. “You never know. He might have reacted badly and scotched our deal.”
“Looks like you’re getting a lot of practice at rejecting guys,” he mused, his foot on the brake as he pressed the engine start button, put the car in reverse, and backed slowly out of the parking space. His right arm looped around my shoulders absentmindedly as he looked through the rear window.
“Are you upset at me, Chuck?”
“Let’s go get lunch. Such a nice day today. The air quality’s better now the farther we get from the 4th. You can actually see the hills—”
“We should’ve packed a pick-a-nick basket, Yogi.”
“Don’t fret, Boo Boo. There’s a Ricky’s Fish Taco truck that’s parked outside of Echo Park. Are you up for some half-fish, half-shrimp tacos? I’ve got a beach blanket in the trunk.”
“Drive on, Jeeves.”
An hour later Chuck tossed the beach blanket into the trunk of his car and, looking toward the lake inside the park, laughed as he asked, “Have you ever pedaled a Swan boat?”
“Not since I was eleven. They have swan boats in Asbury Park in New Jersey, where I grew up.”
“I’ve seen pictures of those. The ones here in Echo Park are bigger and nicer looking. Let’s go rent one—”
“Chuck, don’t they expect us back at the office?”
“Hey, it’s good to be the king, right? I’ll go swan boating if I want. Who’s gonna stop me?”
“Not me. Let’s go.”
They gave us life jackets to wear. We looked quite a pair as we paddled out into the center of the lake, passing other mid-day revelers. The life jackets over our business suits, I’m sure, were seen as a comic juxtaposition.
“Now I’ve got you where I want. You can’t escape me now.” He laughed maniacally.
“I can stop pedaling and we’ll just go around in circles. Stop with the cackling.”
“Evie, how’s the contract talk coming along? Do you think Juan might not be in over his head? You’re his first client.”
“Juan is cool. He’s aggressive, takes chances. He’s what they call a go-getter.”
“Speaking of which, is acting what you want to go and get? You have an MBA and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You’re not just a pretty face. Which you are. I’m not saying—”
“I know what you mean, Chuck. Let’s just say, even two months ago, I could never have imagined being called an ingenue by the media. Never mind knowing what an ingenue was in the first place. It’s mind-blowing. I have to admit I like being complimented for my acting ability.”
“And celebrated for your looks?”
I turned to Chuck. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“No. I don’t.”
Raising my voice along with my hackles, I protested, “Well, I never—”
“You’re not pretty. You’re beautiful. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, well…thank you…I guess.”
“Not saying that actresses aren’t smart but, Evie, you’re not an empty-headed booby. You’ve got a graduate degree in business and you’ve already proven to me at least that you’ve got a real talent for marketing. Why get involved with show business? There’s more crushing failure than transcendent success in that industry.”
“I want to give it a try. I’ll always have my business background to fall back on. And, last resort, I can go back to coaching baseball. I’m still in my mid-20s.”
“You stopped pedaling, Evie. We’re going in circles.”
“Stop talking. You’re distracting me.”
Dad: How’s Hollywood life, Evie? Consuela says all the doctors and nurses at the hospital want to know when you’re coming to visit. They all want autographs and selfies!
Me: It’s been less than a week but people seem to recognize me everywhere I go. Even at Trader Joe’s in San Gabriel. It’s funny being asked to take a selfie while you’re squeezing honeydew melons in the produce section. Debbie doesn’t like being ignored too.
Dad: I’m proud of you, Evie, but I’m also very worried. My two cents. Stick with the marketing job. How long do you think you can keep these Hollywood types from finding out?
Me: I’ve got it under control, dad. Don’t worry.
Dad: I have the money, Evie. Get the confirmation surgery now…before it’s a big mess.
Me: If I get the surgery, it’ll be with my own money, dad. Juan thinks he can get me a quarter of a million to work on this series with Trent.
Dad: Stay away from this Trent character. He’ll hurt you, Evie. Richie Morrow calls us here quite often because you never answer his texts. He’s a nice boy. I think he’d like you even if you told him your secret.
Me: I’m not interested in getting involved with anybody right now. My priority is my career. Whatever that might be.
Dad: Consuela’s got vacation time soon. We’re coming out to spend some quality time with our girls. I’ll keep you posted when we’re coming.
Me: I can’t wait, dad. We’ll show you the sights of LA. It’ll be fun! Love you, dad. And Consuela!
I looked across the coffee table from Juan Moskowitz as he told me the details of his negotiations with Alastair Knowles and the people from GlobalNet. Debbie and Otis were sitting on the loveseat, their jaws dropping as they heard Juan recap the series of offers and counteroffers. Juan aimed to impress us and he did.
“They were upping the offer even before I could turn down the previous one. They’re desperate to sign you, Evie. I don’t know if Trent had it all planned but the free publicity he got for you with the parade and the celebrity softball game made you indispensable to them. It almost doesn’t matter if you can act. Of course, you can. I saw the screen test. I was there.”
“I wish you had invited us, Evie,” whined Debbie.
“It wasn’t my call, Debbie. These things are pretty closed door, you know.”
“Anyway, as I was saying. You’ve saved them a lot of time and trouble promoting this new series. Sure, they’ve got Trent headlining but—you, Evie—you’re the lynchpin. They can get a lot of mileage with the two of you as a pair like Brangelina or Bennifer. You should look into hiring a manager. I can’t handle all the interview requests and photo opps I’ve been getting for you.”
“They’ll be thrilled to know Evie’s ready to bear his child—”
“Debbie!”
“Oh no, Evie,” Juan cried. “Getting pregnant now would be the worst thing for your career…and mine.”
“Don’t worry, Juan. Debbie’s just trolling. I’m not having anybody’s baby…and you can take that to the bank.”
“Good. You had me panicked there for a moment. Just use protection when you’re with this guy, Evie. I’ve heard on the down low he’s been a baby daddy more than once.”
“Look, that’s not happening so…what’s the final number?”
Juan handed me a copy of the contract. My eyes found the line that stated the amount and screamed.
“What is it, Evie? Is it less than the SAG minimum?”
“No,” I said, breathless. “It’s…it says here…it’s a million dollars!”
“U.S. dollars?”
“Of course, Debbie. Do you think they’d pay me in Iranian Rials?”
“Oh my God, Evie! You’re a millionaire! Sign that thing! Sign it now!”
“No hurry, Evie,” Juan interjected. “We could get more if we play hard to get. But show it to your attorney. See what they think.” He packed up his briefcase and stood up. “I’ve got a late date. Gotta go. I’ll check back with you on Monday or Tuesday. I’ll show myself out. Oh, by the way, I get the standard 10% fee. Just to remind you. Good night, kids.”
“We can get a car, a new apartment, new clothes…” Debbie turned her back to Otis and, under her breath, she added, “and you can get that…you know…done.”
“It certainly looks that way. I’m going to let Chuck look at this. He’s a lawyer, after all.”
“Yeah, but can Chuck be objective? He’d hate to lose you.”
“He can always hire another marketing person.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Chuck agreed to look over the contract although his expression showed a lack of enthusiasm for the task. As I placed the contract on his desk, he barely looked up from the putting set on his office floor. He missed a two-footer and cursed.
“Evie, just a minute. I might not be able to get to it until the weekend. How about we get together on Sunday and I’ll give you my take on the contract. The money certainly looks good but you might want some perks not mentioned.”
“Sure. Sunday. I can get Otis to drive me to your place in Corona Del Mar.”
“No need. I’ll pick you up. There’s a concert at the Hollywood Bowl I really want to see. Do you mind coming along? We’ll talk about the contract afterwards.”
“Oh…well…o.k. Who are we seeing?”
“They Might Be Giants.”
“Never heard of them. Are they like hip hop?”
Chuck laughed raucously. “Evie, you are the most delightful woman I know. Your sense of humor is fantastic—”
“I guess they’re not hip hop?”
Debbie surprised me by booking an appointment for me at this ritzy hair salon off Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills for Saturday morning.
“Why do I need to get my hair done?”
“You’re a movie star, Evie!”
“Television, Debbie. And I haven’t even shot a single scene of the show yet.”
“Whatever. You’re a star! You’ve got a shitload of split ends and I told them to give you more of an auburn tint. Not red, red but reddish brown. You’ll see. You’ll thank me later.”
“I suppose you’re getting your hair done as well.”
“Oh no. I’m not a movie star—”
“TV!”
“Same difference. Otis and I will drive you there and pick you up later. While you’re getting the works done, Otis and I will do some antiquing. There’re oodles of antiques places around there.”
“Those places are very expensive, Debbie. You guys don’t have that kind of…oh, I see. Spending my money before I’ve even seen a penny of it?”
“We’re not buying. Just pricing some items that we might buy. And, anyway, Otis said he’d pay if you refused—”
“Poor Otis. I’m going to bed. I’ll need to be wide awake for this salon thing tomorrow morning. You’re a great sister, Debbie. Just dandy.”
“Before you hit the hay, Evie, I want to show you this.” She fired up her laptop and typed in a URL, then pressed enter to start a video, turning the screen toward me.
“It’s your boyfriend Trent. He’s in Cozumel with that blonde bimbo, Bambi Bunson.”
“Who?”
“She’s that YouTube influencer who has like a million subscribers. She gives makeup and haircare tips to trendy young bimbos like her. That’s not a bikini. That’s dental floss! Look, Evie!”
“He can see other people. We have an open relationship. The same goes for me.”
“What other people are you seeing?”
“Well…uh…I’m going to see some hip hop act at the Hollywood Bowl on Sunday night with Chuck.”
“He’s your boss and you asked him for some legal advice. You’re not dating…or are you?”
“No, we’re not dating! Turn that off, Debbie. I really don’t care who he dates. He means nothing to me.”
“But you told me you wanted to have his babies.” I tossed a throw pillow at Debbie and stomped off to the bathroom. She cackled for five minutes straight.
My sleep was uneasy, filled with visions of Trent and that YouTube influencer frolicking in the surf in Cozumel and drinking tequila sunrises in cocktail glasses with tiny paper umbrellas, sprawled on pool chairs. Dental floss my ass! (that sounds painful) Then there was my anxiety about going to a hair salon for the first time in my life…as a woman. Peg’s help at the studio doesn’t really count. She put me at ease when I told her my secret. But these women at the Beverly Hills salon might not be as understanding or tolerant. For some reason, I kept flashing on that old Bugs Bunny cartoon where he pretended to be a beautician. I remember laughing at what Bugs did to Gossamer, the clueless monster sent to do away with him by a mad scientist. I identified with Bugs as a child. Now, would they see me as the monster instead?
I was standing on the corner of Rodeo Drive and Wilshire Boulevard, waiting for Otis and Debbie to pick me up, when a couple of people who looked like tourists starting snapping photos of me with their phones, speaking in some indecipherable foreign language.
I had just finished my session at the salon. I had to admit it went smoother than I had feared. In fact, the staff and even some of the other patrons asked for my autograph and a few obligatory selfies. Of course, they kept asking about Trent. The girl who washed my hair even tried to commiserate with me on Trent’s cheating treachery. I told her I’d get over it and he wasn’t all that after all. She clucked her tongue and shook her head in disbelief. “Oh no, you need to look the other way. He’ll tire of her and come back to you. You wait and see.”
So They Might Be Giants really weren’t a hip hop act. Who knew? Chuck is a big fan of theirs. He sang along with almost every song. I found them kind of nerdy but in a boho Brookyn Park Slope kind of way. Not my cup of tea but Chuck certainly enjoyed himself. Finally, after three encores, the concert was over and I thought Chuck would go over the contract with me.
We left the parking lot of The Hollywood Bowl and took a circuitous route along Cahuenga Boulevard to connect with Mulholland Drive. We reached the Overlook and Chuck parked. Just over the guard rails, we could see a beautiful view of the Hollywood Bowl, the lights of downtown Los Angeles at night, and, in the distance, the ocean and Catalina Island.
“I looked over the contract and everything seems copacetic. You know, Evie, you’re a very lucky girl. Not many actresses get a million-dollar deal first time out of the box. You should tip your hat to Trent, even if he is a cheating skunk. The guy knows how to promote.”
“So you think I should sign it?”
“I don’t see a reason for you not to sign it.”
“I’m worried about one particular thing though. It’s sort of a legal question. I’m afraid they might void the contract if they find out.”
“Find out what?”
“Sooner or later, you were going to find out, Chuck, so I might as well tell you. It’s not something I did intentionally. You have to believe me. Debbie’s the one who pushed me to do it—”
“What are you trying to say, Evie?”
I exhaled dramatically. “I’m biologically male. There, I’ve said it.”
“Is that all?”
“What? Aren’t you the least bit surprised…shocked…disgusted?”
“I already knew.”
“Oh no, Mei Ling told you, didn’t she? That busybody—”
“She did tell me the day after your screen test. But I already knew.”
“But…but how? Nobody ever seemed to suspect other than Mei Ling and she had to really dig to find out.”
“Maybe I’m a bit more observant that you give me credit for, Evie. It’s not important how I know. I do have a question for you, though.”
“Ask away.”
“Are you presenting as a woman to establish a career for yourself? Or are you genuinely gender dysphoric? Do you actually want to be a woman?”
I opened my mouth to answer but no words came out. Moments passed as I struggled to give Chuck an honest reply.
“Do you?”
Chuck faced the illuminated city of night below us. His voice was invested with emotion. I wondered where that was coming from.
“Are you presenting as a woman to establish a career for yourself? Or are you genuinely gender dysphoric? Do you actually want to be a woman?”
I opened my mouth to answer but no words came out. Moments passed as I struggled to give Chuck an honest reply.
“Do you?”
Prodded, I blurted out, “I…I’m not sure. I mean, yes…no! I don’t know, Chuck.” He turned to face me. The anger seemed to rise in his glare. “Help me…”
“Do you think I’m a gullible moron? What’s really going on here, Evie? Is this some kind of clever ruse that you and Debbie pulled on us? Is there a master plan? World domination through cross-dressing?”
“Chuck, I didn’t plan this. It just kind of snowballed. I’ll resign immediately. I’ll clear out my desk on Monday. Please don’t blame Debbie. She was just trying to help me—”
“Fuck the job, Evie. I was beginning to care about you—”
“What? But how? I wasn’t trying to lead you on. I’m fully aware of who and what I am.”
“Are you? Really? I want an answer, Evie. Do you wish you were a woman?”
“I honestly don’t know, Chuck.”
“You need to make up your mind. Soon. That’s if you’re actually going to follow through with embarking on an acting career.”
“It’s not just the money—”
“You’d turn down a million dollars?”
“It’s the…the way people react to me. They like me. They’re interested in me. What I think. What I want. What I say…”
“You’re beautiful. That’s what they’re reacting to.”
“Is that all you see in me?”
He turned back to the city lights below us. A light breeze played with his sandy brown hair. My heart skipped. I realized I wanted Chuck to think I was beautiful.
“The company will really miss your skills. Even Buzz had to admit you’re the best marketing person we’ve ever had. And he normally just notices three things in a woman. Clark called me on Friday. He wants us to meet with him at the training complex next week. Well, he just wants to talk to you. I’m your chauffeur, as far as he’s concerned.”
“You’ll find someone else who’s just as good a marketer. Probably better.”
“It’s late. My legal advice is, sign it. It’s a pretty standard 7-year contract with built-in increases based on the on-going success of the series. Even if it’s cancelled after season one, you’re guaranteed a cool million. Pretty extraordinary for a first-time actor.”
“Can they void the contract if they find out—”
“That’s more of an issue for you. I would think if it got out that you’re not a cis woman, they’d reap the benefits of a lot of free publicity. They might even write it into the show. Frankly, GlobalNet’s audience isn’t the Bible belt. The issue is how you’d cope. Your life would be a 24-hour-a-day news cycle all by itself.”
“So far, the only people who know are you and Mei Ling. Maybe I can keep it a secret until I make a decision. You won’t tell, will you?”
“I’d never do anything to hurt you, Evie. If this is what you want, I’ll do what I can to contain any leaks. Don’t worry about Mei Ling. If someone told Misty that her husband was fooling around with her company’s executive assistant…”
“That someone wouldn’t be you, would it?”
“I’ll take you home. Let’s see what Clark wants before we decide how to proceed with your future at Sisters Sportswear.”
Relieved, I rushed forward to hug him. Chuck moved aside and gently nudged me back toward the car. We got in and Chuck gunned the engine. 30 minutes later, we were back at Eastlake Avenue. I expected a kiss. We shook hands.
So it was that, instead of cleaning out my desk on Monday morning, Debbie and I arranged a half day at the office in order for me to sign my contract with GlobalNet at 11AM in their Vine Street headquarters. Debbie insisted on coming along. For moral support, she claimed. Which was fine with me. I was nervous and excited. Holding her hand helped to calm me as we slid into my agent Juan Moskowitz’s car. He picked us up at half past 10, plenty of time to make sure we were professionally punctual. Sitting next to Juan was a pretty young woman Debbie and I had never before seen.
“Ladies, this is my wife, Glynnis.” She waved at us from the front passenger seat.
“Juan, you never told us you were married—” my sister declared.
“You never asked.”
“That’s a good reason, Debbie,” I pointed out.
The four of us were ushered into a small conference room and offered something to drink while we waited. Apparently, another meeting was just ending. After about five minutes, Alastair Knowles, Daniel Dantley, the director of Newport: The Series, and Mary Legler, EVP of the Legal Department, entered, dispensed with the pleasantries, and sat down across from us at the conference table.
After Juan announced that we agreed to the terms of the contract, I signed both copies and initialed certain codicils. Debbie looked over my shoulder and made noises of delight. It was fortunate she didn’t rub her hands in glee. She hugged Juan and Glynnis instead.
The whole thing took little more than ten minutes and handshakes and fist bumps were made all around. Alastair hurried to the door, pulling Dantley along with him.
“You’ll excuse us but we have another meeting at the bottom of the hour—”
“Enjoy your summer, Evie. We start shooting at the end of next month…God willing and the creek don’t rise,” Dantley said as his head disappeared from view in the doorway.
Mary Legler zipped up her briefcase and smiled at Evie. “You’ll get your 10% advance at the end of the week. Don’t spend it all in one place.” She laughed as she hurried to catch up with Knowles and Dantley. Almost at the same moment, the office assistant magically materialized to escort us to the elevators.
“Ladies, I’ve reserved a table for lunch at Jemma Di Mare in Brentwood—”
“Juan, that’s the capo di tutti capi of Italian restaurants in LA!” screeched Debbie as Juan navigated the labyrinthine streets of Los Angeles to arrive at the restaurant on San Vincente Boulevard in Brentwood. A native Angeleno, Juan knew to avoid the paralyzing mid-day traffic by driving in the opposite direction to his destination. He drove north instead of south, passing through the Hollywood Hills, Studio City, Sherman Oaks, and Bel Air before ending up in Brentwood. He made the trip in less than 30 minutes. I was impressed.
Jemma Di Mare was one of those posh eateries where a reservation was definitely de rigueur, even for lunch on a Monday afternoon. Debbie whistled at the well-appointed interior as we were shown to our table.
“Juan, this is going to set you back half a week salary almost—”
“Correction. It’s being charged back to your sister’s account. As of an hour ago, Evie’s a millionaire.”
“You’re going to need a business manager, Evie. I’d keep my eye on these people.” She turned to Juan and smiled sweetly.
“Ladies, order anything you want. Expense is no object. Thank you, Evie. I recommend the lobster fettuccini.” Juan pointed to the entrée on the menu.
“In Applebee’s, they put pictures of each dish on the menu so you can get an idea of what it might taste like,” noted Debbie.
“Debbie, you know what a lobster looks like. Just imagine it being stuffed with fettuccini.”
“O.K., Juan. Evie and I will share the lobster fettuccini—”
“Share?”
“Yeah, it says here it’s enough for two. You need to watch your girlish figure, sis.”
“Debbie’s got a point there, Evie.” Juan handed the menus back to our server and ordered for us.
“So, Evie, it must be a girl’s dream to be dating Trent Foster,” Glynnis allowed. “I read where Trent’s mom says she’s expecting a wedding in the Fall. Has he popped the question?”
“I’ve never even gone out on a proper date with the guy. I rode in a parade with him and went disco dancing with him in Seattle. I hardly consider that a courtship.”
“Maybe you’re more interested in your boss. That dreamy Chuck Connors. He’s worth a gazillion dollars!”
“And then there’s that ballplayer, Richie Morrow,” added Juan as he noisily munched on a garlic knot, his wife nudging him to slow his mastication to a socially acceptable pace.
“People! People! I’m not seeing anyone seriously. Technically, I’m not seeing anyone at all. Trent’s a publicity hound. Chuck’s my boss. And Richie’s just a sweet kid. I’m not interested in guys…right now, that is. Career first, romance later.”
“You told me you wanted to have Trent’s babies,” laughed Debbie.
I threw a handful of garlic knots at her.
“Hey, I wasn’t finished with those. Babe, get our server to bring some more garlic knots to the table.” Glynnis shot him a glare.
Chuck kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut as he drove us the 40 miles to Clark Ruskin’s L.A. Drillers training complex in Costa Mesa. It was the first day of training camp for many NFL teams including the Drillers. Clark had asked us to meet with him right after the morning portion of the two-a-day practice sessions.
“Cat got your tongue, Chuck?”
“Not feeling too chatty this morning, that’s all.” He flashed his credentials to the security guard at the entrance to the parking lot. He waved us through.
“We’ve barely exchanged five words other than Hello, Good Morning, and Goodbye this week.”
“That makes nine words, doesn’t it?”
“I thought we were okay with me signing the contract. The show doesn’t start production until September. I’ll be 100% concentrated on Sisters Sportswear until then. Buzz says he’s got a dozen sales calls lined up from now until the end of July…”
“I know Buzz’s schedule. I’m his boss, after all.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, not at all. I’m…disappointed, maybe.”
“Why? Because I’m not a real woman?”
“Because I look at you and you’re more woman than any cis woman I’ve ever known except for my mother and my sisters. I thought we might have had the beginnings of something…something real.”
“I am real, Chuck.”
“I can’t tell you what to do, Evie. But I can help you if you’ll let me. I can help you find the right therapists, professionals who deal with dysphoric patients—”
“I won’t be your problem in about six weeks, Chuck. Don’t feel you need to “help” me. I can handle this myself. So far, I’m doing just peachy—”
“Here we are. Clark said he’s on the field, watching practice. I hope this doesn’t take too long. I’ve got some stuff back at the office that’s kind of pressing right now.”
We went through the stadium (a miniature NFL field with a single tier of stands that the city of Costa Mesa used for scholastic sports events the rest of the year) and emerged into the mid-day sun and stifling heat. The team was going through its morning session. You could hear the slap, slap, crunch of bodies colliding, footballs being thrown or punted, and the grunts and groans of the players as they ran through different offensive set plays. Standing nearby, dressed in black sweats, a laminated sheet listing all the plays in his right hand, was Clark Ruskin, Misty Connors’ husband and Chuck’s brother-in-law. He was also the majority shareholder in Sisters Sportswear.
We had intended to wait politely at the edge of the field until practice was finished but Clark spotted us and waved us over to him.
“You’re early, guys. Say, Evie, this must seem familiar to you. You’ve run a lot of practices in baseball, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Ruskin. You learn a lot about a player by how he practices.”
“You’re right about that, Evie. And call me Clark. We’re all family here. Right, Chuck?”
“Yeah, Clark.”
“Chuck, you don’t need to stay. I want to speak to Evie alone. I’ll see that she’s driven back to the office when we’re finished here.”
“Alright, Clark. I’ll see you back at the office, Evie.” Chuck walked quickly toward the exit. He didn’t look back, even as I waved bye bye to him. Clark laughed.
“Chuck’s kind of awkward around women. Especially women with an ounce of intelligence. Like you.”
“Awkward? Everyone tells me he’s dated a long line of models and actresses. All beauties.”
“He wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a real woman. Not those brainless clothes horses he spends his time with.”
“You’re saying I’m a real woman?”
“Obviously.” He winked at me and then handed his laminated sheet to a young man with large headset subsuming his rather small head.
“This Trent Foster character. He’s just a kid. Don’t waste your time with him. He’s using you. You’re going places he’ll never even touch. Because you have talent.”
“How do you know that? I’ve never acted in anything before.”
“Danny Dantley’s a good friend. He showed me your screen test.”
“I had like five lines. You can tell from five lines?”
“You lit up the screen, honey. A lot of men will want to get next to you. And maybe some women too.”
“And you?”
“I’m not crass, Evie. I’ve never forced myself on any woman. There has to be a mutual attraction. A commonality of spirit. You and I are similar people. We’re smart, ambitious, multi-faceted, and damned sexy as all get-out.” He laughed again. Just as his laughs subsided, one of his players came within an inch of crashing into him.
“You okay, Mr. Ruskin?”
“Crawford! They asked you to run an out route and you’re running a dig route! Didn’t they show you the route tree in college? Damned rookies. Where did we draft you? Wasn’t the first round, that’s for sure.”
“Sixth round, sir.”
“Figures. Why did we waste a draft pick on you? We could’ve signed you as a free agent for next to nothing. I told them not to pick someone from Rutgers. Name me an All-Pro who came out of Rutgers.”
“You went to Rutgers? I went to Rutgers too. Of course, I graduated about three years before you. Are you related to Ray Crawford? He pitched on the baseball team when I was…when I was there.”
“Yeah, Ray’s my older brother. What’s your name? I’ll tell him I almost bumped into you today.”
“Evie Rivers.”
“Rivers. Rivers. Yeah, there was a kid named Rivers who was like an analytic guy on the team. Couldn’t pitch a lick but was a real brain with the gameplans. You his sister?”
“Sister? Oh, yeah, his sister. Say hello to your brother for me.”
“Practice is almost over, Evie. Let’s talk over lunch. What are you standing there for, Crawford? They’re serving lunch in the cafeteria in about ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir. Nice to meet you, Evie.” He ran toward the other end of the field to rejoin his teammates.
“There’s a nice place about a mile from here that’s got a patio. There’s a great view of the ocean. We can talk while we have lunch. Come.” He took my arm and we walked out of the stadium and to his car, a black Tesla Model X.
It turned out the nice place for lunch was not a mile away but 35 miles away. And the great view of the ocean was beyond a beach, Redondo Beach. On the 40-minute drive, Clark regaled me with an account of his superior talents. He painted a portrait of himself as a combination of Steve Jobs, Jeff Bezos, and Al Davis (the legendary maverick owner of the Oakland Raiders). But, of course, he was better looking than all three of them.
“You notice I’m not asking you any questions about yourself,” he remarked. “That’s because I do my homework. I know everything that’s important to know about you. You have an MBA, you coached minor league ball for The Titans, you’ve just been signed to a million-dollar contract to star in a TV series for GlobalNet. You turned 24 years old in April. You have a younger sister, Debbie, who also works for us. Your father was a widower, now remarried to a woman of Spanish descent. He’s a real estate lawyer who’s wheelchair bound. You grew up in the wilds of New Jersey. Did I miss any bullet points?”
“You just read my resume, Clark. That didn’t take too much detective work.”
“What don’t I know?”
“Well, for starters, why have I never had a steady boyfriend? In fact, I’ve never had a boyfriend. Ever.”
“That’s easy. You’re a woman of very high standards. You don’t suffer fools or little boys. You want a man. A real man. Someone who’s lived, loved, seen how the world works and took it by the throat, achieved success after success—”
“The Drillers finished next to last in the conference last season. Not very successful…”
“That’s what sets you apart from most women, Evie. You know sports. Yeah, my Drillers sucked last year but we’re an expansion team. I made a promise to our fans that we’d win a Super Bowl in 3 to 5 years and I stand by it. As long as my front office can resist drafting longshots like Crawford. What the hell did they see in him?”
“His brother was a great baseball player at Rutgers. Until he tore up his knee doing stupid motocross just before baseball season started in his senior year.”
“I sense you and Crawford’s brother had a thing going on, eh? Was he your college sweetheart? The one that got away?”
“No, of course not. Ray was a guy. He didn’t swing that way.”
“Gay, huh? Ray was gay? Unfortunately, it rhymes with his name.”
“Not gay. He was a guy. A guy.”
“I think we’re having a failure to communicate here. Here we are. Rocky’s Redondo Beach Bistro. Hope you’re not a vegan. Their burgers are to die for.”
Clark was right about the burgers. I scarfed mine and gave serious consideration to ordering a second but decided that would make a very odd impression on Clark. And Debbie was right. I need to watch my girlish figure. Ha ha.
With my mouth full of delicious 80/20 beef chuck, there was little opportunity to carry on intelligent conversation, so Clark and I just moaned now and again from the heavenly flavors we were tasting. Nevertheless, Clark kept staring at me, like a carnivore sizing up his prey.
Clark suggested we walk off our protein-packed lunch by strolling the Redondo Beach pier. It was early afternoon but there was still a large group of amateur anglers along the rails. I started to get a little weepy remembering the summer days when my father would take me fishing in Farrington Lake, near East Brunswick.
“Boardwalks make you emotional?”
“It’s all the fishermen. My dad used to take me fishing when I was 8, 9 years old. We had the best times—”
“Then you grew up and got interested in girly things, right?”
“No. My parents got into a bad car accident. My mom was killed and my dad hasn’t been able to walk since.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know the details. That’s…sad. It must have been hard growing up as a girl without your mother to learn from. That’s probably why you’re into sports so much. Your dad raised you like a son instead of a daughter.”
“But he knew. He always knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just rambling.”
“I’ve got a cabin cruiser. It’s docked in Marina Del Rey. We can go deep sea fishing sometime if you’d like. Would you like to?”
“You know, that sounds like fun. Thank you, Clark. Maybe some weekend when the series isn’t shooting.”
“I’ll put a reminder on my calendar. Fishing with Evie. I bet you’d look great in a bikini.”
“What exactly did you want to talk to me about, Clark. I’ve been with you for almost two hours and I still don’t know.”
Clark took me by the shoulders and kissed me hard. I pushed him away.
“Clark, please don’t. I work for you. I’m not dating you.”
“That can be remedied. I’m planning to take a three-day weekend in Cancun soon. Ever been?”
“No. Isn’t that near Cozumel?”
“Yeah, Cozumel’s an island off the peninsula. Why?”
“Trent was there with some bimbo.”
“What did I tell you? He’s a child. A little boy playing with tonka toys. You need a man. Come with me to Cancun, Evie.”
“What about your wife, Misty?”
“She’s busy with her soccer team. She hardly notices my absences. And, frankly, she probably doesn’t even care.”
“I doubt that, Clark. Does she know about you and Mei Ling?”
“You wouldn’t tell her, would you?”
“I don’t want to get involved. And, Clark, I’m not interested in being your sidepiece.”
“I understand. Quid pro quo. Okay, I’m willing to pay you handsomely to be a consultant with Sisters Sportswear even after you leave for that acting gig. You wouldn’t have to do anything and pick up a nice piece of change. Just be a willing companion to a lonely man. Someone who’s worthy of you. We can be heroes, like David Bowie sang.”
“Is this the elevator pitch you give to all the women you find, fuck, and forget?”
“Is the thought of being with me so distasteful?”
“I’m going to order an Uber to get back to the office, Clark. Thank you for lunch. You were right. The burgers are to die for.”
I looked around to get oriented and then ran as fast as I could. I took off my heels and carried them in both hands, running until I reached West Torrance Boulevard. Finally, I stopped and looked behind me to see if Clark had followed. No sign of him. I took my phone out of my purse and used my Uber app to order a ride.
I was certain Clark would have me dismissed tout de suite but when I awkwardly bumped into Chuck back at the office more than an hour later, he merely nodded and muttered, “you’re late.” Still, I sat at my desk, waiting for the axe to fall.
“There you are.” It was Mei Ling, standing in the doorway of my office. “Do you sisters synchronize your work schedules as well as your monthlies?”
“Huh?” I relied cleverly.
“Debbie came back from lunch five minutes before you. She was looking for you. You can catch her in the cafeteria right now. She’s doing show and tell with everyone.”
I got up from behind my desk and stopped a foot away from Mei Ling.
“I know that you know, you know?”
“Now that you’re leaving, I couldn’t care less. You’re somebody else’s problem. Have fun with Trent Foster. I hear he swings both ways.”
She cackled in my face. Literally turning the other cheek, I shoved her aside and went to find Debbie in the cafeteria.
“Oh, look, she’s here!” my manager Dulcie pointed at me as I crossed the threshold of the cafeteria. Debbie was surrounded by a dozen staffers. They were all ogling her left hand, which was being waved in mid-air in a semi-circle, making cooing sounds.
“Evie, look! Otis proposed!” I ran forward to look at her engagement ring. Grabbing her left hand, I examined the 14K emerald in a two-tone gold-leaf setting.
“Oh my God, Debbie. I’m so happy for you!” We hugged. I almost forgot myself and tried to lift her up in the air like I did when I was her big brother. Well, I guess I still am. Maybe her sister now. Brother adjace.
“When did he pop the question?”
“Over lunch today. We had fish tacos and ate in Almansor Park. He went down on one knee right next to the picnic table. Just like in the movies—”
“Otis’ next time in the office is tomorrow morning. We should all give him the silent treatment just to mess with him,” Dulcie proposed. The other girls laughed and agreed.
“Say, Evie, you sisters could make it a double wedding. Debbie and Otis, you and Trent Foster!”
It was Chuck, his arms crossed, leaning against the doorway, a smirk on his face.
“Why does everybody think I’m dating Trent, much less marrying the guy?”
Chuck politely asked everyone to get back to work and we filed out of the cafeteria. As I passed him, he wondered aloud, “How’s the weather in Cancun this time of year?”
“Clark told you he asked me?”
“I know his act. He didn’t have to tell me. So, you’re going to have to come up with an elaborate excuse when he makes his move. And he doesn’t suffer rejection well.”
“I’m not going with him. I’ll go clean out my desk now—”
“Why?”
“It was nice of you not to immediately fire me when I walked in the door but let’s just get it over with. I’m sure Clark called you right afterwards.”
“Clark? No, I haven’t spoken to him. You’re not fired, as far as I know. Actually, I thought you would take Clark up on his offer.”
“You really have that low an opinion of me?”
“My opinion obviously doesn’t count, does it?” He walked away toward his office and I saw Debbie standing about ten feet away, a concerned look on her face.
“Evie, what have you done?”
Saturday morning. Debbie, Otis, and I were sitting around the kitchen table, discussing potential dates for the wedding.
“A Fall wedding in New Jersey with the leaves turning yellow, brown, and gold. A nip in the air. We could hold it at the Estate at Farrington Lake.”
“Debbie, that’s a great idea. Daddy would love it. Remember when he’d take us fishing in the lake. We’d go out in that rented dinghy with the blue striped bow…”
“I was thinking we’d have it right here in LA. My people come from a radius of about 50 miles. I don’t think they’d be able to travel all the way across the country—”
“The bride’s family chooses the wedding location, Otis. It’s tradition,” Debbie sniffed.
“We should compromise and hold it in St. Louis.”
“Evie, your humor is not helpful!”
The buzzer sounded, announcing someone was downstairs.
“Who could that be at this time of day? And on Saturday.”
I pressed the speaker button and asked the person to identify themselves.
“Evie, it’s Peg.”
“Peg? From GlobalNet?” I pressed the button to unlock the front door.
“I didn’t know Peg even knew where I lived. The studio might have given her my address.”
When I opened the door, Peg was standing there in her usual gypsy/hippie outfit, a garment bag folded over her arm.
“Come in, Peg. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Trent asked me to do him a favor.”
“Trent Foster?” asked Otis, his head swiveling between Debbie and I.
“He’s going to the World Media Awards Show next Tuesday night. And he wants you to be his date for the evening. You’ll need a dress for the occasion. Here.” She held the garment bag up for me.
“I haven’t spoken to Trent since Seattle. Are you sure he wants me to accompany him?”
“He’s paid me a pretty penny to “borrow” this from the wardrobe department. I think it’ll fit you. Just a few small alterations and voilà, it’ll look smashing on you. You’ll be the belle of the ball, on the arm of the hottest actor in the business. Come on, try it on.”
“Otis, can you go to Trader Joe’s and pick up a quart of milk? We’re all out.”
“The closest one is in San Marino, babe. Okay, okay. Otis must never catch a glimpse of big sister’s naughty bits. I’m going. Nice to see you again, Peg.”
After Otis left, Peg took the dress out of the garment bag and placed it under my chin. She held it at arm’s length. Both she and Debbie smacked their lips and pronounced the dress perfect for an awards show. I looked down at the green floral, diaphanous gown and cried, “But it’s practically see-through! How can I pull this off?”
“You might have to worry about Trent pulling it off,” declared Peg as she lowered her glasses and winked.
Our limousine was inching its way toward the entrance to Crypto Arena, site of that evening’s nationally telecast World Media Awards. I was still fidgeting with my dress, making sure the see-through parts didn’t show anything worth seeing. I looked to my right and saw a very nervous Trent Foster, chewing his fingernails.
“Trent, why are you nervous? You’re the odds-on favorite to win your category, Best Actor in a Theatrical Feature Film. Your only competition is that Nathan Adams guy. He’s so yesterday’s news.”
“You never know with these awards. I’ve been nominated a dozen times for various awards and I’ve won a grand total of one. I hate having to keep smiling while they call somebody else’s name. Somebody like Nathan Adams.”
“It’s more a reflection of the quality of the movies they’re in than their acting per se…”
“So you’re saying I keep acting in movies that suck?”
“You might try holding out for a good script rather than accepting the biggest salary—”
“You have so much to learn, young Padawan. Here we are. Ready for the red carpet?”
Like a perfect gentleman, Trent helped me out of the limousine. Fortunately I managed not to rip my dress to shreds or break a heel. I was a little wobbly on my three-inch stilettos but Trent wrapped his arm around mine and we made our way into the lobby, waving to the teeming millions out in TV land.
It took us 15 minutes before we reached the head of the line to get interviewed by someone I’d never heard of. She shoved a microphone in Trent’s face and began the inquisition.
“Trent, so wonderful to see you with your new co-star in Newport: The Series—”
“Premiering on GlobalNet in November,” Trent made sure to mention.
“And this lovely young lady is Evie Rivers, who’s a new face to us. Where did you discover this beauty, Trent?”
“On the beach at Newport, actually.” He laughed. I joined in a beat later. “Yes, Evie’s a true surfer girl. Dan Dantley, our director, was the one who really found her. Isn’t she just adorable?”
“Yes, she is. Evie, reports have it that you and Trent are dating. In fact, Trent’s mom has told the press that we might be looking at a Fall wedding. Is that true?”
Trent rushed in before I could answer. “We’re…we’re seriously thinking about it. Nothing definite yet. Our schedules are so full. We need to find the right time and place.”
“Trent likes Cozumel for the venue,” I chirped, laughing as if it were a private joke between us.
“Oooh, I’d love an invitation. That’s a destination wedding to top all destination weddings.”
“So, Trent, what do we have to look forward to with your new series—”
“Newport,” Trent interjected. “It’s a new challenge for me. I’m looking to play more mature roles. Roles with more adult themes. I’m tired of playing aging teenagers.”
“How old is your character in…”
“Newport. He’s a mature 27.”
“Thank you so much for stopping by, Trent and Evie. Back to you, Bill.” We shook hands with her and were ushered into the arena to be seated.
Awards shows are snore-fests. They’re interminably long and front-loaded with categories no one outside of the most crazed media consumers would even care about. About two and a half hours into the evening, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. The awards for best actor, actress, and movie were the last ones handed out. There were the awards for the most popular influencers in several categories on social media coming up, then we’d hit the home stretch.
For whatever reason, that was the category the producers of the awards show had chosen Trent to present. So, I sat uncomfortably next to an empty seat as Trent went backstage to await his turn on camera. In the rows around me were such celebrities as Taylor Swift, Nathan Adams, Dwayne Johnson, Beyonce, and Kevin Hart. In fact, Kevin kept trying to get my attention. I finally gave in and finger waved to him. He sat back down and was animatedly explaining to the people next to him who the hell I was. Trent stepped out into the lights as the announcer recited his name with dramatic emphasis.
“We live in an age where the average person can receive counsel on every detail of everyday life through the marvel that is social media. And there are a small number of givers of knowledge who number millions among their subscribers and viewers. In the field of beauty care, these three social media giants have proven to be the leaders in the category. The nominees are: Cheryl Lafferty for her podcast, On the Beauty Tip, Marsha Jackson for her TikTok account, MizMarshaJ, and Bambi Bunson, for her YouTube channel, The Ultimate Bambi Bunson…”
Bambi Bunson! That blonde bimbo that Trent was cavorting with poolside in Cozumel! I hope she loses…badly. I had no idea who the other two were but I was rooting real hard for either of them to win.
“And the World Media Award goes to…Bambi Bunson! For her YouTube channel, The Ultimate Bambi Bunson.”
The audience was a lot happier about this turn of events than I was. Bambi ran down the aisle from her seat way back in the arena. She high fived several people sitting on the aisle as she rushed the stage. I thought seriously about accidentally placing my leg in the aisle just as she passed my row but, I’m not that person. Am I?
She practically tackled Trent when she reached the stage. Trent had to extricate himself from her suffocating full-body hug and place the award trophy in her fat hand. She was almost hyper-ventilating when she finally remembered to give an acceptance speech.
“Thank you to the award committee and to all my subscribers and viewers. I couldn’t have done this without your tremendous support. And, if you’ll allow me a few seconds, I’d like to especially thank this gorgeous man standing behind me, Trent Foster. He’s made me the happiest woman on Earth. No, make that the galaxy! As so many of you know from the videos I shared on my channel, Trent and I just spent a wonderful three days in Cozumel just frolicking in the sunshine. Of course, the most fun came after sundown…”
Trent came forward and tried to back Bambi away from the microphone. “Thanks, Bambi, but that was a bit TMI. Can someone play us off with some music already?”
“One last thing! That Evie Rivers biatch just better watch herself because Trent is my man. Mine, you hear?”
Music blared and Trent dragged Bambi toward the wings. The audience, not sure whether it was a comedy routine or an actual meltdown, laughed nervously. I felt a million eyes on me. The laughter seemed to be aimed at me. I bolted from my seat and ran up the aisle to where I had no idea. I just had to get out of there.
I locked myself into a stall in the ladies’ room. Intermittently, women would enter, do their business, and leave, while I tried to stop bawling. I tried to stifle the sounds of my crying but I probably sounded like a small, wounded woodland creature. After about 20 minutes, I decided I had to either return to my seat and support Trent as he accepted his award or find a way to get home. I dreaded having to order an Uber and facing anyone who might recognize me so I took my phone out and called Debbie.
“Evie! Where are you? We saw you on TV running out of the arena—”
“Debbie, I can’t explain right now. Can you come and take me home?”
“What about Trent? And the limo.”
I almost screamed into the phone. “Debbie! Just come and take me home. Please!”
“Calm down, Evie. I…I can’t go and pick you up right now. I have guests in the apartment—”
“Guests? Who?”
“I’ll have Otis pick you up. You’re still at the arena, right?”
“Yes, Debbie. Please hurry. The show is ending in about 15 minutes. I don’t want to see Trent. Ever again. Ever.”
“What happened, Evie? Is it that routine with Bambi Bunson? Wasn’t that a bad attempt at comedy?”
“No. Nooooo. Debbie, send Otis now!”
“He just went out the door. He’ll be there in 10 minutes, Evie. Evie?”
I disconnected. Carefully, I stepped out of the stall. No one was in the room. I did my best to dab away the mascara running down my cheeks and finger-brushed my hair into some semblance of normality. As I exited, I side-swiped Taylor Swift, apologized, and made a beeline to the street outside the arena.
I walked into our apartment, curious as to who these guests that Debbie mentioned were. Sitting on the couch was Consuela, my stepmom. She smiled broadly and reached out to hug me.
“Consuela, why are you here? Who? What?”
“Debbie called us and told us the happy news about Otis and her getting engaged. We decided to come out right away and see our two beautiful girls. After all, we were planning to come out this summer anyway.”
“Where’s dad?”
At that moment, Debbie wheeled dad in from the bedroom.
“Evie, honey. Come here and give daddy a big hug.”
“Dad was taking a short nap. He was very tired from the plane ride.”
“Why the tears, sweetheart?”
“Tears? I’m not crying—”
“But you have. I can tell. What’s wrong?”
I fell to my knees and wrapped my arms around my father. The tears started again.
“Oh, daddy, what craziness have I gotten myself into? I’ve made a mess of everything. How can I face anyone?”
Dad held my head in his strong hands and looked into my tear-filled eyes.
“You’re my sweet girl, Evie. Whatever the problem is, we’ll get through it. I’m so proud of you. Don’t cry. Look around the room, we all love you. We won’t let anyone hurt you. Ever. Do you believe me, Evie?”
My right hand squeezed dad’s hand and I looked up at his smiling face.
“Yes, daddy, I do. I believe.”
“You look lovely, dear,” Consuela purred as she stroked my arm, trying to calm me down.
I was sitting next to her on the couch. Dad was facing us in his wheelchair and Debbie was standing behind him, wringing her hands, a look of deep concern on her face.
“Thank you, Consuela. Obviously, Trent doesn’t think so. That was so embarrassing—”
“Trent called just 5 minutes before Otis brought you back. I disconnected him in mid-sentence. The creep!” Debbie dropped herself on the couch, sandwiching me between her and Consuela.
“He’s not important, Evie,” my father declared. “They want you for the show, regardless of him. You’re going to be the star, not Trent. You’ll see.”
“Dad, Trent’s the lead on the show. He could have me fired even before they start shooting the series. I’ve outlived my usefulness to him. I barely made it past two weeks.”
“That’ll be their loss. Honey, this only emphasizes what we’ve all been trying to tell you all this time. You’re a girl. No, a woman. And you’ve hesitated long enough deciding whether to affirm your correct gender. I say, the hell with Trent Foster and GlobalNet. If they don’t want you, you’ve still got a great future with Sisters Sportswear. You need to just get on with your life…as a woman.”
“You can start by having your gender changed on your birth certificate and driver’s license. Daddy can have you fill out the forms and submit it back in New Jersey,” suggested Consuela.
“It’ll take 2 months to go through. Max.”
“Then you can start the whole process of transitioning. Before you know it, you’ll be in both mind and body what you always should have been from birth,” Consuela said, smiling as she and Debbie threatened to massage the skin off my shoulders.
“What do you say, sweetheart?”
“I…I want to think about it some more, Daddy.”
“Oh, come on, Evie. What’s to think about? You’re a girl. You’ve always been a girl! Everyone we ran into over the years thought you were my older sister. Just with terrible fashion sense.”
“Chuck says it might be possible to keep my transition under wraps. At least Trent and the people at GlobalNet don’t suspect anything…yet.”
“You told Chuck?” Debbie stopped massaging me.
“No, he already knew. But he says only he and Mei Ling, our executive assistant, know. I mean, Clark Ruskin, the company president, thinks I’m a girl, for sure. He made a pass at me last week.”
“You didn’t tell me that, Evie! You just have to stop being so sexy. It’s annoying.”
“Debbie, I can’t help it. I’m drawn this way—”
“Debbie, do something useful. Go online and print out those forms I wanted from the New Jersey Department of Health.”
“Okay, Daddy. I’ll shut up.”
“Now that we’ve settled that—”
“Do you think Trent suspects? That’s why he’s seeing other women?”
“Other women? That’s a good one, Evie,” Debbie muttered from behind the screen of her laptop.
“It’s Hollywood, Evie. I'm so proud of you being cast in a TV series—Consuela’s co-workers can’t stop complimenting her on having such a famous stepdaughter—but please, please stay away from these Hollywood actors. They’re…excuse my French…scum! Find yourself a nice fella. A normal fella.”
“Like Chuck,” shouted Debbie as she pulled the forms out of the printer.
“Chuck isn’t interested in me. He likes cis women.” I frowned and placed my head on Consuela’s shoulder.
“There’ll be others who appreciate you and will love you for who you are. When your face is on billboards and magazine covers, Chuck will see the error of his ways.” Consuela kissed my forehead and Daddy patted me on the back.
It was a gloomy, rainy Wednesday morning in Los Angeles as Debbie and I stepped gingerly out of Otis’ van and ran into the lobby of our office building. Javier, one of the security guards, held the door open for us. As we were folding up our umbrellas, he sidled up to me.
“That pendejo Foster did you dirty, Ms. Rivers. You’re too classy for him. Let him have that bimbo, Bambi. His loss.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Javier, but, really, we weren’t dating or anything. I went to the awards with him just for the show’s sake. Newport: The Series. Coming in the Fall!”
In my office, someone had placed the morning edition of The Los Angeles Daily Times on top of my desk, smack dab in the middle. Splashed across the front page were pictures of me running out of Crypto Arena, almost bowling over Taylor Swift coming out of the Ladies’ Room, and tumbling into Otis’ car outside the arena. Alongside these snapshots was one of Trent facing a phalanx of reporters, Bambi Bunson’s arms wrapped around his torso, beaming in apparent victory.
“Looks like Ms. Humpty Dumpty fell off her wall.” It was Mei Ling in the doorway. She snickered and then strutted off, keeping her nose in the air.
I had to restrain myself from leaping out of my chair and tackling her in the hallway. Then my phone rang. It was Juan Moskowitz.
“Good morning, Juan. What’s good?”
“Not much, Evie. We’re being called on the carpet by GlobalNet. Alastair just called and insisted you and I show up at their offices at 11AM. It’s about…what happened last night—”
“Don’t tell me Trent got me fired.”
“No, Evie, he’s been asked to show up too. Michelle Gravesend wants to talk to both of you.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Anyway, if I leave now and come pick you up, we’ll just about make it in time. It’s raining cats and dogs out there so I’ll pick you up on the run. Stay inside the lobby until I drive by. See ya.”
Michelle Gravesend, the Chief Content Officer for GlobalNet, walked slowly to her desk, picked up the tabloid, and tossed it onto the round table where we were all seated: Juan and me, Trent and his agent Gavin Montrose, Alastair Knowles, Daniel Dantley, and Mary Legler, Chief Legal Officer.
“Alright, kiddies, we have a situation here. Anyone want to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on here?”
“Hey, why is everyone mad at me? I can’t control that ditzy dame, Bambi. Jesus Christ, it was a weekend in Cozumel not a honeymoon in Paris—uh, sorry, Alastair, nothing wrong with that, of course.”
“Maybe keep it in your pants for more than five minutes, pal,” sneered Juan, waving his right hand dismissively.
“Hey, can he talk to me like that? Who is he, anyway?”
“Look, everyone, I don’t care about who you fuck or what you fuck. As long as it doesn’t harm the bottom line of this network. And this shitstorm of ugly publicity is going to torpedo the show before we even begin shooting it, no less when it premieres in the Fall.”
“Isn’t there no such thing as bad publicity?” offered Trent’s agent.
“I don’t think our audiences are going to want to turn out in multitudes to watch some punk actor who they’ve witnessed toy with the affections of Miss Polly Purebred here.” I turned to Juan. He shrugged his shoulders. Who the hell is Polly Purebred?
“Well, it’s a fait accompli. What’s to be done about it?” Danny Dantley lamented.
“You, Trent, are going to have to publicly grovel before Evie and admit your sad mistake in cheating on her—”
“Now, come on, Michelle, this is my personal life we’re talking about. And how is this going to look to my fans? I don’t want to be seen as a simp—”
“GlobalNet has a lot of money invested in this project, Trent. If we don’t remedy the situation somehow, how are we to expect the women in our potential audience to believe in the sincerity and basic decency of your character. Especially when you’re playing opposite the woman you scorned rather spectacularly on national television. We might be forced to re-cast your part--”
“You can’t do that! Trent’s got an ironclad contract,” Gavin interjected.
“Mary?” Michelle turned to her for her legal expertise.
“Ahem. And I quote: “The Performer shall not commit any act or do anything which might reasonably be considered: i) to be immoral, deceptive, scandalous or obscene; or ii) to injure, tarnish, damage or otherwise negatively affect the reputation and goodwill associated with GlobalNet or its subsidiaries.” I think you’d be wise to avoid testing that clause, Mr. Foster.”
“Can I say something?” I asked.
“Go right ahead, Evie.”
“Despite how much my feelings may have been hurt by this…this incident, I think we’re being too harsh on Trent. I have to blame myself for being naive enough to fall head over heels for him. I thought we had the beginnings of a real relationship but last night showed me I was stupidly, stupidly wrong. I’ll chalk it up to learning about the ways of Hollywood. Maybe, Trent and I should shake hands and promise to work together without rancor…on either side.”
Trent reached his hand over the table to me but Michelle rolled up the newspaper and swatted it away.
“It ain’t that easy, kids. The only way to clear the decks on this disaster is to make a public rapprochement, something our potential viewers will be able to see or read about.”
“Short of a wedding in Disneyland, what do you propose?” asked Trent.
Alastair spoke up. “Trent, you have a concert at SoFi Stadium this Friday, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Think of a song you can sing to our little ingenue here as a public apology. Something that’ll convince your fans and everyone else that you’re truly remorseful about your scandalous behavior and that Evie is really the girl of your dreams, not Bambi Bunson.”
“I’ve got two days to put an arrangement together. That’s going to be tough—”
“I’d get right on it if I were you. Also, we need to script this like it’s real. So, you’re going to invite your parents, Trent. And, Evie, I want your parents there as well. It’s a bonus that they’re actually in town. Almost like they anticipated this whole scenario.”
“Is this necessary? My parents are going to know it’s a set up. What about Trent’s folks?”
Blushing, Trent slowly drawled, “Well, my mom thinks we’re serious. She’s already planning the wedding for the Fall. It’ll be the highlight of the social calendar in Pacific Palisades if she gets her way. You’d have to convince her we weren’t about to get engaged!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Trent!” exclaimed Michelle. “On the other hand, their reaction to the whole thing on Friday might be real enough to be believed. Good idea, Alastair. You’re clever but evil.”
I turned to Juan. “What just happened? Am I betrothed to Trent?”
“Nah, it’s only make-believe. Like Hollywood itself.”
SoFi Stadium is a new multiple use outdoor arena built to host The Los Angeles Rams NFL team, located in Inglewood in the bosom of southwestern LA. It also hosts Clark Ruskin’s NFL team, The Los Angeles Drillers. However, Ruskin is planning to build his own stadium and is currently looking for a site somewhere near Disneyland in Anaheim. Chuck was able to get Dad and Consuela into the accessible seating area with his connection, of course, to his brother-in-law.
On the insistence of Alastair Knowles and Michelle Gravesend, I had to sit with Trent’s parents in the VIP seats, in clear view of the dozen or so video cameras documenting the concert. Fortunately, there was an opening act that made polite conversation almost impossible for our first 45 minutes in the stadium. Basically, I tried to listen to the music coming from the stage while Trent’s mother kept staring at me with a goofy smile on her face. I assume she was envisioning me as the future vessel of her 2.8 grandchildren. Oh, the humanity!
Unfortunately, the opening act finished its set and there was going to be an interregnum before Trent and his band came on stage. Mrs. Foster turned to me immediately after the final chord of the final encore faded and a tepid ovation died down.
“So your parents only had you and your sister? No brothers? Trent’s father and I wanted a daughter but God didn’t bless us with but only the one son. Isn’t that so, Conrad? Conrad?”
“I think Mr. Foster went to get a beer. If you want something, I can go and—”
“Oh, don’t bother but thank you, dear. You’re so thoughtful…and beautiful. Your children will be so lovely. They’ll have your eyes and cute little nose and Trent’s ears and chin—”
“Mrs. Foster—”
“Please call me Eloise.”
“Eloise. I think you’re assuming Trent and I are, let’s say, farther down the road than—”
“Do you want all boys, all girls, or boys and girls?”
“Eloise!”
“Yes, dear?”
“Trust me. Trent and I have not discussed having children—”
“Oh, he’s putting up a front, Evie. He loves children. This “playboy” image is just a p.r. thing his management thinks will make him seem “cool” to his fans. Believe me, Evie, he’s a one-woman man. I raised him the right way.”
I slumped back down in my seat, defeated. Luckily, Mr. Foster returned from the concession stands at that very moment, a tub of popcorn in one hand and a 20-ounce cup of beer in the other.
“Conrad, why didn’t you ask me or Evie whether we wanted something to drink?”
“I did. Several times. But the music was too loud. I guess you either didn’t hear me or ignored me and didn’t want anything. I’m sorry. I’ll go back and—”
“Never mind, dear. Evie and I can get something later.” She turned to me. “Trent always takes a break in the middle of his set. We’ll get something then, okay?” I nodded and reached into the tub of popcorn in Eloise’s lap to grab a few kernels.
Applause rose from the crowd as Trent and his band sauntered on stage. As the band members tuned their instruments and warmed up, Trent came over to the skirt of the stage and waved to us, blowing kisses. Eloise blew kisses back. I sank further into my seat, hoping to avoid the inquisitive eyes of the audience. I couldn’t avoid the omnipresent cameras though.
After the announcer introduced Trent, a minutes long ovation welcomed him as he approached the microphone stand. Finally, as the applause subsided, Trent greeted the audience.
“Hello, Los Angeles! Great to be back home again. We’ve got a new album coming out in a few weeks so you’ll hear a bunch of new songs tonight along with some old favorites. We might even reach way back in time to play some songs from like last year!” The crowd roared a mix of laughter and cheers. “But I want to start off with a special song especially for a special person. Is that even English? Ha ha. But I want to send this one out to a girl who I’ve sorely disappointed recently. Maybe this song can communicate something of how I really feel about her. And she knows who she is.” He stepped back from the mic and the drummer counted down the beat.
Somehow, a spotlight found me as Trent sang. A buzz went up in the audience as they realized who I was. Some girls screamed out something indecipherable, more cries than words. Like the spotlight, Trent aimed his attention at me, literally singing to me. Uncomfortably, I smiled. Part of me, I must admit, was transported, charmed, bamboozled, bedazzled. Trent can be very persuasive. All the best liars always are.
Midway through the song, Eloise grabbed my hand and squeezed tight. There was no gentle way to extricate my hand from her grasp so I just bit my lip and squeezed back. She whispered in my ear, “You two were made for each other. I’m so happy that Trent has found the perfect girl…”
When the song ended and the spotlight swung back to the stage, I thought about bolting from the stadium but there were my parents to consider. I could just take an Uber home and let them get picked up later by the car service that was scheduled by GlobalNet for us. But I found myself stuck to my seat. Even during the mid-set break, I sat there with Eloise as Conrad went on another refreshments sortie. I couldn’t even talk to my parents since everyone’s phones were locked up in Yondr bags.
Finally, after a 90-minute concert (not counting the 15-minute mid-set break), I said goodbye to the Fosters and waded through the exiting crowd to reunite with my parents in the accessible seating area. By the time I reached them, I discovered the Fosters were only a few steps behind me.
“Evie, please introduce us to your parents!” Eloise shouted.
I made the introductions. Everyone shook hands. Eloise, of course, was the most enthusiastic among us. Dad and Mr. Foster quickly started up a discussion of legal topics. Consuela and Eloise discussed…you guessed it…how many grandchildren they wanted and the breakdown by gender.
“I’ll bet you’d like some male grandchildren seeing as you’ve got two girls. Just like I’d love some granddaughters. We tried to give Trent a sibling but it didn’t happen. Did you try for a boy after Evie and her sister?”
“Well, no. I’m Evie’s stepmother. Evie’s biological mother passed away when Evie was just 12 years old.”
“Oh, poor child. Well, even without a mom at such a crucial stage in life, Evie turned out to be a beautiful young woman…and so talented. Smart too.”
“That she is. That she is.”
“How long are you in town? Conrad and I would love to have you visit our humble abode in Pacific Palisades. Maybe this weekend?”
“Mom, you know I’m away this weekend. Concerts in San Diego and Santa Barbara.”
Trent kissed his mother, hugged his father, and then leaned in to plant a kiss on my cheek. As he did so, I noticed the camera person right behind him. He was effervescent in exchanging greetings with Dad and Consuela. The camera person, as if on cue, lined everyone up for one last group shot. Trent and I were in the middle, flanked by our parents on either side.
“The cars are here. Geno?” He waved to one of the roadies breaking down the stacks of Marshall amplifiers on stage. “Geno, do me a favor and escort our folks here to where their limos are parked.” He turned to me. “I need to speak to Evie for a few minutes.”
“Of course, sweetheart. You kids need to talk. Conrad, why don’t you help Consuela with Mark’s wheelchair?”
Trent and I sat down in the empty first row as the cleaning crew busied themselves in the stadium.
“I think everything went really well, don’t you?”
“Trent, your parents…that is, your mother has the wrong idea about us—”
“How do you mean?”
I laughed. “She thinks we’re going to give her 2.8 grandchildren to dote on.”
“I’d hope we could round that up to 3 grandchildren. I really want kids myself.”
“So, does Bambi feel the same way?”
“Look, Evie, forget about Bambi. That was a mistake. A big mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking—”
“It’s best to use your brain when trying to think not some other organ.”
“Touché. I deserve that. Can we start over? I really like you, Evie. I’ve never met a girl like you.”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m getting too old to just play around. You’re the kind of person who I could be with for the long-term, you know.” He took my hands in his and laser-locked his baby-blue eyes with mine. “When I get off this mini-tour I’m on, we should spend more time together. There are places in SoCal I’d love to show you. And, I admit, my mother is besotted with the idea of you and me getting together. She said just the other day, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re smart, talented, and so very beautiful—”
“Are you reading off a script they handed you? Alastair and Danny? Are you doing this to get better press for yourself and the show?”
“No, I swear, this is me. I’m not acting. Trent Foster really likes Evie Rivers. I can see myself falling deeply in love with you. I am…already.”
“I don’t know what to say, Trent. I like you a lot. What girl wouldn’t. But I don’t want to be used. I don’t want to be hurt.”
“I won’t ever hurt you again.” Trent pulled me toward him and placed his lips gently on mine. He waited for me to respond. I couldn’t stop myself from swooning and kissed him back hungrily. It was a long, wet, sloppy kiss. I’m sure I moaned at least twice. His hands started to explore regions of my person that he mustn’t.
“Trent. Our parents are waiting. We can pick this up when you get back next week.”
“Okay. Here, let me leave a bookmark on this page.” We kissed. Another long, wet, sloppy kiss.
Friday night’s shadow play for GlobalNet’s benefit left me confused. Fortunately, the upcoming weekend would flush all of those conflicting thoughts out of my brain. For two days, the Rivers and Mellons families would get together to celebrate the engagement of Debbie Rivers to Otis Mellons. Saturday was a group outing to Disneyland in Anaheim that started with a two-car caravan. Car one was Otis’ Acura with Debbie, Consuela, Dad, and I packed tightly inside. Car two was the Mellons’ SUV with Carl Mellons at the wheel, his wife Olivia next to him, and his 16-year-old son Ryan, Otis’ brother, lying across the back seat, listening to some New Metal band on his earbuds.
The Mellonses didn’t know anything about me, other than whatever Otis had told them…which was the bare minimum, in deference to Debbie’s wishes. And I wanted to keep all conversation among the parties centered on Debbie. It was her day. She was so happy. And I was thrilled to tears to see how much she and Otis were in love. Of course, the two sets of parents spent much of the day discussing the geographical location of the proposed wedding ceremony. Ryan seemed shy, sneaking furtive looks at me as we lined up for the first ride, the Buzz Lightyear Astro Blasters.
“Can I call you Evie?”
“Well, that’s my name, so, yeah, go for it, sport."
“I think Otis should’ve asked you to marry him. You’re so much prettier than Debbie.”
“Thank you for thinking that, Ryan, but Otis obviously doesn’t think so. Debbie’s a real beauty. You ought to see me without all this makeup. It’s scary.”
“But you’re an actress. Trent Foster is dating you!”
Ryan’s still adenoidal voice alerted everyone around us. Suddenly, at least a dozen young women and teenagers, surrounded me, asking for my autograph. Apparently, news travels fast in the digital age. Probably the scene from the concert last night had already been viewed a zillion times by 9 this morning.
A woman with mouse ears on her head exhorted, “Drop that loser Trent! He’s too immature. You need someone who treasures you. Like a precious gem.” I just nodded as I signed her half empty bottle of water. A girl about 16 or 17 asked for a selfie with her and her three friends…individually. I demurred when an older woman asked me to sign her baby’s diaper (which was still on the little tyke). I posed for a selfie with her and her baby instead. Just before we were about to board the ride, a man who looked to be in is forties, asked me to sign his bicep, which he was flexing rather impertinently before my eyes. I was dotting the i in Evie when he hissed, “I’ve got another muscle you could work on too.”
“Hey, you creep!” Debbie shouted at him. Otis stepped forward.
“Move along, dude. You’re harassing my future sister-in-law.” The guy stood there for a moment, looking at the incomplete autograph on his arm.
“Okay. I’m good. I was just talking about my other bicep. Geez, some people have such dirty minds.”
Disneyland has over two dozen rides that are accessible to wheelchair users in their twin theme parks, the original Disneyland and Disney’s California Adventure. Debbie and I decided to split up the rides between us, so it was that I sat with Dad on the second ride, The Jungle Cruise. It was similar to the Jungle Cruise at Disney World in Orlando, which the family had visited more than a decade ago. Same jokes. We disregarded the running commentary and chatted.
“You never told me what you and Trent talked about after we were escorted to our limos.”
“Oh, Dad, it was nothing. He tried to convince me that he had real feelings for me—”
“Your face was a little flush. He kissed you, didn’t he.”
I didn’t reply. I was afraid I’d blush so I turned away just in time to see the boat with the animatronic chimpanzees. That made me laugh. Then the laughs turned into tears. I put my head on Dad’s shoulder.
“What is it, Evie? Tell daddy.”
“I don’t want to feel this way, Daddy. I can’t…I can’t fall for that stupid…he’s full of himself. Just a narcissist.”
“You have good sense, honey. Use it. Keep it a professional relationship—”
“His mother already thinks I’m going to give her grandkids!”
“Have you talked to Chuck about seeking help with your transition?”
I sat back up straight and wiped my eyes. “Yes, I spoke to him. He says he knows a doctor who specializes in cases of gender dysphoria. I think he’s going to set up an appointment for me.”
“What do you think about Chuck? I know he’s your boss but can you trust him?”
“He’s probably the only person in this town other than Debbie I have total trust in. He’s a really good guy.”
“He likes you, doesn’t he.”
“Oh, no, Dad. Like I said the other night, he’s strictly interested in cis women. When he found out about me, he was very disappointed. Not his type, you know. But I think he’s a friend, above and beyond being my boss. And a few weeks from now, I won’t be working for him anyway.”
“I’d like to meet Chuck before Consuela and I go back home. You know, a father’s plea to keep an eye out for his little girl. This is a brutal town. A mean industry, Evie. You’ll need someone on your side.”
“I have an agent, Juan.”
“He’s got a 10% interest in you but that’s as far as it goes. He’ll get other clients. Your file will just go to the back of the cabinet.”
“Maybe you and Consuela can move out here permanently. With Debbie getting married soon, I’ll be all alone.”
“You’re a big girl, Evie. You have a good head on your shoulders and you have a way about you. Just make sure no one takes advantage of your good-naturedness. And I’m just a plane flight away if you need me.” He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and kissed my forehead. It was comforting, if only in the moment. I was glad I had my family with me this weekend. And my heart was filled with the love they had for me. I smiled as I pictured myself being Debbie’s maid of honor at her wedding. The animatronic elephant trumpeted its approval.
The following week must have warmed the cold, calculating hearts of Michelle Gravesend and Alastair Knowles at GlobalNet. The media were “shipping” Trent and me, galvanized by the video clip from the concert that was making its way to Alpha Centauri as we speak. Unfortunately for GlobalNet, aliens probably aren’t metered by Nielsen. Juan called me Monday morning, practically in tears.
“Evie, I can’t handle all these requests for interviews and photo shoots that I’m getting for you. The phone’s ringing off the hook! You’ve got to get a public relations agent. I could suggest one or two that I’ve dealt with…”
“But I’d rather not be interviewed and I’m not a model. Why would they want to take pictures of me, Juan? I haven’t even started acting yet.”
“You’re hot as molten lava, Evie. Trent singing to you like that made you the flavor of the month. You’re a complete mystery and everyone’s competing to be the first to solve it.”
Chuck was out of the office, on his way to see the Special Events people at the L.A. Clippers offices on Flower Street, two blocks away from Crypto Arena. I made a voice call to him in the hopes he could pull me out of this morass.
“Evie, what’s up?”
“Juan called and said there are too many requests for interviews and fashion spreads than he can handle. He said I should get a P.R. agent. And he gave me a couple of names. I don’t know how to do this, Chuck. Help?”
“I’ve got a meeting until about 11. Okay, here’s what we can do. I’ll call Juan and have him forward any requests he gets to me. I’ll look them over and see which ones are worth accepting. I think the ones most useful to you will be TV interviews and podcasts. The print stuff and the photo sessions can wait. Sound good?”
“Yes, of course, Chuck. I trust your judgment—”
“That’s what my first wife said too—”
“Chuck, you were married? You never told me—”
“It’s a joke, Evie. A joke. I’m pulling into the parking lot right now. I’ll call you back when I can.”
As he promised, Chuck got back to me about two hours later, just as I was sharing a green salad with Debbie in the cafeteria. He decided I should do a TV interview on a local morning show the next day, bright and early at 8:30AM. He said not to worry about makeup and hair. They have people to do that for guests. Just pick out a nice, flattering outfit to wear, he emphasized. He gave me the address and disconnected.
Still half asleep and shaking in my boots (I was wearing some strappy sandals with low heels), I showed up at the TV station precisely at 8:30AM. They hustled me into hair and makeup and made me look presentable. When I stepped out of the room, I saw Chuck sitting in a folding chair, checking the texts on his phone. He stood up when I approached and I threw my arms around him.
“I didn’t expect you’d be here. I’m so nervous. I’m st-t-tuttering.”
“It’s the air conditioning, Evie. You’ll be okay. Just act natural. Don’t be taken aback by any stupid questions. These people are not rocket scientists.”
“Miss Rivers? You’re on after the next break,” the production assistant announced.
“I’ll be alright now you’re here.” I squeezed Chuck’s hand, which was almost twice the size of mine.
It was only a 5-minute spot but things turned out well. Now and again, as my interviewer droned on, asking inane question after inane question, I would peek behind her and see Chuck just off-set, giving me the thumbs up sign. I reflexively smiled each time. I suppose the viewers must have thought I was one very cheerful girl.
The rest of the week went rather smoothly. Chuck screened the requests for my time and I ended up having two more TV interviews, three podcast guest spots, and one National Public Radio feature segment. My voice filled with snark when I told Chuck I didn’t think anyone listened to terrestrial radio anymore. “I do,” he replied and walked away. Later, I learned that Chuck had interned at the LA NPR station when he was in high school. Back then, he wanted to be a radio sports talk host.
Misty Connors asked to speak to me in her office on Friday morning. I was half-expecting this so I girded my loins and quietly presented myself at her door. She looked up from her laptop and waved me in.
“Come in, Evie. Sit down.”
I looked around her office. There was a cabinet filled with trophies and badges denoting team championships and personal honors in the soccer careers of her and her sister Christy. On the walls hung photos and framed documents predominantly related to her athletic accomplishments. There was one photo that caught my eye. It was a shot of her and Clark, probably taken in the early years of their marriage or, perhaps, even earlier.
They seemed very happy, although it’s significant that Misty’s smile is open mouthed and broader than Clark’s tight-lipped smirk. My mind reeled and the memory of that episode from the week before in Redondo Beach made me gasp slightly. Misty looked up.
“Are you alright, Evie? Have some water.” She handed me a bottle. I twisted the cap off and took a long draught. Unfortunately, that made me choke. Misty came over to slap me on the back but I held up my hands as if to say I was okay.
“I wanted to speak to you before you left us. I know that’s not for another few weeks but my schedule in the summer is so packed, I’m not going to be in the office much. So…”
“You’re not firing me?”
“Of course not. What makes you think that? Chuck can’t stop speaking in superlatives about you. Enough to make me want to convince you to turn down Hollywood and stay in marketing—”
“Is that what Chuck wants?”
“No.” She laughed. “He and I both know that’d be mission impossible. It’s every little girl’s dream to be a movie star…or to marry one. Looks like you’re more than halfway there already.”
“You can’t believe everything you read or see on TV…”
“Regardless, I haven’t spent much time with you at all and I’d really like to get to know you a little better. Outside of the office. In a more casual environment. Even though this environment is pretty darn casual. Some of these girls don’t change their clothes days at a time. I pray they change their underwear regularly.”
“I try to wash out my bra every night. Sometimes I forget—”
“Evie, Clark and I are going out on our boat this weekend. I’d like you to come. Bring a friend if you wish. Bring two! Clark usually likes to do some fishing in the Santa Monica Bay. Come join us tomorrow. If you don’t like fishing, you can sunbathe. That’s what I do.”
“Would you mind if I brought my dad along. He’d love to do some deep-sea fishing. He and my stepmom are going back to New Jersey on Sunday—”
“Bring them both. Plenty of room on the boat.”
“You can fit all these people on a cabin cruiser?”
“Cabin cruiser? Clark’s got a yacht. A relatively small one, sure, but it’s a yacht!”
“Then would you mind if I brought my sister and her fiancé?”
“The more the merrier. Debbie’s engaged?”
“Yeah, you missed the showing last week in the cafeteria. Emerald in a gold-leaf setting.”
“Nice. When’s the wedding?”
“In the Fall.”
“Debbie’s going to have a famous movie star as her maid of honor. Bet she’s over the moon about that. Well, Chuck will pick you guys up tomorrow morning. I thought he would’ve already told you. Back to the grind. See you tomorrow, Evie.”
I bumped into Chuck in the hallway a few minutes later.
“What time should we expect you tomorrow morning?”
“What time? Oh, right. I’m picking you up at 8:30. Is that okay?”
“Misty said I could bring Dad and Consuela along. Dad really wants to meet you too.”
“It might not be best idea to go, Evie.”
“Why? And it’d be rude to turn down an invitation from Misty herself.”
“Misty? No, Clark asked her to invite you. It was Clark’s idea. He said you enjoyed fishing.”
“Oh. It was Clark’s idea.” We looked at each other in silence for a moment. “Look, what can happen? Misty will be there. My Dad and Consuela will be there. Heck, Debbie and Otis are coming too. And, most importantly, you’ll be there.”
“Famous last words?”
I yawned as I clambered into Chuck’s Honda Passport at the ungodly time of 8:20 on a Saturday morning. Chuck laughed and plopped a sun hat on top of my head, tousling my barely brushed hair.
“What’s this?” I asked after closing my gaping mouth. I placed the hat on my lap and tried to tame my wild auburn mane with the splayed fingers of my right hand.
“You’ll thank me when we get out into open water. The sun can be brutal this time of year. Did you bring a bathing suit?”
“No, I wasn’t planning on getting a tan or swimming in the ocean.”
“Clark will be sorely disappointed,” Chuck cracked as he gunned the engine. “So, your parents aren’t coming?”
“Dad and Consuela got invited to Trent’s parents’ house in Pacific Palisades. Debbie and Otis have to go along since they’re driving them there. Dad said it’d be impolite not to go, especially since today’s their last full day in LA.”
“I take it you’re okay with Trent’s extracurricular activities?”
“Oh, Chuck, it’s all show biz. You know that. We’re faking it until the show premieres. If the public wants to “ship” the two of us, so be it. I’m over him.”
“Still want to bear his babies?”
“Oh, shut up! My sister repeats everything to everybody.”
“Hungry?” I nodded. “Reach back behind you and grab that bag. I stopped off in Chinatown to pick up some breakfast burritos and beverages. Coffee or juice?”
I reached into the bag and handed one of the burritos to Chuck. He chose the coffee. I preferred the orange juice. We chomped on our burritos and sipped our liquids as Chuck drove in a southwesterly direction toward Marina Del Rey, a 45-minute trek from Alhambra.
In the latter third of the journey, we passed SoFi Stadium in Inglewood, where Clark’s Drillers played and Trent had warbled his public apology to me. I turned away from the sight and found myself looking straight at Chuck’s profile as he kept his gaze on the road ahead of us. In the clear light of morning, I couldn’t help but take notice of how handsome he was. He didn’t have Trent’s dark, smoldering, even petulant features but…
“I promised to help you find some professional counseling—”
“And I appreciate that, Chuck. I need some guidance. Some objectivity. Is what I’m feeling real or just a result of the wacky last few months I’ve been through? I can’t take everyone else’s opinion as fact.”
“I can’t begin to know what you’re going through but you’re certainly a smashing success as a woman…even if it’s not the “real” you. Although…well, you should explore your feelings with people who deal with cases of dysphoria on a daily basis.”
“Did you find anyone?”
“Yeah, Dr. Jocelyn Petry. She’s a pediatric endocrinologist at Children’s Hospital on Sunset.”
“I’m an adult, Chuck, not a child.”
“She can point you in the right direction. To the best therapists in the city. She’s a transwoman herself.”
“Oh, I think I saw her at the benefit gala that Juan took me to. That’s where I met Alastair Knowles from GlobalNet.”
“She’s got a free hour on Monday morning. 10AM.”
“I’d rather not go alone. Could you…would you…”
“I’ll take you, Evie.”
“Thanks, Chuck. You’re a good friend…and an okay boss.” He laughed and patted my thigh just below the hem of my shorts. I placed my left hand on top of his and smiled.
“You look so cute in that sun hat,” Misty declared as she greeted me with a hug when I stepped onto main deck of the motor yacht.
“Chuck gave it to me. He said the sun can be brutal—” Clark wrapped me in a friendly bear hug, grinning, his eyes hidden behind navigator sunglasses.
Chuck embraced his sister and shook Clark’s hand. “We’re a little late. The traffic was surprisingly congested for a weekend morning.”
“Your parents didn’t come, Evie?” wondered Misty. “Clark told me your dad was an avid fisherman.”
“Trent Foster’s parents invited them out to their home in Pacific Palisades. My sister and her fiancé had to drive them, of course. I’m afraid it’s just me today…”
“Well, a smaller sailing party will just make for a cozier outing. We can still get in some prime deep-sea fishing later in the afternoon,” brightly noted Clark.
“Let me give you a tour of the boat, Evie.” Misty took my arm and led me into the interior of the yacht.
“It’s a yacht, Misty! Not a boat. Right, Chuck, my boy?”
“It’s a question of semantics.”
“And a few tens of millions of dollars, Chuck.” Clark laughed. “Ready for another long drive contest? I’ve got the swim platform all set up. This way.” He pointed toward the stern of the yacht and waved Chuck toward him as he walked away.
Clark’s motor yacht was the largest size below Super Yacht at 90 meters from stem to stern. So large that it required a crew of six, including a pilot and a chef. It moved so smoothly that I hadn’t even noticed that we had raised anchor and was already leaving the marina, heading into Santa Monica Bay.
“My God, Misty, the price on this must have been 20 million at least.”
“40 million to be exact.” I let out a low whistle. “Of course, Clark’s savvy enough to write off business expenses on it that pretty much pay for its mortgage. Business meetings, corporate parties, donating the use of the yacht for charitable organizations to stage their events. We even used the yacht for week-long cruises down the coast all the way to Puerto Vallarta and back. Fans win them in these clever contests that Clark runs for the Drillers during the football season. I’ve been pushing for a couple of those cruises for our soccer team.”
“Sounds like a great idea. What does Clark say?”
“Still working on him. He says he needs some time on the yacht for himself after all. But, with our schedules, Clark and I don’t have the coinciding free time to use the boat. I say boat because I like to needle him about it, Evie. When he first bought the boat about five years ago, he was so excited that we took it to Hawaii. We cleared about a month off our schedules. You know, Evie, at 8 knots an hour, it took almost two weeks to get to Honolulu. The kicker is we spent a total of two days on the island and turned right around, took another two weeks to get back home. Almost 4 weeks on the ocean to visit Hawaii for less than 48 hours. Clark was happy though. He got to be the captain of his own boat. I didn’t even get to sleep in a luxury hotel suite. We came back to the boat each night.”
“Bummer.” Misty showed me the living quarters that she and Clark luxuriated in. It was like a penthouse version of a railroad apartment. We strolled through a living room with an entertainment center (they had a marine satellite dome mounted on top of the yacht) and enough space to seat a dozen people comfortably on couches.
“With Christy away in New Zealand as an assistant coach on the U.S. team in the World Cup for the next few weeks, I took the opportunity to spend some uninterrupted time with Clark. More than we’ve had in a long, long time. It’s good to actually see your husband more than a few days a month.”
“You’re really in love with Clark, aren’t you?”
“Why would you think otherwise, Evie?”
“Oh, nothing. I guess it’s just that since I’ve been working at Sisters, I’ve rarely if ever seen the two of you together. I was thinking…”
“That it’s purely a business relationship?” We walked past a fairly large kitchen area and waved to Chef Robby, who was busy preparing lunch.
“Well…it’s a logical assumption.” Misty stopped and faced me straight on.
“Clark and I first met over 15 years ago, when he was working for his dad’s waste management company and I was training for the Olympics in Beijing. His dad was a big sponsor and Clark came by our training facilities in San Jose. He asked me out within 15 minutes of being introduced. It was love at first sight for both of us.”
We continued the tour and entered a bedroom fit for a queen and her consort with an en suite bathroom almost equal in size.
“I know about Clark’s…shall we call them…dalliances. It’s partly my fault. A man has needs—”
“It’s the 21st century, Misty! That’s bullshit. Excuse my French.”
“Clark loves me and I love him. I forgive him his trespasses. He always comes back to me after these brief flings.” She put her hand up to stop me from interrupting. “I know about Mei Ling. Clark’s even told me about it. She’s very good at her job. Runs the office like a well-oiled machine. And Clark will get tired of her soon enough—”
“I’m not that sure about that.”
“I even know what he’s thinking…about you.” I gasped. “I’m a blonde but I’m not an idiot. I like you, Evie. And I think you’re strong enough and independent enough to block any and all of his attempts to seduce you. After all, you’ve already got two men pursuing you.”
“What two men?”
“Well, Trent Foster, for one. Word of advice, sweetie, he’s bad news. Loyalty is not one of his attributes—”
“Like Clark?”
“Trent doesn’t have an excuse. He’s just a player. He’s already played you.”
“Trent and I are…co-workers. This whole psychodrama is just something the studio cooked up to get some free publicity for the TV series. We haven’t even started shooting it yet. But millions are already aware of it because they believe Trent and I are a thing.” I laughed, convincingly I thought.
“Good. Then you can concentrate on the one who’s really perfect for you.” We both sat down on the Alaskan King size bed. She took my hands in hers.
“What do you think about Chuck?”
“He’s been really nice to me. He’s a wonderful boss to work for. Smart, dedicated, caring.”
“He really likes you. He can’t stop talking about you. And you’re the right kind of girl for him. Has he asked you out yet?”
“Noooo, Misty. That’s not happening. First of all, I’m not interested in dating anyone right now. I’m very career oriented. And my life is complicated enough trying to pursue three different careers – business, baseball, and acting – without getting involved in stuff like that. Secondly, Chuck doesn’t want someone like me. He needs a real woman.”
“What do you mean?” She poked my shoulder. “You seem real enough to me.”
“I…I can’t have children.”
“You can adopt. Chuck loves children. They don’t have to be biological—”
“I’m not sure I have a maternal instinct.”
“Oh, pish posh. Of course you do, Evie. All women do. Clark and I are undergoing another IVF cycle in September. I’m praying it clicks this time. They say third time’s the charm.”
“I didn’t know, Misty. I hope it goes well for you this time. Is this something Clark is really invested in? He doesn’t strike me as much of a family man. No offense.”
She laughed but her eyes were starting to water and redden. “Clark told me just the other day. He said “I hope we have a baby girl” because he wants another exact copy of me to love and cherish. And I want to give him a son. A little boy who’d remind me so much of his daddy…”
The cynic in me reeled. The love lives of the rich and famous astounded me. But could it be? Were Clark and Misty truly in love? And did she really want me to get involved with her brother? Get married? Adopt children? Oh, the humanity!
On our way back past the kitchen area, Chef Robby informed us that Clark wanted to see us on the swim platform. He and Chuck were about to begin their long drive contest.
“Clark never beats Chuck but he keeps trying. Come on, Evie. We can cheer our men on.”
Our men?
When we reached the swim platform at the stern of the yacht, the scene before us was reminiscent of something out of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, his parodic send-up of the lives of the rich and famous.
Chuck and Clark, 1 iron golf clubs in hand, were standing on a patch of artificial turf, pointing into the distance of Santa Monica Bay, and engaged in a loud discussion of the finer aspects of golf. One of the crew members was holding a laser rangefinder at the ready while, some 300 yards away, another crew member was idling on a jet ski, holding a pin flag in one hand.
“Clark wanted to use a driver because he thinks he’s got Chuck on brute strength. It was Chuck’s idea to use a 1 iron because the face of the club is flat and smaller, giving the advantage to the golfer with the better swing. You’ll see. Chuck’s drives will be straight and true. Clark’s drives might be longer but they won’t be straight, subtracting yardage from his result. So, Clark always ends up losing.”
“Did Chuck play golf competitively? In high school or college?”
“No, our grandfather loved to play and started Chuck out on golf from the age of 7 or 8. Well, you know Chuck’s a natural athlete. He’s good at almost every sport. The two of you have so much in common.”
“You have no idea.”
Clark teed off first. He wiggled and waggled, taking a few practice swings before addressing the ball. As Misty had predicted, Clark’s drive veered off to the left, reducing its actual distance from the tee by almost 30 yards. The crew member in the jet ski quickly rode to the spot where the ball plopped into the water and raised his pin flag. The rangefinder measured the distance to the pin flag and it was announced as 195 yards. Clark stopped within a few inches of smashing his club against the floor, cursing loudly.
Chuck addressed the ball without taking any practice swings, composed himself, keeping his head down, and swung. His smooth, levered swing caught the golf ball dead solid perfect and it soared high and far into the distance, straight as an arrow. After it plopped into the bay, the jet skier rode to the spot and raised his pin flag. The drive was measured at 225 yards. Chuck walked away from the tee and nodded at Clark.
“It’s the average of three drives, Chuck. Don’t celebrate just yet. Wanna put some money on it?”
“Clark, keep your money. It’s just a friendly contest. You’re the one who insists on doing it every time I’m on the yacht.”
Unfortunately for Clark, his two other drives were almost identical to his first – hooking badly to the left. His average for the three drives was 198 yards. On the other hand, Chuck was just as consistent, in a positive sense. His straight drives, right down the middle of the fairway, averaged 220 yards. Clark punctuated the contest by tossing the rangefinder into the bay, accompanied by a slew of expletives. He stomped off the swim platform and climbed up to the main deck, leaving Chuck smirking as he handed his 1 iron to the crew member, now bereft of Clark’s cursed rangefinder.
Lunch was served on the upper deck. Chef Robby had prepared a delightful meal, starting with a Caesar salad (Clark had a bowl of New England clam chowder instead), followed by a choice of grilled Cajun mahi wraps or panko crusted sand dabs with lemon garlic cream sauce. Misty egged me on to feed Chuck some of my mahi wrap. He almost bit into my fingers but I laughed at his exaggerated response after tasting the grilled mahi. He moaned with pleasure and wrapped his arms around himself just like Snuffles the Dog did when Quick Draw McGraw fed him a delicious biscuit.
“Correction, Misty. Chuck doesn’t love children; he is a child.”
Everyone laughed. Except Clark.
“It’s very clear you like seafood, Chuck. Now let’s see if you can actually catch some fish this afternoon. Maybe even a sand dab or two.” He turned to me. “Not likely. Chuck’s really good at golf but a piss poor fisherman. Stick with me, Evie. Between us we’ll catch us something for dinner tonight. A couple of sea bass or sheepshead. It’s a cinch.”
“Clark, why are you always competing with Chuck? We’re having a fun day on the boat—”
“Yacht! Misty, it’s a yacht!”
Early afternoon. The sun was high in the sky and the dappled still waters of the bay shone in our eyes as Chuck and I stood by the railing, laughing about lunch. Misty had decided to change into a bikini and sunbathe on a lounge chair on deck. She was reading her kindle when Clark emerged from below, holding three rods and reels in his hands.
He handed one to Chuck, kept one for himself, and gave the last to me.
“Have you ever done any saltwater or sea fishing, Evie?”
“No, my dad and I used to go fishing in Lake Farrington in New Jersey where I grew up.”
“Well, what you have in your hands is a 7-foot medium-action rod with a heavy bait caster reel and 20-pound test monofilament line. Exactly what’s required for offshore saltwater fishing. Think you can handle it?”
“Chuck can help me if I have any trouble.”
“Not if he’s on the other side of the deck. Chuck, go over by your sister. If we’re all on this side, we’ll get our lines tangled up. I can help Evie. Okay, Evie?” I shrugged my shoulders as Chuck shuffled off to the other side of the yacht.
A crewman brought out a tackle box and set it at Clark’s feet. Clark opened it and I saw it full of lures and jigs, some shaped like tiny minnows and others like squid. They came in a rainbow of colors.
“Live bait is a little messy, even for an experienced angler like me. I find these lures work just as well. Let me bait your hook. What’s your pleasure? Minnows or squid?”
Chuck picked out a few squid lures. “I’m a squid guy myself.”
“Take the minnows, Evie,” Clark advised. “We’ll see who catches the first fish.” He winked at me.
The first hour or so went by uneventfully. Chuck caught a couple of small sea dabs and had a black cod wriggle off his line. Clark and I came up empty. I asked Clark if he wanted to try switching to squid lures. He brusquely declined, saying we should stay patient. “We’re after bigger fish, Evie.”
Misty stretched her arms and yawned loudly, putting her kindle down.
“Guys, I’m really sleepy. I think I’m going to go below and take a short nap.” She disappeared before getting an acknowledgement from any of us. Clark moved closer to me and took hold of my arms.
“Let’s recast. Maybe try a spot just a little more to the right. Over there. Betcha there’s some sea bass just waiting for some dancing little minnows to drop in.”
“I can recast myself. The rod’s not too heavy to handle. And the motion’s sort of like an overhand delivery by a baseball pitcher.”
“Just trying to help. Give me a shout if you hook something.”
Chuck glanced my way and shook his head. I smiled and returned the shake. About ten minutes later, I got a nibble on my line. I started to turn the reel.
“No, Evie! Give him some run. Slack off,” Clark exclaimed. “When it stops, then you reel it in. But slowly. Don’t jerk the line.” He stood behind me and kept my arms still so I couldn’t turn the reel. His hot breath poured over my neck as he crushed the brim of my hat.
“You’re hurting me, Clark. Back off!”
“I’m only trying to help you.”
Suddenly, I felt Chuck grabbing Clark’s shoulders and pulling him off me.
“What the fuck?!!” Clark turned around and pushed Chuck away. “Don’t put your hands on me!”
“Leave Evie alone, will you? She’s perfectly capable of reeling in her own catch. Stop trying to cop a cheap feel.”
“It’s alright, Chuck. Clark just got a little over-excited.”
“Don’t defend him, Evie. He’s a fucking horndog. He was just waiting for Misty to go below so he could molest you. I’m not having it.”
“Look who’s talking. The only reason Chuck hired you is he’s got a boner for you. Why do you think 99% of the staff at Sisters are women? He’s fucked at least half of them.”
“It’s not true, Evie. He’s lying.”
“I don’t care who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. I’m not interested in either of you. I’m not interested in dating anyone. Why can’t everyone get that through their tiny little minds? Meanwhile, I just lost the fish that was on my line. Whatever the heck it was.” I showed them the end of my line, minus the lure and the hook. There was a mystery fish out there somewhere with indigestion.
“You’re like a bad rash, Chuck. I wish I could get rid of you. If it weren’t for Misty begging me to give you the job in the first place—”
“Like you’re some kind of business tycoon? You broke a dozen federal laws dumping all that garbage on a landfill in Arizona. You’d be twice as rich if you didn’t have to pay off every politician in the state.”
“Shut the fuck up! Get off my yacht! Now! I’m calling a tender. I want you on it. You hear?”
“Fine! I hate your fucking boat anyway. I only came to keep your grubby hands off of Evie—”
Clark grabbed the front of Chuck’s shirt and they pushed against each other, sliding along the wet, slippery deck. I tried to pull them apart but it was futile. They were six-footers, each weighing 200 pounds at least, and pretty fit. I was athletic but small compared to them.
“What the hell is going on?” It was Misty. She emerged from below, wearing a kimono covering her bikini. “Stop it! Stop fighting. You’re scaring Evie.”
They separated but stood warily a few feet apart, still seething.
“I want him off the yacht, Misty. He’s a damned buzz kill. He just accused me of trying to rape Evie. For God’s sake, I was helping her reel in a fish. Then your moron brother attacked me.”
“Chuck, is that true?”
“Of course not. Evie told him to let her go. Ask Evie.”
“Evie?”
“I think it’s all a misunderstanding. Yes, Clark grabbed me a little too tightly but he was trying to help me reel in that fish. Chuck got a little too over-protective and…I guess things got out of hand. Please, I don’t want to come between you three. I should have just stayed away after my parents couldn’t come. You’ve all been so nice to me. And all these bad feelings are because of me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
Misty embraced me. “You’re not to blame, sweetie. It’s this stupid rivalry between them. I wish they’d act like adults instead of little boys.”
“Call for the tender, Clark. You’re not kicking me off. I’m leaving of my own accord. Happily.”
“Chuck, stay.”
“No, Misty. The fun’s over for today. I’ll wait on the swim platform for the tender.” He turned to me. “Sorry for ruining your afternoon, Evie. Misty’ll see that you get home. I’m sure Chef Robby has something special planned for dinner.”
As soon as Chuck left, it dawned on me that the rest of the day on the yacht would be a horror show. I had nothing to say to either Clark or Misty. I was as embarrassed for myself as I was for them. And I felt very bad for Chuck. He had acted to protect me from Clark. He risked Clark’s anger and retribution to save me from his clutches. And I had failed him by mealy mouthing the whole situation. I was ashamed of myself.
“I’m really exhausted, Misty. The heat’s getting to me. I think I should take that tender with Chuck and get back to solid ground before I swoon. Despite how it ended, I really enjoyed my time today. You’ll excuse me. Goodbye Clark. Misty.” They seemed a little stunned by my early exit and just nodded. I left them there, facing each other from opposite sides of the deck.
Sitting close together in the cramped confines of the tender as it sped toward the marina, Chuck gave me an incredulous look. Then he laughed.
“That wasn’t the smartest thing to do, Evie.”
“What? I alienated Clark…and maybe Misty too?”
“Yeah. Did you think were sticking up for me?”
“I should have been more…upfront about what happened.”
“Clark wouldn’t have gotten angry at you. If anything, he likes women with spunk. Makes him even hotter for them.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“What is it you want, Evie?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Maybe Dr. Petry can help you figure it out. Like I said, she’s a transwoman herself.”
“Chuck?”
“Yes?”
“Do you really like kids? Like Misty said you do?”
“Sure. I’d like to have a family someday. Why?”
“What if they weren’t your biological children? Would you love them just the same? Could you?”
“Of course. Parent-child bonding isn’t exclusively dependent upon sharing the same genetic material.”
I turned away to face the coastline and the marina just minutes away in the distance. The breeze felt cool against me and I pulled my sun hat down more securely to keep it from blowing away. I heard Chuck laughing as I must have looked silly. I stuck my tongue out at him.
Chuck drove me back home. I thanked him and apologized again for ruining the day. He waved me off and wouldn’t take back the sun hat.
“You’ve twisted it all out of shape anyway. It’s yours. Maybe you can make a fruit basket out of it. See you Monday morning. Oh, and wear clean underwear. You want to make a good impression on Dr. Petry.” I took a swipe at him with the battered sun hat.
I called Debbie and told her that I was already home from my yacht outing. I didn’t go into detail about the afternoon’s events. When I asked her how things were going with the visit to the Fosters, she told me dad and Consuela were getting along very well with Trent’s parents.
“The Fosters think you’re going to marry Trent. And they’ve practically convinced dad and Consuela that the two of you are deeply in love. You’ve got a real situation, sis.”
I poured myself a nice glass of iced tea and sank into the couch, deciding to take my mind off a thousand worrying thoughts by opening the mail which Debbie had allowed to pile up unopened on the coffee table. The third envelope contained my union card from the Screen Actors Guild. I guess I’m legitimately an actor now. I’ve got the card to prove it.
Sorry for being a bit late with this latest chapter. Real life caused some delay in my posting schedule. To make up for this, please enjoy this longer than usual chapter.
The cartoon elephant that was extruding from the wall loomed above my head, looking every bit as ponderously large as the real thing. I couldn’t help glancing nervously over my left shoulder at it.
“Want to switch seats?” Chuck asked me, a wry smile on his lips.
“No, it’s okay. That thing looks almost real…for a cartoon, of course. You’d think it’d scare the bejesus out of a little kid…”
We were sitting in the waiting room of the Gender Health Services Division of Children’s Hospital on Monday morning. Chuck had arranged an appointment for me with Dr. Jocelyn Petry, a pediatric endocrinologist. I don’t know why but I was dressed in a summery blouse and skirt combination and open-toe low heel sandals. My right leg was anxiously bouncing.
“Boy or girl?” asked a woman seated across from us, a male child of about 10 or 11, just before the onset of puberty, quietly playing a video game on his handheld console.
“Excuse me?” I stuttered, not knowing who or what she was referring to.
“Boy or girl? Is your child a boy or a girl?”
“Neither.”
“Oh, dear. You’re like me. My child…” Looking at her child with an expression of profound sympathy. “The doctors suspect he or she… They? They might be intersex. Is your child in with Dr. Petry right now?”
“No, you misunderstood. We’re not…we don’t have any children. We’re here to see Dr. Petry about another matter…”
“Well, if I may say so, when the two of you do have children, they’ll be absolutely gorgeous. What an attractive couple you make.” She leaned forward to take a closer look at me. “Oh, can it be? You’re Evie Rivers! Trent Foster’s girlfriend! I’ve seen you on TV.”
The other people in the waiting room and the two nurses behind the reception desk turned their heads our way. Unconsciously, I retreated into Chuck’s side. He placed his arm around my shoulders as I tried to shrink from view.
“Please, lady, don’t make a scene. Can we have some privacy?” Chuck pulled me into his side even further.
“I’m sorry.” She surveyed the room before lowering her voice. “I’m confused. Can doctors determine gender dysphoria in fetuses now? What wonders will they come up with next?”
“She’s not pregnant,” spluttered Chuck.
“Don’t worry, I won’t blab it to the media. You can confide in me.”
At that moment, a nurse emerged from Dr. Petry’s office, looked around the room and settled her gaze on Chuck and me.
“Evie Rivers? The doctor will see you now.”
Both Chuck and I rose from our chairs. I placed my hand on his chest.
“It’s alright, Chuck. You can go back to the office now. I’ll order an Uber later.” He shook his head and squeezed my hand.
“Are you sure? I’m good at hand holding…”
“Go. I’ll be okay. I’d rather do this one on one.”
As I walked into Dr. Petry’s office, I overheard the inquisitive woman say to Chuck in a chiding tone: “You seem like a nice young man. I’d stay away from these Hollywood types if I were you. Her baby daddy won’t even take her to see the doctor. Take my advice. She’s beautiful but she’s not worth the trouble.”
“Evie? Evie?”
I was deep in thought, mesmerized by the low bookcase in Dr. Petry’s office, lined with conventionally gender-assigned toys. Reeling in the years, I wondered. Would I have reached for the plush animals or the die-cast model cars? Or both?
“Sorry, Dr. Petry. I was lost in thought. Those toys…”
“There’s a minor diagnostic utility to them but, in all honesty, they’re to occupy my younger patients while I speak to their parents. Oh, and you can call me Joey. My patients call me Dr. Joey.”
“I feel a little awkward seeing you, Doctor. I think I’ve aged out of your core demographic.”
“Gender dysphoria exists in all age groups, from toddlers to senior citizens, Evie. May I ask you how long you’ve been presenting as female?”
“About two months, give or take a week.”
“That surprises me. You look so…so convincing as a young woman. When Chuck first told me about you, I expected to see someone…let’s say…less evolved in the real-life test. But then I googled you. Forgive me, I’m not a big pop culture consumer. However, one can’t avoid seeing video of you and Trent Foster all over TV and social media—”
“It’s a nuisance, really, Doctor. I only decided to “present” as a woman to land a job here in LA. It’s my sister’s wacky idea. Everything else that’s happened – the acting job, the press coverage, the need to keep up appearances – wasn’t what I wanted or expected.”
“Before you go on, Evie, I must tell you. I am not very tolerant of people who come to me to sign off on hormone replacement therapy so they can further their professional careers, be it performing in legitimate theater and film, drag revues, or, heaven forbid, porn. I deal with patients who have medical conditions or suffer from real gender dysphoria. Strictly. So, if that’s not the case with you, we can end this session right now. You can obtain hormones through other means and from other sources, although I’d caution you not to use them independent of any medical supervision—”
“No, I want to go through the proper channels and everything. The last two months have confirmed what everyone in my family has been trying to tell me since I was 6 or 7 years old. That I’m really, in mind and soul if not body, a girl. I’ve fought against accepting it. I tried to be what a male person is supposed to be, to feel, to act. And now, I’m ready. Ready to claim my true identity. I’m a woman. I’ve always been a woman.”
“Well, that’s quite a little speech. I’m inclined to believe you. However, it’s my professional and ethical duty to verify that you suffer from dysphoria. That’s how I roll.”
“I understand totally. How do we start?”
“I’m going to refer you to a therapist who is among the best in the region. Don’t worry, she works with adults. But first, I want to do some blood tests to check your hormone levels. You might be suffering from partial androgen insensitivity syndrome.”
“What’s that?”
“Inability or reduced capability of your body to process testosterone. But it’s only a hunch. We’ll confirm or rule it out when the results come back in a few days. Then, we’ll proceed. Okay?”
“Sounds good to me. I don’t know if my company’s health plan covers this—”
“Chuck’s taken care of it. I thought you knew that.”
“Chuck shouldn’t have. I can pay. Down the road, when my SAG-AFTRA plan kicks in—”
“So GlobalNet knows you’re not a biological female?”
“Well, no…not yet. I’m not sure it’ll go over well if I tell them. They might fire me on the spot.”
“Alastair Knowles is your producer, right?”
“Yes, he is.”
“You lucked out, Evie. If there’s anyone in Hollywood who is supportive of transgender people, it’s Alastair. His wife, Joanne, is a transwoman. I’m sure he’d be sympathetic to your situation. But don’t act like you were trying to hide the facts from him. No one likes being deceived.”
“Chuck told me you’re friends with Alastair and Joanne. How do you come about knowing them?”
“Through my mother. It’s a long story. And not that pertinent to your situation. Now, if you’ll go into the next room, Nurse Krumholtz will come and draw your blood samples in a few minutes.”
I shivered. “I don’t like having my blood drawn. It gives me the willies.”
“It’s only 30 milliliters. That’s a little bit more than one ounce, Evie. You’ll survive. After you’re done, you’ll be asked to fill out our patient forms with your contact information, etcetera, etcetera. This is the first step in what I hope is a successful journey on the road to womanhood.”
We shook hands and I sauntered into the adjoining room, plopped myself onto the exam table, and waited for the nurse to appear and do her thing. About two minutes in, my phone rang. It was Juan Moskowitz, my intrepid agent.
“Hi Juan. What’s good?”
“Hi, Evie. Alastair Knowles confirmed with me that you’re on strike—”
“What? But I’m not a writer—”
“SAG-AFTRA voted to strike in solidarity with the WGA. Pretty much every production in town has been shut down. Sorry, Evie, this might go on for a while. Maybe even until deep into the Fall if past strikes are any indication.”
“But how am I going to make a living in the meantime? Hypothetically, I’ve given notice at Sisters Sportswear—”
“Maybe they’ll rip up your resignation, Evie. I’m sure they’ll understand the circumstances.”
“Not if Clark Ruskin has any say about it.”
“That’s tough, Evie. But, hey, I’m working on an acting job for you that could happen as soon as next week.”
“How’s that possible? I’m on strike—”
“Under the working agreement we have with the industry, there are loopholes. Music videos are one such loophole. Union members are allowed to work on those, among some other things.”
“But I’m not a singer or musician, Juan.”
“Evie, they just want you to appear in it. It’s a video to support a music track that’s being released as soon as they can finish editing it. And the best thing about it is the artist is your good friend Trent Foster!”
“Oh, no, Juan!”
“Oh, yes, Evie. Danny Dantley’s directing and he and Trent are desperate to cast you in it. Like real, real desperate. I can get you top dollar…no, make it over the top dollar for this. I’ll close the deal in the next 24 to 36 hours. Hey, the label’s paying for it anyway. Get your passport ready, Evie. You’ll be in Berlin next week!”
“I guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
“Gotta go, Evie. I’m meeting with Trent’s label execs in thirty minutes. I’ll update you when I can.”
“Berlin?!!!”
He had already disconnected. I stared at my phone, incredulous. Nurse Krumholtz walked in.
“Which arm do you prefer, Ms. Rivers?”
I stumbled out into the midday sun, still a bit woozy from having had my blood drawn. That nurse took more than an ounce, I swear. The orange juice didn’t help. I felt weak. And hungry. As I headed west on Sunset Boulevard on foot (was I the only pedestrian in sight?), I dismissed the choice of eateries I passed: Starbucks, Sunset Bistro aka Café 233, Los Burritos (the Original), Fun Ol’ Cakes. I was five long blocks west of Children’s Hospital, slowly being baked by the sun, with the famous Palm Trees that the city was planning to replace with native plants providing no shade as well as breaking the cooling breeze that might have partly remedied my threatened incineration.
Not only was I hungry (and thirsty), but I also badly needed some time to process my morning and what had transpired over the weekend. Here I was, getting a prospective green light to begin my transition, feeling good about being proactive about my gender issues, when I get smacked in the head by this darned SAG-AFTRA strike. On top of facing being fired the minute I walk into the office, what a comedown! Even with the advance I got from GlobalNet (minus tax, Juan’s 10% commission, and all the billed-back expenses), how am I going to survive in Los Angeles if the strike goes into late Fall or even winter? Now I can’t even afford a car, of which the sweat dripping down my forehead is a cruel reminder. And forget about paying for the therapy sessions, hormone treatment, and medical consultations!
Finally, I reached Shangri-La, otherwise known as Burger King. You can get a real meal there. A Whopper of a meal. As expected, most of their business was through the drive-by window. Inside, only a handful of patrons sat at scattered tables, and I was already second in line to give my order at the counter. Five minutes later, I carried my tray of the vaunted Whopper Meal (Whopper with cheese, medium fries, and a medium Diet Coke) to a secluded table close to the exit. As I was about to chomp down on my Whopper, a woman who looked to be in her 60s suddenly appeared behind my left shoulder.
“You’re Evie Rivers, aren’t you?” I pegged her as a woman in her 60s, but she was dressed like Kendall Jenner: cropped white tank top, beneath which just a tad bit too much flesh was protruding, lime green wide-legged trousers (likely a knock-off of the Frankie Shop original), and mahogany brown platform sandals. To literally top it off, her sunglasses sat on her head.
“Yes?” Instead of shaking my hand, she gave me a tiny finger wave from less than a foot away.
“I’m so excited to meet you. Especially here. Where the elite meet to eat!” She laughed a smoker’s laugh, ending in a sound that made you think she was about to spit up a furball. “I’m Hanna Van Gogh.” She emphasized the pronunciation of her last name. It was with a soft g, the way people living in the South of The Netherlands did in Vincent’s time.
“Nice to meet you. Do you want an autograph?” I reached into my purse for a pen.
“No, thanks. I want the same thing you want at the present time: a job.”
“Does everyone in this town read the trades? Don’t you people have other things to follow like sports or politics?”
“I don’t know about everyone, but I do. I’m an extra in the same boat as you. I’m on strike. In fact, I just applied for unemployment this morning. You should probably do the same.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not eligible in this state. I haven’t worked the minimum three months prior to applying and, technically, I quit my regular job, thinking they’d start shooting the series at the end of next month. I’m fucked. Excuse my French.”
“Well, you’re lucky though. You’re handled by CAA. They’ll find you some work in the meantime. Me, I’m going to be eating a lot of PB&J sandwiches. Not this haute cuisine.” She dramatically spread her arms.
“Hanna, give me your name and contact information. I’m not 100% sure but there might be some work on a music video—”
“For Trent Foster? Oh, girl, you need to close the deal with that boy. Hang on for dear life. There’s community property in this state!”
“I’m not about to marry him just for a meal ticket. I’m not really into him anyway. So, do you have a valid passport, Hanna?”
“Umm, yeah, why?”
“Clear your calendar for next week, just in case. I promise I’ll get you in on this if my agent isn’t talking out of his rear end. Let me finish my lunch. I’ve already ordered an Uber. It should be here… (I looked at the app on my phone) …in ten minutes.”
The Uber ride back to the office was…exasperating. The driver immediately recognized me. Duh. I ordered the car under my name, brother. Then he annoyingly teased me about being picked up at a Burger King on Sunset and North Kenmore. I snapped back at him by replying that I liked finding out how the other half lived, like using a ride-share service. The snarl in my voice kept him silent for the rest of the ride.
When I came out of the elevator on our office floor, I was greeted by Debbie, who peppered me with questions about my appointment with Dr. Petry. As we walked toward Chuck’s office, I tried to shush her. Too late. Buzz Feiten, leaving the office on his way to a sales call, crossed our path, stopped, and asked why I had gone to a doctor. Debbie blurted out, “Female troubles!” At that, Buzz frowned and walked quickly toward the elevators. “Well, best of luck. No need to go into detail. See you, ladies.”
I ignored Mei Ling as we approached the open door to Chuck’s office. “I have to speak to Chuck, Debbie. Something’s come up. Something unexpected.” She nodded and didn’t slip her arm from mine. We both just managed to squeeze through the doorway together. There was a groan but not from me. Good thing I ordered the Diet Coke instead of a regular Coke.
Chuck looked up from his desk and smiled, greeting me warmly. He moved quickly to close the door.
“How did it go?”
“Well. It went very well. Dr. Petry took some blood samples to check my hormone levels. Once we get the results, she’ll refer me to a therapist who’ll confirm that I’m ready to undergo HRT. That’s what I’m hoping anyway. But there’s something else. First of all, Chuck, I didn’t expect you to pay for my treatment. I was capable of paying for it myself—”
“Don’t argue with me, Evie. It’s something I want to do.”
“Unfortunately, things may have changed. Drastically. I can’t turn down your help now. I’m on strike and the series has been shut down indefinitely. Who knows if GlobalNet won’t just scrub the whole project if the strike goes past November! And I’ve technically tendered my resignation from Sisters. And Clark is going to fire me anyway—”
“Whoa, Evie. Take a breath. Clark’s not firing you. Not that I’ve heard. Misty said he was sorry that whole episode took place on Saturday. Told her it was all a huge misunderstanding.” He shrugged his shoulders. “As far as I’m concerned, you can work here as long as you want. Now stop hyperventilating, okay?”
“Are you sure Clark’s not thinking of firing me?”
“I’m still here too. He would’ve fired me first if he was still hot about what happened.”
Chuck’s office phone rang. He picked up. There was a brief exchange, and he replaced the receiver.
“Well, that’s strange. Clark wants to see both of us—”
“I knew it! It’s been one thing after another today.”
“What’s strange is he’s not coming up. He wants us to meet him in the parking lot. He’s there right now. Let’s see what he wants.” Chuck followed me out of his office. Debbie caught up to us at the elevators. “I’ve got your back, sis. I’ll quit if he fires you!”
“Don’t be an ass, Debbie. One unemployed daughter is all our dad can tolerate.”
By the time we got down to the parking lot, we had unwittingly brought along almost half of the office with us. Clark Ruskin stood by a shiny new red Corvette Stingray Coupe, a mile-wide smile on his face.
“Come get your new car, Evie Torch red. I hope it’s your favorite color. Kinda goes perfect with your hair.”
With one hand over my mouth, I approached the car slowly, my other hand trembling as I touched the smooth, warm carapace of the Corvette. It was a sensual experience. I looked at Clark, then Debbie, and finally, Chuck.
“I’m flabbergasted. Thank you! Thank you, Clark. I need a car, badly. But I thought you were going to fire me after what…what happened…”
“Fire you? Why would I do that? Because of the little kerfuffle on Saturday? Come on. It’s forgotten already. Hey, Chuck has apologized. Not a big deal.”
“I never apologized, Clark—”
“Well, not in so many words but I could sense the spirit behind what you did say.”
“Whatever, Clark. I did not apologize—”
“Boys, boys. Let’s bury the hatchet, okay?”
“Mei Ling, can you pass me the hatchet? I know the perfect place to bury it.”
“I know you’re joking, Chuck. Cause there’s no hatchets in the office. Right, Mei Ling?” He laughed and took my arm. “Now, Evie, let’s take this baby out for a spin. It’s got a top speed of 194. Shame the speed limit is about 130 miles per hour below that.”
Clark handed me the keys and I slipped into the driver’s seat. Before Clark could turn the corner to take the seat next to me, Debbie rushed in and claimed it for herself. Undeterred, Clark leaned in and gestured for Debbie to step out.
“Debbie, don’t you have some work to do this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry. I guess there’s plenty of opportunity to ride in it. After all, we’re sisters. We share everything.”
“Just step out.” Debbie extricated herself from the car and walked back toward the rest of the gathered office crew. Clark sat down and took the remote to raise the barrier gate out of his shirt pocket. “Let’s roll! Gun that engine!”
“Where are we going? Once around the block?”
“Nah, what’s the fun in that? Let’s see how this baby handles. Head north on East Main and make a right onto South Mission Drive.”
“I never realized there were so many Jack-in-the-Boxes in this part of town.”
“Never been to one. I’m a Burger King guy myself.”
“That’s funny. I just had a Whopper meal for lunch.”
“I like women with a hearty appetite. Misty was a vegan for a while. What a buzz kill. Good thing she gave it up finally. I’m glad you like meat, Evie.”
“Clark, about my leaving the company to start shooting that TV show—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re on strike. Every production in town is on hold. Bob Iger’s a close friend and he tells me the strike could go until November, maybe December. No offense, Evie, but you can’t have the peasants running the castle, if you get my drift.”
“So, you see me as a peasant?”
“Just a figure of speech, honey—”
“Don’t call me honey.”
“Look, there’s another In and Out. Speaking of which, you’re welcome to stay in the company as long as you want. I told Chuck to tear up your resignation letter.”
“Well, that’s a load off my mind, Clark. I thought I’d lost two jobs in one fell swoop. I was out of work for almost two months before I came to L.A. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Where can we turn back? Do we take a right on Valley Boulevard?”
“No keep going. Up ahead, we can merge onto I-10.”
“Why are we getting onto I-10?”
“It’s the quickest route to Las Vegas. I’d say we’ll be in downtown Vegas in less than 4 hours. We can switch seats if you get tired after a while.”
“I’m not going to Las Vegas with you, Clark!”
“Come on! It’ll be fun. I’ll stake you a couple of grand and you can try the poker or blackjack tables. Or you could just sit by me and watch me break the bank. I’m a high roller just like my dear old daddy.”
“Don’t you have a wife to go home to?”
“Misty decided to go watch Christy coach our World Cup team in New Zealand. She left on Sunday.”
“That was sudden.”
“We…uh…had some words. You don’t know Misty that well. She’s got a temper on her.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t something you might have said or done over the weekend—”
“I like a woman with a sarcastic streak. But let’s not talk about Misty. Let’s talk about how much fun we’ll be having in Vegas tonight.”
When the light turned green at the intersection of South Mission and Valley, I made a right. I had turned on the GPS while Clark was fantasizing about Las Vegas and set a course to return to the office.
“You’re a hard nut to crack, Evie, but I’ve got the right size pliers for the job. And I’m a very patient man.”
The man was building a great harassment suit against himself. But I needed the job and there was something about me that just didn’t need to be exposed right now. I just have to remain strong and grin and bear it…for now.
Every night that week, Debbie and I drove through Los Angeles from east to west, Pasadena to Santa Monica, and north to south, Van Nuys to Irvine. 1500 square miles of neighborhoods, communities, and towns. The City of Angels transforms itself into The City of Night. A sprawling mass of humanity like no other in the Western World. I thought about how different it would be if I had experienced this as a man, not the woman I am now. Yes, I am woman. Hear me roar!
Wherever we stopped to gas up the car, purchase some drinks and snacks, or have a taste of more than a hundred different world cuisines, I got recognized, sometimes ogled and whistled at. I posed for countless selfies, signed a few autographs, and petted several dogs. I was even asked to kiss a baby, though I don’t recall ever declaring a run for political office. Debbie was thrilled and shot picture after picture on her phone, which she showed Otis after we returned home at the stroke of midnight.
By Friday morning, I had convinced myself that my surprising interlude in show business had ended abruptly with the ill-timed strike halting all TV and film production. I hadn’t heard from Juan since Monday morning, so I assumed the music video gig had fallen through. Not that I especially looked forward to working with that player Trent, but the money would’ve come in handy in paying for my transition costs.
But I did receive some good news that morning. The results of my blood test had come back. Dr. Petry said my hormone levels were well within the parameters of “normal” people assigned male gender at birth. Now we have a baseline to use as a guide to determine the proper dosage of hormones when I start HRT. She also gave me the name of the therapist she had recommended and left it to me to set up an appointment at my convenience.
Chuck took Debbie and me out for a celebratory lunch: the house special Green Stripe pizza at Blaze’s, a few blocks down the street from the office. We came back to the office, laughing like characters in a network sitcom. You could almost hear the upbeat background music choreographing our happy steps. Buzz Feiten crossed our path, as is his wont, and asked us what the joke was. Debbie answered quickly, “Evie’s female troubles are over!”
“That was quick. It’s amazing what medical science can do these days. We should leave for Cucamonga in fifteen minutes. Let’s take your car this time. I haven’t ridden in a Corvette since my college buddy’s father got him one for his graduation. Can’t wait!”
Rancho Cucamonga is part of the Inland Empire in San Bernadino County, 45 miles east of downtown Los Angeles. Named after the native tribe that inhabited the region, the Kukamonga. Buzz and I tooled my brand-new Corvette Stingray to LoanMart Field, home of The Rancho Cucamonga Quakes, Single-A affiliate of The Los Angeles Dodgers, where we hoped to finalize a deal to produce 10,000 Quakes t-shirts, sponsored by LoanMart, a company that processes car title loans, for a Labor Day give-away.
Buzz practically jumped out of the car 10 seconds after I parked near the bungalow next to the stadium which housed the team’s executive offices.
“Come on, Evie. Get a move on. We’re ten minutes late!”
“Hold on, Buzz. I gotta change shoes. It sucks trying to drive in heels.” I switched into my black 3-inch pumps and carefully got out of the car, mindful not to flash Buzz.
“Women,” he harumphed. “But the heels do make your—”
“Watch it, Buzz. And don’t lag behind me. I know what you’re doing.”
“That went really well, Evie. Nice touch getting them to order 10,000 more. They severely underestimate the national market for minor league tchotchkes these days.”
As we reached the front door of The Quakes’ offices, a tall figure in a Quakes warmup jersey came into view behind us.
“Evie? Evie Rivers?”
I almost dropped my briefcase when I recognized Ray Crawford, my old college teammate. My heart skipped a beat. My free hand went right to my mouth to suppress the embarrassing squeal I felt about to emerge.
“Evie, my brother told me he’d bumped into you. My God, you…you look different. Different and beautiful. How?”
“Ray. It’s been a dog’s age. What are you doing…” I noticed Buzz holding the door handle, his expression a mixture of amusement and confusion. “Buzz, could you wait for me in the car. I’ll be out in a few. Okay?”
“Old boyfriend? Gotcha. I’ll…uh…give you some privacy. Nice to meet you…”
“Ray. Ray Crawford.”
“I’ll be in the car with the A/C full blast.” Buzz left us alone.
“He doesn’t know.”
“Neither do I, Evie. Somehow, I’m not surprised but how did you suddenly become a Hollywood starlet and Trent Foster’s new squeeze? I couldn’t believe the hot babe on TV and my old Rutgers teammate were the same person. But here you are. It is you!”
“It’s me,” I admitted, grinning goofily. “It’s a long, crazy story. But what are you doing here?”
“I’m the Quakes’ general manager. The youngest GM in pro ball.”
“You disappeared after you wrecked your knee in that stupid bike race—”
“Motocross is not stupid, Evie. Well, I couldn’t pitch anymore so, being it was my senior year, I buckled down to get my degree on time. I guess I didn’t hang out with you guys because I didn’t want to be reminded and distracted.”
“Was I a distraction, Ray? I thought we were best buds. We roomed together on road trips—”
“That was the problem, Evie. Hey, you disappeared too. I tried to contact you after graduation, but your dad said you didn’t want to return my call.”
“I guess I didn’t want the distraction either. Getting my MBA was hard. You know I wasn’t the best student in the world.”
“Bullshit. You’re the smartest girl…I mean guy…or girl I’ve ever met.”
“I’ve got to go. Buzz will try to hot wire my car if I don’t hurry back.”
“I’ll walk you.” We stepped out into the hot afternoon sun. With my free hand, I reached into my briefcase, took out my sunglasses, and put them on.
“I’d like to catch up with you, Evie. Come to the game tonight. You can sit with me behind the dugout. Maybe you can scout my pitchers. You were always good at analysis. And then, after the game, we can get a bite nearby in Victoria Gardens. Please?”
“I’d like that, Ray.” We stopped at my car and turned to face each other. Awkwardly, Ray first held out his hand to shake, then raised both arms to embrace me. I walked into his arms and looked up at him. Even in three-inch heels, Ray was half a head taller. He leaned in and kissed me. I was shocked but my lips responded, my heart beating fast and furious.
Moments later, after changing my shoes again, I settled into the driver’s seat, and Buzz deadpanned, “I think he likes you.”
The stadium was packed on a hot summer Friday night and the hometown Quakes were destroying the opposition, 7 zip, in the 5th inning. Between innings, they showed my face on the giant scoreboard. Sitting behind the Quakes’ dugout, Ray and I kept being interrupted by players popping their heads out from under the dugout roof and whistling. The worst was the batboy, a pimply teenager who kept repeating in a sing-song lilt, “Ray Ray’s got a new girlfriend. Trent’s gonna kill you. Na na na na na.”
I was providing my scouting notes on the Quakes as the game progressed but, every few minutes, a line of fans would form in the aisle, asking for autographs and selfies…from me. I could see Ray wince every time some young girl or woman would ask me if Trent Foster was as dreamy in person as he seemed on screen.
“So, you and Trent are pretty tight, huh?”
“It’s just good publicity for the show…whenever the hell this strike ends. It’s professional, not personal.”
“Things would have been a lot different if I had known back in school that you liked guys.”
“What does that mean?”
“Can you sign my autograph book, Evie?” I looked up at the teenage girl holding out a spiral notebook, open to a page that already had Trent Foster’s signature on it.
“I got Trent’s autograph at SoFi last week. But it was the show the night after he sang that apology song to you. It’d be so epic if you signed right below him. I can’t even…”
“Ray Ray’s got a new girlfriend. Trent’s gonna kill you. Na na na na na.”
“Just shut up already. Wanna see me play whack-a-batboy?” Ray turned to me and mock-laughed. “You’re a bigger draw than the team, Evie. Sorry to interrupt your fanfest with a baseball game.”
“Who’s he? Your bodyguard?” the girl asked, as I posed for a selfie with her, taken at arm’s length, Ray’s bemused face in the background.
“Man, you’re on top of the world, Evie. Look at this car! It makes my Dodge Challenger look like shit. Your boss just gave you this like a bonus or something?”
“Sort of. It’s kind of a make-up gift for something he shouldn’t have done.”
“Clark Ruskin, huh. Yeah, he’s a well-known horn dog. I would’ve punched his lights out. Just take the next right.”
“Oh, wow, you’ve got a Shake Shack here.”
“Just opened this Spring. Unfortunately, it closes promptly at 9:30. Pretty much everything in Victoria Gardens closes at 9:30. It’s not like L.A. where things are open 24/7. But Silverlake Ramen is still open. There’s free parking.”
Being the only restaurant in the area still open, the place was filled almost to capacity. Because of Ray’s celebrity status, we were led to a corner table almost immediately. The maître d showed no sign that he recognized me. Which was fine and boosted Ray’s ego a bit.
“Didn’t you once tell me that once you graduated, you’d never eat another bowl of ramen again to save your life?”
“Okay, I exaggerated. But they’ve got other good stuff here. Check out the menu.” He pointed to the items on the sheet. “There’s rice dishes like the Spicy Tuna and the Chicken Karaage. Or if you’re into sushi, there’s the California Roll or the Shrimp Tempura Hand Roll. My favorite is the Pork Bun. I order that when I want to pig out—”
“Your sense of humor hasn’t changed since school, Ray. Awful. Just short of dad jokes.”
“Tell me about it, Evie.”
“It’s Debbie’s idea. When the Titans fired me, I was desperate for a job. My MBA’s in marketing and branding so…she got me an interview with her company here in L.A. Quite by accident, an agent for CAA recruited me in a dog park and got me a screen test for this new show on GlobalNet, starring Trent Foster. Before I could exhale, they signed me to a million-dollar deal. And everyone thinks I’m a girl. That’s about it.”
“You convinced me you’re a girl back in college.”
“Really? I mean, you knew I was guy…anatomically. We roomed together. I showered with the rest of the team. You must have peeked over the partition—”
“Turns out I was sure but you weren’t. That about sums it up, no? I would’ve told you how I felt about you, but you never gave it away. I didn’t want to make you think I was gay or something.”
“I didn’t know, Ray.”
“So, are you going to transition or just keep hiding behind the pretense? Everyone’s bound to find out. Especially Trent. If you two are serious—”
I placed my hands on my hips and kept my voice low, but my expression hinted at a scream.
“Look, there’s nothing between Trent and I. Nothing, zilch, nada. He’s a…a co-worker. That is if they don’t scrub the show due to the strike. I get to keep my advance in any case but that’ll be the end of my brief but meteoric career in show business. Evie, we hardly knew ye.”
In his best Jim Carrey voice, “So you’re telling me there’s a chance?”
“Don’t make stupid jokes, Ray. You don’t want to be involved with me. I’m a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”
“I love a mystery, Sir Winston. I’m not making a funny, Evie. If you’re not involved with anyone right now… Would you want to spend some time together? We’re both in SoCal now. I’m not seeing anyone—”
“I’m starting my transition. I got referred to a therapist and I could be on hormones soon. Do you really need to be dating someone going through that?”
Ray took both my hands in his and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I fell in love with you the first year we made varsity. All the time we were in school, I thought it was an impossible dream. But now, here we are. I love you, Evie. I always have.”
“This is crazy talk, Ray. You want someone less complicated, more stable. You need a real woman—”
“But that’s what you are…already. Is it because I’m just some low-paid baseball wonk in a backwater minor league town? I believe in myself, Evie. I’m gonna make the majors. You’ll see.”
“Ray…I…” My phone rang. “Excuse me. It’s Debbie. I’ve got to take this.”
“Yeah, Debbie. What’s up?”
“Evie! Juan’s been trying to get in touch with you all evening. Voice calls, texts, everything.”
“Oh, shit, Debbie. I turned my phone off when the game started. I just turned it back on when we sat down to eat. I didn’t even check to see if I’d gotten any calls or texts.”
“Well, call him. He’s at home. Do it now! It’s very important.”
“What’s it about?”
“Just call him, Evie!”
She disconnected.
“My agent’s been trying to get in touch with me. I’ve got to return his call. Do you mind?”
“Of course not, go ahead. I’ll have some of your California Roll while you make the call.”
I crossed forks with Ray. “Don’t you dare. You’ll get cooties all over it.”
A woman answered my call.
“Oh, Evie! Juan’s been trying to get in touch all night.”
“Hi, Glynnis. Stupid me. I had my phone off until just now. Is Juan available?”
“He’s coming now. He just got back from putting the garbage out. Here, Juan. It’s Evie.”
“Thanks, honey. Evie! Evie Rivers! I’ve got great news!”
“The strike is over?”
“No, not that. I just closed a deal with Trent’s label. You’re in his new music video. I got you in way over scale. I had them over a barrel because Trent and Danny really, really wanted you. How does $20,000 for two, maybe three days’ work sound?”
“Oh my God, Juan. You’re a wizard of an agent. I need that money in the worst way!”
“Okay. I am good, aren’t I? Anyway, the shoot begins next week Wednesday. In Berlin. That’s Berlin, Germany. They’re emailing the e-ticket to you. Flight's on Tuesday morning.”
“Can I request two things, Juan?”
“Sure. What are they?”
“I know someone who could be used as an extra. I’ll send you her name and contact info. I sort of promised her I'd find her work—”
“I thought you were going to ask to have all the red M&Ms removed from the candy bowls in your trailer.”
“That too, Juan. Just kidding. The other thing is I must have Peg Somersby as my makeup & wardrobe mistress. That’s non-negotiable.”
“Peg? Sure. No problem. Danny’s worked with her a lot. Okay. We’ll be in touch. Don’t turn your phone off, Evie. Please.”
“Sorry, Juan. It won’t happen again. Good night.”
I put my phone down on the table and looked at Ray. He was chewing on a piece of my California Roll. His eyes flashed guilty surprise, but he didn’t stop chewing.
“You’re going to have to order another California Roll for me, buster.”
“Done. So, what’s the word from your agent?”
“I’m shooting a music video next week in Berlin, of all places. And I’m getting paid $20,000 for two days’ work.”
“$20,000 for standing around, just looking beautiful. What a racket. I guess the video is with—”
“Trent Foster. He’s touring Europe right now.”
“Looks like you can’t get away from him. Try as you might.”
“He does have his good points…”
Peg had to hold me back from giving Hanna a roundhouse right to the jaw, I was so exasperated with her warbling. I was sitting between Peg and Hanna in the main cabin on our flight to Berlin, Sunday evening. Yes, Sunday evening. The plane departed LAX at precisely 6PM, scheduled to land at Berlin Brandenburg in 15 hours, 6PM CEST Monday evening. There would be a 2-hour layover in New York’s JFK. Since it would be 2AM in New York, I expected to spend the 2-hour layover in a dark corner of McDonald’s, charming the sparse crowd with my ladylike snoring.
Saturday morning, Juan had called to tell me that he’d miscalculated the departure time for our flight to Berlin. In order to be there, bright-eyed and raring to go on Tuesday morning, we would need to leave at least a day earlier than originally planned. Consequently, our premium class seats would have to be downgraded to the main cabin. As Peg pointed out, the benefit of this change in travel plans was not having to get up at the break of dawn to catch the Monday 6AM flight.
Fortunately for both Hanna and me, Peg didn’t have to hold my arm back too long before they served us our first of two major meals on a 13-hour flight. For what it’s worth, Hanna thought I was just joking around so, as the attendant placed the food on her tray table, I put my arm around her shoulders and smiled. There was no singing while we ate our chicken dinner and quinoa and cherry tomato salad. There was the promise of ice cream for dessert!
Because of Hanna’s cringe-worthy singing, at least half the plane now knew who I was. Girls and women were waving at me while men and boys just stared. Fortunately, seatbelts were on. Otherwise, I could just imagine lines forming in the aisle, waiting for a selfie and an autograph. Oh, the humanity! That’s what I get for doing a good deed. And for eating at Burger King.
Thankfully, there was no more singing after the ice cream. Instead, I had to sit between Hanna and Peg as they discussed my “love life” as if I were invisible. Even with my Bluetooth earbuds snugly in place, I couldn’t escape the point-counterpoint battle being waged.
“Hanna, you’ve been in Hollywood long enough to know that matinee idol types like Trent are just a heartbreak waiting to happen. Our girl here must be very, very careful not to fall for his charming lies…”
“I’d stare into those lying eyes anytime. Not saying giving it away for free, Peg. Trent’s the one on the hook. From what I’ve seen and read, he’s head over heels for the girl—”
“Hanna, I keep telling you. Trent and I have a professional relationship. We’re just putting up a good show for our potential audience. Explain it to her, Peg.”
“I don’t know about Trent but Evie’s a great little actress. She has zero interest in the guy…outside of working with him. The only thing Evie really loves is baseball. Right, Evie?”
“Well, that’s a bit of an exagger—”
“She doesn’t have to love the guy. He’s nice to look at and he’s worth zillions. He’s box office and he’s shipping platinum in cds—”
“Nobody buys cds anymore, Hanna.”
“You know what I mean. And people do still buy cds and dvds! Get a ring from the dude and your own career will zoom! And if you get tired of him, listen, there’s community property in this state…”
“This state? We’re over Texas right now—”
“There are nine states that have community property laws.” She counted on her fingers. “Starting from the West: Washington, California, Nevada, Idaho, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, and Wisconsin. I’ve been married in three of those states.”
“I’m not getting married to Trent!” I shouted. It was louder than I realized because of the earbuds. The buzz in the cabin subsided to near silence. I blushed beet red and hid my face behind my hands as Peg tried to calm me down.
“Just leave the girl alone, Hanna. Please.” Peg kissed my head. “Listen to your tunes, Evie. Close your eyes. There, there, sweetie.”
“Juan said Danny would send someone to pick us up. Peg, look for some guy in a chauffeur’s cap…” I pointed in a vague direction as we stood in the arrivals area of Berlin Brandenburg Airport, Terminal 1. Fortunately, we didn’t have to loiter at the luggage carousel since all three of us carried minimal baggage for a 3 day stay that we stowed in the overhead bins. Well, Peg did have her professional makeup case that she managed to just barely fit under her seat. It took us a surprisingly brief 20 minutes to get through Passport Control/Immigration and so, there we were at 6:40PM on a Monday evening in Berlin.
“There’s a guy over there holding a sign with your name on it,” pointed out Hanna.
“Do either of you speak German?” They shook their heads. “Well, I had two years of high school German which I’ve never had to put into practice. Here goes nothing.” I approached the guy with the sign, giving him my best friendly smile.
“Hallo? Sind Sie hire, um Evie Rivers abzuholen? Das bin ich. Und meine beiden Freunde.” I indicated Peg and Hanna standing ten feet behind me. “Hat Danny Dantley Sie geschickt? Wir arbeiten am Trent Foster-Video...”
He lowered his sign, took off his sunglasses and laughed. I was taken aback. Had I unknowingly said something untoward in my poor German? I only got a B minus in German. It wasn’t UN translator level, I’m sure.
“I don’t know what you asked me since I don’t speak a word of German but I’m guessing you’re Evie Rivers.” He clicked his heels and bowed his head. “I’m Julian. Mr. Dantley’s assistant. Now if the three of you young ladies will follow me, I’ve got my van parked outside.”
I turned around to call for my traveling companions, but they were both standing right behind me. We followed Julian outside. Being a gentleman, he carried Peg’s heavy makeup case for her.
“We’re staying at Hotel nhow. It’s the place where all the bands stay when they’re playing Berlin. Depeche Mode and Simply Red just left this weekend. Last month, Elton John and The Who had whole floors to themselves. You must be hungry. The hotel’s only 30 minutes from the airport.”
“Actually, we’re still on West Coast time. It’s like 10 in the morning for us. We just had breakfast on the plane.”
“That’s perfect. It’ll give you a little more time to settle in before Danny takes you out for the evening.”
“Where’s Danny taking us?” I asked, not expecting to do anything more physically demanding than catch a late dinner and finally lie down on a real bed.
“I’ll let him surprise you but I’m sure you ladies will enjoy it. I know Danny will.” He laughed.
“Will Trent be coming with us?” Hanna asked, almost breathlessly.
“He’s in Paris right now. Appearing on some French TV show. You know he’s got three concert dates in Paris next week. Then he’s touring UK and Scandinavia.”
“I was so looking forward to meeting him tonight,” Hanna sighed.
“Well, it’s only an hour and a half flight from Paris. He’ll be back in his hotel bed by 2AM. Or, at least, some bed in town.” He laughed again. “He’s pretty popular. I don’t doubt he’ll have to beat off the frauleins with a stick…uh, sorry, I mean, Ms. Rivers—”
“It’s alright, Julian. It’s no skin off my nose.” I turned to Hanna. “Maybe Trent is into milfs. Julian, can you get Hanna into Trent’s hotel room? She can be a one-woman welcoming committee.”
“If only you weren’t joking, Evie. That boy is a rizz monster. Most women would die to get next to him…”
“I’ve only been around Trent a short time but he’s always talking about you, Ms. Rivers. I know he fought with the label to get you hired for this video. They wanted someone better known like one of those supermodels. But, no, Trent told him it was you or no video. He was adamant. And Mr. Dantley too. He thinks you’re going to outshine Trent on the show…when and if it premieres.”
“If?” Peg asked, in an arch tone.
“Well, I’m not supposed to say anything, but Mr. Dantley thinks if the strike goes past September and October, GlobalNet will just toss the project, not even re-schedule it. Of course, that won’t happen if both sides can come to an agreement before then.”
Duly disheartened by that tidbit, the rest of the half-hour ride was spent in pensive silence as I watched the green and red Ampelmännchen traffic lights switch back and forth along the streets of the Gray City.
The three of us stood in the lobby of the Hotel nhow, nestled on the eastern bank of the Spree River, waiting for Danny Dantley to emerge from the elevator. We had claimed our respective hotel rooms, freshened up and changed into suitable going-out-on-the-town outfits. That, of course, meant a charming top and modest, short skirt for me. Oh, and slinky low-heeled sandals.
“I hope it’s not German food. I’ve heard it’s real heavy in carbs and fat…” Hanna declared.
“Berlin’s a very cosmopolitan city, Hanna. I’m sure a bon vivant like Danny knows all the 3-star restaurants in town—” Peg interjected.
“3 stars? That sounds pretty meh to me. I’d expect at least 4 stars—”
Danny Dantley appeared before us, as if materializing out of thin air. He was wearing a dark shirt with a button-down collar, his gray t-shirt showing underneath. Black jeans and sneakers completed a picture of utter casualness. Suddenly, the three of us felt over-dressed.
Hanna whispered in my ear. “We’ll be lucky to get 2 stars. I think we’re going for Das Cheeseburger and Fries…”
“Ladies! I hope you’re ready for a hot time in Berlin town tonight! Our car is waiting. It’s a 20-minute ride to Potsdamer Platz. We can catch up on the way.” He waved us ahead toward the front doors. “And after our evening’s adventure, we’ll have a late dinner in the best Indian restaurant in Central Berlin.”
Peg took Hanna’s arm. “A nice curry will do you a lot of good, dearie.”
Turning to me in the passenger seat of our rented Tesla, Danny refused to divulge our destination as he merged onto the Bundesstraße 1, a highway that would take us directly to Potsdamer Platz and environs.
“You’ll all be pleasantly surprised. I’m excited for it myself, to be honest. Anyway, how have you been, Evie? The strike’s put a crimp in our plans, eh?”
“Juan, my agent, told me it could be a long strike. Well into Fall. Like November.”
“I’ll be straight with you, Evie. The best we can hope for with the series is we get moved back to the Spring of next year. These things can get really sticky. Both sides are dug in.”
“That sucks, Danny. I’m having real second thoughts about pursuing this acting thing.”
“Don’t tell Trent but, frankly, my dear, you’ve got more acting ability in your pinky fingers than he’ll ever develop in his entire Hollywood career. He’s not half bad as a singer. I’d advise him to concentrate on his music. You, on the other hand, are going to win at least two Oscars—”
“Listen to him, Evie. You were born to be a star!” Peg declared enthusiastically from the peanut gallery.
Hanna moved close to the side of my head rest and whispered. “As a fallback, you should rethink your ‘professional’ relationship with Trent. Just in case.”
“We’re here.” Danny was inching the car toward the ticket booth of the Tiefgarage Potsdamer Platz, convenient to all the restaurants, shops and cultural attractions in the area. “It’s a five-minute walk to our destination.” He retrieved a ticket and drove through after the barricade was raised. “Good thing I can expense the parking. If you thought parking in LA was exorbitant, you ain’t parked in Berlin, sister.”
I was stunned, flabbergasted, confused, embarrassed. I still couldn’t believe we were sitting at a table closest to the stage of a male strip show in The Sixx Paxx Theater and Ladies Club. The mid-sized room was near capacity with tables full of women of all ages stretching from wall to wall. We were not the only tourists in the crowd. The woman from the table right next to ours told me she was from Canada, seconds after asking for my autograph. Even here, in a strip club in Berlin, sitting in semi-darkness, I got recognized.
“Does Trent know you’re here?” she teased. “We’ve got tickets for his concert tomorrow night!” She indicated her four friends at the table. They waved at me and giggled.
“Trent who?”
The lights went down and One Direction’s ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ banged out of the speakers. They were loud, the speakers, and I’m glad because it almost drowned out the voices screaming like banshees around me. Including Hanna, Peg, and, yes, Danny! I was shocked that a man of his age and size could scream in such a shrill tone. Then a booming voice began the countdown. I clutched Peg’s arm. ZEHN. NEUN. ACHT. The women were shouting along. SIEBEN. SECHS. I tried to look casual and normal like I was enjoying this, but I was not. FUNF. VIER. This promised to be excruciating. DREI. ZWEI. EINS. LAAAAAADIEEEEES! HERZLICH WILLKOMMEN BEIM SIXX PAXX!
Five giants bounded onstage. Their biceps and chests and smiling faces and slicked back hair filled up our line of sight right away. They started doing a dance routine to Justin Timberlake’s ‘Like I Love You’. The five of them were in perfect sync. Suddenly and without warning the men jumped forward, ripped their t-shirts off and threw them into the crowd. The women screamed in unison. My head was in my armpit and my arms were clutching my face and my elbows pointed upwards. I peeked out at Danny. He was mesmerized by the spectacle, mumbling the lyrics to the Timberlake song, clapping his hands arrhythmically.
The studs on stage ripped off their trousers now, which had velcro down the sides, and the music slowed down. Disappointing myself, I found two of the strippers oddly attractive. They were both bearded, built like brick shithouses, and they looked the most decent in my opinion, like underneath it all they were really good, caring guys. One of them even reminded me of Ray Crawford a little. Or maybe it was top of mind since I’d just seen him last Friday for the first time since our college days. I also realized that I’d taken my arms away from my face and was no longer curled up against Peg. She gave me a maternal look.
“It’s o.k., Evie. It’s natural for women to react to musk.” She laughed and resumed clapping.
The curtain drew closed, hiding the SIXX PAXX from view, and a brown-haired dimpled man, the Sixth Pack I suppose, came onstage with a microphone. “Ladies ladies ladies,” he said (he spoke in German, I’ll translate). “Welcome to SIXX PAXX!!!!!!” There were loud screams. “Tonight, I want you to forget about your boyfriends! Forget about your husbands! Tonight is all about YOU, ladies!!!” More screams. “Is anyone here from North America?!” he asked in English. Hands went up. Hanna, Peg, and Danny raised their hands as well. “Well – we’ll make sure you enjoy your visit to our fair city.” Danny’s hand pumped feverishly. I sank lower into my chair, trying to hide from view.
“Now I don’t want to see anyone being bashful.” He leaned forward and moved his microphone past me. He stopped in front of Hanna.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“H-H-Hanna.”
“Well, H-H-Hanna, honey, I want you to get up here and stand behind me and I want you ladies out there to shout ‘stop’ when it gets too steamy.”
Hanna jumped on stage and stood behind Dimples like there’s nowhere else on earth she’d rather be.
“I guess they don’t often pick men out of the audience,” Danny muttered. “It’s a damn shame.”
Dimples took Hanna’s right hand and put it on his taut chest. He slowly ran it down his body, bump, bump, bump over his washboard abs. The room was quiet. No one shouted stop! Bump, bump, bump and she reached his pubic bone and now it was under his belt and – I can’t believe it – her hand was inside his pants. Hanna was clutching his manhood!
The rest of the two-hour show seemed interminable to me. There were more set-pieces in which the dancers impersonated, in some random order, fighter pilots, firemen, highway patrolmen, sailors in the German navy, heavy metal rockers, and, curiously, characters from action movies like The Matrix, John Wick, Mission Impossible, and Black Panther.
As a finale, they roamed the room for women to bring up to the stage for some lap-dance shenanigans. I really didn’t want this! I cowered in Peg’s shadow, hoping they’d overlook me. But Hanna raised my hand just as the guy who reminded me of Ray Crawford passed by our table. Before I could resist, the guy dragged me onto the stage and sat me down on a comfy chair facing the room. I trembled visibly as he went behind me. Some kind of electronic dance music was assaulting everyone’s ears. He rolled his hands down my body, over my ersatz breasts and ON my groin area (which I don’t believe is legal). Then he started body-rolling all over me like a giant eel. He took off his shirt and made me feel his abs and, to be absolutely fair, if someone held a gun to my head and demanded my opinion, I would say that yes, okay, it was kind of hot. It was over relatively quickly, and I was escorted off the stage, wobbly and half-blinded by the footlights, to a loud ovation. I practically fell into Peg’s arms as she helped me into my chair.
“Oooh, he really likes you,” Hanna cooed. “He got in some extra body-rolls on you, honey.”
“We had a lot of fun tonight, didn’t we, girls?”
Danny was leading us up the street toward India Club Berlin, a five-minute stroll from the Sixx Paxx Theater. I was between Hanna and Peg, our arms interlaced as we walked. Strangely enough, I felt light-headed, not because of the discomfort of having been groped on stage in full view of 200 screaming, estrogen-fueled women, but the night seemed like my unofficial initiation into true womanhood. Yes, it’s silly to think an event so trivial could signify so much. But, that night, I was one of the girls. Absolutely to the nth degree.
I was lying wide awake in my hotel bed at 2AM Tuesday morning local time, trying to read myself to sleep. But my eyelids didn’t start drooping, even as I reached page 80 of some random book loaded onto my kindle. My body was still on Los Angeles time, specifically 5PM, Monday afternoon.
There was a loud knock on the door. Maybe it was one of my fellow Angelenos, also unable to fall asleep. I walked to the door, forgetting to put a robe on over my babydoll nightie.
“Who is it?”
“Evie, it’s me. Trent. Did I wake you?”
I opened the door and was gob-smacked by Trent’s smiling face. Good lord, he’s a cutie. Even at this ungodly hour.
“I’d like to say you woke me up out of a deep sleep but, honestly, I’m still on LA time.” I looked down and realized my state of undress. “Eyes averted, buster! Come on in. I’m going to put on my robe. Keep looking away!”
“I’m not looking. I’m not looking. So, Danny texted me that he was taking you girls to that strip show. How was it?”
“I felt dirty.” I came out of the bathroom, tying my robe tightly together. “One of the dancers slithered all over me. On stage!”
Trent crossed the room to me and began to mimic what the stripper had done to me, rubbing himself against my backside. “Like this? Bet you enjoyed it.”
“Well, he didn’t slobber all over me like you’re doing.”
“Can’t help it, Evie. My mouth waters immediately when I see you.”
“Okay. We’ve dispensed with the pleasantries. Now go back to your room and sleep fast. Danny says the whole crew is meeting in his suite at 9 in the morning. Bring your own coffee.”
“Before I go, Evie, I just wanted to tell you how ecstatic I am that you’re in this video. Danny and I almost threatened to shut it down if the label didn’t accede to your participation.”
“I’ll try to do my best, Trent. It’s nice to know you have so much confidence in my acting skills.”
Just before he shut the door behind him, Trent turned toward me. “I think a lot of you and a lot about you. Night.”
Peg and I were sipping our morning coffee, sitting together on one of the couches in Danny’s suite, watching Selene, a Berlin native who was the makeup and wardrobe person on the video shoot, having an apoplectic breakdown, shouting at Danny in both German and English.
“Also bekommt sie ihre eigene Make-up-Person? We can’t fit four people in that tiny trailer. Ich dachte, ich wäre die einzige Make-up-Person in diesem Video. I’m not getting my pay cut in half! Das ist lächerlich!”
“Calm down, Selene. We’ve picked up another trailer for Evie and Peg. You’ll continue to work with Trent and Peg will do Evie. Separate trailers. And you’re not getting a pay cut. Verstehst du?”
Selene eventually calmed down and Danny moved onto the other items on his agenda. Trent sat down on the floor in front of me, shooting puppy dog eyes at me while Danny droned on. The bullet points of his roll call speech were:
1) neither Trent nor I was involved in today’s shoot,
2) Hanna would double for me in long shots and driving a VW bus on location today,
3) Peg would spend today setting up the trailer with my makeup and wardrobe for Wednesday, and
4) Danny expected to wrap up the shoot by sundown Thursday.
I was about to accompany Peg and the crew out to today’s location when Trent stopped me in the hallway.
“Where are you going?”
“To keep Peg company and to watch them shoot today’s footage. I could observe by just watching. Yogi Berra, philosopher.”
“I’ve got a better idea. I’m not scheduled to do anything until the concert tonight. Let me take you on a mini tour of Central Berlin. It’d be a shame to be here for three days and not seen any of the sights.”
“Don’t you have to do a soundcheck?”
“We’ve done the same setlist all summer. The whole band can play it with their eyes closed by now.”
“Wish we had someone local as a guide. My German is pretty piss poor. Do you sprechen sie Deutsch?”
“Not really. But 60% of Germans speak pretty good English and they’d prefer foreigners not try their bad German on them anyway. Plus, my parents and I spent a month in Europe when I was 16, including 4 days in Berlin and 2 days in Cologne. I won’t be too bad a guide, will I?”
“Lead the way, my personal Indian guide, Mr. Sacagawea.”
Our day of being typical tourists began with a 15-minute stroll along the East Bank of The Spree River that started the second we left the front entrance of The Hotel nhow. The first sight of the day was The Eastside Gallery, a series of murals painted on a 4,000-foot-long remnant of The Berlin Wall. In the Spring of 1990, after the Wall fell, this section was painted by 118 artists from 21 countries. The artists commented on the political changes of 1989/90 in a good hundred paintings on the side of the Wall that was formerly facing East Berlin. Due to urban development measures, it is no longer completely preserved, and instead of the originals from then, only the replicas from 2009 exist today, including The Fraternal Kiss by Dmitri Vrubel. The painting depicts Leonid Brezhnev and Erich Honecker in a socialist fraternal kiss, reproducing a photograph taken in 1979 during the 30th anniversary celebration of the foundation of the German Democratic Republic.
After a 10-minute walk to The Berlin Ostbahnhof, Trent and I hopped onto a 300 Line double-decker bus to cross the Spree River into Central Berlin. From our perches on the top deck, we could take in all the sights on route to The Brandenburg Gate, a 30-minute ride through Berlin’s central borough of Mitte. The Brandenburg Gate is an 18th-century neoclassical monument built on the site of a former city gate that marked the start of the road from Berlin to the town of Brandenburg an der Havel. It is considered not only a symbol of the tumultuous histories of Germany and Europe, but also of European unity and peace.
Only a block north of the Gate sits The Reichstag Building. Originally the seat of the German Parliament, it was burned down 4 weeks after Adolf Hitler was sworn in as Chancellor in 1933. Hitler used the incident, which he blamed on communist insurgents, to suspend civil liberties and pave the way for the establishment of the Nazi Regime. Reconstruction of the building was completed in 1971 and it has been the seat of unified Germany’s Bundestag since 1999. The addition of a glass dome on top of the building in 1999 has made The Reichstag Building the second-most visited attraction in Germany.
Also within walking distance is The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, a memorial inaugurated in 2005 to the Jewish victims of the Holocaust, consisting of a 200,000 square foot site covered with 2,711 concrete slabs or "stelae", arranged in a grid pattern on a sloping field, organized in rows, 54 of them going north–south, and 87 heading east–west at right angles but set slightly askew. An attached underground "Place of Information" holds the names of approximately 3 million Jewish Holocaust victims.
The next half-hour was comprised of visits to Checkpoint Charlie, the best-known Berlin Wall crossing point between East Berlin and West Berlin during the Cold War (1947–1991), as named by the Western Allies, and The Berlin Wall Remains, east of Checkpoint Charlie along Zimmerstraße. These are the sparse remnants of the former 96 miles long concrete wall that separated West and East Berlin.
It was well past noon and we decided to try Berlin’s signature street food, doner kebab. The best purveyor of said kebab was a food truck parked near the Mehringdamm metro station, Mustafa's Gemüse Kebap. There was a long line waiting to have their kebab and eat it. Trent told me that sometimes it takes an hour to get to the front of the line. Luckily, we only waited half an hour. When I finally chomped down on the much-ballyhooed kebab, I discovered it was a slightly better version of what we call in the States, a gyro. I couldn’t finish mine, so I fed the remainder of my kebab to Trent. This got a reaction from an elderly couple who were walking by us. The woman smiled and said, in lightly accented English, “You make a lovely pair. And you, young man, must never let this one get away. Einen schönen Tag noch.”
Ten minutes later, we were riding the N6 bus north toward Weidendamm Pier, where we could catch the 1:30PM departure of The Spree River Cruise Boat. It’s a leisurely nautical jaunt up and down the Spree River that lasts approximately two and a half hours. Everyone sits on the open top deck and looks across from one bank of the river to the other.
You can see in passing, the TV tower in Alexanderplatz, the old quarter of Nikolaiviertel with structures that date back centuries, Museum Island which contains five iconic museums, including the Bode Museum, the Pergamon Museum, and The Old National Gallery, as well as the Berlin Cathedral, an historically prominent edifice linked to centuries of German dynastic power. We also passed the Mercedes-Benz Arena, where Trent would perform three concerts starting that evening, and our own hotel, The nhow.
“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” observed Trent.
“Right now, my future is all mixed up. I have no idea where I’m going—”
“They’ll eventually settle the strike. I’m not too concerned. With my new album coming out, I could just tour non-stop for the next six months. My manager tells me they’ve had inquiries from Japan and Korea…”
“That’s all well and good for you, Trent. And you deserve it. But I’m stuck in a precarious situation in the job I have right now. The job I was going to start in a few weeks might not even exist in a few months. And I’ve got…uh…some medical issues I’ve got to deal with.”
“Medical issues? Nothing serious, I hope. You seem pretty healthy to me. But, of course, I’m no doctor—”
“Well…I’d rather not talk about it. But it’s going to cost a helluva lot more than I currently have or expect to make in the near future.”
“I can help, Evie. I’ll write you a check. How much do you need?”
“No, Trent, thank you but it’s something I want to pay for myself. Chuck Connors has already offered to pay but I’m going to turn him down.”
“He’s the kind of rich kid who tries to buy people, Evie. Good for you turning down his offer. But me, I’m not looking for some kind of quid pro quo. Please let me help.”
“Why do you want to help me so much, Trent? I’m not a good target for your lust, I’ll tell you now. The last thing I need is to deal with a relationship. Eyes on the prize and all that.”
“I’m not the lothario people make me out to be. It’s just…I’m a celebrity. You wouldn’t believe the number of girls who try to latch onto me. They all want something from me, you know—”
“Some of them even get weekends in Cancun with you—”
“That was Cozumel. And it was my way of breaking it off with Bambi…gently. Look, anyone else would’ve just ghosted her. But that’s not how I roll—”
“Whatever, Trent. I like you. Really, I do. You’re funny, cool, easy to look at. Everything any other girl would want in a guy…”
“But not you. Is there someone else? It’s not Chuck. He’s as boring as watching paint dry. Who?”
“Are you Trent Foster?”
She was 16, maybe 17 years old, with a distinctive Boston accent.
“Yes, do you want an autograph?”
“Well, can you take a picture?” She held up her phone.
“Sure. Do you want to slip in next to me and take a selfie?”
“It’s not with me. It’s my mother.” She pointed to a woman in her late thirties, smiling nervously, seated several rows in back of us.
“Okay.” Trent turned to the girl’s mother and shouted above the white noise of the boat slicing through the river. “Come on over! Let’s all get in the picture.”
The girl managed to get all four of us in frame with her selfie and then Trent handed her and her mother two tickets to his concert that night. They were obviously thrilled to get free tickets and the mother even gave Trent a quick peck on the cheek before they went back to their seats.
“Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”
“Nowhere important, Trent. I think we’re on different paths in life.”
After we got back to the hotel, Trent had to leave for the Mercedes-Benz Arena. He explained that he always took a nap before a show, just to recharge his batteries and clear his head of any extraneous matters…like me, I suppose. His shows start at 8PM. We agreed that I would see his final concert in Berlin on Thursday evening, after wrapping up the video shoot. Peg, Hanna and I were booked on a flight out of Brandenburg Airport on Friday morning.
Around 7PM, Peg and Hanna returned from their day of shooting. Hanna was brimming with energy despite 8 laborious hours doubling for me in long shots and even driving a VW bus through the streets of Kreuzberg, a trendy, bohemian neighborhood in Central Berlin. She and Peg planned to explore the nightlife in Kreuzberg and asked me if I wanted to go. I begged off, saying I was tired from sightseeing with Trent.
My stomach was grumbling so I decided to have dinner in the hotel restaurant. When I walked in, before the maître d approached me, Danny Dantley waved at me from a corner table. He was by himself. I made my way to his table, followed by the maître d, who deposited the menu on the table in front of me as Danny held my chair for me to sit.
“You look either tired or sadly wan. Which is it?”
“Maybe a little of both, Danny. I could use some laughs or words of wisdom.”
“Yup, that’s the usual result of spending some time with Trent Foster. Listen, girl, he’s bad news. Good singer, decent actor, but not the most serious person I’ve ever known. Just keep your emotional distance from him.”
“So…what’s good on the menu?”
“But I can’t wear that! My father would be scandalized.” I heard a snigger from behind me and shot Selene, our ‘other’ make-up person, a sneer.
“Wo hast du sie gefunden? In der Grundschule?” She laughed. “Don’t tell me no one has ever seen your popo.”
“Selene, please,” Danny interceded. “Now, Evie, it was clearly stated in your pages for today. And I quote: ‘Young woman awakens in her VW bus, yawns, stretches with gamine charm, and, facing away from the camera, slips a pair of shorts over her thong panties.’”
“Umm…” I tried to find a loophole. Suddenly, it came to me. “Why don’t we use Hanna for that shot? After all, she doubled for me all day yesterday.” Hanna eagerly stepped forward.
“Mr. Dantley, I’ll be glad to have you use my popo instead of Evie’s.”
“I’ll bet you would, Hanna.” Danny turned to me and gripped my shoulders. “The audience will know it’s not your booty. No offense, Hanna. Now, let’s go into your trailer and get ready to dazzle the world with your callipygian beauty.” He actually slapped my butt as he directed me toward the trailer. Hard.
“Owww! That hurt!”
“Du täuschst mich nicht. She likes being spanked. All the Hollywood types do.”
“Don’t worry,” Peg whispered to me. “I know a way we can hide all your non-girly bits. It’s a neat magic trick I’ve had to deploy now and again over the years for a few ‘special’ actresses.”
“Promise me it won’t hurt, Peg.”
We were in the bohemian neighborhood of Kreuzberg in South Central Berlin. Trent, I gathered, was still asleep in his hotel suite. His pages weren’t going to be shot until the afternoon. The morning was all me. Lucky me. There was no dialogue to memorize. The music video was a series of scenes to embellish the lyrics of Trent’s song, a cover version of “California Dreamin’.” In the video, Trent and I play two young Berliners in the heat of a typical German summer who dream of California sun and surf. For the entire video, I’m wearing a bikini bra and board shorts. And carrying a surfboard around the streets of Berlin.
For the three-second shot of me slipping on my shorts over a pair of string thong bikini bottoms, Peg maneuvered my bits into the tightest tuck imaginable. I didn’t know you could put them up there! Of course, Danny had me do six takes!
I didn’t have to drive the VW bus through the streets of Kreuzberg. Hanna had already done all that the day before. But I did draw a crowd as I sat in the bus or moved around outside, waxing my surfboard, doing close-ups of my various dramatic expressions, putting on my mirrored sunglasses and taking them off. The locals were mesmerized by what, to the film crew and me, were boring stretches of setting up shots, doing several takes of each sequence, and then Danny viewing the digital replay of what we’d just shot. Tired of sitting and waiting in the trailer, shooting the breeze with Peg as she touched up my makeup, I put on a white denim jacket, placed a baseball cap backwards on my head and stepped out.
“Where are you going?” asked Peg.
“I figure it’s going to be another half-hour before they’re ready. Might as well go for a walk. See what’s slapping in the hood around here…” Peg immediately picked up her handbag and caught up to me after locking the trailer door.
“Oh, no. I’m coming with you. Dressed like that, they’ll think you’re a pro—”
“I’ve got a jacket on, Peg.”
“Button it up, Evie! All the way!”
The rubberneckers watching this morning’s shoot had dispersed by now, returning to their daily routines or places of employment. I overheard the whispers wondering where Trent was. I’m sure they were disappointed that an unknown like me was on camera instead of him. The streets now unobstructed, I decided to check out the colorful shops and restaurants along Bergmannstraße, only two blocks from where our trailer was parked.
“Oh, these sidewalk cafes are charming, Evie. I’m famished. I wish we could break for lunch already.”
“There’s still some croissants on the craft services table if you’re hungry, Peg. Anyway, we need to get back in 15 minutes. Just enough time to window shop.”
“Oh, no. I forgot to bring my sunglasses. The glare is blinding!”
I patted Peg on top of her head. “Peg, your glasses are on your head.”
“Good thing I didn’t forget my head.”
“Look, Peg, a Turkish rug store. Let’s go inside. I’ve been trying to think of a nice house-warming gift for Debbie and Otis when they move into their hew house. A big area rug would be perfect—”
“There are oriental rug stores in LA, dear. Look at the price tags on these! A thousand euros for a rug? I could get you a good deal on one of the carpets they used in the last live-action Aladdin movie—”
It was serendipity indeed to find a Turkish rug store here on Bergmannstraße, smack dab in the middle of a block of cafes and clothing shops. We were half a mile or more from Little Istanbul, the real center of Turkish culture in Berlin.
“These are Turkish Kilim rugs, Peg. They’re flatweave rugs hand-woven on looms and no kilim rug has the same pattern or design as any other. They’re works of art!”
“If you say so.”
I picked out a 2 X 3-meter wool and cotton rug with an interlaced diamond pattern and, using a combination of high school German and New Jersey-accented English, I was able to negotiate its purchase with the Turkish saleslady who kept asking me when Trent Foster was showing up. For no additional charge, she offered to ship it by UPS. Very nice of her. Peg and I took a selfie with her and her husband, who rushed out from their stockroom when his wife announced our presence.
Peg was adjusting her sunglasses as we stepped out into the midday glare, satisfied, for my part, at solving the big question of what house-warming gift to buy Debbie and Otis. We almost walked into a film crew, in front of which stood Ashlee Woolcott, star reporter for the streaming program Entertainment World Now, her microphone insolently pointed in my face.
“Evie Rivers! Ashlee Woolcott of EWN. A few questions, please?”
“Uh, no, I’m not doing any interviews—”
“Is it really true that you played major league baseball for The New York Titans?”
“No, where did you get that? I…was a coach in their minor league system. I never played in the majors—”
“Why did you quit The Titans? You could have been the first woman to play in the majors—”
“Like I just said, I was not a player. Look, can you please not block the street? My friend and I need to get back to the set—”
“That leads to my next question. Has Trent Foster proposed yet? Rumor has it that his parents are canvassing wedding venues in Pacific Palisades as we speak—”
“No…what? How?”
“Ashlee, please stop the inquisition. She’s needed on the set right now.” It was Trent, wearing an Adidas bucket hat and a smirk.
“Oh, Trent. Well, we can do this later. Will Evie be at the show tonight? We can interview both of you together—”
“We can do this in Paris next week. I’ll have more time to sit down and do a proper interview.”
“That would be perfect! The two of you in the City of Love! This feature will write itself. C’mon guys, give them some room on the sidewalk.”
As the three of us walked quickly away, I grabbed Trent’s arm. “Thanks for rescuing us but you’re not on call until this afternoon in Viktoriapark.”
“I felt guilty about not being with you this morning, seeing as you’d be all alone on set with only Danny and Peg as familiar faces—”
“I’m a fully functioning adult, Trent. I don’t need a babysitter. And I can speak German. You can’t.” He stopped in mid-stride, turned around and looked into my eyes.
“I had to see you. I didn’t want to wait another two hours. I dreamed about you last night—”
“Aren’t we supposed to be back on set…like right now?” asked Peg.
“I just said that to get rid of Ashlee. Danny’s still going over the footage. We could get a table at one of these cafes and have an early lunch.” He looked back over our shoulders and nodded. “They’re gone. She’s like a bloodhound. I swear she was on the plane from LAX when we flew to Europe last week. Anyway, this place looks nice.” He ushered us toward a table a row back from the curb. “Kellner! Bitte drei Flaschen Gerolsteiner.” Turning to us with a grin, he crowed, “My German’s not bad at all.”
When we returned from our alfresco lunch, Danny and his crew were munching on the sandwiches laid out on the craft services table, laughing at some remark made by Selene in German. She stopped laughing the moment I appeared behind Danny’s shoulder. Danny looked up at me, still laughing heartily. Trent and Peg stood on either side of me.
“Oh, Evie. I see Trent finally located you and Peg. Stopped for a bit of lunch, perhaps?”
“Yeah, Danny, it was close to noon anyways. Hope we didn’t hold up the shoot…”
“Nah, one more sequence here and then we’ll pack up, move to Viktoriapark, and I expect you’ll have plenty of time to get to your rehearsal at 5PM.”
“What about the scene at sundown? I looked it up and sundown today is at 9PM. Your concert starts at 8, right?”
“Evie,” interjected Danny, “we’re going to use some movie magic. You’ve heard of ‘day for night?’ Well, we’re shooting the sunset scenes at sunrise tomorrow morning. A little filmic sleight-of-hand and no one in the audience will know the difference.”
“But that means—”
“Yeah,” Peg sighed. “We’ll have to be in Viktoriapark by 4:30AM. No clubbing for you tonight, Evie. Or me for that matter.”
After we shot the fake sunset scene at sunrise on Thursday morning, Danny allowed the whole crew three hours of nap time before we resumed some random re-shoots of scenes from earlier in the week, most of which involved Trent and Hanna as my double. So, much of the day was spent in the trailer, and between pigging out on German pastry and cups of Dallmayr prodomo coffee (from Ethiopia!) and reading books on my kindle, Peg would harangue me with her warnings against getting too involved with Trent.
“Not for you, honey. He’s not for you. You won’t be able to hide your ‘condition’ from him much longer. And do you think he’ll be able to accept that when he finds out?”
“I’m not falling for him, Peg. There’s zero chance of getting involved with him. In fact, after this video, I might never work with him again. I’m through with acting—”
“Don’t say that, Evie. You’re a natural. And you don’t ever have to cross paths with Trent again if you don’t want to. By the time the series starts…if it starts—”
“You don’t think the show’s getting produced, do you?”
“By the time the strike is over, GlobalNet will have other fish to fry. And, truth be told, Trent might not want to act in it anyway. He might be too busy with his singing career. I read in the trades where his manager is lining up a year long world tour if his new album really slaps. Japan, China, Australia, India, the Middle East, Africa, you name it.”
“Who does he think he is, Taylor Swift?”
“No joking, Evie, but Trent might be a billionaire in a couple of years.”
“So, you’re saying I should avoid getting involved with a guy who could be worth a billion dollars…”
“You’ll do well enough on your own, honey. You’ve got oodles of talent. You don’t need Trent…or anyone, really. Sisters are doing it for themselves, honey.”
One last thing before Peg, Hanna, and I left Berlin. I had promised to attend Trent’s final concert at the Mercedes-Benz Arena on Thursday night. While Peg and Hanna caught up on lost sleep back at the hotel in order to rise early to catch our 9AM flight on Friday morning, I would be sitting in the sold-out arena trying not to yawn too obviously while Trent and his band performed.
Surprisingly, I felt really good about the music video we had just shot. Of course, I wouldn’t see the final product until it was officially released a couple of weeks later. When I finally watched it, I was a mixed bag of good feelings and awkward memories. Here it is:
Halfway through the concert, Trent asked to have a spotlight shone on me where I was sitting in the first section of field seats. Truthfully, my eyelids were drooping, and I was fighting off unconsciousness. I had been up since 4 o’clock in the morning. I caught the last part of Trent’s intro to his next number. He dedicated “Every Time You Go Away” to “meine spezialle freundin.” It was the same song he’d sung to “apologize” to me after the embarrassing incident with Bambi at the awards show. The crowd appreciated the gesture more than I did.
The woman sitting next to me shouted in my ear: “Du bist so glücklich. Ich beneide dich.” Lucky? Envy me? I yawned. Not in reply. I was just struggling to keep my eyes open.
As one of Trent’s roadies escorted me backstage after the concert, Ashlee Woolcott walked by.
“See you in Paris. We’ll talk!” She smiled and waved. I smiled in return but did not wave.
Trent wanted to take me to some 4-star restaurant in Prenzlauer Berg, only ten minutes away from the arena, but I reminded him that I had an early morning flight to catch.
“Let’s do this then. I’ll order room service and we’ll have a farewell dinner in my suite. You’ll be tucked in before midnight. I promise. You must be hungry. You probably haven’t had a decent meal all day. Okay?”
I was too tired to argue and too hungry to turn down a good, hot meal.
I couldn’t resist the temptation of ordering the Crème Brûlée for dessert after having vanquished my main course of Orange Chicken. Trent had the over-priced Cheeseburger with French Fries. Typical. After a dainty, ladylike burp or two, I looked up to see Trent pouring out two glasses of Kirschwasser, a clear, colorless brandy made from distilled Morello cherries. I’d never drunk it, but I knew the citation from Steely Dan’s “Hey Nineteen.” Normally, I believe, it’s served in brandy snifters.
“That’s a lot of brandy, Trent. Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Me? I’m disappointed in you, Evie. No, these are the only glasses in the room. I guess they think Americans drink it straight from the bottle. You don’t have to gulp it. Just sip. Savor the sweet cherry taste. You know, they use this to make cherries jubilee.”
The closer we got to midnight, the faster I sipped the Kirsch, until I had reached the bottom of the glass. That’s when Trent giddily poured more brandy into my proffered glass. Soon enough, my eyes were spinning, and I must have blacked out.
I groaned as I turned in bed. Someone was drawing the curtains and daylight was streaming into the room, forcing my eyes open. Trent was standing by the windows, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, a broad smile on his undeniably handsome face. This wasn’t my hotel room; this wasn’t my hotel bed. Alarmed, I lifted the bedsheet to discover I still had all my clothes from last night on. I reached underneath myself and felt no rips or tears in my pants. Oh, mercy, at least he hadn’t raped me or attempted to. No, he wouldn’t be smiling if he had.
“Hey, sleepyhead. You could’ve told me you can’t hold your liquor.”
“Unnhhh,” was all I could manage to say in reply.
“I’m gonna go downstairs and bring up some breakfast for us. Give you time to shower.”
“Wait a minute! What happened last night? Why am I waking up in your bed? Oh no, what time is it? I’ve missed my flight!”
“Danny called me about ten minutes before take-off. He said Peg tried calling you from 7 o’clock onwards but nobody picked up. I guess I was as dead to the world as you. I explained everything to him and told him I’d get you on a later flight today…if that’s what you want.” He moved to the door.
“What do you mean, if that’s what I want? You’re the one who got me blotto and made me miss my plane. Also, I have no idea what you might have done while I was asleep in YOUR bed!”
The door slammed shut. After a few minutes, I decided the best thing to do was take a shower.
I was making good progress on my eggs over easy and home fries as I resumed my interrogation of the criminal Trent Foster. He was standing by the window of the common room in his suite, sipping a cup of coffee. He said he wasn’t a fan of big breakfasts.
“So let me get the facts straight. After I fell asleep…here, in the common room…you carried me to YOUR bedroom and placed me in YOUR bed—”
“You’re a big girl, Evie. And the other bedroom was farther away. As it was, I just barely made it to MY bedroom and onto the bed.”
“I don’t weigh THAT much!”
“I was tired and sleepy too.”
“Then you didn’t try to take off my clothes?”
“I thought about it, but you were out like a light. There’s no fun in having your way with an unconscious girl. And I like to keep the A/C on high at night. Didn’t want you to freeze.”
“But you slipped into bed with me. You slept next to me all night!”
“You make some really cute little girl noises when you’re asleep, Evie.”
“You probably snore like a choo-choo train.”
“I admit I did spoon you from behind—”
“Oh my god! Good thing I was wearing my chastity belt.”
“What? You wear a chastity belt? But, how? There’s no sign of it under your clothes—”
“Just kidding, stupid. Now, about my flight back to the good ol’ USA…”
Trent picked up his acoustic guitar from behind the sofa, sat down, and started tuning it.
“I’ve got a proposition for you. Just listen to this song before you decide.”
“Trent, there’s no decision to be made. Just have your road manager book me on a flight later today. I’m sure you can afford the ticket.”
“Shhh. Just listen.”
“I’m a changed man, Evie. You changed me.”
“It’s not going to work, Trent. We’re not…compatible. You’re a big star with millions of admiring fans—”
“And you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met.”
“You have no idea. Look, I have a job I have to get back to and my sister’s probably already cracked up the new car I just got last week. I need to get home.”
“You can’t tell me you feel nothing for me…”
“Let’s table the discussion for now. You’re in the middle of a concert tour and I’m in the middle of failing miserably at life so…”
“Spend the weekend in Paris with me. You can fly back on Monday. Chuck will give you an extra day, won’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
“All expenses paid. Paris is just a two-hour flight from here.”
“I get a separate room?”
“I have the same setup in Paris. A suite. You can have the larger bedroom. I’ll miss out on the spooning though—”
“I’m not joking about that!”
“Okay, okay. I won’t try to molest you. Swear to God! We can spend all day together, Saturday and Sunday. See the sights, get some good eats. What is it they say? Paris is the…the…of…”
“That’s Montreal. Montreal’s the Paris of North America.”
“No, I meant Paris is the city of lights…or is it love?”
“Don’t try to think too hard, Trent. It must be difficult for you.”
“Hey, I went to Stanford. Okay, I was a legacy because of Dad but…anyway, I don’t have a concert until Monday night. You’ll be the only item on my agenda for two whole days.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Paris—”
“I see Paris, I see France. I see Evie’s underpants—”
“You wish. Okay, when do we leave?”
“Our flight’s at 4PM. Land at Charles De Gaulle a little after 6. Hôtel Plaza Athénée by 6:45.”
“I have to call Chuck and let him know my change of plans.”
“Do it tonight in Paris. Remember there’s a 9-hour difference between here and Los Angeles.”
“One more thing. Ashlee Woolcott said your parents were looking at wedding venues for us. Is that true?”
“Well, my mom’s been known to do things behind my back. You can ask her yourself when you get back to L.A.”
“You’re insufferable!”
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”
The first thing I did when we got into Trent’s suite was make a Skype call to Chuck. It was still Friday morning in Los Angeles and Chuck was undoubtedly in his office. We made a connection and Chuck’s familiar friendly face appeared on my laptop screen.
“Hey, Evie. You’re still in Berlin? It must be 7:30 at night there. Problem with the airline?”
“Hi, Chuck. No, there’s been a change of plans. I’m in Paris right now. I’ll be back in the office on Tuesday morning.”
“What happened?”
“Uhh…well. I’m spending the weekend in Paris with…with Trent. He invited me and—”
“You couldn’t refuse. I see.” His expression turned taciturn. “You’re a big girl, Evie. It’s your life. Just take my advice for what it’s worth. He can’t be trusted. Especially with your ‘special’ circumstances. You’re playing with fire, Evie.”
“Chuck, it’s just I’ve never been to France. I’ve always wanted…Chuck, don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad, Evie. I’m concerned, that’s all. Well, have a great time in Paris. Don’t say hello to Trent for me. Gotta go. It’s been pretty busy in the office this week. It’ll be nice to have you back in the fold next week. Good night.”
“Have a nice day, Chuck. Bye.” I leaned back in my chair and exhaled.
Trent came back into the room just as the Skype call ended.
“So, everything copacetic with Chuck?”
“Yeah, he had no issues with the extra day.”
“Ready to head out?”
“Head out? Where?”
“You have three changes of clothing that you’ve already gone through. You need something to wear while you’re in Paris that’s not wrinkled like a prune. So, I’ve arranged for some after-hours time at the Louis Vuitton store in the Avenue de Champs-Élysées. The French record label distributing my new album in Europe has a lot of pull and I called in a favor. They’re expecting us. Grab your handbag, woman! Let’s go.”
Announcer: Welcome to Entertainment World Now. Tonight, Ashlee Woolcott is live in our Paris studio, reporting on the hottest news in entertainment…right now!
Ashlee Woolcott: It is 3AM Monday morning here in Paris, France. As I told you last time, EWN planned to provide exclusive coverage of the first leg of Trent Foster’s European concert tour which kicked off in Berlin, Germany this past Tuesday.
(Footage of Trent performing in the Mercedes-Benz Arena before a sell-out crowd)
Trent’s three sold-out concerts in Berlin were an indisputable success. But the real headline story behind Trent’s whirlwind week on the continent is his traveling companion on this trip.
(Footage of Evie and Trent filming segments of the music video for “California Dreamin’)
This is Evie Rivers, shooting scenes from Trent’s soon-to-be released music video off his new album, displaying the natural assets that have made her a sensation on social media even before actually performing in front of a camera. She and Trent met when she was cast as the female lead opposite him in the proposed GlobalNet series, Newport. Production on that series will have to wait until the current SAG-AFTRA strike is settled.
(Footage of Trent presenting an award to Bambi Bunson at The World Media Awards Show, Bambi making her pointed remarks, and Evie bolting from her seat in response)
Our viewers may remember an incident that occurred at The World Media Awards just last month. Evie was seen rushing out of the event when Bambi Bunson, Trent’s erstwhile paramour, publicly admonished Evie, sitting in the audience as Trent’s plus-one for the awards show. Well, if this past week is any indication, their relationship has not only been repaired but may have entered a very serious phase.
So, the question we will try to answer tonight is Who is Evie Rivers and What does the future hold for her relationship with Trent Foster?
Evie and Trent arrived in Paris on Friday evening, giving them three full days to enjoy The City of Love before Trent’s first concert at Paris La Défense Arena on Tuesday. Within an hour of landing at Charles De Gaulle Airport and checking into the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, Trent took Evie shopping after-hours at the prestigious Louis Vuitton store on Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
Properly outfitted for their romantic weekend in Paris, Evie explored the sights and ambiance of the city with Trent over the next 48 hours. Not only did our cameras capture glimpses of their wanderings but we at Entertainment World Now must thank a source close to Trent and Evie for some very candid, personal footage.
Room service breakfast on the terrace of their hotel room, with a view of the Eiffel Tower behind them, started their day on Saturday. They strolled through the medieval courtyards and pretty streets of Le Marais, stopping to peruse the fresh produce in the Marche des Enfants Rouge, France’s oldest covered food market. The winding streets and slate roofs of Montmartre, the Parisian village of the past, the city of the Belle Epoque, and its squares and cafes was the next destination for our pair of lovers. After lunch at a charming bistro in the district, they visited The Louvre, where Trent showed off his knowledge of art history to an attentive Evie.
A stroll through the Tuileries Garden, a stone’s throw from The Louvre, with a stop in Ladurée Bakery to pick up a bag of their famous macaroons, made them reverse course to one of Paris’ few remaining covered arcades, the Passage des Princes. In one of the toy shops there, Trent tried to interest Evie in a giant teddy bear. Ultimately, Trent had to be satisfied with a cute selfie taken by the store manager (who breathlessly told him that she had tickets to his first concert on Tuesday).
Saturday afternoon drew to a close as Trent and Evie made a pilgrimage to Père Lachaise Cemetery to pay their respects to American rock music icon Jim Morrison of The Doors who is buried there. While there, several American tourists recognized Trent and asked him for autographs and selfies. Trent made sure to include Evie in every shot.
After sunset, Trent and Evie decided to take in the beauty of The Eiffel Tower and the Champ de Mars at night when The City of Light earns its surnom. The spectacle obviously moved our pair of lovers as this candid kiss with the Tower looming in the background testifies to.
But the clearest evidence that Trent and Evie are seriously in love happened on Sunday morning when they took a road trip to Giverny, a village just an hour’s drive from Paris, to visit the famous Impressionist painter Claude Monet’s house and gardens. There, overlooking the water lilies in Monet’s water garden, captured so beautifully in his masterpiece work, “The Water Lily Pond,” they kissed deeply and languorously.
But who is Evie Rivers? What is her story? To get answers to these questions, our cameras caught up with several people who play integral roles in her life, including her sister, her agent, the man who will be directing her in her first screen appearance, her boss, and, perhaps, her future in-laws.
(Debbie is sitting behind her desk in the Sisters Sportswear office)
Off-camera voice: Looking forward to having a celebrity as a brother-in-law?
Debbie: What are you talking about?
Off-camera voice: Your sister and Trent. Have they set a date yet?
Debbie (angrily): Look, I’m telling you. There’s nothing to these rumors. She’s just shooting a music video with him. It’s a job. With the strike, who knows when she’ll be able to work as an actor again. I’m her sister. Believe me, I’d know if they were seriously involved.
Off-camera voice: What we’ve seen in Berlin, it looks like they’re pretty hot and heavy—
Debbie: Well, there you go. She’s a great little actress.
Ashlee Woolcott (voice-over): Juan Moskowitz, her agent at CAA, discovered her in a dog park in Los Angeles.
(Juan Moskowitz, getting off the phone in his office, before sitting back down behind his desk)
Off-camera voice: Are you concerned that marrying Trent Foster will hurt her career?
Juan (laughing): Well, her sister Debbie says she once admitted to wanting to bear Trent’s babies but, seriously, Evie’s a dedicated artist. Acting is everything to her. I mean, it’s a little sexist to say marriage will derail her career but no one wonders if Trent’s career will be affected by marriage.
Off-camera voice: Yes, but what if she does get pregnant right away? How would the producers of Newport deal with that possibility?
Juan (forming a triangle with his hands): They’d write it into the show. (laughs) After all, it’s a primetime soap opera, isn’t it? No, but really, Evie has no plans of starting a family anytime soon.
Off-camera voice: Doesn’t Trent have any say in that?
Juan (looking serious): Hell no.
Ashlee Woolcott (voice-over): Oscar winning director Danny Dantley believes Evie Rivers is the Next Big Thing in Hollywood and is justly proud to be the one who gave her that first big break.
(Danny is sitting in front of an editing console, ostensibly working on the final cut of Trent’s music video)
Off-camera voice: You first saw her surfing on Newport Beach?
Danny: Yes! A natural mermaid with gamine grace and beauty. I know talent when I see it.
Off-camera voice: But she’d never acted before. From what little we know about her; it seems she was a baseball player. With an MBA. No indication that she ever thought about acting—
Danny: There’s such a thing as a late bloomer. To be a great actor, one needs real life experience to call upon—
Off-camera voice: So, what job did you have before you went into filmmaking?
Danny: I was a hairdresser.
Off-camera voice: Really?
Danny: You can learn a lot about life cutting people’s hair.
Off-camera voice: Like what it’s like to actually have hair?
Danny: Bald jokes are so jejune.
Ashlee Woolcott (voice-over): Chuck Connors is the Executive Vice President of Sisters Sportswear, where Evie works as the Director of Marketing. Rumor has it that he had a brief workplace dalliance with Evie. Logic leads one to believe he might be a little bitter about Evie’s involvement with mega-star Trent Foster.
(Chuck is carrying his surfboard, having just gotten out of his car in the parking lot behind Newport Beach)
Off-camera voice (breathing heavily as he tries to keep up with the fast-walking Chuck): Do you plan to attend the wedding?
Chuck: What wedding?
Off-camera voice: Trent and Evie’s wedding.
Chuck (stopping to address the interviewer): You don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s not getting married. She’s not even dating the guy—”
Off-camera voice: They look like a couple in love, for sure. Here… (his arm appears in frame, holding a Nikon DSLR, the screen facing Chuck) this is them in Berlin.
Chuck (waving the camera away): They hired her to be in a music video. It just happens to be a Trent Foster video. Nothing more, nothing less.
Off-camera voice: Are you bitter? Angry? Resigned?
Chuck: All of that. But not about Evie and Trent. I AM resigned. From Sisters Sportswear. There’s your scoop, bro. Surf’s up! Later!
(Camera follows Chuck as he runs into the ocean, flops onto his board, and begins paddling out to catch a wave)
Ashlee Woolcott (voice-over): We came across Conrad and Eloise Foster, Trent’s parents, on Sunday afternoon, strolling on a stretch of beach near their Pacific Palisades home. They were kind enough to speak to us on the record.
(Conrad and Eloise standing on the beach, smiling affably)
Eloise: She’s a honey of a girl. And Conrad and I are just beside ourselves over the prospect of having Evie join Team Foster. Aren’t we, dear?
Conrad: Oh, yes, dear. The boy finally got it right this time.
Off-camera voice: Has Trent proposed yet?
Eloise: Not officially. But it’s a fait accompli. They’re so much in love!
Off-camera voice: Will the wedding be held in California or New Jersey where her family is?
Eloise: That’s not an issue. She’s a Californian now. And forever! Right, Conrad?
Conrad: Yes, dear.
Off-camera voice: Fall wedding? Winter?
Eloise: Well, Trent’s tour takes a break in October. A Fall wedding would be perfect! And a grandchild in the Spring—
Off-camera voice: Evie’s pregnant?
Eloise: Did I just say that? Oh, Conrad, how could you let me let that slip?
Conrad: What? Evie’s pregnant? No one told me.
Eloise: No one told me either. But Evie’s got that special glow about her. Definitely, she’s got a bun in the oven!
Off-camera voice: You know this will be broadcast worldwide tonight.
Eloise: Oh my! I should have taken these clunky glasses off.
Ashlee Woolcott (at news desk): So, there you have it. An October wedding. A baby in The Spring. What more reliable source can you have than Mrs. Foster?
(Theme music rises in the background)
Until next week, this is Ashlee Woolcott, in Paris, signing off for Entertainment World Now. Good night and good luck.
Monday morning. Paris, France. Trent Foster's suite. I padded out into the common room between the two bedrooms. No Trent. He was still sawing wood. We had stayed up until past 2 in the morning, sipping Amaro and whispering terms of endearment, kissing to be clever. The agreement we had signed in blood (or so it seemed) was that I would stay in Paris long enough to attend the special one-off concert at Le Club Reynard Monday evening for a by-invitation-only audience of French record label execs and guests. Immediately after the final chord of the final encore, Trent would accompany me to the airport to catch a 10PM flight back to Los Angeles.
After déjeuner at Chez Alain Miam Miam, a trendy sandwich stand we had discovered while checking out the fresh produce at the Marche des Enfants Rouge in Le Marais, Trent and I would go our separate ways until he returned to our hotel at 6:30PM to pick me and my baggage up and go to his concert at Le Club Reynard. Trent’s road manager had secured some rehearsal space for the band in the 9th arrondissement. For my part, I planned to do some window shopping along the Champs Elysees all the way to the Arc du Triomphe and back. Not to buy, just looking. I’m starting to really appreciate nice clothes. It doesn’t hurt that someone else is footing the bill. Someone with deep pockets like Trent.
Tired, thirsty, and hungry, I found myself at mid-afternoon bypassing some notable eateries like Café George V, Café Joyeux Champs-Élysées, and Azur Café to seat myself in a Starbucks. I ordered a Strawberry Waffle Cone Frappuccino and a Blueberry muffin.
I mused on the absurdity of traveling almost 6,000 miles just to enjoy a coffee and a muffin at Starbucks. Did I just laugh like a madwoman? I looked around the shop to see if anyone had noticed. Before I returned my gaze to the muffin in front of me, I caught a glance to my right of someone who looked awfully familiar.
It couldn’t be. What would she be doing sitting in a Starbucks halfway around the world from home? We locked eyes. She seemed to have the same vague feeling of familiarity with me. She got up and walked toward me, carrying her coffee and croissant with her.
“Joanne Knowles? Funny meeting you here of all places.”
“What? In Paris?”
“No. In a Starbucks!”
We laughed. She sat down at my table, putting her food down.
“No sign of Ashlee Woolcott or her camera crew,” she said, scanning the room.
“Is she profiling you and Alastair?”
“No, silly, you.” Her confused expression turned quickly to acknowledgement. “You haven’t caught the latest episode of Entertainment World Now, have you?”
“I’ve been busy the last two days.” I smiled.
“Yes, Ms. Woolcott made that abundantly clear in her dispatch from a studio just a few blocks from here.”
“What do you mean?”
“So, does Trent know?”
“Know? Know what?”
“It’s alright, Evie. Joey Petry told me.”
“I thought doctors kept information about their patients confidential—”
“Besides the fact that we’re both transwomen, Joey and I are very close. She’s almost like a daughter to me. And she’s a good friend of my stepson, Eliot Bradshaw, the basketball player. Who, in turn, is close friends with your boss, Chuck Connors…”
“Does Alastair know?”
“No. And I won’t tell him. I suspect you’ll want to tell him yourself. When you’re ready.”
“I don’t see the need. With the strike unsettled, it’ll be next year before we start shooting the series…if GlobalNet doesn’t scrub it entirely before then. Hopefully I’ll have had my procedure done by then.”
“By the time your wedding to Trent takes place, I’m sure your little secret will be out—”
“Wedding? I’m not getting married. A girl spends a weekend with a good-looking rock star in Paris and a crazy rumor like that starts?”
“It’s not a rumor, according to Ashlee Woolcott’s reportage. Trent’s mother is on record saying there’s an October wedding after Trent’s tour takes a break.”
“It’s not true. Not true at all! It’s a set-up! Trent set me up! He made me miss my plane in Berlin on purpose. The Kirschwasser! He got me drunk!”
Joanne lowered her voice to nearly a whisper, leaning forward. “He raped you?”
“No! Well, I don’t think so. No, he left my clothes on and just spooned me in bed. His bed. He…he doesn’t know. You know?”
“You’re in deep do do, girl.”
“My plane home leaves at 10PM tonight. I hope I never see that self-obsessed jerk again after today. Forget about acting! I’ve got a real job anyway…”
“Spurning Trent like that would be a disaster. He could ruin you. The public would definitely be on his side. And he’d go for the kill shot if he found out about you being trans. No, just play it cool. Let him go on thinking he’s bamboozled you. Alastair has a lot of pull in the business, and he’s dealt with some sticky situations in his time. He’ll make Trent understand the ramifications of the situation. Don’t panic, Evie.”
“But then Alastair will know—”
“He’ll be fine with it. You know, he’s kind of got a soft spot for transwomen. He married one…” She smiled broadly and reached across the table to stroke my hand.
“Is Alastair here in Paris?”
“Yes. Even with the strike, there’s pre-production stuff to work on. GlobalNet has two projects planned with Canal Plus. We’re here for a couple of weeks so he can tie up some loose ends.” She looked toward the table she had been sitting at before walking over to me. “You just missed Alastair by five minutes. That’s his half-eaten double chocolate brownie. He’s halfway to the Canal Plus offices in Issy-les-Moulineaux as we speak.”
“Oh, thank Alastair for me, Joanne! My life is such a mess right now. I need all the help I can get. You’re a doll! Alastair’s a doll!” I reached across and gave Joanne an ecstatic double cheek kiss. The traditional French “la bise.” Except I did it two or three more times…for emphasis.
“I have to get going myself. Alastair’s parents are back at our little temporary pied-à-terre in the 7th arrondissement. We’re treating them to a performance of “Don Giovanni” at the Palais Garnier tonight.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything by him. I’m not into current pop music. More of a classic rock fan myself.”
For an intimate private concert, exclusively attended by invitation-only guests, Le Club Reynard was packed to the gills with wall-to-wall music industry suspects from French and European companies. True to its avowed purpose, the congregation was already bouncing to tracks from Trent’s soon-to-be-released album, Fostering Another Delusion, when we found our way backstage. The show was about to begin in 15 minutes as Trent introduced me to the band members and the rest of his crew. Some of them shook my hand while congratulating us on our impending nuptials. I grimaced while Trent patted my back and grinned like a fiend. Trent’s road manager Felix escorted me out to the crowded dance floor, acting as my bodyguard amidst the sea of bodies screaming Trent’s name. The room erupted in chanting and applause as the band emerged onstage.
Toward the end of his 45-minute set, Trent interrupted the flow to point to me in the crowd. The lighting master tried to pinpoint me with a spotlight which flickered across my face. Trent made some obscure remark about me that nevertheless met with applause from the audience. Then he performed a full-band version of the song he’d sung to me the morning after in his Berlin hotel suite.
I received a text on my phone as Trent began the guitar coda to the song. Looking down on the illuminated screen, I opened it and read:
The first 15 minutes of our ride to Charles De Gaulle Airport passed in uneasy silence between Trent and me. He looked confused by my demeanor. I kept my face turned to the view of Paris streets whizzing by beyond the car window.
“Something wrong, babe?”
“Tired.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to sleep on the plane. I sense you want to say something.”
“It’ll keep until you come off your tour in October.”
“Sounds ominous.” He turned in his seat to face me directly. “This week with you is the best time I’ve ever had. I don’t know how I’ll manage without you for the next few weeks. Maybe we can re-connect in Rome at the end of September. You can stay with me for the last leg of the tour.”
“Just before the wedding?”
“Yeah…I mean, what? That’s just my mom talking shit. I think sometimes she’s getting early-stage Alzheimer’s—”
“That’s a very nasty thing to say about your own mother.”
“I was joking, Evie.” We turned away in opposite directions and remained silent for the rest of the ride to the airport.
I felt glad and somewhat comforted that Chuck would be there at the other end of this transcontinental flight. I wondered what personal news he had to tell me.
Chuck stood waiting in the arrivals area, a single yellow rose in his right hand. When I emerged, loaded down with three bags, including the Louis Vuitton Keepall that held my booty of designer outfits from Paris, he smiled and proffered the flower. We embraced and I kissed him on the lips. He was surprised.
“I’m happy to see you too but, isn’t your fiancé going to be annoyed that you give out kisses on the lips to complete strangers?”
“Not if the stranger is cute and a good friend…as well as my boss. Anyway, I don’t have a fiancé—”
“But it’s all over the media. You and Trent—”
“Don’t mention his name!” I let out an aggravated roar. “Where’s your car? Let’s go somewhere and I’ll give you the details.” Chuck took my other two bags in hand, but I clung onto the Louis Vuitton bag for dear life.
“What have you got in there? Gold bullion?” I snickered. “We’re an hour away from your place. It’s almost 1 in the morning. No traffic. Maybe we could cut that to 45 minutes.”
“No, Chuck. There’s no one home. Debbie moved in with Otis. I don’t want to be alone right now. Can we talk at your place?”
“Sure. It’s the same distance either way. I’ve got some news of my own to tell you as well…”
About a half-hour into our drive to Chuck’s house in Corona Del Mar, the conversation finally turned to Chuck’s personal news. I use the word conversation loosely since he mostly stared straight ahead at the road and occasionally interspersed a ‘yeah’ or ‘really’ in my monologue. I told him about the music video in Berlin and spending the final evening attending Trent’s concert and having a late dinner in his hotel suite. Chuck whistled when I told him that I’d drunk the equivalent of five shots of Kirschwasser. Then I related the farce of waking up, still completely clothed, in Trent’s bed the next morning and missing my flight back home.
“Trent swore he didn’t try to do anything. He…uh…spooned me. But that was it!”
Chuck shot a glance at me but quickly returned his attention to the road. He said something under his breath, but I didn’t catch it. I went on to guiltily admit I swapped out a bit of my dignity for an all-expenses paid weekend in Paris. “And a small fortune in designer clothes.” I nodded at the Louis Vuitton bag sitting in the back seat. “But I made him agree to separate bedrooms in his suite. There was no hanky panky whatsoever.”
“Looked like at least some panky, from what they showed on TV…”
“No, Chuck. Well, when a really cute guy smacks you on the lips every chance he gets—”
“I wouldn’t know from ‘really cute guys,’ Evie.”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, the takeaway from all of this is…there’s no engagement, no upcoming nuptials, not even a relationship. He hired me to act in a music video. That’s it.”
Chuck remained silent.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“Is it important to you what I believe?”
“Of course, you’re my best friend in Los Angeles. And I work for you—”
“Not anymore.”
“What?”
“I quit this morning. Came into the office and cleaned out my office. Called Clark and Misty and told them I resigned, effective immediately. Well, that’s my news.”
“Why, Chuck, why? Where does that leave me? You hired me in the first place. Who’s going to keep the wolf at the door. And by wolf, I mean Clark Ruskin.”
“You gave notice already. Remember? I accepted your resignation. You’re an actress now, right?”
“Chuck! I’m on strike! I can’t work in the industry until this thing is settled. And that might be months and months from now. I need the job!”
“You just shot a music video in Europe. Juan told me you cleared over $13,000 after agency fees and taxes.”
“That was a one-off because Trent’s a publicity hound and a horndog all in one. Who’s going to hire me with no prior acting credits if GlobalNet cancels the show before it even starts shooting? I can’t survive in LA on that and the two months salary from Sisters Sportswear!”
“What about your advance from GlobalNet for the series?”
“They suspended all payments until the strike’s resolved. I never got it, Chuck!”
“Don’t get hysterical, Evie! We’ll think of something.”
“And then there’s the medical bills for my transition—”
“I told you I’d pay them for you—”
“No, Chuck, it’s something I need to do myself, for myself…”
“I can’t see myself working there without you, Chuck. Clark is plotting my seduction. He bought me a sports car for goodness’ sake! He’ll throw me overboard his yacht when he finds out the truth about me.”
I was sitting on Chuck’s cushy, cream-colored sofa in his Corona Del Mar house, stood a hundred yards from the beach. He had listened attentively to my whining without comment. Then, abruptly, he simply got up from the sofa and walked away, toward the kitchen. I was afraid he was weary of my plaintive monologue. But I looked up to see him carrying two cans of Decaf Green Tea, offering me one as he sat back down.
“Thanks, Chuck. I’m still on Paris time so it’s like 11 in the morning for me. Too early for wine or any kind of alcohol. I’m sorry. You should drink what you want. Don’t deprive yourself because of me—”
He tried to stifle a yawn, but I could tell he was very tired.
“I’m gonna flake out any minute. The sofa’s fine for me. You can take my bed.” I gave him a dubious look. “I changed the sheets this morning.”
“I’m not sleepy, Chuck. I’ll just sit here in total darkness until I lose consciousness due to sensory deprivation. You go to bed. Go ahead. I’m fine.”
“We haven’t finished discussing your situation, Evie. Now, just listen to me. You should go back to the office and act like nothing’s changed. Clark’s too busy with the impending NFL season to plot your seduction…at least until the team goes on its first losing streak. Misty’s a fan of yours. In fact, everybody loves you.”
“Except Mei Ling—”
“Now that I’ve quit, she’ll have no reason to plot against you. After all, the last thing you want is to be Clark’s side-chick.”
“But what are you going to do now, Chuck? I guess you don’t need to work—”
“I’m going to do what I’ve wanted to do all along. Be a sports agent. I got my law degree mostly so I could learn all about contract law.”
“On your own?”
“I used my contacts at CAA and if I can bring in a good starter list of clients, they’re open to adding me to their sports department. I’ve already got one NBA client.”
“Who?”
“Eliot Bradshaw. The Lakers just traded him to the Knicks and I’m negotiating his contract extension with New York. Eliot’s an old friend. We played together on a couple of U.S. amateur squads when I was at UCLA, and he was at Columbia. We made it to the quarterfinals at The World Cup after our Junior year. That’s how I got your referral to Dr. Petry. They’re close friends.”
“That was quick.”
“I’ve been thinking about leaving Sisters for a while. In fact, your coming on board was the sole reason I stayed. Of course, I had no idea this would all happen—”
“Sorry, Chuck. It’s all Debbie’s fault. No, that’s not true…”
“It’s no one’s fault, Evie. Most certainly not yours.” He yawned again. This time he didn’t bother trying to stifle it. “I need some shuteye. I’ve got to drive you to the office in the morning and then I’ve got an 11AM flight to JFK to start negotiations for Eliot with The Knicks. Hopefully, I’ll be back in a couple of days. Why don’t you head off to bed?”
“I’ll sleep on the sofa, Chuck. You know, I fall asleep pretty quickly to music. Like soft, low volume pop stuff. It’s got to have a bit of a beat though.”
“I have just the playlist for that on Spotify. Give me a few seconds and I’ll set it up.” I sat on the sofa, thinking it was an impossible task for me to actually fall asleep at, for me, midday. But the music started emanating from Chuck’s high-end bookshelf speakers.
“This is perfect, Chuck. It’s almost danceable.” I laughed. “Just leave the remote and I’ll turn it off when my eyelids start to droop.”
Chuck held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
“I can’t dance.”
“You’re an athlete. I’m sure you’re coordinated enough to get the hang of it after a few steps.”
“Okay but just watch your toes.”
We slow-danced. It took a few bars into the song, but we went from arms-length to cheek to cheek. He smelled freshly showered. I was hoping that I didn’t smell like the interior of a Boeing 777. We locked our eyes and exchanged warm smiles. Suddenly, he leaned down and softly kissed my lips. A kiss that intensified as our bodies molded into each other. We had stopped dancing. Just standing in one place, intertwined arms and hungry lips, our hearts beating in unison.
By the time the next song on Chuck’s playlist started, we had fallen onto the sofa, and a universal force greater than gravity placed me on top of Chuck, my tongue exploring the inner sanctum of his mouth. His strong hands gripped my shoulders and pulled me down into the well of his soul. My whimpers and sighs harmonized with Chuck’s ecstatic grunts. Neither of us knew what was playing over the speakers only ten feet from us.
Chuck started pulling at my clothes, trying to touch parts that didn’t exist on my body. But lust has a way of disputing all logic. When he tried to unbutton my jeans, my brain instantly defogged. As I tried to disentangle myself from his embrace, my hand unintentionally brushed against the front of his pants. He was in a state of extremis.
“No, Chuck, we can’t. I’m…I’m not ready for that.”
“I want you, Evie.” He looked like a little boy whose little red Radio Flyer wagon had just lost its rear wheels. My heart really melted for him at that moment, and I decided to lend a hand to his problem. Unzipping his pants, I took hold of the situation.
“Did you do this for Trent?” I stopped my ministrations.
“Of course not. I’m not some cheap whore. How could you think that, Chuck?”
“Don’t stop. For god’s sake, Evie. I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Half an hour later, after Chuck had gone off to bed and I had cleaned up the mess on the sofa, I was still listening to Chuck’s Spotify playlist, drifting into unconsciousness in his darkened living room. I pressed the remote and killed the music. With a heavy sigh, I shut my eyes and counted sheep. I think it took thirty-odd bleating sheep before the curtain finally fell.
We got off to a late start on Tuesday morning. Chuck and I both slept through our alarms and didn’t hit the road until almost 8AM, partly due to the full breakfast my host prepared: eggs and bacon, wholegrain toast with avocado mash, orange juice and coffee.
Remarkably, Chuck did not get stopped for speeding as he drove like Grand Prix champion Lewis Hamilton through the early morning haze descending upon Orange and Los Angeles counties. We arrived at the Sisters Sportswear office building in a record-time hour and a half. Since it would take another 45 minutes to an hour to reach LAX, there was only time enough for two quick kisses before Chuck dropped me off in front of the building.
As I rushed through the turnstiles, Javier, one of the security guards, tipped his cap to me.
“Welcome back, Ms. Rivers. We missed you all week last week.”
“Thanks, Javier. It’s good to be back!” I ran into the open elevator cab and only noticed my sister Debbie standing behind me after the doors closed.
“Well, hello stranger. I assume you were too busy last night to call and tell me not to wait up for you at the apartment—”
“Sorry, Debbie. I didn’t think you’d be waiting for me. I thought that’s why you sent Chuck to pick me up.”
“Oh, that was Chuck’s idea. Otis and I planned to pick you up all along but when I told him when your flight was landing, he insisted on doing it himself. Speaking of which, did he tell you why he up and quit suddenly? Caught everyone by surprise. Especially Misty. Guess what, Buzz is your new boss now—”
“It’s no secret. Chuck’s been planning to leave for a while. He’s getting into sports representation. Got the inside track with CAA.”
“Enough about him. What’s the deal with Trent? Don’t hold out on your own sister—”
The elevator doors opened onto the Sisters floor.
“There’s nothing to it. It’s just his idea of impression management. Fake relationship with a fake girlfriend so his public image improves. I’m through with him—”
“Yeah, he doesn’t deserve you. Maybe he’ll go back to that Bambi bitch.”
Mei Ling appeared in front of us as if from a puff of smoke.
“Evie, welcome back. Misty wants to speak to you. She’s in your office, waiting.”
“Thanks, Mei Ling.” Turning to Debbie. “We’ll talk over lunch, sis.” Debbie walked toward her corner desk, and I strode with erect carriage to my office, waving to co-workers as I passed.
When I walked into my office, the smile on my lips faded quickly as I saw Misty jump up from behind my desk, an angry scowl across her pretty face.
“Come in, Evie. I’ve got a lot to say to you. Sit down.” I sat down and nervously waited as Misty approached my left side.
“As you know, my brother resigned yesterday, quite abruptly and without offering a satisfactory reason. I can only assume it’s because of you. Yes, you! You’ve done nothing but cause chaos in this company and my family since you started. You charm the pants off my brother and then reject him for some fuckin’ pop star who can’t keep it in his pants. You set your sights on my husband and have him fall under a spell. I mean, how did you get him to buy you a frickin’ sports car? With company money, no less. My sister and I technically gifted you an $80,000 car. On top of trying to destroy my marriage and my family, you’re only here half the time. You’re in Seattle or Berlin or Paris or on some movie soundstage. Next thing, you’ll be on a spaceship to Mars! Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“Misty, nothing you just said is true. I never—”
“Oh, so you’re accusing me of lying? Making this all up? Here’s a true fact for you. You’re fired! Pack up your things and leave the premises immediately.” She walked quickly to the doorway, didn’t look back, and shook her head as she stepped through.
Debbie rushed in as I sat stunned by the rapidity of what just occurred.
“Misty fired you?”
“That’s about the gist of it.”
“She can’t do that without cause. I’m in HR, I deal with these issues all the time. File a complaint, Evie.”
“No use, Debbie. If I pursued the matter, you know what they’d find out in discovery. Then the tables would be turned. Not only would I get in trouble but so would you.” I sighed. “I’m on a streak, sis. Can’t win for losing.”
“Oh, Evie. It’s all my fault.”
“What’s done is done and I’m definitely done here. Help me pack up. And give me the keys to the car. You can get Otis to drive you home.”
“I wonder why she’s letting you keep the car.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll get Clark to pay for it. In more ways than one.”
I drove around Los Angeles aimlessly for an hour or two. Ironically, my itinerary resembled the tooling around Debbie and I had done the first week Clark unexpectedly gifted me the car. My eyes welled with tears, and I had to use my shirtsleeve to wipe them away. Around noon, I found myself on Sunset Boulevard in the proximity of Children’s Hospital and I was reminded that I hadn’t called to make an appointment to see the therapist to whom Dr. Joey had referred me. My concern before this was when to schedule it, given my work commitments and hours. Well, that wasn’t a concern anymore.
Hungry and thirsty, I reluctantly decided to pick up a Whopper and fries combo from the nearby Burger King. The same one I had “discovered” Hanna Van Gogh in. I assumed I’d drive back to my apartment and eat my lunch there. Afterwards, I’d have to seriously begin planning my post-Sisters Sportswear life. As I sat in my car waiting for my food, a familiar face appeared behind the driver’s side window.
“Nice wheels. Funny meeting you here after you’ve seen Paree.” It was Hanna, dressed more appropriately for her age than when we first met.
“Hey, Hanna. Come around the other side and get in.” She scooted around the car and slid into the passenger seat, carrying her bag of Burger King victuals.
“So, what you up to, girl?”
“Very little, Hanna. I just got fired from my real job.”
“I’m sure Trent will help you out. I saw that show Sunday night. A family of four could live on what he spent on your designer clothes for a good three months.”
“There’s nothing between Trent and me. It’s just a show for his fans. He wants them to think he’s not a playboy anymore.”
“Well, at least you got a weekend in Paris and some new threads out of it. Say, where are you planning to eat your lunch? I live a few blocks from here, north of Hollywood Boulevard. My place is kind of small but cozy. We can share war stories.”
As I helped Hanna set up her folding table, I looked around at her 400-square-foot apartment. It was tiny but neatly kept and homey. For a person living alone, it wasn’t that bad. Sitting in one of her red lacquer folding chairs, enjoying our Burger King feast, I recalled the summer lunches Debbie and I would have at Mom’s best friend’s house when we were 9 and 6 respectively. The difference being those lunches were on picnic tables in Mrs. Willets’ backyard. And the Willets’ cocker spaniel Freddie always got a potato chip or two or three from me and Debbie, unbeknownst to Mrs. Willets.
“Show business can be a real bitch, Evie. Sorry to hear about your situation. But don’t give up. Look at me. Acting is all I’ve ever wanted to do. I’ll be playing doddering old grandmas when I’m a doddering old grandma myself—"
“You have kids?”
“My daughter lives in Sacramento with her husband. He’s a dentist. Right now, she works with him as his assistant, but she wants to start a family soon. I’m looking forward to being a grandma. You will someday too, I’m sure.”
“I don’t think so, Hanna.”
“Don’t want children or can’t have them?”
I hesitated for a pregnant moment but then decided there was nothing to hide now.
“I’m not able to have children, Hanna. I’m transgender—”
“No, really? You were a boy once?”
“I was nominally a boy until three months ago. But I guess I’ve always really been a girl in here,” pointing to my head, “and here.” I patted my padded bra. “It just took this wild idea of my sister’s to throw the switch.”
“So…may I ask? You still have your boy parts?”
“Yeah, I haven’t even started my HRT yet but I’m seeing a therapist very soon and, if everything goes well, I could have gender affirmation surgery within a year. But, getting the money together for it is going to be tough…”
“Maybe when the strike is over…”
“There aren’t many roles for trans girls who haven’t transitioned yet.”
“Well, nobody knows. You’re on national TV, portrayed as a cis woman who’s got Trent Foster wrapped around your little finger. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I really like you, Evie. And you did me a solid, getting me the gig on that music video.”
“I wish I could share your optimism, Hanna. And the irony of it all is I’ve never dreamed of being in show business. Three months ago, I would’ve called you crazy if you told me I’d be promoted in the media as an ‘ingenue’.”
“What is it that you really want to do? What is it you really enjoy doing?”
“I’ve always loved baseball.” Hanna burst out laughing. “No, really. I pitched in college, and I was a minor league coach for The Titans just last year.”
“Evie, you’re unbelievable. You’re tall but you’re a mere slip of a girl. How could you play a sport like baseball? You’re shitting me.”
“Well, I guess I wasn’t that good at it. My fastball was about the speed of most pitchers’ changeups. That’s why I turned to coaching. But, Hanna, being on a ball field was when I felt most alive. Like my life had some purpose.”
“Then go back to baseball, your first love.”
“I tried. That’s how I ended up in LA. I thought the Dodgers were going to hire me, but Debbie got me this marketing job with Sisters Sportswear. I have an MBA that I’d never used.”
“Go for it again. I’ll bet you the Dodgers would love to hire the first female coach in the big leagues.”
“Maybe. But not the first transwoman—”
“You’ll never know until you try. My daughter always wanted to be a veterinarian. She’s a dental assistant by default, I guess. Don’t give up on your dream like she did.”
“Want the rest of my fries, Hanna?”
After lunch at Hanna’s, I found myself driving past my apartment building in Alhambra. I wasn’t even fully conscious of where I was heading. Driving east, past El Monte, Covina, San Dimas, Pomona, and into San Bernadino County. Ultimately, 45 minutes after I left Alhambra in my rearview mirror, I parked in front of the bungalow offices of The Rancho Cucamonga Quakes. I hadn’t called ahead but I was certain Ray Crawford would be sitting behind his desk, probably reviewing game video from the previous series with their opponent tonight, The Lake Elsinore Storm.
Ray’s assistant ushered me into his office. There was no need to announce me. Ray jumped up from behind his desk and wrapped his arms around me, hugging me tightly.
“Evie! Good to see you again.”
“Ooof! I forgot you played football on the Junior Varsity.”
“I was all-county at linebacker in high school. Washed out in college though. Eh, I liked baseball better anyway.” He held me at arm’s length and smiled broadly. “I guess I need to congratulate you on your impending wedding to Trent. He’s not worthy.”
“I keep telling everyone none of that is true. I’m not marrying Trent! I was in Europe shooting his new music video. It was a job. Plain and simple.”
“You’re kidding, Evie. You were lip locking with that dude a lot as far as I could see—”
“Ray, you know I could never fall for a guy like him. He’s a phony, through and through.”
“So, are you saying there’s a chance?”
“Ray, we were best buds in school, but I don’t think of you that way—”
“Friend zone, huh? I’m destroyed, Evie.”
“Ray!” I hugged him. “Please don’t! It’s just…well, we knew each other as guys back then. I don’t think I can handle you seeing me as a woman—”
“But that’s what you are…to me. Always. I knew, Evie. I knew!”
“How could you, when I didn’t even know. Let’s stay best friends, Ray. I don’t want to hurt you by promising something I can’t deliver—”
He let go of my arms and hung his head down for a moment, before lifting his eyes to meet mine. He seemed to be searching my soul for the truth. Finally, he spoke.
“I can accept that. I have to accept it. Now, you came here for a reason. What can I do you for?”
We sat down and I went through the whole mish-mosh of the past week, ending with my dismissal from Sisters Sportswear that morning. I admitted to Ray that I didn’t really know how I decided to drive to Rancho Cucamonga. It was an irresistible impulse.
“Would it be possible for you to let me suit up and maybe pitch batting practice? I need to feel the sod under my cleats, the smell of well-manicured grass wafting in the air, even the beads of sweat falling off the brim of my cap—”
Ray took my arm and walked to the door of his office with me.
“The team takes afternoon BP in about half an hour. We’ll see if we can find you a uniform and cleats. I don’t know if we have anything in your size. You’re going to look like those old-timers from the ‘30s in those ballooning flannels.”
“It’s alright, Ray. Just being out there throwing to batters is the important thing. I’d even do it wearing a bikini if I had to—”
“Damn it! I knew I should have requisitioned those string bikinis for the team.”
It was glorious. I threw batting practice to these kids, all of whom were just a year or two younger than I was. 15 batters each had six swings per round. That added up to 90 pitches for me as one of their coaches took over after the first round. The whole point of throwing batting practice is to give the batters something they can make contact with. I’m not trying to strike them out. So, my 83 miles-per-hour fastball was the perfect fodder for them. Normally, a pitcher wouldn’t feel good about a batter hitting home runs off them but let’s just say, I left a lot of baseballs in the outfield stands for the stadium crew to collect.
I marveled at the thought that it was only 5 months ago that I had last thrown batting practice to professional baseball players. It seemed like memories from another life. As I toweled off in the dugout after my round of BP, sitting next to Ray, who had emerged from his office halfway through my stint on the mound, a vision of my future started to crystallize.
“Maybe Hanna was right. I shouldn’t give up my dream just because someone thinks I could be an actress on some smarmy soap opera.”
“I just got off the phone with the Dodgers’ front office. You know, we send some of our minor leaguers to the Arizona Fall League for a six-week season starting in October. As part of our agreement with MLB, we have to provide coaches for the teams as well. How would you like to be one of the coaches we send to Arizona? The front office gave me approval.”
“Wow, Ray, that’s…that’s a lifesaver. Of course, I’ll go. But what do I do from now until October?”
“Our season here goes through September. All the way through to September 30th if we make it to the championship series. I can add you to our coaching staff…today. We alternate weeks home and road games, so you’d only be working part-time but it’ll give you some income and time to do other things as well.”
I shook Ray’s hand enthusiastically. He kissed me on the cheek. I wagged my finger at him.
“Show up tomorrow at 2:30 and I’ll formally introduce you to everyone. We’ll get the clubhouse guys to make some alterations to your uniform—”
“And I should put my hair up in a ponytail.”
“Maybe go light on the makeup too.”
I slapped Ray on the shoulder as we walked out of the stadium back to his bungalow office. He said I could take a shower in his en suite bathroom.
“I need a shower myself. It’s pretty humid out there today.”
“No, you don’t, Ray. We can’t take showers together anymore.”
“But we’re on the same team again…”
After I confirmed my Thursday morning appointment with Dr. Francine Zhao, the therapist Dr. Petry had referred me to, I texted Chuck to give me a voice call in return whenever he got settled in his New York hotel room. There was so much to tell him!
There was an hour before Debbie and Otis would be home. I’m sure, despite my getting fired earlier today, they’d want to hear all about my week in Europe. We’d probably go out to our favorite neighborhood restaurant, Chef G on 4th Street, where Debbie would always order the Pad Thai and Otis would order the Crying Tiger (otherwise known as a ribeye steak). Having to watch my girlish figure, I would barely satiate my hunger with the Papaya Salad.
Thinking about what had transpired between Chuck and me last night, I wanted to listen to his Spotify playlist again. The music spurred my heightened sense of being, feeling Chuck’s arms wrapped around me, our intense, soul-melting kisses, the carnal need in his eyes. I blushed even though I was alone. My lips parted and almost cried out Chuck’s name. That was when my phone rang. Caller ID apprised me that it was from Eloise Foster, Trent’s mom.
“Hello, Mrs. Foster. Nice to hear from you. To what do I owe this pleasant phone call?”
“Oh, Evie! I just happened to be doing some window shopping in Palisades Village. You know, they have the most wonderful little boutiques and shops and it’s not like those nondescript malls that you see…anyway, I happened to come upon Bridal Dress Alterations, a lovely shop with the most beautiful wedding gowns. You can look them up on the internet. 5-star reviews! There was this one lacey thing that would look so angelic on you, dear. The décolletage is a little revealing but, overall, it’s very classy. I’m sure Trent would approve…”
I dropped the phone onto the couch.
More than two months after Misty Connors fired me from Sisters Sportswear, I stood alongside the relief pitchers of the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes in the bullpen area squeezed between the left field foul line and the fenced off benches of The Hot Corner Grille. We were all on our feet, cheering at the top of our lungs. This was the third and deciding game in the Class A California League Championship Series. One run down in the bottom of the ninth inning with The Quakes, the home team, at bat. A man on third and two out. The sold-out crowd in LoanMart Field rose to its feet as one in anticipation as our best hitter, shortstop Miguel Amaya, strolled calmly into the batter’s box, accompanied by his walk-up music, “25/8” by Bad Bunny.
Seeing Miguel reminded me of my “former” boyfriend, Chuck Connors, who had just signed the kid on as a client. Well, technically we still live together in his Corona Del Mar house. I had moved in the week after I was relieved of my employment at Sisters and, happily, we had enjoyed the amenities of blissful cohabitation for the first few weeks. But Ray Crawford got approval from the Dodgers’ front office to upgrade me from part-time to full-time coach and I had to accompany the team on road trips as well. At the same time, Chuck began visiting NBA teams to follow up on leads for players looking to secure new representation. Two or three days a week, Chuck would be out of town. We barely saw each other. Ultimately, we decided that it wasn’t working out and that, after the last game of the season, I’d move out. It was sad but I think we managed to part as best friends forever. Debbie and Otis were in the stands tonight, planning to pick me up and my luggage after the game. Unfortunately, Debbie quickly sublet our apartment to a co-worker at Sisters so, for the immediate future, I’d be rooming with Debbie and Otis in Otis’ apartment.
Radio play-by-play announcer: With the game and the season on the line, Miguel Amaya comes to bat. Two outs and a man on third base. Miguel led the league with 26 home runs in the regular season. He’s the last hope for The Quakes.
I could never have expected the last seven weeks to have been such a happy and successful time in my life, given the disappointments of my tenure with Sisters Sportswear and my brief, almost non-existent strike-aborted acting career. The Quakes surged in the last month of the season and qualified for the post-season, all while I was reliving my salad days as a baseball coach. Even the four-hour bus rides to places as far north as Stockton and San Jose were a joy, especially once the players and other coaches got accustomed to having a woman in their traveling group. Most of the kids played video games while I played gin rummy with the “adult” coaches. Ray Crawford, who usually came along on our road trips, would make sure I got a single room in the motels the team would stay in.
The third week I was with the team, in Stockton, the new issue of Glamour Magazine came out. I had almost forgotten that Juan had been approached by Glamour to have me do a photo spread. I didn’t know they would put me on the cover. It was an unpaid gig (I think the people at Glamour rationalized they were giving GlobalNet free publicity for Newport, when and if it ever resumed production). Plus, I was a hot commodity due to Trent’s insane attempt to conquer all media all the time.
I entered the clubhouse the next morning to almost stumble upon a carpet of towels laid out on the floor, leading straight to my locker. There was another line of towels leading from my locker to the manager’s office. The players knew my daily routine was to change in and out of my uniform in the manager’s office. After the games, I was always the last person to shower. Sometimes there’d be some grumbling because I’d hold up the bus from leaving the stadium.
Some knuckleheads started singing “There She is, Miss America,” badly and off-key. They were holding up copies of the magazine. Ray stepped out of the manager’s office with Frank Hardy, the Quakes’ skipper. Hardy raised his hands to quiet everyone.
“Okay, guys, enough already. Practice starts in ten minutes. I expect to see all of you running laps by the time I’m out on the field.”
“How could you forget doing a photo shoot, Evie?”
Ray and I were picking over our lunch at Cast Iron Trading Co., a cozy little gastropub at the east end of Lake McLeod, about a 10-minute walk from Banner Island Ballpark. I took a swig of the beer Ray had ordered for us, Allagash James Bean, a Belgian-style golden ale aged in bourbon barrels and blended with cold-brewed coffee, before answering. Arghhh!
“It happened the same day I had my first session with my therapist. I was so nervous I had to ask Chuck to drive me to the appointment that morning. And then, after lunch, he had to drive me to the photo studio for the Glamour shoot. Poor Chuck, my chauffeur for the day. Wasted his whole day just driving me around town—”
“I’m sure he didn’t have anything better to do. I mean he’d just quit Sisters, right?”
“He just got off a red eye from New York. Was talking contract for one of his clients on the Knicks. Three hours sleep later he was on the freeway. Remind me to ignore your beverage recommendations, Ray.”
“I like my beer like I like my women: robust and bittersweet. Sort of why I like you—”
“I’ll ignore that remark as well. Chuck’s been so wonderful to me, Ray.”
“So, he’s ahead of Trent Foster in your book of numbers?”
“Way, way ahead. I sent him a long text basically ghosting him. At least his mom stopped calling me about wedding gown fittings.”
“Well, then, it’s mano a mano. Me and Chuck.”
“Ray, please don’t go there. We’re old friends—”
“I’ll change the subject. So, how did it go with the therapist? I don’t see you carrying bottles of pills around with you…”
“You’re the second movie star I’ve had in my office. It’s exciting!”
“Really? Well, I’m no movie star. I haven’t even acted in anything yet. Tell me, Doctor, who’s the other movie star?”
“No, I can’t tell you that. Confidentiality, you know. Now, let’s start at the beginning. How long have you had these feelings, this sense that you are not the gender you were assigned at birth?”
I told Dr. Zhao about the time when I was maybe 4 or 5 years old. We were waiting for Mom near the restrooms in Six Flags out in Jackson Township. Daddy’s arms were full of all the tchotchkes, plush animals, and assorted bags we had accumulated during the day. I was cradling my toddler sister Debbie in my tiny arms. I enjoyed treating Debbie as my dolly since I didn’t have any of my own, being a boy. An older couple passed by us on the way to the restrooms, stopped, and the lady addressed my father with a bright smile.
“Such a pair of beautiful little girls! You must be one proud father. What’s your name, cutie pie?”
I quickly answered the lady, telling her my name was Evie and my sister’s was Debbie.
Daddy put some of his burden down, brushed my long hair away from my face, and corrected the woman. “Oh, Evie’s a boy. He’s my son. People make that mistake all the time.”
After the couple walked away, the lady shaking her head in disbelief, I angrily responded to my father’s seemingly factual statement. “'Why do you have to tell! Why do you have to say anything!'"
When Mom returned from the restroom, she tried to calm me down as my father acted confused by my vehement reaction. I think my mother knew there was something unusual about me from the earliest days.
Around the age of 7 or 8, I started “borrowing” Mom’s clothing. I would take a long T-shirt and belt, and fashion it into a dress. This went on for months until one day, Mom found me crying inconsolably. I tearfully explained to her that I simply could not get the T-shirt to look right.
Mom surprised me when she simply asked, 'You really want a dress to wear, don't you?' My face lit up, and I practically shouted, 'Yes!'" That afternoon, Mom piled me and Debbie into the family car and drove us to the Target store in Bridgewater. I thought I was going to hyperventilate and faint because I was so incredibly happy, knowing that we were going to Target that day to pick out my dress.
Mom allowed me to get two dresses (Debbie got two as well, the little crybaby). When we got home and I modeled the dresses for Daddy, he was initially angry but ultimately demurred when he saw how ecstatic I was, twirling and posing in my new dresses. Even so, he wouldn’t allow Mom to buy any more dresses for a year afterward, so I had to wear those two dresses every day when I wasn’t in school or out in public until I got sick of looking at them. I remember him insisting to Mom that I would gradually grow out of my “obsession.”
“I don't mind him being a little effeminate, as long as he's not gay.'"
As I progressed through elementary school and then entered middle school, the pressure to conform to boyhood norms and behavior ramped up and, much to my father’s relief, I seemed to be adjusting to being Evelyn in male mode instead of Evie, the pixie strawberry blonde with the giggly demeanor. I discovered baseball and, unexpectedly, was athletic enough to make varsity teams from 9th grade onward. Of course, I was still acutely body-conscious and would routinely be “shy” about changing and showering with the other boys. My coaches would chide me about always being the last to leave the locker room before and after games and practices.
When I was twelve, Mom died in an auto accident. Some drunk driver crashed into my parents’ car on John F. Kennedy Boulevard coming back home from the Somerset Diner. It left dad in a wheelchair. From that day going forward, my personality seemed to be split in two. For my father, I was the academically smart, sports-playing son he hoped for. For Debbie, I had to be a second mother, exhibiting the maternal instincts that have always been a fundamental part of my being. Seeing how I “raised” my sister and knowing the stress I was under to live up to my male persona, Daddy began to slowly realize that he really had two daughters, not just one. He and Debbie, along with my stepmother Consuela, are even more convinced than I that I am and have always been a girl and now a woman.
Dr. Zhao said little as I recounted these incidents in my life, furiously taking notes on her tablet, occasionally nodding or uttering a soft “uh-uh.” Finally, as I took a long break in my soliloquy, she twirled the stylus in her right hand.
“Very interesting, Evie. These are all quite definitive signs of gender dysphoria. I will recommend to Dr. Petry that she start you on a regimen of HRT immediately. And I would like to continue our sessions. Both to monitor your transitional progress and for us to delve further into your gender issues. I’d like to schedule bi-weekly sessions for you.”
Before I could answer positively to her suggestion, Dr. Zhao initiated her own soliloquy.
“You know, you’re exceptionally fortunate, Evie. You already conform to the physical attributes of a beautiful cis woman. My own journey was much more tortuous. I had to undergo a whole litany of feminization processes: laser hair removal, plastic surgery to reshape my forehead, brows, nose, cheeks and jaw, tracheal shave to minimize my Adam’s Apple. Phew! My mother almost didn’t recognize me! I even had the fat grafting procedure to augment my breasts…”
Fortunately, our hour was up before my eyes lost focus.
Radio play-by-play announcer: Swing and a miss! Amaya is behind in the count 1-2. The Quakes could be a strike away from ending their season one win short of a championship. Or they could be a big swing away from celebrating on their home field. Here’s the 1-2 pitch…
As the crowd roared, electrifying the atmosphere in LoanMart Field, the pitch clock counted down and I could see Miguel’s hands tightening their grip on his bat handle. As the tension escalated, my mind turned to the events of the past week.
Sunday night, as I picked up Chuck at LAX, returning from a client recruiting trip to Miami, I was on top of the world. The Quakes had just won the Division Series against The Inland Empire 66ers of San Bernardino and were slated to play for the championship starting Tuesday night against The San Jose Giants. I was packed and ready to take the bus ride to San Jose on Monday morning.
Additionally, and most importantly, I was well into my transition process, having already received my first two monthly injections of estrogen and anti-androgens. Sessions with Dr. Zhao were helpful in clearing the fog from the years after my mother’s death that effectively split my personality in two. Things were humming smoothly both professionally and medically. But the drive home from the airport was silent and Chuck’s sullen demeanor burst my pretty balloon. Although there had been warning signs in recent weeks, I was not prepared for Chuck’s sour mood when we settled into his living room in Corona Del Mar.
Chuck poured three fingers of Maker’s Mark bourbon into a Glencairn glass and took two quick swigs. He stared into space.
“I take it, your recruiting trip didn’t go well—”
“It was a shitshow, Evie. I’m hitting a wall. The word’s gotten around that I’m a failure.”
“How could that be? What have you failed at? I don’t get it.”
“Clark’s gotten in everyone’s ear. The league thinks I’m a fuck-up and he fired me for incompetence. One of the players I met with told me the word was I only got the job at Sisters because Misty and Christy took pity on their idiot brother.” Chuck took a long gulp of his bourbon. “Maybe they’re right. I am a fuck-up. At this rate, I’m never going to get into CAA. I’ve got three mid-tier clients, not counting Eliot.”
“It’s early days yet, Chuck. You’re not a fuck-up. Clark’s just being a spiteful loser.”
“It’s up for debate who’s the loser. Evie, we need to talk about where we are and where we’re headed.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s not working out. We barely see each other. You’re on the road with The Quakes half the time and in October you’re going to be starting six weeks in Arizona—”
“Well, speak for yourself. You’ve been away half the week every week on recruiting trips.”
“I can’t take coming home to an empty house. Especially when I’m going through rough times with this agenting shit. I don’t want to sound whiny and needy but…I just wish you’d be here to support me more. I’m sorry—”
“You don’t support me, Chuck. How many games have you gone to? I know you had meetings scheduled but we just played three games in the Division Series, and you didn’t show up to a single one. Maybe we’re not meant to be—”
“Together? Hardly if we’re not even geographically in proximity to each other. You deserve more. I deserve more.” Chuck finished his glass and poured another three fingers of bourbon, his face obscured by his left hand, fingers raking his wavy, light brown hair.
“It’s late, Chuck. I’ve got an early bus ride to San Jose in the morning. We’ll talk when I get back on Wednesday.”
“I’ll be in Boston. Probably until Saturday.” Without another word or glance, I walked away toward our bedroom, stifling a yawn.
Radio play-by-play announcer: A long fly ball pulled to left field! And it’s foul! Bucky, I think everyone in the park thought that one was gone. The count remains full. Amaya takes a short stroll behind the batter’s box before climbing back in. Mumphrey looks in for the sign and sets.
Just ten hours ago, Debbie and Otis dropped by the house in Corona Del Mar to pick me up and take me to LoanMart Field. Practice for tonight’s finale was slated for 2:30 in the afternoon. The plan was to drive to Rancho Cucamonga, have lunch in Victoria Gardens, deliver me to the park, and then, while I carried out my coaching duties, Otis and Debbie wander through town until the game tonight. After the game, they would take me and my luggage back to their apartment. After Chuck hadn’t bothered to return my text during the week, I had decided to move out of his house. I wouldn’t let this speed bump in my love life stall my personal progress.
“Evie, you have to watch this! Trent released a new music video yesterday. Where’s your laptop? It’s better on a bigger screen…”
“Debbie, I’m not interested. It’s been weeks since I broke off my non-existent relationship with him. And his mom finally stopped calling me. Thank God!”
“But the video’s all about you.”
“Really? Is it like a Taylor Swift revenge song? I don’t need to hear Trent running me down—”
“Chuck’s got a Roku stick, Debbie. Here’s the remote.” Otis tossed the remote to Debbie, who fumbled it and had to pick it up off the floor. “I forgot who had the ball skills in the family.”
The three of us sat down on Chuck’s cream white sofa and waited for Trent’s YouTube video to fire.
“You’re crying, Evie.”
“Did I make a mistake, Debbie? Was I wrong about Trent?”
“That was quite a tribute to you, sis. Maybe you turned him around. You know, the power of a woman’s… Don’t say it, Otis. I warn you.”
“Nothing. I wasn’t gonna say nothing.” Otis turned the TV off.
“Men! You can’t live with them, and you can’t shoot them.”
“Well, I’m a single woman now. Totally. Despite that video, Trent’s still an immature narcissist with the attention span of a gnat. And Chuck’s a damaged case himself. I can’t be their partner and their therapist all in one.”
“I was so sure Chuck was the right guy for you, Evie.”
“I thought so too.” Debbie handed me a kleenex.
“There’s still hope. Maybe you shouldn’t move out just yet. He’s back tomorrow, isn’t he?”
“He wouldn’t even return my text, Debbie. It’s over.”
“What about Ray?”
“What about him?”
“He really likes you. Even when you were a boy—”
Otis looked up from inspecting Chuck’s framed photo of his senior year UCLA basketball team. “Huh? A boy?”
“I mean a tomboy. Tom. Boy. Tomboy?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s just I can’t imagine Evie ever looking like a boy.”
Radio play-by-play announcer: Here we go! For all the marbles. The 3-2 pitch. (loud crack of the bat) It is high, it is far, it…is gone! Miguel Amaya has just won the California League championship for The Rancho Cucamonga Quakes with a two-run home run in the bottom of the ninth inning. The crowd erupts in cheers and, as Miguel steps on home plate, a dog pile forms in the infield as the celebration begins!
Everyone in the bullpen sprinted out to the infield to join the celebration. I wasn’t far behind, but I hesitated when I reached the dog pile. My bashfulness stemmed from my short tenure with the team. I was part of the team and, yet not really a part of the team. But I looked on with a broad smile.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. As I turned to see whose hand it was, Ray Crawford wrapped his arms around my waist and planted a big wet kiss on my lips.
“We did it! We did it! Evie, you’re my lucky charm!” He kissed me again. “We have to celebrate! After the trophy presentation, let’s hit the best steakhouse in San Bernardino County!”
“I’d love to, Ray. But Debbie and Otis are here to drive me home—”
“They can come with us!”
“No, Ray, I’m sorry. I’m moving into Debbie’s apartment. I’ve got my luggage with me.”
“You and Chuck broke up? Looks like tonight’s looking even better than I could’ve hoped for.”
As usual, I was the last person to shower, change, and leave the stadium. Carrying my luggage in both hands, I shouldered the push bar of the exit door and emerged into the team’s parking area. Standing there, looking cute, holding hands, were Otis and Debbie. As I walked toward them, they let go of their hands and parted to either side, revealing a figure who stepped into the light shining down from the LED towers.
It was Chuck! He held out his arms and beckoned to me with a big smile across his face.
“Congratulations, Evie.”
I threw down my bags and rushed forward, literally jumping into his arms. I kissed him with everything in my soul. A long, lingering kiss. Debbie swore later that she could see sparks flashing from our lips, like sparklers on the 4th of July.
“Come home, baby. I’ve been such a child. A whiny baby having a ridiculous tantrum. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes, Chuck. I’d forgive you almost anything. But I’m going to be in Arizona for the next two months and you—”
“I’m going to Arizona with you. I can work from anywhere. All I need is a phone and the internet. I hear Glendale is really nice in the Fall.”
“You would do that for me?”
“Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“No, but a kiss would make the same point.”
We kissed.
Note: One more chapter to go, dear readers. See you then.
It was a lazy, hot Sunday afternoon in October. The first off-day on the Arizona Fall League 6-week schedule that ended on November 11th. Which was perfect for me since Debbie and Otis’ wedding would be held the weekend after. I was lounging in the watermelon slice pool float Chuck and I had purchased in a mall in Glendale, half a mile from our cute, little short-term rental garden apartment. We had moved into it barely an hour after we drove into town from Corona Del Mar. It took over 6 hours by car. We could have chosen to fly instead. A 75-minute flight. But, as it turned out, spending half a day in close quarters, listening to Chuck’s Spotify playlists and sneaking kisses on the side, was a very romantic way to pass the time.
I looked at the watch on my left wrist and started to paddle toward the near side of the pool. I had just enough time to change clothes and make the half-hour drive to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport to meet Chuck’s flight coming in from Cleveland. It was a good thing we hadn’t availed ourselves of the housing the league provided the other players and coaches. The anonymity in these surroundings was a balm after all the media attention in Los Angeles. That is, until the teenage sons of two of our neighbors came bounding down the stairs, stopped in their tracks as I was toweling off, and just stood there ogling. They caused a bottleneck on the landing, and I blushed beet red as the people behind them whispered my name to each other. They also mentioned Trent Foster in the same breath. A name I wish to never hear again. I was trying to figure out how to get past this mob and re-enter my apartment when my phone rang.
“Evie, I texted you twice in the last hour, but you never responded.”
“Juan! I haven’t heard from you in a dog’s age. Sorry, but I was on a float in the pool here. The team’s off today—”
“I have some bad news, Evie. Alastair Knowles called this morning. On a Sunday! Well, GlobalNet just pulled the plug on Newport—”
“I figured as much with the strike and all—”
“That was only part of the reason. Your ex-boyfriend Trent wanted to re-negotiate his contract. I guess the success of his new record has given him an even bigger head than he already had. GlobalNet basically said fuck off.”
“There goes my showbiz career. Oh well, it was nice working with you, Juan. You’re the best agent I’ve ever had.”
“I’m the only one, Evie.” Silence. “Listen, this isn’t the end of the story. I’ve got some irons in the fire for you. Danny and Alastair still think you have great potential.”
“Don’t go out of your way, Juan. I’m sure there are better clients you can work with than me. I haven’t earned you much in commission for all your trouble. And I’m happier back in baseball anyway. What’s that noise in the background? Where are you?”
“I’m at the AC. Just finished playing squash. Lost two sets to one. Hey, I’m not giving up, Evie. Say, how are things with you and Chuck? I’m glad you two got together. That Trent character wasn’t right for you.”
“Chuck and I are doing well. We’ll be back in LA next month. Did you get your invite to Debbie’s wedding yet?”
“Oh, yeah, Glynnis and I will be there with bells on.”
“By the by, they’re registered with Crate and Barrel.”
“Got it. Alright, Evie. Glynnis is expecting me back home right about now. Did I tell you she’s got a bun in the oven? Looks like a Spring baby. You and Chuck would have beautiful children. The two of you really won the genetic lottery—”
“I have to go and pick Chuck up at the airport now. If we don’t speak until next month, I’ll see you at the wedding. Goodbye Juan.”
I disconnected and, sighing, walked toward my apartment, carrying my towel and the pool float. During the phone call, the crowd had dispersed. Strangely, I didn’t feel depressed by the news Juan had delivered. My acting career was always an afterthought. It never thrilled me like being involved with baseball again. Or Chuck. I smiled as I closed the door to my apartment.
The convenience of playing in a league where five of the six teams are located less than 30 miles from downtown Phoenix (Salt River was 120 miles to the east, necessitating a two-hour bus ride) meant sleeping in your own bed every night. On nights when Chuck wasn’t on the road, recruiting clients from various NBA and NFL teams, he’d drive me to the games and sit in the stands, rooting along with the other players’ and coaches’ spouses. One particular night in Salt River, early in November, as I customarily was the last to shower, change, and leave the locker room, I almost ran headlong into Ray Crawford.
“Oh my God, Ray! I didn’t see you.”
“Hi, Evie. I’ll take it as a welcoming hug. How are you finding coaching in the Fall League? Good?”
“Great. It’s been fun working with these kids. So, why are you here in Peoria, of all places?”
I started to walk toward the exit and Ray took two long strides to catch up.
“I could lie and say I was checking up on Miguel’s progress but he’s headed to Double A next season so that shouldn’t really concern me.” He reached out and gently grabbed my arm to stop me. We stood in the corridor leading to the side exit to the parking lot. The rest of the team had already boarded the bus back to Glendale. Another five minutes and the porters would probably turn out all the lights and close up the stadium.
“Ray, Chuck’s waiting for me. It’s a two-hour drive back to Glendale and he’s got a flight to San Francisco to catch in the morning—”
“Yeah, I know. I sat with him during the game. He’s alright, Evie. I like him.”
“Well, I like him too.” I laughed. “A lot.”
“I told him if he ever hurts you, I’d find him and choke the life out of him.”
“Chuck’s 6’4”. He towers over you, Ray.”
“Basketball players are greyhounds. I’m a baseball player. We’re Rottweilers. Look at my forearms—”
“This is a silly conversation, Ray. I have to go. We’re playing here tomorrow night. Maybe we can have a drink after the game.”
“I’m going back home tomorrow, Evie. The real reason I’m here tonight is to tell you what I found out from my contacts in the Dodgers’ front office. They’re thinking about offering you a coaching job with their AAA team in Oklahoma City next season.”
“You’re joking! No, you’re serious? Wow!”
“They’ll probably wait until after the New Year before formally offering you the position.”
“I can’t wait to tell Chuck—”
“Do you think he’ll want to spend 6 months of the year in Oklahoma?”
“We’ll work it out. We’re in love, Ray. Really, truly in love.”
“I hope it all works out for you, Evie.” He leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips.
“Thank you, Ray, for rescuing me. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t offered me the coaching job in Cucamonga. I might have decided to go back to being the nondescript girlish man with an uncertain future I was before Debbie came up with the crazy idea of interviewing with her company—”
Ray held my face in his massive hands. “I’ll confess I wasn’t thinking about your issues when I gave you the job. When you came by the office that first time to pitch the promotional t-shirts, I saw you…saw you as you really are, for the first time in all the years we’ve known each other. I slapped myself for not admitting I’ve always been in love with you. When we roomed together on road trips during our junior year, I’d pretend to be asleep so I could watch you in the other bed. You looked so beautiful—”
“You’re creeping me out, Ray.” I removed his hands from my face and started to turn toward the exit. “Chuck is probably worried about what’s keeping me. So long, Ray, thanks for the great news!”
“If you need anything, Evie, you know where to find me.”
Back home in Glendale, Chuck and I quickly slipped between the sheets. Chuck had an 8AM flight to San Francisco to catch and I wanted to make him a nice breakfast so, as the old baseball bromide goes, we had to “sleep fast.” Just before I felt my eyelids getting too heavy to keep open, I remembered to tell Chuck about the Dodgers’ possible coaching offer. At first, he didn’t respond, and he seemed to react to my broad smile by turning his body to face away from me. I was apprehensive. Was this too far a bridge to cross?
A couple of minutes later, still facing away from me, he said, “They say the climate in Oklahoma from April through September is lovely. There are five major airlines that fly direct to OKC. And there’s a couple of potential clients on The Thunder—”
I wrapped my arms around Chuck’s back and kissed his neck repeatedly.
The final week of the Fall League season started with an off day on Monday for all six teams. Chuck and I flew back to Los Angeles after the game on Sunday evening so I could receive my monthly injections of estrogen and anti-androgens on Monday morning from Dr. Petry.
We planned to have Debbie and Otis over to our Corona Del Mar house for dinner that night. I had Consuela teach me how to make Arroz Con Pollo, using her mother’s recipe, over a zoom call. She started weeping over the chicken as she showed me how to season it with a spice mix of salt, pepper, and cumin.
“Consuela, why are you crying?”
“Oh, mi hija…I’m handing down a family recipe to my daughter just like my mother did to me. You’re a woman now, Evie…”
She couldn’t continue as she choked up but managed to keep rubbing up the chicken breasts, tears blinding her.
“You’re making me cry now, Consuela. We’ll never get this cooking lesson finished.”
Chuck had his arm around my waist as we searched the parking lot of the hospital for our car. Playfully, he patted my buttocks, and I winced in pain. I was about to turn around and remonstrate him for doing that, just ten minutes after Dr. Petry had planted two spikes in my gluteus maximus on the upper right side of my hips. Showing bravery, I had declined the ice pack to numb the area. It stung!
“Evie? Evie Rivers?” I stopped laughing and looked up to see Eloise Foster, Trent’s mother, standing in the middle of the lane.
“Mrs. Foster! So…nice to see you. Are you visiting a patient here?”
“No, I was visiting a friend who just had a procedure of a female nature. Across the street in Hollywood Presbyterian. But I parked here because it’s cheaper than their rates. It’s only $15 for an hour if you self-park. Oh, who is this?”
“This is my…fiancé, Chuck Connors. Chuck, this is Trent’s mother, Mrs. Foster.”
“Please call me Eloise.”
“Nice to meet you…Eloise.”
“Evie, can I have a word with you?”
“Evie, I’ll go and locate our car. It was a pleasure, Mrs. Foster.” Chuck walked off.
“Handsome young man you have there, Evie. Quite tall as well.”
“He played basketball at UCLA. What is it you want to speak to me about?”
“I know you broke it off with Trent months ago but…Evie, he’s still pining for you. I just had a long zoom call with him from Dublin where he’s finishing his European tour. Completely sold out, Evie. They had to add dates to satisfy all the demands for tickets! He even had to go back to London for three more concerts at Wembley Stadium! Imagine!”
“I’m glad for Trent. He’s very talented. But you were saying?”
“Oh, yes. He was practically in tears, Evie. I don’t think he’s ever liked a girl as much as he adores you.”
“He didn’t like me enough to keep Newport in production. I lost a million-dollar contract when GlobalNet cancelled the show because Trent wanted more money—”
“Well, that’s business, sweetie. I told Trent they were low-balling him. I mean, he’s got the #1 streaming album in the world right now. Relatively speaking, they were expecting him to work for coolie wages—”
“Eloise, Chuck’s waiting for me…”
“I’ll cut to the chase. You know, Trent’s too bashful to ask but I’m a practical person. He’s returning to LA after Thanksgiving, and he’s scheduled for a pair of dates at Dodger Stadium. It’s already 90% sold out! He’d like you to come on stage to make an appearance when he sings ‘California Dreamin’.’ The audience identifies you with the music video. It was a smash hit.”
“I’m a practical person too, Eloise. How much is my fee for this cameo appearance?”
“I would think the value of free publicity would be payment enough.”
“Have a nice day, Mrs. Foster. Nice bumping into you.” I walked quickly away in a random direction, not really knowing where we had parked our car. Fortunately, Chuck rolled up behind me and stopped to let me hop in the passenger side. Eloise stood stock-still as we drove out of the lot.
Debbie and Otis were married on a late Saturday afternoon before Thanksgiving Day in an outdoor ceremony held at Friends Corner Ranch in Ventura County, 60 miles north of Los Angeles. For most of the past century, Ventura County was known for its citrus groves, but the industry moved its center of gravity to the San Juaquin Valley in Northern California a few decades ago. Friends Corner Ranch, once a full-service farm, has morphed into a rustic inn, country music club, and popular wedding venue. Otis’ family, The Mellons, had roots in this county as farmers and citrus growers, having moved here from Oklahoma in the Dust Bowl Migration of the 1930s. And they brought their favorite music with them. Old Timey music, the sort of folk balladry that led to Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, and The Weavers.
As Debbie’s maid of honor, it was my first social ritual as a legally recognized woman. The paperwork my father had submitted to the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission had been processed and approved. Although it was Debbie’s wedding, the smiles on my face and the faces of my family and loved ones in the wedding party bore witness to the event as my true coming-out ceremony. Chuck was especially complimentary of how beautiful I looked in my bridesmaid gown.
“Better than the Glamour Magazine cover?”
Debbie jumped in. “She’ll look even better in a wedding gown, Chuck. Don’t you think so too, Consuela?”
That instigated a torrent of waterworks from Consuela as she hugged Dad and blubbered, “Evie would make the world’s most beautiful bride, honey. Our girls are all grown up…”
At the reception in the inn, we were serenaded by a local family of musicians, playing songs to accompany dance steps I’d never heard of, much less knew how to execute. Chuck and I looked like city slickers as we stumbled around trying to square dance, clog, and buck dance. The Mellons family laughed good-naturedly at our clumsy attempts.
Around midnight, back in Corona Del Mar, Chuck and I sat in our backyard, looking up at the stars embedded in the black velvet night sky. Dad and Consuela were asleep in the guest room. Debbie and Otis were on a plane headed for San Francisco, en route to their week-long honeymoon tryst in Big Sur. Debbie reserved her remaining vacation days for our planned Christmas week with Dad and Consuela at the end of the year.
“Debbie and Otis looked really happy,” noted Chuck as he sipped his Chamomile tea.
“They’re blissfully in love.”
“Seeing what a travesty of a marriage Misty and Clark have, I didn’t think I’d ever want to take the plunge myself.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“By the way, I forgot to mention this, but we’re invited to Thanksgiving dinner at Christy’s house.”
“Oh, no, Misty and Clark will be there. I’m not going—”
“Christy says Misty’s planning to come without Clark. Something’s up, I guess.”
“Even so, she fired me and accused me of trying to steal her husband. How can I even be in the same room with that woman?”
“Do it for me, Evie. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Please.”
“If she starts anything, I’m leaving. Even if I have to walk all the way home.”
“I’ll leave with you.”
“Okay but you promise.”
“I promise. Let’s go to bed.” He took my hand and ushered me into the house, his hand tracing circles over my backside.
“Chuck, my parents are in the next room.”
“We’ll be quiet…”
I was backed into a corner, literally. I felt the handles of several umbrellas impinging on the seat of my jeans as I stepped back into the stand in the entryway. Unconsciously, I put my hands out in front of me as if to push her away.
“Evie, please, I need to speak to you. Watch out!” I stumbled and almost fell to my knees. Misty grabbed me by the arms and lifted me to my feet.
“I don’t blame you for running away from me. Are you alright?”
“Yes, thank you, Misty. But we really don’t have much to say to each other—”
“But I do, Evie. I do. I’m sorry for over-reacting and firing you so…so summarily. You never did any of the things I accused you of. I found out the real story. I’ve had it with Clark’s flaunting his extra-marital affairs in front of me and everyone. I’m getting a divorce.”
“How did you come to this realization?”
“Mei Ling spilled the beans.”
“I hope you fired her—”
“Oh no, she’s Clark’s victim. Just like you were. She had to do what he asked. To keep her job.”
“Cool story, bro.”
“Huh? Ultimately, she showed her loyalty to me and the company. Her talents are wasted as an executive assistant. I promoted her to sales manager. Now that Buzz is running the company, I think he and Mei Ling will make a great team.”
“I’m sure Buzz would agree.”
“Now, I hope you’ll forgive me for my rash accusations. As you well know, Clark can charm the pants off you. He can lie through his teeth, and you’ll believe every word. Christy and I have controlling interest in the company so, with the divorce, Clark’s history. I’d like to give you back your job if you want. I do hope you’ll seriously consider coming back.”
“I’ll…uh…give it some thought, Misty.”
“You don’t have to give me an answer right now. Maybe after the New Year?”
“Maybe.”
She walked back into the living room to join everyone as they watched the 4th Quarter of the Cowboys/Commanders game. She patted Chuck’s shoulder as he emerged from the room, ostensibly searching for me.
“You’ve got a peach of a girl there, bro. Better put a ring on it before she gets away.”
Chuck smiled and locked eyes with me.
As Debbie and I had planned, weeks before the wedding, we spent Christmas week in New York City. My sister and I went shopping while the boys did whatever boys do. It’s been half a year living as a woman that I’ve forgotten what boys do. Of course, we took in Broadway shows, took romantic strolls in Central Park, ate at several trendy restaurants in downtown Manhattan, and even ventured into the Boho regions of Brooklyn. But mostly, we shopped.
After opening presents at my parents’ house in Somerset, New Jersey on Christmas morning, Chuck and I drove into the city to sit in celebrity row at Madison Square Garden, taking in the Knicks game against the Milwaukee Bucks. Chuck got the seats through Eliot Bradshaw, starting shooting guard for the Knicks and Chuck’s biggest client. As we settled into our seats some 20 minutes before tip-off, I noticed Alastair Knowles and his wife, Joanne, sitting several seats down from us, almost on the court itself.
Distracted by some of the players emerging from the locker rooms to warm up on the court, I didn’t realize that Alastair and Joanne had ambled over to us. We exchanged pleasantries and greetings of the season, standing up to shake hands.
“Come to watch your favorite client, Chuck?”
“Of course. Evie and I are in town for Christmas and Eliot comped us these great seats so here we are. Evie, you know that Eliot is Joanne’s stepson, right?”
“Yes, and I’m a patient of Dr. Petry’s, Eliot’s good friend. Small world.”
“I’m glad to run into you, Evie. I was going to wait until the New Year, but I’ll let you know right now. We’ve been trying to cast “Painted from Memory,” Joanne’s screenplay, and we’re at a loss to find someone to play the main character from age 21 to age 33. We’ve tested and read a dozen actresses.”
“But I insisted that we give the role to a trans actress. I put my foot down on that, didn’t I, Alastair?” Joanne smiled at me.
“The long and short of it is…we’d like to try you in the role—”
“But I’ve never acted really. I might be horrible on screen.”
“We thought about that. How would you like to take acting classes. On GlobalNet’s dime, of course. Production probably won’t start until the Spring at the earliest. You’ll have a good eight weeks of classes at least. Danny Dantley thinks you’re a natural.”
“Do it, Evie. I’d be thrilled to have you play that part in the movie.” Joanne took my hand and squeezed.
“Do you need to know my answer now? Like my agent Juan likes to say, I’ve got some irons in the fire…”
“Of course, take your time. Let us know when you’ve sorted out your various irons. The game’s starting soon. Enjoy the game, guys. Hey, there’s Eliot. He’s waving us over. Happy New Year!”
At the end of each quarter, the giant scoreboard suspended over center court would display celebrity sightings in the stands. There were so many that I lost count: Aaron Rodgers, Spike Lee (of course), Pete Davidson, Emma Roberts, Aaron Judge, Trevor Noah, Michael J. Fox, rapper Jack Harlow, Paul Rudd, etc., etc. I was glad Trent Foster was on another coast that week. I looked around just to make sure.
At half-time, there was a buzz in the crowd. Probably another celebrity sighting, I didn’t bother to look up from the plate of nachos I was sharing with Chuck. Then someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind and pointed up at the scoreboard. I was stunned to see myself on the board, half-chewed nachos still in my open mouth. I quickly swallowed. The camera zoomed out and Chuck was on one knee, holding open a jewel box with a glittering engagement ring sitting smack dab in the middle of it. Above the din of the crowd and the incessant music being played at every opportunity through the loudspeakers, I half-heard and half lip-read Chuck’s question.
“Will you marry me, Evie, and make me the happiest man in the universe?”
The crowd chanted “Say yes! Say yes!”
I whispered, “I should kill you for doing this in front of 20,000 people.”
In a loud voice, I answered, “Yes. I’ll marry you!” Nervously, Chuck slipped the ring onto my finger. We rushed into each other’s arms and kissed. A breathtakingly long and passionate kiss.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
I don’t really recall who won the game.
Author’s Note: Thank you, dear readers, for following this story through these many months. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it as much as I have writing it. Until next time…
I walked all the way home from school instead of taking the bus as I normally did. That darn song by The Four Tops was still ringing in my ears, giving my walk a bouncy step and a swing of the hips. It was the hip swing that started the whole thing and made my summer the most memorable of my whole life…so far that is.
It was Tuesday, September 6, 1966, the first day of my senior year of high school and I didn’t relish having to explain to my friends why I had been missing in action for three months, from graduation day until the Friday before Labor Day.
I was dressed in a freshly ironed white button-down shirt, brown cotton velour trousers and brown wingtip oxfords. Dad had forbidden me to wear what I really wanted: a paisley print peasant blouse, powder blue hip-hugger mini-skirt and white vinyl go-go boots. I mean, really, I am 17 years old, after all. Okay, I’m a boy, not a girl. Well, it’s a long story.
My name is Itsuki Brennan. But everyone calls me Shuggie or Shugger. That’s because my big sister Connie had trouble pronouncing my name and my dad preferred Shuggie to a Japanese name he couldn’t explain to American friends and family. If Dad and I were out somewhere without Mom, he’d just blithely tell people I was Black Irish.
My Mom, Eriko, met Dad after the War in Okinawa where Corporal Gerald Brennan was stationed as part of the Allied Occupation. She was a war widow and at the age of 24, she eagerly accepted my father’s marriage proposal. Her parents weren’t ecstatic about their daughter marrying a gaijin, but they knew her life prospects were exponentially better halfway across the globe than in the backwater post-war uncertainty of Okinawa. Mom was already pregnant with my sister on the plane ride back to the States and, three years later, I joined the Brennan clan here in sleepy suburban Bergenfield, New Jersey.
“Why are you dressed like that, Itsuki-chan?” My 70-year-old grandmother was working on our vegetable garden, practically on all fours, a spade in one hand, dressed in what looked like, to Western eyes, pajamas, a floppy beach hat and wellies.
“You know it was my first day back at school, sobo.” She and I conversed in a cute hybrid of English and Japanese. It was a private language between us that we’d spoken ever since my parents brought her over from Okinawa after grandpa died 10 years ago. My big sister never bothered to learn. The only Japanese word she knows is her own given name, Kanako, but she prefers to be called Connie at Rutgers, where she’s a junior business major.
“I can’t understand why your chichi insists you dress like a boy when everyone knows you’re a girl. Things are so strange here in this country.” She wiped her brow and shook her spade at nothing in particular.
“We’ve talked about this before a million times, sobo. Dad will never see me as a girl. And Mom just goes along with everything he says.”
“Your sobo is getting old and senile, chisana nezumi. Tell me again where you’ve been all summer? I thought you had run away with your boyfriend and never coming back,” she sniffled and walked over to me.
“My boyfriend? He’s not…why would I do that, sobo?”
“You love him. I have eyes. I can see.”
“But I can’t marry him…”
“I know. Your chichi would never allow it. He doesn’t like the boy and he thinks you’re too young. But your mother was married when she was 17. Like you are now, Itsuki-chan. Poor Haruto-san. He was only 20 when…” She stopped, seemingly lost in memory.
“Well, it’s a moot point. Bobby is in boot camp right now. He might be fighting in Vietnam next year. And he’ll probably forget all about me . I don’t think I’ll ever love anybody as much as I loved him.” Tears started streaming down my cheeks as my grandmother wrapped her arms around me, pressing her head against my chest and cooing softly.
We stood there in the garden, like that, for what seemed hours but, after a few minutes, I had gathered myself enough to ask, “So you really want to know what happened?”
“Yes, child, tell me again for the first time.”
The second they handed his diploma to him, Bobby Gene Messina leaped off the stage of the Bergenfield High auditorium, tossed his mortarboard into the air, tore off his academic gown and made a mad dash for the exit. On the way, he passed his astonished parents, bored younger twin sisters, my parents, and, most importantly, me, his best friend forever and a year younger, Shuggie Brennan. While they all remained stuck in their seats from the sheer shock of it, I jumped up, almost stumbled over my dad’s feet, and ran after Bobby. Although Bobby was several inches taller than I, from the time we were in elementary school I could always beat him in a foot race.
I caught up to him just as he opened the driver’s side door of his new Cherry Red Chevrolet Corvair Corsa. The one his dad had bought him for graduation. He was so proud of his son and was sure he’d play first chair oboe for a famous symphony orchestra someday soon. After finishing his conservatory studies, of course. But Bobby had other plans.
Bobby was going straight into the music business, playing tenor sax for one of genius producer Billy Schechter’s famous acts, Hank & Honey Hutch with Hank’s Honeys. They were touring the country that summer. A package show headlined by Hank & Honey and supported by other rockin’ artists who were just emerging onto the charts. Schechter’s scouts had discovered Bobby playing local gigs in bars and clubs ever since he was an underage 16-year-old. He’d even lied to his parents about attending Junior ROTC weekend camps at Fort Dix so he could sit in with bands in Newark or even New York City. We would have to sleep in the car unless someone let us crash in their pad. Of course, I went along to support his story and my dad was very proud of me, although Mom was hoping the Vietnam War would be over by the time I was of draft age. The tricky thing was obtaining hand me down ROTC uniforms. Fortunately, Bobby had cousins who had gone off to college. My uniform was just a little too big. And the cap fell over my eyes at every opportunity.
“Where do you think you’re going, shrimp?”
I dove in past him and struck a triumphant pose as he shook his head and climbed in behind the wheel.
“I told you I can’t take you. Your dad will kill me if he ever catches up to us. I’m taking you back to your house.”
“Good. I need to pick up my suitcase. If you’re hitting the big time, your girl can’t be caught wearing the same old dowdy threads. I’ve got some new outfits! “
He snickered when I said “your girl” and just started the car. True to his word, we moved at high speed toward my house, which, of course, was next to his. Our dads both worked at the Marcal Paper factory in nearby Elmwood Park and moved onto our block just months apart from each other.
“I’ll just be a minute, Bobby.”
“I’m not waiting, Shuggie. I’ll be late for rehearsal. I told Schechter I’d be there by…shit, I’m already half an hour late. Just forget it, Shug. I can’t take you.”
I stood there and looked like I was about to burst into tears. My hands went to my face because I knew the blood was rushing to my cheeks. I burbled something unintelligible.
“Okay. Okay. Jesus, Shuggie, turn off the waterworks. Get your suitcase. We’ll think of something tonight. I’ll drive you back. But get a move on. Can’t lose my job before it even starts!”
I ran into the house, climbed the stairs two steps at a time, went into my room and hauled out my suitcase and makeup case (kept hidden from my dad but Mom knew about it). Rushing out, I hugged my grandmother as she shuffled into the living room, carrying a cup of tea. I placed my index finger against my lips.
“Ima wa hanase nai, sobo.”
The door slammed unintentionally as I flew out to Bobby’s car. We drove off in the opposite direction just as my parents’ car turned the corner onto our block, followed right behind by Bobby’s family car. I giggled and immediately hunkered down in the back seat, out of sight.
“Not funny, Shuggie. Hey, what are you doing back there?”
“Changing. You’ll see. Don’t look in the rearview mirror. Be nice. You’ll see when I’m ready. Ooof. Can you not drive like a maniac? I don’t want to poke out an eye here.”
“If the traffic’s not bad, I can make Times Square in 40 minutes. I’ll be an hour late but Schechter’s gotta give me some slack. He knows I’m good. Hey, are you really wearing ear rings?”
“Don’t look I told you! Just keep your eyes on the road, buster.”
“I wish I’d never told you I thought you were too pretty to be a boy. Jesus, look at you now.”
“I’ve always felt more like a girl than a boy. You know that. My mom knows that. Even my grandma. It’s only my dad thinks I’m a pervert.”
“Speaking of which, Shug, I’m no homo. I mean, you’re my best buddy and all, but I’m not into guys. How many times do I have to tell you?”
I popped my head up from the back seat and fitted my wig on. Shaking it from side to side, I reached over and pulled down the visor mirror.
“Good thing I combed it out this morning. Whatcha think, Bobby?”
“I think you need help.”
“I think I look nice. Tell me I’m not prettier than Rachel Hanley.”
“Well, she’s a girl. You’re not.”
“Did you do her in this car? Like in the very back seat I’m sitting on? Oh, lord, the thought.”
He ignored me as we crossed the George Washington Bridge and exited onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. All the way down the West Side of Manhattan I could see the forest of buildings that hid the heart of darkness named New York City. It was exciting to escape the black and white dullness of suburbia and throw ourselves into that dangerous, mysterious, but oh so glamorous city that lay waiting like a predatory beast to devour us.
Bobby parked the car a couple of blocks west of 1619 Broadway, otherwise known as The Brill Building, home to music publishers, talent agents, and songwriters. We left our bags in the locked car. I wasn’t too sanguine about the surroundings. They didn’t call this Hell’s Kitchen for nothing. Bobby carried his saxophone case with him. I tried to hold his free hand as we walked but he kept switching his case from side to side, making it a frustrating shell game. He avoided looking at me. But, really, no one even gave us a side glance. I think I was totally convincing as a teenage girl. Because, well, I am one. Really.
There was no one in the lobby of The Brill Building. Not even a doorman. Like the ones in the paramilitary uniforms with epaulettes you see on TV. Bobby moved over to peruse the Lobby Directory but turned away, a confused look on his face.
“Cripes, I don’t know the name of Schechter’s company. Can’t see the record label name on here either.”
“Nice planning, Brainiac. What do we do now?”
At that moment, a couple who looked like they were in their mid-twenties, casually dressed, the man in a corduroy blazer, a pipe dangling from his lips, and the woman in a sweater and plaid A-line skirt, walked into the lobby from outside. Bobby tried to make himself smaller and not attract their attention, but I boldly walked up to them. What the heck. Maybe they know this guy Schechter.
“Excuse me. Can you help us out here?”
“Hey, no panhandling, kid.” Turning to the woman, “Where in the hell is that security guy? Another two-martini lunch?”
“Not likely on his salary, Gerry. Don’t mind him, miss. How can I help you?”
“We’re looking for the offices of Billy Schechter. He’s…”
“Yeah, we know who he is. He doesn’t have offices here.”
“They’re using younger and younger bagmen these days? Look, Carole, a couple of suburban teens. They even gave one a saxophone case to carry. Very convincing.”
“Cut the comedy, Gerry. This Billy Schechter you speak of, what is your business with him, may I ask?” Gosh, these two had some thick New York accents. Like out of The Honeymooners or something.
Just as Bobby found the spunk to open his mouth, a tall, slender man in his mid-twenties, wearing a dark three-piece suit and a tan-colored fedora, burst out of the elevator.
“Hey, Billy, a couple of bagmen here looking for you.”
Schechter almost fell back into the elevator, but the doors had already closed behind him. He took a look at us and laughed.
“You had me for a minute, Gerry. Carole, nice to see you. Forsooth, what do you kids want?” He started reaching into his pants pocket. You could hear loose change jingling.
“Mr. Schechter, I’m Bobby Messina. You know, tenor sax?” He hefted the case into view.
“You’re an hour late. Lucky for you I came over here on the likely chance you didn’t know your ass from the rehearsal studio. Come on, the studio’s at 1650 Broadway. I’ll introduce you to Hank and the boys.” He walked quickly toward the doors, waving Bobby to follow.
I was left alone in the lobby with the couple I knew as Carole and Gerry. We exchanged looks. I’m sure my face betrayed my sense of abandonment.
“I’m Carole King, by the way. This is my comedian husband, Gerry Goffin. You may have heard of us?”
I shook my head and tried to not convey my embarrassment. I couldn’t find a good place to put my hands. I would have whistled if I could. But I can’t. Finally, Carole took me by the arm.
“We’re going up to our office. Wanna sit and watch us write a song or two? Billy’ll bring your boyfriend back here after rehearsal’s finished. What’s your name, sweetie?”
The phone rang from inside the house. My grandmother jumped as if startled. I ran in and picked up on the third ring. It was Mom.
“Hello, honey. Your father and I are going to visit your Aunt Brenda tonight. You know she’s just gotten home from the hospital. Needs some help. Your uncle is just useless. We won’t be back until late. Anyway, I’m at the paper factory right now, waiting for your dad. Have sobo make dinner or order pizza. Let her decide. Bye. Love you.”
My grandmother had just come into the house. “Was that your okaasan? What did she want?”
“She said to order pizza.”
“Good, chisana nezumi, then you can continue your story while we wait. I love pizza. Make sure to order the one with pineapple.”
“I didn’t know that pizza came from Hawaii,” said my grandmother just before she took a large bite out of the last slice left in the box. I was already miffed at her for swiping it before I had even reached out my hand.
“It’s not from Hawaii, sobo. I heard the pineapple topping started in Canada.”
“They grow pineapples in Canada? Isn’t it cold up there? Even colder than here in New Jersey?”
“They import the pineapples…look, let’s get back to my story.” I was still kind of hungry. So, I went to the kitchen and took the half bottle of soda out of the refrigerator and poured myself a glass. At least I could quench my thirst.
“Fine with me. It’s better than watching television shows I can’t understand. But I must say, koneko, the commercials are hilarious.”
I looked at the framed gold records and music industry awards on the walls of their surprisingly small 8th floor office. There was barely enough room for a piano, a roll-top desk, and a few folding chairs. Carole had already sat herself at the piano, turned toward me, while Gerry nervously paced. It was then I realized the room didn’t have any windows.
“Shuggie, huh. That your given name or a nickname?”
“Well, my name is really Itsuki. Itsuki Brennan. Shuggie is a nickname my stupid sister gave me when I was a baby because she has some kind of undiagnosed speech defect.”
“I’m sure you’re kidding. Shuggie’s a cute name—”
“For a girl?” Gerry gave me a sympathetic look and sat down on one of the folding chairs. He re-lit his pipe and took an exaggerated puff. “Johnny Otis’ son is named Shuggie. He’s a 12-year-old boy.”
“So, are you just here for the day?” Carole inquired.
“Oh no, you see, Bobby, that’s my boyfriend, except he doesn’t know we’re…uh…involved. We were supposed to be together for the summer. You know the tour with Hank & Honey. Then he tried to run off without me today after graduation. His graduation, not mine. I’m a senior this Fall…”
Gerry interjected between puffs, “You’re 17? That’s really young, don’t you think? Looks like your Romeo made a smart call.”
“Hey, I was 17 when we got married, mister.”
“That’s different. You were knocked up. I had to make you an honest woman.”
Turning away so they couldn’t see me blush, I said, “Well, there’s not much chance of that happening to me.”
“Shooting blanks, eh? Well, ladies, I’m gonna go over and talk to our fearless leader. He said he wanted us to write songs for some kiddie show the guys in La La Land are cooking up.” He strolled out after one final puff of his pipe.
“Don Kirshner’s the music supervisor for The Monkees TV show. It’s premiering on NBC this Fall.”
“Oh, yeah, they’re on the cover of Tiger Beat this month. Bobby doesn’t like that sort of music. He’s into Miles Davis and John Coltrane…whoever they are.”
“Well, he’s not going to play anything like that if he’s in Hank & Honey’s band. But everyone’s got to start somewhere. I should talk. Gerry and I wrote some treacle early on. Just to get a foot in the door.”
I was barely listening and started to quite unconsciously pace back and forth. Carole followed me with her eyes. I stopped and said to the wall, “Do you think they’ll let me in to see Bobby in the rehearsal studio? I’m afraid he’ll just forget about me and leave me stranded in the middle of Manhattan.”
“I don’t think he’d do that, Shuggie. Look, when Gerry comes back, I’ll walk you over there. It’s just up one block.”
“Thank you, Carole. I’d just die if I can’t spend the summer with him. I’ll lose him forever. He’ll go off to college or worse, he’ll actually play music for a living. There are lots of more…uh…mature girls out there. He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved.”
Carole turned around to face the keys of the piano and started playing the opening chords of "Go Away Little Girl": D, G, Em, G. I recognized it as a big hit for Steve Lawrence when I was in Junior High. Carole turned to me whenever the chorus came around, smiling, and winked.
When you're near me like this
You're much too hard to resist
So, go away little girl
Let's call it a day little girl
Please, go away little girl,
Before I beg you to stay.
“Your Bobby’s going to beg you stay. You’ll see.”
At that point, Gerry came back into the room, a scowl on his face. “Effing poohbah isn’t in today. Something about his daughter’s college graduation.”
“So, you had a nice long chat with his secretary instead, right? Let’s go, Shuggie, I’ll get you in to see your precious Bobby.”
Bobby was wailing on his saxophone when I walked into the rehearsal studio. The band was playing a soulful up-tempo arrangement of The Beatles’ latest hit, “We Can Work It Out.” Honey Hutch was singing without a microphone but her voice had plenty enough volume not to need one in this cozy studio. Hank’s Honeys, three young women dressed in casual tops and clamdiggers, lounged in folding chairs, singing back-up. The acoustic paneling on the walls didn’t totally suppress the band’s sound. I could hear them, albeit slightly muffled, as I approached down the hallway. Billy Schechter was standing by the doors, puffing away on a Marlboro. He seemed happy. Without a word, he opened the near door and shooed me in. He followed behind me.
When Bobby caught sight of me, he winked. Didn’t miss a beat though. Hank Hutch, a tall thin Black man with a finely trimmed goatee and slick, processed hair, was strumming away on his electric guitar, a gold Gibson Flying-V model that he played left-handed just like Albert King. When the song ended, he noticed me standing next to Billy by the doors.
“Hey, who’s that?” he shouted as everyone turned to look at me. Stupidly, I pointed at myself while swiveling my head to see who Hank was addressing.
“It’s cool, Hank. Just a friend of your new sax player. Don’t mind her.” Billy nodded toward me and dropped his filter tip to the floor, grinding it out with his cuban heel boot.
“Okay, fellas. Break. 10 minutes, tops. We’ll do that new number Chubby brought in.” Hank beckoned Billy over to him and they spoke in hushed tones. Something they didn’t want the rest of the group to overhear, I guess. Honey and the girls walked past me, giving me the side eye, as they went to the powder room en masse. Which reminded me I had to go myself. Maybe later would be better, huh?
“Hey, I was going to come looking for you the next long break we took. But here you are.” Bobby had a big smile on his face. Was it for me? Or for the fact he was fitting right in with Hank’s band?
“Carole walked me over and got me in the building. You look happy enough…to see me?”
“Sure.” He took me aside as a couple of the band members slapped Bobby on the back as they made their way toward the table in the corner of the room set up with a pair of electric coffee urns. “Listen. I called home and talked to my dad. He told me your parents are hot as lava. They think I kidnapped you. Dad knows I never intended you to come with me. It’s all your idea.”
“You think I’d just wait by the phone for you to call from Chicago or wherever? Maybe a couple of those “wish you were here” postcards?”
“Shuggie, you know what I’m saying.” Hank walked by us, pointing at his watch. “After we’re finished today, probably around 8 or 9, I’ll drive you back home. I’m praying your dad doesn’t own a shotgun.”
“Nah, he still has his Colt M1911 from the War…”
“Shit!”
“But I’m sure he’s out of ammo for it.”
“He’ll just pistol whip me to death instead, Shuggie.”
For the next five hours I watched them rehearse their hour-long set. Several times. Hank Hutch was a taskmaster. He screamed, bellowed, cajoled, even threatened with physical violence…and that was just with the women! He even called out Bobby a couple of times for missing a cue. I winced as Hank tore into him. But Bobby was stoic, just nodding and keeping his head down. Some of the other band members, especially Chubby the piano player, would talk back to Hank, sometimes erupting into loud shouting matches filled with expletives I’d never heard before. But, then again, I’m just a shy flower of a girl in whose mouth butter wouldn’t melt. No, really.
Around 7 o’clock, Billy had some food brought in from the diner across the street and we all chowed down. I was ravenously hungry. No solid food since breakfast. Just cups of awful tasting coffee. Honey Hutch plopped herself down in a chair next to Bobby and me. She gave me the once over before opening her mouth.
“Do you sing or dance?” I nodded, not in answer to her question, but impressed by her look. She was wearing huge loop earrings and her wig was wrapped in a colorful floral print silk scarf. She had the longest fake eyelashes I’ve ever seen. “So, when do we hear what you got?”
Bobby interjected, “She doesn’t sing or dance. She’s going back home tonight.”
“Too bad. You know, Hank really goes for young stuff. I was just 16 when we hooked up. He was playing a club where I grew up. In Tennessee. Ever been there?”
I stuttered out, “No, I’ve never been outside of New Jersey really.”
Honey stood up and looked down at me. “Well, nice to meet you anyway. Shuggie, is it? Hmmm. Never heard that name before. Not on a girl.” She walked away.
Alarmed, I whispered to Bobby, “Do you think she knows? About me, I mean.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You’re going home tonight.”
Suddenly I’d lost my appetite. I gave the rest of my meal to Bobby. He quite happily shoveled it onto his paper plate.
We walked quickly to where Bobby had parked his car earlier that day. It was dark. For some reason the streetlamps in this area didn’t shed much light on the street. I stumbled a few times trying to keep up with Bobby. He was carrying his sax case and keeping his free hand away from me. My skirt was too tight to increase my stride. I felt like shouting for Bobby to slow down but I didn’t want to draw more attention to us. Some of the pedestrians here gave me the willies.
There was a parking ticket stuck on a windshield wiper. “Oh shit, I got a ticket.”
“You’re lucky it’s not up on blocks and the trunk jimmied open. Where are we staying tonight?”
“You’re going home. This time of night, I can get you there in half an hour.”
I tried pleading, stamping my feet, even shedding a tear or two but Bobby was adamant. Thinking quickly, if not entirely wisely, I ran. Ran in a serpentine manner. Just like in the movies. It tends to confuse whoever is trying to catch you. At least in the movies.
“Shuggie, come back! What the fuck are you doing?”
I zigged and then zagged. I must have lost him when I zagged around a corner. Then, it occurred to me, I was lost myself. Afraid Bobby was just steps away, I dashed into the nearest subway entrance, almost tumbling down the stairs and colliding with a young guy wearing a NY Mets baseball cap.
Out of breath, I said, “Sorry.”
“No problem. It was my pleasure.” He doffed his cap and continued up the stairs.
I knew where I wanted to go. Would this subway take me there? I looked around for a friendly face. An older woman approached me.
“You look lost. Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m trying to get to Sheridan Square. Can I take this train?”
“Well, you can take the 1 train to Christopher Street. You can walk to Sheridan Square from there. May I ask what a young girl like you is doing in that part of the city at this time of night?”
“Oh, I’m going to see my sister. She’s here for the summer. I’m from Bergenfield, actually.”
“Surprise visit then? Hmmm. You should’ve called ahead. That part of town is quite dangerous, especially for a dainty little girl like you.”
“I can handle myself. I wrestled in school.”
“They have girls’ wrestling in New Jersey?”
“Oh, no. I wrestled with the boys.”
“Are we talking about the same thing, miss? Oh, look your train is coming. Here, take this token. You won’t have time to buy one at the booth.”
Grabbing the token, I waved to the lady, dropped the token into the slot and went through the turnstile. The doors of the subway car closed just as I stepped in. With a lurch, we moved out of the station. The passengers looked up and gave me a brief glance before going back to what they were doing before I appeared. I could see I was no longer in Bergenfield. That was for sure. They say New York City is the melting pot of the world. Exhibit One would be the subway car I was standing in. Every race, ethnic group, old, young, rich, poor, men, women, children. They were all represented in that car. And, of course, one special girl. Me!
While the subway proceeded through the seven stops to Christopher Street, I sat in a window seat and berated myself for having to do what I was about to do. Seeking my sister’s help. Connie was in the city for the summer, interning in the sales department for a major pharmaceutical corporation. Probably getting coffee and answering phones, ha! And getting paid less than the girls in the typing pool. Big deal. Anyway, she and her friend from Rutgers were both in that internship program and sharing a small apartment in the West Village for the summer. Mom and Dad were very proud of her and had implicit trust in her spending three months by herself in the big bad city. Knowing her, she was hitting the discotheques and sleeping with every Tom and Dick she met. She’d leave the Harrys to her roommate.
When I emerged from the station at Christopher Street, I could see Sheridan Square about three blocks southeast from where I stood. I had been here just two weeks ago as I got dragged along with the whole family (even sobo) in Dad’s car when Connie moved in. It was a furnished apartment. Badly furnished but, hey, who’s complaining? Her roommate didn’t arrive until we had all gone back to Bergenfield so I’d never met her. Well, she’s going to meet me now, up close and personal. That’ll be a hoot.
I pressed the buzzer for Connie’s apartment and waited for someone to speak through the intercom. At the same time, an elderly gentleman with gray hair walked by, replete in a metal studded biker outfit, cap, leather jacket, pants, and boots. He looked like a gone-to-seed Marlon Brando from The Wild One. Strangely, there was no sign of a motorcycle anywhere.
“Yes? Who’s there?” the intercom crackled like a transmission from Gemini 8 to mission control. I suppressed the urge to bark out in a gargled tone, “Roger. This is Gemini 8 to Capcom.” Instead, I decided to play it straight.
“Hello. Is Connie there? It’s Shuggie. Can I come up?”
My sister’s voice broke through the clatter like a banshee. “Shuggie?! Wait till I get my hands on you! Come up. Now!” The door buzzed open. I slipped into the building and took the stairs to the third floor. Before I could even knock, Connie opened the door to their apartment, an angry scowl on her face. “Get in here!” She pulled me in roughly by the arm and I was face to face with her roommate Lauren.
“Lauren, this is my brother Shuggie.” Lauren stood there, her mouth agape. I swear she blinked a couple of times like a character on a TV sitcom.
“Your brother? You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.”
“Your sister has such a filthy mouth. It’s shameful for a young woman to speak like that,” my grandma declared, shaking her head disdainfully. “I know she’s my grandchild but it’s hard to like her. I think she doesn’t like me.”
“Well, she takes after Dad. And he’s even told me he’s not too fond of you.”
“Yes, Kanako is very much her father’s daughter. But, you my Itsuki-chan, are definitely your mother’s daughter.” She crossed her arms and smiled at me.
“Yes, Mom, Shuggie’s right here, sitting next to me. He’s fine.”
My sister Connie was on the phone with Mom. She kept making faces at me as she tried to calm my mother, who sounded hysterical. Her roommate Lauren pretended she was reading that trashy novel, Valley of the Dolls. I don’t think she was snickering at the author’s insipid writing.
“No, Mom, he’s dressed …uh… normally.” She shot me an icy glare. “Eloping with Bobby?” she coughed up a laugh. “Where would you get that idea, Mom? Grandma? She’s…listen, she probably made that up to make Dad go nuts.”
I placed my head in my hands and tried to bury myself in the recesses of the couch, but the cushions were as hard as blocks of granite. I kept popping back up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Dad wants to speak to him? Okay, hang on.” Placing her hand over the transmitter, she said to me, “Dad. Be careful what you say.” I took the handset from her, cleared my throat, and then tried to speak in as masculine a voice as I could muster.
“Hello, sir. Yes, I’m okay. No, I’m not dressed like a girl!” Unfortunately, I squealed that last part. Trying to sound like Robert Merrill in the role of Figaro in a production of The Barber of Seville, I continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t apprise you of my plan to accompany Robert to his first day of rehearsal, sir. The time just flew by and, well, a telephone wasn’t available. Yes, I’m aware there are millions of payphones in a city the size of New York. Yes, I know I can get change of a dollar at any store.”
Connie ripped the phone from my hand and maintained a calm, even tone that seemed to slow Dad’s inquisition down. “Daddy, Shuggie’s safe and sound and I’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t worry. He can stay here tonight. Lauren won’t mind.” Lauren looked up from her book and shook her head from side to side. “Get some sleep, Dad. You don’t want to miss work two days in a row. Good night.” She hung up.
“I’m not paying for that long distance call,” Lauren declared as she turned back to her reading.
“Shuggie’s paying for it”
“I’m not the one with a job,” I parried.
“Okay, this is the plan. You’ll sleep on the couch. Go brush your teeth and—god, I can’t believe I’m saying this to my own brother—use some cold cream to take off your makeup—”
“I know how to do that!” I interjected.
“And remember to moisturize,” Lauren cackled from behind her book.
“Can I borrow some pajamas? Please?”
“Please do, Connie. I’ll have to tear my eyes out and throw them away if I see your brother in his knickers or, saints preserve us, I see his willie.”
I got up real early the next morning and decided to make nice with my sister and prepared breakfast for her and Lauren. El Pico coffee and toast. For myself, I had Cheerios in milk and sliced the lone banana I found in the kitchen. Potassium helps regulate fluid balance, muscle contractions and nerve signals. Very important for a growing girl like me.
They trudged in from the bedroom they shared, looking more tired than when they shuffled off to sleep last night. They just grumbled, sat down, and started buttering their toast. Connie didn’t even blink when I poured hot java into her cup. Now I know how Mom feels every morning.
“I’m going to see Bobby today and get my luggage and makeup case.”
“Okay, I can give you money for the bus. Get your stuff from Bobby and go down to Port Authority, take the 177 express to Washington Avenue and call Mom. She’ll pick you up.” I nodded and tried not slurp my milk as I usually do. Connie had no idea what my plan for the day was. I was going to get a job so I could go on the summer tour with Bobby. There must be something I could do. I wasn’t one of only two boys in school to take typing and home economics classes for nothing! And I know I typed faster and baked better than Freddy.
After Connie handed me a crisp ten-dollar bill and waved goodbye as she and Lauren went off to work, I made a beeline to their room. I couldn’t show up today wearing the same shmata I had on the day before. I needed to take a look at what Connie had in her closet. She won’t mind if I borrow some nice things. After all, that’s what sisters do, don’t they?
Their bedroom consisted of twin beds, a set of drawers they shared, a small vanity, two chairs, and an armoire. I opened the armoire and rifled through Connie’s dresses. Good thing we were about the same size. Well, she’s a little bustier than I am. And her hips are a little bigger. Other than that, we’re a perfect match!
My choices came down to a pink floral print knee length dress, a brownish tweed skirt suit set with too many pockets, and a blue rayon mini dress with a jewel neckline, puff sleeves and button front. I thought blue was more my color than brown or pink and the mini dress would show off my nicely shaved legs. Done! Now, lingerie. Well, Connie’s bras wouldn’t fit me at all. She’s a B cup at least. Digging through her lingerie drawer, I found a panty girdle that might be a fit. Maidenform! I can see the full-page ad in Vogue now: “Shuggie Brennan’s dreams begin with a Maidenform girdle.” I found the cutest knee-high lace-up white boots with sensible two-inch heels in the armoire. Mine! My knock-off Hermes bucket bag didn’t quite go with my outfit but nobody’s perfect.
A little blush, mascara, Connie’s peach lipstick and voila! I puckered my lips in the bathroom mirror and blushed. How can they not give me a job when I look like this? Mom would be so proud of her beautiful daughter. Dad would have a seizure.
When I strode into 1650 Broadway, looking and feeling years older than 17, the doorman remembered me from the day before and held up his hand.
“Hey, Miss, going up to the rehearsal studio?” I nodded. “These music people don’t usually get started until after 12 noon. Even that’s kinda early. Come back in a couple of hours.” I thanked him and turned to make a graceful exit, feeling a bit like a greenhorn for not knowing. He tipped his cap and smiled. Or was it a leer?
I wandered about for a few minutes on Broadway before The Woolworth’s on the corner of 47th Street drew me in to buy a pack of gum. Doublemint gum to be exact. However, while I was at the register paying for it, a display of lollipops brought a smile to my lips. I’m kind of old for lollipops and the clerk at the register smirked when I added a lemon lollipop to my purchase. I sauntered over to the houseplants department. Sucking on my lollipop, the sweetly sour taste made my face scrunch up in a funny way while I examined a potted aloe vera plant. It would look nice in Mom’s kitchen window. The price tag read a reasonable $2.50.
“That’ll look nice on your desk.” I looked up at a tall man who looked to be in his 40s, wearing an expensive pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit, topped by a dark fedora on his head. I plucked the lollipop out of my mouth. “Pardon?” I blinked at him.
“A little greenery can distract from the gray mundanity of modern office life.”
“Oh, I don’t work in an office. I haven’t even graduated from high school yet.”
“That’s surprising. The way you look. The way you carry yourself. I’d have thought you were a recent college graduate at least.” Blushing, I thanked him. I realized I was holding a rather sticky lollipop in my right hand and a potted aloe vera in my left. My bucket bag was hanging from my right forearm. In short, I looked silly.
“My wife doesn’t understand me.” He stepped closer. I handed the plant to him with a smile. He juggled it for a moment.
“Here, give her this. It’ll brighten up her day. Bye!” I turned and walked very quickly toward the store exit without looking back.
Where could I go to kill a couple of hours? Maybe I could see if Carole and Gerry are in their office. They wouldn’t mind me hanging out with them, would they? I can be very quiet when I want to. It’s just that I rarely if ever want to. My teachers always encourage us to participate in class. I’m just participating in life.
I poked my head through the doorway and saw Carole sitting at the piano, tickling the ivories, and humming some melody. Gerry was on the phone, listening with an annoyed look on his face, puffing on his pipe. Waving to Carole, I quietly sat down on a folding chair, primly keeping my knees together, my bag on my lap.
“Hey, Shuggie, I thought you’d be back in Bergenfield today.”
“I stayed with my sister last night. She and her roommate have an apartment in the Village. Anyway, I’m still planning to go on the tour with Bobby. I think I can get them to hire me.”
“Hire you? To do what?”
“I could be a really good assistant. You know, typing, answering phones, that kind of stuff.”
Carole turned to face me. “They’ve got a road manager for that. Ray Barretto, best road manager in the business. East Coast anyways. He has all the contacts, knows every hotel manager, travel agent, equipment tech, and late-night diner in every city from Boston to Chicago. There are doubts he can actually read and write. Just talks on the phone.” My face fell. Another hope dashed.
“What am I gonna do? My parents won’t let me stay in the city unless I can get a job. They think I’m coming home today. If I could at least spend some time with Bobby before he walks out of my life forever.” I started to tear up.
Gerry had finished his phone call and was re-lighting his pipe. “Tough break, kid. But, you know, these teenage crushes are doomed from the beginning—”
“Why didn’t someone tell me before I met you?” Carole said to the ceiling. She turned to me with a bright expression on her face. “How good is your typing? Are you fast and accurate?”
“I can type 60 words a minute and I’m 93% accurate.”
“That’s better than what I did at James Madison High. Impressive.”
“Especially when you consider I was one of only two…uh…”
“Two what?”
“Juniors. We were juniors. Everyone else in class was a senior.” I would’ve whistled in relief but, thankfully, I can’t whistle. Carole continued.
“Gerry, what do you say we hire Shuggie to be our personal assistant? Jot down lyrics, type them up. You and I both can’t make out my chicken scrawl handwriting sometimes. And she’s a better typist than I am.”
“We could take her salary out of our expense budget. Say $1.50 an hour?”
I jumped out of my chair and hugged Carole. “Thank you! Thank you! I promise I’ll be the best assistant ever!”
“What? No hug for me? You’re working for me too, you know.” I rushed over and hugged Gerry as well. He held onto me a little bit longer than necessary.
“We’ve been working on this song all morning. Take my pad and write down the lyrics as I play. Here’s a pencil. It’s a little rough. I have to sing it in E since it’s written for a guy voice. I’d rather sing it in A. More my range. Gerry’s got a little sore throat. Otherwise, he’d sing it. I’m losing you with all this, aren’t I?” I just nodded, my pencil at the ready. Gerry had come over and stood by the piano, staring at me rather intently. Carole started playing. She told me the title was “Sometime in the Morning.”
“That’s beautiful,” I said when Carole was finished. She smiled.
“How much of that did you get? We’ll run through it a couple more times. I’m still working out the phrasing here and there.”
“Mrs. Winston said I had the best shorthand in our class. But, yeah, I could hear that another time at least.” I giggled. Gerry smiled. You know, he’s a nice-looking man. An older man. But nice-looking all the same. I covered my mouth to stop giggling like a 3-year-old.
“One of the most important duties of a personal assistant is getting coffee. The kitchen’s down the hall to the left.” Gerry pointed with his pipe.
We worked on three songs in all that day, although two of them were incomplete. One, in fact, just had a verse and a chorus. Still, I typed them all up along with carbon copies. Carole only found a handful of typos, so I had to type those over again. But they had plenty of paper and you could reuse the carbons a zillion times. I even suggested they invest in a mimeograph machine. Gerry said they might do that just to sniff the ink that permeated the stencils. “I always volunteered for the ditto squad at school. About 15 minutes in, we’d be weaving around the library office like drunken sailors.”
It was a little after 5 o’clock when Carole and Gerry left for the day, driving back to their house in the well-to-do suburb of West Orange, New Jersey. I sprinted over to 1650 Broadway to see Bobby. I had good news to tell him! Working for Carole and Gerry meant Bobby and I could spend a romantic month together in the Big Apple. There’ll be a teary farewell at the end, but I’ll have these memories forever. Maybe the time together alone can keep me in Bobby’s thoughts while he’s on tour and, hopefully, as long as we may be apart in the future, whatever he decides to do after September.
I was surprised to see the addition of a string section to the band when I quietly snuck into the rehearsal studio. They were in the middle of a duet number between Hank and Honey, with backing vocals by the Honeys, who were doing some coordinated dance moves to one side. Billy Schechter nodded and motioned to me to have a seat next to him on the studio’s old vinyl couch. He mouthed “It Takes Two” and smiled. They were doing a cover of the old Marvin Gaye/Kim Weston song. Bobby spotted me and missed two bars of the song, he was so surprised. Fortunately, no one really noticed, and I looked away quickly. Only to see Billy offering me a Marlboro. I shook my head, putting my hand up. He mouthed “Not your brand?” I nervously smiled in reply as he lit his own smoke.
They rehearsed for another hour or so and then packed up their instruments before scattering. Billy told them they were on their own until tomorrow afternoon. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kids.” He laughed, patting people on the back as they shuffled out the doors. Once again, the Honeys gave me the side eye as they undulated past. Hank winked at me before feigning an exchange of punches with Billy. They both laughed as they walked out together. Bobby and I were the last to leave the studio. I reached over to take his hand, and, to my surprise, he wrapped his large hand over my slim fingers. He even noticed my peach-colored nail polish.
Bobby said we needed to sit down and talk so we walked the two blocks to Tad’s Steakhouse where we could have their famous $1.09 steak dinner. It was a great deal: a T-Bone steak, baked potato, garlic bread, and tossed salad.
“What wine do you recommend, Bobby?”
“Just order the iced tea like you usually do. I’ll just have the water. Listen, Shuggie, I was going to bring your luggage to you tomorrow morning. What are you doing still here?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed. Are you disappointed? Like, really?”
“No, of course not. But there’s no way you can stay with me. I’m crashing at the bass player’s apartment and his wife isn’t too happy about it. They’ve got a baby. I must have woke up 2 or 3 times from the crying last night.”
“Well, I got a job! If I’m working, my dad can’t complain. He doesn’t want me around anyway. I think he’s kind of ashamed of me.”
“What kind of job?”
“I’m Carole and Gerry’s personal assistant. They’re paying me $1.50 an hour!”
“That’s minimum wage, Shuggie. Where are you gonna stay? Your sister’s?”
“I guess so. I was hoping to stay with you but…they’re not putting you up in a hotel?”
“I’m lucky to get per diem. They’re not paying me a real salary until the tour starts. Hey, where’d you get all these…clothes? I mean, in all the time we’ve known each other, sure I’ve seen you dressed up a few times. But never in public. And I looked in your suitcase. Sorry but you didn’t lock it. Where’d you get the outfits?”
“Oh, that. What do you think we do in Home Economics? It’s not that hard to make a dress or two. I told Mrs. Rheingold I was making them for Connie. Connie was in her class three years ago. And the other stuff I bought from thrift stores. Grandma gave me a load of cash for my birthday in May.”
“You made what you’re wearing right now?”
“No, this is my stupid sister’s dress. And boots. And makeup. She won’t even know it’s missing.”
“She will now when you show up wearing it all.”
“I guess I’ve got no other choice.”
“Come on. I’ll drive you downtown. Billy got me a space in the parking garage courtesy of his record label. I don’t even have to pay for it.”
I pressed the doorbell while Bobby carried my luggage in both hands. I heard the thud of footsteps getting louder and then the door opened, offering us a sight that made Bobby drop his dual burden.
Before Connie could speak, I practically shouted, “I got a job! I can stay in the city…with you guys!”
“Well, in that case, I’ll want that $10 back right now.”
“Your sister is a real tightwad,” my grandma sighed.
“Well, she is a business major.”
The front door slammed shut. My parents were home from visiting my convalescing Aunt Brenda. As I got up from the kitchen table where we had been sitting after destroying the Hawaiian pizza, I stifled a yawn.
“We’ll continue the story tomorrow night after dinner, sobo.”
“This is like Days of Our Lives except I can understand more of it.”
The next day in AP Math class, our Vice Principal opened the door halfway and silently beckoned to me. Did they know I was wearing panties underneath my corduroy slacks? I kept my head down as I left the room, his hand surprisingly light on my shoulder.
“You father is here. You need to go with him.” I looked at him and felt myself shiver, my mouth agape. Was I in deep do-do? “He’s in the office waiting for you. He’ll tell you what’s happened.” We were in the administrative office now and I could see my father, in his floor manager smock with his name and title stitched above his heart-side pocket, wearing a serious expression on his face.
As we walked quickly to our car, Dad told me Mom had discovered Grandma slumped over in her chair in the garden, unresponsive, her breathing ragged and shallow. Mom was home since she worked Thursday through Monday at the hospital as a pediatric nurse. They think she had a stroke. I started crying and Dad patted me on the knee. “She’ll be alright. She’s a tough cookie. Don’t fall apart on me, okay?”
Even though my mother worked in a hospital, I hated being inside one. I managed to hold the tears and dread in as we met up with Mom and she took us to the Emergency Room. Almost hidden beneath a web of tubes, an IV bag hanging over her right shoulder, and hooked up to a vital signs monitor, was my sobo. She appeared to be asleep, masking the severity of her condition. But the doctor on duty was optimistic. He surmised it was a minor stroke. Of course, once they got her stabilized, they’d have her undergo a phalanx of tests to get a real prognosis. He smiled comfortingly as he spoke to us. Mom nodded and assured us Doctor Ramsey was just the best.
Several hours later, exhausted from worry and uninterested in food (although Mom assured me the cafeteria fare was quite acceptable), I was ecstatic to see Grandma respond to us, even though her voice was raspy and weak. Mom asked Dad to take me home. She said I needed my eight hours of sleep since I had school tomorrow. I argued the point, but Dad just gently pushed me toward the exit. Grandma had fallen asleep again, but I told her I would see her right after school the next day anyway.
After Dad dropped me off at home and drove back to the hospital, I ran up to my room, performed my nightly ablutions, and put on the extra-large Joe Namath uniform jersey I used as a nightgown facsimile. It came down almost to my knees. Dad had seen me in it numerous times. He did ask me once why I didn’t exchange it for something in my proper size. I told him they were out of medium. He just shook his head and turned back to Johnny Carson on the TV.
Unable to fall asleep, I went to my closet and pulled out Harold, my life-sized stuffed Bengal tiger. I’d had him since I was 5 years old despite Dad having waged a never-ending campaign to have him dumped in the garbage. He said it was disappointing to have a son who was so attached to a little girl’s doll. I know he felt that way from the very first moment he and I set eyes on Harold.
It was the summer of 1954. I was 5 years old and my sister was 8. Dad had driven two hours to have us spend a day in Atlantic City. Back then, it was the fabled site of the Miss America pageant, with a boardwalk, the famous Steel Pier, saltwater taffy, grand hotels with Vegas-like floor shows and concerts (Al Martino was the headliner that weekend!), and amusement park rides for the kiddies.
After a long day in the hot July sun, we were ready to embark upon the two-hour drive back to Bergenfield. Mom and Connie had gone off to find the ladies’ room. Dad and I waited for them next to our car parked outside of Hackney’s Seafood Restaurant where we had just had the catch of the day. I was glad I had refrained from puking my dinner although Connie kept goading me with burping noises. I think I’m allergic to fish. Everyone else in the family loves seafood.
A middle-aged couple, dressed in the summer fashions of the leisure class, approached the restaurant and passed in front of Dad and me. The woman was cradling a life-sized stuffed tiger in her arms, laughing and walking arm-in-arm with her gentleman. She stopped when she saw me.
“Oh, what a lovely little girl!” My father almost jumped. He didn’t manage to say anything but just stood behind me. At first, I didn’t realize she was talking about me. But I was dressed in short shorts, an orange striped t-shirt, and I was still wearing one of Connie’s pink plastic headbands that Mom had deployed to keep my short but unruly hair out of my eyes at dinner. And, heck, I was one cute little tyke.
“Bill, would you be awfully put out if I gave the little prize you won for me to this cute little girl?” she asked the man with her. He shrugged and smiled. “Well, our reservation is for two not three so I guess the least we can do is find a new home for him.”
“Would you like tiger, sweetie?” She placed the over-sized doll in my hands and all I could do was stand it next to me, it was so large.
“Lady, it’s real nice of you but I can’t accept it. Thank you all the same. Shuggie, give the nice lady back the tiger.”
Bill shook his head. “Hey, your little girl here really likes it, don’t you?” I nodded enthusiastically. The lady beamed at me. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as my Italian grandfather always said. Have a nice evening.” With that, they walked into the restaurant.
Only seconds later, Mom and Connie finally showed up. Of course, Connie immediately ran to hug the tiger. “Connie, he’s mine. A nice lady gave him to me. Daddy, tell Connie!” My father rubbed his face in exasperation and told Connie to hold off. He turned to Mom. “Some rich dame thought Shuggie was a girl. Gave him the tiger. They wouldn’t take no for an answer.” With arms akimbo, Dad bellowed, “Everyone! In the car. We’re going home.”
On the two-hour trip home, Dad kept trying to pawn the tiger off to Connie or, as a last resort, just toss the thing out the window. But I kept my little arms around Harold, as I had already named him, and swore I’d never give him up. Surprisingly, Connie told Dad she didn’t mind me keeping Harold. She was too old to play with stuffed dolls anyway, she said. Dad finally acquiesced but I could tell he was thinking up a plan as he was driving.
I lay in bed, wide awake, the memory of that day still causing my heart to ache. Even 12 years later. Here I am seeking comfort from a stuffed animal my eight-year-old sister didn’t even think twice about spurning. As I brushed the plush fabric with my hand, I couldn’t help but think I might never get the chance to finish telling sobo about my summer adventure. For my own sake, I started to tell Harold what happened after I returned to Connie’s doorstep that evening with Bobby in tow, carrying my luggage. Maybe the words will reach sobo somehow.
Connie wasn’t too happy about me living with her and Lauren in their tiny apartment but, since I could pay my share of the rent now that I had a job, she decided to tolerate my presence. She even smoothed over our parents’ apprehension about my staying in New York for at least the rest of the month (until Bobby goes on tour with Hank & Honey). Of course, she didn’t mention I was presenting as a girl. I could tell her business classes and internship were shaping her into a crack saleswoman. She could sell ice to Eskimos! Bring coal to Newcastle! Send cheese to the moon!
Connie was happy about one thing: not having to lend me anymore of her clothing now that I had secured my luggage. However, she did tell me I could keep the panty girdle I had borrowed. So, it seems my Maidenform dreams would continue.
With these matters settled, my days were a delightful routine of assisting Carole and Gerry from about 10 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, then rushing over to 1650 Broadway to watch Bobby rehearse until around 7 or 8 in the evening. Bobby and I would catch some dinner in midtown, and he’d drive me back down to the Village afterwards. One night we went to see John Coltrane, Bobby’s favorite sax player, at The Village Vanguard on 7th Avenue and Waverly Place. Although I was sort of bored by what Bobby told me was modal jazz, it suited me fine because I got to spend time with him, and it was a 2-minute drive from Connie’s apartment in Sheridan Square. Bobby only got Sundays off and I suggested we go see a movie but nothing interesting was showing in Manhattan. The only realistic choices were an Elvis movie, The Russians Are Coming, and Khartoum. That was an easy pass. We took a romantic stroll in Central Park instead. Well, I thought of it as romantic. I don’t know what Bobby was thinking. Were we just best buddies? He did hold my hand when the crowd thinned out in certain parts of the park.
That question occupied my mind so much that on Monday morning I hesitantly asked Carole what she would do in my situation. After all, she was a mature and worldly woman who knew enough about the intricacies of love to have written dozens of hit songs chronicling every aspect of the subject. I took the opportunity to broach the topic when Gerry was on the phone waking up someone “on the coast” and Carole was playing back a demo they’d recorded on a Wollensak reel to reel machine.
“I don’t know what’s going on with Bobby and me. Should I just ask him point blank what his feelings are about us? I mean, we’ve been best friends since kindergarten.”
“There’s no doubt about your feelings toward him. Hmm, maybe he just sees you as a little sister. I had crushes on guys in high school and it wasn’t pretty when they acted surprised that I felt that way about them. Gerry and I met in college. Things get more serious when you mature a little.”
“So you think it’s kind of puppy love? But, Carole, he’s my whole world. I think about him day and night. Everyone thinks I ran off with Bobby. Except maybe Bobby.”
“Do you think he’s involved with another girl?”
“He dated this girl Rachel and she’s very pretty. But I didn’t think it was serious. Some of his buddies might have dared him to. Rachel’s very popular.”
Carole switched off the tape machine and sat down at the piano. “Well, my advice is to clear this up with Bobby as soon as possible. It’ll save everyone a lot of grief, especially if he doesn’t feel that way about you. It might hurt real bad for a while but you’ve got your whole life in front of you. Someday you’ll find someone who returns your feelings. I’m sure a beautiful girl like you won’t be lacking for suitors.”
“I’m afraid of what he might say…” I was cut short when Carole started to play. It was a song they’d written for The Shirelles but first released by Maxine Brown, “Oh No Not My Baby.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Shuggie. There’s a whole world of boys out there. If Bobby isn’t the one, he’s a loser, not you.”
“I know…but I really really love him so so much.” At that moment, Gerry slammed the phone down.
“Kirshner wants us in LA in two weeks. The Monkees need some more songs for their album. Apparently, Boyce and Hart are a little slow on coming up with those Beatles sound-alike tunes they promised.”
Tuesday morning started out really well. Connie and Lauren had left for work over an hour before. I had even scrambled some eggs and fried some sausages for breakfast. I’m getting good at this domestic stuff. And Connie gladly lent me the pinafore apron Mom had gifted her (which she never wore). Visions of sitting at the breakfast table with Bobby, smiling as I poured his coffee, filled my head even as I was humming “Oh No Not My Baby.”
Dressed in the floral print summer frock I had made in Home Ec. class, I stepped out of the building and squinted at the bright morning sun. I was about to go back up and retrieve my sunglasses when I saw Mom getting out of her parked car across the street! When she spotted me, she froze in the middle of the street and a car whizzed by, just missing her by inches. Fortunately, I was wearing my ballet flats that day and ran over to her, grabbed her arm, and dragged her onto the sidewalk.
“Shuggie? You’re…you’re—”
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry we lied to you. It’s…I’m—”
“Beautiful! Just so beautiful. I can’t believe it.”
“Aren’t you mad, Mom?”
“No, Shuggie. How can I be angry at my beautiful little girl?” She hugged me and kissed my forehead. Tears were starting to well up in her eyes. I was crying too. We made quite a scene in the middle of Sheridan Square.
“But how? Does everyone think you’re a girl? Is Bobby in on this? Did he make you do this?”
“We need to sit down and talk, Mom. But, right now, I’ll be late for work if we do that here.”
“I’ll drive you. Just help me with directions. You know I hate driving in the city. It’s so confusing.” We crossed the street again. This time we looked both ways first.
“And I’ll have to speak to this Mrs. King that you’re working for. Does she know? You didn’t tell her?”
“She doesn’t have to know. Mom! She totally thinks I’m a girl. Can’t we just leave well enough alone?”
“No, Shuggie. It’s not right to fool your employer. If she finds out eventually, she won’t be happy you tricked her. You’re legally a boy. And you’re 17.”
What should have been a 15-minute ride turned out to take over half an hour. Uptown traffic even after rush hour is horrible. I would have been better off taking the subway. And immensely better off if my mother weren’t driving me. The whole way up 6th Avenue I tried to dissuade Mom from speaking to Carole. That would end with me getting fired and being forced to return home, my tail between my legs, to endure humiliating recriminations by my father. Dad once threatened to enlist me in the army to make a real man out of me. Can he do that?
“Hi, Carole, Gerry.” My voice was tremulous, betraying the force of emotions behind it. “This is my mother.” She stepped out from behind me and gave them a tiny wave of her hand.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. King.” Carole smiled ruefully and Gerry just nodded.
“Please just call me Carole, Mrs. Brennan. I can see where your daughter gets her looks.”
”Thank you, Carole. I’m Eriko. “ She lowered her voice. “Can I speak to you? In private?” She glanced at Gerry, smiling sweetly. Gerry stood up and approached me.
“Come on, Shuggie. Let’s go downstairs and get an egg cream. Your mother and Carole can get acquainted.”
With a desperate, beseeching look on my face, I touched Mom’s arm. “Mom?” She patted my hand. “Go with Mr. King. It’s alright.” Gerry hooked his arm around my shoulder and gently led me out into the hallway. I shot Mom one last imploring look as Carole closed the door to their office.
We walked south, Gerry whistling a tune that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t identify, and me, barely picking up my feet like a condemned woman being led to the electric chair. I would never have envisioned my own mother pulling the switch. My dad, yes, my mom, never.
Four city blocks later, we stopped in front of Howard Johnson’s Restaurant (HoJo to those in the know). “Ever had an egg cream?” Gerry asked me.
“What’s that?”
He laughed. “You really are from Jersey.” Ushering me in, Gerry guided me toward a booth with a window view. “You’re in for a treat if you’ve never had one. I’m from Brooklyn, where they invented it. Like ambrosia. Food of the gods. You’ll see.”
After Gerry ordered, we kind of just stared at each other across the table. I would have whistled, but I can’t, so I just sat there. Gerry looked out the window and at one point actually waved to someone walking by outside. The man stopped for a second, looked at me, and gave Gerry a thumbs up. What was that all about?
The waitress placed two tall fountain glasses filled to the rim with a chocolate-colored liquid. Gerry motioned for me to take a sip. I put the straw in my mouth and siphoned the concoction as Gerry grinned.
“This is good but it’s just a chocolate soda.”
“No, no, no. Egg creams are made with milk, seltzer, and chocolate syrup. Way better than chocolate soda.”
He was right. This was much better. So, we sipped and slurped away. Then, mid-slurp, Gerry turned serious.
“What’s the deal with your mom? Have you escaped from some booby hatch? Or worse even some penitentiary? Did you kill your sister for making everyone call you Shuggie?”
“It’s kind of unusual.” Looking around, I lowered my voice and leaned in across the table. “I’m actually a boy.” Gerry guffawed and then realized I wasn’t kidding.
“Jesus H. Christ.” He lowered his voice. “Are you like, and no offense, but…are you a fagela? No offense.”
“No, I’m not a…a fagela. If you mean what I think you mean. I’m a girl. It’s just I have some extra parts that I don’t want.”
“Does Bobby know?”
Of course. We’ve known each other since I was 5 and he was 6.”
“So, he’s a fagela?”
“No!” I said angrily. “He’s only interested in girls. I’m a special girl.”
“That’s why your mother wanted to speak to Carole discreetly. Well, listen, I’m shocked but I’ve got nothing against however people want to live. He, she, it. Makes no difference to me. Of course, other people might have different opinions.”
“Do you think Carole will fire me?”
“I don’t know. She’s a very liberal person. Voted for Johnson last time. But I don’t think she likes being made a fool of.”
“I wasn’t doing it to trick her. I just needed a way to spend the summer with Bobby. I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. When Mom tells Dad about this, I’m toast.”
He looked at his watch, took a final sip of his egg cream, and stood up. “No sense delaying the inevitable, whatever she decides. Let’s head back.”
As we walked back up Broadway to the office, a black Lincoln Continental, headed in the opposite direction, stopped near us and idled six feet from the curb. The rear side window rolled down and a balding man with a graying beard poked his head out.
“Hey, Gerry!”
“Jerry! I thought you were in LA.”
“Headed to the airport right now. Who’s the young lady?”
“Jerry Wexler, Atlantic Records macher. Meet my personal assistant, Shuggie.” I smiled reflexively although my glum mood hadn’t lifted and gave him a tiny finger wave.
“Charmed, I’m sure. Listen, before I get a ticket for double parking, I’m signing Aretha Franklin to Atlantic and working on the right kind of material for her talent. Plan to start recording in October or November down in Muscle Shoals. You know I’m really into like blues, soul, gospel stuff. That’s where Aretha should be. She’s not Sarah Vaughan, you dig?”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“Well, I’d like Aretha to sing about being a ‘natural woman.’ Down home, grits and pig feet, Black church, all that imagery. Just a hunch it could be perfect for her. She could sing the shit out of that phrase. Excuse my French, Shuggie.”
“We’ll work on it. Do a demo and send it out to you. Okay?”
Wexler waved and rolled up his window. The limo drove off. We continued our trek toward the office. “Don’t be all doom and gloom, Shuggie. Another year and you’ll be 18. You could get a sex change operation like Christine Jorgensen. Your parents can’t stop you then.”
“Yeah, well it takes money I don’t have. And no way of making that kind of money anytime soon.”
“It’s tough, Shuggie. I feel bad for you. You make a really beautiful girl too. Shame you were born a boy instead.”
The office door was wide open when we made it back. Carole and Mom were talking quietly. Mom was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. I was bracing for the bad news.
“We’re back,” Gerry intoned quietly. That left me standing in the doorway, afraid to move, afraid to ask the obvious question. Mom walked over to me after shaking Carole’s hand.
“I have to get to work, Shuggie. I could only take a half-day. Carole and I had a nice chat. She’ll tell you what we decided. And, don’t worry, I won’t tell your father. He doesn’t need to know. Goodbye, sweetie.” She kissed me on the cheek and walked away. I turned toward Carole.
“Sit down, Shuggie. We need to talk.”
I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing as I sat down across from Carole and Gerry. The summer of my dreams was about to end in ignominious humiliation. Through wet eyes I looked down at the dress I was so proud of making by myself in Home Economics class. Mrs. Rheingold told me my sister would be ecstatic that I’d made such a lovely dress for her. She’d probably laugh at me now or, worse, sneer at my “perversity.” And Dad will kill me when he finds out. Would Mom tell him? It wasn’t something I’d bet against.
“Don’t cry, Shuggie,” entreated Carole as she handed me some Kleenex. I remembered to dab, not wipe. But a few sniffles escaped as I tried to collect myself.
“I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to answer me very honestly.”
“Uhh…o-o-kay.”
“Are you doing this just to make Bobby fall in love with you or do you really feel like you’re a girl not a boy?” I was taken aback by Carole’s question. In truth, it was both. But I knew the answer she’d probably prefer. So, I offered “I am a girl! I’ve always known I was a girl. From as early as I can remember. My sister even said so. It’s just I don’t look like a girl…you know…my body…”
“Shuggie, your mother told me that when you were born the doctors weren’t sure whether you were a boy or a girl. They recommended that you be raised as a boy because they kind of threw their hands up.”
“Mom told me that Dad wanted me to be a boy in the worst way. But…but Mom always said she thought I was a girl with…with something extra. That’s not a medical opinion though. Doctor Krantz says I’m just a late bloomer. I could develop any day now…”
“Seventeen is more than a little late for “development.” You need to see some specialists. Child welfare should charge your father with child abuse, really.”
“Dad loves me…in his own way.”
“Be that as it may, Shuggie, your mother urged me to let you keep working for us. And I’m inclined to do just that. She knows this is your last best chance to live out your dream of being a girl, if only for a few weeks or months before you have to go back to school and be a boy again. She loves her younger daughter very much.”
“You mean I’m not fired?”
“No, Gerry and I both think you’re a wonderful and—”
“Unique,” Gerry interjected.
“Uh huh, unique personal assistant. And we’re happy to have you.”
I hugged them both and apologized for making their clothes wet with my tears.
“I have to fix my face. I’m sure I look like a raccoon.”
“Well, a very pretty raccoon in this case,” Gerry said, smiling.
“Sometimes people can be nice. Even in this country.”
My grandmother smiled at me, lying in her hospital bed. They had moved her to a semi-private room. There were two other patients curtained off so that a modicum of privacy was afforded. They gave sobo the bed closest to the window and I sat in the cramped space between it and her bed. I thought she’d been asleep while I picked up the story where we’d left off, the night we ordered pizza. Before she suffered a minor stroke. As I had promised, I came by bus directly after school.
“Go on, shojo. I’m listening.”
Later that day, Gerry and Carole worked on lyrics for the song Jerry Wexler wanted for Aretha Franklin, centered on the phrase “a natural woman.” As Gerry tossed out fragments of lines, I jotted them down. Carole would also throw out ideas but mostly hunched over the piano, humming as she developed a vamp with the song’s opening bars. Around 2 PM, a man and a woman who looked to be in their mid-twenties like Gerry and Carole burst into the room. The man was brandishing a clutch of sheet music and the woman hooted and hollered, waving her arms excitedly.
“Gerry! Carole! We need your help!” Carole pivoted on her chair and Gerry took his pipe out of his mouth, startled out of his lyrical ruminations.
“What’s going on?” Carole asked, holding her hands up like a traffic cop.
The couple turned out to be Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann, another husband/wife songwriting team like Gerry and Carole, who were famous for having written that huge hit for The Righteous Brothers 2 years ago, “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.” Barry placed the sheets on the music rack and the three of them huddled around Carole. I silently joined them, keeping myself a foot or two behind.
“Who’s this? I know we’ve been in LA for a while but Louise couldn’t have turned into a teenager overnight,” Barry said, laughing.
“No, Barry, Louise is still only 7. This is our new assistant, Shuggie.” I smiled as Carole ‘formally’ introduced me to Barry and Cynthia. I noticed that Barry winked at Gerry, who quickly turned away and relit his pipe. Cynthia redirected everyone’s attention to the sheet music.
“So, we’re already getting artists who want to cover “(You’re My) Soul and Inspiration” only weeks after it hit the top of the charts. Thing is, we’d like to see it done by a female singer. A medley of “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” and “Soul and Inspiration.” Maybe someone like Dusty Springfield or Petula Clark.”
“I thought of reaching out to Peggy Lee,” Barry interjected.
“We changed the lyrics to suit a girl’s point of view and transposed the key from B a half step to C. But neither I nor Cyn can sing in that register,” Barry stated, a smirk on his lips.
“Okay, Barry, we get it. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Carole, will you give it a try? We just want to hear what it could sound like in a higher key.”
“I don’t think that would work for me, Cyn. You’d need a real alto voice for this. Maybe even a pure contralto.” I raised my hand timidly. All four looked at me, puzzled.
“I could give it a try. I’m in the range of F3 to F5.”
“That’s pretty low for a girl. I didn’t know you could read music, Shuggie,” Carole exclaimed in mock surprise.
“You never asked. I was in the band at school. I really just got involved because Bobby was so into music, even when we were in elementary school. I play alto clarinet. Rather badly actually,” I added, blushing a crimson tide across my cheeks. When they didn’t comment, I explained, “I could never get my embouchure right. It’s my lips. Maybe something’s wrong with them.”
“Betcha that’s not what Bobby would say,” Gerry said under his breath as Carole drew me closer to the piano so I could read off the sheet music. I exhaled, tried to find somewhere to place my hands and waited for Carole to complete the intro. Then I sang.
There was something close to stunned silence when Carole played the final chord. The three of them exchanged looks. Barry spoke first.
“Wow! I think you’ve got another Little Eva here, Carole.” Turning to me, he asked with incredulity, “You’re not a professional?” I shook my head no. Cynthia grabbed my shoulders. “Oh, god, girl! You’ve got talent! Gerry, why aren’t you producing this little doll?”
Carole stood up from the piano and rescued me from Barry and Cynthia’s clutches. “She’s still in school. And her parents don’t want her in the business at her age.” Gerry blurted out, “And she’s got sort of a medical condition.”
Concerned, Barry and Cynthia both asked “What condition?” Giving them my most bashful expression, I told them, “It’s kind of really personal. I’d rather not talk about it.”
After a few awkward minutes, Barry and Cynthia left. I didn’t realize it when Barry and Cynthia were still in the room but I was shaking, shivering so hard I could barely sit still. Carole asked in a quiet tone, “Do you want to be a singer? You’ve got a nice voice. We can talk to people, you know.”
“No. I don’t want to be a singer. I just want to be a girl. Just a girl.”
Just before they left for the day, Gerry told me they were going to LA at the end of the month and probably stay out there until the end of the year. I nodded and thanked them for giving me the opportunity to spend at least these few weeks in New York with Bobby. After he left on tour with Hank and Honey, I’d have to return home and go back to being a boy. But I’d have these precious memories. Carole hugged me, whispering “Poor Shuggie. You’re so so brave. I don’t think I could cope in your shoes.”
When I saw Bobby at rehearsal that evening, I told him my good news. My mother had revealed my deep, dark secret to Carole but urged her to keep me on as their assistant. Bobby raised his eyebrows at that. Then, unexpectedly, he hugged me. In front of all the other band members who were packing up to leave for the day. “Hey, get a room you two!” Chubby the pianist hollered as he walked out. Hank winked at me and patted Bobby on the back as he led Honey to the exit, arm in arm. The three Hank’s Honeys stood in a line in front of us and serenaded us with Marcie Blaine’s sappy “Bobby’s Girl” from Christmas 1962. Bobby and I jumped apart, embarrassed by the unwanted attention we were attracting.
Bobby said we should celebrate. A feast! Considering our lack of cash, we ended up taking the subway downtown to Chinatown where you could have family style portions for cents on the dollar. Chinatown is a maze of narrow, winding side streets. Every block featured at least three or four restaurants, bake shops, dim sum houses, and curio shops. Bobby seemed to know where we were headed. He held my hand, leading me ultimately to an impressive looking establishment named The Rice Bowl.
The maître d, dressed in a well-pressed dinner jacket and a clip-on bowtie, eyed Bobby with circumspection. “We prefer gentlemen to wear a jacket and tie in the evening,” he declaimed with a noticeable accent. Bobby was wearing a white button-down shirt, tucked in neatly, and navy dress slacks. The maître d looked me over and, as if reconsidering, waved us in to our table. Surprisingly, for a mid-week evening, the place was packed. He handed us two menus. “Enjoy,” he said and walked imperiously away.
When our waiter appeared, we ordered two $1.25 complete dinners. Bobby had the Shrimp with Lobster Sauce main course. I had the Subgum Chicken Chow Mein. As we ate our sumptuous but frugally priced meal, the irony of me, a half-Asian boy dressed as a girl, having dinner in a Chinatown restaurant with her All-American boyfriend, triggered that earworm of a song from one of my mom’s favorite movie musicals, “Flower Drum Song.” “I Enjoy Being a Girl” played in my head as I watched Bobby devour everything placed in front of him.
“This is really good. You know, I’ve only eaten Chinese food maybe two or three times my whole life.”
“Gee, I was afraid you might be bored by eating here, you probably have this all the time.”
“Bobby! My mother’s Japanese not Chinese. My grandmother hates anything Chinese. And Dad is a meat and potatoes guy all the way. He hardly eats any of the vegetables we grow in our garden.”
“What are you gonna do after I leave to go on tour?”
“I don’t have a choice really. Go home and sit by the phone, waiting for you to call.”
“Shuggie, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. We’ve done everything together, you and me, but there comes a time when…when people grow up. Like, there’s no way that we can be anything more than what we’ve been. Buddies. Best buddies. I mean, you’re a—”
“Do I look like a boy to you! Really, Bobby?”
Everyone turned to look at us. For a good ten seconds, there was total silence except for a busboy trying to quietly clear a table. Bobby lowered his voice.
“Shuggie, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”
“No, Bobby. Take me home. I’m really tired. It’s been a long, long day.” I got up and hurried to the ladies’ room, leaving Bobby at the table, signaling the waiter for the check.
When I told my sister what had happened, she yawned and then drawled, “Whatever. This is just crazy is all I can say. Just as long as you give me your third of the rent before you leave.” Lauren was still ensconced in “Valley of the Dolls”, so she didn’t even comment until I picked up the phone to call Mom.
“And don’t forget your share of the phone bill.”
Mom told me Dad was okay with me working for Carole and Gerry, especially when she mentioned I was getting paid $1.50 an hour. She practically whispered the rest of our conversation since Dad was sitting a few feet away watching a rerun of The Fugitive on TV. I could sense she was holding back the tears as she “ordered” me to have the time of my life. Both she and I knew my carriage would turn back into a pumpkin at the end of the month. I hung up the phone and stared into space. Connie surprised me when she tossed me a pair of fire engine red Wrangler jeans.
“Huh?” I said intelligently.
“All you have are dresses and skirts. Thought you should have something casual you can wear. That black and white striped top you have should go well with this. Red’s not really my color.”
Lauren cackled and put her book down. “Yeah, it makes her ass look humongous.”
“Thanks. I love you, sis.”
“Aww. I kinda love you too, squirt.”
The next two days went by uneventfully. Carole and Gerry worked diligently on a trio of new songs: the “natural woman” song for Aretha Franklin and two songs for The Monkees, “Take a Giant Step” and “Pleasant Valley Sunday.” They were going to bring the latter two songs to The Monkees’ first recording sessions in July. In fact, Carole had booked time in RCA Studio A at 44th Street and 6th Avenue the following week to record demos for all three songs. I was excited to actually get to witness a recording session in a legendary studio (Elvis recorded his RCA albums there in the late ‘50s).
On the other front, Bobby tried to discuss our ‘situation’ but I would change the subject. I’d ask him about the itinerary of the tour and what the travel arrangements were. Would they be staying in hotels? Sleeping on the tour buses? What would they do on days when they didn’t have a concert? We held hands a lot. Once or twice, he leaned in, and I thought he was going to kiss me. But something or someone would interrupt. All things considered, I was happy just to spend evenings with him. We were a young couple marveling at all the sights of Manhattan on a warm summer night. At least that’s how I saw it.
I was later than usual to Bobby’s rehearsal with the band on Thursday evening. Bobby wanted to go see “Stagecoach” at The Rivoli Theater just a block south of 1650 Broadway. He liked Westerns but I suspected he really wanted to see one of the leads, Ann-Margret. I had to suffer through that stupid Elvis film, “Viva Las Vegas,” a couple of summers ago because Bobby thought Ann-Margret was ‘very talented.’ I decided to change into a casual outfit before leaving the Brill Building. I had brought with me the red Wrangler jeans Connie had given me and my own black and white striped top. I even ‘borrowed’ Connie’s tennis shoes. After all, when was she going to play tennis anyway?
I walked into the rehearsal room just as Honey Hutch and the three Honeys were leaving. I guess rehearsal was over for the day. In the far corner, Hank and Billy Schechter were deep in an animated conversation. The band members were noodling around on their instruments. Bobby didn’t even see me when I waved to him. Then Chubby counted down and the band, string section included, played an instrumental rendition of The Four Tops’ “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch).” Oooh, I love that song! Turning my back to the band because I felt a little embarrassed about singing in front of real professionals (not like Carole and the gang, who were closer to colleagues), I couldn’t help myself from dancing and wiggling to the beat as I sang. All the good feelings of the last three days took over my voice and my hips. Yeah, I kind of lost it. In a good way.
The music ended and I became acutely aware of all the eyes in the room focused on me. I turned to see Hank and Billy standing two feet away from me, vigorously applauding. Hank grabbed my arm.
“So is Shuggie short for Sugar Pie, honey bunch?” He laughed. “Billy, I think we’ve got ourselves another Hank’s Honey. Sign her up.”
“Uh, Hank, we don’t need another girl. And don’t you think she’d look a little, how you say, out of place on stage with the other girls?”
“Billy, I want her in the group. Just make it happen.” Billy glanced up at the ceiling, whistled, and then took a long look at me. I saw Bobby in the background, shaking his head no. He even drew his index finger across his throat. All the other band members were nodding yes. It was really funny. Finally, Billy spoke.
“Hank wants you to join the Honeys. Is it something you’d like to do?” For some reason, he seemed to want me to turn it down.
“Well, I already have a job. I’m assisting Carole and Gerry. They’re paying me $1.50 an hour! It’s really tempting, though. I don’t know…” Bobby was coughing rather loudly now. I could see his point. What if they found me out? I’d be in really deep do-do. On the other hand, I’d get to spend the whole summer with Bobby. And live as a girl! Hank leaned in and nudged Billy backwards.
“Billy can pay you $100 a week,” Hank said, emphasizing the impressive amount.
Wow! That’s more than Dad made a week at the paper plant and he’s a floor manager.
“You got a deal!”
Bobby dropped his saxophone. The clang as it hit the floor punctuated Hank’s ear-to-ear smile and Billy’s sputtering incoherence.as I shook their hands.
“It’s bad enough you lied to your dad about how you ended up here working as a ‘personal assistant’ to a couple of songwriters. I barely escaped being shot by him for ‘abducting’ you. Now, how the hell are you gonna explain being a Hank’s Honey, wearing a dress and prancing around on stage in front of thousands? At the very least, we could all be arrested for transporting a minor across state lines for immoral purposes!”
Everyone in the subway car whipped their heads around to look at us. I couldn’t shrink myself small enough to evade their stares. And I was sitting next to Bobby, hanging onto his arm, so I couldn’t act like he wasn’t talking to me. In a very low tone, I tried to reason with him.
“There’s nothing immoral about singing backup and dancing on stage. Even if I do it badly. Which I won’t, I promise! This is so exciting. And I’m getting paid a hundred smackers a week! I’m making more than Dad makes. How can he complain?”
“Well, I don’t think he ever envisioned you wearing a dress in front of an audience…”
“Would he rather I be naked instead?” At that, an older woman sitting across from us clucked her tongue. Bobby got out of his seat and leaned against one of the exit doors, his face turned away from me. I dramatically rolled my eyes and mouthed to the clucking woman, “Men!” She shook her head and smiled in return.
Bobby had originally wanted to see “Stagecoach” at the Rivoli tonight but his whole mood soured after Billy and Hank offered me the job as the newest Hank’s Honey. He decided to just take me home and then wander off into the night, I supposed. But I had developed a ravenous hunger and was not looking forward to spooning out cottage cheese from a solitary carton in my sister’s refrigerator.
As we walked out of the Christopher Street station, I grabbed his arm and he turned to me with a hangdog look on his face. “I’m really hungry. Let’s find a place close by to eat.”
“I’m not hungry. I’ll walk you to your building and say goodnight.” I pulled him in the opposite direction.
“There’s loads of spots down this way. Connie and Lauren told me about this place called Caffe Reggio on McDougal and West 3rd.” Bobby didn’t budge, a petulant frown his only reply. “Listen, it’s my treat. I’ve still got the ten bucks Connie gave me for the bus home. And I’m getting paid tomorrow. They make really great burgers…” That got Bobby moving. He put my hand in his and we walked briskly downtown toward McDougal Street.
We were able to get a table next to the window. The café was not a large space, so it was fortunate for us that the early dinner crowd was sparse that night. I remarked to Bobby that the place wasn’t anything like any Italian restaurant I’d ever been in, with its walls filled with paintings by Renaissance artists (the menu provided a historical blurb about the café), pride of place being occupied by a canvas from the school of Caravaggio. Against the back wall sat what is claimed to be the first espresso machine to be used in New York City when the café opened in 1927. The menu blurb also claimed Caffe Reggio introduced cappuccino to the city as well. When I told Bobby I might want to try that after dinner, he shrugged and said he’d never had it himself.
The waitress perfunctorily took Bobby’s order of a burger and fries but was chatty when I asked her what she would recommend. While Bobby stared out the window listlessly, I finally decided on the Orecchiette alla Pugliese, which the waitress told me was the most famous dish from the owner’s home region of Puglia, located in the heel of Italy’s boot. It had lots of broccoli in it, which is a vegetable I like. I was under the legal drinking age of 18 so Bobby and I just had water. When she walked away from our table, I took full notice of how she was dressed: black capri pants, a black and white striped Breton T-shirt, and black ballet flats. Beatnik fashion from another decade. The only thing missing was a beret, but she did have her hair up in a high ponytail. That old song, “Sugar Shack,” spun on the turntable in my head.
We were served in less time than it took for me to coax Bobby into some dinner conversation.
“I thought you’d be happy for me. I mean how much more validation do you need when they pick you to be a Honey? They obviously are convinced I’m what I am. Which is a girl.”
“Two months on the road as a girl? Shuggie, you’re not going to get away with it. We’ll all be in trouble if you’re found out. Maybe even legally. I don’t know. And your father will disown you and shoot me. Whichever comes first.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“I know he’s got that 30-06 Springfield he goes deer-hunting with. My dad went and bought the same rifle.”
“No, I mean he wouldn’t disown me.”
“Well, that’s nice for you, I guess. Listen, it’s a bad idea, Shuggie. Just turn it down and go back home after Gerry and Carole go to LA at the end of the month.”
My eyes started to well up with tears and my voice got scratchy. “You really don’t want me around? We’ve always done everything together. I thought you…you and I were best friends. Like forever.” Bobby handed me his napkin to dab away my tears.
“We are. We are. It’s complicated. Everyone isn’t as understanding of your ‘situation’ as I am. They wouldn’t be accepting of…of—”
“Who I really am? But I can’t help it. It’s how I am, Bobby. I told you when I was 6 and you were 7.”
The waitress stopped at our table, concern in her voice. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. Can we see a dessert menu?” Bobby nodded and the waitress went to retrieve the menus.
“I think we should try the espresso and the tiramisu. It’s ladyfingers soaked in coffee.”
“Kind of redundant, no? Anyway, you’re paying. Have a field day. I’ll just have a regular coffee. No dessert for me.”
When we emerged from the café onto McDougal Street, Bobby looked down the block and saw people coming in and out of the coffee house on the corner. The sign on the awning above the doors read Café Wha. Music leaked out from inside whenever the doors swung open.
“Hey, I’ve heard the guys talking about that place. A couple of them dropped in over the weekend and said the group playing there was really good. I’ll walk you home and circle back, catch the show. I’m too keyed up to go to sleep this early.”
“Let’s go in now. I’m not sleepy either and there’s nothing on TV.”
“Okay, but there’s a cover charge and a two-drink minimum. I can get you in since I’m the adult accompanying you, little girl. You can order a Shirley Temple.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s non-alcoholic. Ginger ale with a splash of grenadine.”
“Does it taste good?”
“You’ll tell me. I’ve never had it.” Again, he took my hand and we walked quickly to our new destination.
Inside, we found a small table against the back wall and Bobby ordered a beer and I ordered my Shirley Temple. As I was sipping my drink—it wasn’t that bad—the band that was on stage finished their last number and shuffled off. An emcee of sorts came out to introduce a group named Jimmy James and The Blue Flames. Bobby turned to me and said these were the guys he’d heard about. They looked kind of nondescript to me. One of them looked like he was 15. Not even peach fuzz on his cheeks. The leader was a tall, lean black man with a bushy head of hair. Rather intense looking. He carried his guitar with a loose confidence that bespoke the audience was in for quite a show. He would introduce each song with a terse but joking sentence or two. They were quite good. But they didn’t really sound like anything on Top 40 radio. Bobby mentioned the leader’s real name was Jimi Hendrix, spelled strangely that way. I nodded indifferently and sat back to take in the rest of their set. I didn’t notice when Bobby left the table. I assumed he’d gone to the men’s room. When he returned, he gave me a Cheshire Cat smile. I leaned in to ask him why he was smiling when Jimmy James announced they were playing a request from the audience. It was “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch.”
We were in the doorway of Connie’s building when I turned to say good night. Bobby bent down and, steadying myself, I closed my eyes, anticipating his kiss. It would be tender. It might last longer than a few seconds. I would melt with the touch of his supple lips upon mine. On the walk home from Café Wha, Bobby had capitulated. He finally acknowledged that he’d be more than okay with me going on tour, spending two months together, seeing the USA in a Chevrolet…well, a tour bus. I don’t know if Chevrolet makes buses.
Instead, Bobby gave me a quick brotherly hug and tousled my hair. Which I didn’t appreciate since I’d spent a lot of time getting my wig to sit on my head just right. I really should go with Connie to the salon she frequents and see if they can give me something like a pixie cut or a page boy do like Jean Seberg.
“Good night, Shuggie. I’ve got to catch the crosstown bus to St. Mark’s Place. They don’t run as often as they do during the day.” He turned quickly and started to trot to the bus stop two blocks away. I would’ve whistled all the way up the stairs to Connie’s apartment but, as you know, I can’t. So, I didn’t.
Friday morning, I stood outside Gerry and Carole’s office, waiting for them to show up at their usual time of 10AM. I don’t know why but I ‘borrowed’ Connie’s Jackie Kennedy Chanel knock-off jacket and skirt combo. I guess a pillbox hat would’ve been too much. They were surprised to see me. Gerry looked at his $200 Rolex Submariner watch (worn by James Bond in all the movies), unlocked the door, and ushered Carole and me into the office.
“You look dressed to kill, Shuggie. Is there something going on?” Gerry asked.
I was halfway through explaining how I had been selected to be the fourth Honey by Hank and Billy when Billy Schechter himself entered the office.
“I assume Shuggie has told you the good news?”
“Billy, there’s something important you should know—”
“Carole—,” I pleaded before Billy held his hand up and shook his head.
“That Shuggie’s actually a boy?” We were all shocked by his matter-of-fact tone. Especially me.
“Who…who told you? Was it Bobby? I’ll kill him!”
“Bobby? No, he left the studio with you and didn’t say a word. I knew from the first time I met you here in the lobby.”
“So, am I fired before I’m even hired?”
“Nah, Hank would rip me a new one if I didn’t go through with hiring you. He…ah…has taken a keen interest in you. Your musical career, that is.” Billy smiled at me. Gerry placed his hand on Billy’s shoulder.
“Look, Billy, this could be very dangerous for Shuggie. If Hank finds out she’s really a he, who knows what he might do. Shuggie, have you really thought this through? If Billy could see through you…”
“Did you and Carole?”
“Well, no, but she is very convincing. We didn’t know until her mother paid us a visit and explained the whole thing,” Carole said.
“Right now, she looks like a teenage Jackie Kennedy. She’s the best drag act I’ve seen in all my years in this business—”
“I’m not a drag…a drag act! I’m a girl! Why can’t everyone see that?” Carole put her arm around me and we sat down on the piano bench together.
“Shuggie, if you want to go with Billy, I’m sure he’ll look after you. He’s a mensch. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you. But are you sure you can carry this off for two months on the road, in front of hundreds and thousands of people?”
“And your father. How are you going to hide this from him for the whole summer?” Gerry asked.
I looked at the three of them. Gathering myself, I tried to explain why I felt I needed to do this, in spite of all the inherent danger. I would risk everything to do it.
“You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be someone like me. To not have your outside match what your inside is. To know you’re a girl through and through and have everyone, even your own father, insist that you’re a boy. That you always were and always will be a boy. I have a chance to be a girl, to be seen and accepted as a girl for a whole summer. To go everywhere, be everywhere, with everyone and just be seen as a girl. If I have to go back to being a boy after this, so be it. I’ll at least have had these two months of living as who I really am inside.”
Billy took my hand, stood me up and led me to the door. He turned to address Carole and Gerry. “Let me know what you owe her for these two weeks and I’ll pay her myself. Least I can do for inconveniencing you two. Taking your assistant away. Shuggie, we need to get you fitted for your snazzy Honeys costumes.”
How am I going to keep the wardrobe mistress from discovering I’m a boy?
We walked over to 1650 Broadway and took the elevator up to the floor where the band would be rehearsing in a couple of hours. Billy led me into a cubbyhole of a room that had been converted into a temporary office. Bare walls, a desk, a couple of chairs, a telephone, and a Dansette Bermuda portable record player that stood on its four slender wooden legs.
“Our wardrobe girl won’t be in for another half-hour or so. Have a seat. Want some coffee. I always bring my own thermos. The coffee around here is awful. There used to be a Chock’s on 48th and Broadway. Closed last year.” After he poured some coffee into a cup with a slightly chipped rim and handed it to me, he used the thermos cup himself. “I like my coffee strong and black. Okay for you?” I nodded and sipped the hot liquid. It tasted like battery acid. Of course, I’ve never drunk battery acid.
“So how did you know I was really a boy? Nobody else seemed to catch on.”
“Well, like I said, I’ve seen my share of drag…er…cross-dressers in and out of the music industry over the years. Although, I have to say, you do look very natural. You’re lucky. You’re too pretty to be taken for a boy.”
“I’m not either of those things. I really believe I should be a girl. It was some kind of cosmic mistake that I was born a boy. My mother says that all the time.”
“Hey, that’s what they all say. They’re really women. We’ve all got things we’d rather be. Even me.”
“You…you want to be a girl?”
“No, no. I mean doing other things. Things I’m really interested in. I like the stuff I’m producing okay, and Hank’s got a really good sound. Real commercial. It’ll get lots of radio airplay. But I’m kinda bored making what Phil Spector calls ‘opera for kiddies’.”
“What would you rather be producing?” I decided not to drink any more of the coffee. Was there a potted plant I could pour the rest of this into? He walked over to the record player and took a 45 out of its sleeve. After blowing some dust off its grooves, he placed it on the turntable and dropped the needle.
“Musical theater. Rodgers & Hammerstein, Jerome Kern, Lerner & Lowe, the classic stuff. Listen to this. It’s from “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.” Act 2. “Come Back to Me.” Goulet hits all the notes!”
“Impressive. So do you write like songs for musicals?”
“I’ve been working on a book for a musical with a writer friend. I’ve got maybe a dozen songs already written for it. I can’t see myself doing what I’m doing right now for much longer. The business is changing. Less call for the boy genius producer these days. Groups are writing their own songs, wanting to produce their own records.” He laughed. “They think they’re Lennon & McCartney all of a sudden.”
To make conversation, I told him about all the movie musicals Mom and I would watch together on TV. Her favorites were “Oklahoma,” “Singin’ in the Rain,” “The King and I,” and “West Side Story.” My favorite was “The Wizard of Oz.” At that point, we heard music coming from down the hall.
“Oh, that’s Bailey, our wardrobe mistress. Let’s get you fitted.”
After Billy introduced me to Bailey Tate, the wardrobe mistress for the tour, he left, saying he had a meeting across town before rehearsals started that afternoon. Bailey Tate was a petite black woman in her early twenties who told me right off she was from Jamaica (the island not the section of Queens). She had moved to New York with her parents when she was 15 and had recently graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology, aka F.I.T. Sitting at her sewing machine, her glasses perched almost on the tip of her nose, she was dwarfed by the racks of suits, dresses, and other apparel surrounding her in this small room. She lowered the volume on the portable record player she had placed on a folding chair. She told me she was playing a record by someone named Hopeton Lewis, a ‘rock steady’ song entitled “Take It Easy” that was all the rage in Jamaica at the moment. Standing close by, dancing to the languid beat of the song, was Bailey’s 18-year-old cousin Brianna.
“Before we start, I guess I should tell you something about me.”
“You mean that you’re really a boy?” she asked, her voice showing only a trace of a Jamaican accent.
“Does everyone know?”
“No, don’t worry. Billy told me last night. He thought it was kind of important that I know, eh? Only Billy, me and Brianna know.”
“Mi wouldn't wa fi be yuh wen Hank finds out believe mi gyal” Brianna said in a thick Jamaican patois, laughing.
“What did she say? I only understood every other word, if that.”
“Well, that’s just as well, isn’t it? Even if she blurted out your secret, who’d know what she was saying.” We all laughed at that.
“So, you aren’t taken aback by me? I’m sure you don’t deal with people like me very often.”
“On the contrary. I’ve a lot of experience with men who dress up as women. One of my first jobs, even before I graduated F.I.T., was wardrobe assistant at The Apollo Theater in Harlem. They had these regular shows called The Jewel Box Revue. “25 Men and 1 Girl” was the slogan. Best drag queens in the country. They even toured internationally.”
“I’m not a drag queen! I’m not doing this as an act. I’m just born in the wrong body.”
“Just mek sure Hank nuh get too close tuh yuh bady or yuh inna nuff chrent,” Brianna warned in her impenetrable patois.
“Don’t ask. Just steer clear of Hank and some of them other horn dogs. Now, let’s get your measurements, such as they are. You’ve only got 10 days to learn all them songs and dance steps. Meanwhile I’ve got to make sure your dress is perfect for your appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show.”
“Ed Sullivan Show?”
“Oh, Billy hasn’t told the band yet. But you guys are on Sullivan the Sunday after next. Last show of the season. And it’s live. Aren’t you the lucky girl? First week in the business and you’re on TV!”
“I stayed home that night, Itsuki-chan. Nobody told me you were on TV. Your parents went over to Bobby’s parents’ house to watch TV that night. They didn’t mention anything about seeing you.” My grandmother yawned. She had barely touched the hospital’s notion of a delicious dinner and I could tell she was tired. I should go home and let her rest. I got up and kissed her cheek. She smiled.
“I’ll tell you what happened tomorrow when I come after school.”
“I’ll be here, koneko. And bring me some rice balls. Have your mother make them the way I taught her.”
“But won’t I be late for rehearsal?” I asked Bailey as we emerged from the 14th Street subway station into the late morning sun.
“Oh, no, they don’t start until 2 o’clock at least. And Billy and Hank will be telling them all about the Ed Sullivan guest spot next Sunday. They’ll be so excited, it’ll be 3 o’clock before any rehearsing gets done. And by then it’ll be time for late lunch!” She laughed as we walked south toward Christopher Street.
“I’ve never been to a beauty parlor just for myself. When I was really young, Mom would take my sister and me to Mindy’s Glamorama in New Milford near the ShopRite on Saturday mornings. I just sat there while they got their hair done. But I did get to read Mademoiselle magazine while I waited.” I stopped dead in my tracks and shivered. “Could I get into trouble? Bailey, they’ll know I’m…you know…not what I seem. They’ll call the cops!”
“Well, not the place we’re going to. You’re the clientele they cater to, if you get my meaning. Pretty much everyone in there will be in drag like you—”
“Stop saying that! I’m really a girl!” Passersby momentarily glanced in our direction but mostly shrugged and resumed their forward progress.
“Okay, I believe you.” She laughed. “The cops can enforce an unwritten rule that can have you arrested if you’re not wearing at least three articles of clothing appropriate to the sex you were officially born as.” A sinking feeling of panic swept over me, and I tried to obscure myself from view by following closely behind Bailey as we walked. “Of course, they only do that to hookers dressed in drag. You’re not planning to do anything like that, are you?”
“No, of course not. I’m a nice girl from the suburbs.”
“Shuggie, you’re a riot.” As we crossed onto Christopher Street, I recalled the time Mom and I watched that production of Wonderful Town on TV (Dad was tinkering in the garage and Connie was playing gin rummy with Grandma). There was a musical number all about Christopher Street that painted a picture of bohemian charm and colorful inhabitants. Of course, this was in the 1950s. And Mom and I had never been to Greenwich Village.
What I saw now was just another dingy New York City street, much like the rest of Manhattan that was outside of the cosmopolitan central region of the island featuring high rise office buildings, posh residential blocks, commercial high streets, and Central Park. The street before my eyes was a stretch of seedy bars and dilapidated shops. In the distance, close by the Hudson River docks, stood the marquee of the Theatre de Lys, where Peter Cook and Dudley Moore were starring in a production of Serjeant Musgrave's Dance. Connie said some guy at work had taken her to the play just two weeks ago. She loved the play, hated her date.
We walked past a bar called the Stonewall Inn, and two doors down, Bailey ushered me into Buffy’s World of Beauty. A bell on the door clinked and summoned Buffy herself. A tall, blowsy blonde of indeterminate age in a beautician’s smock, wearing an excess of makeup that made her face look like a watercolor painting. Now here was someone in drag, I thought. I was just about to bolt when Bailey gently pushed me into view.
“Hey, Buffy, this is Shuggie. Billy’s new discovery.”
Buffy leaned back as if far-sighted and gave me the once over. She clucked her tongue and addressed Bailey.
“Wait a minute, you know our clientele. Why didn’t Billy just take her to Mr. Kenneth or Michel Kazan? He can afford them. I try not to do women’s hair. You know, the business can get really competitive. I’m trying to stay under the radar.”
“Buffy, Shuggie’s a boy.” I smiled sweetly. Which probably confused Buffy even more. “No, really.” At this point, I noticed the other women in the salon. They all seemed a bit on the draggy side.
“Well, slap me with a wet noodle! Oh, honey, you are the sweetest looking girlyboy I’ve ever seen. How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” I murmured, not knowing what my age had to do with anything.
“All righty, then. Hmm. Doesn’t look like you’ll need epilating. You’re so lucky. Ahh, ears need piercing. Eyebrows need a little threading. Nails! Oh, they’re a mess, girl! Want a little wave in your wig, sweetie? And just a little makeup. Not too heavy. After all, you’re just an ingenue, fresh as the morning dew. Come, come with me. The private room is just about free.” Buffy took me by the arm, and I looked back at Bailey, waving and smiling.
“See you in a bit, Shuggie. I’m going to visit a friend who lives around here. We went to F.I.T. together. Bye!” I didn’t know if I was headed to a pampering session or an ordeal akin to torture. The door to the private room swung open and a middle-aged, portly woman dressed in a severe looking skirt suit stepped out, adjusting her bow half-hat and veil. As she walked past me, I turned to Buffy and whispered “Is that Vivian Vance? You know, from I Love Lucy?”
The woman turned around and addressed me in an incongruously deep voice. “Yes, Miss. Just call me Vivian. So good to know I have fans among the younger generation.” She extended her gloved hand. I shook it enthusiastically.
“I’ll leave you my autograph with Buffy here. I just know you’ll treasure it as a memento of our chance encounter. I must go now. Toodle-loo.” She walked out of the salon. Breathless, I turned to Buffy. “Was that really Vivian Vance?”
“I try to keep the identity of my clients confidential. Why, aren’t you sure?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy but she kinda looks like J. Edgar Hoover up close.”
“So right under our very noses, Billy and I discovered we had a young filly with a shitload of untapped talent, excuse my French. Shuggie, come on out here and meet the band,” Hank urged in the bourbon-soaked voice he favored in his role as the Francisco Franco of rhythm and blues. Flanked by Bailey and Brianna, I skittered to where Billy and Hank were standing, facing the assembled band, Honey and the three Honeys off to one side, arms akimbo, their expressions ranging from boredom to scowling annoyance.
“Hi, everyone,” I said in as cheery a tone as I could muster. The band and especially Bobby were wearing wide smiles. The drummer even gave me a drum roll as I bowed or curtseyed…it was a little of both. I was pleasantly surprised when Honey Hutch congratulated and hugged me. Viola, the lead Honey, was also quite welcoming, telling me that Hank and Billy had great noses for talent. The other Honeys were a bit stand-offish. I hope I wouldn’t figuratively as well as literally step on their toes.
Having changed into the white capri pants and grey crew neck sweater Bailey had found in the depths of her endless racks of wardrobe, I practically skipped out into rehearsal, I was so excited. Did kitten heel pumps go well with capri pants? No one remarked upon it, so I guess it’s okay. As I lined up with the other three Honeys, Viola moved everyone so that we were evenly spaced. There were more arm movements involved than actual dance moves as we sang. And Billy told me I would be singing the lower notes of each chord, as I had a pure contralto range. The other girls were mostly mezzo-soprano in range. In fact, I later discovered they had all had voice training in church choirs. When I told them I had played alto clarinet in my high school band, they were really impressed. They were even more impressed that I could actually read music. Bobby hovered over us. I think he was trying to be protective of me, knowing that a careless word would spell disaster.
Billy told me, as he handed me a pile of sheet music, I had more than enough time to learn the entire setlist of 12 songs (including 2 encore numbers) the band would play every night on tour. And Hank might add some new songs to our repertoire along the way although rehearsal time would be few and far between. After about 15 minutes of instruction from Viola and Honey, the band vamped into “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” the record that was currently climbing the charts. Although I did come within inches of smacking one of the Honeys square in the jaw as I tried to execute a jazz pirouette in unison with my three line mates, everyone said I did very well! Shadowing Connie as she practiced her ballet moves in her bedroom paid off after all. Even though Dad refused to buy me my own dance togs. That would be tutu much. (Sorry, I had to go there) Anyway, the rest of rehearsal that day proceeded without incident.
Billy stopped Bobby and me as we walked toward the elevators, rehearsals finished for the day. He waited for everyone else to disappear into the twin elevators before reaching into his pants pocket to retrieve a money clip pregnant with cash. Peeling off three hundred-dollar bills, he handed them to me.
“I’m sure you’ll want to dress nice for the public. You won’t be on stage or the bus all the time. Buy yourself a starter trousseau. Go to Saks. They’ve got some high-class stuff.”
“But, Billy, I’ve got clothes. Between what I brought with me and stuff my sister can lend me…”
“Consider it an advance on your salary plus what Carole and Gerry owe you. Besides, you’re a starlet now. You can’t wear hand-me-downs from your sister.”
“Don’t argue with the man, Shuggie,” Bobby complained as if I was looking a gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks a lot, Billy. Come on, Shuggie, I’ve got a gig tonight at The Village Vanguard.”
“Say hello to Nina for me.” The elevator doors closed.
“Who’s Nina?”
“Nina Simone. A bunch of the guys are backing her tonight and tomorrow night at The Vanguard. They couldn’t get their usual sax player. He’s on tour with Bill Evans in Europe right now. So, they asked me to fill in. You know, Nina told them she thinks she remembers me from when I sat in with Archie Shepp that time.”
“So, when were you gonna tell me?”
“Why, you’ve got plans for tonight?”
“Well…no. Say, can we pick up my sister on the way? I haven’t told her about my new gig. She’ll be over the moon.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she never thought you’d appear on The Ed Sullivan Show before you even graduated high school.”
“Or do it wearing a dress…”
It was a five-minute walk from Connie’s apartment to the corner of Waverly & 7th Avenue, where The Village Vanguard, one of the most famous jazz clubs in the known universe, stood, its marquee announcing, “Nina Simone Tonight.” Connie insisted that Lauren come with us, even though Lauren loudly declaimed that she found jazz boring. Which is why she was carrying the new Harold Robbins novel in her over-sized purse. After Bobby left to go backstage, we settled into our table off to the side of the room, behind the prime seating. Lauren happily confirmed that she would be able to read by candlelight when she started to lose interest in the music.
We sipped our drinks (yes, I had my non-alcoholic Shirley Temple again) and chatted randomly, waiting for the early show to begin at around 7PM. That was when Connie told me she was spending the weekend back home in Bergenfield. Mom was going to be home alone with Grandma since Dad was going bear hunting in Wildcat Ridge with Bobby’s father. They would be away until late Sunday night.
“Speaking of Dad, what are you going to tell him about why you’re going to be on national television, singing in a dress?”
“Dad can’t know! Make sure Mom doesn’t plan to tell him either. I’ll tell him…I’ll tell him I’m getting paid $100 a week to…to assist the road manager on tour. You know, answer telephones, take dictation, secretarial stuff.”
“Shuggie, Dad’s a little dense but even he won’t buy that story. $100 a week is what he makes at the paper plant. Besides, since when does a road manager need a secretary?”
“Look, have Mom tell him I’m doing just that. He knows Mom wouldn’t lie.”
At that moment, the band shuffled onto the stage and started tuning up. An emcee came out and introduced Nina Simone to a nice round of applause. She settled herself behind the piano and the concert began. I waved to Bobby but he pretended to ignore me. I guess jazz musicians have to always appear cool and detached on stage. Nina opened with her well-known version of the Screamin’ Jay Hawkins song, “I Put a Spell on You,” and grabbed her audience straightaway. From there, she segued into two of her most popular songs, “Little Girl Blue” and “My Baby Just Cares for Me.”
About 40 minutes into her set, Nina stopped to introduce the next number. I glanced at Lauren. She was reading her novel. I think her lips were moving.
“At this time, I’d like to play a request. Not from the audience but from our tenor man, Mr. Bobby Messina. It’s dedicated to a special girl he knows. And it’s a song originally done by the great Bessie Smith. It’s called “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl.”
We couldn’t stay for the late show so, after saying good night to Bobby (and meeting Nina Simone!), the three of us walked back to Connie’s apartment. My feet barely touched the ground. I was floating on air. Leave it to Connie to burst my pretty balloon.
“Dad’s not gonna like it when he sees you on television. I just hope, for Bobby’s sake, he’s out of ammo after this weekend.”
When I arrived at the hospital after school, my grandma was fast asleep. Which was unusual. Just the day before, she had listened in rapt attention to the latest installment in my summer saga. She had even asked me to bring her some rice balls because she couldn’t stomach the hospital food. The nurse on duty said she’d had a bad day, so fatigued that she kept lapsing into sleep. I left the rice balls by her bedside, alerting the nurse to offer them to her when she woke up. I hoped she’d feel better tomorrow when I came by after school. On the bus ride home, I thought back on what happened that Sunday after I became a Hank’s Honey.
I was lounging in Connie’s pink terrycloth bathrobe, sipping my second cup of coffee, when the phone rang. Speak of the devil, it was Connie.
“Shuggie, it’s me.”
“Who?”
“Cut the comedy, Shuggie. Mom and I are about to leave the house. We’ll be there in 45 minutes. We’re taking you shopping for clothes. Mom insisted.”
“I can shop for clothes by myself. Actually, Bobby’s coming over in a bit. We’re gonna have lunch and then take a stroll through Saks Fifth Avenue, just like Billy suggested.”
“Bobby? Oh, come on, Shuggie. What would a man know about fashion? You need a woman’s point of view. Besides, Mom says she’s dying to shop at Saks. We’ve never been! Gotta go. See you in 45.”
She hung up. Oh well, off to the salt mines. Jeez, it’s hard work getting all gussied up to face the public. At least Lauren isn’t here to hog the bathroom. She left already to attend Sunday service at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Strange, I thought she was Jewish.
Once Mom and Connie arrived, the four of us headed uptown to do our own big game hunting at Saks. Connie was at the wheel since Mom gets too nervous driving in New York City. Mom went through her mental list of all the kinds of things I needed to buy: dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes, lingerie…
“Mom, how much can I buy with $300?”
“I’ve got your father’s Diner’s Card with me. He’ll never know. I take care of all the finances. He doesn’t even bother.” She smiled broadly behind her Foster Grant sunglasses as Connie rolled down her window to scream at a car that almost side-swiped us as it cut in front to make a right turn at 42nd Street.
“New Yorkers are savages! And they’re awful drivers,” Connie complained as she waited for the light to change.
“That car had New Jersey plates, Connie.”
“Whatever. Say, Mom, do you think Dad would let loose some change to get me a car this Fall when I go back to school? Nothing fancy. Like a VW Bug. With my savings from this summer and if I get a part-time job, I could easily swing the monthly payments.”
“Mr. B would have to come up with at least two, three hundred for the down payment,” Bobby said after doing the math in his head.
“Well, Shuggie could lend me $300…”
“No way, José.”
After spending half an hour finding a parking space, the expedition marched into Saks Fifth Avenue, the ultimate upmarket department store on the ultimate high street in Manhattan. This was way more pricey than Bonwit Teller or Lord & Taylor. Even Macy’s! The Ladies’ Wear department looked more like a salon than a clothes shop.
Bobby stayed a safe distant from us as we descended upon the racks of dresses like a pack of hyenas spotting a fresh carcass in the tall grass of the noonday veldt. Connie and Mom pulled dresses and held them against me, one after the other. They shook their heads and resumed picking through the racks. Alarmed by our behavior, a short, thin man in a three-piece suit rushed over to us. He reminded me of Don Knotts, albeit better dressed.
“Ladies, ladies! Can I help you? I’m Jeffrey, manager of the Ladies’ Wear department?” he seemed to ask instead of declaring. Connie stepped forward and waved her hand the length of my person.
“May I present my sister, Shuggie Brennan. She is a singer in Hank and Honey Hutch’s band, who will appear on The Ed Sullivan Show next Sunday night.”
“Oh my! We have a star in our midst! This is so exciting. But you’re so young. And this must be Mater. Or are you another sister?” My mother blushed and smiled sweetly, waving at Jeffrey. “What a lovely family. And who is this strapping young buck…er…man?”
“Oh, that’s just Bobby. He’s in the band. Plays saxophone. Just tagging along with us.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It wasn’t my idea for him to come along. But you might show him some nice suits in the Men’s Wear department? He’s clueless about fashion.”
“Well, in that case, perhaps I could help him out. Come, come, young Robert. Let me show you some of our Pierre Cardin double-breasted suits. They’re all the rage now among the entertainment set. This way.” He took Bobby by the arm and literally pulled him away. “Ladies, Gloria here will give you assistance should you require it.”
“Looks like you’ve got some competition there for Bobby, sis.”
“Oh, Connie, Bobby doesn’t swing that way. He’s not interested in guys.”
“She said.” Connie had five dresses draped over her arm. “Come on, Mom. Fitting rooms are over there. Let’s get this show on the road. Lingerie, shoes, earrings, jewelry to go. Chop chop.”
“Mom, these dresses are all $50 at least. Will we have enough to get everything on your list?”
“Stop fidgeting, Shuggie. Don’t worry. I told you I brought the Diner’s Club card. You know, your hips are getting very…womanly.”
“Does this dress make me look fat?”
Connie snorted out a laugh. “I feel like we’re in a sitcom on TV. I just hope Dad believes you Mom when you tell him that little white lie about Shuggie doing secretarial work on the tour.”
“I’ve thought about it and the best way to present this to your father is to say you’re the Assistant Road Manager. He’ll accept that. Sounds like a more manly job, you know.”
“Mom, you’re a genius! I bet you he’ll even be proud of me. Assistant Road Manager. Has a nice ring to it. Mom, it really is a little tight around the hips.”
“I think it looks just fine. There’s a mirror right out there. See for yourself.”
Mom was right. I especially liked the three dresses we all agreed upon. I couldn’t stop posing in them with “Wild Thing” by The Troggs playing in my head.
“Shuggie? Where are you?”
When we heard Bobby’s voice, we came out of the fitting room into the salon area. I was wearing the Mondrian print dress. Bobby stood there in a Cardin double-breasted suit.
“Hey, Shuggie, you look wild. Absolutely wild.”
“Uh huh, so do you.”
I could have melted into the floor right then and there. Fortunately, I remained intact. The cleaning bill for an Yves St. Laurent dress is probably more than Dad would even consider.
After our safari of shopping at Saks, Mom, Connie, Bobby and I rumbled our way crosstown to have lunch at the ‘world famous’ Brass Rail Restaurant, located on an entire city block at Seventh Avenue and 49th Street, catty-corner to the Brill Building. In the ‘40s and ‘50s, showbiz luminaries would meet up for drinks at The Brass Rail, most notably Frank Sinatra and Jimmy Van Heusen surely discussed songs like “Come Fly with Me,” “Call Me Irresponsible,” and “Only the Lonely” there. But now, in 1966, the restaurant was in decline, still popular but no longer a sightseer’s destination.
Regardless, the four of us had their famous hot roast beef sandwiches. My stomach growled (in a dainty way, mind you) as we watched meat cooking in front of burning coals on an English Roasting Jack, then sliced piping hot and gently placed on sourdough bread. We washed it all down with iced tea. Connie wanted to order a Long Island Iced Tea, but Mom reminded her she was driving them back to Bergenfield.
Bobby and I bid a fond farewell to Connie and Mom after lunch. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Bobby gave both Mom and Connie a peck on the cheek. Connie winked at me as they slid into Mom’s car. They drove off and I transferred my shopping bags to Bobby, who now had both hands full, including the box containing his new Pierre Cardin suit (which Mom put on Dad’s Diners Card). Pack mule in tow, we walked over to the Rivoli Theater to catch an afternoon showing of Stagecoach. All in all, Bobby was having a great day. A new suit and a movie starring his favorite actress, Ann-Margret!
Rehearsals ramped up as we approached the band’s appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday night. We concentrated on the three songs Billy and Hank had decided we would perform: “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do),” and “Somebody Somewhere Needs You.” When we rehearsed these songs, we did them in our stage costumes. The guys wore tuxedos that made them look a little like hip dinner party guests. Bobby looked cute in his navy blue tux, powder blue ruffle shirt and skinny black tie. We girls had to change in Bailey’s wardrobe room. I was nervous about undressing in front of the others, but the only remark made was about my being a member in good standing of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. I blushed and giggled, hoping it was just good-natured teasing. Hank let out a long wolf whistle as we marched into the rehearsal studio.
“Billy, I don’t think the audience is going to be paying any attention to our tuxes. We could all be wearing overalls, ain’t nobody gonna notice.”
Because Honey changed some of our synchronized moves and dance steps, the afternoon dress rehearsal was a bit of a slog. Hank’s temper flared several times as he chastised Honey for over-thinking everything. She reminded Hank that they were going to be on national television on Sunday. Everything had to be perfect.
“We’ve been on TV before, babe.”
“This is Ed Sullivan! We’re not talking about some boo-gee local TV dance show like Swingin’ Time in Chicago. This is CBS! Prime time.”
Billy, who had only dropped in 15 minutes earlier, intervened. “We’ve got the whole week to get it perfect. It’s been a long day. I see Bobby back there yawning between choruses…” Bobby shook his head vigorously. “Yeah, a couple of others look like they’re about to doze off. Okay, let’s run through “Somebody Somewhere” once more and call it a day. Let’s get it together, people.”
The four Honeys including me lined up behind Honey and Hank as our drummer counted down. I quickly turned around and winked at Bobby. He smiled into his mouthpiece. Then we played “Somebody Somewhere Needs You.”
It was a few minutes later, around 5:30, when the dreaded event happened. The doors to the studio opened and there stood Dad with Connie trying to hide behind him. His mouth was agape for a long moment before he shouted, “Shuggie, what the hell?”
I covered my face with both hands and ran for the exit. Bursting into tears, I brushed past Dad and Connie and sprinted down the hallway. Bobby followed me into the wardrobe room, taking Bailey and Brianna by surprise. Shaking, I burbled something about Daddy, Daddy as Bailey embraced me and tried to keep from becoming hysterical. Bobby explained to them that my father had made a surprise visit to the studio.
“Oh gyal yuh inna deep chrent now ow cud yuh expect tuh kip dis from yuh father?”
I looked at Brianna and then at Bailey. “What did she say?”
“Never mind. Billy will talk to him. He’ll know how to handle your father. He had to talk his own father through a similar situation.”
“Huh? You mean…”
Connie appeared at the doorway. “Shuggie, Billy wants to talk to all of us in his office.” Bobby and I followed Connie to Billy’s office. Dad was pacing back and forth, rubbing his face and muttering. Billy stood impassively by the door, waving us in and then shut the door behind us.
“Some of you will have to stand. I’ve only got the two chairs. Temporary office, you know. Okay, let’s start…”
“No, I want Shuggie to stop this nonsense.” Turning to me, he said, ”You’re a boy, damn it! Stop this trying to be a girl thing. “
“Daddy, I’m a girl! The doctors messed up. Mom told me they let you decide. How could they do that?”
“They…we…thought, given the physical facts, that you should be raised as a boy. Which is what you are!”
“Noooooooooooo…” Billy stepped in between us. “Mr. Brennan, do you love your child?”
“Of course I do. I want him to live in the real world, not in some fantasy that he’s dreamed up. This isn’t real. This is just crazy.”
“Have you ever listened to Shuggie? Really listened? She’s not crazy. She’s trying to tell you, to show you her true self. It’s not just some silly game to her.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Schechter, but you’re not a doctor, are you? How can you pretend to know more about my child than me, his father?”
“My sister, Mr. Brennan. My sister no longer has any contact with our father. For almost 10 years now. She lives in Germany. Married. Runs a small business with her husband. They’ve adopted two children…”
“What does this have to do with Shuggie and me?”
“Possibly everything. You see, my sister wasn’t always my sister. She was my older brother.” We all inhaled in surprise. Dad fidgeted as he stopped pacing. He stared at Billy as he continued. “I knew from my earliest days that my brother was really and truly my sister. It was something we kept secret because our father would have literally abandoned her. He would’ve looked upon her as a monster, not a human being. It was the way he was raised to see the world. And our mother was too afraid of him to even broach the issue. My brother tried really hard to become a man like our father wanted. He even joined the army when he graduated high school. To prove his manhood.”
“Shuggie is in the ROTC. With Bobby. I didn’t push him to do it. I’ve had enough of war. I don’t want him to be a soldier.”
“They sent him to Germany. They say Europeans have different views on transsexual individuals. I think being away from our father made him realize that he was psychologically, mentally, spiritually…however you want to characterize it…female. The only impediment was his physical self. And that’s when he decided to stay overseas after his military commitment and undergo transitioning. Hormone therapy and final surgery. It took almost ten years but she’s my sister now. And happy. Finally happy.”
“Shuggie, is that how you feel? Have I completely failed you as a parent? I want the best for you but…but I can’t accept that trying to be a girl is in your best interests. People will look at you as a freak.”
“But it’s who I am, Daddy. It’s who I am.” I tried not to cry but tears were welling up. Bobby gripped my hand and gave me a soulful look. Daddy noticed all of that and almost jumped at Bobby.
“It’s you, Bobby! I knew it all along. Stop turning my son into a deviant!”
“Mr. Brennan! No one can turn someone into a transsexual. No one can wish themselves into being the gender they weren’t born as. My sister went through half her life unable to be her true self because no one would listen. No one. Especially her father. You say you love your child. That gives me hope that you and Shuggie won’t end up like my sister and our father. Let her live her true life, Mr. Brennan. Before you lose each other. Is that what you want? Misery?”
There was a knock on the door. More like a pounding. It was Hank. Billy opened the door.
“Hey, chief, what’s up? Is there some misunderstanding between Shuggie and her dad?”
“Hank, I’ve got things under control. Don’t worry about it. Look, tell everyone rehearsal’s over for the day. See you tomorrow, okay? We’re talking things out. Don’t worry.” Hank winked at me and turned to go. Billy closed the door.
“Everyone here has no doubt Shuggie’s a girl. Only me, Bobby, and the wardrobe ladies know otherwise, okay? I’ll make you a proposition, Mr. Brennan. Now, Shuggie has talent, but this isn’t really about that. It’s about her realizing her deepest desire…to be accepted as the girl she really is. Inside where it really counts. This summer, on tour, on stage, on TV next Sunday, her outside gets to reflect her inside. Give her this summer, Mr. Brennan. I pledge to you, we’ll take care of her, make sure she’s safe. I admire your daughter. She’s got spunk.”
“I don’t know.” Dad fell silent for a long moment. “Shuggie, I don’t know Mr. Schechter from a hole in the wall but I’m thinking he’s a good man. And I know Bobby would never hurt you…” He looked at Bobby with a meaningful glare. “Your mother wants me to give you this summer to live out your dream. So, I’m going to agree to let you. But things will go back to normal for your senior year. I guess when you turn 18, I can’t stop you. Shuggie, just be careful. It’s a tough world out there for a girl.”
I threw myself at Dad and hugged him fiercely, my voice choked by tears. “Thank you, Daddy! I’ll be a good girl. I will.” He took my face in his big, strong hands.
“Don’t think I don’t love you, Shuggie. I thought I was doing what’s best.”
I was bereft of words. I just looked at Dad the way I looked at him when I was six years old, sitting next to him in the car as he carefully buckled my seatbelt while making silly faces at me, trying to make me giggle. The thought of that made me cry. Connie joined the hugathon as she broke down in tears herself.
“Now if everyone has reached a meeting of minds on this matter, I suggest we all go out for a bit of a nosh. Have you ever been to Jilly’s?”
Everyone shook their heads, no. Billy smiled and said, “Well, well. Then it’ll be another New York rite of passage for you out-of-towners. My treat. Let me make a call.” He dialed the telephone on his desk and someone on the other end picked up quickly. “Hey, it’s Billy Schechter. Yeah, how’s it hanging? I’m in mixed company, jadrool. Listen, is Howie in tonight? Great. Table for five? Yeah, 10 minutes is fine. Ciao, baby.”
I turned to Bobby. “This Jilly’s place sounds Italian. Maybe we can get a Margherita pizza, my favorite.” Billy opened the office door and ushered us out.
“Jilly’s is a fine Italian restaurant that serves great Chinese cuisine. Cantonese to be exact. It’s Frank Sinatra’s favorite place to eat when he’s in town. Maybe we’ll be in luck and he gets a hankering for egg roll tonight.”
It took us 5 minutes to walk over to West 52nd Street and 8th Avenue. It was a relatively small space, but the ambiance spoke of the heyday of Sinatra’s Rat Pack East. Reliable sources tell us that Sinatra would eat there three or four times a week when staying in New York. But Sinatra rarely spent much time in the city these days, favoring Vegas and California instead. Still, we were on the lookout for the Chairman of the Board and other celebrities. Even on a Monday night in June. The irony again struck me that of the few times I had ever eaten Chinese food, two of those times had occurred in the last five days. Well, it must not have been the food that drew Frank to this place. Although Billy had a high opinion of the offerings, I personally thought the dishes were pretty bland.
Billy was in his element, favoring us with inside stories about showbiz people he had mingled with in his brief but meteoric career as a record producer. Some of the stories were of the less than savory kind. Dad was keenly interested in Billy’s tales of famous names mixed up with the Mob. I whispered to Bobby that some of these stories had to be made up to impress rubes like us. Billy must have overheard me because he winked my way as he continued to hold Dad’s undivided attention. I turned to Connie, who was deep into her egg foo young.
“Dad didn’t want Mom to come?”
“No, Mom’s working the lobster shift this week. Won’t get home until midnight.”
“Did she tell Dad about everything after saying she’d give him our cover story?”
“She didn’t. He caught her putting the Diners Card back in his wallet. You know Mom. She melts under pressure. Especially from Dad.” I nodded and went back to picking at the mushrooms in my moo goo gai pan.
While Connie, Bobby and I enjoyed a selection of sherbets for dessert, Billy and Dad indulged in a caffè corretto, shots of espresso with a small amount of sambuca. We walked out of Jilly’s literally in good spirits. Dad had his arm around Billy’s shoulders and was at least one sheet to the wind. I hoped Dad wouldn’t start singing his favorite Tony Bennett song, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” Then he did.
We unloaded Dad into his car and Connie was elected to drive him home. Bobby took the subway to our bass player’s apartment in the Lower East Side and Billy offered to drive me home to Sheridan Square. He parked the car across the street from Connie’s building and asked me to be honest with him.
“Tell me you’re really certain about this. You’re not just doing this for a lark or to get back at your dad. Or because you and Bobby are really gay…”
“How many times do I have to tell people I’m a girl before they’ll believe me? Don’t you?”
“Yes, Shuggie. As long as you know how serious this is. If you’re like my sister, it won’t happen overnight. She spent the better part of two decades struggling to make everything right. And she lost her family.”
“I don’t want to lose me, Billy. Before I’ve even found myself.”
Billy sighed and leaned over to kiss me on the forehead. He shooed me out of the car with a smirk. As I walked over to the entrance of the building, I looked down at myself and realized I was still wearing my stage costume gown. Oh my.
On the Wednesday before our scheduled appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, the band was told to assemble at Dick Charles Recording Studios, just two blocks east of The Brill Building, to lay down instrumental tracks for the three songs we were going to perform Sunday evening. The show’s producers opted for a hybrid presentation of the Hank & Honey Hutch sound. They usually preferred live performances or lip-syncing but, for aesthetic reasons, they wanted musical acts like ours to be visually compelling on the screen. Unlike your average rock band, we dressed to kill while we performed. Tuxedos for the men, gowns for the women (including me, hee hee). They were going to play the pre-recorded instrumental track over the sound system in the theater. This meant bandmembers would be miming playing their instruments while we singers would be picked up by live microphones suspended just a few feet out of camera range.
Since Honey Hutch and Hank’s Honeys weren’t needed for this session, they were given the day off. I, on the other hand, was new to this whole recording thing and wanted to observe how a real pro like Billy Schechter conducted a recording date. And I wanted to be there for Bobby. I’m sure he might be a little nervous. My being there would be reassuring. Don’t you think?
I arrived about a half hour before the session was slated to begin and found Billy in the control booth, talking to Carole and Gerry. When Billy saw me, he waved me into the room. I greeted and hugged all three in succession.
“Are you guys here to watch us record the tracks for Sunday?” I asked.
“No, we had no idea Billy was doing this session today. We just finished our demo for that Aretha Franklin song that Jerry Wexler wanted. In fact, it’s kind of kismet that you show up right when we were about to have Billy listen to it. He’s got million-dollar ears, you know.”
“Lot of good it does me. You write your best stuff for Jerry Wexler and Don Kirshner nowadays. I don’t get invited to the dance anymore.”
“We thought of you when we wrote this, Shuggie,” Gerry said as he turned to me. He pushed play on the tape machine, and we heard Carole singing “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.”
When the song ended, I hid my face in Billy’s shoulder. I’m afraid I got his nice pinstripe vest a little wet. He gently patted my back. Carole placed her hand on my shoulder. “Billy told us about the other day with your dad. You should be happy he’s not standing in your way.”
“It’s just for the summer. He wants me to go back to school in September. As a boy!” The tears cascaded down my cheeks as I choked back whimpers, trying to speak. “My life is over if I have to do that!”
“Billy told us he knows some doctors who could help you sort this out.”
“Well, I don’t know them personally. I’ve had to learn about what doctors are saying about…about girls like Shuggie. Because of what my sister went through. But there are some places that are sympathetic to your situation. It might involve some therapy…”
“I’m not crazy. I don’t need a shrink. Anyway, Dad would never pay for it. Even if he had the money.”
“I really think you’d benefit from some professional care. I don’t need to tell you this is a decision that will affect you as long as you live. You need to be certain, absolutely certain this is your path—”
“I am. I’m sure of it. I don’t care what anyone says. I should’ve been raised as a girl. Stupid doctors were wrong in the first place!”
“Shuggie, if you trust me, I’ll help you get the guidance you need. I wasn’t there to help my sister, but I’ll be there for you. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, Billy. I trust you. But where will my Dad get the money?”
“If you’re as talented as I think you are, the money will not be a problem. But let’s talk about this some more later this summer. Right now, you need to prepare for an appearance on national television and a two-month concert tour with the hottest musical act on the charts!” I hugged Billy even tighter, I was so happy someone believed in me so much that they would go so far to help me realize my dream of becoming the woman I’ve always felt I am.
I heard the shuffling of feet. The band was entering the studio. As they set about finding a chair and opening their instrument cases, I saw Bobby standing stockstill staring into the control booth…at Billy and me embracing. The look on his face was a mixture of confusion and disappointment. I quickly moved away from Billy, who turned, saw Bobby, and just waved nonchalantly.
They took a break after recording several takes of the first number, “Heaven Must Have Sent You.” I caught up to Bobby at the windows overlooking Seventh Avenue. I handed him a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the hall outside the studio.
“This is awful!”
“I got it from the vending machine. Mine tastes okay,” I said, holding up my cup.
“No, not the coffee. Throwing yourself at Billy like that. In front of everyone too.”
“I wasn’t ‘throwing’ myself at Billy. I was just grateful that he’s willing to help me get professional help for my situation. You know, he totally believes in me. More than I can say for a lot of people.”
“You think he’s just being altruistic? Seems to me he’s got a thing for you. If you know what I mean.”
“No, silly…wait a minute. Are you jealous?”
“Shuggie, don’t get carried away with this. You’re in no position to be objective about other people’s motives. For all we know, Billy’s a…a deviant,” he whispered.
“Who’s a deviant?” asked Hank Hutch as he walked by us. It was time to go back into the studio.
“Nobody you’d know, Hank. We were talking about a kid we knew in school.”
“Well, as long as it’s not somebody in this band…bad enough we’ll be a black group playing in mostly white venues on this tour. Had a drummer get busted for weed last year. And then there was a trumpet player did a year in the pen for solicitation in St. Louis. Musicians. Man! I trust Billy. He’s put me onto some straight arrows. Like you, Bobby. And you too, Shuggie. Ha ha. Let’s go. Get this session over with.”
On Friday afternoon, we had a walk-through rehearsal at CBS’ Studio 50 located on the corner of 53rd Street and Broadway. It had been The Hammerstein Theater until the fifties when CBS converted it into a television studio. The production crew worked out the blocking for our two segments of the show: we would perform two songs in the first half hour and return for a final song in the second half hour. They had us in and out of there within 20 minutes. We would return for the dress rehearsal on Sunday afternoon before a live audience. We never saw the other guest performers for Sunday’s show: Petula Clark, Stiller & Meara, Topo Gigio, The Berasino Chimps, and Richard Pryor. Still, to stand on that stage where everyone from Elvis Presley to The Beatles had made their national TV debuts was a humbling experience. Not wanting to waste the whole afternoon, Billy shepherded us back to 1650 Broadway where we put in another couple of hours of rehearsal.
Bobby and I were standing on the corner of 50th Street and Broadway, deciding where to have dinner before catching a movie, when Billy ambled toward us.
“Kids, go home and put on some nice duds. You’re my plus two tonight at the Café Carlyle. Barbra Streisand’s doing a private concert for friends in the business. Warm up for her tour next month.”
“You know Barbra?” I asked, in awe.
“We’re buds. Went to Erasmus High in Brooklyn together. Me, Barbra, and Neil Diamond.”
“Do we have time to go home and change?” Bobby asked.
“Show up at 9. Just give the maître d my name. He’ll show you to my table. By the way, take a cab…on me.” He handed Bobby a crisp hundred dollar bill and walked off toward the parking lot.
It was 10 of 9 when we saw Billy waving to us from his corner table in the Café Carlyle. Bobby was wearing his new Pierre Cardin double-breasted suit and I had chosen to wear Connie’s Jackie Kennedy faux Chanel skirt suit. Technically, Connie rented the outfit to me, according to her. Good luck her ever collecting the rental charge, ha ha. Billy chivalrously pulled my chair out as I swept my skirt under me in the most ladylike manner. Bobby just sat down like a sack of cement mix.
“Hey, look! Isn’t that Nancy Sinatra? And there’s Wayne Newton! And…”
“Bobby, pipe down. Let’s not act like rubes, okay? Show doesn’t start until 10. Order yourself some grub. Today’s catch is swordfish.” The mention of seafood caused me to dry heave. “Are you alright, Shuggie?”
“She’s kind of allergic to seafood, Billy.”
“Really? Sorry, I didn’t know.”
“I’m okay. They don’t serve pizza here, do they?”
Looking at the menu, Bobby excitedly pointed out, “Hey, they’ve got burgers here. Prime beef, shallot confit, crispy onions, lettuce, tomato, smoked remoulade sauce, and shoestring fries. With house-made brioche. $20?!”
“This is high-class shit, Bobby. You’ll want to get used to it if your career takes off. You too Shuggie. I mean, look at me. A poor Jewish kid from Flatbush. My parents didn’t buy a TV until my junior year in high school. 1959 already.”
Bobby and I rather enjoyed our expensive burgers. Billy had the Filet Mignon. Dessert was New York Cheesecake and cappuccino. Billy ordered a bottle of Hennessy XO cognac which he shared with Bobby. I sneaked a taste from Bobby’s glass. I didn’t like it. I guess I’ll never be an alcoholic at this rate.
Barbra Streisand came out promptly at 10, accompanied by a quartet comprised of piano, acoustic bass, alto sax, and drums. I couldn’t believe she was 3 months pregnant but that’s what all the papers said. Her voice was magnificent as she stormed through an abbreviated setlist of her most popular songs. Her 4-city tour starting in July at Newport was entitled “An Evening with Barbra Streisand” and was purported to be two solid hours with a brief intermission after the first hour. Of course, it was totally sold out. Of all the wonderful tunes that night, the one whose lyrics had the most impact for me was "If You Were the Only Girl In the World.”
As the song wafted through my thoughts and emotions, I looked toward Bobby. But he was nodding off, the cognac having its way with him. Then I realized Billy was staring at me. I nervously smiled and he smiled back. It occurred to me maybe Bobby had a point about Billy’s interest in me. Or maybe I was proxy for the sister he hadn’t been present to support a decade ago. Whatever it was, his smile lingered even after I broke off eye contact.
Afterwards, Billy introduced us to Barbara and her husband Elliot Gould, the actor. She was very warm to Billy and they exchanged music business gossip while her husband looked me over, almost leeringly. I was occupied with keeping Bobby standing up as he tended to slump over when I didn’t pinch his arm through his suit sleeve. Neither Bobby nor I had much to say to whomever Billy introduced us to. I was too starstruck and Bobby was too blotto. Finally, as we were leaving, Elliot took Billy aside for a moment. I could hear them since they had to almost shout above the din.
“Billy boy, I like your latest jailbait…”
“She’s 17 and I’m mentoring her. There’s no hanky panky going on, buddy.”
“Okay, okay. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it. I get it. She looks like she’s glued to that young schmuck though. Get him a gig in the Catskills. Eh?”
Billy helped me drag Bobby out of the café. As he tried to hail a cab heading downtown, he turned to me. “You heard that? He’s a comedian. Don’t take him seriously. We’re not friends. He’s married to Barbra, that’s how we know each other. He’s a flake.”
“You wouldn’t send Bobby away, would you?”
“What? Why would I do that? I love Bobby. Kid’s got a lot of talent. I see big things for him. And you.”
We dropped Bobby off at his Lower East Side crash pad and had to practically haul him up 3 floors between the two of us. This was as close to being a pallbearer as I’d ever care to be. We handed him off to our bass player whose wife didn’t appear to be too happy to be disturbed at that late hour. Back in the cab, we made it to my sister’s building in five minutes. Before I turned the handle to open the car door, Billy planted a kiss on my cheek and said good night. I don’t really know why but I quickly returned his kiss, again on the cheek. Blushing, I ran to the entrance and didn’t look back.
Dress Rehearsal on Sunday afternoon went smoothly, although we discovered the producers had cut one of our numbers. Instead of doing two songs in the second half-hour of the program, we were now asked to just do the one finale, “Do I Love (Indeed I Do).” Some young comic named Richard Pryor was added to the guest list at the last minute. Apparently, Ed himself really wanted him on the show. In fact, his comedy bit would include Ed as a straight man. Since Pryor’s plane flight wouldn’t arrive in New York until 6PM, he and Ed would just have to do their bit without any rehearsal.
Otherwise, Bobby and I spent the hours before we went on the air live at 8PM just walking around midtown. I was as excited I had ever been in my short life so far, growing up in the bosom of suburbia. Singing with a chart-topping musical act on a nationally televised, even legendary program would be the highlight of most performers’ careers”. Here I was, doing that in my first month in the music business, just a mere girl of 17. I giggled, to myself I thought.
“What’s so funny?” Bobby asked as we both looked over the railing at the ice-less rink of Rockefeller Center.
“Just thinking how incredible this all is. Three weeks ago, I was a junior in high school. Tonight, I’m going to sing on national television. Me, a 17-year-old girl from Bergenfield, New Jersey!”
“Yeah, well, incredible isn’t the only word for it. Can I ask you a question about Friday night?”
“What? You were so drunk Billy and I had to almost carry you up three flights to Larry’s apartment…”
“No, I mean, afterwards. Did you and Billy go back to his place?”
“We went straight to Connie’s place. Like five minutes later. Why?”
“I think Billy really likes you. And…and maybe you’re starting to really like him too.”
“Well, he’s been really nice to me. And he is my boss, basically.” Bobby slipped his hand into mine and gave me a puppy dog look with his limpid brown eyes searching my face for signs of deception.
“We’ve been best friends since we were in first grade—”
“I was in kindergarten. You’re a year older than me—”
“Whatever. You’ve known Billy for—what? –a week? He’s a grown man. He’s got a wife or something somewhere. Maybe even a kid…or two—”
“Slow down, Bobby. You’re getting silly thoughts about me and Billy. Nothing’s going on, okay? Although, he’s a really good kisser—”
“You kissed him?!!!” The Sunday crowd of rubberneckers in Rockefeller Center turned towards us. Bobby was really loud.
“On the cheek. To thank him for the cab ride home. And…and he did kiss me on the cheek. Just a friendly…boss-like peck. It’s nothing, Bobby. Don’t make a scene here. Everyone’s looking at us.” Bobby turned away from me, staring across the rink, his face sullen, his lips in a tight frown. “Don’t be such a child. Let’s talk about something else. It’s too bad they wouldn’t give us tickets for our moms. I know my mother would’ve been stoked to see me, I mean both of us, on the show. I guess my mom will just go over to your house and watch it on your color TV. Our dads couldn’t be bothered. They went bear-hunting again. You’d think they’d want to see their children on TV.”
“Unlike Billy, my dad thinks you’re a boy. It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t see the show.”
“I hope Mom didn’t spill the beans to your mother about me. That would be a real problem. She might forbid you to ever see me again.”
“I didn’t know you cared at this point, Shuggie.” I punched his shoulder in reply.
“It’s getting late. Let’s find a place to eat something light before we head back to the theater.” I took Bobby’s hand and dragged him away from the railing.
We were slated to perform first. As Ed Sullivan read his introductory monologue off the teleprompter in his usual wooden monotone, the band took their places on stage off-camera. Bobby looked so handsome in his tuxedo jacket. I lined myself up with the other Honeys and looked into the audience, but the lights were too blinding to make out individual faces in the dark expanse of the theater. Finally, Ed introduced us: “And now, making their first appearance on this show, performing their current Top 10 hit, “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” Hank & Honey Hutch with Hank’s Honeys!”
While the rest of the band just had to mime their parts convincingly, Honey and The Honeys had to actually sing into live microphones. It was an adrenaline rush to do our well-practiced gestures and dance steps for an audience of 700 people and the television cameras. We were flawless. The thunderous sound of 700 pairs of hands clapping was gratifying as we took our bows. As was scripted, Ed called Hank, Honey, and The Honeys over to him and we smiled for the camera as he shouted above the applause, “Hank and Honey Hutch with The Honeys! Give them a big hand. Just wonderful. They’ll be back to sing another song for us later in the show.”
The rest of the band sought the refuge of their dressing rooms but I convinced Bobby to watch the show with me from the wings of the stage, making sure we weren’t in anyone’s way. The next act was The Berosino Chimps, six monkeys who did all sorts of acrobatics on a trampoline and modified gymnastics rig dressed in Native American outfits. I always wondered if trained animals really enjoyed performing or were just captive automatons. They were cute though.
The audience ate it up and they went off to a nice ovation. As they passed by Bobby and me offstage, one of the chimps jumped into my arms. Surprised, I just held him, looking around for someone to take him off my hands. Viola, who had just walked out of the dressing room to light up a cigarette, was amused. “The chimp recognized your maternal instinct right off, Shuggie. How many kids you and Bobby gonna have?” she teased. Just then, one of the Berosinos rescued me. As he carried the chimp off, he winked at me and said, ”Dondi is always looking for a mommy since we lost her mother. Maybe if the singing doesn’t work out…”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Bobby was about to make a wisecrack when Ed Sullivan introduced the next act, Stiller & Meara, a husband-and-wife comedy duo who did little clever skits, mostly on the incongruity of their relationship: a tall, red-headed Irish Catholic woman married to a short, dark-haired Jew. Tonight, they riffed on the relatively new phenomenon of computer dating.
“It must be difficult for people from different cultures or religions to have a successful relationship.”
“People of different genders seem to do alright” Bobby remarked. I glared at him.
Once again, Ed Sullivan interrupted our repartee. The stage darkened as they wheeled a chest-high platform into central view. I love Topo Gigio! He’s so cute. From our vantage point in the wings, I could see Maria Perego and an assistant puppeteer seated on low stools behind the platform, unseen by the audience or the camera. On top of the platform was a miniature bed, small enough for a puppet-sized mouse. Ed came into view and the skit began.
Bobby decided to go back into the guys’ dressing room but I wanted to watch Petula Clark, the next performer, from the wings instead of on a tiny monitor. She was so gracious earlier in the day when I asked her for an autograph. Taking my pen, she confided that the grapevine says I was Billy Schechter’s newest discovery. I blushed and just thanked her for signing my call sheet.
Petula was scheduled to sing two songs in her segment. The first required a bit of production. Dancers and several new model sporty cars surrounded her in a colorful mod outfit as she rode in on the hood of a Jaguar singing “Sign of the Times.” They took advantage of a commercial break to clear the stage and allow Petula to make a costume change. When she re-emerged after the break, she was alone on stage, singing “Who Am I.”
The buildings reach up to the sky
The traffic thunders on the busy street
Pavement slips beneath my feet
I walk alone and wonder who am I?
I close my eyes and I can fly
And I escape from all this worldly strife
Restricted by routine of life
But still, I can't discover who am I?
Good question. Who am I? My father wants me to be his only son. Bobby wants me to be his best buddy. Billy wants me to be his ‘next discovery.’ But I just want to be me – a girl. Can I be? My musing was interrupted by Bobby’s tap on my shoulder.
“Shuggie, they want you in makeup. There’s just one more segment before we do our final number. Hurry!” We both walked quickly backstage, Bobby to his dressing room, me to the makeup room.
I sat with the other Honeys as the makeup staff worked their wonders on us. On the small monitor above the bank of mirrors, we watched as Richard Pryor and Ed Sullivan performed their unrehearsed comedy routine.
Ed Sullivan looked into the camera and seemed actually delighted to announce we had returned to perform in the final segment of tonight’s show. This was an important moment for the group for we were giving the national audience an advance listen to our forthcoming single. A song that would end every one of our concerts, hopefully keeping it front of mind when the single was released in September. The red lights of the TV cameras came on and we began to sing “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do).” Hank and Honey traded verses and the band was great on the pre-recorded track. The brass section, including Bobby, even added some synchronized dance steps in the background. The audience gave us an overwhelming ovation. As we bowed, Ed Sullivan quickly wrapped up the show and bade farewell to the teeming millions out in TV land. We were a smash! I could imagine Billy swelling with pride at our achievement on the great Ed Sullivan Show. But I hadn’t seen Billy since an hour before the show started. Where was he?
Bobby was standing outside of the ladies’ dressing room when I emerged, dressed in my civilian outfit, a bouncy floral print frock and low heel sandals.
“You’re the last one here. Everyone’s gone to Sardi’s for the after-party.”
“I’m sorry. I waited until all the other girls finished getting their makeup sorted out. Anyway, I knew you’d wait for me.”
“You know that, do you?” I was about to remark on his sarcasm when Mom and Connie appeared as if out of thin air, followed by Bobby’s mom Gloria and Billy Schechter. Mom rushed over to me and hugged me fiercely, almost sobbing.
“Sweetie, you look so beautiful and you were the best singer on stage! I’m so proud of you.”
“Mom, you guys were in the audience?”
“Oh, Shuggie, you didn’t know Mr. Schechter got us seats? Connie, Gloria, and me? He even sent a car to pick us up. He’s such a nice young man!”
“I didn’t want you two to be nervous, knowing your mothers were in the audience,” Billy interjected. Bobby and I exchanged looks as it fully dawned on us that Bobby’s mother Gloria must know.
“Mrs. Messina. I don’t know what to say. All these years—”
“Oh, you looked beautiful in that gown on stage. And what a voice! I’m so glad you finally decided to dress like a girl instead of a tomboy. Bobby even tried to convince me you were really a boy. But I knew better. I remember when you and Connie would parade around like little catalog models in your pink shorts and sailor shirts. Then you started wearing boys’ clothes. Such a cute girl dressing like that. They even thought you were a boy in school!”
“Good thing she was in band. Got her out of gym class,” my sister glibly added. My mother just shrugged her shoulders.
“You know, Harry, Bobby’s dad, would urge your dad to just let you be you. But he wouldn’t listen to reason. It’s a sickness. Sorry, Eriko, but Jerry should be ashamed of forcing his daughter to be raised as his son. That’s child abuse. I’m so glad you and Bobby are together now. I’m looking forward to grandchildren!” She hugged me. I was in shock. All these years! They thought I was a girl. But, of course, I am a girl! Bobby’s mouth hung open. Connie was patting him on the back, a devilish grin on her face.
“But, Mom, Shuggie’s only 17. We’re getting way, way ahead of ourselves here. She’s not even—” Connie covered his mouth as Bobby’s mom took me aside. She slipped what looked like birth control pill dispensers in my purse.
“Here, they’re mine. I’m not using them right now.” She giggled. “Harry and I are trying for another baby. You know, before the change of life. It’ll satisfy my maternal needs until you and Bobby start a family.” She winked at me, and we rejoined the group as Billy waved to us to hurry up and follow.
“What did my mom have to say? She was giggling,” Bobby asked. I just shook my head and locked arms with him. Billy had a cab waiting to take us to Sardi’s. We could’ve walked. It was only 10 blocks away. And frankly I needed some fresh air after that scene.
We boarded a plane for Los Angeles Monday morning. The tour would start in San Francisco on Saturday, July 2nd. Actually, the venue was the San Jose Civic Auditorium, an hour’s drive south of San Francisco. Meanwhile, Billy had a tight schedule set up for the 5 days before that concert. While in Los Angeles, we had a day of recording studio time reserved at Billy’s favorite place, Sunset Sound. Billy told me he had a song for me to sing lead vocal on—something I’m sure won’t go down well with Honey. Also, we were making lip-sync appearances on two Dick Clark vehicles: American Bandstand and Where the Action Is.
With Bobby sitting next to me (I gave him the window seat – he’s such a child), I closed my eyes. I hadn’t slept much after Sunday night’s excitement and revelations from Bobby’s mom. I felt I could use the five-hour flight to catch up on my beauty sleep. As I drifted off, I could hear one of my favorite songs from Bobby’s record collection spinning on the turntable of my mind: Aretha Franklin’s version of the Billie Holiday classic, “God Bless the Child.”
Grandmother was released from the hospital the week of Thanksgiving. They brought her home in one of those Ford vans you see on TV cop shows. Only she wasn’t on a stretcher. They gave her a gleaming new wheelchair and when the paramedics opened the rear doors, there she was, smiling wanly at her reception committee: Mom, Dad, me and Connie. With minimal grumbling, Dad wheeled her into the house and into her new bedroom on the first floor, convenient to her two favorite places—our kitchen and the backyard where she could supervise Mom’s gardening chores.
Black Friday had become a bacchanale of shopping since they expanded the Bergen Mall in Paramus. It was only a 15-minute drive west on Route 4 and Mom, Dad, and Connie left right after breakfast, leaving me and grandma at home. I had volunteered to stay behind with her because, practically speaking, I had nothing to shop for. My father had restricted me to boys’ clothes until I graduated from school and turned 18. He said he couldn’t stop me from robbing him of his only born son when the law recognized me as an adult able to make my own decisions, however ill-advised. It was a situation he tried to avoid confronting. In fact, he met with my therapists in New York once and then swore off the whole affair, leaving Mom to liaise with them.
Since we were home alone, Grandma asked me to put on one of the gowns I had worn on stage during the summer. She said she had fought so hard to recover from her stroke just to have the pleasure of seeing me in it. I wiped away tears and ran off to change. I put on the silver lamé dress I had worn for our final concert at Murray the K’s Brooklyn Fox Show on Labor Day. Quickly, I made up my face and fitted my Hank’s Honeys wig on my head, hoping it didn’t look askew.
She clapped like a boisterous child presented with an ice cream cone when I executed a glissade into the room and struck a glamorous pose. Dad didn’t allow me to take ballet lessons with Connie but I shadowed her every move when she practiced at home.
“Now, koneko, let me hear you sing. Your mother says you sing like an angel. Is she just boasting because she is proud of her youngest daughter or are you really the next Dinosaur?”
“You mean Dinah Shore?”
“Yes, that’s what I said, no?”
I sat down at the piano Mom insisted Dad buy for Connie’s music lessons, although, of course, it was really because she knew I was inseparable from Bobby. If he spent 20 hours a week practicing, she knew I’d want to be there accompanying him on piano or, later, clarinet. Connie abandoned her music lessons after less than a year, but I persisted. Maybe because I wanted to spend time with Bobby or maybe I really do have talent. What a thought!
I played the chords underlying the first two lines of the first verse: A, E, G, and D to recall the melody of the song I had only ever played before or after sound checks when I was alone or just with Bobby. I tried to sing it the way Carole had on that demo she recorded. It was “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.”
“I do not understand most of the words in the song, koneko, but it must be a love song. You were thinking about Bobby, no?”
“Yes, sobo. I’m so scared I’ll never see him again. He’s in basic training right now and then they’ll ship him overseas for two years!”
“He will return to you, Itsuki. I believe in fate. You are his. He is yours. Forever.”
There was silence between us for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes. I put on a smile and said to sobo, “I never did get to tell you what happened when we started the tour after Bobby and I appeared on television.”
“I’m all ears. Is that the right thing to say? In Japan, we would just say you have my undivided attention. But ‘all ears’ is such a strange image…”
Bobby and I were waiting for our bags to come around at the luggage carousel in LAX when Ray, our road manager, told me there was a limo waiting to take Hank, Honey and the Honeys (which included me!) to Billy Schechter’s house in Laurel Canyon, north of the city in the Hollywood Hills. Bobby and the rest of the band and crew would be staying at the Sunset Marquis Hotel in West Hollywood. My bags popped into view and Bobby grabbed them as they came around, handed them to me, and, with his usual puppy dog eyes, said he’d see me tomorrow at the recording studio.
Hank, Honey, the three other Honeys and I squeezed our way into the Cadillac Fleetwood that they say comfortably seats six (not including the driver). The truth is fitting seven people in that limousine made it feel like we were riding in a clown car. An image of us all spilling out onto the sawdust of a circus floor when the door opened made me giggle and Honey reflexively giggled too. Why she did, I have no idea.
Billy had taken a later flight since he had business to tend to in New York that morning. Hank told me he’d arrive sometime this evening.
“Have you ever been to Cali, Shuggie?” Hank asked.
“No, this is my first time. I’ve never been farther west than Philadelphia, really. Of course, you guys are used to traveling and performing all over the country, even England. I read where you toured there with Motown last year. You were on the same bill with The Supremes and Stevie Wonder!”
“Yeah, that was a lot of fun. A lot of ‘ello gov’na and fancy a cuppa? And we didn’t have to consult no Green Book to see where we could sleep or eat. Hell, two years ago, before Billy bought that house in Laurel Canyon, the band had to stay in the fuckin’ Dunbar Hotel on Central because the better hotels were still segregated. In Los Angeles! I suppose you’ve never had that problem, being half white and everything.”
“Is Bobby going to be alright staying at the Sunset Marquis? He’ll stick out like a sore thumb, won’t he?”
“Nah, the Marquis is integrated. All the music types stay there. Black, white, what have you. I heard The Rolling Stones stayed there last year. Miles Davis and his crew is supposed to stay there sometime in August.”
“Oh, wow, Bobby like really digs Miles. And Coltrane. He’ll be disappointed to miss them. So, Billy’s house must be really big. Are there enough rooms for all of us?”
“Oh, yeah, no problem. We’ll double up, two to a room. Maybe you and me could share—”
“Hank, she’s 17. Jailbait in most states,” Honey interjected. Under her breath, Viola muttered, “Never stopped him before.”
“We’ll discuss this later. It’s gonna be a while between now and bedtime. Right, Shuggie?”
I’d forgotten the time difference! My body was still on Eastern Standard time. But it was barely a quarter of an hour after 12 noon here in the Hollywood Hills. We were packed so tightly in that car that when Viola’s stomach rumbled, I could not only hear it, I felt it. Other than that sound, we rode in silence for the rest of the hour long drive up La Cienega Boulevard. When we finally pulled up the driveway of Billy’s house, I prepared myself for the inevitable clown avalanche onto the pavement. But I leaned on the driver’s arm when he opened the door and managed to maintain my balance as I took a panoramic view of Billy’s estate-sized property. I really don’t know much about architecture, but it was sort of futuristic looking, all metal and glass, right angles and razor-sharp lines. Like Frank Lloyd Wright. Am I wrong?
Marisol, Billy’s surprisingly young and attractive Chicana housekeeper, showed us our rooms. I was shocked to find that Billy had arranged a separate bedroom for me, while the others shared theirs. On the bed in my room was laid out a one-piece bathing suit, presumably in my size.
“Mr. Schechter said you would not have packed a bathing suit so he picked out something that you might find acceptable to wear? After you shower, you can go for a swim in the pool. I’ll bring out a light lunch for everyone in about an hour. Is there anything else you need?”
Ten minutes later, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in the en suite bathroom. I had been apprehensive about exposing myself to this extent but, as I turned from side to side and peered over my shoulder to appraise my backside, I concluded that the swimsuit was actually quite flattering—if you like slim girls with bubble butts and tiny breasts. When I came outside, Hank was swimming laps while the girls were taking in the sun on loungers, chatting and laughing.
When Hank saw me, he swam to the edge of the pool and laughed, “Hey girl, that suit looks like something your grandma would wear. I was expecting something a bit more, how you say, sexxxyyyy.”
“Leave her alone, Hank. She’s very modest. Her momma raised her right. Not like them showgirls and prosties you fooled with before I met you.”
Hank winked at me and replied to Honey, “who says I don’t trifle with the like even now? You got a private dick following me?”
“That’s one thing I wish you’d keep private, sweetheart. Look, you got Shuggie blushing, talking that kind of shit. Bet you Bobby never talks like that. Right? Come over here, Shuggie, us girls want to know all about you and Bobby. When’s the wedding?” She laughed uproariously, joined by the other girls. Hank splashed the water loudly with his right hand, turned his body and swam to the far side of the pool. Just then, Marisol appeared, pushing a cart filled with covered dishes. Lunch was served!
Billy finally showed up around 7PM, looking a bit haggard from the plane ride and maybe whatever business he had to tend to earlier in the day in New York. Marisol served up a delicious dinner of beef enchiladas, Mexican salad with cilantro lime dressing, and the American version of Mexican cerveza, several bottles of Corona beer. Billy winked at me from across the table and had Marisol fill my glass with beer. “No one snitches on Shuggie, okay?” Everyone laughed and we clinked glasses in a toast.
After dinner, we reconvened in Billy’s “bachelor pad”-styled living room and began listening to records on his expensive looking high-end stereo system. We all danced to a cavalcade of 45s ranging from Martha & The Vandellas to Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye to Etta James, Otis Redding to The Animals, and on and on. Honey and the other girls knew all the most popular dances: the Frug, the Monkey, the Jerk, the Watusi, the Boogaloo. I couldn’t keep up. I sank into an easy chair as I watched everyone else gyrate to Smokey Robinson & The Miracles. In a sudden break from the danceathon, Billy placed an LP on his Garrard turntable. After dropping the needle onto the run-in groove, Billy lifted me out of my chair and swept me into a slow dance posture. The music started: Tony Bennett singing “Fly Me to the Moon.”
We glided across the room, the sweet string arrangement conducted by Don Costa and Tony’s velvety baritone transporting us to a realm of romantic longing I had never experienced. Billy’s gentle eyes stared into mine and we moved as if we were alone in the room, in that house, on a hill above the city of angels. Someone picked up the needle. There was silence. Billy and I stood still.
“Hey, man, don’t monopolize the dance floor. Let me show Shuggie what real slow dancing is all about. Now, let’s re-start the record and let a man jump in and shake ‘em on down.” He took me in his arms and the music resumed. Billy turned toward the bookshelf-lined wall and leaned against it, his face a mask of calm resignation. Honey and the girls looked on with disdain. Honey, especially, couldn’t decide whether to get up and leave the room or just sit there and stew.
Hank was surprisingly light on his feet and quite gentle as he moved me around the room, executing something like waltz steps. He smiled at me. At one point, he began to nuzzle my neck. Honey sprang up from her seat and walked brusquely out of the room. After another few seconds, the song ended and Hank released me from his grip.
“It must be the time change. I’m really tired. I think I’ll just go to my room and hit the hay. Thanks to both of you for the dance, gentlemen.” I hurried up the stairs, my shoes clomping on the steps.
“Hey, Shuggie, it’s only 9:30. Well, the night is still young. Ladies, who’s up for more boogaloo?”
My body felt it was really past midnight, so I was out like a light when my head hit the pillow. Loud voices woke me up around the actual midnight hour. I couldn’t tell what they were shouting about but it was clearly a trio of voices: Hank, Honey and Billy. It sounded like they were still in the living room downstairs. Honey and Hank shook the walls with angry expletives and Billy shouted for them to calm down to no avail. I couldn’t go back to sleep with all that commotion, so I picked up the phone next to the bed and dialed the Sunset Marquis to speak to Bobby. The switchboard operator patched me into Bobby’s room, but it was Willie our trumpet player who picked up.
“This is Willie. Who’s calling?”
“Oh, hi, Willie. This is Shuggie. Can I talk to Bobby?”
“Bobby? He’s dead to the world. Here, you can hear him snoring. Really loud too.”
“Could you go wake him up. It’s kinda important. Thanks, Willie.” I heard Willie trying to rouse Bobby from his deep sleep. The snoring was interrupted by grunts and moans. Finally, Willie told him I was on the phone. A few seconds later, in a raspy, yawning voice Bobby half-whispered, “Hey, Shuggie, what’s up?”
“Hank, Honey and Billy are having a hell of a screaming match right now in the living room. Can’t you hear it?” I held the phone out with my extended right arm.
“Yeah, so just wrap the pillow around your head and cover your ears. I’m going back to bed, Shuggie. It’s like 3AM New York time.”
“Bobby! Do you know why they’d be at each other’s throats like that?”
“Well, okay, but don’t tell anyone I told you. Honey wants out. Out of the marriage, out of the band. She wants to go solo, personally and professionally. She’s gonna finish this tour and then leave for CBS Records. John Hammond thinks she could be the next Aretha Franklin.”
“Wow. I thought they were happily married.”
“Well, you’ve never been known to be too observant.”
“Bobby, I wish I was there with you instead of Billy’s house.”
“Yeah, I know. But we’re just peons, Willie and me. You’re a star, Shuggie.”
“Remember when we used to sleep in your car? When we couldn’t find a place to crash?”
“My aching back remembers too well. I always let you sleep on the back seat. Me, I had to keep the steering wheel from deviating my septum whenever I turned my head.”
“Not always. There were times when it was cold at night, and we didn’t have a blanket—”
“Shuggie, I’d really like to go back to sleep. We’re supposed to be at the recording studio at 9AM.”
“Okay, Bobby. Good night. Sweet dreams, my sweet.” He had already hung up. They were still going at it downstairs. I took my pillow and wrapped it around my head, covering my ears. Remarkably, I drifted off in a few minutes.
The next morning, everyone was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at Sunset Sound. Well, not really. Billy had coffee ordered in and we must have drunk several gallons among us. The pair of recording engineers for our session declined our coffee. They had their own thermoses that they brought to work every day. I guess engineers don’t make a heck of a lot. I watched Hank and Honey intently for signs that last night’s verbal fisticuffs had been left behind and that a productive day of recording wouldn’t be derailed by another outburst. So far, they seemed wary enough of each other to be civil and concentrated on the tracks Billy had us lay down.
The first song we worked on was a showpiece for Hank called “Let One Hurt Do.” It reminded us all what a really good singer Hank was. He had the pipes and stage presence to be a solo act but I think he preferred to be the leader of an ensemble, a variety show unto itself, with male singers, female singers, a crack band, dance moves and theatrical flourishes. For certain, he liked being the final authority in all things musical and otherwise.
After the band managed to satisfy Billy’s critical ears with umpteen takes of the instrumental backing for the track, Hank and the four Honeys put on headphones and positioned ourselves before our microphones to sing over it. After two practice runs, Billy started rolling tape. It was a one take success.
As the morning flowed into the afternoon, it was becoming obvious that Honey had very little to contribute to the session. There was only one track that she sang lead on. And she was superfluous as a backup vocalist since the Honeys nailed down our harmonies pretty efficiently. She and Hank exploded at each other during a coffee break. Billy just closed the studio door on them and sat at the control panel, moving the potentiometers up and down absentmindedly, waiting for Hank to return. When Hank came back in, he was alone.
“Uh, Honey’s done for the day. She’s gone back to the house. Said she’d rather sit by the pool than twiddle her thumbs here.”
“No sweat. We didn’t have anything for her to do anyway. Okay, everyone, let’s go over that chart again. I want the brass to come in a little brighter, maybe up half a step. And Chubby, keep the arpeggios in the pre-chorus. I like them.”
It was past 5PM and Billy had released everyone for the day. “Shuggie, can you stay for a bit. I have one more track I’d like you to sing on.”
I nodded to Bobby as he packed up his saxophone and walked out of the studio. “Sure, Billy, what do you have for me?”
“I took a later flight yesterday because I did a session with an orchestra at the RCA studios. I wanted to give you a solo number. At least see how you sound, just by yourself. You’re a quick study so we’ll probably get this done in a minimum number of takes. Afterwards, we can have dinner at Tony’s on the Pier in Redondo Beach. Half-hour drive from here. They’ve got great seafood—”
“Oh, no, seafood kinda makes me nauseous.” I shook my head vehemently.
“Well, we’ll go somewhere else then. Let’s go through the lyrics, okay?”
It took longer than Billy expected. He wanted me to sing in a style that was really different than anything I’d done with Hank’s Honeys. After about ten takes, I felt my voice starting to get hoarse but it was the eleventh take that got it right…at least to Billy’s satisfaction. The song was “Smile.”
As Billy ushered me into his candy apple red Mustang convertible, I asked, “how are you going to use that track? I mean, no one else in the band is on it. It’s just me, singing.”
“We’ll release it under your name.”
“Oh, no, Dad will kill me. I can’t use my real name. Dad’ll never hear the end of it in Bergenfield. He might even lose his job!”
“I thought of that. We’ll give you a stage name.”
“What is it?”
“No hurry. I don’t plan to do anything with that record until we’ve got you buttoned up with an exclusive contract.”
“Bobby says people in this business need to have a lawyer look at anything before signing.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Of course, I do. It’s just…don’t you think it would be advisable to have all the legal stuff checked out?”
“No, you’re right. Smart girl. Now, let’s find a place that doesn’t serve seafood.”
We finished up recording at Sunset Sound the next morning and Honey was rather subdued but present in body if not in spirit. After Billy and I returned to his house at around 11PM, the three of them had a relatively calm discussion of their situation. At least there wasn’t any shouting or name calling that I could hear as I trundled off to bed.
In the early afternoon, Billy loaded us into a Greyhound bus, and we drove to the Santa Monica Pier where we were scheduled to appear on a taping of Dick Clark’s Where the Action Is. The show aired daily at 4:30PM in glorious black & white immediately following the cult soap opera Dark Shadows. We pretty much just got to stand around and lip-sync to our current single, “Heaven Must Have Sent You” while a bunch of clean-cut teenagers encircled us, clapping hands and dancing in place. Honey Hutch was at her telegenic best as she charmed her way through the song, her arms stretching toward the sky to express her gratitude to the gods for sending her beloved down to her on earth. Steve Alaimo, one of the co-hosts, jumped in at the final note to chat for a minute with Honey.
“Honey! Great to have you on the show for the first time. Could you introduce your wonderful backup singers to everyone?”
“Well, Steve, it’s a pleasure to be here, you know, where the action really is!” The crowd of teenagers hooped and hollered. “To my right, we have Viola, Cissy, Thelma, and Shuggie, our newest Honey.” There was scattered applause. “And, of course, behind me is Hank, our fearless leader.” Hank bowed to more scattered applause.
“Hank, want to tell the audience out there in TV land across the country about the summer concert tour you’re just about to embark on?”
“Yeah, Steve, thank you. The tour starts Saturday in San Jose and goes for two months until Labor Day. We’ll be in Denver, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, Philly, D.C., among other cities, and end up back East in New York City. So, we hope to see all of you out there this summer!”
The next morning, again like middle school students on a field trip, we boarded a Greyhound bus and were driven to the Los Feliz enclave of Los Angeles, at the foot of the famous Hollywood Hills. This was where the ABC Television Center sat, at the corner of Prospect and Talmadge, and where Dick Clark’s legendary American Bandstand was taped. By the summer of 1966, American Bandstand had been relocated from Philadelphia for two years already, now a pre-recorded weekly show on Saturdays rather than a live Monday to Friday affair. As on Where the Action Is, the band lip-synced “Heaven Must Have Sent You.” This time before an indoor audience of clean-cut teenagers who were suitably enthusiastic for the cameras.
Both Hank and Billy were more than chagrined that after their segment, Dick Clark chose to interview Honey Hutch alone and apart from the rest of the band.
What really irked Billy was that Honey never mentioned the band’s summer tour. Instead, she engaged in a discussion of her future plans and the possibility of recording as a solo artist. Clark seemed genuinely surprised by the tenor of the conversation but followed up with questions about her professional and personal relationship with Hank. To her credit, Honey tactfully evaded Clark’s questions, saying “I believe everything is in God’s hand. He has a plan for me, for all of us. Even for you, Dick Clark.” Then she laughed. Hank and Billy stood in the wings. They weren’t laughing. Nor smiling.
On the bus after the taping, Hank started to go off on Honey but she turned away from him, her hand held up like a stop sign. “I don’t want to talk about it. Now, go to the other end of the bus and sit down with your girl Shuggie. And Billy! Just cool it. This has nothing to do with you.”
“What do you mean? You’re half of this act. You’re the star attraction. Hell, you’ve got Dick Clark thinking you’ve already left the band. And we’ve got a 40-date tour starting Saturday for god’s sake.”
“Talk to the hand, Billy. I’m tired of riding stankin’ buses. I’m tired of the chitlins circuit—”
“Chitlins?! You’re calling Ed Sullivan and Bandstand the chitlins circuit? I had to talk my ass off to get you guys booked on these shows. We’ve got a record with a bullet on the charts!” Billy almost screamed as Honey just stared out the window.
“Most of all, I’m tired of Hank. Of all his bullshit. All the girls and the verbal abuse. Billy, you more than anyone know we’ve gone through six, no make it seven, Honeys in the last year.” Hank stood up and exclaimed, “I didn’t have nothing to do with them leaving. They were fooling with guys in Stevie Wonder’s band. That drummer. Joe something. Right, Billy?”
“You see, Billy, you see? I’ve had it. After this tour, I’m quitting. The band, Hank, everything.”
They went back and forth, even after the bus started its downhill journey back to the Sunset Marquis. Sitting with Bobby near the front, I squeezed his arm, concern on my face. This could really blow up the whole tour. I couldn’t imagine Hank and Honey co-existing much less performing together night after night on an eight-week concert march across the country.
Billy Schechter was already a legend in the music business at the tender age of 25. His office in the Brill Building had a score of gold records proudly hanging on the wall. His desk displayed the two Grammy Awards and an Oscar he had already won in only half a dozen years producing, arranging, and recording chart-topping music. He’d gone far, as far as Brooklyn to Malibu, not only in geographic distance but in professional acclaim. But, above all, Billy Schechter was really good at promotion, of his artists as well as himself. Wanting to start off the tour with a splash, Billy had convinced the program director at KFRC, San Francisco’s leading Top 40 radio station, to hold a contest for the privilege of opening for Hank and Honey Hutch at their Saturday, July 2nd concert in the San Jose Civic Auditorium, a 3,300 seat venue, 50 miles south of San Francisco on the southern shore of the Bay. The clever gimmick was that the contestants would be local amateur or semi-pro bands from the Bay Area, preferably teenage high school students from the target demographic.
So it was that on Friday afternoon, the day before the concert, our band and the two contest-winning bands went through a sound check at the Civic Auditorium. We were scheduled to do our sound check last, so the band scattered, most of them wandering around the shops of Downtown or taking a brief walking tour of the San Jose State University campus nearby. Bobby wanted to go back to the bus and take a nap. He said he couldn’t sleep because of Willie’s loud snoring. I giggled and he shot me a quizzical look. So, left to my own devices, I decided to sit and watch the contest winners go through their sound checks. Who knows? Maybe they have some talent.
There were some tables backstage where I could sit and just read the local newspaper or daydream. At a table to my right sat a petite blonde girl, 17 or 18 years old I assumed, strumming on an acoustic guitar and singing sotto voce. It sounded like a folk-rock song. Something Bob Dylan or Donovan would sing.
She saw me staring at her and stopped strumming. “Sorry, am I disturbing you? I thought I could just hang out here backstage until they call us.”
“Oh, no. I was enjoying listening to you. Is that a Dylan song? Sounds like one of his.”
“I wish. It’s something I wrote. Not finished yet. Working out the chords. I’m not a great guitarist,” she giggled. “I’m Stevie Nicks. Our band is opening for Hank and Honey Hutch tomorrow.”
“I’m Shuggie Brennan. I’m a Honey.”
“Well, really, you’re cute and everything—”
“No, no,” I laughed. “I mean I’m a Honey, one of the backup singers.”
“Wow. How old are you? You look so young to be a professional singer.”
“I’m 17. I’m a senior this Fall. This is really just like a summer job.”
“Nice summer job. I just graduated last month. Me and the rest of my band all went to Cubberley High in Palo Alto.” A tall young man with curly brown hair walked by carrying an electric guitar and waved to Stevie. He pointed to the stage. “That’s Lindsey, our lead guitarist. He writes songs too and sings.”
“He’s cute. Is he your boyfriend?”
“Maybe. Depends on my mood. You know guys. So, are you dating that cutie with the saxophone? I saw you two holding hands when we walked in a half hour ago.”
“Maybe. Depends.” We both giggled. Stevie got up from her chair and turned in the direction of the stage.
“Gotta go. We’re doing our sound check first. Nice meeting you. See you tomorrow night for sure.”
“What’s the name of your band?”
“Fritz. Actually, the full name was originally the Fritz Rabyne Memorial Band. It’s a long story. Bye!”
I looked on from the wings of the stage as Stevie and her band ran through the four songs they were allotted for their 20-minute set. I really liked their final song. I don’t know what the future held for them, but Stevie and Lindsey were quite impressive. For a high school band, they seemed rather advanced. Of course, that’s only my opinion, from the vantage point of less than a month as a wizened veteran of the industry. It was entitled “Take Advantage of Me.”
It was after 9PM when the emcee introduced us to the sold-out house that had restlessly endured two amateur local bands for over an hour and then watched as our assemblage of musicians set up in anonymity. Hank, Honey, and The Honeys strolled out on stage as the blinding lights centered on us, placing the band in partial shadow. We were the singers, the center of attention.
We opened the show with “Somebody Somewhere Loves You,” an energetic up-tempo showcase for our ensemble singing. Hank and Honey were in good voice and seemed to have palpable chemistry on stage. The crowd of over 3,000 stomped their feet and some were even heard singing along. I looked back in the shadows and Bobby was blowing up a storm on his sax. These were the first four minutes of my professional career, and they were brilliant! The crowd gave us an ovation as Hank took centerstage to sing “Soul Galore.”
That threatened to blow the roof off the place. The audience went wild, and it took a minute or two for things to settle down. A red spotlight shone down on Honey as she stepped forward and Hank laid down a bluesy A minor riff. This was a showstopper for Honey, the kind of song Hank and Honey had made popular on the chitlins circuit, what they would ruefully call ‘grown folks’ music. Honey unleashed “That’s What My Man is For” on their innocent teenage ears.
Honey took several bows and there were tears rolling down her cheeks. Hank came over to comfort her. The audience must have thought this was some theatrics on their part. But Honey brushed aside Hank’s hands and cried out, “I can’t! I can’t do it! Let me go!” She ran offstage, past Billy in the wings. The crowd was still under the impression that this was Hank and Honey doing Shakespeare in the auditorium. But when Honey didn’t return to the stage after several minutes, a buzz went up in the house.
Billy ran out on stage and huddled with Hank. The audience began to get a little restless. It had been almost ten minutes since Honey took her last bow. I walked over to overhear Billy instruct Hank to continue the concert. He saw me standing close by and pulled me into their huddle.
“I’m making an executive decision. This concert resumes with Shuggie taking Honey’s parts—”
“But, Billy, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. You know all the parts. All the lyrics. You’ve watched Honey sing these songs over and over again. You can do this.” Bobby was suddenly by my side. “You know the set better than Honey did, Shuggie. If Billy and Hank think you can do it…” Hank nodded and gave me a thumbs up. “Girl, you got this.”
Billy took a microphone and addressed the impatient audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems Honey has experienced an unfortunate costume malfunction at a rather untimely point in the proceedings. But, not to worry. The show must go on. Hank and the band are ready, willing and able to give San Jose a show you won’t soon forget.” He took my hand and led me to the front of the stage. To me, he whispered, “Show ‘em what you got, kiddo.” Then he walked offstage. The spotlight hit me, and our drummer counted down. It took a Herculean effort to even open my mouth but something resembling a lyric wrapped in melody eventually emerged.
The 8 days that followed our first concert in San Jose and Honey’s sudden, epochal departure from the stage were a whirlwind of performing, sleeping on a tour bus, and dizzying personal reflection. It was Sunday evening when our two buses filled with tired and hungry musical fellow travelers settled into the parking garage of The Palmer House Hilton, located in the Loop section of Chicago. After a week of riding hundreds of miles on a bus, playing one-night stands, and sleeping uncomfortably on the same bus parked overnight at rest stops, all we wanted was a quick bite of dinner and a comfortable bed to lose consciousness in.
We scattered to various eateries. Billy, Hank, and Ray, our road manager, decided to try Gibson’s Steakhouse on Rush Street, a 15-minute walk from our hotel on East Monroe. Others went for less pricey places in the immediate neighborhood. Bobby went with the greater contingent of the band to have some famous Chicago deep-dish pizza. He asked me and Bailey our wardrobe mistress to tag along but I demurred. I went straight up to the room I was to share with Bailey for the 5 nights we were in town and picked up the phone, dialing home to speak to Mom.
“Hello…”
“Mom, it’s me, Shuggie! I’m calling from Chicago—”
“It’s good to hear from you, sweetie. But how did you end up in Chicago? Did something go wrong with the band? Did you quit or get fired—”
“No, Mom, it’s on our tour itinerary. We’re in Chicago for concerts Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Then we’re off to Detroit and Milwaukee—”
“Oh, that’s okay then. It’s just I’m worried about you. You’ve never been away from home or your dad and I for more than a weekend. At least you’ve got Bobby there to look after you.”
“Yes, Mom, he’s been a very good babysitter. Listen, Mom, is Dad watching TV? I don’t want him to know too much about what’s going on. He’s not really on board with everything. I’m telling you stuff because, well, you’re on my side, you know.”
“Your dad went bear hunting with Bobby’s dad again this weekend. He won’t be home until late. So, what’s so secretive about what’s going on with you? He agreed to let you go on tour with the band. Reluctantly, but he did.”
“Well, things have taken a turn—”
“For the worse? Oh, Shuggie, no! What happened?”
“For the better, Mom. I’m taking over for Honey Hutch. I’m the lead vocalist now, not a backup singer!”
“Oh my god, Shuggie. How did this happen?”
“She left the band! Just walked off the stage at our first concert in San Jose. Billy made an executive decision and said we had to continue the concert…with me singing all of Honey’s parts!”
“Okay, let me sit down. This sounds like it could be a long story.”
So, I began to recount the events of the past 8 days, although there were parts of the story I didn’t tell her. After all, there are some things you just don’t tell your mother. For their own protection, of course.
I looked out into the audience and I froze. My lips trembled but no sounds escaped, and my eyes widened with panic. Both hands tightly gripped the microphone stand as I felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of my gown. It seemed like an eternity but mere seconds into my catatonia, Hank stepped behind me and whispered, “Sing “I Can’t Help Myself.” Do it like we’ve rehearsed it.” He squeezed my shoulder and then quickly went around to the other bandmembers, giving them the change in song order. A downbeat initiated the opening bars, the familiar notes reviving me. I started to sway with the music and sang out the first line.
When our drummer hit the final stroke on what is legendarily called The Motown Shuffle, there was a second or two of complete silence in the house. On stage, we held our breaths, waiting for the audience’s response. Would they find my performance acceptable in replacing Honey? Would they jeer?
Suddenly, an ovation erupted from the crowd. Relieved, we bowed as one, soaking in the applause and shouted praise. Then, like the professionals we were, we performed the rest of the concert in fine form. I only flubbed two lines! I covered over the flubs by doing my hasty impression of scat singing. Some of the bandmembers even giggled at my faux pas. I wonder if that’s how Ella Fitzgerald started scat singing.
The question of what to do as an encore was at the center of another hushed conversation backstage. Billy and Hank traded ideas. Billy preferred we perform “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)” again as a reminder of its prospective release in September. Hank wanted to try something we’d fooled around with during soundchecks. It was just Hank at the piano and me duetting on the old Inez and Charlie Foxx tune, “Mockingbird.” Before Billy could marshal an argument against it, Hank pulled me out on stage, sat me down next to him on the piano bench, and announced the song title to the applauding crowd. Bobby gave me a thumbs up from the wings. Billy looked unsure this was a good idea. The crowd quieted down as Hank played. We began to sing.
Billy declared the night a huge success as we boarded the bus after the concert. Hank had half-expected to see Honey sitting in the lounge section, pouring herself an after-concert cup of black coffee as usual. But she was nowhere to be seen. She had probably taken a taxi to the airport and flown who knows where. Maybe to her parents in Detroit. When her absence finally sank in, Hank just slumped into a seat, a sad look on his face.
“I thought she was just having another of her tantrums. She left the band once in St. Louis. Right after the first song, just like tonight. I found her playing solitaire in our hotel room.”
Billy was oblivious to Hank’s mood. “I really don’t care if she stays away. Shuggie here is a great replacement. The crowd loved her! That Four Tops cover put us on another level. The only problem is changing all the marquees, the posters, listings in the papers. We’ll just call it the Hank Hutch Band for now.”
I raised my hand as if I were in History class. “Excuse me, Billy, but remember, I can’t go by my real name. My dad would be apoplectic.”
“I already planned for that. We’ll call you Sugar Pie.”
“Just Sugar Pie? Like a cartoon character or a pet?”
“Yeah, it’s perfect. The audience will connect you to the song. We’ll record it first chance we get and release it as a single under the name Sugar Pie. Maybe I can get some studio time in Chicago or Detroit.”
Hank’s face brightened and he said, “We need you, Shuggie, until Honey comes to her senses. We got 8 weeks of concert dates to fulfill. And this’ll really jump start your career. I’m sure Billy could get you a contract as a solo artist.”
“It’s just weird having to use a stage name. I’m sure Honey preferred using her real name not something like Sugar Pie.”
Hank laughed, “Honey’s not her real name either.” Billy nodded.
“Was her father against her being in show business, using her real name, like me?”
“Nah, her real name’s Tunesha. Now, you tell me, don’t you think Hank and Honey rolls off the tongue better than Hank and Tunesha?”
The next day we took part in an afternoon concert in San Francisco at Daly City’s Cow Palace, a hangar-like indoor arena a few minutes from downtown. The Hank Hutch Band, as we were now called, was second billed behind The Beau Brummels, a local San Francisco group that had two national Top 10 hits the year before. Contrary to their top billing here, they were already in decline as a best-selling band. Their third album, released that month, would bomb.
Behind us on the bill were two other local bands: Jefferson Airplane and Big Brother & The Holding Company. They each played half-hour sets before we came on stage, immediately preceding the headlining Beau Brummels. While the girl singer for Big Brother was kind of interesting in a blues-rock vein, I didn’t think they had much of a future. Janis Joplin, I think, was her name.
Jefferson Airplane, on the other hand, really sounded good. With a pair of vocalists, Marty Balin and Signe Anderson, I could see them having some chart success. They played the sort of electric folk-rock that Dylan had started to popularize. Their version of “High Flying Bird” was a highlight of their set.
Marty approached me after the concert as we were boarding the ever-present tour bus and invited me to perform at this club in town called The Matrix that he owned part of. When I asked if he meant the band not just me, he smiled and said, “Either way.” Bobby, who was standing behind me, watched Marty walk away, turned to me, and laughed. “Owning a club must be a real help in picking up girls.”
“Maybe he thought I was a really good singer. Is that so unbelievable?”
“No, of course not. But I don’t think he was interested in your vocal cords.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be back in San Francisco anytime soon.”
“His loss.” Bobby took my hand and we boarded the bus for the 6-hour drive back to Los Angeles. We would spend Monday, July 4th, ‘resting’ before a concert at The Hollywood Bowl on Tuesday. Then we would board the bus to arrive in Phoenix for a concert on Wednesday night and Denver for a one-nighter on Friday. Finally, to conclude a rather hectic week, we would end up in a Chicago hotel room on Sunday evening. Oh, the life of a pop star!
We were back in Billy’s Laurel Canyon house on Monday, the 4th. Hank and the girls left after brunch, taking one of Billy’s cars, and planned to spend the day checking out the 4th of July parade and fireworks in Santa Monica and go club-hopping in the evening. No one had heard from Honey. But Billy assured us she could very capably take care of herself, wherever she was.
Bobby arrived at the house just in time to have lunch with Billy and me. He had to take two buses to get from the Sunset Marquis to Laurel Canyon. He almost absentmindedly got off in Studio City and the entire journey took over an hour, including 15 minutes climbing the hills of Laurel Canyon to reach Billy’s house.
After lunch, I put on the one-piece swimsuit Billy had picked out for me and Bobby borrowed a pair of Billy’s swim trunks so we could lounge by the pool. Billy disappeared to his office to make phone calls. Even on the 4th of July, Billy was working the phones, plotting, planning, kibitzing he called it. He didn’t tell us but I’m sure some of the kibitzing had to do with Honey’s desertion from the band. There were legal issues to ponder.
About mid-afternoon, with barbecue smoke wafting overhead from Billy’s neighbors and the sound of occasional rounds of fireworks in the distance, a group of shaggy-haired young men appeared before us, accompanied by Billy. Even though I was wearing a conservative one-piece suit, I was self-conscious enough to grab a towel and try to cover myself as they looked on. Seeing my plight, Bobby stood up and placed himself in their line of sight, partially obscuring me in my lounge chair.
Billy introduced them as a band called The Doors. Apparently, they had just started a residency at a club called The Whisky a Go Go on The Sunset Strip. They had dropped by to visit with Billy because they were opening for us at the Hollywood Bowl on Tuesday and Jac Holzman at Elektra Records was looking for a producer for their first album. Billy ushered them back into the house, saying he’d be off the phone in fifteen minutes, and asked Marisol to get them beers or soda, whatever they preferred. Bobby put on a shirt and followed them into the living room. I excused myself to change out of my bathing suit and into a t-shirt and jeans.
When I made my re-entrance, they were chugging bottles of beer with Bobby while listening to a tape of a song we had recorded at Sunset Sound last week. I was singing lead on “Everything is Good About You.”
When the song ended, they all applauded. Jim Morrison, their vocalist Billy had said, saluted me with his beer bottle. “That’s really good. I like your voice. So, Bobby tells me you’re both from New Jersey. Did you work there locally?”
“Oh, no, we’ve only been doing this for three weeks. Me, personally, even a week less than that. I never thought I’d be singing professionally.”
Bobby interjected, “We were both in band in high school. Shuggie plays clarinet. I’ve done some sort-of amateur stuff in New York, sitting in with jazz combos and such. I played with Nina Simone last month at The Village Gate.”
Ray Manzarek, the one with glasses and sandy-colored hair, was impressed. “Nina Simone? That’s real top tier. Hey, here’s Billy.” Billy walked in. “Bobby, playing with the tapes again? That’s just a rough take. I’m not happy with the backing track on that. The sax player was way off-key.”
Ray smiled. “Bobby, isn’t that you on sax?” Bobby turned red. Billy patted him on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Bobby. Just teasing.”
“Shuggie’s pretty impressive, though” Jim declared.
“I think Jim means you’re impressively pretty, Shuggie” Ray smirked.
Bobby looked out the window at the Ford Econoline Van in the driveway. “Guys, is that van what you use to travel to gigs?”
Robby, the guitarist in the band, stood by Bobby at the window. “We’ve been driving that for a few months now. It’s used but it’s a ’65 model. Jim got a sweet deal on it from an old college buddy.”
John, the drummer, took a swig from his bottle and hooked his thumb toward the front door of the house. “You wanna take a closer look at it? You can take it for a drive if you want. We’ll even let you honk the horn. C’mon Robby, let’s give Bobby the guided tour of Econoline heaven.” The three of them left.
“So, Jim, Ray, I thought you guys were going to work with Rothschild. After all, he’s Jac’s house producer at Elektra. I’m a big admirer of his work. He did the Butterfield album and I hear the second one is even better. He lives down the road, a hop, skip and a jump from here.”
“We know him by reputation,” Jim said. “But we’re not sure he’s the right producer for us, stylistically. Anyway, Holzman told us he’d consider an outside producer if we could find someone we’d prefer. Ray likes your stuff—”
“Yeah, it’s more…uh…commercial than the stuff Elektra releases. I know Jim agrees with me. We’re not interested in doing pop arrangements of folk songs or white suburban versions of Delta blues.”
“What Ray is trying to say is we want someone who can produce a record that’ll get us on Ed Sullivan. You dig?”
“Well, that’s a noble ambition. And pays the bills a lot easier. Nothing wrong with being “commercial.” The business of America is business. Capisce?”
Jim reached into his jeans pocket and took out a sandwich baggie filled with what looked like oregano. It didn’t smell like oregano when he opened it.
“If we’re going to talk business, I think we need to be in the right frame of mind. We need to mellow out. I hate high-pressured discussions. Let’s partake.” He took out small squares of paper and cleared some space on the coffee table. “I prefer to use the whole plant, stems, seeds, everything. Any objections? Billy? Shuggie?”
It dawned on me that I was about to smoke grass for the first time ever. Bobby said he’d smoked some with his jazz friends on occasion and that some guys in school had tried it too. I sat there and watched Jim expertly roll two joints with the skill of an Old West cowboy. One handed. He passed one to Billy and lit it for him. The other one he gave to Ray, also lighting that one. Billy took a deep drag and then handed it to me. I took a deep drag and almost coughed up my lungs. My eyes began to water.
“Whoa, is that your first time? Yeah, you’ve got to go easy on it. Slow and deep. Don’t try to suck the smoke out of it in one. A couple of tokes and you’ll feel real mellow.”
We passed the joints around for about ten minutes. I didn’t really feel any different, which surprised me since I thought I’d be affected by it within a couple of puffs. Finally, Ray stood up and asked Billy if they could go somewhere to talk business. Billy led him into his office, leaving me alone with Jim.
“Yeah, Ray’s got a better grip on business matters than I do. I’m more of the carefree artist type. I’m mainly into my art. I guess, you’re like that too?”
“Gee, I don’t know. I haven’t ever really thought of myself as any kind of artist. Even the singing just comes naturally.”
“So, are you and Billy…”
“No, he’s like my boss, that’s all. But he’s been very kind to me. He convinced my father to let me go on tour with Hank’s band this summer. My Dad had strong objections against it. He’s still not completely alright with it.”
“Because you’re…too young?”
“That’s part of it. I’m only 17. I’m still in high school.”
“I can see why your dad would object. You do know about Billy’s reputation, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s America’s youngest millionaire record producer. That’s what the New York Times called him.”
“No, I mean his reputation as a horndog. Especially with underage girls. He’s been rumored to fool around with 15 and 16-year-olds. Of course, I don’t believe every rumor I hear. From what I’ve seen, he seems okay.”
“He’s been a perfect gentleman.” All of a sudden, it hit me like a ton of bricks. The grass was having its advertised effect, some 20 minutes later. Jim noticed I’d gone silent.
“I hope I haven’t offended you. It’s just you’re still a minor in most states. And it’d be a shame if you got taken advantage of by someone like Billy—I’m not saying Billy specifically. I mean, you know, older guys. In general.”
Feeling a little light-headed, I giggled and said, “I know all about guys.”
“Oh, a worldly woman of experience, eh?”
“No, I know all about guys because…” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I’m a guy myself. Yes, I am. I’m a guy.”
“You’re kidding. Can’t be.”
“Would I joke about something like that?” I giggled.
Just then, Billy and Ray walked into the living room. They found me, giggling, my head practically in Jim’s lap. He looked up at Billy and Ray, shrugging his shoulders and trying to get me to sit up straight. “That Acapulco Gold is some strong shit. She’s like hallucinating. She’s saying she’s really a guy.” Billy looked into my bloodshot eyes. “Yeah, delayed effect. She’ll be alright.”
As if on cue, the van returned, and whoever was driving started honking the horn. This made me giggle some more. Jim and Ray shook hands with Billy and moved to the front door, where they almost ran into Bobby coming in just as they exited.
“Billy, what’s the matter with Shuggie?”
“She’s okay. A little too much weed for a first time.”
“What? You let them give her some grass to smoke?”
“Come on, Bobby, grass is harmless. It’s not like they had her shooting horse. Marisol, can you pour a glass of orange juice for Shuggie? Vitamin C tends to lessen the high. Should do the trick.”
When Marisol handed me the glass of orange juice, I chugged it down greedily. I don’t know if it really lessened my high but thinking that it might calmed me down rather quickly. Bobby looked at me and scolded, “I can’t let you out of my sight for 5 minutes.”
“They sound like a nice group of young men. And you say that Morrison boy comes from a military family?”
“Yes, Mom. His father is an Admiral in the navy.”
“Is he good looking, this boy Jim?”
“Mom! They just dropped by Billy’s house to talk business with him. We…uh…we…Bobby and me entertained them while Billy had some phone calls to make.”
“Did they bring any baked goods with them? It’s polite for guests to offer their hosts a cake, a pie, even donuts—”
“Mom, they brought some grass with them.”
“Is Billy into gardening?”
“Can I continue, Mom? This phone call is gonna cost Billy a mint.”
“Are they going to make a federal case out of a long-distance call from a child to their mother? How much could it cost? These people make millions—”
“Mom!!!”
Tuesday night, about an hour before The Doors were to open for us, Hank and I were sitting backstage at The Hollywood Bowl, shooting the breeze. He was telling me he was looking forward to arriving in Chicago on Sunday.
“I grew up on the North Side of Chicago. My parents and younger brother and sister still live there. Ain’t been home in more than a year. Of course, they’ll be curious about why Honey’s not with me. It’ll be fine with Mama. She never did like Honey and vice versa. Do Bobby’s parents like you?”
“Oh, yeah, we get along really well. We’re neighbors. Our houses are on the same block. Mrs. Messina thinks I’m a girl—”
“Well, that ain’t peculiar. You are,” he laughed.
“Right, of course. Well, I went through a tomboy phase and everyone kinda assumed I was a boy.”
“Shuggie, I can’t believe anyone would think you were a boy, even if you dressed in coveralls and a ball cap.”
“Shuggie! We heard about what happened. We just had to come see you!” It was Carole and Gerry. I was shocked to see them, but I guess news travels fast in music circles. She rushed over to me and hugged me. Gerry waved.
“Hey, Hank, sorry to hear about Honey. Have you heard from her since Saturday night?”
“No, Gerry, Billy’s been trying to track her down. We think she might have gone home to her mother’s in Detroit. The tour goes through there in a week or so. Maybe we’ll meet up then.” He shrugged.
“So, Shuggie, is showbiz all you thought it would be, now that you’re a star?”
“Carole, I’m not a star. I’m just a singer in Hank’s band. Hank’s the star.”
“That’s a pretty dress, Shuggie. Love the earrings too—”
The Doors walked into the backstage lounge. Jim Morrison came right over to me and planted a big wet kiss on my cheek.
“Sorry.” He tried to wipe my cheek with his thumb. “My mouth waters when I see a beautiful girl.”
“Any beautiful girl. Any girl at all,” laughed Ray as he, Robby, and John sat down on the couch.
“We’re The Doors.” Jim waved his hand with a flourish. “And you…you must be Hank Hutch if I’m not mistaken.” Hank nodded. “I’m afraid I don’t know you two.”
“Gerry Goffin. My wife, Carole King. We’re songwriters—”
“Oh, yeah!” He started singing “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.”
“That’s Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. People often mistake us for them and vice versa. We both work out of the Brill Building.”
“Forgive me. I’m not too up on the pop charts. Ray, you know anything by them?”
Ray shook his head and reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He coaxed the last one out into his mouth and asked Robby for a light.
“So, Shuggie or Sugar Pie as you’ve chosen for a stage name, have you told Hank your secret?”
Hank looked at me. “What secret? Shuggie’s an open book, the crazy kid.”
“Not what she told me. Right, Sugar Pie?”
“I was just joking.” I turned to Carole and Gerry. “He made me smoke some grass and I got really high. I don’t know what I was saying.”
“What you told me was: you’re really a guy. I’ve heard of people hallucinating on acid or ‘shrooms but not on grass.”
“Hey, she’s an innocent kid from the suburbs. I’m sure she’s never smoked before. Just leave her alone.” Gerry took a step toward Jim.
“We’re a long way from the suburbs, little girl. Or boy. Hank, you should straighten this out with Billy. He or she is his protégée. I heard Billy’s very familiar with she-males. His brother’s one.”
Bobby walked into the room, having overheard some of the conversation.
“Guys, Shuggie’s a girl. Come on. She was super high on that Acapulco Gold you pushed on her.”
“Maybe she’s got you fooled too. Look, I’ve got nothing against boys who want to be girls or girls who want to be boys. Trying to get one over on the teeming millions out there is gonna be one rough ride. If anyone finds out—”
“She’s a girl. I’ve known her since we were in elementary school.” Bobby put his arm around me. “We grew up together. We’re…we’re in love.” Bobby kissed me lightly right on the lips. “See? Now, shouldn’t you guys start setting up? You’ve got less than a half hour before showtime.” Ray took a last drag of his cigarette and stood up.
“Come on, Jim. You’ve had your fun. Let’s set up. Let me apologize for Jim’s boorish behavior. His analyst says he’s anti-social because he fucking hates his father. Excuse my French.” The four of them left the room.
“Who’s he when he’s at home?” asked Gerry with a smirk. “Shuggie, stay away from characters like that. They’re bad news. Even when they’re holding good shit.”
“I guess you really are “Bobby’s Girl,” Hank mused.
“I figured if I didn’t do something like that, he wouldn’t stop teasing Shuggie. Billy said he’s a real flake. Said he wouldn’t work with him even if Jac Holzman offered a cool million. They do a 12-minute song about him killing his father and committing incest with his mother. A weirdo, man.”
“He’s kind of cute though. We girls think so. Right, Carole?”
I watched from the wings as The Doors performed their opening set. Apparently, they were well-known enough to have pockets of fans cheering wildly in the audience. I’m sure Billy was a little disappointed in the turnout for our concert. The Bowl was at half-capacity. Still, that meant we were playing before a crowd of over 8,000. I wonder how many in the audience knew about Honey’s absence. Was that why walk-up ticket sales were sluggish?
I must say Jim was an impressive performer. His bluesy vocals and self-assured stage presence provided the evidence for Elektra Records offering them a recording contract. I think Billy’s wrong about the group. I could sense the connection they made with the audience, especially in their final number, “Break On Through to the Other Side.” They received the kind of ovation that made me unsure we’d produce the same results when we followed as the headliners.
My fears were unfounded as we played two encores to thunderous applause. Billy was happy despite the half-full house. Early reports from Phoenix and Denver, our next two stops on the tour, were encouraging. It seems Hank Hutch was more popular the further east we traveled. So popular that Billy had a third night added to our Chicago concerts next week.
True to his word, our concert in Phoenix at The Veteran’s Memorial Coliseum sold out the 14,000-seat facility. It was broadcast over the air on KRUX-AM radio. One of the local DJs introduced us. After the concert, we took advantage of the extensive showers in the Coliseum (the place had opened the year before to host professional sports teams as well as music concerts). Of course, I showered with Brianna and Bailey, who were really quite nice and understanding throughout the tour that summer.
Then, it was back to the tour buses and a 20-hour trek to Denver for our next one-night stand. The actual road time was 12 hours, but we parked overnight at some rest stop in New Mexico. We arrived just two hours before showtime at The Denver Coliseum. A rushed soundcheck was cut even shorter when our opening act appeared, Bob Lind. Lind was the toast of Denver. A local artist whose original composition “Elusive Butterfly” had peaked at number 5 on the national charts just 3 months before. While everyone else in the band wandered about the grounds of the Coliseum, I stayed behind to listen to Lind go through his soundcheck. He was only scheduled to sing 3 or 4 songs. Billy had used his innumerable industry contacts to get Lind to be a “special guest” and open for us. Billy was proven right that having Lind open for us would clinch a sell-out. The 10,000 seat Coliseum would be packed to the rafters tonight.
Lind performed solo with just an acoustic guitar. I watched and listened as he sang the lovely “Elusive Butterfly” to an empty house that echoed his round-toned voice and rhythmic strumming as clear as a bell.
Somewhere in Nebraska, in the midst of a 24-hour bus journey from Denver to Chicago, Billy and I were chatting about being away from home. I confessed to Billy that I was a little homesick. I was going to definitely call my mom when we reached Chicago on Sunday.
“You’ve only been away for two weeks. I left home at 18 and never looked back.”
“You never went to college, Billy? You’re smart. You must have had good grades in school.”
“The only thing I was interested in was music. Writing songs, playing piano and guitar, singing. You know, I never thought I’d end up producing records for other artists. I thought it’d be me making those records, singing my own songs.”
“I didn’t know you wrote songs and sang. I’d like to hear you sing one someday.”
Hank walked over to our part of the bus, holding an acoustic guitar. He handed it to Billy. “Here you go. I haven’t heard you sing in a long time myself. Give Shuggie a taste of your musical genius.” He chuckled as he sat down across from us. “I’ll play the bus seat bongos to accompany you.”
“Okay. I wrote a song about returning home after a long time on the road. It’s about what you leave behind and what might not be there when you finally come back. It goes something like this…” He strummed and laughed before turning serious. He seemed to be looking at something faraway in the distance. “It’s called “Rolling Home.”
Billy’s song made me think about home. About the road. Made me think about the road as a metaphor for life’s journey. And my head hurt from trying too hard to make sense of it all. Where is home? Is home wherever you find yourself on the road of life? Everyone grows up and leaves home to find…what? Themselves? It’s too much to ponder. I’m just a kid.
Just a girl. On the road.
I looked at my watch after finishing my phone call with Mom. Oh my, I’ve been on the phone for over an hour. It was almost 8 PM and, frankly, my stomach was grumbling. I had a choice to make. Go out and have dinner for one at some pizza place nearby or order room service. After a full 2 seconds of thought, I decided to do further damage to Billy’s tour budget. I ordered the Palmer House Burger, french fries, and a mixed green salad. Even with the air conditioner turned on full blast, enough of that day’s 95-degree heat remained that I ordered a pitcher of iced tea as well.
I was in mid-bite on my juicy Palmer House burger when there was a knock on the door. Did Bailey forget her room key? I opened the door and saw Bobby, his fist in mid-air, about to rap on the door.
“Oh, it’s you. How was the pizza?” Bobby walked in and his eyes locked onto the feast on the trolley parked near the window.
“Not as good as that burger looks.”
“Sit down on the bed. You can watch TV while I finish my dinner.”
“What’s on?”
“There’s a movie based on an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, “Tender is the Night.” First time on TV. It only came out 4 years ago. Jason Robards and Jennifer Jones.”
Bobby spread himself across the bed, propping his head up with both pillows. “Never heard of it or them. Not a western, I presume.”
“No, silly. Didn’t you read “The Great Gatsby” in English class? That was Fitzgerald.”
“Maybe I did. Must have forgotten it, like immediately afterwards. Say, that’s a pretty huge burger. Sure you can eat all of that?” His eyes were pleading on behalf of his stomach.
“Didn’t you just eat? Your usual half a pizza?” I could never resist those pleading eyes. As far back as I could remember I was always sharing food with Bobby. He ate twice as much as I did. I cut my burger in half and wrapped a napkin around it, handing it to him.
“A lot of fries you got there too.” He picked a few fries off my plate and lay back on the bed.
“Bobby, sit up while you’re eating. You’ll get an upset stomach like that.”
“Yes, mom.”
“Want some of my salad?” He shook his head and started chomping on the burger.
After we finished eating, we sat side by side on the bed, watching the movie, sipping glasses of iced tea.
“Bobby? Do you think you could ever love someone so much that, like Jason Robards, you’d quit your job and just cater to their whims, traveling and spending all your money?”
“Well, up to a point, maybe. His wife’s looney though. If I’m a shrink, I’d avoid getting involved with a patient. Crazy is as crazy does.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?” There was an uneasy silence between us before Bobby turned to me.
“I’m the one who’s crazy.”
“Crazy, you? Why?”
“Because I don’t know why I feel this way about you.”
“We’re best friends. Practically since we were babies.” Bobby leaped off the bed and looked out the window, searching the well-lit streets of a Chicago evening in early summer.
“I realize what you want from me. I’m not a complete idiot. And…and I feel really close to you. More than best friends.”
“Like brothers?”
“Shuggie. This…this is just not possible. You can’t just wish yourself into being a girl. After this summer, you’ll go back home. And I don’t know where I’ll be.”
“I’ll go wherever you go, Bobby. People don’t have to know I wasn’t born a girl. Look at me. If you’d never met me before, would you think I was a guy? I don’t have to go back home. Our lives are our own. You can start your own band. I’ll be the girl singer! It’ll be great. Billy can help us get started.”
“Aren’t you scared people will find out? You can’t just assume no one will ever find out. For god’s sake, you told Jim Morrison!”
“He made me get high. I didn’t know what I was saying or doing. I’ll be more careful. No booze or pot for me. I swear.” I pledged with my right hand. Bobby grabbed it and kissed me full on the lips. We kissed for a long minute. And then Bobby just held me in his arms. I saw blurry cars crawl by on the streets below as tears rolled down my cheeks. “I love you, Bobby,” I murmured over and over again.
“Well, well, it looks like I’ve returned at an inopportune moment.”
Bobby and I separated in a split second and turned around to see Bailey in the doorway. I turned back to the window and hurriedly wiped my tears. Clearing my throat, I said, “Bailey! No, come in. Bobby and I were just looking out at the city lights. It’s really well-lit. I guess most big cities are—”
Bobby moved quickly toward the door, mumbling to Bailey, “I was just leaving. See you guys tomorrow morning. We get a continental breakfast, Billy said.”
“Good night, Bobby.” Turning to me, she asked, “Everything okay? You look like a raccoon. Come here, let’s give you a proper clean up.” I sat on the bed while Bailey wiped the smeared mascara from my face. “Did Bobby hurt you? I’ll kill him, the insensitive lug.”
“No, he…he kissed me and held me. It was wonderful.”
“Then I really am sorry I interrupted you two.”
“No, he was going to go in a few minutes anyway. It’s so complicated, Bailey. Maybe I am insane for wanting to be a girl.”
“It’s not insane to want to be what you actually are. Just enjoy the present moment, Shuggie. No one knows what the future holds. Like Honey said, it’s not in our hands. I believe in destiny, don’t you?”
“You’re a real friend, Bailey. A real friend.”
“A real friend would’ve just turned right around and left the two of you alone.” She laughed and dabbed at the runny mess on my cheeks.
After breakfast at the hotel on Monday morning, we boarded our bus and were driven south of The Loop to Chess Records’ studios at South Michigan Avenue. Chess Records was famous for its stable of rhythm & blues artists like Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Otis Rush, Little Walter, and many other legendary figures. The Rolling Stones had recorded an album there in 1964 on their first tour of the U.S. By midday, the cramped quarters of the small studio resembled a sauna. I walked around the hallways whenever I wasn’t involved in the recording. There were open windows with a slight breeze wafting in. Luckily, I had chosen to wear a t-shirt and a denim jacket and jeans. The best outfit short of a bathing suit. The guys would’ve enjoyed that.
Billy had changed our set-list due to Honey’s absence. There were more solo numbers for Hank. I had maybe half a dozen lead vocals, most of it hand-picked for me by Billy. Instead of a duo act like Hank and Honey Hutch was, I was more truthfully a featured performer of The Hank Hutch Band, which was just fine with me. Despite this, Billy did add a duet number for Hank and me: “It’s Got to Be a Miracle (This Thing Called Love).”
A major kerfuffle occurred in the afternoon close to the end of our day-long session. Hank had become more than a little annoyed at Billy’s choice of material to record. Where Hank wanted to sing his own compositions, Billy pushed him to record more mainstream songs with chart-making potential. The word that triggered Hank’s anger was “commercial.” Billy made a crack about Hank trying to be the black Bob Dylan that really set him off. They argued for 30 minutes, including loud phone calls to record company executives in New York AND Los Angeles. Finally, Hank was persuaded to record Billy’s selection, an old Bacharach-David tune that Richard Chamberlain (TV’s Dr. Kildare) had released in 1963. However, Hank added a soliloquy of sorts to explain his reluctance to sing it. Perhaps someone else someday will do a version that’ll be a hit. I wouldn’t bet on it. Here’s Hank’s unique take on “(They Long to Be) Close to You.”
As Bobby and I walked out into the late afternoon heat to board our bus back to the hotel, Hank called me aside. I waved Bobby onto the bus and stood on the curb as Hank walked up to me.
“Hey Sugar Pie. I need you to help me get to my folks’ house right now. Mama’s cooking up a feast tonight. You’re invited.”
“But I’m not dressed to be a dinner guest.”
“That’s alright. They ain’t gonna be dressed to be dinner hosts. It’s just a family dinner. I haven’t been home in over a year. Come on, you’re driving.” He took my arm and led me to a powder blue Ford Thunderbird convertible. “You got a license, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Get behind the wheel. We’ll get onto the I-90 West to Cleveland Street. Cabrini-Green. My folks live in one of the towers. Shouldn’t take us more than 15 minutes even with the traffic—”
“But why me? Didn’t you drive here in this car this morning?”
“Nah, Billy rented this car. We came here together this morning. My license’s been suspended.” He peered at me through his sunglasses. “I like to drive fast. One of my many bad habits.” He laughed. “Let’s hit the road!”
I considered myself a decent driver although I had only driven my dad’s car a dozen times since getting my license. What worried me was not navigating busy city streets but the fact that my license plainly declared I was male. I wasn’t going to give any cops a reason to pull me over.
Cabrini-Green was a public housing development comprised of 23 high-rise apartment towers in the North Side of Chicago. In decay and decline almost since the day they were built in the late 1950s, this city-within-a-city was notorious for crime, poverty and gang violence. Hank’s parents had moved there almost a decade ago and Hank was lucky enough to escape that high-rise ghetto within a year when he had turned 18. But his younger brother and sister had grown up in that bleak environment, made even bleaker by his father’s inability to get steady work in construction as the Teamsters dominated all the new development in the city. It was now all union work, and he was never going to be allowed to join the union.
We parked the car a block away from his parents’ apartment tower. I asked him if he was concerned about the car being vandalized or stolen. He smiled and said they knew him in the neighborhood. It was like having valet parking. He’d throw the boys a sawbuck or two to keep an eye on the car.
His parents lived on the 14th floor. When his mother opened the door to greet us, I could see that the apartment was smaller than what a normal two-bedroom flat was back east. It was a cluttered but homey space and the smell of food cooking in the small kitchen was piquant. His father stood up from his easy chair and smiled broadly. Hank hugged his mother.
“Mama, pops, this is Shuggie. She’s singing with the band now. Taking Honey’s place.”
They shook my hand. Hank’s mother gave me the once over and then spoke. “Well, good riddance to that girl. Don’t say nothing, Hank, but you know I never, ever liked Honey. She was using you.”
“Don’t speak poorly of the dead, Minnie.”
“Pops, she ain’t dead. She just ran off. Expect she might come to her senses in a while. She’ll be back. She’s done this before.”
“She’s dead to me, son. I hope she’s gone away for good. Now, come in and sit down. Tell me how the music business been treating you.”
Minnie took my arm and nudged me toward the kitchen. “Shuggie? Is that your given name or a pet name? Won’t you help me finish cooking supper for the men? Peel some potatoes, please.” She handed me a bowl of new potatoes.
“My mom just roasts these with the skin on. She says nobody has time to peel potatoes.”
“Well, that ain’t the way I do my potatoes. And Hank’s father never complained so peel away, dear. You’re so cute. How old are you, Shuggie?”
“17, ma’am.” She stopped to wipe her hands on a kitchen towel and stared at me for a minute.
“Child, you oughta be finishing school, not gallavantin’ around the country singing and dancing. Your mama and daddy let you do this? You know, Honey ran away from home when she was 17 just like you. I rue the day she met up with Hank. Ain’t nothing good come of that marriage. I thought I’d be a grandma by now, but Honey don’t want no family. No, she wants to be Diana Ross or Gladys Knight. With or without my son. Looks like it’s without.”
“My parents know and approve. My best friend plays saxophone in the band. He’s watching out for me.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“I guess so. I think he is.”
“You better make sure of that. A young girl alone in this world is a scary thing. At least my son’s taken an interest in you. He’s a good man.”
Pops said grace and we all dug in. This was my first taste of soul food or traditional Southern recipes. There were smothered pork chops, collard greens, roast new potatoes, and corn bread to sop up the gravy. A tall glass of sweet tea washed it all down. When Minnie told Hank and Pops that I had peeled the potatoes and placed them in the oven to roast, Pops grumbled that he didn’t think Honey ever set foot in the kitchen. Minnie was about to serve us a dessert of her special banana pudding when the phone rang. Pops answered it and called Hank over, handing the phone to him. A pained look came over Hank’s face as he listened. Slamming the phone down, Hank hesitated a moment and then picked it up again, dialing furiously. A minute later, he told his parents he’d back as soon as he could. I followed Hank as he rushed out of the apartment.
When we arrived at where the Thunderbird was parked, a group of teenage boys snapped to attention. One of them took a rag and wiped the windshield clean. Hank handed out some bills and we hopped into the car.
“Where are we going?”
“Take the next left and you’re on West Division Street. We’ve got a situation here. That was my sister. She’s at nursing school and she heard on the radio that all hell’s broke loose near Humboldt Park on West Division. The police was trying to stop kids from opening the fire hydrants when tempers flared, and it’s turned into a riot—”
“And you want us to drive right into that?”
“My brother’s in that area. He’s a hothead. I got to bring him home. The police will crack skulls sooner than look at us. Just give ‘em an excuse.”
“How do we find him in the middle of all that?”
“He hangs out at a pool hall on Division and Rockwell. Hopefully, he’s still inside. He’s a hothead but he’s not suicidal.” He turned on the radio, hoping to hear more news about the incident. What blared out instead was The Lovin’ Spoonful’s just released single, “Summer in the City.”
“Oh, shit! The cops are stopping cars. They’re looking at licenses.”
“So what? They’ll let you through. Now, if I were driving—”
“I can’t show them my license, Hank.”
“So it’s a Jersey license. It’s good in all 50 states—”
I hit the brakes and hid my face in my hands, my panic rising. “Hank, I’m not a girl! I’m a boy! Don’t you understand?”
“What? The fuck? You’re a guy?!!” He pulled his arm back and, for a second, I thought he was going to slug me. I recoiled in fear. “Tell me this is a joke. Billy’s in on this, right? He always wanted Honey out. He hates her. He planned this, didn’t he? Didn’t he?!!” He grabbed my shoulders and shook me until my hands fell to my side.
“No, Hank. It’s nothing to do with Billy. He didn’t know I was a guy at first. I got mixed up in all of this because of Bobby. I had no idea you guys would hire me to sing. I never even thought of it.”
“Okay, we’ll resolve this matter at a later date. Right now, we gotta find my brother. Get out of the car. We’ll walk it to Rockwell. Come on.” He pulled me out of the car, still shaking, and pushed me forward. As we approached Rockwell Street, we could see groups of cops chasing after young men breaking shop windows and looting. Some warning shots were fired into the air. It was mayhem.
The pool hall was across the street. Hank grabbed my arm. “On 3, run as fast as you can across the street. If we’re lucky, we won’t get shot.” I just nodded. Trembling, I kicked off my low heels, ready to sprint for my life. “3!” We ran. Halfway across the street, amidst scattering looters and agitators, a tear-gas can exploded, almost enveloping me in choking fumes. Hank’s arm reached out and pulled me onto the sidewalk in front of the pool hall. The place was dark and empty. “Where the fuck is he?”
“Hank! I’m over here.” The voice came from behind a dumpster in the driveway halfway down the block.
“Jesse? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. You better get behind this dumpster. There’s no way clear to walk out of this area. The police have been chasing people for an hour or more. They got guns out.” We ran over to the dumpster and hunkered down next to Jesse.
“Jesse, Shuggie.” We nodded at each other. The sound of bullets ripping the air and tear-gas cans impacting the street punctuated the night.
“How’d you know I was down here?”
“Linda called. Said she heard on the radio there was shit going down on the West Side. I know you hang out at the pool hall every night these days. Mama told me.”
“I got my draft letter last week. Supposed to show up for my physical on Friday. I’m never going to see my friends again, Hank. I won’t make it back. I know it.”
“Jesse, I know it looks like you’re shit outta luck but you gotta have faith. The Lord won’t let you die out there. Just like we’re getting the hell out of here tonight, if I can help it.”
Jesse turned to me. “Just who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“I’m with the band. Hank invited me to dinner with your parents tonight. His license is suspended so I had to drive.”
“Okay! So, where’s your car? Let’s make a run for it.”
“We can’t. We ditched the car a few blocks east of here.”
“Why’d you do that? I’ve seen cars go through. If the driver’s not black, they let ‘em pass.”
“It’s because—”
“Look, we just couldn’t get through. Okay? Right now, we’re better off just staying down, out of sight. Maybe things will settle down soon.”
We waited behind the dumpster for what must have been an hour. Waves of looters and agitators kept coming through and the police were combing the area all the way west to Humboldt Park. I was beginning to lose hope that we’d ever get out of this hellish trap when a dark Chevy Impala stopped some yards up the block and two men stepped out of the car. When one of them walked under a streetlamp, the light revealed his face. It was Bobby!
“Bobby!” I shouted. Reflexively, Jesse grabbed me and pushed me down out of sight, afraid I had given away our position to the police.
“Shuggie? Where are you?”
“Bobby! We’re over here. By the dumpster!” Billy emerged from the shadows and followed Bobby as he ran over to us.
“Let’s get in the car. Quick!” Billy shouted. As the three of us hurried to the Impala, Jesse and Hank stopped short, seeing a Chicago cop in riot gear, shouldering a rifle, standing by the hood of the car. A streetlamp’s light danced on the cop’s helmet and his rifle. Billy held up his hands.
“It’s okay. This officer is escorting us out of the danger zone. He understands you had nothing to do with the events tonight.” Hank and Jesse sighed in relief, and we all slid into the car. Bobby saluted the officer as Billy hit the accelerator. We left the mayhem behind as we headed back to Cabrini-Green.
Two hours later, Bobby, Hank and I were sitting in Billy’s hotel suite. Hank and Billy had barely exchanged two words all night, just suspicious glares. Bobby was explaining to me how they had managed to rescue us.
“I just happened to come back to the hotel from dinner when I bumped into Billy in the lobby. He picked up his messages at the front desk, one of which was, of course, from Hank, saying where you two had gone to find Jesse. The guy at the front desk said there was a riot on the West Side. Billy borrowed the guy’s Impala and he drove out there like Jackie Stewart in a Grand Prix race. It’s a good thing you guys stayed behind that dumpster. If you’d wandered off, we’d probably still be looking for you.”
Hank stood up and angrily confronted Billy. “Why you scamming me, Billy? Why didn’t you tell me Shuggie was a guy?”
“I wasn’t ‘scamming’ you. I had no idea about Shuggie until after YOU hired her. You scammed yourself, partner.”
“It’s just too convenient that Honey ran off and you had Shuggie here ready to replace her at the drop of a hat.”
“Well, Hank, let me ask you. Can Shuggie sing?”
“Yeah, of course. That’s why I hired her.”
“Have any complaints so far about how she’s performing on the tour?”
“No, yeah, the audience seems to really like her. But, Billy, she’s a he! When that dude Morrison claimed she was a guy, I thought he was just angry because she’d rejected his advances. Now, I find out he was right!”
“Hank, you, me, Bobby and the wardrobe girls are the only ones who know Shuggie’s a boy. We can do this. She’s very convincing. Goddamit, she walks, talks, and sings exactly like a girl. You can’t deny that.” Hank sat back down and knocked back the remainder of his scotch and soda.
“Do you want me to quit, guys? If it’ll stop you guys from fighting over me, I will. I don’t want to cause trouble.” I stood up and turned toward the door. “I could go back to New Jersey. I guess this was too good to be true anyway.”
“Hank? It’s up to you. Do you want Shuggie to leave?” Hank looked at the three of us, sighed, and took my hand.
“Forget it, Shuggie. Whether you’re a boy or a girl, it don’t matter to me. Just keep singing up a storm, okay? I’m a businessman too. And, so far, you’re very good for business. Stay?”
“Well, a girl can’t turn down an offer like that, can she?”
Friday morning, we were lounging on the bus, an hour out of Chicago, where we had just completed three nights of concerts amidst a city torn by race riots and the mass murder of eight nursing students by some psycho named Richard Speck. I was trying to show Bobby how much easier it was to play his alto sax than what I played in the school band, the clarinet. The fingerings were almost exactly the same except you had to cover holes rather than press keys. They differ in that the saxophone overblows the octave while the clarinet overblows a perfect 12th or an octave plus a 5th. So, when the saxophone or clarinet plays a D on the fourth line of the staff the same fingering is used. But when I tried to play Bach’s “Minuet in G Major,” (nowadays credited correctly to Christian Petzold) the basis of The Toys’ hit, “A Lover’s Concerto,” it was less than good.
“It’s my embouchure. I can never get it right. Even on clarinet.” I handed the saxophone back to Bobby and blushed before my attentive audience of bandmates.
“I guess your lips are only shaped perfectly for singing…and kissing,” laughed Chubby, our pianist. Bobby looked down at the floor as my face grew even redder.
“Guys! Hank and I have a little announcement. An addition to our tour itinerary. We’re playing the Newport Folk Festival the Saturday after next!” Billy stepped aside to reveal Hank standing behind him.
“I had nothing to do with it. It’s all Billy. Billy, want to tell us why a soul music band is playing a folk music festival?”
“When I first realized we were scheduled to play Boston that very same weekend, a genius idea came to me.” The guys all groaned in mock derision. “Newport’s only a 90-minute drive from Boston. Our Cleveland date’s on Thursday. We play Boston on Sunday and Monday. If we get in a day earlier, we can hit Newport. Expand our audience. Get some good press.”
“I don’t care about good press, Billy. How does playing a folk festival help us sell more records? “Kumbaya” ain’t topping the charts these days. Anyways, that audience doesn’t want to hear pop songs. They’ll boo us off the stage once they see we got electric instruments and drums.”
“Times they are a-changing, Hank. The Lovin’ Spoonful – a rock band – is on the same night we are. And Dylan went electric a year ago—”
“Didn’t they boo him off the stage?” asked Bobby.
“That was overblown by the press. A small minority of the audience booed. But they clapped up a storm, begging him to come back out for two encores. I think Dylan was more upset than the audience.”
“But we ain’t got nothing in our set-list that you’d call folk music,” Hank pointed out.
“I thought of that and I’m going to work with Shuggie to add a couple of folk-inflected numbers to the set. I’ll back her up on acoustic guitar.”
“Good. For a moment there I was afraid the band would have to do a few choruses of “We Shall Overcome” or “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
“Hank, you’re a genius!” Billy slapped Hank on the back and rushed up the stairs to the upper deck of the bus, where, for most of the five-hour drive to Detroit, you could hear him strumming away on his guitar and singing in a low voice.
Since we had concerts on consecutive nights in Detroit, Billy had us booked into the famous Holiday Inn where The Rolling Stones had stayed in ’64 and ’65 on their American tours. The hotel was located in the heart of Corktown, the oldest neighborhood in the city, just blocks away from Tiger Stadium. In fact, Bobby was excited to learn The Tigers were home, playing a doubleheader on Sunday against The Cleveland Indians. He dragged me to the first game, which started at 2 in the afternoon, although I couldn’t care less about baseball (or any other sports for that matter). We bought Tigers caps to keep the searing sunshine from blinding us as we sat in the bleachers. Bobby said I looked really cute in the cap. I guess I looked a little too cute because some beer-splattered bleacher bum started to paw me when we all stood up for the obligatory seventh-inning stretch. Bobby almost decked the guy before two of his buddies pulled him back and into his seat. He left us alone for the rest of the game, but his snoring was rather annoying. Unfortunately for the home team fans, the Tigers lost 7 to 3. We rode a city bus from the stadium to The Olympia, where the band was scheduled to play that evening. The ride took 15 minutes. Waiting for the bus took a half an hour.
We had just come off stage to a standing ovation from the capacity crowd of 13,000 in The Red Barn, as the locals called The Olympia because of its red brick edifice, after a stirring performance of our encore number, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” done in the special concert-length arrangement Billy had written. An excited Billy corralled us backstage and was almost hyper-ventilating before he spoke to us.
“Great news, guys! Just spoke to Bryce Reynolds. He was here tonight and he was overwhelmed by your performance tonight—”
“Who the hell is Bryce Reynolds?” Hank asked.
“He’s the music columnist for the Amalgamated Press Syndicate. His column appears in 300 newspapers across the country. And he’s gonna write us up in his next column. This could mean real national exposure—”
“Yeah, but, teenage record buyers don’t read newspaper columnists,” Hank countered.
“Network executives read them. They book hot bands on network TV shows. That’ll push record sales. Record sales push concert tours. We could be in Europe next summer!”
“I’m just tired right now. Let’s get back to the hotel.” He gently moved Billy out of his way and walked toward the exit to the parking lot where the buses were readying to leave. Everyone in the band shrugged their shoulders at Hank’s moody behavior.
I sat down next to Hank on the bus ride to the Holiday Inn. He was uncharacteristically quiet, just peering out the window at the dark Detroit streets.
“What’s wrong, Hank? Everyone’s really excited by what Billy told us. Maybe we could get booked on The Hollywood Palace or Shivaree. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“It won’t be the same if Honey doesn’t come back.”
“What did her mother say? You went to see her today, right?”
“She hasn’t heard from Honey either. The only thing she thinks is that Honey’s in New York maybe signing a solo recording deal. Could be with Atlantic. I know Jerry Wexler’s been after her for a while. He thinks he could be another Aretha.”
“But you’re not just concerned about her going solo, are you?”
“Nah, Shuggie, a lot of people wouldn’t believe me, including Billy, but I really do love Honey. She’s a load to handle. Got a temper like a volcano erupting. And she thinks I’m making time with every girl I see—”
“She didn’t think you and me…”
“Probably. That’s her. Green-eyed monster, you know. But, more power to her if she wants her own career, separate from me. I just want her back in my life. I’m not sure she wants that.” He turned back to the window as the bus turned right off Michigan Avenue onto 12th Street. The Holiday Inn loomed in the near distance.
For the rest of the week until we set foot on the stage at The Newport Folk Festival, our soundchecks were mostly Billy taking the band through the songs he had added to our set-list, songs customized for the Newport audience. Which meant I had to learn the lyrics to them as well as memorize all the musical cues. Bobby and I were great helps to Billy since we were the only bandmembers other than Chubby who could read a music sheet. Hank had the best line: “Now I know more than three chords. I can write me a symphony!”
The long, hot Midwest summer of 1966 continued as we played single dates in Milwaukee and Cleveland during the following week. It was a good thing we simply hopped off the bus in Cleveland, played a two-hour concert in The Cleveland Arena (10,000 capacity), and hopped back onto the bus to leave town. Beginning on Sunday, the 17th, the predominantly African American Hough section of the city had ignited into six long days and nights of looting and rioting following a racial incident in a white-owned bar in the neighborhood. Four young black men were killed, another 50 injured in the melee. For a teenager raised in the relatively sequestered environs of suburban New Jersey, these glimpses into the burning pyre of racial and social unrest in America’s heartland were shocking and deeply disturbing. My head was spinning. But I had my own issues to deal with. Somehow it was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one who found life a harrowing journey and had chosen a hard road to go down.
One of the benefits of adding The Newport Folk Festival to our tour was Billy’s decision to have us stay at The Hotel Madison in Boston instead of sleeping on the bus. Since we would be in the area for four nights, it made sense to spend the extra coin. The Hotel Madison was next door to The Boston Garden where we were scheduled to perform on Sunday and Monday nights. We could almost literally hop out of bed and land on stage.
When Bobby told me he had somewhere in mind to spend Friday evening, I was afraid he wanted to see The Boston Red Sox play at Fenway Park. They were at home this weekend. Fortunately, he was anxious to go see Duke Ellington and his orchestra perform the complete “A Concert of Sacred Music,” his latest album, at The United Methodist Church, a 10-minute drive from the North End of Boston. This was Ellington’s collection of songs and tone poems, an attempt to create a jazz mass or liturgy. It had been critically well-received as a noble concretion of jazz, spirituals, and religion. Bobby was most interested in hearing one of his alto sax heroes Johnny Hodges play live. My own favorite from the concert was “Come Sunday,” a musical prayer to a caring God.
The next morning at breakfast, instead of an ebullient Bobby full of enthusiasm over seeing the Ellington concert the night before, I sat across from an expressionless mannequin who hardly spoke two words to me.
“Are you going to be like this all day? Tired of me already?”
“No, I got some bad news from home last night after we got back to our rooms.”
“Oh no, it’s not your parents or your sisters, I hope.”
“It’s…it’s nothing to do with them. They’re fine.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“We weren’t talking about anything else. At least you weren’t saying a word about anything. We could go back to just staring at each other. I wouldn’t mind that too much.” I laughed, trying to lighten his mood. But he just receded farther from view, becoming mute again. “Well, we’re not due on the bus until noon. Why don’t we walk around The North End? See the sights. There’s the Paul Revere House, the Old North Church, Little Italy…”
It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning but taking a walking tour of The North End with Bobby was tantamount to sightseeing by myself. He was occupied by whatever mysterious thoughts had crept into his head after his phone call from home. For a connoisseur of street food, he was remarkably unaffected by the Italian ices and cannoli we picked up in Little Italy. Whatever was bothering him, I squeezed his hand to let him know I was there for him. But he didn’t offer any explanation for his zombie impersonation, even after we boarded the bus to take us out to Newport.
A 90-minute drive from Boston, The Newport Folk Festival is held on a site in Fort Adams State Park on the southern tip of Rhode Island. A four-day presentation of musical genres loosely grouped together by tradition and the use of acoustic, mostly stringed instruments: gospel, bluegrass, folk music of the British Isles, Americana, and some modern folk-pop. The headliners for Saturday night’s bill included Phil Ochs, Judy Collins, Howlin’ Wolf, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, The Lovin’ Spoonful, and, of course, The Hank Hutch Band (featuring me!).
Backstage, waiting around to go through our perfunctory soundcheck, Bobby and I were listening to Phil Ochs perform his lovely update on the traditional sea chanty, “Pleasures of the Harbor,” when John Sebastian and Zal Yanovsky of The Lovin’ Spoonful wandered into view.
“Hey, Sugar Pie! Jim Morrison says hello,” Yanovsky shouted as he approached. I winced at the mention of Morrison and subtly moved behind Bobby, hoping to hide from view.
“He said you pushed Honey Hutch out of the band. I can see why. Jim said you can even sing a little,” Yanovsky laughed, holding his hand out to Bobby. “Zal Yanovsky, guitar man, Lovin’ Spoonful. My partner, the immortal John Sebastian, singer and poet.” Bobby shook Zal’s hand in silence, as I stayed behind his wide shoulders.
“We were just in L.A. and caught The Doors at The Whisky. Jim couldn’t stop talking about you,” Sebastian noted, shifting his stance to get a look at me.
“Wha…what did he say about me?”
“Not much really. Just that he thought you were going to be “the next thing.” He said you aced it at The Bowl. They were late getting back to The Whisky because they stayed to watch your set. Elmer was really pissed when they finally showed up for the late show. He almost clocked Jim when he argued with him. Ex-cops are the wrong guys to have words with, ya dig?” Zal smiled knowingly. Bobby perked up and inched closer to Yanovsky.
“Hey, I read about you getting arrested in L.A. a couple of months ago. For grass, right?”
“Yeah, the fuzz out there are real fascists about smoking a little tea. They almost had me deported back to Canada. Bob, our manager, got me some Perry Mason-type legal counsel and the whole thing’s pretty much blown over. Ironic, but a lot of American kids are dying to be sent to Canada. Better dead in Saskatoon than dead in ‘Nam, eh?”
“You’re talking about draft dodgers?” Bobby quickly asked.
“We Canadians aren’t for the War. Kids who cross the border aren’t shunned. Maybe not downright welcomed but you can have a good life in Canada if you’re a straight arrow. I know some dudes in Toronto who made the “great escape.”
“Do you have to apply for citizenship?”
“We call them landed immigrants. But, hey, there’s no turning back. It’s not as bad as being a deserter but you can kiss returning here goodbye. Like I said, the fuzz will be on your ass if you ever show your face again. Why, you know someone who’s been drafted and wants to run?”
“Uh, no, just curious—”
“We’re next, Zal. Come on. See you guys around. I think you’re closing the bill tonight. Right after our set. It’ll be tough to follow our act.” John laughed and grabbed Zal to walk onto the stage. I shot Bobby a long look as his eyes followed John and Zal. Something was definitely up with him. I just didn’t know what.
10,000 lovers of folk music sat in rapt attention as the warm New England summer evening settled in, peaking in enthusiasm when Judy Collins introduced Pete Seeger in the middle of her set to sing a duet of Seeger’s famous transcription of Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8, “Turn, Turn, Turn.”
It was 11PM when The Lovin’ Spoonful trundled onto the stage. Surprisingly, a loud roar erupted from the audience when John Sebastian cradled his autoharp to strum it and winked at some girl in the front row. It was like a wave of teenage spirit had suddenly and shockingly washed over the seemingly geriatric crowd. They launched into “Do You Believe in Magic?” their first hit song from the previous year. The song had an infectious bounce to it but it was the lyrics that hit me where I lived. Was the girl John singing about…me?
Do you believe in magic in a young girl's heart?
How the music can free her whenever it starts
And it's magic if the music is groovy
It makes you feel happy like an old-time movie
I'll tell you about the magic, and it'll free your soul
It had been the summer of Shuggie’s freedom, and music was the magic potion. I wanted to drink more of it. Keep on drinking it. I rushed onto the stage after The Lovin’ Spoonful finished their set to a raucous ovation and gripped the microphone in a state of rapture. We were barely announced when the band pierced the silence with the opening bars of “Oh No Not My Baby.” I sang my heart out, emotions on point as the feeling of impending doom in my relationship with Bobby grew with every baleful expression clouding his face.
The crowd warmed to us as we progressed through our usual setlist. Even Hank seemed to enjoy playing to the kind of audience he had never envisioned appealing to. For an encore, the band had cleared off and left me alone, standing at centerstage. Billy strolled out, carrying an acoustic guitar and a stool. Seated comfortably, he began to pick out the notes to a song I’m sure with which everyone in the crowd was familiar: “The House of the Rising Sun.”
The audience shouted and stomped their feet, pleading for another encore. Hank slapped Billy on the back. “Do it, man. Here’s your chance.” To rhythmic clapping, the band reassembled as Billy strapped on his guitar at centerstage. The string section and Bobby on flute played the intro to “Glory, Glory Hallelujah,” Billy’s arrangement of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
In the parking lot, as we climbed onto the bus to take us back to the Hotel Madison in Boston, I saw Bobby and Zal Yanovsky engaged in an animated conversation as they stood by The Spoonful’s Ford Econoline van. I shouted to Bobby, motioning for him to board our bus before we left without him. He shook hands with Zal and ran to the bus, hopping on just as the driver closed the doors.
“What was so interesting that you almost missed the bus?”
“He told me where to score some great weed in Boston,” Bobby shrugged as he slumped into the seat next to me.
“Something’s going on with you. Just tell me already.”
“Not just yet. I’ve got some things to work out.” He kissed my forehead and turned to look out the window. Meanwhile, Hank was telling Billy he ought to revive his performing career. Billy just smiled.
It was Sunday night, after the first of our two dates at The Boston Garden, and, dead tired, I collapsed on the bed in my hotel room. As I said, the Garden was virtually next door to our hotel, so ten minutes after our last bow, I was already sinking into the arms of Morpheus, still dressed in my stage clothes. Bailey was nowhere to be found. My roommate had gone off with some guy she knew from her childhood in Jamaica who had emigrated to Boston. I wasn’t likely to see her again until the next afternoon. The phone rang loudly and insistently, shaking me awake at the stroke of midnight.
“Shuggie, it’s me.”
“Who’s me?” I asked groggily.
“Your big sister, squirt. I can’t believe I woke you up. I thought show people stay up till dawn and sleep into the afternoon.”
“Connie, why are you calling me?”
“Not much for small talk, are you?”
“I was asleep. I intend to go back to sleep as soon as possible.”
“I just wanted to check in with you. I do care about you…sort of. I just got back from Mom and Dad’s, and they told me something that I’m sure was devastating news to you—”
“What are you talking about?”
“About Bobby getting his draft letter. I thought you’d be in tears—”
“Can’t be. He would’ve told me. Are you sure Mom and Dad were talking about my Bobby?”
“They found out from Bobby’s mom. The letter came Thursday. He’s got to report to the induction center in Newark on August 1st. That’s a Monday, I think. Why wouldn’t he have told you?” I started sobbing. “Shuggie? You’ve got to talk to him. I think it’s cruel for him to keep this from you. So, he was going to just up and disappear next week? You’ve got to rethink your relationship with that dude—”
“I’ve got to go, Connie,” I said between sobs. “Thanks for calling.”
“Hey, let me know what—”
I hung up and ran out into hallway. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I was in front of Bobby’s room, banging loudly on the door, and shouting his name. Someone from across the hall popped his head out and was about to say something when Bobby opened the door.
“Shuggie, what’s going on? Why are you crying?” I wiped my tears with my sleeve.
“Bobby, we have to talk.” I pulled him out of the room into the hallway. “Let’s go to my room. Now!”
After shutting the door to my room, I motioned for Bobby to sit on the bed.
“Where’s Bailey?” he asked.
“She probably won’t be back tonight.” I sat down on the bed next to Bobby and hugged him. The tears started to flow again. “Weren’t you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“I know, Bobby. Connie just called and told me. Your draft letter came Thursday.”
“I didn’t want to bring you down. I mean, you’re a star now. What happens to me can’t affect you and your future. It shouldn’t. You’re going to make it big. I know it!”
“Forget about my future, Bobby. What about your future? They could send you to Vietnam. And…and you could end up…oh, Bobby, I can’t lose you. I love you. I’ve always loved you—” Bobby held me in his arms as I completely lost it. After a few minutes, Bobby wiped my cheeks with his thumb.
“I’m going to go to Canada. Zal told me there are hundreds of Americans in Toronto and they’re accepted. They can work, even go to school. They can live their lives.”
“But you’ll never be able to come back. They’d put you in prison if they caught you. Are you really serious about doing that?”
“We’re in Toronto next weekend. All I have to do is stay behind when you guys leave for Buffalo on that Monday. I could get a gig within the week. There’s lots of jazz clubs in Toronto.”
“Have you told Billy?”
“Yeah, I told him on Saturday at Newport.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to keep mum about it to you.”
“What?”
“I could see his point. It’s a distraction you don’t need right now. You’re becoming the star attraction of the band. Everybody’s depending on you to keep this tour afloat.”
“How could you think so little of what we are to each other that you’d listen to Billy? That’s bullshit. I’m a nobody. When Honey comes back—”
“Regardless, I was thinking of you, Shuggie. You’re going places. You have talent. You’ll find someone a whole lot better than me. Smarter, more successful, better looking...okay, not better looking.” He laughed and made me snort and hiccup.
“I’ll go with you, Bobby. I’ll stay behind in Toronto with you. We’ll do this together. I’m your woman…forever.”
“No, you’re not, Shuggie. Billy loves you. He’ll make sure you become the person you were meant to be. I can’t help you anymore.”
“I’ve made up my mind, Robert Eugene Messina. And you can’t make me change it.”
The buses were parked overnight at a rest area parking lot somewhere in Maryland, three hours drive west of our next concert venue in Washington, D.C. Filled with the nutritious offerings of the rest area’s Perkins Restaurant, we trudged back to our sleeping berths, Bobby and I climbed onto separate buses.
I lay awake well past midnight, my mind filled with our surreptitious plans to remain north of the border in Toronto after the tour moved on Monday, August 1st. Bailey, in the berth directly across from me, peered at me in the semi-darkness the moonlight allowed.
“Can’t sleep? Too excited about seeing the nation’s capital for the first time?”
I guess I needed to tell someone, and I trusted Bailey more than anyone except Bobby in the entire troupe, so I lowered my voice, hoping everyone else was safely asleep. “Bobby got his draft letter last week. He’s supposed to report next Monday.”
“Oh my lord, no wonder you seem so preoccupied the last few days. So, is he leaving after the concert Thursday?”
“No, we’re going to Toronto this weekend.”
“But we have a concert on that Monday evening. He’s got to report on Monday, you said.”
“We’re staying in Toronto. He’s not going to report.”
“We? You’re staying too?”
“He’s my life, Bailey. I’m not going to be a widow before I’ve even graduated from high school—”
Bailey laughed out loud but stopped when she realized her guffaws could wake up the others. “Nonsense, Shuggie. You’re not married. And not everyone who’s drafted is even sent overseas. Think this through, girl.”
“We’ve decided. We can have a good life in Canada. At least we’ll both be alive.”
“Like I said, Shuggie, really think this through. Not only what’s best for Bobby but what’s best and sensible for you, your future, your…uh…situation.”
“I have thought it through. Anyway, sorry for keeping you awake. Let’s both get some sleep. It’s going to be a long week.” I turned toward the window and closed my eyes. Sleep came, not quickly but soon enough.
We played The Washington Coliseum, selling out two concerts at the 6,500-seat capacity venue. There had been some buzz in the papers and on radio about our appearance at the Newport Folk Festival and our recent concerts in Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, and Boston. “Heaven Must Have Sent You” was climbing the charts and it must have been a surprise to concertgoers when they heard me singing it live rather than Honey. Hopefully, it was a pleasant surprise. Billy kept adding to and subtracting songs from our set-list, almost on a daily basis, which made soundchecks more intense than they were meant to be.
The last 15 minutes of our shows in Washington were the debuts for three of Billy’s newest arrangements. It was his vision of the future of The Hank Hutch Band. The audience response was thrilling as it rose to a crescendo along with our performance. It was Bailey’s idea for me and the Honeys to change outfits for the final leg of the concert. After Hank and the band rocked the crowd with “Soul Galore,” the girls and I returned to the stage in balloon sleeve silver sequin mini-dresses and white go-go boots.
We lined up like a classic Motown girl group and I followed Billy’s instructions explicitly in doing a rendition of “Yes, I’m Ready” to an expectant, hushed crowd.
The lights came back up full blast as Hank and the band brought most of the audience to their feet to shake and two-step to the beat of “S.O.S. (Stop Her On Sight).” Bobby threw me a tambourine as I shimmied to the half-time groove laid down by our drummer. I’m sure Billy chose this number to mirror Hank’s anxious feelings about Honey’s absence. Whatever the case, the crowd exploded in applause and cheers at the end of the song. Then, the spotlight centered on me as I sang the finale to our concert, “As Tears Go By.” Another instance of Billy reading our minds and monitoring our moods?
After two rousing encores, we would scatter to various late-night spots in the D.C. area, mostly in the Georgetown neighborhood. Bobby and I wandered into The Shamrock, a country music bar on M Street in the northwest corner of the city. We picked at our orders of burgers and fries as we waited for the house band, a bluegrass outfit called The Country Gentlemen, to start the late show. Someone was dropping coins into the jukebox, and we were serenaded by artists like Jimmy Dean, Roy Clark, Ernest Tubb and Patsy Cline. The conservative nature of the bar’s clientele and their favorite music was underlined by someone in a Cummins Diesel cap plunking down a quarter to play Dave Dudley’s “Vietnam Blues.”
After listening to Dudley’s talk-song about draft protestors and resisters, Bobby’s mood changed from placid, after-show decompression to restlessness and distance. We hardly exchanged two words as we finished our meals and Bobby pretty much zoned out during The Country Gentlemen’s set. We hailed a cab back to where our tour buses were parked and silently parted. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking but, in the end, just kissed him good night.
Bright and early on Friday morning, we embarked for Toronto, girding our loins for the nine-hour bus ride. We would be checking into our hotel rooms by dinner time if all goes smoothly. We passed time in the morning by doing what musicians do when facing a stretch of downtime. We jammed. Playing favorites, swapping new songs one of us had recently discovered, or just riffing on our instruments. The girls and I even made up song lyrics off the cuff. Most of it was rank gibberish but, every once in a while, I saw Billy jotting something down in a composition book he always seemed to carry around.
But it was Hank who came up with a complete new song. He had been working on the lyrics for weeks and had gotten some help from Billy on the music. Predictably, given his situation with Honey being A.W.O.L., it was a song about lost love. As Billy would say though, those types of songs are ‘commercial.’ By noon, we could’ve gone straight into the studio and recorded it. Hank titled it “I’ve Gotta Find Her.”
We were so absorbed in our workshopping that I didn’t notice we were in New Jersey, heading toward New Milford, which is a 6-minute drive from my house in Bergenfield. To make the best time, we should’ve stayed west of New Jersey and taken the direct northern route through Pennsylvania and Western New York. This detour through New Jersey will cost us up to two hours in travel time. I asked Billy why we were driving through New Jersey. He said we were stopping for lunch, which didn’t exactly answer my question. I turned toward Bobby to share my confusion about the matter when I noticed he was climbing the steps to the upper berth. Hank asked me, “You’re from around here, Shuggie, what’s good to eat in New Milford?”
“Oh, it’s got everything from soup to nuts…except for soup or nuts.”
Bobby asked me to wait for him in the Subway Sandwich Shop. He stayed on the bus after everyone left for Roman’s Pizza next door to Subway. It was kind of odd, but I found a booth in the back of the shop with a direct sightline to where our buses were parked. Bobby was standing by the side of the bus as our driver handed his saxophone case and suitcase to him. Circling them were Billy, Hank and Ray, our road manager. Bobby shook hands with each of them and then turned to walk toward the Subway Shop. I knew it was bad news. I watched with tearing eyes as he ambled toward our booth.
“So that’s why we detoured through New Jersey? You’re not going to Toronto?”
Sitting down, he averted my eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m going to report on Monday.”
“You can’t, Bobby. You and I, we decided to stay in Toronto. Start a whole new life in Canada. I want you alive, Bobby. Don’t do this to me!” The dam broke and I covered my face with my hands so the rest of what I said was probably unintelligible. He reached out to cover my hands with his.
“I went back and forth in my mind about this and I can’t do this to you or myself. You need to see where your career can go. With Billy and Hank behind you, you could be a superstar. And…and your other dream could come true. You’d have the money to…”
“Bobby, I can’t do it without you. It makes no sense without you—”
“Come on, Shuggie. I’ll be back in 2 years. I promise I won’t get killed. Okay?”
“Don’t joke about this! Thousands of soldiers have already been killed this year in Vietnam and we’re only in August. What about your mom and dad? They’ll lose their only son…”
“Look, they’ll end up putting me in some kind of military band. I’ll probably never see combat. I might never even go overseas. Stop crying. Don’t worry about me. Think about your own future. The sky’s the limit for you.” He leaned over the table and kissed my forehead, the only part of my face he could see.
“Just promise you won’t die. Promise!”
Holding his right hand up with three fingers pointing to the sky, he pledged, “Scout’s honor. I promise. Now let’s eat. My bus leaves in 15 minutes.”
We held each other the entire time we waited for Bobby’s NJ Transit bus to arrive. When it finally came, I cried into his chest uncontrollably. He kissed my wet lips, nose and eyes and mumbled “Goodbye” before he climbed the steps onto the bus.
I had a shouting match with Billy on the bus after we resumed our trek to Toronto. I was angry he had acquiesced to Bobby’s request to drop him off in New Milford without bothering to let me know. So angry, in fact, I swung at him, but my attempted punch was blocked easily by Hank, who is so much stronger than me. Billy retreated a couple of steps and tried to reason with me. “He did the right thing, Shuggie. And he did it mostly for you. The audience loves you. If you go to Canada, you’ll throw away potentially a tremendous career.”
“What? They don’t have entertainment in Canada?”
“You know what I mean! It’s two years. He might not even be sent overseas. Meanwhile, you could be hitting the top of the charts, getting on TV, touring Europe—”
“You’re a real sentimentalist, Billy.” I went toward the back of the bus and found a seat. I didn’t want to keep talking about it. Hank and Billy didn’t have a clue what Bobby and I had between us. Practically our whole lives we were together. That’s why I came with Bobby this summer in the first place. Not to become the next Diana Ross or Petula Clark but to be with Bobby. And now, I won’t see him for two years…or maybe ever again. I thought about jumping off the bus. But the bus was moving too fast. It would have really hurt if I jumped.
In order to cross the border, Billy had Bailey pick out the smallest size men’s clothes from her wardrobe for me to wear. Sans wig, without makeup, and splashing some aftershave lotion on my peach fuzz-less cheeks, I passed muster when they looked at my driver’s license photo and choked on my aftershave. The rest of the band just thought I was deeply depressed by Bobby’s sudden exit. It was Chubby who sidled up to me afterwards and remarked, “I don’t think you could pass for a boy if you tried. Not with that face and that booty. Pardon my French.”
With all that had happened that day, I wanted only to sleep until noon the next day and not allow my conscious mind to play ping pong with all the depressing thoughts. However, Bailey had other plans for me and practically dragged me to see some singer named Jackie Shane who was in residence at The Holiday Tavern, a jazz club in the heart of Toronto’s black neighborhood at the corner of Queen and Bathurst.
The manager obviously knew Bailey because we were immediately shown to a ringside table close to the stage. We arrived after the early show had just finished so we had time to order drinks and some food before Jackie would return for the late show. I looked at the fairly crowded room and noted that most of the patrons were black. There were some white women with black dates. And then there were me and Bailey, an unlikely pair, if only they knew.
“So, tell me about Jackie Shane. Who is she and why was it necessary to pull me out of an air-conditioned hotel room to traipse through a hot, muggy Toronto summer night to hear her?”
“When I told her about you, Shuggie, she was quite anxious to meet you.”
“Really? Why me?”
“To compare notes. You see, she’s a he.”
“I’m not a drag queen, Bailey. I thought you could tell the difference—”
“Jackie’s not a drag queen either. Like you, she was born with the wrong equipment, so to speak. She was born in Nashville and grew up poor, black, and the wrong sex. A pretty awful start to life, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, that would suck, no doubt.”
“Anyway, as soon as she could, she ran off with the circus, kind of. Ended up in Montreal and Frank Motley discovered her and made her the singer for his group, The Motley Crew. A couple of years later, they moved to Toronto and established themselves as a popular act here and in the clubs on Yonge Street. They even got scouted by some New York record label and put out a couple of singles. Billy met Jackie back then. He was just a studio gofer basically back then, but he really liked Jackie’s style and even tried to get Jerry Wexler to audition her. But—”
“They found out she wasn’t a real girl?”
“Ed Sullivan wanted her to appear on his show but insisted she come on as a guy. Strictly a guy. They thought she could be accepted by audiences as a latter-day Little Richard. But she wouldn’t give in. So, she’s here in Toronto mostly. They tour around the chitlins circuit and Canadian TV actually has her on pretty often.”
“She’s probably going to tell me to drop the whole thing. I mean, they wouldn’t accept her for who she really is. They won’t accept me either.”
“No, she’s not a bitter person. Disappointed in life so far but…look, you’ve got advantages she doesn’t have. First off, you’re completely convincing as a girl. Look at you, for chrissake. And secondly, you’ve got boy genius producer Billy Schechter backing you. He’s already recorded more sides of you than Jackie ever got to do when she was officially signed to a label. You know, Billy’s got half a dozen tracks by you in the can. He didn’t put you on tape just for shits and grins, girl.”
I was about to marshal an argument to refute Bailey’s sunny take on my future singing career when a gentleman in a threadbare but freshly pressed dinner jacket and tie grabbed the microphone on stage to introduce The Motley Crew featuring Jackie Shane.
As the band was settling in on stage, Jackie saw us in the front table and winked at Bailey. When she caught sight of me, her eyes got large, and she shook her head. She smiled and gave me a thumb’s up. I felt silly but I responded with a little finger wave. The band went full volume and Jackie jumped right into their first number, “Walk the Dog.”
Afterwards, Jackie invited us into her tiny dressing room. She was freshening up her makeup. She took my hand and bade me sit down next to her on the only other chair in the room. Poor Bailey had to stand, leaning her back against the dressing room door, puffing away on her usual L&M Super Slim cigarette.
“Child, tell me, are you a girly boy or a boyish girl?”
“I was born a boy but I’m really a girl. My mother says she knew I should have been born a girl when I was just three years old. I was always playing with my older sister’s dolls and wearing her clothes.”
“Hmmm. Sounds familiar. When I was your age, I left town on the first thing smokin’. Came up here to Canada and people here let me live my life the way I want to. So far, it’s been a day in the park. But, south of the border, they’re not ready for me. I assume that’s true for you too.”
“Well, I’m not really after a career in showbiz. I only joined Hank’s band so I could be with my boyfriend. He plays alto sax—”
“Be careful with them musicians, girl. They’ll use you and break your heart at the drop of a hat.”
“He just got drafted. He went home earlier today. We’re from New Jersey.”
“That’s too sad. But, I hear from Bailey that you’re the apple of Billy Schechter’s eye. And you scared off Honey Hutch. You’re someone to be reckoned with, alright. My advice? Watch that Billy. He’s a smooth operator. He thinks he’s all that and you know? He just might be.” She laughed and asked Bailey to toss her a cigarette. “You got a light?”
“No, I don’t smoke. Sorry.”
“Anyways, I gotta go meet someone in about 15 minutes. It’s been a real pleasure to meet you, Shuggie. Best of luck to you. If we meet on the road again sometime, I’d love to hear you sing. Bailey says you’ve got some pipes.” She stood up and that was our cue to leave. Bailey exchanged pecks on the cheek with her and I shook her hand. She was singing “Send Me Some Lovin’” as we left her dressing room.
Despite being down in the dumps because of Bobby’s absence, appropriately I soldiered on, conducting myself as a true professional, giving our audiences their money’s worth. Even Billy and Hank were pleasantly surprised that I seemed to keep my spirits up as we meandered around the eastern United States, 12 tour dates in the next 3 weeks after Toronto. Of course, only Bailey knew I would go back to our bus or hotel after each concert and cry myself to sleep. But, on stage, I was a dynamo. I never missed a cue, flubbed a line, or took a misstep for those 90 minutes under the lights. When the audience gave me an ovation, the dark clouds in my life seemed to part for a brief moment. The smile I returned to the crowd was genuine.
August rolled on through Buffalo, Hartford, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Dayton, and Memphis. We played to mostly full houses, and we could hear “Heaven Must Have Sent You” being played on the radio along the way, climbing the charts, threatening the Top 10.
Our penultimate tour stop was Atlantic City, where we were booked for three concerts on the 23rd through the 25th of the month at The Steel Pier, a 1,000 foot long promontory jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean. I had just settled into my hotel room at The Claridge Hotel when the front desk phoned to tell me a letter had arrived for me the day before. When I returned to my room with the letter in hand, I found a letter opener in the desk drawer and quickly sliced through the envelope, shaking out the paper inside. It was from Bobby, sent from Fort Dix in New Jersey where he was undergoing basic training.
Dear Shuggie,
I’m writing you from boot camp here at Fort Dix. They say I’ve got another 6 weeks of basic training and then 8 more weeks of what they call AIT or Advanced Individual Training where they prepare you for your specific roles within your unit. To make a long story short, after about 4 months of this training, they tell you where you’re assigned. More than likely it’ll be overseas. Now, don’t get hysterical, Shuggie. Even if I do get sent over there, it might be a support role not as a grunt in combat. We’ll have to see what they decide.
The good news is that they give you 30 days liberty before they ship you out, So, I’ll be back home in December probably until the New Year. We’ll get to spend some time together. That is, if you still want to spend time with me. I mean, you’ll be a big star by Christmas, the way you’re going. But, seriously, Shuggie, don’t forget me, okay?
I guess that’s all I got to say. They’re going to call lights out in a few minutes so take care, Shuggie. I’ll write again when I can.
Sincerely,
Bobby
P.S. I love you, baby. Don’t forget me.
I threw my head back against the headboard of the bed and burst into tears, the letter still in my limp hands. There was a knock on the door. I quickly wiped my eyes and, straightening out my clothes, opened the door.
There, standing with Billy and Hank behind her, was Honey Hutch, the last person I’d ever expected to see again, at least until the summer tour ended.
“Hey, Shuggie, I’m back!”
I think I must have fainted. What I remember is that I opened my eyes and saw three faces looming over me. I was lying on the hotel room bed and made some squeaking noises when I tried to speak.
“Good thing Honey caught you before you hit the floor,” the face that belonged to Billy explained to me.
“I’ve been told I have the kind of face that makes men swoon not the kind that makes girls faint,” Honey laughed. She patted my cheek.
“I…I was just…like…”
“Shocked? I guess neither Billy nor Hank bothered to tell you when you guys left Memphis that I was hooking up with the tour again.” They both shook their heads. “Yeah, well, it’s a long story. Billy’s going to take us out to dinner to explain the whole deal.”
“I am feeling a bit peckish—” The three of them gave me confused looks. “That’s British for hungry? Oh, forget it. Where are you taking us, Billy?”
“The largest seafood restaurant in the world. Hackney’s. Heard of it?”
“Look, Billy, she’s turning a shade of green,” Hank pointed out as they helped me off the bed.
Despite my going into sickening detail about my aversion to seafood and my childhood familiarity with Hackney’s Seafood Restaurant (although Billy pointed out I did get an oversized plush tiger which I named Harold out of that misadventure), they shanghaied me to the restaurant anyway. The 8-minute drive to the northeastern part of the Boardwalk was filled with silence. Hank kept looking back at Honey and me in the back seat, concerned at the kaleidoscope sweeping across my face.
“You really don’t like seafood, do you? Billy says they got other things on the menu you can order. Have a salad.”
“You’re so slim, Shuggie. I’m surprised Bobby hasn’t been trying to fatten you up a bit. I know Hank likes women with a little meat on their bones. How ‘bout you, Billy?” Billy just grunted. “Yeah, Billy likes ‘em skinny and young.”
“Honey, just stifle, okay? You’re making Shuggie sicker than she already looks.”
I ended up ordering the Chicken a la King dinner and nibbled on the french fries that came with it. Billy had the Lobster Thermidor and Hank and Honey shared a double order of Hackney’s famous Clambake Dinner. Clams, lobster, and deviled crab in an unappetizing (to me) combo. They fed each other like young lovers. Billy rolled his eyes while I just looked down at my plate and avoided the sight of all that bounty of the sea.
“You’re wonderin’ how I decided to come back to y’all—”
“I think it was your agent and your lawyer that decided that,” Billy interjected. “The label was going to sue you and Atlantic for breach of contract unless Wexler’s bosses forked over six figures in ransom.”
“That was a part of it, sure, but I realized how much I missed Hank all the time I was away. We had a good thing going. Even if there were some bumps in the road. Right, Hank, baby?” She took Hank’s seafood-sodden hand in hers and squeezed, smiling broadly.
“It wasn’t no fun without you, Honey. Billy knows that. I was going to quit the act if you’d stayed away. Going solo doesn’t appeal to me too much.”
“I reserve the right to see the whole affair differently but it’s a moot point. The thing we need to discuss is how Shuggie fits into the picture now that Honey’s back. We can divide up the set—”
Honey jumped in. “No offense, Shuggie, but it says Hank and Honey on the marquee not ‘with Shuggie’. People are buying tickets to our shows and the record’s climbing the charts because of me…and Hank, of course. And nobody consulted me about making you a Honey neither—”
“The audiences seem to really like Shuggie, Honey,” Hank cut her short.
“I’ve heard good things about you on the tour, Shuggie. I’m sure Billy can get you started on a solo career. But there’s really no need for you in the band now that I’m back. Even as a Honey. Three back up singers is more than enough.”
“How’s about this?” Billy asked in an authoritative tone. “We’ve only got two more weeks on tour. I’m not going to send Shuggie home. She really has helped us out a great deal and, Honey, those reports about Shuggie are absolutely correct. You should hear the ovations. They want multiple encores. Encores for her! Why don’t we do this? Shuggie does a short set to open for you and Hank. 20 minutes, 4 or 5 songs. It’ll give you an extra half-hour before you go out on stage.”
“Yeah, you can take more time with your make-up, babe.”
“Hank, you saying I need more make-up?”
“No, baby, you can be more leisure-like putting it on.” He shrugged his shoulders in Billy’s direction.
“Okay, Billy, you take care of the details.” Honey took her napkin and wiped some pieces of lobster and crab off Hank’s cheek, ignoring Billy and me in her royal demeanor.
“I guess I don’t have a say in any of this? I might as well as go home. I mean, Bobby’s the only reason I’m with you guys in the first place and now he’s gone.”
“It’s just two more weeks, Shuggie.” Billy offered “This may even be for the best. You’ll have the spotlight all to yourself.”
Billy walked me back to my hotel room. Before I turned the key to open the door, he mentioned that we’d been extended through the end of the week at The Steel Pier. “Just think of the exposure you’ll be getting. People in the industry pay attention to the acts that play The Steel Pier. The Stones and The Beach Boys were in here already this summer. Give it your best effort, Shuggie. You never know who’s in the audience.” He gently hooked his index finger under my chin and lifted my face, looking into my eyes. “You have the talent to be bigger than Honey will ever be. Believe me. Trust me.” He planted a short but sweet kiss on my lips and walked off down the hall. I shivered before turning the room key.
Walking along the Boardwalk the next day, I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, jumbled as they were. I wanted to be with Bobby but that was not possible. I wanted to continue my summer of girlhood but that was coming to an end soon, one way or another. I wanted to believe Billy that I had a bright future as a singer but could I really trust him? Was he motivated by greed or genuine respect for my talent? Was he just trying to seduce me? Everyone says he’s a lothario, especially with young girls like me. Like me? But he knows I’m not really a--.
“Hey, are you Sugar Pie?” I turned around and was face to face with a short, swarthy young man with a few days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. He had spoken with a rough British accent. I wasn’t sure if he was faking it.
“That’s me. Who’s asking?”
“I thought it was you. The picture of you in the paper doesn’t do you justice. I’m Eric Burdon. I’m with The Animals. Heard of us?”
“Sure. What are you doing in Atlantic City? Aren’t you on tour or something?”
“Yeah, we follow you into The Marine Ballroom at The Pier. Monday. We got here early for a sort of busman’s holiday. Just hanging out for a few days. How about you? Walking around by your lonesome rather aimlessly?”
“I’m doing some thinking. About my future.”
“From what I’ve been told, you have quite a future ahead of you. We were in California a few weeks ago and this guy Jim Morrison—”
“Oh, him again! Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut about me? That creep!”
“No, no, he told me you can really sing. He thought you’d replace Honey Hutch before long or go solo. That good, he said. And these guys who opened for us in San Jose, The Jefferson Airplane, they were raving about you too. One of them took me aside and confessed they’d replace the current girl with you if given half a chance. But the other guys in the band wanted someone named Gracie or Grace, I’m not sure. Anyways, they all think Billy Schechter’s got you under exclusive contract.”
“Gosh, I didn’t know. I thought they just wanted to pick me up. Guys are like that.”
“Well, a bird like you…I can see why you’d think that. Say, have you had lunch yet?”
“I am a bit peckish.” I paused but he didn’t react. I guess it isn’t funny to someone who actually is British. “Anything as long as it’s not seafood. What do you suggest?”
“We can get some hotdogs and sit on one of the benches overlooking the ocean. Sound alright?”
We were talking about Eric’s plans after his tour ended in September. Apparently, he and his band were at a crossroads as well. He had lost his keyboard player, Alan Price, earlier in the year when he departed for a solo career, and his bass player Chas Chandler was thinking of becoming a manager for this young guitarist he had “discovered” in New York in June. He wanted to bring him over to England.
“I was in New York in June. What’s the guy’s name?”
“Well, he was going by Jimmy James but Chas wants him to use his real name Jimi Hendrix—”
“Hey, I saw him at the Café Wha!”
“That’s the dude. So, I’m probably gonna have to form a whole new band after September.”
“Going back home? Where are you from in England? Liverpool? London?”
“Guess you can’t suss out my Geordie accent. I’m from Newcastle. Known for coal and long-haired gnomes who sing rock and roll like me.” He laughed and threw a piece of his hotdog bun to one of the seagulls circling the benches for tidbits from people. There was one particular seagull who was squawking at us for not being quick enough with the free food. I swear he was staring us down.
“But I’m not heading back there when we get off this tour. I’m tired of dodging rain that comes at you sideways. I’m going to spend some downtime in San Francisco. I love the area. It’s so scenic and the kids are really groovy there. You might want to move there yourself.”
“I’m probably going back to finish school in September. I’m only 17.”
“Really? You didn’t run away from home, did you?”
“Oh, no, well, sort of. But my dad gave his approval. Just for the summer. Then he wants me back in school and back in…uh…my schoolbooks.” I giggled to smooth over what could have been an embarrassing moment.
“That’s too bad. Say, if you’re not under Billy’s thumb, you should think about moving out west or even across the pond. After you’ve finished school of course. If you’re good as everyone says, there’d be work for you in either place.”
“I’ll think about it. It’s really complicated though. When I’m 18, I’ll be free to do what I want. That’s almost a year away. May to be exact.”
“Hey, it’s almost 1 o’clock. I’m supposed to do a soundcheck in the Ballroom right about now. You guys have the Ballroom after us. So, maybe I’ll see you later. I’d like to meet this Billy Schechter character myself. I hear he produces gold records like a hen lays eggs. Daily.” He threw the last bit of his hotdog bun to the angry seagull and walked off in the direction of The Steel Pier.
Still in a mope, I strolled into the hangar-like Marine Ballroom at five of three that afternoon, expecting to see the band already running through Honey’s numbers. Now that she was back, my part of the setlist was down to four songs. They’d probably run through my numbers last in the soundcheck. But on the stage, still playing, were Eric and The Animals. Hank, Billy, and Honey were in front row seats in the otherwise empty Ballroom while the rest of the band was scattered throughout the 5,000-seat capacity room.
In mid-song, Eric stopped and pointed at me as I walked down the center aisle toward the front row.
“Hey, it’s Sugar Pie! Look, fellas, it’s that girl I told you about. The one who did that version of “House” at Newport last month.” I smiled and waved. Finding a seat across the aisle from Hank, Billy, and Honey, I sat down.
“One more number and the place is all yours, Hank. Okay, hit it!”
It was the familiar sound of The Animals’ current single, “See See Rider.”
There was applause from our band members when Eric and his group climbed down from the stage and their roadies started to clear their equipment away.
“I hope we pass the audition!” Eric laughed as he headed straight over to Billy and Hank. They engaged in some glad-handing and back-patting. Eric’s head nodded toward me a few times as they conversed. Billy frowned and looked at me before responding to whatever Eric had asked. Honey and the girls had already positioned themselves on stage.
“Hey, Hank. Can we do the run through now? It’s already three-fifteen. I’ve got a spa appointment at 4. I don’t want to miss it.” She placed her hands on her hips and pouted. Hank excused himself and climbed up on stage.
Billy and Eric walked out of The Ballroom, loudly discussing something about recording studios in LA and San Francisco. I assumed Eric wanted to persuade Billy to produce The Animals’ next album. I sat there, metaphorically twiddling my thumbs, watching the band run through its set…without me. I closed my eyes and almost fell asleep but opened them wide when I heard the first song Honey performed. It was a song Carole King had played for me in her office it now seems ages ago but was really less than two months in the past. She, of course, hadn’t written it for me but I liked to think I had a special connection to it. That thought was shattered as Honey sang “Oh No Not My Baby.” Was it my imagination or was she looking right at me as she sang? I had been singing that since we installed it in our set-list at Newport. Now Honey had swiped it back. And it was one of my favorite numbers to sing. I leaped out of my seat and hurried out of The Ballroom, afraid to let Honey and the others see the tears that were poised to roll down my cheeks.
I ran a fair distance down the Boardwalk, but I had no idea where I was going. Finally, out of breath, I sat down on one of the benches overlooking the ocean. I heard the familiar squawk of an angry sounding seagull and just burst out laughing. My laughter must have frightened the seagull because he did an abrupt about face and stomped over to harass some other pedestrian. I looked up and Billy was standing in front of me, smiling.
“You have a way with animals, I see. Want to come back to The Ballroom? I want to go over your new set-list with you. Then we’ll run through it together. Some of the guys in the band said they’d play behind you. No, actually all of them did.” He offered his hand. “Let’s go back. I think we better walk this time.”
Billy had decided to be the leader of my band on stage during my 20-minute set opening for Hank and Honey. So, he had me learn a new song and he would perform a song himself. All along, I had suspected that Billy was just itching to take off his producer uniform and resume his own performing career. Taking charge of my opening set served both purposes. I was happy to see his enthusiasm as we tackled the first rehearsal.
Hank and Honey had left The Ballroom, Honey to go to her spa appointment and Hank to take a siesta by the hotel pool. The rest of the band, including The Honeys, were anxious to run through my segment of the concert. Billy had us do several takes of “Love is Enough” before he pronounced it just right. It was a lovely slow tempo ballad and it resonated emotionally with me as I sang.
Of course, the whole set couldn’t be slow-paced ballads, so the number that Billy chose to perform was a rocker called “She Touched Me.” I didn’t do much except bang away at a tambourine, but I enjoyed the fact that Billy kept his eyes on me as he sang.
I smiled from ear to ear when Chubby, our keyboard player, stood up from his piano and announced to everyone, “Good jam session, boys and girls. I’m going to enjoy working an extra half-hour every night.”
We played 8 concerts in 6 days at The Steel Pier’s Marine Ballroom (two a day on Saturday and Sunday) and the place was packed every time. Apparently, Billy had spread the word to every radio station in the region that Honey Hutch was making her much bally-hooed return to the band. It seemed like all of New Jersey was coming through the turnstiles of The Ballroom that week. I had a passing thought about seeing someone who knew me, maybe even from school in Bergenfield, in the crowds. That would be mortifying. But would anyone except my closest friends even recognize Shuggie Brennan in the guise of Sugar Pie, up and coming soul diva?
The highlight of the weekend for me was Sunday matinee when Eric Burdon joined me and Billy on stage for a cameo appearance. The crowd went wild! We had worked on this special number every time we crossed paths at our daily soundchecks. At first, we just viewed it as a cool little jam among friendly musicians but when I told Eric about Bobby being drafted, he insisted we dedicate the song to Bobby and play it live at least once before our gig was finished on Sunday. And so, I took the microphone and introduced Eric to the audience. Cheers went up from the crowd as I continued. “This is an oldie but goodie from Eric and The Animals. “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.” I’d like to dedicate this to my best friend in the whole world, Bobby, and all the boys fighting overseas.” More cheers erupted and we launched into the song.
We left the stage to thunderous applause from the sweaty, overheated capacity crowd shoe-horned into this auditorium that resembled an airplane hangar with seats. Still waving to the crowd, Eric and Billy had arms around my waist as we headed backstage. We passed Honey Hutch standing there, arms crossed, an annoyed look on her face. I do believe she had a little extra make-up on.
I was sitting on my “designated” bench overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, throwing breadcrumbs to thankfully placid seagulls, contemplating my future. It was late Sunday afternoon, hours before our final concert in the Marine Ballroom. There was heavy tourist traffic on the Boardwalk as we were just over a week away from Labor Day and the unofficial end of summer. Suddenly, I felt two large hands grasp my shoulders from behind.
“Shuggie?” I whipped my head around to see my father standing above me, an enigmatic smile on his face.
“Daddy! What are you doing here? Where’s Mom?”
“We came down for the day. Bobby’s parents are here with us. We’re going to take in the Al Martino concert at The Convention Hall tonight. Your mom and them are shopping for taffy or something. I’d rather just take a walk along the Boardwalk instead. You know I hate shopping.”
“Sit down, Daddy. Are you mad at me for looking like this?”
“Well, sweetie, I’m sort of confused and disappointed seeing my son in a dress. But I have to admit you look beautiful. Too beautiful for words. You look just like your mother did when we first met.”
“I thought you and Mom came down to see me sing.”
“No, honey, we thought you’d already finished your dates here. Yes, your sister kept us apprised of your tour schedule.”
“Billy got us extended for the whole week. Because of Honey coming back.”
“She came back? I didn’t know. Anyway, it’s the last week of the tour. You’ll be home come Labor Day.”
“Yeah, Daddy, don’t remind me.”
“Look, Shuggie, we made a deal. You get to do this…this girl thing all summer and then you come back and finish school. As a boy. Which is what you were born as and how we tried to raise you. Though I guess I didn’t do that good a job of it, did I?”
“No, Daddy, you’ve been a great father. Even if you won’t accept me as a girl. When I’m 18, I’ll live my life the way I want. You can’t stop me.”
Dad stood up and took my face in his large, strong hands. He looked in to my eyes for a long minute. “Sweetheart, I love you. We’ll work this out somehow. Just come home next week and we’ll talk. You mother wants to get you some counseling and doctors who are specialists in your…uh…condition. We’ll find the money somehow. Just come home. We…I miss you.” We hugged and I got a little weepy. I think Dad was tearing up too, but he turned away quickly to walk off.
“Daddy, how are Bobby’s parents holding up?”
“As well as expected, I guess. Do you want me to tell them you’re here?”
“No, I don’t think I’m up to seeing them right now. And Mom too. Don’t tell her you saw me. You’re all coming to see me in Brooklyn next week, right?”
He nodded and waved. I watched my father blend into the crowd on The Boardwalk and resumed tossing breadcrumbs to the pesky seagulls clamoring for their afternoon snack.
I heard the click clack of my white lace-up go-go boot heels as I walked hurriedly toward my first period Calculus class. Cradling my schoolbooks in my arms like a baby against my budding breasts, I was paying the least attention I could to Rachel Hanley’s blather as she tried to keep up with my pace.
“I mean how did we all convince ourselves that you’re a boy instead of a girl? Although I knew all along! You’re much too pretty to be a boy…”
Suddenly, Vice Principal Masterson jumped into our path, a broad smile on his face. “Hold it right there, Miss Brennan!” Rachel slammed into me as I stopped in mid-stride, and I almost dropped my books.
“But, Mr. Masterson, I’ll be late for class.”
“Not today, Miss Brennan…or should I call you Sugar Pie?”
As if having emerged from the borders of a comic strip panel, dozens of my fellow Bergenfield High students started chanting “Sugar Pie! Sugar Pie!” I blushed deeply, deeper than the rouge I had over-applied to my cheeks this morning.
“Today is Shuggie Brennan Day at Bergenfield High School and you, Miss Brennan, are our Special Guest of Honor! Hooray! Hurrah!” The throng of students joined in the cheers. Rachel took the books from my arms and gestured for me to bow to the crowd. When I looked up, I saw a figure in Army dress uniform carrying a huge bouquet of roses walking down the hall toward us. It was Bobby!
“Hey, babe. Guess what? I didn’t get killed. Here’s some roses for my sweet Sugar Pie.” I took the bouquet and inhaled deeply. Then Bobby crushed me in his brawny, boot camp toned arms, kissing me within an inch of my life. Rachel cooed beside us, “What a lovely couple.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my grandmother patting my head. “I hope they serve Hawaiian pizza for lunch today in the cafeteria.”
“Shuggie? Shuggie? Earth to Shuggie…”
Why is Billy Schechter in my high school? Oh, yeah, he must be here to induct me into the Bergenfield High Alumni Hall of Fame.
“Earth to Shuggie!” Groggily, I opened my eyes to see a blurry Billy Schechter standing above me, an electric guitar strapped across his shoulder. I was slumped in one of the 3,600 seats of an empty Asbury Park Convention Hall, having apparently fallen asleep while waiting for our afternoon soundcheck. And dreaming. A lovely little dream. I was momentarily angry at Billy for cutting my dream short.
“Get yourself a cup of coffee. You need it. Listen, I’ve got a new song for you to do. Just got off the phone to Carole and Gerry. It’s perfect for you. We can learn it in time for Murray the K on Friday.”
“Oh? Yeah, sounds great. You know, Billy, I’ve been thinking about after Friday. After the tour’s over—”
“I’ve been doing some thinking about that too. I’ve got big plans for you, girl. I want to talk to your parents. Maybe after the concert Friday. They’ll be there, right?”
“I’m going back to school, Billy. I promised my Dad. I really ought to honor my promise. They…they love me. Daddy told me he missed me—”
“Your father’s a real problem. Kind of like my Dad was with my sister. Well, he still is.”
We were interrupted by the band on stage finishing their soundcheck. Some local group of teenage boys calling themselves The Castiles and wearing what looked like waiters’ outfits from an Italian restaurant like Paulie’s on Washington Avenue back home in Bergenfield.
They were enthusiastic, loud, and not that good…to my ears. Billy said he saw something in the lead guitarist, a 16-year-old named Bruce Springstein, who wrote their songs but wasn’t the singer. Their last number was “Baby I.” Though his guitar wasn’t plugged in, Billy was playing along, improvising an E minor pentatonic riff.
As they shuffled off the stage, Billy motioned Bruce over to us. In his outfit, he looked like he was about to take our dinner order. The only things missing were an apron, a server notepad, and a stubby pencil behind his right ear. Shyly, he shook Billy’s hand and waved to me when we exchanged introductions.
“Here’s my card, Bruce. Give me a call when you’ve got a demo for me to hear. Make sure it’s an original song not a cover. I like your energy on stage…” As Billy droned on, Bruce kept staring at me, occasionally nodding to whatever Billy was saying.
“Do you sing, miss?” Bruce asked me abruptly in the middle of Billy’s extemporaneous speech about the record industry.
“A little. Do you?” I returned his serve.
“I’m concentratin’ on my guitar playing right now but, yeah, I guess if Dylan can sing, I can too.” He laughed as Billy patted his shoulder, wanting to dismiss him before he and I got into a long conversation.
“See you tonight, Bruce. Right now, Shuggie and the band have some rehearsing to do. Remember to call when you’ve got that demo.” Billy turned to me as Bruce caught up with his bandmates near the exit to the Hall.
“Get that coffee and let’s start putting your set together.”
On Thursday morning, the last day of our three-night run at the Asbury Park Convention Hall, Billy joined Bailey and me for a late breakfast in the coffee shop of The Asbury Hotel, where our whole contingent was staying. Since my part of the concerts were now over before Hank and Honey did their full hour and a half set, it was a lot easier for me to just collapse onto my hotel bed and get my full share of beauty sleep. Even so, I kept yawning in Billy’s face as he discussed the band’s final date—The Murray the K Labor Day Show at The Brooklyn Fox Theater Friday night. We were on a bill with a dozen other acts, many of them bigger than we were, like The Miracles, The Drifters, The Young Rascals, The Moody Blues, Jay & The Americans…you get the idea. Billy was confident but nervous. Bailey put her arm around my shoulders.
“Shuggie’s your secret weapon, Billy. When the audience hears her sing—”
“She’s only doing one number. Everyone on the bill gets 20 minutes, 30 tops. Otherwise, the show would actually go on until Labor Day on Monday.”
“Are you sure Carole won’t mind me singing that song? I mean it was written for Aretha Franklin and she hasn’t even recorded it yet. Won’t Atlantic Records be awful mad?”
“Until Aretha records and releases it, it’s fair game. Besides, Carole was ecstatic about you performing it in Brooklyn, her old stomping grounds.”
Bailey excused herself from the table and said she was going back to our room to get more sleep. She hadn’t slipped into bed last night until 3 in the morning. Apparently, she’d hooked up with one of The Castiles, our opening act. She swears it wasn’t the guitar player, Bruce. Ha ha.
“And why would I care if it was him?”
“Oh, come on, girl. You’ve been looking at him with stars in your eyes for two days. He is kind of cute. A little too young for me though.”
“Oh, so it was the drummer, eh? How old is he? Drinking age at least?”
“He’s all of 21, my dear girl. And I mean all of it.” With a laugh, she turned and walked out of the coffee shop.
“You like Bruce? He’s even younger than you.”
“No, Bailey’s just teasing. Anyway, what’s it to you?”
“Nothing. Just being protective, that’s all. I mean Bobby was someone you knew your whole life. You can’t trust any of the guys you meet in this business.”
“I trust you, Billy.” I drained my coffee cup and dabbed my mouth with my napkin. Good thing I decided not to wear lipstick this morning. My hair could use another pass or two of a brush though.
“What’s your plan for this morning? Lounging around the pool with Hank and Honey? Everyone else is still in bed.”
“Don’t laugh, Billy, but Asbury Park is world-famous for its pinball arcades. I’m thinking of walking over to Ocean Avenue and finding me a Batman machine to play.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Bobby and I used to play pinball all the time when we weren’t in school or practicing.”
“I keep forgetting you’re 17 years old.”
“You can come along. You must have played some pinball in your day.”
“Uh, that’s a definite no. It was all music and baseball in high school. I was either going to be Sandy Koufax or Bobby Darin. So far, I guess, I’m neither.”
“You’re a huge success, Billy. I read in the Daily News that you’re the youngest millionaire record producer in the history of the business. That’s a lot better than throwing baseballs for a living.”
“Sometimes I don’t feel that young anymore. The parade’s catching up to me and getting ready to pass me by. But, enough self-pity, let’s go play some pinball.”
“Really? You wanna come? They’ve got a Beatles pinball game that’s pretty cool.”
“I think I’ll just watch you play.” We ambled out into the warm September 1st morning. Ocean Avenue was just a 5-minute walk from the hotel.
Along the length of Ocean Avenue there were half a dozen pinball arcades, the largest being the Silverball Arcade, which is where I was headed.
Right outside the entrance to Silverball, that kid from The Castiles, Bruce, was leaning a bike against a telephone pole. When he turned around, he saw us and waved.
“Hey, Sugar Pie, Mr. Schechter. Top of the morning to ya. Funny meeting you here.”
“Say, aren’t you afraid someone’ll swipe your bike? Don’t you have a chain or lock or something?”
“What? Steal this piece of crap? They’re welcome to it. It’s worthless. Actually, I swiped it off some dude while he was dozing on the beach.”
“Really?”
“I’m only half-kidding. So, what’s your game? Are you playing one of the two-man machines?”
Billy snickered. “I’m just here to watch Sugar. Don’t play pinball myself.”
“Mind if I watch too? Aren’t too many girls I know that good at pinball. It’s all in the wrists, you know. Let’s see your hands.” He took my hands in his, turned them over and whistled. “Are your wrists strong enough?”
“They’re built up from all the sweaters I’ve been knitting for Christmas. And brushing my hair a hundred strokes twice a day—”
“Okay, okay. Sorry. No offense. Can I watch anyway?”
“Sure, if I can find a free Batman machine.”
“It’s pretty early in the day. Both of their Batman machines are probably available. After you.” He opened the door for me and I stepped in. “Oh, age before beauty, Mr. Schechter. After you.”
“Very funny, Bruce. You can cut the Mr. crap. Call me Billy. And it’s youth before wisdom. Go ahead.”
Bruce was right. The machines stood there in the huge room shiny and mostly silent with a handful of boys hunched over their games oblivious to us when we walked in. I spotted one of the two Batman machines in the far corner and reached into my purse to grab a handful of quarters. Billy stopped me.
“I’ll get change for a twenty. Will that be enough?”
“More than enough for the way I play. I get lots of replays—”
“A girl with braggadocio. I like that.” Bruce smiled as Billy went to the cashier in the front of the shop. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a quarter for you to start. Who knows how long it’ll take Billy to get change. When’s the last time some 15-year-old kid had to break a twenty?”
I was debating whether to go straight for the Commissioner Gordon target or go through the various major villain modes.
“Start with The Penguin. Or maybe Catwoman since she’s the weaker sex…” Bruce teased.
“Hey, don’t backseat driver me, will ya? By the way, how come you’re riding a bike. You’re 16, don’t you drive?”
“Can’t afford a car. And my Dad won’t let me drive his since I sort of dropped out of school—”
“Sort of?”
“Well, I’m not planning to go back for my junior year next week. Me and Dad had a big fight about it, and I have to sleep in the surfboard factory on Cookman Avenue. My cousin works there, and he gave me the key to the backdoor. I just have to make sure I’m up and out before the boss man comes in to open the place.”
“That’s tough. Oh shit, I overshot. These flippers need to be looked at.”
“It’s your wrists, girly.”
“No, it’s not, manly boy-man.”
“One of the backup singers told me you’re only 17. Is that right? How come you’re out on the road without parental supervision? Isn’t that verboten?”
“My father gave his approval. Anyway, I started this tour with my boyfriend.”
“Billy’s your boyfriend? Man, talk about robbing the cradle.”
“No, silly, my boyfriend was the sax player in the band. But he’s not with us now. He got drafted. He’s in boot camp at Fort Dix.”
“So, you’re single?”
I ignored his question, trying to concentrate on the game.
“You guys from the area then?”
“Bergenfield.”
“That’s cool. If you’re going back to school, maybe we can see each other sometimes. My band plays around the shore mostly but, hey, it’s only an hour up The Parkway from here to Bergenfield—”
“How long does it take by bicycle?”
“Good one. Maybe I can afford a car in a couple of months if our bookings trend up. Opening for you guys should give us some more visibility.”
“Fuck! Game over. You’re distracting me!”
“It’s the wrists. Here, I’ve got another quarter somewhere.” Bruce reached into both pockets of his jeans and came up with a set of keys and a beat-up looking wallet but no coins.
“Here you go, Sugar.” Billy appeared out of nowhere and handed me a clutch of quarters. “Is he bothering you?”
“No, he’s just being a jerk. He thinks just because I’m a girl I can’t be good at pinball.”
“Bruce, don’t you guys have soundcheck at one?”
“Yeah, Billy, but it’s not even noon.”
“You’re riding a bike. It might take a while to get to the Hall from here.”
“It’s like a minute ride. Okay, I can take a hint. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. See you later, Sugar.” He replaced his keys and wallet and shuffled out of the arcade, his metaphorical tail between his legs.
“He’s just a kid, Billy. He was attempting to flirt with me, that’s all. But he was distracting me from my game.”
“Good thing I got back when I did. I won’t distract you. Let’s see if you can beat the top score on this thing.”
Our third and final concert at The Convention Hall was before a third straight sell-out crowd. Bruce sidled up to Billy backstage and needled him with the claim that The Castiles were the reason for the overwhelming turnouts. “We’re local legends,” Bruce said. Billy crossed his arms and stared at him. “You’re getting on my nerves, kid. Do me a favor and lose that card I gave you.” One of the other Castiles became alarmed and tried to smooth things over. I turned back to the stage and watched Hank sing his newest addition to their setlist, a musical attempt at appeasement with Honey, “Everybody’s Gotta Pay Some Dues.”
But as soon as the applause subsided for Hank’s song, Honey launched into her own musical response. A flinty and somewhat ambivalent view of the pitfalls of relationships, namely theirs. Honey saw the continuation of their professional and personal partnership as an open-ended question: “Too Many Roads.”
Since the drive from Asbury Park to Brooklyn was little more than an hour, Billy had us stay in our hotel Thursday night. We would board our buses after lunch in plenty of time to check in at The Brooklyn Fox Theater around 2 PM. Thus, I found myself sitting with Billy in the hotel lounge at midnight, nursing my ginger ale while he downed at least three whiskey sours.
“Are you nervous about the Murray the K show? You shouldn’t be. Hank and Honey look like they’ve got it together musically if not personally.”
“I’m not worried about them. They’ll work it out between them or not. If I had to bet money, I’d say they’re splitsville by next Spring. But they’ll be alright. They both have enough talent to make it solo.”
“So, then what?”
“I’m at a crossroads in my career, Shuggie. And in my life.”
“You’re what? 25, 26? You’re hardly going through a mid-life crisis. Look at me. 17 years old and I have no idea what you’re talking about. I couldn’t imagine myself achieving half of what you’ve accomplished already in the next 8 years.”
“I’m also worried about you, Shuggie. Are you sure about going back to school and back to being a boy?”
“I made a deal with Dad. But I think he’s starting to bend my way. He sees now I’m not really a boy and never was. I’ll finish school, get some counseling, hopefully get prescribed the right hormones. I hear you can get sex change surgery in Europe.” I winked at Billy but in the shadows of the lounge he probably couldn’t see it. “It’ll take money I don’t have and neither does my father. I’ll work and save enough. In two years, Bobby will be back from the army. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together. We love each other. I know that for certain.” There was silence between us for a long time before Billy spoke.
“You really don’t care about your singing career?”
“It’s been a gas, really, more than I could ever imagine, this summer. But it’s not my dream. It never was. My dream is to be a woman.”
“I can make both dreams come true for you, Shuggie. If you’ll let me. I can get you a recording contract on my word alone. And that’ll pay for your surgery down the road.”
“And what’s in it for you, Billy? You could be throwing good money after bad. Who says anyone would buy my records? And what if they found out about me? You know Jackie Shane. She could’ve been on Ed Sullivan, but they wouldn’t accept her for what she is. How would it be different for me?”
“I’ve got enough connections in the industry that what happened with Jackie would never happen with you. People respect and fear me in the business. But what I’m trying to say is I care about you. I want you to find your happiness. Not like my sister who had to endure so much.”
“Are you saying you’re in love with me, Billy? No, you can’t. I’m…I’m 17.”
“When I look at you, I don’t see your age. I see a young woman on the cusp of real greatness, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon—”
“I’m a boy!” I said, making sure no one overheard me.
“I see the real you, Shuggie.”
“I’m going to wait for Bobby.”
“Bobby can’t help you realize your true identity and make you a star. I can.”
“Yes, but I love him…forever. Excuse me, Billy, I don’t want to have this discussion.” I stood up, turned, and ran out of the lounge, choking back tears.
I called Connie from my hotel room. Bailey wasn’t back yet. The drummer again, I suppose.
“Connie, it’s Shuggie. Sorry to call you so late.”
“It’s alright, Shuggie, I was watching TV anyway. Remember those chimps that were on Ed Sullivan with you? Yeah, they were on Johnny Carson tonight. I think the one who jumped into your arms is still pining for you.”
“That’s funny, Connie. Look, is it all set for tomorrow night? You’re going to make sure Mom and Dad come with you to the show, right?”
“Of course. You sound weird. Something wrong?”
“I just wanted to make sure you three were all there tomorrow. It’s going to be the last time I ever sing in public.”
“As a girl?”
“No, as anything. Boy, girl, anything. I’m going to just pursue my one and only dream.”
“And that would be?”
“To be Mrs. Bobby Messina.”
“Oh, Shuggie, we need to talk.”
“Whatever you have to say, make it quick, Connie. These long-distance calls are adding up. I’ve called you from L.A., Denver, Chicago, Detroit, Toronto—”
“Shuggie, shut up a minute! Listen, there are two things you’re not clear on right now. First of all, you’re still a boy, legally and medically. You can’t marry Bobby—”
“Well, not right now. He’s in the army but when he gets out in two years, I’ll have saved enough to get a sex change operation by then. He wrote to me from boot camp and he basically proposed to me. You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”
“Secondly, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to marry Bobby, regardless of whether you get the surgery or not. Don’t start crying, Shuggie! Listen to me—”
“How can you say that? Bobby and I have been best friends since we were 4 and 5 years old. If you don’t want to be my maid of honor because you’re ashamed of me, just say so. You’ve never acted like a real sister to me anyway. You don’t want me to be happy, do you?”
“He’s a loser, Shuggie. Plain and simple. He dated Rachel Hanley all through senior year and didn’t give your feelings a single thought, did he? You hid it from mom and dad, but I saw you crying your eyes out in your room when I came home on weekends. Very quietly I could hear you saying his name over and over again.”
“What a great big sister you are! You never came in and asked me what was wrong. You just went on your merry way like I didn’t exist.”
“What did you want me to do? Beat up Bobby? Talk to Dad about your broken heart? Yeah, he would’ve been real sympathetic. Not.”
“You don’t know that. Daddy loves me. He told me last week that he does and…and he misses me. He wants me to come home. He said we’ll talk it over, find a solution to my…problem. You’re just jealous! Betcha he never said those things to you.”
“We’re getting off the subject here, Shuggie. If you’re so set on becoming a real woman, then stop acting like a dumb boy and start acting like a smart girl.”
“Like you? Miss Alberta Einstein?”
“You don’t marry your best friend just because he’s your best friend. Now, let me ask you. This Billy guy, hasn’t he been really nice to you? Like looking out for your career, teaching you about the music business, even arranging special material for you to sing—”
“Duh, that’s his job.”
“Paying you 200 freakin’ dollars a week, rescuing you from a race riot—”
“Bobby was with him—”
“The guy’s obviously head over heels in love with you, Shuggie. It goes beyond being your producer or employer. He can make you a big star and he really cares for you. He knows about your special circumstances and because of his sister, he’s fine with it. What more can a girl ask from a man?”
“Stop it! Stop it, Connie! I’m in love with Bobby, not Billy. I didn’t ask Billy to fall in love with me. And how can you be sure he doesn’t just see me as a gift horse or something?”
“We’re not talking about your looks, Shuggie.”
“Huh?”
“Gift horse? Oh, forget it. It’s your life, Shuggie. You can take my advice or not. I’m looking out for your future well-being even if you think I hate you, which I don’t. I’ll admit I’ve always felt mom and dad liked you best. There, I’ve said it. And with that, I’ll say good night. Just promise me you’ll think about what I said.”
Regardless of what I thought about Connie’s stupid advice, I guess the fact that Billy had just come as close to saying he was in love with me without actually saying those three little words set my mind on fire. I didn’t fall asleep for the longest time after I slipped between the sheets, tossing and turning, alternately crying and laughing over my topsy-turvy life. Then I had the funniest dream. I’d been having a lot of weird dreams lately. Maybe it was the rest area and hotel food? This one was a doozy. When I got my wake-up call from the front desk, there was an image from my dream etched onto the viewscreen of my brain.
I was sitting on a couch in some nondescript room, petting a dog that looked a lot like that collie who plays Lassie on TV. I had a big smile on my face and Billy was sitting next to me on the couch, a big smile on his face as well. He had real long hair, like those hippies we saw in Haight-Ashbury. It was almost as long as mine! But the weirdest thing was my sister Connie sitting on the same couch, a shit-eating grin on her aging face. Yeah, she looked older, like 30 at least. We all looked older. Is that my future? Married to Billy? And I hope Connie’s just visiting and not living with us. Oh, that’s just silly. Even to think about it. Although, I must say, I’ve always liked collies. They shed a lot, don’t they?
When Bailey and I came downstairs to have some breakfast, hoping to avoid Billy after our rather heated discussion last night, we were surprised to see Billy and Ray, our road manager, having a loud conversation with the manager of the Asbury Park Convention Hall at a table on the opposite side of the room from us. Ray was shouting and flailing his arms. Billy was trying to restrain him while also barking at the guy. It must be about the concert receipts. Apparently, their numbers didn’t jibe. Bailey and I ate quickly and escaped the escalating dispute.
After we went off in separate directions, I headed to the Silverball Arcade so I could get my last licks at that Batman machine. Our buses weren’t leaving for Brooklyn until after 1 PM. I could spend a solid two hours or more setting a new top score on that machine. I hope it wasn’t already taken by some zit-faced boy. Or worse yet, both machines were being played. A roll of quarters sat comfortably in my purse as I patted its leather exterior. I turned to cross the street and standing next to his bike, arms crossed, staring back at me, was Bruce. He must have been waiting for me all morning.
“Hey, girly, it’s about time you got here. I didn’t think you’d be sleeping in today of all days. Murray the K, right? Man, you’re gonna be on stage with so many cool acts. I’d ask you to get me some autographs, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass you like that…”
“I’ll give you mine if you’re nice and promise not to distract me while I’m playing.”
“That’s a start. Need to break a twenty?”
I took the roll of quarters out of my purse and waved it in the air. “No, I’ve come ready for battle.”
“Lead the charge, Major General Sugar Pie.” He saluted me as I stepped through the arcade’s entrance. “You’re in luck, your personal Batman machine is waiting for you. I told everyone who went in, nix nix on the Batman games. Gave ‘em my best Steve McQueen glare.”
“Real tough guy. Scaring a bunch of junior high boys.”
“They’re small but some of them are real wiry.”
When we reached the Batman machine, I gave him a quick nod of my head as if to say, “you can go off and play your own machine now.” Bruce got the message and wandered off in the direction of a Casanova pinball machine. You can guess how you score points in that game.
Becoming engrossed in the game, my mind was clear of Connie’s nagging advice and unsettling thoughts about my future, and I cut a swath through all the major villain modes. I took down The Penguin, The Joker, Catwoman, Mr. Freeze, The Riddler, and secured the Commissioner Gordon target in short order. The clang of bells accompanied by cheers (my own) signaled a new top score for that machine. A couple of the boys nearby gaped in surprise at a girl playing like a champion. One of them shyly shook my hand and asked when I was breaking for lunch. I said, not in an aloof way, that I had prior plans. The kid was about to ask what plans when Bruce appeared at his side and showed him a grimace worthy of Steve McQueen in Nevada Smith. He moved away quickly.
“Looks like you’ve had better luck than me this morning.”
“It’s skill not luck. Speaking of skill, what makes you think you could handle that Casanova machine?”
“My reputation as a ladies’ man is well-known. They call me Kid Casanova back in Freehold. I’m told I can be very charming.” He smiled a smile that turned into a leer.
“Are you serious about dropping out?”
“Yeah, school’s not for me. All I want to do is play music. You don’t have to go to college to be a rock star.”
“Sometimes I feel the same way about school. But I’m going back next week for my senior year.”
“But you’re already a featured performer. It says so on your posters. Man, you must be living the life. Getting paid well, staying in hotels…I saw you on Ed Sullivan! You were the best thing on the show. You and the chimps.” I swatted him on the arm as he laughed raucously. “You’re cuter though. Owww!”
“They were cuter than you, stupid.” I think I hit him harder than I intended because he kept rubbing his arm. “Sorry. I guess I don’t know my own strength.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you hit harder than a guy. But that ain’t possible. You’re all girl. Prettiest girl in New Jersey, I bet.”
“Save the charm for that Casanova machine, mister. Anyway, if I were you, I’d go back to school and graduate. The music business is shit. This summer’s been eye-opening. Get a diploma and some skills you can fall back on. My dad works in a paper plant but it’s steady and dependable. He raised me and my sister with that job. My mom’s a nurse. If things don’t fall perfectly in this music thing, you’ll be sleeping in the back of a surfboard factory for a long time.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“I’m sure your dad loves you just like my dad loves me. He wants the best for you, that’s all.”
“Aww, come on. I’m sure Billy can take you away from all of this. This death trap. Smalltown New Jersey is not where I want to spend my salad days. Being his girlfriend—”
“I’m not his girlfriend! I told you that. It’s totally professional. My boyfriend is at Fort Dix right now…” We were silent for a minute, and I turned back to the Batman machine. I didn’t want Bruce to see my eyes welling up with tears at the thought of being apart from Bobby for two long years and the chance that he might not ever come back.
“Hey, you never told me your real name. It can’t be Sugar Pie. Nobody’s named that.”
I don’t know how it came out, but I whispered “Bobby Gene.” It wasn’t in answer to his question, yet he took it that way.
“Bobbie Jean? Bobbie Jean! Yeah, that fits you. I’m going to write a song about you. I’ll make you famous. Or…more famous than you’ll already be.”
“Fine. Great. Can you…uh…just leave me alone so I can play this machine again?”
“Oh…okay. Can I…uh…can I—”
“What? Can you what?” He grabbed my shoulders, turned me around and planted a lingering kiss on my lips. I struggled and finally pushed him off me.
“Kiss you. Can I kiss you.” He stepped backward toward the front of the arcade. “I won’t forget you, Bobbie Jean. Look for my song. You’ll hear it on the radio and remember me too.” He ran out onto Ocean Avenue, picked up his bike ad rode off.
I couldn’t help but laugh. A kid playing a machine nearby shrugged his shoulders, looked out the window at Bruce’s receding figure and clucked, “What a jerk.”
Billy and I had managed to avoid speaking to each other all day. We even sat half a bus length apart on the one-hour ride to Brooklyn. Honey tried to act sincere when she congratulated me on being Billy’s next ‘big’ discovery. I told her I was going back to school after tonight, the last date on our tour. She almost spit out her coffee.
“You’re kidding, right? He’s already got your European tour next summer planned out. Hank tells me Billy’s already recorded two surefire Top 40 hits that he’s got warming in the can, just waiting for the label to ink you to a 3-album deal. That’s crazy money for a teenager. I never finished school myself. Do I look like I needed a diploma?”
“I promised my folks I’d graduate. And Billy’s just talking shit. He’s got like five other projects he’s working on. I’m just a summer fling—”
“Oh, girl, I heard he wants to talk to your father after the concert tonight. That sound serious. I’ve known Billy for a couple of years and this is the most serious I’ve ever seen him about a girl…”
“There’s nothing going on between us. A least not on my part. You know how I feel about Bobby and now that he’s in the army…well, what kind of girlfriend would I be if I cheated on him—”
“A smart one? Look, sweetie, Bobby’s a nice boy but that’s what he is…a boy. Billy’s a grown man with the money and power to give a girl everything she could possibly dream of. Fame, fortune, furs, diamonds…and shoes! Billy’s not bad looking neither.” She looked at me with the expression of a prosecuting attorney who’s never lost a case.
“You don’t understand, Honey. Me and Bobby have something that’s…forever.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I thought Hank and I had.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly.
The first words that Billy spoke to me were at the Brooklyn Fox soundcheck. With so many acts on the bill, time was limited for the afternoon session and most of the groups decided to forego it. Hank and Honey preferred sitting on the air-conditioned bus while Billy wanted to run through my solitary number two or three times to get it perfect. Billy was explaining to me that he’d enlisted two extra musicians to fill out the arrangement he’d written. They were from Bob Dylan’s backing band that had just finished a European tour in the Spring. With Bob’s recent motorcycle accident canceling his concert dates for the foreseeable future, they were searching for work. Their most recent gig were playing behind Tiny Tim (“Tiptoe Through The Tulips”) in small clubs and bars along the Eastern Seaboard. Billy got in touch with them while we were in Atlantic City. They had just played some dates at a lounge in a hotel on the Boardwalk.
“Hey, Billy! Billy! We’re here.” Two guys who looked to be in their early twenties came rushing toward us, instrument cases in hand. One of them almost clobbered Smokey Robinson with his guitar case. He quickly apologized and then lifted his head to see who he had hit. He stood stunned for a moment before the other guy dragged him away.
“Just in time too. If you’d been five more minutes, I think Smokey there would’ve jumped the line and made us wait another hour to do our run-through.” Billy introduced them: Robbie Robertson, a guitarist, and Garth Hudson, who was going to play saxophone. There was some mention of them being Canadians, so I told them I’d been in Toronto recently and gone to see Jackie Shane.
“Oh, yeah,” Robbie said. “He’s a solid sender. We even crossed paths with him on the chitlins circuit when we were with Ronnie Hawkins—”
“You mean she. Jackie’s a woman.”
“You know, we were never really sure what he or she was, right, Garth?” Garth just nodded. Billy interrupted our chat and told us to assemble on stage with the rest of the band.
“So, this is something Wexler’s gonna have Aretha record?” asked Robbie.
“Carole and Gerry wrote it for them, but I got permission from Carole to let Sugar Pie sing it this one time for Murray’s show. Let us go through it once. I’ll call out the chords. I’m sure you guys can pick it up pretty quickly.” Billy and I stood by the microphone while everyone plugged in their instruments. I asked Garth if he wanted a stool to sit on, what with that heavy looking baritone saxophone strapped to his chest. A man of few words, he just shook his head.
Billy turned to me. “Right after we come off stage tonight, I want to speak to your parents. I know a nice Italian place close by where we can sit down, have a bite to eat and talk things through.” I felt like turning Billy down but it would be polite to accept and I’m sure Dad was itching to talk to Billy anyway. I’m just hoping it doesn’t get really embarrassing. I just nodded affirmatively.
“Okay, this is in the key of C Major…”
Murray the K was a big deal in New York City. A popular DJ on Top 40 AM radio, he rocketed to fame by attaching himself to The Beatles, unannounced and probably unwanted, when they arrived in the U.S. for the first time to appear on Ed Sullivan in January 1964. His breathless around-the-clock live reports on The Fab Four’s every step while in New York City made his career. For most of the ‘60s, he parlayed his notoriety into promotion of sold-out holiday shows at Brooklyn’s Fox Theater. Three times a year, around Easter, Labor Day, and Christmas, he presented a dozen or so hitmakers in marathon evenings of youth-oriented live music. It was as much a celebration of his “hipster” persona as it was of the artists on stage.
It was about three hours into the show when Murray the K introduced me to the packed house. Mitch Ryder and The Detroit Wheels had just finished their 4-song set with a rousing rendition of their hit, “Sock It To Me Baby.” The applause was just petering out when Murray trotted out on stage. I was surprised when he announced me as a solo act, just Sugar Pie. I was expecting to come out with Hank and Honey, sing my one number, and leave the stage. But Billy winked at me and gently pushed me out ahead of the rest of the band. The audience murmured, obviously not sure who I was. Then, a smattering of applause surged forward from the back of the house. I almost laughed out loud when I recognized Connie giving me a one-person standing ovation. I don’t know why others were applauding. Maybe they’d seen me on tour?
As I peered into the dark recesses of the back of the theater, I saw a shadowy figure standing by an open door that led into the lobby. He was wearing an Army dress uniform, a garrison cap on his head. I couldn’t make out the features on his face but my imagination ran wild, thinking about Bobby. Did Bobby get a weekend pass from Fort Dix? My heart skipped a beat. Then, Billy counted down and I had to concentrate on my performance. I sang this song, “(You Make Me Feel Just Like) A Natural Woman” to Bobby, wherever he was that night.
The crowd jumped up and gave us a loud, wild ovation. I cried both from the overwhelming approval of the audience and relief that the tour was over. I could go back to being plain old Shuggie from Bergenfield. Was it what I really wanted? Well, no, but Dad had said enough to make me think they’d begin to accept the fact was really a girl, not the boy my superfluous body parts seemed to signify. I would get counseling, start a hormone regimen, save up to get surgery, and wait for Bobby to come back from The War and marry me. As I ran off stage, I looked back to see if that shadowy figure was still there. He was not. I crashed into Hank in the wings of the stage. He and Honey were waiting to be announced by Murray.
“Whoa, Shuggie, where’s the fire? Are you okay? Honey, she’s crying.”
“Why the tears, sweetie?” I couldn’t speak so I just shook my head and ran to the dressing room.
My father leaned over the table and, in a stern but proud tone, declared to Billy, “I don’t take charity, Mr. Schechter. Jerry Brennan takes care of his own. Eriko and I might have to take out a second mortgage, but we’ll figure it out.”
“Daddy, Billy’s not trying to insult you—”
“Mr. Brennan, I’m not treating this like a charity case. In fact, I won’t be spending a dollar of my own money to get Shuggie the counseling and medical support she needs.”
“She’s…I mean he’s a senior in high school. How the hell is she...uh…he going to pay for that if it’s not her…his parents? Damn, this is so confusing.”
“Your daughter is a major talent, Mr. Brennan. She’s already recorded a handful of tracks that could be released tomorrow and be Top 40 hits. I’ll see to it that she signs a 3-album deal that would more than pay for her medical needs as well as pay off the note on your house to boot. She’s a goldmine!”
“Has it occurred to you, Mr. Schechter, that, sooner than later, people will find out Shuggie’s not a girl—”
“Jerry! Not so loud. There are people looking at us.” Mom sank into her chair.
“Sorry, honey.” He continued in a softer voice. “Look, she’ll be the object of ridicule if that ever comes out. They’ll kick her out of school. Bergenfield’s not the cosmopolitan melting pot that New York City is. They prefer their boys to stay boys and girls to stay girls.”
Our waitress placed our food on the table. We were eating family style as was customary in traditional Italian restaurants. Mom frowned when Connie and I jousted with our spoons trying to shovel the veal cutlets onto our plates. “Children! Behave! Don’t shame us in public!” Connie kicked my shin under the table, and I winced, dropping my spoon noisily onto the dish of veal parmigiana.
“Care to have some Sambuca, Jerry? Remember the fine Sambuca we drank at Jilly’s? I take that as a yes.” Billy signaled the waitress and ordered a bottle of Sambuca for the table. “Mrs. Brennan, you should give it a try. It’s a sweet, fruity liqueur from Sicily. Goes down very smooth.”
“Should I, Jerry?”
“Just a nip. I have a feeling you’ll be driving us home tonight.”
“Oh, Dad, just a half a glass, okay?” Connie implored. “You know Mom hates driving in the city.”
“Back to the matter at hand, Jerry. The records will be released under her stage name Sugar Pie. No one will connect a high school senior in New Jersey to Sugar Pie. We’ll control all information about her. The press will be fed a back story that my publicity people can cook up. I’ll be protecting her identity every step of the way. I give you my word.”
“I’m beginning to think you could pull this off but I want you to know I’m not going to let you try to seduce Shuggie with promises of money and fame. She’s 17 and she already has a boyfriend. Bobby Messina.”
“Daddy!” I kicked Connie’s shin under the table reflexively. She groaned into her napkin. “My relationship with Billy is strictly professional. Right, Billy?”
“Of course.” Billy winked at me, thinking I was the only one who saw. But Mom caught the wink. She frowned. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Brennan. I see the potential for, dare I say, millions. Shuggie will tell you. She’s seen me up close these past eight weeks. I have a one-track mind. You’re a hunter, Jerry. You understand. When you’re on the trail of a bear…”
“Dad, you didn’t run out of ammo this summer, did you?” asked Connie, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know, Billy, Dad’s a good shot. A really good shot.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. Pun intended. So, it’s a business proposition. Quid pro quo. Shuggie gets her counseling and medical care; I get to produce another string of million-sellers. It’s a square deal, capisce?”
“I’ll drink to that…uh…should I call you Billy?”
“Please do, Jerry. We’re all on the same page here. Let’s make a toast to your daughter’s future happiness.”
Dad turned to me and read the frown on my face. “Something the matter, sweetie?”
“Yeah, Connie ate up all the veal.”
Winter came early to Northern New Jersey in 1966. There had been a squall of snow all day Thanksgiving Day, piling up at least eight inches on the ground of hard-packed white tundra. At least it seemed like tundra when I had to get up early the next morning and shovel our driveway clear so that Mom, Dad, and Connie could go shopping at The Bergen Mall in Paramus. Like mailmen, neither rain nor sleet nor snow can keep shoppers away from Black Friday bargains! It’s an unwritten law that a male child of sufficient age shall shovel snow from driveways and since I was a male…Wait a minute! Well, Dad still thinks of me as a boy, so I had to work up a good sweat before breakfast.
After I performed a set of songs for grandmother, wearing the silver lame dress I had worn onstage at The Brooklyn Fox, I looked out our living room window and noticed for the first time that another blanket of snow had fallen on the ground since that morning. Quickly, I ran to my bedroom and changed into my boy clothes, took off my wig, wiped off my makeup as well as I could, grabbed my duffle coat, and left the house. I found the shovel in the garage and set to work clearing the driveway only minutes before Dad drove up our street.
Fifteen minutes later, as Dad settled into his easy chair to watch the remainder of ABC-TV’s Day After Thanksgiving Cartoon Festival, he tousled my hair and remarked, “You’re a good son, Shuggie.” I shook my head, turned away and walked off toward Connie’s bedroom where she was displaying what she and Mom had bought, trying to smooth my hair back in place. “I’ll miss my boy,” he said with sad resignation. A moment later I heard him laughing at his favorite cartoon show, Beany and Cecil.
A dinner of leftover turkey that Mom adroitly turned into turkey casserole and turkey soup put Dad into a stupor on the living room couch. We all watched TV until around 9:30 when I decided to turn in early, leaving Mom and Connie to enjoy the rest of Barabbas, starring Anthony Quinn and the always lovely Jack Palance. I wheeled sobo to her bedroom and then climbed the stairs to my own mini fortress of solitude, where I threw myself onto the bed and tried to fall asleep posthaste.
I had just managed to close my eyelids when Connie knocked none too softly on my door.
“Hey squirt, are you asleep?”
“Not anymore. Is Barabbas finished already?” Connie stepped into my room as I raised myself up and leaned against the headboard. I turned my bedside lamp on. She deposited herself on my bed with a soft thud.
“Nah, Mom decided to turn in and I helped her drag Dad into their bedroom. Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you, but I thought you’d tell me on your own. I had to wheedle it out of Mom this morning, but Dad didn’t want to talk about it, so I zipped my lips. Spill. You got suspended from school?”
“Technically, Dad pulled me out of school. It happened on Wednesday—”
“The day before Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, Mom and Dad had to meet with Principal Sloan in his office. They called me in from home room. I wasn’t surprised. It’s been building up for weeks.”
“What’s been building up?”
“It’s Rachel Hanley.”
“Bobby’s ex?”
“Yeah, well, it started the first day of school, right after Labor Day. I’d gotten so used to using the Ladies’ Room over the summer that I kinda went into the girls’ bathroom by mistake—”
“You’re such a dolt—”
“Anyway, Rachel was in there fixing her makeup or something. Like that would ever make her look any better. She practically attacked me and started screaming that I was queer. Luckily, no one else came in while she was shouting at me.”
“So, no harm, no foul. You got a little embarrassed, that’s all.”
“I wish. She told everyone she could that I was a homo. Even some of the teachers we had in common. Mostly she was ignored or got confused looks. I mean I’m kinda well-liked in school, I think. I guess bottom-line, the other kids didn’t really care. Then she told Mrs. Rheingold, our home economics teacher, that I was a homo. In front of me, after class! Mrs. Rheingold shrieked with laughter and said, “Nonsense, Rachel. Shuggie’s one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever had in almost twenty years of classes here at BHS. Don’t be silly and don’t spread vicious rumors.” A couple of my other teachers said the same thing.”
“It must be the cafeteria food. How could they think you were a girl? I mean, they’ve seen you dressed like a boy for years.”
“Don’t be jealous, Connie. I got the better genes in the family.” I stuck my tongue out at her.
“So, what happened then if everybody thought you were a girl anyway?”
“She wouldn’t stop harassing me in school. Just a lot of nasty comments and evil looks. I tried my best to just ignore her. And that seemed to work…for a while. Then Mrs. Messina—you know, Bobby’s mom—”
“Duh, of course I know—”
“--told me that Rachel had written to Bobby, but Bobby never answered her letters. So, Rachel cornered Mrs. Messina in Shoprite one day and asked her point blank what’s with me and Bobby. Bobby’s mom told her all about how I had gone on the tour with Bobby over the summer and how she expected we’d eventually get married when Bobby finished his service time. Of course, Rachel exploded at Mrs. Messina, swearing that I was queer and that I had turned Bobby into a homo as well. Mrs. Messina laughed at her and said we would name our first child Rachel just to remind her how stupid she was to claim I was a boy.”
“Hoo, boy, this is crazy.”
“Rachel was so mad she told her parents all about it and they filed a formal complaint about me with Principal Sloan. They said I was some kind of deviant who should be thrown out of school. That’s how we ended up in the Principal’s office on Wednesday morning.”
“They didn’t even have the decency to have your accusers face you?”
“Well, that turned out to be fortunate. Otherwise, Dad would be spending time in the county lock-up.”
“He didn’t take it well, I assume.”
“No, no he didn’t. Anyway, Principal Sloan told us I’d been suspended pending a complete investigation of my gender status. He did tell us that the teachers he interviewed swore I was a girl. The problem was I’m officially registered as a boy. So, either my parents have been committing a heinous fraud on the school system or I’m a sick deviant who’s turning other students into homosexuals.”
“There’s logic in what he’s saying—”
“Thanks for your support, Connie.”
“I guess Dad wasn’t too happy with Sloan?”
“I’ve never seen Dad so angry. He stood up and leaned into Principal Sloan, telling him the whole affair was ridiculous and that he’d be seeing a lawyer about suing the Bergenfield Board of Education. “My daughter’s not queer! How dare that Hanley girl spread lies like that and you people oughta know better than to believe irresponsible gossip from someone with an axe to grind. I’ll save you the money and time, Sloan, I’m pulling Shuggie from this sad excuse for a school and enroll her in a private school. I’ve told Eriko for years we should’ve sent Shuggie to a Catholic girls’ school. A nun would have better sense than you, Sloan.” So, I’m technically not suspended. I quit.”
“Dad’s really going to send you to a Catholic girls’ school?”
“No, of course not.” Then I thought about it and revised my answer. “Well, it’s too late in the school year to be admitted, isn’t it?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t care if Dad doesn’t like it but if I’m not going to school, I’m going to wear girls’ clothes all day, seven days a week. And this frees me up to do more recording for Billy. I mean we need another half a dozen tracks if the label opts to release an LP. Billy thinks my first single will shoot up the charts and trigger the option in my contract.”
“What contract, koneko?” Connie and I turned to the doorway where our grandmother was standing, having just asked that question.
“Sobo! How did you get upstairs? You can’t walk!”
“Obviously I can.” She shambled into the room and slowly lay down on my bed, on the opposite side from Connie. So, there we were. All three of us lying on my bed. From left to right: Connie, me, and grandmother.
“But how, sobo?”
“I’m a little slower than normal but I can walk. I just like being pushed around in the wheelchair. Your father has been much nicer to me since I came back this week. Don’t tell them, okay?”
“You are something else, sobo,” Connie said.
“What does she mean, something else, Itsuki?”
“Never mind, sobo. You wanted to know about my contract? Well, it’s like this…”
Billy Schechter had promised my father two things: to find therapy and medical care for my desired transition to the female gender, which would be paid for by the second thing, securing a recording contract for me under the stage name, Sugar Pie. My father was pleasantly surprised when Billy followed through on both promises. In fact, he accompanied me and Mom to our first meeting with Dr. Benjamin Harrison, an endocrinologist affiliated with Manhattan University, who was a leading practitioner in the emergent field of transgender treatment. He was a tall, thin bespectacled man in his early sixties with a genial manner and a firm handshake. I think Dad took an immediate liking to him. And he made points with me when he asked why a pretty girl like me would want to become a boy. It’s true my parents had insisted I dress androgynously to my first meeting (I’d joked about wearing my silver lame dress) so Dr. Harrison making with the sly humor showed me he was on my side.
It was a busy day. Dr. Harrison interviewed me for almost an hour and made it seem like a chat between newly introduced friends. My parents went for a walk in Central Park to pass the time before returning to Dr. Harrison’s office. When they returned, Dr. Harrison had a nurse take some blood samples and then gathered us all back in his office to give us a prospectus on what my treatment might be, pending the results of the blood analysis.
He talked to us about feminizing hormone therapy and threw out such unpronounceable names for drugs such as estradiol valerate, estradiol cypionate, bicalutamide, and others. Mom and Dad were shocked to learn I’d been taking birth control pills (Connie’s and Mrs. Messina’s) and Dr. Harrison told me to stop taking them immediately. An appointment was made for the following week to see if and how we would proceed.
I was confident my long hoped-for journey to womanhood would officially begin after our next meeting and dressed as en femme as possible given my sparse wardrobe as Mom accompanied me to Dr. Harrison’s office. Although my hair had grown some during the summer, it was still rather short for any kind of truly feminine hairdo. So, I sported an Audrey Hepburn headscarf look. Complete with sunglasses on a breezy September morning!
Dr. Harrison was suitably impressed by my appearance and joked that I didn’t need to take any hormones. I think I shrieked, and he calmed me down, saying I needed to get used to his droll sense of humor. I asked my mother what droll meant. She just shrugged. Ultimately, after telling us that my blood analysis showed low testosterone levels but nothing alarming, we walked out of his office with prescriptions for a three-month supply of hormone pills. Mom treated me to some ice cream and then we went shopping at Bloomingdales. What a day!
One day in late September, Billy swung by our house in his baby blue Pontiac GTO convertible and drove my parents and me to the offices of Hudson Records, where we would sign my first recording contract. On the 40-minute ride to midtown Manhattan, Billy explained that my Dad and I would be signing a contract for two 45 singles with an option for an LP if either single achieves a certain level of sales. When Dad reminded Billy that he had trumpeted a 3 album deal just three weeks ago, Billy swore this was the best deal he could negotiate.
“I have some pull in the business but not enough to get that kind of deal for a new artist with essentially 8 weeks experience. Believe me, there’s enough shekels in this contract to pay for Shuggie’s doctors and a little nest egg for her future.”
“I was hoping we could pay off the mortgage with the proceeds—”
“Hey, there’s no such thing as a free lunch but, there is that option for an LP. If Shuggie sells as well as I think she can, they’ll be talking an extension at multiples of the figures in that deal.”
“Dad, it’s not nice to profit off child labor.” Dad shot me a withering glance but let the matter drop. We rode the rest of the way in pleasant silence.
Due to Billy’s busy schedule (he commuted back and forth to the West Coast to produce recording sessions for a number of different bands on several labels), I recorded with him just once in October and again in November. I was able to synchronize these recording sessions with my bi-weekly appointments with Dr. Harrison and his staff. Mom and I would make a full day of it in Manhattan: recording with Billy in the morning, lunch at Howard Johnson’s, doctor’s appointment in the afternoon and clothes shopping just before driving back home to help Mom make dinner.
In October, Billy was ebullient about the latest record he’d produced for Hank and Honey (yes, they were still together! Who da thunk it?). In the control room of Bell Sound’s Studio B, he threaded the ½ inch 4-track tape into the playback machine and pressed play. We sat back and listened to “Hello Stranger.”
“Whaddya think?” Billy asked.
“Another Billy Schechter masterpiece. #1 with a bullet for sure.”
“Yeah, Hank and Honey are really good together. But we’re not here to talk about them. I’ve got a surefire hit for you all lined up. I already had The Wrecking Crew in L.A. lay down the basic track. We just need to hit your vocal out of the park today. I’m sure you can.”
We spent the next 2 and a half hours doing take after take until Billy finally got the one he wanted. Between takes, Billy would turn off the mike in the control room and, more often than not, have animated conversations with Mom. Once, she came into the studio and handed me a tall glass of water.
“Your throat’s getting a little hoarse, dear. Drink some water.”
“Mom, what are you and Billy so busy talking about while I’m getting ready for the next take?”
“Oh, Shuggie, just small talk. The weather, why The Mets are so bad, how your grandmother’s doing…stuff like that.”
“I don’t know. You guys are laughing too much. I can’t hear you, but I see your mouths gaping and one time you bent over like Billy had just told you the funniest joke.”
“Billy’s quite a witty fellow. Would make a perfect match for some lucky gal.”
“Okay, Mom, back in your cage. I think Billy wants to move on to the next take.”
Just in time for lunch, Billy called an end to the session, satisfied with 2 or 3 of the takes. He’d listen to them carefully, probably in L.A., before selecting the take he’d use in the final mix. We sat in the control room as Billy and our engineer tried a first pass at a mix. It was a re-make of Sylvia Tyson’s song, “You Were On My Mind.”
Almost four weeks later to the day, Mom and I showed up at Bell Sound Studios to record another track with Billy. This time I convinced her to not waste her time hanging around while we went through the tedious process of trying to satisfy Billy’s perfectionist standards. So, she decided to go see the new Japanese Painting and Sculpture Exhibit at The Museum of Modern Art that had just opened in October. It was conveniently only a block away from the studio on West 53rd Street. I breathed a sigh of relief. At last, I could just concentrate on singing.
When I strolled into Studio B, I saw two familiar faces: Robbie Robertson and Garth Hudson. They had played behind me at The Brooklyn Fox. They smiled and waved. This time, Garth was going to play accordion. And this time, he was comfortably seated. Robbie was tuning an acoustic guitar. I dropped my bag onto one of the chairs and took off my coat. Turning toward the control room, I saw Billy and a tall, attractive woman who appeared to be around 35, embracing. I asked Robbie who the woman with Billy was. He shook his head. “Search me. Billy didn’t introduce her to us.” I knocked on the door to the control room and Billy looked over to me.
“Shuggie! Great! You’re here. I need a few minutes with the session guys before we begin. Come in. Say hello to my sister, Gwen.” I openly stared at this tall, very pretty woman as she came forward, offering her hand to shake.
“Hello, Shuggie. Billy has told me so much about you. You’re even prettier than he described you.”
Shaking her hand, I gawked at her a long second before I was able to speak. “Thank you. And you’re very pretty yourself.”
“I’m not how you imagined me, right?”
“Well…” Billy slipped out of the control room and started going over the charts with the musicians in the studio. “Well, I’m not sure what I imagined. Except that I expected there’d be a strong family resemblance. And there is.” We sat down facing each other and away from the studio.
“It’s the Schechter curse. We do look alike.” She laughed. It took me a second to react and then I laughed as well.
“Unfortunately, the Brennan clan has the same curse. My sister and I look alike too. Maybe as we grow older, I’ll look more like my mother. I’ve got my fingers crossed.”
“Billy played some tapes of you singing before you came in. Very impressive. You have a classic contralto voice. He thinks you’re going to be a big star.”
“That remains to be seen but what brings you to New York? Billy told me you live in Germany now.”
“My husband Dieter has a sister who lives in Chicago, and it’s been years since they’ve seen each other so they agreed to spend Thanksgiving together this year. We’re staying in Billy’s apartment for a couple of days and then moving on to Chicago. He and the kids are there right now. They’d love to meet you. The kids are crazy about American music.”
“I’ve got some plans for the afternoon and my Mom and I have to get back home by five or six. Otherwise, I’d love to meet your family too.”
She took my hand in hers and lowered her voice. “Don’t let anyone or anything keep you from realizing your dreams, Shuggie. You’ve started your journey a lot younger than I did. And Billy is a good man. The best. He’ll help you any way he can. Trust me. I know.”
“Shuggie? We’re ready for you.” Billy was in the doorway of the control room, charts in hand. Gwen stood up and pressed her cheek against mine.
“So nice to meet you, Shuggie. Maybe when Billy has you touring Europe in the near future you can visit Dieter and me in Munich. Dieter makes a sauerbraten to die for. See you later, Billy.” She kissed his forehead and walked out.
“Let’s do it!” Billy clapped his hands and we stepped into the studio.
We played the best take for Mom when she came to pick me up for lunch. I suppose she doesn’t have the most critical ear when listening to me sing but this version of Burt Bacharach’s “I Say a Little Prayer” was a bit of a nice change of pace for me, with Garth on accordion and Robbie on acoustic guitar. Billy said my voice dominated the track rather than the instrumentation. It was, he said, a good showcase for my versatility. I nodded as the tape played.
All in all, as November turned to December, I was in a good place in my life. My hormone therapy was already starting to bear results: my skin was smoother, my body shape was becoming more feminine, my hair seemed more lustrous, and my breasts appeared to be growing (although I still needed padding in my bra). My singing career was about to enter its second stage as Billy planned to release my first single, “You Were On My Mind,” in early 1967. I would have preferred to release “Natural Woman” as my maiden voyage, but Carole had promised it to Aretha first.
Of course, I was no longer in school and there was no solution to that situation in sight. Dad wasn’t about to pay for an expensive private school. Connie thinks I could get into a Catholic girls’ school if I declare my intention to become a nun. I frowned, Mom shook her head and, I’m not sure, but it looked like Dad was about to burst into tears. Grandmother just looked confused.
Cryptically, Billy called on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving and said he had an idea about school. He wouldn’t go into detail until he made all the arrangements. Of course, he didn’t say what the arrangements were either. But I wasn’t preoccupied by the possibility of being a drop-out. After all, on Thursday, the first day of December, Bobby was coming home. Only for a month before he would be shipped off overseas on New Year’s Day 1967. We would have a month together. Maybe the last month we will ever have. It’s hard to keep dark thoughts out of your mind when faced with the specter of war looming before us all.
One o’clock in the afternoon. The corner of Washington Avenue and West Church Street. It was a brisk day, and I was tempted to pull my hood up over my head but I wanted Bobby to see my face clearly as I stood by the bus stop sign. I saw the NJ Transit bus appear on the horizon, moving deliberately downhill toward me. I waved and almost jumped out of my shoes. The bus stopped five feet from me, and its doors opened. Bobby’s smiling face emerged into the sunshine. He was home. To me.
December 1966. I was determined to make this the best month of my life so far. My new life, which began that summer. The first summer of my girlhood.
These thirty-one days with Bobby would be our honeymoon. Of course, this was Connie, my sister, being her usual sarcastic self. Although, the emotional weight of this interregnum in our complicated lives really hit me when Mrs. Messina joked with me as I was helping her wash dishes after dinner the first night Bobby was home.
“You know, I wish I hadn’t given you those birth control pills. If you were pregnant right now with my grandchild, Bobby would’ve gotten a deferment from the draft.”
I broke down in tears and Mrs. Messina hugged me, apologizing for her careless quip. But I wasn’t crying for the reason she thought. She didn’t know I could never have Bobby’s babies. Or anyone’s, ever. And there was nothing I wanted more than to be the mother of Bobby’s children.
That night, in my own bed at home, I slept fitfully, only to wake up with my arms tightly wrapped around Harold my life-size plush Bengal tiger. I was wearing the pink chiffon cami and shorts pajama set Bailey had given me as a farewell gift after the Brooklyn Fox show. I smiled when it occurred to me that Bobby had never seen me wearing an outfit like this. Well, it was a better than even bet he’d get to see it before the month was out.
Friday was the first day of our farewell tour of the small circle of friends we had in Bergenfield. After a full day of ice skating on Cooper’s Pond in the morning and shopping at The Bergen Mall in Paramus in the afternoon (Bobby loved the former, hated the latter), we drove fifteen minutes north of Bergenfield to Emerson High School in Bobby’s newly reclaimed Cherry Red Chevrolet Corvair Corsa. Bergenfield High was opening its basketball season on the road and all our friends in the band would be there.
“I heard your dad’s sending you to a Catholic girl’s school, Immaculate Heart in Washington Township,” Trudy, our first French Horn, said to me as everyone gathered around Bobby, guys slapping him on the back, girls pecking him on the cheek, wishing him luck as he shipped off to Nam.
“Well…Dad’s thinking about it. It’s pretty expensive though. I don’t know where we’re going to find the money…”
“You’ve got the grades for it, I’m sure.” She took me aside. “Rachel’s been telling everyone that they kicked you out of school because they found out you’re really a boy.” I sputtered and blushed.
“That’s…that’s ridiculous. She’s psycho. Just because Bobby chose me over her.”
“Yeah, that’s what everybody figured. By the way, you look really cute in that outfit. You should have dropped that tomboy phase a lot sooner. You’d be surprised how many people thought you really were a boy.” She laughed in a voice that eerily mimicked the French Horn she played.
Bobby finally extricated himself from his adoring fans and gave me a quick glissando of a kiss on the lips. “Want a soda, babe? 7 Up, right?” I nodded and waved my little fingers as he walked over to the refreshment stand. When Trudy went off to join the rest of the band in their warm-up, I overheard a couple of girls I didn’t know, probably juniors, stealing furtive glances at me while talking a blue streak.
“I’d bet anything she left school because she’s preggers. With Bobby’s baby.”
“Yeah, but they wouldn’t send Bobby to Nam if he’s an expectant dad.”
“They won’t admit that. Imagine the scandal. They’ll send her off to a relative until she pops that baby out. And who knows if he ever gets back from the war. I feel sorry for her being a single teen mom high school dropout.” Taking a breath. “Rachel told my sister Bobby was a jerk.”
Mortified, I turned and ran toward the refreshment stand. I barely avoided crashing into Bobby as he was carrying two cups of soda in his hands.
“Whoa! What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did someone say something?”
“No, it’s…it’s nothing. I don’t feel that well. Can we get out of here? Let’s go back to your house. I’ll cook dinner for you and your family…”
“Trying to poison us? Oh, no, let’s eat out. Chinese? Italian? Burgers? You choose.”
“No, Bobby, I’m a good cook. Really. Let’s go to Shoprite and pick up some stuff. I’m sure your mom will love having someone else make dinner for once.”
“Okay, but I warn you. My sisters are really picky eaters. Of course, my dad’ll eat anything put in front of him. And I’ll try anything you cook…”
The Messinas loved the eggplant lasagna I made, especially Bobby’s ravenous little twin sisters (they inhaled it in record time and asked for seconds AND thirds). Bobby’s dad burped rather loudly so I guess he approved of my cooking. Mrs. Messina, Gloria, kept saying she looked forward to eating more of my cooking in the future, winking at me as she chortled. Everyone seemed to assume I’d be part of the family eventually if not sooner. Bobby just looked embarrassed as the talk went around the table.
After dinner, Bobby and his dad sat down to watch the Knicks game. I’m bored by sports, but I nestled into Bobby’s side on the couch and tried not to fall asleep before the first half ended. Actually, Bobby’s dad fell asleep before the 4th quarter started, his can of Schlitz beer precariously held in his right hand. The Knicks lost to the St; Louis Hawks…again. Bobby walked me the 50 feet back home. We kissed on the doorstep just as my father opened the screen door.
“It’s cold, kids. And late. Good night, Bobby. Come in, Shuggie.” I stepped inside, blowing a kiss to Bobby as he turned to walk away.
“Billy called. A couple of times. He said he’d call back around 11.” He looked at his watch. “Just in time. Another 10 minutes. You want a 7 Up while you wait?” Without waiting for an answer, he strolled into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of 7 Up out of the fridge. “Want a glass?”
“Do you expect me to chug it down from the bottle—”
“Like you used to? No, I guess not. Here, princess, a glass for your beverage.”
We were talking about the Knicks game (well, Dad was) when the phone rang. We both got up, but Dad beat me to the phone. He confirmed it was Billy and handed the receiver to me.
“Hey, Billy. What’s up?”
“Shuggie, I’ve got 2 tickets for you and Bobby to see Simon & Garfunkel at Fordham University tomorrow night.”
“Gee, thanks, Billy. Bobby and I were wondering what we were going to do tomorrow. And we planned to spend a lot of time in the city over the next few weeks before…before…you know, he has to leave.”
“Just show up at the box office. They’re holding your tickets for you. And after the concert, I need to speak to you about something I’ve put together for you—”
“More recording?”
“No, it’s about school.”
“Has Dad been speaking to you? I really don’t see myself attending a Catholic girls’ school.”
“I can just imagine what you’d look like in a school uniform.”
“Billy? Are you still there?”
“Right, listen, Shuggie. We’re talking about a real educational opportunity for you. Something that’ll be in line with what I assume you want to do with your life. But we can talk at length about this after the concert. See you tomorrow night. Good night, Shuggie.”
I looked at Dad and, after telling him about Billy’s mysterious call, he shrugged his shoulders. Mom came into the room and told me to go to bed. It was late.
The only college campus I had ever set foot on before Bobby and I arrived at Fordham University’s Rose Hill Gymnasium in the Bronx on Saturday night was Rutgers in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where Connie matriculated (I think I caught her once doing that in the laundry room). But I digress.
The first thing that I noticed after we retrieved our tickets and found our seats was how overdressed Bobby and I were. The audience was packed with college age fans, many of them looking as if they’d just rolled out of bed. There were a few in the crowd in suits and ties or proper dresses but we still felt out of place: two Jersey kids sitting among highly educated New York young adults. Billy had met us at the box office and told us he’d be backstage until the end of the concert, promising to introduce us to Paul and Artie afterwards.
The concert started at 8:30PM with The Cyrkle, a group that had a hit with a song Paul Simon had written and offered to them, “Red Rubber Ball.” They had backed Simon & Garfunkel in recent years before breaking out on their own and even opening for The Beatles on their American tour that summer. Tom Dawes, the lead singer, sported a crew cut he had from just recently joining the Coast Guard (to avoid being drafted). I think Bobby and I had the same thought because we turned to each other at the same moment. They saved “Red Rubber Ball” for their final number.
There was a fairly long interval between The Cyrkle’s last song and Simon & Garfunkel finally appearing on stage. Born and raised in New York City, they were local heroes. Few people realized they’d been in the music business since high school. But “Sound of Silence” was a #1 hit in January 1966. In the years between, Paul had spent time in England and Ireland pursuing a solo career as a folksinger and Art had earned a master’s degree in Mathematics from Columbia University, planning to be a math teacher. Their careers skyrocketed when their producer Tom Wilson, inspired by Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” which he had also produced, added electric guitar, bass and drums to “Sound of Silence,” turning a rather contemplative folk song into a folk-rock landmark. Paul hushed the crowd and introduced their signature hit song.
Backstage, in the cramped dressing room Fordham had improvised out of an athletic equipment room, Billy introduced Bobby and me to Paul and Art as they packed up to leave. Art, Bobby and Billy were trading stories about the business while, to one side, Paul was trying to chat it up with me.
“So, you’re the infamous Sugar Pie we’ve all heard about?”
“Oh, do tell. What’ve you heard and who from?”
“Touring musicians, as you well know, often cross paths as they trek across the continent. And, when we’re in the same geographical locus, we enjoy discussing new faces and new voices we’ve encountered. You, my young lady, are one such as we’ve discussed.”
“May I ask why you speak with a vaguely British accent? It says in your bio that you’re from Queens.”
“Strange. I hardly think it’s that noticeable. I spent two years in the British Isles and it, shall we say, rubbed off on me. Some find it charming. Do you?”
“Oh, of course, I do. But you were saying you heard about me. From who…er…whom particularly?”
“Artie and I were in L.A.—”
“Not that jerk Jim Morrison!”
“Who? No, it was Zal Yanofsky and John Sebastian from The Lovin’ Spoonful. You know them?”
“We were at Newport on the same night.”
“Yes. Well, they both were quite enamored of your…voice. Among other things.” He looked up at me. I’m close to six feet tall when I wear three-inch heels. Paul was 5-5 at best. I resisted the urge to crouch when speaking to him. “But who’s this Morrison guy? You seem to have a distinct dislike for him.”
“He’s the lead singer for a band called The Doors—”
“Oh, Jim Morrison! He’s all the buzz in the business. Just recorded an album for Elektra. Billy was telling us Jac Holzman tried to get him to produce.”
“How do you know Billy?”
“Everyone knows Billy. But specifically, I labored in the Brill Building salt mines for a brief moment and Billy had the cubicle across from me on the 7th floor. Very talented guy, Billy. I keep telling him he should go back to performing. I guess there’s just too much money in producing. And he gets to work with some very interesting talent. Like you—”
“Shuggie, ready to go? Hey, Artie, Paul, catch you later.” Billy and Bobby shook their hands. I extended my hand to Paul. He took it and leaned in, getting on his tippy-toes, and kissed my cheek. Art just waved.
“I forgot to mention,” Billy said to me as the three of us bundled into a yellow cab. “Paul can be a little forward with pretty women.”
“Little man syndrome, right?” Bobby surmised.
“Be kind, Bobby. Not everyone’s Adonis. Anyway, Paul’s still depressed about the girl he left behind in Ireland. When he got called back home because “Silence” was climbing the charts, she wouldn’t leave with him. Said her life was there in Ireland.”
“I kind of understand what she’s thinking,” I said.
“But you would have stayed with me in Canada—” Bobby interjected.
I entwined my right arm with his left and leaned into his shoulder. “But you’re my life, Bobby. You know that, don’t you?” Bobby smiled in reply. Billy looked at me through the rearview mirror, his expression indecipherable.
We sat around the island in Billy’s spacious kitchen as he poured out glasses of Madeira wine which we sipped while munching on delicious brownies from Orwashers Bakery on East 78th Street.
“Best way to eat brownies. A little Madeira, my dear.”
“Ohhh, you charmer you,” cooed Bobby in a high-pitched voice.
“Let’s get down to brass tacks. I’ve given your educational crisis some thought. A lot of thought. You’re too smart a girl to be a drop-out. So, I’ve been searching for a solution. And I’ve found it.”
“Like I said on the phone. I’m not going to some Catholic school. That’s Dad’s loony idea in the first place. He was just angry at Principal Sloan.”
“Actually, I want you to go to a public high school…in New York City.”
“Don’t you have to be a city resident?” asked Bobby.
“We’ll get to that. I’m looking to get you placed in The High School of Music and Art. You’ll need to pass an audition to get in but that should be easy for you. You’ll knock their socks off when they hear you—”
“But what about…you know…”
“You wouldn’t be the first ‘unusual’ student they’ve had. It’s the arts. Half of their faculty probably cross-dresses on weekends.” Bobby spit out his wine. “Okay, I’m exaggerating. But they’re very understanding. As long as you don’t cause any trouble like try to date half the student body or seek out local politicians for sugar daddies.”
I blushed. “I’d never do anything like that, Billy.”
“I know. Your dad impressed upon me that you’re a good girl when he was showing me pictures of his 30-06 hunting rifle.” Bobby laughed as he wiped his mouth with two paper napkins.
“Time is short with Christmas coming up in 3 weeks. Their audition period ends on the 16th. Pass the audition and you could re-start your senior year in January.”
“Re-start?”
“They’re not going to give you credit for the three months at Bergenfield High. Which is fine. You can finish your senior year by attending summer semester. You’ll have to double up on credits, but you’ll graduate in August. Just in time to start college in September.”
“I gather you’ve gotten me an audition?”
“Not quite. You’ll have to pre-audition for one of the professional advisors that the school sometimes relies on to screen prospective candidates. Good thing for you I know one such advisor. And we’re going to see her next Thursday, the eighth.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“My good friend and former schoolmate, Barbra Streisand.” Bobby choked on a brownie. I slapped him on the back.
“I…I have to audition in front of Barbra?”
“Easy peasy. You’ve sung in front of thousands. I’m sure you’ll pass with flying colors. Now, the issue is what to sing for her and the Music & Arts panel. I’ve picked out two songs you can do just accompanying yourself on piano.” I winced. “I’ve heard you tickle the ivories, Shuggie. You play well enough to do this.”
“That’s right, babe. All those years when we practiced, you played piano for us…I mean me.”
“So, we’ll rehearse Monday through Wednesday at 1650 Broadway—”
“Bobby and I wanted to spend two solid weeks seeing all the sights in New York City. I mean, Bobby won’t get a chance to do that for the next two years—”
“Or ever,” Bobby noted.
“We’ll rehearse a couple of hours in the morning. The rest of the day is all yours.”
“In that case, I guess that’s alright. Okay, Bobby?”
“Of course it’s alright. Go for it, Shuggie.” He squeezed my hand and I nodded to Billy.
I didn’t see Bobby on Sunday. He went to visit his maternal grandparents in Camden, a small city just outside of Philadelphia. To say goodbye before he shipped out for two years, hopefully to return intact and alive. Mom took the opportunity to take me shopping for school clothes at a couple of the nearby malls. After all, I couldn’t wear my silver lame dress or Connie’s hand me downs to school, assuming I actually got admitted to The High School of Music and Art in January.
While I was trying out a cute pair of red patent leather Mary Jane shoes at Adore Footwear in The Bergen Mall, Mrs. Rheingold, my erstwhile Home Economics teacher, came into the store and immediately spotted me.
“Shuggie, what luck! I was hoping to see you before you left town to attend Immaculate Heart. I do believe a religious school like that would be perfect for you. Public schools are so…so…”
“Public, Mrs. Rheingold? Good to see you too but I’m not going to Immaculate Heart. That’s just a rumor started by some underclass girls.”
“Is that your mother sitting there?” She waved to Mom who was inspecting a pair of pumps for herself.
“Yes, we’re shopping for clothes to wear at my new school…wherever that might end up being.”
“I always thought it was a real shame that a girl with your looks and nice figure dressed like a boy all the time. It’s good to see you’re embracing the girly side of you. Speaking of which…” She whispered “you’re not in trouble, are you? It’s not my business but such a sweet young thing having a baby and the father away in the war—”
“Mrs. Rheingold! I’m not pregnant!” Everyone in the store turned to look at us. Mom jumped up from her seat, dropping the pumps onto the floor. I lowered my voice as I drew Mrs. Rheingold into a corner. “How do these rumors start? I’m just changing schools. There’s no scandalous reason for it. My parents just feel I should find a school that better develops my talent…my…uh…various talents. Various and sundry talents. As it were.”
“I’m sorry, Shuggie. I shouldn’t listen to malicious gossip. How could I believe such a thing about you? Well, good luck with finding the right school. And, please, keep in touch. I just know you’re going places, young lady! Bye!” She left the store just as Mom appeared by my side. She twirled her finger against her temple as if to say, “what a maroon.” I could only nod in agreement.
The view from Barbra Streisand’s Central Park West duplex penthouse was spectacular. Standing on her terrace you could see the Central Park Reservoir and, farther out, the East Side of Manhattan. It was Thursday afternoon and we (Billy, Bobby, and me) were sitting across from a coffee table from a very pregnant but glowingly beautiful Barbra Streisand, drinking tea and munching on chocolate-tipped biscotti. She was telling us that her baby was due at the end of the month. She was hoping for a New Year’s Day baby.
After some more conversational niceties, she pointed to the piano in the corner of the room and invited me to display my talents. Billy nodded confidently and Bobby gave me a thumbs up as I crossed the room.
I took a deep breath and made myself comfortable on the piano bench. I was wearing a blue floral print dress that I had purchased at the mall just that Sunday. Just as a change of pace, Mom had broken out the curlers and given my hair, which was now past my shoulders, some gentle undulations.
Billy selected songs that could be sung with minimal accompaniment and we both agreed that this John Lennon composition would be perfect for my vocal range. Looking at Bobby, I sang these beautiful words.
I didn’t expect what I heard when I finished. Barbra shouted “Brava! Brava!” Billy and Bobby followed suit and clapped loudly. I smiled, rose from the bench and bowed in Barbra’s direction, mouthing the words, “Thank you.” I had received ovations even more thunderous during the summer, but the enthusiastic reception of my performance here was galvanizing. I felt light-headed.
“Shuggie has another number that we’ve prepared, Barbra. Something seasonal that the M&A panel might find charmingly appropriate.”
“Please, Shuggie, let us hear it. We’re all ears, sweetie.”
I laughed, remembering my grandmother’s bewilderment by that English idiom, “all ears.” Re-setting my affect, I sat back down at the piano, my face exhibiting confidence and concentration. Then a laugh escaped my lips as I realized the song I was about to sing was a happy tribute to the upcoming holidays. It was “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
Another ovation from my three “auditors” immediately followed the last chords of the song and I was bowing like crazy. I think I even tried a curtsey. Barbra waved me over to her. She took my hands in hers and shook them excitedly.
“You are very talented, young lady. Of course you are. Billy’s got a great ear. I will definitely ask the M&A panel to give you an audition as soon as possible. Are you available all week next week?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Streisand! Any day next week is fine.”
As Billy walked with us to where Bobby had parked, he could see the wide smile creasing my face.
“Don’t celebrate yet, Shuggie. Barbra can get you an audition with the school, but you still have to pass their audition.”
“I know, Billy. But I’m so happy Barbra really liked me! No one’s ever shouted brava at me before.”
“Okay, okay. You and Bobby have fun exploring New York City the next few days. Just keep your powder dry for your audition next week.”
“What powder?”
Billy called the very next day and told me that Music and Art had scheduled my audition for Wednesday, the 14th, at 10:30 in the morning. So, Barbra really did have a lot of clout with the school administration. Billy told me to celebrate in moderation until then and said he’d find some time to talk to my parents about some details that needed to be ironed out when not if I get admitted to the school. When I asked what details, he just said not to worry my pretty little head about it and the call ended. Maybe it wasn’t the prudent thing to do but I decided not to worry my pretty little head about it. So there.
Bobby and I ran around the city like out-of-towners, taking in all the sights, looking at art exhibits in museums, seeing movies like the new Man from U.N.C.L.E. film, One Spy Too Many, going to jazz clubs to hear some of Bobby’s favorites like Nina Simone (who waved to us between songs) and Sonny Rollins, romping through the snow in Central Park, skating on the rink in Rockefeller Center, and returning to the Café Wha? to catch Richie Havens sing “Handsome Johnny.”
The High School of Music and Art was located in West Harlem, a couple of blocks from the campus of City College. It was a public high school dedicated to the instruction of young musicians and vocalists and established by colorful New York Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia in 1936. Billy told me some famous alumni included Diahann Carroll, songwriter Cy Coleman, Eartha Kitt and minor actors like Billy Dee Williams and Robert DeNiro. Oh, and someone named Janis Ian, who had just released a single entitled “Society’s Child,” was currently a student there.
There was a panel of four auditors seated at a long table facing the back of the stage where a Steinway B Grand Piano stood, similar to the one in Barbra’s apartment. The head auditor was an odd-looking man wearing an enormous fuzzy mohair sweater that threatened to swallow the upper part of his body.
The pinched look on his face seemed to say he wasn’t a happy camper today (or any day). Billy told me his name was Mr. Spinetti. I asked why his sweater was so over-sized. One of the other auditors, a pleasant looking woman who looked to be about 60, leaned over and told us Spinetti’s wife hated to waste the extra yarn she’d bought so she used it all. She cackled but stopped when Spinetti looked over at her. I was the third prospective student to audition and when my name was called, I walked quickly to the piano and sat down.
“Good morning, Miss Brennan, is it? Yes, well, you will pleasure us, hopefully, with two songs, for which you will be graded by each of the auditors on this panel. We will notify you of our decision as soon as we can, seeing as the end of the Fall term is upon us. I do have one question, if I may, before you begin. What is the reason you withdrew from your former high school in…let me see…New Jersey?”
“Umm…my parents thought I should be enrolled in a school that more properly addresses my talents. My talents plural. Various and sundry talents.” I smiled broadly. Mr. Spinetti’s baleful expression didn’t change.
“We’ll be the judges of that, Miss...” He looked at the sheet on his clipboard. “Brennan. Proceed.”
I thought the audition went well. So did Billy and Bobby who applauded after each song and raised the ire of Mr. Spinetti who grumbled about outsiders disrupting the audition process. Of course, no one shouted brava! brava! the way Barbra had. The three other auditors did smile at me when we left the theater. Mr. Spinetti was deep into his clipboard and didn’t offer a goodbye. Still, in all, doesn’t 3 out of 4 votes win?
That Saturday, Bobby was away with his family, visiting his Aunt Emily and her family in Glassboro. Her husband was a linguistics professor at Rowan University there. So, I spent the day at the old homestead. It was one of the weekends when Connie decided to stay at Rutgers. Must have had a heavy date. I should ask her. After all, sisters share important things like that.
We were watching The Hollywood Palace on ABC when Dad turned to me and told me he and Billy had had a long conversation over the phone the day before. Since the guests on The Hollywood Palace were extremely boring (Eddie Fisher, Agnes Moorehead, The Kessler Twins, and The Young Americans), instead of feigning sleep, I actually listened to what Dad had to say. Mom was trying to knit Dad a sweater and kept ripping the stitches apart and starting over again. I wanted to suggest she use mohair yarn but the picture of Dad in an enormous sweater like Mr. Spinetti made me giggle.
“Why are you laughing, Shuggie? I haven’t said anything funny.”
“Yet. Sorry, Dad. What did Billy have to say?”
“Well, he thinks you’ve cinched getting into Music and Art. Now, you have to be a resident of the city to attend a city school. Billy has a solution.”
“We’re moving to New York?”
“You know that’s not possible, Shuggie. I’ve got almost twenty years on my job at the plant. I’m not gonna give up my pension when I’m this close to vesting. But you can’t live in the city by yourself. At least not until May when you turn 18. So, Billy suggested you and your mother move into his apartment until you graduate in August. He doesn’t even live there half the time. You know he’s bi-coastal, as the cool people say. And I’ll stay here. It’s the logical answer.”
“What about grandmother?”
“Oh, yeah, Billy said she can go with you guys too.”
“It might be hard on her to move. After all, she’s stuck in a wheelchair.”
“I know she can walk, princess.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, the doctors told us before they released her last month. I figured I’d humor her for a while. Let her get her kicks, you know.”
“Oh, Daddy, you’re too much. Anyway, you won’t mind being here alone?”
“We’ll be together on weekends. Either here or in New York. It’s only a half-hour drive, sweetie.”
I hugged both my parents. Everyone shed a tear. Well, I shed a few more than they did. I really love my mom and dad. I don’t deserve them. Or Billy. What a nice gesture. I wouldn’t let a bunch of relative strangers live in my home for nothing. Or even a bunch of strange relatives.
Christmas was drawing near, and I hadn’t heard yet from the Music and Art people. I was getting a little nervous and starting to doubt Billy’s declaration that I had cinched the audition when Mr. Spinetti called on Friday the 23rd, the day before Christmas Eve. Dad answered the phone and didn’t give anything away with his replies or facial expressions as he talked to Spinetti. He put the phone down and held his arms out to me.
“You’re in, princess! Your classes start on January 3rd in the New Year.”
We hugged. Mom came in from the kitchen and joined in the group hug. Grandmother walked in from her bedroom and hugged me from behind.
“Why are we hugging, Itsuki?”
“I got into The High School of Music and Art! We’re going to live in Manhattan!”
“You’re changing schools? Why doesn’t anybody ever tell me anything?”
“You’re coming with us, sobo. We’re going to live in a luxury apartment on the East Side of Manhattan!”
“Can we afford that?”
“We’re living there rent free!”
“I guess we can afford that.”
The dreaded day was upon us. After a wonderful week of Christmas cheer, it was time for Bobby to leave for San Francisco, where he would board a military plane that would fly him to Southeast Asia to begin his two years in the service. Bobby’s father had booked a room at The Fairfield Inn near Idlewild Airport in Queens, New York for New Year’s Eve night. His commercial flight to San Francisco was set to take off at the ungodly hour of 7AM on New Year’s Day morning. Although the drive from Bergenfield to Idlewild was only an hour and a half, because of the flight being so early, Mr. Messina suggested it was better to stay at a hotel the night before. It was a double room, but I knew my father wouldn’t let me go with Bobby. I was surprised when I saw Dad standing in the doorway of my bedroom. It was too early for dinner.
“Pack something to wear overnight, Shuggie. Bobby’s coming over in fifteen minutes.”
“What? Why?”
“I know you want to see Bobby off tomorrow morning. He’s leaving for that hotel near the airport right now. Hurry up.”
“You mean…”
“Sweetie, I know what you mean to each other. And now that you’re determined to be a woman, regardless of my reservations about it, I’d feel awful if you didn’t have one last private moment with Bobby before he goes away, maybe forever—”
“Daddy, don’t say that!”
“None of us know what’s in the cards for us. War is hell, Shuggie. I know. I was in the biggest one ever. And I’m damned lucky to have survived. I hope and pray Bobby makes it back to you in two years. I really do. Because it would kill me to see you destroyed by that.”
“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. Now hurry up. Your man’ll be here in ten minutes.”
I came out of the bathroom wearing my pink chiffon cami and shorts pajama set. Bobby, sitting on the bed of the hotel room, in just his pajama bottoms, whistled as I struck a seductive pose.
“Come here, babe. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
“Be gentle, Bobby. It’s my first time.”
He didn’t reply. We fell onto the bed, and he started nuzzling my neck and shoulders.
“You don’t really mind, do you? About, you know…”
“I love you, Shuggie. There’s nothing about you I don’t love. I’ll think about you every minute I’m away from you.”
“Two years is a long time…”
“I’ve loved you since we were 4 and 5 years old, Shuggie. Two years will go by fast. When I get back, we’ll get married. We’ll spend the rest of our lives together.”
I knew what Bobby was saying was probably a fantasy that had no chance of coming true. Where would we be in two years? Will Bobby make it out alive? Will I ever be able to get the surgery I need? The universe was conspiring to drive us apart. Honey was right. God has a plan for all of us. But we can’t know what it is until it actually happens, and we have no control over it.
“Let’s stop talking and just enjoy the moment and each other. Make love to me, Bobby. Please.”
Not another word was uttered. There were sounds, of course. Sounds of pleasure and joy. I learned that night I’m a bit of a screamer. I hope the people in the rooms next to us were deep sleepers. I’d hate to think I deprived some tired travelers of their well-deserved rest. As we made love, the music that played in my head was “The Look of Love.” It was the look Bobby and I exchanged as we moved inside each other’s bodies.
I sat in Bobby’s cherry red Chevy Corvair Corsa in the parking lot of Idlewild Airport. His plane had taken off a half hour ago. I was cried out, exhausted from the heaving, shaking tremors and rivulets of tears. I had held it together when I half-jokingly told Bobby not to get killed. He smiled and said, “Not a chance, babe. I’m coming back to you. I promise.” Then he was on that plane and gone.
I squirmed in the driver’s seat. Damn, I won’t be able to walk normally for a week. Still, I smiled when I thought about how careful Bobby had been, so tender and, yet, I shared his passion and knew how tough it was for him to hold back. Slow, slow, I implored him, and he heard me and responded. Oh, God, please have him come back to me. Please. Please. Please.
I was looking forward to all my changes in the new year. A new school. A new home in Manhattan of all places. Bigger breasts. Yes, bigger breasts! A recording contract with a single Billy swears will be a Top 10 hit. I’ll turn 18 in May. High School graduation in August and college in September. Will I be a real woman in mind and body by New Year’s 1968?
1967 is going to be one wild ride.
Author’s Note: There will be a Book 2. I don’t know when exactly. My next bit of scribbling will begin posting by the end of the week. It’ll be a return to the universe of my story, “Painted from Memory.” So, same bat time, same bat station, see you all there. Thanks to all my loyal readers.
(Author’s Note: This story features characters from “Painted from Memory” and “Princess Butterfly.” It is bookended in the narrative voice of Joanne Prentiss and Philippa Chang narrates the central section.)
“Promise you won’t laugh or think I’m crazy—”
I looked up at Philippa Chang Flaherty, my right eye moving away from the eyepiece of her husband Paul’s 90mm refractor telescope. Following her instructions, I had been trying to locate Saturn in the late September night sky above the backyard of their house in Los Feliz, Los Angeles. 52 degrees, south by southwest, she told me.
“Why? What—”
“I was abducted by aliens…in college…Paul was too—”
“Is this the sci-fi project you and Paul are working on? Alastair mentioned something GlobalNet might take over from Chris Nolan or was it Ridley Scott?”
“Well, no, I confess I wasn’t really abducted. It was a dream…I think.”
“And Paul was abducted along with you…in that dream?”
We walked back into the house. Philippa’s 20-month-old daughter Clarissa had been put to bed hours before. Paul was in New York for a couple of days, meeting with Robert De Niro about some future project. After a pizza dinner, we had moved to the backyard to enjoy a glass of Chianti and gaze at the stars. I tried to discuss the notes Alastair had given us by zoom meeting from London, where he was executive producing a BBC co-production with GlobalNet, on the script for my semi-autobiographical transwoman film. But Philippa, weary of shop talk after a full day slaving over a computer keyboard, preferred talking about her time in Tuscany with Annie Flaherty, before Annie married Philippa’s brother Christopher and, more significantly, when she was still Philip Chang in body if not mind.
A bit bored by her descriptions of the Uffizi Gallery in Firenze and the works of Botticelli, Fra Angelico, and Michelangelo, I noticed Paul’s telescope sitting on the grass for the first time. That’s when Philippa tried to point out Saturn in the night sky to me.
“It was a September night just like tonight when Paul and I were juniors at Stanford,” she began, pouring more wine into our glasses as we settled into the comfy couch in her living room. Linda Ronstadt singing “When You Wish Upon a Star” was in the cd player.
“I had been in a few classes with Paul through our first two years since we were both English majors but, our junior year, I moved into a 3-person dorm suite with him and a real dweeb named Ron Lofgren. He was a problem. But enough about him…”
My two years at Stanford had been miserable. Although I hadn’t admitted to myself that I was transgender, I was convinced that I was a social misfit. I just didn’t know why I felt compelled to think of myself as a girl trapped in a boy’s body. My parents were no help. My father was the most successful radiologist in Southern California, my mother was an attorney for the Legal Aid Foundation. I think they assumed I was gay, which didn’t bother their liberal beliefs. But I wasn’t gay. I’m not gay.
I had been living in the suite with Paul and Ron for a month. Paul was very nice to me but we weren’t friends, just very cordial frequent classmates and now suitemates. He was a very popular guy on campus. Having a cousin who was a famous TV and movie star (Annie Flaherty) helped. And being a handsome fellow with piercing brown eyes and dimpled cheeks (both upper and lower as I would later discover) was the topper. He dated a lot of beautiful co-eds.
So it was a surprise when I went up to the roof of our dormitory to get some night air, dressed in my usual hoodie and black jeans, to see Paul peering through a telescope at the sky.
“No hot date tonight?”
“Oh, Phil, it’s you. No, my car’s in the shop and Olga—”
I snorted a laugh at the name.
“Olga has an exam in Bio on Monday. She’s actually studying.”
“That’s what she said—”
“Hmmm? Whaddya mean?”
“Nothing.”
“So, why are you on the roof, may I ask?”
“Listen, can you talk to Ron? Maybe he’ll believe you.” I raised my voice. “I’m a boy, not a girl! Tell him to stop hitting on me. Please.”
“Ron thinks your name is Phyllis and you want to be called Phil because you hate that name. Look, if I didn’t know you from class, I’d think you were a girl too.”
“My hair isn’t that long!”
“It’s not just your hair. It’s…it’s your voice, your face, the way you walk. It’s…really feminine. Hey, I’m not a bigot. If you’re gay—”
“I’m not gay, Paul.” I turned away, afraid Paul would see my eyes tearing up even in the darkness of late evening on a dimly lit rooftop.
“I’m sorry, Phil. I just assumed. I’ll talk to Ron. Fat chance he believes me though. The guy’s a horny cauldron of hormones. He’s probably still a virgin.”
Still facing away, I was stung by Paul’s last remark. After all, Ron and I were in the same boat. Except mine was threatening to capsize.
“What are you looking at? Don’t say the sky. I mean specifically?”
“I’m surveying the part of the sky where Saturn should be at this point in the year. And there it is! Come and take a look.” He moved away from the telescope and beckoned me with his right hand.
“Is this telescope yours?” I put my right eye in position.
“I’ve had it since high school. Astronomy’s sort of a hobby with me. My dad’s a physicist at the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena. When I was 15, I thought I wanted to be an astronomer.”
“So you’re from LA. I grew up in Encino—”
“Valley girl, eh?”
“Stop it, Paul. It’s not funny. Hey, I can see the rings! They’re beautiful.”
“Take a good long look. I’m bushed. I’m going back downstairs in a few.”
That’s when I saw it. I had turned to Paul to say good night. It hovered in the sky several hundred feet above the roof. A glowing saucer-shaped thing, the size of a 16-wheeler. We both stared at it for what seemed like minutes but was probably only a few seconds. I opened my mouth to…shriek? Scream? But whatever it was, was drowned out by a loud hum. We were levitated into the air, drawn toward the object, our bodies rigid. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Paul was similarly paralyzed. Then I blacked out.
I came to sometime later. I was lying on a mattress-like platform in a feature-less room of indeterminate size. The walls glowed with a soft light that reminded me of twilight on the beach back home. Paul was still asleep on a platform a few feet away from me. I was about to call to him to wake him when I realized there was someone else in the room. Intently staring at me. She, for she certainly looked like a female, appeared to be a human girl of ten, dressed in a simple sheath of some blue fabric. What was disturbing were her eyes. They were the largest blue eyes I had ever seen. Like an anime character. In fact, she resembled a cartoon more so than an actual human being.
“Where am I? Are you an alien?” She didn’t even blink. Nor uttered a sound. Perhaps she didn’t understand English. For no explicable reason at all I tried Spanish. “¿Donde estoy? ¿Eres un extraterrestre?” No response.
Suddenly the feature-less wall dilated and a human-sized thing that resembled a hairless Belgian Malinois walked into the room on its hind legs. It was wearing a brilliant white lab coat with an actual pocket protector on the left front, holding a stylus in one human-like five-fingered hand and a tablet-looking device in the other.
“I see you’ve met my pet, Rin-Rin. She’s very sweet. Quite good with alien species.”
“You…you speak perfect English!” And in a feminine tone of voice to boot.
“Of course. A rather primitive language but just barely adequate for simple communication. My name is, or should I say sounds like in your language, Miss Wolverton. I’m an exo-ethnologist.”
“You study humans?”
“I’ve been on-site for two of your Earth years. Another four years and I’ll qualify for my doctorate. We’re very thorough on my planet.”
“And where is that, may I ask?”
“It’s not important.” She looked intently at her tablet, which was pointed at me. After a long stretch of minutes, she seemed puzzled by whatever data she had just digested. “Your brain structure is that of a female of your species and yet you are physically a male. Why haven’t you corrected your situation? Oh well, I suppose it’s expected of a civilization as primitive as yours.”
“I... I don’t have a ‘situation’ as you call it. I’m a boy and I’m o.k. with it. Really.”
“The data says otherwise. Anyway, the results of my experiment would be more viable if you were your appropriate gender.”
“Well, that’s life. Now can you return me and Paul to our dorm rooms? I promise I won’t tell anyone about this. Not that they’d believe me anyway.”
She reached into a side pocket and took out something that resembled a Buck Rogers ray gun and pointed it at me.
“I’m returning you now. Word to your mother.”
A flash of blinding light stunned me as I slipped into unconsciousness.
I woke up in my dorm room. I looked over at the clock on my nightstand. It read 9:00 AM. For a moment, I panicked, thinking I was late for my morning class in the Modern English Novel. But, relieved, I remembered it was Monday. My first class isn’t until 10:30. I decided to get up anyway. I could use a little breakfast. I threw off my blanket, sat up, and tried to find my slippers. I looked down and saw a pair of pink bunny slippers. It must be Ron pulling what he thinks is a practical joke. Regardless, I put them on and left my room, still half-asleep, making a beeline for the bathroom.
Yawning, I knocked on the door of the bathroom.
“Hey, I’m bursting with piss here. How long you gonna be?” I didn’t mean to squeak that out in a soprano tone but I chalked that up to being half-awake.
The door opened. It was that dweeb, Ron. He was wiping the shaving cream off his face, a toothbrush in the side of his mouth.
“Well, well. Now that’s more like it, Phyllis. I’ve been trying to guess what you really looked like underneath all those unisex clothes. Pretty, pretty good.”
“What are you taking ab…” I looked down at myself and gasped. I was wearing a black lace baby doll nightgown. I was showing a good deal of cleavage. Cleavage?! I tried to cover myself by crossing my arms.
“Hey, eyes up here, buster. Get out of my way!” I pushed Ron out of the doorway and rushed inside the bathroom.
“I’m going down to the dining hall. I’ll save you a seat…babe.”
I slammed the door shut and locked it.
“Fuck off!”
There was a mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. I shucked the nightgown off and was amazed by what had happened to my body. I was anatomically a woman! Unable to resist, I felt myself up. If I had a third hand, I would have slapped myself for being fresh. Before I might get myself off, I turned my attention to my face. It was still recognizable as Phil Chang’s face but there was a feminine nuance to every plane and curve. I was really cute, damn it! And my hair had more volume. There was a bounce to it as I turned my head from side to side. I puckered my lips and gave myself a kiss in the mirror. Ohh you kid.
What I first believed was a horrific nightmare inspired by looking through Paul’s telescope was now undeniably reality. That dog-like alien, Miss Wolverton, really changed me into a girl. I’ve got to talk to Paul. I hope she didn’t change him into a girl as well. He has a film class that ends at 10. Let me change into my usual boy clothes and meet up with him. Maybe we can figure something out.
Imagine my shock when I looked in my closet. All of my clothes had been replaced with a wardrobe that would’ve made Annie Flaherty, Paul’s cousin, or Taylor Swift proud. Designer outfits for the glamorous co-ed. After a bit of dithering, I selected what I thought was the most unisex outfit I could put together: a white sweatshirt with a big pink heart on the front, skinny jeans, and white platform Nikes. O.K. I added some cute earrings and a tiny shoulder bag. And a little lippie. But that’s all!
With my stomach rumbling from skipping breakfast, I made it inside the McMurtry Building just in time to catch Paul’s film class discharge. I had classes with some of the students that sauntered out of the classroom. No one recognized me, thank God. Finally, Paul appeared, talking to someone I’d never seen.
“Paul! It’s me. We have to talk!”
“Another one of your shorties, Paul? Man, you’re B.M.O.C. What’s your secret, dude?”
“It helps to shower once in a while.”
I was standing directly in front of Paul but the questioning look on his face told me he didn’t recognize me.
“It’s me, Phil.” I grabbed his arm and took him aside, away from the middle of the hallway.
“I’m sure we’ve never met, miss.”
“Cut it out, Paul. You were with me when they abducted us. I’m so relieved they didn’t change your gender too.”
“Wait a minute. How do you know about the dream I had last night.”
“It wasn’t a dream, Paul. They used some kind of tractor beam on us and brought us onto their ship. It’s an alien race of dog people. And they keep human children as pets! They changed me into a girl!!”
The few remaining students in the hallway were looking our way, beginning to become alarmed at my raised voice.
“Phil? Is it really you? Can’t be. You’re a girl! With tits! You mean it really happened? They really abducted us?”
At that moment, a bearded man in horn-rimmed glasses walked up to us, smiling broadly.
“Paul, who is this? Miss, are you a student here in the film program? I haven’t seen you in any of my classes.”
“Er, Professor Pace, this is my roommate Phil…lis Chang. She’s an English major.”
Professor Pace took my right hand and held it in both of his.
“Well, Phyllis, nice to meet you. I hope I’m not being too forward but have you ever done any modeling?”
Paul interjected, “Not likely, Professor.”
“No? Forgive me but you have a very special look. And that outfit shouts a je ne sais quoi quality very rare among coeds these days. May I make you a proposition?”
“She’s…uh…not dating anyone currently. She’s really into getting good grades.”
“Paul, Paul. Really. Do you take me for some sort of philanderer? I’m not asking her out. I’ve been given the assignment of shooting all the media for the Stanford website and associated publications. Phyllis is the perfect model for the new campaign. She’s beautiful, wears clothing splendidly, and is obviously very smart. After all, she’s a Stanford student! And I’m a happily married man. Tsk, tsk.”
“Gosh, I don’t know what to say. It’s very flattering and all but I’ve been a student here for two years and no one ever asked to take pictures of me.”
“Not even when you got slashed on your forehead by an errant frisbee last Spring,” Paul smirked.
“Well, it doesn’t seem to have left a scar. Good thing. Wouldn’t want anything to mar that lovely visage. Look, here’s my card. That’s my office number and my cell number as well. Uh, maybe you should keep to the office number. My wife…she’s kind of excitable. Ahem, hope to hear from you very soon. See you next week Paul.” He walked away, whistling some Broadway show tune.
“Come back to the dorm around 1. We can talk then and split a hero sandwich. What do you want? Meatball parm or Italian?” Paul asked me.
“I don’t know why but I think I’d prefer a Quinoa Salad with Avocado dressing.”
I had two classes that day: Elizabethan Drama and 19th Century World History. No one seemed to be surprised at the way I was dressed. I guess they all thought I was a girl all along. Just an awful dresser. One girl told me with a snark that she had been holding out hope I was a lesbian. Now, it seems, that hope was unfounded. Our History professor walked by and admonished her for edging on sexual harassment. I blushed, embarrassed, and ran off as quickly as I could. That was when I realized I should have worn a bra.
Other than enjoying a nice salad, nothing much came of the lunch Paul and I had in our dorm suite. Ron wasn’t there so we felt free to discuss our, er, my ridiculous situation. Since we didn’t know how to contact Miss Wolverton, there was no way to change the facts as they stood. I was a woman now…and forever?
“Don’t jump me but, honestly, are you really that upset that you’re a woman now?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, people have really treated me nice today. Much better than the way they treated Phil. Phyllis, on the other hand, is a star! Guess I can’t help being beautiful. It’s a curse…”
“A dirty old man practically propositions you and you get a really inflated sense of self. The way I look at it, you’re still Philip inside.”
“Did you like Philip, the old me?”
“Yeah, bit of a goof but I thought he was a good dude.”
“I don’t like being called Phyllis though.”
“See! Ron got one thing right about you.” I threw some crumbled feta at him. We laughed together and I really started to question whether I was upset at being turned into a woman.
We were sitting in the living room of our suite, watching The Giants play The Dodgers on TV. Ron and Paul were engrossed in the game. Me, I was stewing in my own thoughts. I’d never been interested in sports anyway. My own brother Christopher used to pretend we weren’t related whenever I’d tag along when he played sandlot baseball during the summer or pick-up basketball at the Encino Park public courts. He told mom I threw like a girl and dribbled like a duck. As you can see, my brother and I weren’t very close. To this day, he only tolerates my presence because it was through me that he met his future wife, Paul’s cousin, the movie star, Annie Flaherty. I never saw what she sees in him.
Presently, Olga, Paul’s putative girlfriend dropped by. Olga is what Ron would call a ‘smoke show.’ Tall, leggy, blonde, model slim with china blue eyes, she was the girl every guy on campus salivated after. And Paul was dating her.
“That Bio exam was a bear but I think I aced it. Sorry about canceling last week. I really needed to bone up for that test.” She sat on Paul’s lap, obscuring his view of the TV screen.
“I could’ve helped you ‘bone up’ for that exam, Olga. I know a lot about biology. The important stuff, that is.”
“You’re a creep, Ron. Oh, my god! Is that Phil? You go, girl! Paul, don’t you think Phil…can we start calling you Phyllis instead? Don’t you think that’s such a better look for her?”
“My name isn’t Phyllis.”
“It can’t be Phil. That’s a boy’s name and you are certainly not a boy. Not the way you look today! What should we call you if your full name’s not Phyllis?”
“I never liked the name Ronald either. Everyone calls me Ron. Even my mother.”
“Its…it’s Philip…pa. Philippa. My brother couldn’t pronounce it so everyone started calling me just Phil. I guess it’s what I’m used to all my life.”
“Sounds very British. Very posh. Don’t you think so, Paul?”
“Babe, can you move over just a bit. I can’t see the game.”
Olga jumped up and pulled Paul to his feet.
“Stupid ballgame. Let’s go out and get something to nosh. I’m still hungry. I only had a salad for dinner.”
“Was it Quinoa? I love Quinoa with avocado dressing.”
“What about Phil? Maybe she can come with us?”
“I’m sure she’d rather stay and watch the ballgame with Ron.” She winked at me. It was a ludicrously comic stage gesture.
“Don’t worry, Paul. I’ll keep Philippa entertained while you guys are out. We have so much to talk about now that she’s turned a new page.” I squirmed visibly in my seat and looked imploringly at Paul. I mouthed “Don’t leave me with this creep.”
“See! Let’s go, Paul. I’m feeling peckish, daahhling.” Shrugging his shoulders, Paul walked out with Olga clinging to his arm.
I got up, sprinted to my room, locked the door, and yelled, “Stay away, Ron!”
Tuesday’s classes went smoothly. Again, students and faculty alike just shrugged their shoulders at my dramatic transformation. The guys stared at me now and again, turning their heads when I caught them. More than a few of the girls complimented me on my outfit. I decided to revel in my newfound femininity and wore a crop top that displayed just a sliver of skin above the waistband of my knee-length wrap skirt. I did opt for black Doc Martens though.
Paul and I had agreed to lunch outdoors at Meyer Green, a landscaped open space with curving walkways and gentle grassy slopes located on the campus where Meyer Library used to stand. There are benches along the upper walkway. I made a concession to Paul and we dined on slices of cheese pizza. He’d driven into Palo Alto to pick up the pizza from Pizza My Heart on University Avenue. So sweet of him.
Just as Paul left to go to his 2PM class, that girl from my History seminar approached. It seemed she’d been hovering nearby, waiting for Paul to leave.
“Hi, Phyllis?”
“Philippa, actually. I prefer Phil. You’re…”
“Meryl. Meryl Wilton. My mother is a huge Meryl Streep fan.”
“Hey, Meryl. What can I do you for?”
“I wanted to apologize. Yesterday. I didn’t mean it to sound the way it came out.”
“No problem. I didn’t take offense. Professor Swanson jumped to conclusions, that’s all.”
“Good. Well, that clears the air between us.”
“Sure. See you in class next week.” She turned halfway around, then turned back.
“Phil, are you busy tonight?”
“Are you asking me for a date? No offense but I don’t swing that way.”
“No, no. Not a date. I’m inviting you to hear me perform at Coho. It’s open mic night and I’m sort of a regular there. As my guest, you can get in free. I just want to see some friendly faces in the crowd. We’re friendly, aren’t we?”
I laughed. “Of course, we’re friendly. O.K. When do I show up?”
“I’ll pick you up at 7. Just be in front of your building. It’s a 5-minute walk to Coho. You’re in Governor’s Corner. I looked you up. See you then.”
I immediately thought about what I’d be wearing. Something casual. Coffee house boho? I’ll have to take a deep dive into my closet.
It was a cool, crisp night so I decided to wear my leather jacket on top of my Vandal Savages t-shirt and black denim jeans. I kept my Doc Martens on. Meryl showed up precisely at 7, guitar case in hand. She was wearing a similar outfit, except her t-shirt had that famous Dylan poster with the kaleidoscopic hair emblazoned on it. We walked briskly, giggling that we looked like twin sisters from another mother. Along the way across the campus, Meryl drew my attention to an odd sight: a young girl, no more than 10, walking a large dog on a leash. It seemed the dog was controlling the girl, not the other way around. As I watched, the girl’s face came into view. I gasped and almost stumbled.
“You all right, Phil?”
“Yes, it’s nothing. Must have stepped on a rock or something. Let’s cross the street here. It’s a shortcut to Coho.”
Those giant blue eyes seemed to glow in the growing darkness of twilight. I shivered again but tried to calm myself. Meryl pointed at the entrance to Coho. The student coffee house was already filling up with music lovers. Or espresso lovers.
Meryl was slated to perform fifth out of a lineup of 10 acts. So, for an hour we sat at one of the back tables, sampling Coho’s espresso and tiramisu. It was pretty good. Not the best I’d ever had. Bricolage in Encino where I grew up had the best tiramisu in the San Fernando Valley. At least that’s what mom always says. We chatted about our History class. She clued me in on some of the classmates I’d never really gotten to know – we all had different majors. But Meryl seemed to know everyone. A veritable gadfly of the Stanford campus. I told her about Professor Pace asking me to model for the school website. She laughed. Almost too loudly. The performer on stage almost flubbed a line and everyone turned to look at Meryl, who slumped down in her seat. I moved my chair over to shield her.
“I was going to say you should accept the gig. I mean, you’re beautiful. No, I mean it. Look at you. Once you started presenting better, men were bound to finally notice. You’re the kind of hot, super-smart co-ed that Stanford would die to have represent them. Think of all the horny billionaire’s sons applying to enter the college after they see you.”
“You make it sound so tawdry.”
“Eh, you’ve got it, flaunt it. And don’t worry about Pace. His bark is way worse than his bite. He’s got a roving eye but his wife has him by the balls. He’ll behave himself, outside of leering at you now and again.”
“I’ll call him tomorrow. His office line. He did say not to call his cell. His wife is excitable.” I laughed but quickly remembered to cover my mouth as Meryl did the same.
When Meryl finally got up on stage, she surprised me. I didn’t expect her to be that good. But her singing and especially her fingerstyle picking on guitar were first-rate. She had undeniable talent. Her second number was a cover of Dylan’s “You’re Going to Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” The crowd gave her a rousing ovation. Delighted at the audience’s response, she leaped off the stage and threw her arms around me, hugging me tightly, chortling her joy. She kissed me. It took me by surprise. It was nice though. I kissed her back.
Walking back to my dorm, Meryl asked me why I suddenly decided to ditch my unisex look and embrace my ‘hotness.’
“I guess I was tired of living a lie.”
“What do you mean?”
“For most of my life, I pretended to be a boy. Had to be a boy. Everyone I knew, my parents, my brothers, friends, my teachers wanted me to be a boy. At least, that’s how I saw it.”
“That’s twisted, man.”
“I woke up Monday morning and decided to be who I want to be, who I was meant to be. A girl!”
“That simple, huh?”
“You’re gay. When did you realize you were gay?”
“As far back as I can remember, I guess. Three or four years old. I knew I wasn’t like most other girls.”
“The same here. But it took me almost 20 years to emerge from my cocoon of mistaken gender.”
“Look! What’s that light in the sky. See it?”
I looked in the direction Meryl was pointing. It was a glowing globe, half the size of a full moon. Moving slowly across the sky above us. Yes, above us. I could tell it was hundreds of feet above. It was not a celestial object. Or an airplane. I shivered again. Then, abruptly, it disappeared.
“It’s gone! I think we just saw a UFO, Phil. Wow, how exciting. Do you think it’s a sign? You know, from the cosmos.”
“Now what do you mean?”
“The universe is telling me to drop out. Go and turn pro. Maybe in San Francisco or L.A. Maybe even New York City. I could get a recording contract.”
“Well, you’re certainly talented enough. But, Meryl, I’d give it some real thought before you did something that drastic. Getting a Stanford degree isn’t something to just cavalierly throw away.”
We were in front of my dorm building. As luck would have it, Ron Lofgren chose that moment to come back to his dorm room. He nodded at us as he passed by and smirked as he pulled the door open. The little creep. I’ll have to hear his stupid comments upstairs.
“Thanks for coming, Phil. You inspired me to my best performance ever—”
“I wouldn’t say that—”
“No, you gave me that extra shot of adrenaline. I looked at you in the audience all through my set. Just seeing your face—” She grabbed my face and planted a long, languorous kiss right on my lips. I felt her tongue. I reciprocated with mine.
“Get a room, ladies!” Some troll shouted as he walked past us. His buddies giggled like 12-year-olds. Stupid little boys.
When I entered the suite five minutes later, Paul and Ron were watching a basketball game on TV. Without saying anything to them, I floated toward my room, my head in the clouds, still buzzed by Meryl’s lollapalooza of a kiss.
“Must have been some date from what I saw. When should I expect to receive the wedding invitation?” Ron laughed raucously but Paul wasn’t laughing. He had gotten up and was two paces behind me. I turned around to address him.
“Paul, can you guys just leave me alone. You more than anyone should know what I’m going through—”
“My dad called about an hour ago. We’re in a pickle, Phil.”
“What?”
“He heard from some of his buddies at JPL that military intelligence wants to talk to us tomorrow on campus. He asked me what we’d done. I couldn’t begin to explain to him. I can’t even explain it to myself.”
“You think? Look at me. How do we explain this!” I waved both hands down my body.
“Is there such a thing as quickie sex change operations?”
“Oh, fuck, Paul, you’re useless!”
Early Wednesday morning, Paul and I received texts from the Dean’s office requesting our presence at a meeting with Federal agents in the Main Quad’s Building 170. Precisely at 10AM. My first thought was I’d probably have to spend the rest of my life being poked and prodded by military doctors, a veritable prisoner on some army base or even Area 51! My second thought was: what to wear to this interrogation? Obviously not something casual but perhaps a classic two-piece business suit? And sensible heels? Put my hair up or leave it long and add some waves?
“Stop thinking like a woman, Phil! These dudes won’t care what you’re wearing.”
“Yes, but I do. Mother taught me a lady should always dress properly for every occasion.”
“Oh, shut up! We’re going to be stuck in some military base or hospital for God knows how long. They’ll stick long tubes and shit up our various and sundry orifices!”
“I don’t know. They’ll probably let you go after they examine you. Nothing about you has changed. But me? I’m fucked.”
Ron emerged from his room, yawning, and trying to sort out his bedhead.
“Oooh, do tell. I know you’re the fuckee. Who’s the fucker?”
I retreated into my room and slammed the door.
Paul and I were approaching the Main Quad, heading for Building 170, when I stopped to straighten out the seams on my sheer tights.
“Hold my purse, Paul.” He reluctantly took the shoulder bag from me.
“Too bad you’ll never get to model for Pace. I have to admit you’d look stunning on the website.”
“Thank you very much, kind sir. Are the seams straight now?”
“Uh, oh, yeah. They’re straight.”
“You weren’t looking at my stockings, Paul! You were peeking down the front of my blouse!”
“Hey, how could I help but see? You were bent over like that.”
I was about to further admonish Paul when I caught sight of a little girl walking a large dog some distance away, just outside the Main Quad. She turned her head my way and those nonhuman, enormous blue eyes seemed to be speaking to me.
“Paul, look! It’s that alien dog thing!”
Paul turned to look but the pair of aliens had disappeared.
“I don’t see anything. Come on, it’s almost 10.”
We sat waiting in a small conference room. Surprisingly, no one from the university was in the room with us. The assistant who ushered us in told us she knew nothing about who was meeting with us or why. 15 minutes passed before two nondescript men in black suits carrying briefcases finally entered.
“Good morning. You are Paul Raymond Flaherty and Philip Rowan Chang?”
We both nodded and answered “Yes” tentatively, almost shyly.
“I am Agent Myers and this is my associate, Agent Sturges.” They took their seats at the conference table across from us and began pulling laptops from their briefcases.
“Are you FBI, CIA, military intelligence?” Paul asked.
“The specific government agency we’re from is classified. But we are part of the intelligence network that includes all those agencies you named.”
“My mother works for The Legal Aid Foundation. She could get you on violating our civil rights—”
“Phil! Stifle. (Sotto voce) Let’s not antagonize these dudes.”
“I assure you we don’t to do anything of the kind, Mr.…uh…Miss Chang.”
“Okay, but just keep that in mind. She’s pretty fierce with a legal brief.”
Agent Sturges piped up. “We know all about your mother, Miss Chang. And your father, Dr. Kenneth Chang, leading radiologist in Southern California. As well as your father, Mr. Flaherty, astrophysicist at JPL.”
“My mom’s a librarian…” Paul interjected, proudly.
“Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. An incident occurred over the past weekend. Saturday night to be exact, at approximately 11:12 PM. This is footage taken by an Air Force E-86 on a routine reconnaissance sortie returning to Travis Base.”
Agent Sturges turned his laptop toward us and ran the video showing Paul and me being “tractor beamed” toward the alien ship.
“Nice camera work. That must be from a 1000mm telephoto lens. Those babies go for like 50K, even at discount—”
“We are aware you’re a film minor, Mr. Flaherty. We’re more interested in what happened to you after this. It appears you were taken aboard the alien craft. Please tell us, in as much detail as you can recall, the sequence of events that followed.”
“Why didn’t try to rescue us?” I asked.
“That’s not the protocol, Miss Chang. It wouldn’t have been a good outcome if we had tried…for you two or the crew on that E-86. You must realize these…exo-biologicals…have technology far beyond our capabilities. You’re the proof of that yourself, no?”
Agent Sturges prompted us. “Now tell us what you recall from that night. We’ll record it…starting…now.”
Paul explained to the agents that he had very little to report to them since he was unconscious from the moment the tractor beam hooked us until he woke up in his dorm room on Monday morning. Myers and Sturges exchanged disappointed expressions but their faces lit up when I began my account.
When I described the dog-like being named Miss Wolverton, they both nodded knowingly.
“Sirius C?” muttered Agent Sturges.
“Doesn’t exist,” answered Agent Myers. “Possibly Sirius B but doubtful.”
Myers interrupted me. “Now, Miss Chang. Are you telling us that you are anatomically a female now? As a result of this…uh…ray gun that the being brandished?”
“Yes. I’m not wearing a bra and panties because I like cross-dressing. All my equipment is now female—”
“Those boys at Grant Medical will need to look at this in depth.” Sturges nodded slowly.
“I don’t want to be studied in some military hospital. It’d be a life sentence.”
“Don’t you want to find a way to reverse this…this procedure? You must be devastated. After 20 years as a male—”
“I’m beginning to think she likes her new body,” chimed in Paul. I shot him a glare.
“At the very least, you ought to get a complete physical. Who knows what might be the hidden consequences of this alien tomfoolery.”
Myers and Sturges started packing up.
“We’d like to escort you two to Travis AFB for a further, more extensive debriefing and complete, thorough physicals. We have a car waiting outside. Please.” Myers beckoned with his right hand as he hefted his briefcase in his left.
Reluctantly, we exited the conference room.
“I guess we’ll be famous, Phil. Can’t wait for the episode on us for “Ancient Aliens.”
Sturges, from behind us, shook his head. “Not likely. We can’t let anyone outside of your closest family members know about this. This definitely falls under National Security protocols.”
It was an hour and a half drive to Travis Air Force Base via Interstate 880. I started whimpering softly when we passed through San Jose, thinking that my life was over. They’d probably let Paul go after they confirmed he knew nothing and had nothing done to him. They’d probably have him swear to an oath of secrecy. Never a word about what happened to us. It bothered me that he’d probably go back to school, graduate, maybe go to grad school for filmmaking, and, worst of all, marry that dodo Olga. Why did I care? But I did and I started to tear up.
“It’ll be all right, Phil.” Paul put his arm around me. Then wiped away the tears starting to run down my cheeks. “They’ll find a cure. They’ve got CRISPR gene editing that’s pretty advanced now. They could turn you back to a guy in maybe 5 or 10 years. The research is really accelerating.” I burst into a torrent of tears.
Paul took my face in his hands and kissed my forehead.
“Shhh. Shhh. It’ll be o.k.”
I looked into Paul’s warm brown eyes and kissed him on the lips. He kissed me back.
“Hey, you’re steaming up the windows,” laughed Sturges from the passenger seat up front.
We were on the outskirts of San Ramon, some 50 miles south of Travis AFB, when the sky darkened above the car. The shadow moved ahead of us until we could clearly see what was casting it. There was no doubt it was the same craft that had been the unwanted interloper in our lives on Saturday night.
“Rick, it’s turned around. Facing us now, matching our speed.”
“There’s an exit about a quarter mile farther. Maybe I can—”
A flash of blinding light and I blacked out.
Sometime later, I don’t know how long, Paul and I found ourselves walking along the side of I-880. The car and Agents Myers and Sturges were no where in sight. Both our phones were dead. We could only guess it was mid-afternoon by the height of the sun in the sky.
“They did it again.”
“I hope that dog thing doesn’t harm them.”
“Maybe just for shits and grins, she’ll change their gender—”
“Shut up, Paul. Not funny.”
“Sorry. Look, let’s see if we can hitch a ride back to Stanford. Thumbs out.”
Waving his arms and pointing his thumb as several cars whizzed by, Paul came up empty. No takers. This went on for a good half-hour. Then I came up with an idea.
“Let me try.”
“Unless you’ve got a bigger thumb than me, it’s not going to work. It’s too dangerous to pick up hitchhikers. Every driver knows that. Guess we’ll have to find a gas station or bus stop closer to town.”
I inched away from the side of the road, lifted my skirt to about mid-thigh, and kind of dangled my high-heeled, dainty foot. About two minutes later, a pick-up truck with a cargo bed full of turnips stopped on a dime a foot away from me.
“Need a ride, miss?” the driver, a beefy middle-aged man in denim overalls, asked.
“Yes, thank you, mister. My friend and I are trying to get back to Stanford University.” I beckoned Paul to come out of the shrubbery. The driver seemed a little disappointed but he opened the door to the cab. “Hop on in. I can take you as far as San Jose. You can catch a bus from there.”
“We appreciate it, sir,” Paul exclaimed as I climbed in. Paul followed and shut the door behind him. It was a tight fit and the air was a little too close but it beat walking for miles. The driver, Eddie, engaged us in some chit chat. I was trying to come up with an explanation of how we ended up hitching a ride in the middle of nowhere but, strangely enough, Eddie never asked. When the conversation died out, I was wishing I had a harmonica and Paul could sing every song that driver ever knew. Eddie settled for tuning to KBAY (Bay Country 94.5) and filling the cab with the sound of Dierks Bentley’s “Different for Girls.” I’ll second that emotion.
True to his word, Eddie dropped us off at the VTA bus stop at Santa Clara & 5th in San Jose. Two bus rides and an hour and a half later, we disembarked on Quarry Road right in front of The Psychiatry Building. How appropriate. A short walk later, Paul and I dragged ourselves into our dorm suite. The clock on the living room wall read a quarter to 8. Sitting underneath the clock, in his usual seat on the couch, Ron looked up from his cup of ramen noodles. He pointed his chopsticks at us.
“Where have you two been all day? And you…don’t you think Meryl will find out you’ve been two-timing her?” He cackled at that last quip.
“Just stuff it, Ron. She’s had a tough day.”
“Poor baby. The world is just her oyster. First, I thought she was asexual, then she blossoms into a hottie who’s as straight as the day is long, then she’s dyking it up for all the world to see with a lesbo folksinger, and now she’s bi again, burning the candle at both ends. All of this in the space of less than a week!”
“Let’s go to my room, Phil. We don’t need to hear this.” We went into Paul’s room and slammed the door shut.
“Hey, just so you know. I’m always up for a three-way!” Ron punctuated that with another sickening cackle.
Later that evening, Paul and I were finishing our meal downstairs in the dining hall as my cell phone was being charged with Paul’s portable charger (he’d forgotten to take it with him that morning) when I decided to accept Professor Pace’s invitation to model for the school website.
“You can’t call him until tomorrow. Remember? He said not to call him at home. His wife?”
Picking up my phone, I punched in his cell number. “Pish posh. His wife. I’m not trying to steal her husband away. I don’t like older men with beards anyway.”
“Just tell her that straightaway.”
“Hello. Pace residence.”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Pace. This is Philippa Chang. I’m a student at the university and Professor Pace asked me if I’d be interested in modeling for the school website. You know, the project he’s doing for all their media—”
“Well, Philippa, is it? He hadn’t told me about you. He has been looking for someone who might best represent the student body. Just a moment, he’s coming to the phone…”
“Miss Chang! Good to hear from you! (Sotto voce) You should have called me at my office. My wife is…excitable. (Normal voice) So, have you decided?”
“I’d love to model for you, Professor Pace. When do you need me?”
“Oh, wonderful, Miss Chang! Well, we’re planning to do the shoot on Friday. We’ve got the equipment, the crew, and clearances for all the locations. Now, we just need our star—you! Show up at McMurtry bright and early Friday morning at 9AM.”
“Should I bring anything?”
“Just your sweet self, my dear. Good night.” He disconnected. I looked up and saw a concerned look on Paul’s face.
“I’m going with you.”
“You don’t have to, Paul. It’s not like he’s gonna try to rape me in broad daylight.”
“He’s the type who’d try something funny in your trailer.”
“There’s a trailer?”
“You didn’t think you’d be changing outfits in the middle of the campus with everyone watching, did you?”
“Oh, I guess you’re right. I’ve never done modeling before.” I got up from the table and slung my purse over my shoulder.
“Where you going?”
“Unlike you, I’m actually here to get a degree. I have to catch up on my reading assignments. Been kind of busy this week, doncha know.”
It was a sun-splashed day on Friday morning. Seasonably warm for the last day of September in the Bay Area. A light breeze wafting in from the ocean added to the delightful milieu on my first day as a super-model. Paul was right behind me as I stepped into the small trailer that was parked off the Main Quad. Professor Pace had sent me directly to the trailer so I could get my makeup and hair done and change into my first outfit. A small, slightly chubby woman in her mid-forties turned to greet me, a hairbrush in her right hand.
“Philippa? Hi, I’m Brenda Pace. Darren’s wife. I’m your stylist for today’s shoot. Please have a seat.” I sat down and looked at myself in the mirror.
“I must look a mess. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Oh, no, sweetie. It doesn’t look like I can do much to improve on things. You’re such a fresh-faced beauty. I betcha you have to beat the boys off with a stick.”
“And I have the bruises to prove it,” Paul quipped. Brenda looked at him, considered a thought, then asked if he were my boyfriend.
She was vigorously brushing my hair and shaping it at the same time.
“He’s my suite mate. There’s three of us in the suite. He’s here to act as my bodyguard. Hired muscle, so to speak.”
“Well, I wonder. The two of you look so much like a couple. When you walked in, he gave off more than “hired muscle” vibes. I think he’s smitten.”
“We’ve been through a lot together. He’s very protective of me. Like a big brother.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave in a minute, ‘big brother.’ Philippa’s going to be changing and I’m sure she’d prefer to preserve her modesty.”
“I’ll wait outside, Phil.” He stepped out of the trailer.
“He’s in love.” Brenda started to apply moisturizer, primer, and then a coat of foundation, blending it outwards in a circular motion. I took mental notes so I could practice doing it myself. Being beautiful isn’t easy.
“I’ve got so much going on right now, I’d prefer we just remained good friends…for now.” Brenda dusted my face with powder, using a fluffy brush, especially under my eyes. Do I have crow’s feet at 20? Egad, no.
“By the looks of him, I’d say you better not put him off too long. He’ll be taken off the market pretty quick. Just like my Darren. We met in college too. Girls were literally fighting over him. Word to the wise, girl, get while the getting is good.”
“You’re a riot, Brenda. You knew what you wanted from the get-go. Me, I’ve just been a girl for less than a week—”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I mean, I used to dress very drab, kinda tomboy-ish. Boys wouldn’t give a second look. To be honest, they wouldn’t give me a first look.”
“I can’t believe that. Beauty’s more than skin deep or the kind of clothes you wear. I betcha Paul there saw your true beauty even on your drabbest day. Maybe you just didn’t pick up his vibe. Is he kind of shy?”
After applying blush to my cheeks and some highlighter to make them glow, she started on my eyes. I was afraid of getting poked in the eye each time she used a brush or even her finger.
“Shy? Paul? No, he’s the most confident guy on campus. He only dates 10’s. His current girlfriend Olga is even prettier than his cousin and she’s a movie star. You know, Annie Flaherty.”
She started scaring me by applying eyeliner with a pencil very, very close to the lash line. I held my breath and kept my head stockstill while she worked deliberately.
“She’s his cousin? I think she’s delightful. Such nice comic timing for someone so young. She’s gorgeous too. And this Olga is even prettier? I’ll have to see that to believe it.”
After filling in my brows with an eyebrow pencil, Brenda applied a coat of mascara to my eyelashes.
“How’s that look, sweetie?”
“Oh my gosh, is that me? You’re a magician, Brenda!”
“It’s just light makeup. You don’t need too much to shine. Now, let me dab on some lip gloss to get that subtle tint-like effect.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Ladies! How are we doing? I’d like to start shooting. We’re all set up.”
“Come in, Darren. Take a look for yourself. She’s perfect. I didn’t need to apply two coats of foundation like the last girl you worked with.”
Professor Pace’s face broke out in a wide smile as he looked me over.
“What did I tell you, Brenda? She’s going to make the website pop! And just imagine the videos on YouTube.”
“Well, get out. She has to change into her first outfit.”
“Going, going. Hurry up. I’m champing at the bit to get this shoot started.” The trailer door slammed shut behind him.
“Change into the outfit that’s labeled number one, sweetie.”
“Clever system you have there.”
The first location was the Main Quad, site of oldest and most important buildings in the University. I must have crisscrossed the Quad a hundred times, all while carrying either a book bag or actual spiral notebooks. For a couple of shots we used a biochemistry or calculus textbook. My suggestion of using an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel was vetoed. Paul suggested a copy of the manga classic “Berserk (Deluxe Volume 1).” Professor Pace stopped in his tracks, looked quizzically at Paul, and simply said, “No.”
Each time, Pace asked me to walk slower, faster, take smaller mincing steps, jump, run, everything short of hopping. Brenda had to refresh my make-up several times. He was starting to annoy me but the experience was exhilarating. I was the center of rapt attention. A large crowd started to gather around the Main Quad as we moved from spot to spot. Pace’s assistant lighting dude had to repeatedly shoo people away from the borders of the shoot.
Throughout the morning, Paul was right there, sometimes standing behind Pace, mimicking his movements with his SLR camera, sometimes shadowing Pace’s assistant camera person as she shot video of the whole spectacle. Whenever I smiled at him, Paul’s face lit up and he’d give me a thumb’s up or an O.K. sign. Brenda smirked whenever she saw us exchanging glances and gestures.
Toward the end of the morning session, Professor Pace entered the trailer unannounced. Fortunately, I had just finished changing into the third outfit. Brenda was pinning the hem of the skirt since it was hanging below my knees when I first stepped into it.
“Philippa, honey, is Paul going to hang around all day? Doesn’t he have classes to attend?”
“No, he’s free all day on Fridays. Just worked out that way. He’s not in your way, is he?”
“Oh, Darren, can’t you tell they’re head over heels in love? He’s devoted to her. Remember when we first started dating?”
“Yes, dear, but…look…frankly, he’s rather opinionated. He likes making suggestions. Some of them are so bizarre—”
“I’ll talk to him, Professor.”
“I hope you don’t have any more visitors, Philippa. These are unnecessary distractions. And things are going so well. We might be able to wrap this all up by five o’clock. Just in time for Brenda to put the kettle on when we get home.”
“I’ll be too tired to cook, Darren. Let’s order in.”
“O.K. Whatever. One last shot and we’ll break for lunch.” The trailer door slammed shut.
“Sometimes I think marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Brenda sighed.
“Especially for women,” I declared in solidarity.
After touring classrooms in the science buildings (I looked very cute with safety glasses, gloves, and working a Bunsen burner), we moved our little caravan to Stanford Stadium where I stood in the empty stands overlooking the football field wearing a logo sweater and holding up a foam index finger. It was so windy up there in the stands that Brenda finally convinced Pace to let me wear my hair in a high pony-tail. For a fast minute, Pace actually considered putting me in a cheerleader outfit. But we were running slightly behind on time so he discarded the thought. Phew!
Our penultimate location was Coho, the student coffee house where Meryl killed it on Open Mic Tuesday. Unbeknownst to either of us, Professor Pace had arranged to have a student performer on stage while I was to sit in rapt attention at a first row table. So, we were pleasantly surprised to see each other in those respective roles. As the crew entered, we spotted each other and Meryl rushed toward me, practically jumping into my arms, planting sloppy kisses on my startled face.
“You…uh…obviously know each other?” Pace asked.
“Phil’s my honey. Sweetest, prettiest girl on campus. My muse!”
Meryl’s wide smile stretched from ear to ear. I was a little more subdued. Paul turned away. Brenda appeared shocked.
“Well, you learn something new every hour with this girl, eh? Anyway, this is a quick one shot. We’ll set up some accent lights to make it look like evening and then, if you will, Miss Wilton, get up on stage and just sing a couple of lines. Philippa, look like you’re enjoying her performance. Everyone else, just act naturally, as Ringo Starr would say.” He laughed at his own witticism.
Afterwards, Brenda took me aside, ostensibly to refresh my make-up. As she desultorily brushed my cheeks, she lowered her voice as the crew was packing up to move to our final location, the residence halls.
“You and this girl have something going on?”
“We’re…uh…friends. She’s gay. I’m not. At least, as far as I know.”
“Oh, o.k. Look all us girls experimented at one time or another. It happens. You’re in college. You’re curious—”
“It’s not a big deal, Brenda.”
“Don’t let it come between you and Paul. I like him. A lot. He’s a nice young man. And he loves the heck out of you. I can tell. Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same for him—”
Meryl walked by, blew me a kiss, and gestured that she would give me a call. I watched her walk out of the coffee house. Turning back to Brenda, she was shaking her head disapprovingly. I looked around for Paul but couldn’t spot him.
“Brenda, have you seen Paul? Did he leave?”
“He was here just 5 minutes ago.”
Paul suddenly appeared behind Brenda’s left shoulder.
“Someone called my name?”
“I was afraid you’d left.”
“I had to go take a piss. Too much coffee from craft services.”
Brenda nodded to me and walked away, leaving me alone with Paul.
“Phil, there’s something I need to tell you—”
“Don’t.” I placed my index finger on his lips to quiet him. “It’s not what you think. Meryl’s a friend. I have no romantic interest in her—”
“Phil, we’re being followed.”
“Huh? By whom?”
Paul tilted his head toward the front window. “See that black sedan across the street? See the two guys inside?”
“Yeah, they look annoyingly like Agents Myers and Sturges. Black suits and ties. Very Federal agent-like.”
“But it’s not them. It’s two other dudes. Probably from the same agency that won’t be named.”
“What do we do?”
“They’ve been following us since this morning so I guess they don’t want to make a scene. As long as we’re surrounded by witnesses—”
“They can’t do anything. But eventually…”
“I hope they’re just observing. What happened to Myers and Sturges might happen to anyone else that tries to apprehend us. They’ve got to consider that. Let’s catch up with the crew.” Paul took my hand and we walked out into the gloaming of late afternoon. Next stop, our residence hall.
By the time we reached Governor’s Corner to finish the day’s shoot, the largest crowd of the day had gathered around our dorm building. It took several minutes before there was enough space cleared in front of the entrance to begin. Near the front of the mob was Ron. He was whistling and making what he thought were complimentary remarks about my looks. Professor Pace stared daggers at him, gesturing for him to shut up. If this were a Looney Tunes cartoon, a megaphone would have been drawn into frame and placed in Pace’s hand.
“We’re losing the light. Let’s get the show on the road! Philippa, whenever you’re ready. Walk toward the entrance. Someone will exit. You step aside as she walks out and then you enter. O.K.?”
We did this three or four times before Pace was finally satisfied.
“That’s a wrap! Thank you everyone for your efforts today. I think this went really well. Let’s give Philippa a hand!”
The crowd joined in and applauded. I bowed several times in every direction, exhausted from 10 hours of modeling but a sense of exhilaration and achievement made me smile almost to the point of embarrassment. The crew packed up and loaded everything into their van, Brenda took her personal things out of the trailer, locked it up, and gave me a peck on the cheek and a chuck of my chin.
“Stay beautiful, sweetie. I hope we get to work together again.”
“Come by the department office Monday, Philippa. The Chairman’s assistant will cut you a check. We’ll work together again if I can help it. Goodbye.” Brenda and Professor Pace walked off arm in arm.
“They’re really quite sweet together. I wonder what their children are like.”
“Phil, they’re probably going home to have a knock down, drag out fight like Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”
“Paul Flaherty, you unrepentant romantic—”
“Paul Raymond Flaherty and Philip Rowan Chang?”
The two men in black had slowly emerged from their black sedan and waited patiently for the crowd to disperse before approaching us.
“Here we go again. Listen, haven’t you guys learned your lesson from the last time you tried to abduct us?”
“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Flaherty. Let me introduce ourselves. I’m Agent Norris and this is my associate, Agent Blanco.”
“The pleasure’s all yours, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps you’re not aware that Agents Myers and Sturges missed almost a full 24 hours of time. Their last memory before showing up at Travis AFB a day after they were expected was waking up in their car 10 miles out of San Roman on I-880 Thursday afternoon. They were escorting the two of you to Travis. You weren’t in the car when they woke up. A few phone calls confirmed you were back at school and here you are, no worse for wear. We want to know what happened, how it happened, why it happened.”
“We’re as mystified by all of this as you are. We can’t tell you what we don’t know,” I pleaded.
“That may be. But we want to take you back to Travis for a thorough debrief. We’ll use hypnotic memory recovery if necessary. This is a national security threat involving exo-biological entities with unknown motivation. It’s the patriotic thing to do. You can come willingly or not. Your choice.”
“Would you try to reverse my gender transformation?” I asked tremulously.
“We’ll try. They have some really advanced medical research going on under the auspices of the military. I’ve even heard rumors that they’ve dealt with this…uh…situation before with some abductees. Of course, I can’t give you any assurances.”
“Will you let Paul go if I consent to this?”
“As long as we’re confident he’s been as forthcoming as possible and we have no further need for his participation, yes, he can be released.”
I turned to Paul. “I’ll go with them if it means you can return to your normal life. Finish school, become a filmmaker, get married, have a family. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Don’t do it, Phil. They can’t force us. We’ll expose the whole deep state conspiracy before they can nab us. Your mom, my dad, they have access to the media. They’d never let them get away with it.”
“My life is over anyway, Paul. How can I ever lead a normal life after this? There is no Philippa Chang. I’m the monstrous creation of a deranged extraterrestrial.” I turned to the agents. “Let’s go. Promise you’ll let Paul go after you debrief him.”
“You have my word. For what it’s worth. I’m just a cog in the wheel but I’d try my best for your friend. The car is over there. Gentleman…and lady.”
As we settled into the back seat of the black sedan, Paul turned away from me, his voice choked and quivering.
“If only I hadn’t told you to look through that telescope. You would have just gone back downstairs. We wouldn’t be in this mess right now. I’m sorry, Phil.”
“It’s not your fault, Paul. Shakespeare was wrong. The fault is not in ourselves but in our stars.”
“Whoa! Step on the brake, Harry!”
“Where did she come from? She just appeared out of nowhere.”
It was the alien girl with the enormous blue eyes, standing in the middle of the road, that large dog, unleashed, crouched by her side.
“Marv, get out and see if she’s hurt. She’s not moving.”
Before Marv could open the car door, the large dog rose on its hind legs and walked toward us, the girl following behind. It was Miss Wolverton without her lab coat. The ray gun was in her right hand, pointed at the agents. A blinding light shot out of its muzzle and the agents
disappeared. Peering through the window on my side, she motioned for me to roll it down.
“A thousand apologies. I thought I was doing you a…what’s the word in your culture? Ah, yes, a mitzvah. However, I’ve caused more harm and disturbance than I calculated. My faculty advisors are very angry. I may need to be re-trained on off-world research procedures. It might mean another two years before I can qualify for a doctorate. Luckily, I have the capability of erasing my grievous errors. So, do not fear, I will return everything to its former state. I can’t undo events that have transpired but I can erase the memories of those events. And I can return you to your original gender. A word of advice though. You really should look into what your culture calls gender affirmation surgery. Farewell. Word to your mother.”
Another blinding light from her ray gun blasted me into blackness.
My alarm clock buzzed at exactly 8AM. I opened my eyes and sighed. Time to get up and face another day of classes. Why did I ever sign up for a 9 o’clock class on a Friday. Yeah, it was the only course on the 19th Century novel they were offering this semester but I could’ve waited until next Fall. I sat up in bed and slipped my feet into my flip flops. Yawning, I opened the door and blindly stumbled toward the bathroom. Finding the bathroom door closed, I banged on it.
“Ron, I know it’s you in there. Why do you take so long in the bathroom every morning. I’ve gotta piss real bad.”
The door swung open. Ron appeared, wiping the shaving cream off his face, his toothbrush sticking out of the side of his mouth. A look of annoyance was spread across his features.
“Because, unlike you, girly man, I have to shave every morning. Speaking of which, are you sure you’re a guy? You wear the baggiest clothes anyone’s ever seen. Even the t-shirt you’re wearing right now hangs almost down to your knees. It’s like a dress, for god’s sake.”
“Leave him alone, Ron. He just wants to take a piss. Do I have to keep you guys apart or what?” Paul was already dressed and ready to eat his usual breakfast downstairs in the dining hall.
“Bacon and eggs, toast, coffee, and Olga? The breakfast of champions. There’s a real man for you, Phyllis.” I ignored him and rushed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I sat myself down on the toilet and did my business.
“Betcha he sits down to pee, Pauly. Betcha a sawbuck.”
We were looking down on Clarissa sleeping peacefully in her toddler bed as I put on my jacket. It was 11PM and I was heading home. Philippa had just finished the recounting of her alien abduction dream. And, we had finished off half a bottle of Chianti doing it.
“So you see it was all an elaborate albeit vivid dream.”
I took Philippa’s arm and guided her out of Clarissa’s bedroom. It was necessary to do so as she was just a little tipsy from the wine.
“But there’s so much detail. And you remember almost everything in the dream. Do you frequently have such vivid dreams?”
“No, not really. Mostly I don’t even remember my dreams. It’s just this one that’s stayed with me for six years. Maybe because its theme is my own transgenderism.”
“Well, you and Paul should turn it into a movie.”
“Maybe we will. I’ve told Paul the dream several times over the years. He just laughs at it because it makes him out to be a real flake. A male bimbo almost.”
“Was there a real Olga?”
“Paul swears he never dated anyone named Olga. But I only roomed with him after our junior year. What he was up to before that, who knows?”
I climbed into my car and waved to Philippa before I pressed the ignition and drove off to Alastair’s Silverlake guest house.
The following week, when Paul returned from his New York trip to meet with Robert DeNiro, I asked him about Philippa’s strange dream. As his wife predicted, he laughed and said “she has a wild imagination, as you well know.”
But, he reached into a bookshelf next to his desk and pulled out a copy of The Stanford University College brochure for 2016.
“I did once check the Stanford website and found nothing. Which makes sense anyway since the online site is updated every year and for whatever reason there’s no pdf file for the 2016 brochure. However, I found this hard copy of it on eBay.”
He handed it to me and told me to flip through its pages, paying close attention to the model in the photos.
“There’s no model credit given but whoever that is looks a lot like what Philippa would’ve looked like if she had transitioned before 2016.”
I had to agree. The resemblance was uncanny, eerie in fact. That surely was Philippa. But Philippa was still Philip in 2016. The existence of these photos is impossible. I handed the brochure back to Paul. His voice took on an oddly wistful tone.
“I expected to see Rod Serling in a corner of the room, smirking, a lit cigarette dangling from the fingers of his left hand.”
The Lakers had just won Game 1 of this year’s NBA Finals. Half an hour after the 4th Quarter ended and the home crowd erupted in joyful, raucous cheers and chants, I was seated in a booth in The Palm Restaurant on Flower Street, two blocks from the curiously named Crypto.com Arena. It was packed with post-game diners and almost as noisy as the arena we’d just left.
I was sitting across from Alastair Knowles. It wasn’t clear who was the other’s guest at this highly sought-after game. Alastair was the Head of Production for GlobalNet, the world’s second biggest streaming service (NetFlix being the biggest). GlobalNet had a corporate skybox, but we had sat in the players’ family section. So, I guess I was the one who invited him. My stepson, Eliot Bradshaw was a “sixth man” for the Lakers, a 6’4” shooting guard. I’m sure Alastair enjoyed sitting closer to the court and ogling the wives and girlfriends of the Lakers players.
The Palm (or Downtown Palm to distinguish it from the newer Palm in Beverly Hills) had the décor of a cowtown steakhouse that was already quaint when it opened in 1926. Your mind could see wealthy cattle ranchers from the Palos Verdes Peninsula smoking cigars and sipping brandy, checking their gold-plated pocket watches from time to time as they shot the breeze with their friendly rivals. Alastair looked askance at my Chef’s salad while he inhaled his 16-ounce Bone-In Filet.
“Coming up for air, Al? You’re eating like you just played 4 quarters yourself.”
“All that cheering worked up a big appetite.”
“Cheering? You’re a Knicks fan. You hate the Lakers.”
Putting his finger to his lips, he shushed me. “Hey, we’re in enemy territory here. I’d like to survive dinner. These fine Angelenos root, root, root for the home team.”
“You know I’m not a sports fan, Al. If it wasn’t for Eliot…”
“By the way, where is the young lad? How long does it take to shower and dress, then walk two blocks?”
“He’s bringing his latest girlfriend. He met her here so I’ve yet to lay eyes on her. Would you believe she’s a doctor?”
“Could be serious. Bringing her to meet mom?” Alastair winked at me mischievously.
“Well, I’m his stepmom—”
“You raised him from the age of seven with Emily.”
“He was already in college when Emily passed. I’m more like a favorite aunt than a real mother—”
A hand landed on Alastair’s shoulder and we both looked up to see James Corden standing there in a Lakers hoodie. His eleven-year-old son Max was similarly attired, his arms folded over the Lakers logo.
“Alastair? You old reprobate. I saw you in the family section. Are you a wife of a player or...” He laughed. “…a husband?”
“Neither, James. I was the guest of my friend Joanne Prentiss. Joanne, James Corden and his son Max.” We exchanged friendly nods. I winked at the tow-headed Max, who made no secret of being bored by this inane adult chatter. “I say, old man, Max is the spitting image of you.”
“Don’t I know it. That’s why we keep well out of his way at the dinner table.”
“Ba-rump-bump!” Max interjected to everyone’s amusement.
“Everyone’s a critic. Excuse me if I offend. You’re not a member of the fourth estate are you, Joanne? A TV critic?”
“Oh, no. I used to actually work for a living.”
“Joanne was VP of Brand Strategy at our old place of employment,” Alastair proudly announced.
“I’m retired now. I figured I’d skedaddle before they pushed me out for a younger fool.”
“You’re retired? Alastair, for a moment, I thought you were up to your old tricks. Robbing the cradle again. Young lady, you look at least twenty years younger than this hoary, old bastard. No offense, Al.”
“None taken, James. By the way, you’re looking rather svelte yourself. Whatever regime you’re on, it’s working.”
“Well, let me put it this way, Al and Joanne, my wife Julia is fucking tired of me wearing her Spanx.” With that, he and Max shuffled off to their booth. I think I heard another “ba-rump-bump” as they receded into the distance.
“We thought of James to play Willy Wonka in a re-make of the old classic with Gene Wilder. And he was perfect for it. But Paramount owns the rights…”
“Alastair, that was my idea! Not James Corden but re-making the movie and bundling that with a chain of kiddie restaurants called The Chocolate Factory. We could have made billions!”
“I know, Jo. I always said you were a marketing genius. Too bad the old Australian thought the price was too dear to acquire the rights. I voted to do it, remember?”
“So you just decided to steal my idea and take full credit for it? What a friend.”
He took my hand and squeezed. “It didn’t come to anything anyway. But if it had been greenlighted, I would have shared credit with you. This was before you retired. It would have been dicey, seeing we worked for rival companies. I was going to suggest you leave them and work for us as a special consultant. Maybe be one of the executive producers.”
I looked into his “lying eyes” as the song goes and knew he was spinning a fable. But I forgave him. After all, we’d been friends for over twenty-five years, colleagues for almost fifteen of those. And, to be honest, he was damned good looking. For an older man, that is. (Actually, he’s three years younger!) I remember when he first came over from CBS as a junior staffer in the programming department. He’d been a news producer for CBS News, had even worked with Ed Bradley for a year. I had just transitioned and was admittedly self-conscious about my appearance. Surprisingly, within a month of working together, he asked me out. I declined in my mousey way, scared of dating a man or a woman for that matter. Just scared basically. Recently, Alastair showed me a photo of me from that time. He’s the long-haired, bearded guy behind me, his face in profile.
I made it a point to not deceive anyone who wanted to get to know me. So, I told him I was a post-op transwoman. He shrugged, smiled his million dollar smile at me, and declared he already knew. He was still interested in dating me. But I wasn’t ready. The years passed and we both moved on. I met and partnered, then married Emily. He met and married an actress famous for starring in Quentin Tarantino movies. But we remained very close friends. And now—
Several of the Lakers came ambling into the restaurant, wives or girlfriends on their arms. As they passed our booth, a few stopped to exchange greetings with Alastair. Lebron James, towering above our booth, shook our hands and promised to give Alastair a call after the Finals. He has his own production company and had several projects on the front burner. As if a cartoon lightbulb had lit up above his head, he stopped listening to Alastair and stared at me, a wide grin on his face.
“You’re Eliot’s mom! He introduced you at The Garden in New York. January, right?” I nodded and smiled in reply. “From what he’s told me, you’re a way cool mom. Are you in LA just to see him play in the Finals?”
“I’m here for a while. Alastair, here, has hired me to write a movie script. Silly man…”
“You’re a writer now? Hey, I’ve got a bunch of TV projects in development. Maybe you can bounce some concepts off my group. Let’s set up a meeting—”
“Hey, Lebron, don’t go poaching my talent, will ya? She’s going to be writing this script for the foreseeable future.”
“She’s a free agent, isn’t she? You got her locked up in your basement or something?”
“Well, Alastair’s putting me up in his guest house. It’s a little more comfortable than a dungeon—”
“My ex had it fixed up in Modern Dungeon so don’t complain, Jo,” said Alastair with a straight face. It took Lebron a second or two to realize Al was joking.
“Did you see Eliot before you came out?” I asked Lebron.
“Oh, yeah. He had to meet up with his lady. He’ll be here in a few. The guy scores twenty-two off the bench, the media’s all over him. It’s all good. Best trade we’ve made since I’ve been here. Hey, my family’s waving at me. Gotta go. Al, Joanne, nice to meet you…again.”
A parade of industry types stopped to chat up Alastair and pretty much ignored me. It’s times like these when being a woman in Hollywood has its drawbacks. It’s still a business dominated by men. Maybe not as much an old boys club as in years past but, unless you’re a box-office magnet on screen or a producer/creator, they tend to dismiss you as either arm candy or the “little woman.” So, it was the perfect opportunity for my life to flash before my eyes. Or, at least, the last six months.
After Christmas dinner with my sister’s family, I drove home toward the southeast tip of Long Island to my house in Southampton. The night sky was clear enough to show off its blanket of twinkling stars. I reflected on the day that was soon turning to Christmas Day. It was a day to put Christmases past, present and future in perspective. I thought of my sister, her husband and the three generations of a loving family with whom I had just shared a wonderful dinner. I thought of my partner Emily who must be waiting to reunite with me in whatever the afterlife is, if there really is one. I thought of Jocelyn, who had had the great fortune to be supported and championed by a good mother who, this time, chose to heed her better angels. I thought of Elizabeth, who redeemed herself by being selfless in giving her child unconditional love. She didn’t have to apologize to me. I hope she is in a place in her life where she can forgive herself. And finally, I thought of Joseph Prentiss, that lost soul who discovered herself after 30 years of confusion and frustration, becoming Joanne Prentiss.
The new year rolled into the Eastern Seaboard with record snowfall and low temperatures. The entire month of January was a desert of snow piled two feet high in some places as snow fell almost every other day. It was a good month to stay indoors. And I had so many things to repair, paint, and patch around the house I had purchased the summer before but had barely lived in. I had taken on a consulting assignment with a cable station relaunch in Boston that lasted from September to Christmas. That’s how I got to meet Jocelyn or Joey as she likes to be called, Elizabeth’s transgender daughter, now a doctor in her second year of residency at Tufts Medical Center. It was Joey who implored me to visit with her mother Elizabeth, my long ago first and greatest love. It had been 30 years since she abandoned me to pursue her medical ambitions and savaged my self-esteem, almost destroying my self-image. Five years later, after counseling and hormone treatment, I elected to have the gender-affirming surgery that turned my life around. A brief visit with Elizabeth on Christmas Eve and that’s where I decided to leave it. To bury my past. To only look forward from now on.
It was morning on the last Saturday in January, and I was applying some varnish on a couple of wicker chairs I had picked up for cheap at an estate sale in neighboring Northampton last summer. I was dressed comically like Lucy Arnaz in dirty, torn jeans, a paint-stained plaid shirt, and my hair was wrapped in a kerchief. A colorful kerchief, mind you. The doorbell rang. Wiping my hands as well as I could on a convenient rag, I rushed to the front door, thinking it was an Amazon delivery. I didn’t want the delivery guy dropping it in a puddle of melted snow and waltzing away.
I opened the door, breathless, and saw Alastair Knowles standing there all dapper and dry in his favored Burberry. He burst out laughing uncontrollably as I turned a shade of burnt orange.
“Is the madam of the house in?” he managed to ask between guffaws.
“Alastair! I must look a mess. Come in. Come in. It’s freezing out there.”
“What brings you to the wilds of Long Island in the middle of winter?” I asked as I hung his coat on a hook on the foyer wall.
“Do I need a reason to see my best girl?”
“You’re a comedian. Didn’t I see you at the Golden Globes with that young thing who’s starring in that sci-fi series on GlobalNet?”
“Strictly business. You know she actually asked us if she could bring her mother from Bakersfield instead of me. I reminded her too much of her stepfather. He’s doing 10 to 20 in Victorville for armed robbery.”
I motioned Alastair to sit on the couch and I almost sat on one of the wicker chairs. Just before I got varnish all over my backside, I sidestepped the chair and tried to gracefully lean against the dinner table. But my hands were uselessly trying to reach behind me to grip something, anything, and I stumbled backwards. Alastair leapt from the couch and caught me before I landed on the floor. I looked up at his handsome face, graying beard and all, and blinked. He held me like that for a long moment before he stood me upright. His arms still around me, I thanked him wordlessly. My eyes flashed on his.
“I asked you out almost thirty years ago, Jo. Do you ever think what would’ve happened if you had simply said yes?”
We moved to the couch, sitting at either end, facing each other.
“Al, I just had an encounter with my past that was unexpected and ultimately unwanted. I’m not going to dissect my past choices or those of others anymore. It’s a waste of time. I’m almost 60. I realize how precious time is now.”
“You saw Elizabeth in Boston, didn’t you?”
“Yes, her daughter Jocelyn asked me to see her. It was a brief, uncomfortable visit. I kind of regret agreeing to see her. But Jocelyn was…persuasive.”
“Daughter? But you told me she had a son. They even named him after you. Joseph is a common name though—”
“She’s transgender. Had the surgery when she turned 18.” Alastair whistled.
“Talk about cosmic irony. What did she want?”
“Forgiveness, I suppose.”
“And did you forgive her?”
“I didn’t need her to apologize to me. If thinking I forgive her gives her peace of mind…”
“I forgave you” Alastair quietly said.
“Alastair, you’re a dear but I did nothing to apologize for. I wasn’t ready for anything romantic at the time. I had just transitioned. I’ve always treasured you as a friend…”
“But you never wanted to have sex with me,” he said with a bitter sadness.
“I feel like I’m talking to a teenage boy. Come off it, Al. You’ve been married, had dozens of affairs, with some beautiful women. Some a bit too young for you but nevermind—”
“You shut me down, Jo. Then you got together with Emily. I’m a normal man. I need…companionship. Lulu was exciting, beautiful, carefree. I was smitten. But I never would have married her if we had developed a deeper relationship.”
“I didn’t know your feelings for me were that intense.”
“Oh, you did too. It’s what you women do. Play with men’s hearts.” I laughed and pointed at the smile that started to grow from the corners of his mouth.
“Okay. That’s purple prose from one of our latest movies. Piece of crap but it draws eyeballs. Mostly women 25 to 54.”
“Well, that leaves me out. That crap won’t work on me, mister.” I laughed again.
“Let’s get down to brass tacks, Jo. I had to fly in for a meeting yesterday and I’m not expected back in the office until Monday. I’m like a sailor on shore leave with a whole two days to explore New York City with my best gal. So, what do you say? Get yourself prettied up and let’s hit the town. I got tickets to “The Katzenjammer Kids” at the Schubert tonight. You don’t want to know what I had to do to get those tickets on such short notice.” He winked at me.
So, I excused myself and took a quick shower, picked out a nice warm outfit, and put my warpaint on. When I finally emerged, I discovered Alastair had rolled up his sleeves and finished varnishing the wicker chairs. Carefully, I avoided the brush in his hand and gave him a peck on the cheek. He dropped the brush and gave me a long, deep, swoon-worthy kiss. And that’s how it all started.
For the rest of that winter Alastair would spend every other weekend in New York and we spent a lot of time together, going to shows, high-toned restaurants, smokey, badly lit jazz clubs (and a couple of hip hop concerts just to experience them – a bit of a disappointment really), art galleries in Soho, and cocktail parties with the hoi-polloi of New York society. At every venue I was on his arm. New York just assumed I was Alastair Knowles’ woman. A reporter from NPR even asked to interview me for a piece they were doing on important entertainment figures—Alastair being the famous one, me as the long-suffering domestic partner. I demurred, stifling a laugh, as she walked away, shaking her head at me.
It’s equally hilarious and disturbing to see “candid” photos of yourself in The New York Post while you’re simply walking to the corner bodega or drug store, dressed in comfortable, everyday clothes, without makeup. Of course, in most of the photos, I was walking with Alastair and seen exiting his West Village apartment building. The only good photo opportunity they took was the weekend Alastair and I volunteered our time to help The North Shore Animal League semi-annual pet rescue drive. Still, I despise the paparazzi.
I will admit we appeared to act like a couple of newlyweds. In public, we often displayed the easy affection of young lovers in the full bloom of passionate romance. Of course, in reality, we were both in our fifties, at the age when most other humans are doting grandparents, eagerly anticipating those early bird dinners in sunny South Florida. And speaking of full bloom, it wasn’t until late in April, a month into Spring, that the specter of sex between us reared its ugly head. Well, all right, it’s not ugly. It’s kind of cute, really.
You might think it’s weird or at least abnormal for a 58-year-old woman to act like a virginal teenager, but I had never had sex with a man. And the only sexual partners I ever had were all women…I could count them on the fingers of that turn of the 20th century baseball pitcher Three-Finger Mordecai Brown’s right hand. Alastair was very keen to have sex with me, you can imagine. I wanted to as well, but at my own pace. So, we started sleeping in his bed at his flat, a practical measure since I was staying in the city all weekend when he was in town. Just sleeping together. Maybe a little cuddling. Just a little.
One time, returning home after another cocktail party at Robert De Niro’s duplex, ostensibly gathering patrons of The New York Film Festival to “discuss” organizational issues, Alastair tried to take advantage of my expansive mood (there were so many celebrities there!) by plying me with glasses of vodka and Sprite but I fell into a deep sleep right there on his divan. He told me ruefully the next morning that I snored loudly most of the night. Quite unladylike, he sniffed. When I snapped back at him that he could have had the courtesy to close my mouth, he simply replied that he was too drunk to successfully locate my mouth in the dark.
We kissed a lot. In public and in private. But that just frustrated Alastair no end. Sometimes he’d act all pissy about it, briefly giving me the silent treatment. I endured his little tantrums because I knew his mood would pivot on a dime. One moment he’d be a sullen child, the next he’d make me laugh by singing silly song parodies like his version of “Mr. Blue” by The Fleetwoods. He’d gavotte around the flat warbling, “I’m Mr. Blue Balls,” until I begged him to stop. Then he’d insist I sit down at his piano and sing his favorite Linda Ronstadt song, “Love Has No Pride.” It’s funny but that’s when I felt most in love with him. Singing this sad song of unrequited love to him with his puppy dog eyes staring into mine.
One of the biggest social events of the year in New York is The Met Gala. Held on the first Monday in May, it’s a charity ball and dinner that raises funds for The Metropolitan Museum’s Costume Institute. Everyone who is anyone gets an invitation, not only fashion industry titans. Celebrities as diverse as Britney Spears, Lizzo, Megan Thee Stallion and Hilary Clinton show up to get their faces and fashion choices splashed across the pages of Vogue Magazine. Of course, Alastair got an invite. And, of course, he wanted me to be his date. Actually, for the purposes of this event, he was MY date since my fashion choices would be scrutinized, his less so. Every gala has a theme, highlighting a period in fashion history, American or worldwide. One year everyone was supposed to show up in some sort of iteration of Ming Dynasty court apparel. This year the theme was “Gilded Glamor and White Tie.” With that kind of ambiguity, your mileage may vary. Alastair arranged the works for me. Hair, makeup, a fashion consultation, the whole kit and kaboodle. I felt like a Barbie doll the whole day of the Gala as teams of fashion surgeons put me on their operating table. On the other hand, Alastair only had to manage the taking a thorough shower, combing his hair, and putting on an ill-fitting suit that he could have purchased off the rack. This was worse than the red carpet at award shows. But, at the end of the day, I think we looked spiffy. Alastair told me I looked beautiful. He lies a lot.
All the way home in the limo, Alastair nuzzled my neck and kept saying I looked beautiful. The driver was sneaking peeks at the rear-view mirror. I playfully slapped Alastair’s hands, whispering that the driver was ogling us.
“Let’s give him a real show.”
“I think you ought to loosen your tie. It’s cutting off blood to your brain.”
“It’s redirecting it to other parts of the body, babe.” He took my hand and placed it on the front of his pants. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Save it for later, honey.” I kept my hand down there.
“No more Mr. Blue?”
“If you’re a good boy, you’ll get a treat.”
“Driver, step on it!”
Truth be told, I was glad to resolve this issue between us. Three months into our relationship, I was ready, willing and able to take the next step. I was pretty sure Alastair would be a sensitive, gentle lover. And I honestly wanted to make love to him. He could be so sweet and caring. I felt treasured. What more could a woman ask for in a man?
Afterwards, amazed by the intensity of my climaxes (plural, yes!), I expected Alastair to roll over and fall asleep. But there would be pillow talk. So, we cuddled and, out of the blue, he asked me what I planned to do with my time now that I was retired.
“I was going to expand my stamp collection.” He laughed. “And then I’m going to have multiple simultaneous affairs with younger men. Just for the sex. You’ve helped me turn a corner.”
“No, seriously.”
“I’m serious. I wasn’t expecting sex with a man would be so…nice. You deserve a slap on the back.”
“I was thinking you should write. Weren’t you a few credits short of a PhD in English?”
“I didn’t complete my Doctoral Thesis. I was through with classwork. Write? What, literary criticism?”
“No, fiction.”
“The great American novel? That’s what Elizabeth wanted me to write.”
“Your own life is stranger than fiction. Also more wonderful. Inspirational even.”
“No one wants to read about my life. What have I achieved? What are my successes? I’m just an average working slob.”
“You achieved yourself. You successfully became the woman you’ve always been meant to be. And you’re goddam beautiful.” He kissed me and his hardness pressed against my thigh as he turned me toward him.
“You’re saying all this just to get in my pants.”
“Already done that.”
“Oh, yeah. Got me there.” I stroked him with my left hand as I pushed my tongue into his mouth. He disentangled our lips to speak.
“You’ve told me so much about your life in the last three months. Things you never told me before. You need to write it down. You could do an autobiography…”
“I wouldn’t feel right doing that. Other people’s privacy. I don’t have an axe to grind. That kind of writing is either personal hagiography as if the writer is an absolute angel or a collection of malicious attacks on people.”
“You could do it as a roman a clef. Give everyone fictional names. Just use the outline of your experiences. You don’t have to use real names. If you’re worried about getting sued…”
“Shhh. Make love to me, Alastair. Don’t talk.” I kissed him to silence him. I rolled on top of him and put him inside me. He didn’t utter another word. Nothing intelligible anyway.
Alastair wouldn’t drop the idea of writing a treatment of my life story, despite my stated disinterest in it. I wanted to let the past stay in the past. Why rehash the wrong turns, bad decisions, misunderstandings, and miscalculations that lead up to the present? Celebrate what has gone right, what gives you joy today, what makes you ready to face the day each and every morning. I told Alastair I could write sonnets, plays, novels, Proustian tomes about our happiness, our growing love. But I couldn’t bring myself to write my life story.
Humor me, he said. He sat me down on his divan, having borrowed a lighting kit from a friend at Silvercup Studios, and shot a video of me with his iPhone. Giving me a glass of Chablis, he coaxed me into giving a precis of my life story. He acted as an off-camera interviewer, prompting me for details at certain junctures in my recitation. The wine made me voluble, almost fearless, as the words tumbled out of me. At more than one point, my eyes welled up with tears. Dramatically, Alastair handed me a Kleenex from off-camera. When we finished, he hugged me and carried me to the bed.
“Hey, it’s not even dinner time.”
“We’ll eat later. Much later.”
“I’m the Head of Production, Jo. They pay me a lot of money to make decisions on content.”
“I thought you were half-joking about this. I’ve never written a screenplay. I wouldn’t know how to start.”
We were closing up my house, making sure all the windows were shut and doors securely locked. Alastair had arranged to have a security system installed so if anyone tried to break in while I was away, they’d be observed, and the police notified. He estimated it would take at least three months to complete a workable draft of the screenplay I was now contracted to write.
“You’ll have a writing partner. Someone who is intimately familiar with transgender life experience.”
“You mean a transwoman?”
“Yeah, she and her husband are a filmmaking team. She writes, he directs. You’ll meet them next week after you’re settled in.”
“Have I ever heard of them?”
“Her husband won an animation Oscar for “Princess Butterfly” a few years back…”
“I remember seeing that. It was cute. Didn’t know she was trans.”
“Our flight takes off at 11. We ought to get going.” I looked around at the house I’ve barely lived in. Three months in Boston. Alternate weekends in Alastair’s flat in the city. Who knows? I might come back just to sell it. I shouldn’t have bought those wicker chairs. I’ll donate them to some charity shop, I guess.
“Let’s go.” I took Alastair’s arm, walked out of the house and into the future.
“Tired, babe?”
I looked at Alastair, a quizzical expression on his face.
“You zoned out for a minute there.”
“I was just daydreaming.”
“About happy things, I hope. Like your stepson Eliot. He’s coming in through the door right now.” I turned around in the booth to get a view of the front door. “And that looks like the girlfriend in question. Very pretty for a doctor, I’d say.”
“Oh my god, that’s Jocelyn. Joey Petry!”
I suppose I expected Joey to show up at Alastair’s house on Hidalgo Avenue in the Silver Lake section of Los Angeles wearing a white coat, stethoscope dangling as she moved, just as she appeared when I first set eyes on her in an urgent care center in North Boston that cold week before Christmas. Of course, I had just seen her the night before at The Palm with her new beau, my pro basketball player stepson, Eliot. And she was wearing an outfit befitting the beautiful girlfriend of a professional athlete these days. Black leather jacket, crop tee with the Lakers logo in rhinestones, black skinny jeans, and 5 inch heels! Do doctors wear this when they go out on the town? I guess in Hollywood they do.
When I answered the door, Joey stood in an oversized cream-colored blazer, plain white tee, and somewhat baggy jeans (she was wearing sensible flats!).
“Sorry I’m a little late—”
“Nonsense. You’re a doctor. It’s not a clock-in, clock-out 9 to 5 job. Let me take your jacket. The air conditioner isn’t working that well. I don’t think Alastair’s used it in a few years.”
“Actually I got here in plenty of time. I thought you were staying in the big house. No one answered the doorbell. I must have stood there for fifteen minutes. Stupid of me not to remember that you said you were staying in the guest house.”
“Sit on the sofa. It’s more comfy than it looks. Alastair wanted me to stay with him.” I must have blushed. “But, we’re not…that way. I mean, we’re very close, don’t misunderstand. We’ve been intimate.” I blushed again. “Anyway, I told Alastair in no uncertain terms that I viewed this temporary stay in LA as a business assignment. He’s hired me to write my life story as a mini-series for GlobalNet—”
“Yes, Alastair filled me in while you and Eliot were deep in conversation last night.”
“Well, Eliot is my stepson and I haven’t seen him since he got traded from the Knicks in January…”
“That wasn’t a complaint, Joanne. Eliot loves you as much as Emily, he told me. It’s a shame…”
“Shame? Why?”
“Women like you and me can’t have our own children. From what Eliot tells me, you’ve been a great mother to him.”
“That’s nice of him to say that. I love him dearly as well. Do sit down. I’ll get us an aperitif. Have you ever had a spritz?”
“What’s a spritz? she asked cautiously…” I laughed. Suddenly I felt like a chic housewife in a ‘60s TV sitcom.
“It’s…” Counting with my fingers. “…1/3 prosecco, 1/3 Campari, and 1/3 sparkling water. Your mother taught me the recipe, oh, over 30 years ago—”
“That’s the first time you’ve mentioned my mother. I can see why now. Alastair’s quite an impressive catch.”
“He’s a nice man. And I’ve known him for over 25 years. We worked together at FOX.” There was an awkward silence. “We’re having Cobb Salad for dinner. You’re not vegan are you? You know if you are, I can just remove the bacon and chicken from your portion.”
“No, I’m quite carnivorous and intend to stay that way. Cobb Salad sounds great. Mom never taught me much cooking. I guess mothers usually don’t expect their sons to learn how to cook.”
“My mother did and I was male in body until my thirties. She thought everyone should learn to be self-sufficient that way.”
“Even if mom wanted to teach me, she wouldn’t have had the time. Both my parents, being doctors, rarely had the free time to teach me the finer arts of survival.”
“That’s sad.” I handed her a glass of spritz and sat back down on the easy chair across from the sofa. “Elizabeth sacrificed a great deal to become a doctor. She dedicated herself to her profession. I’m sure she did a lot of good as a pediatrician and bettered the lives of countless children. She was always brilliant.”
“I guess she tried to be the best mother she could, given the circumstances. This is pretty tasty. Did you and mom drink a lot?”
“Is that a subtle swipe at a Gen Xer from a Millennial?”
“My dad drank a fair amount, especially in the years before their divorce. I suppose they broke up because of my…situation.”
“Don’t blame yourself…ever! You are not the reason they split. If your father were much of a father, he’d have been supportive and loving instead of essentially rejecting his own daughter. As a pediatrician, he should know you can’t go around blaming the patient.”
“I wish you had been my mother.” The last statement lay there like a boulder in the middle of a roadway. I didn’t know what to say in response. I sipped my spritz to stall for time.
“It’s funny, I hate driving. Born and raised in New York City, you know. Took mass transit everywhere. They run the trains 24 hours a day. Did you know that? Well, here I am in LA and Alastair expects me to get around by myself. He travels almost half the time. Not always on business. He’s spent every other weekend in New York with me since February.” I paused to gauge Joey’s reaction. She had none. I continued, acting a little ditzy for effect. “So he gave me the keys to his Audi…it’s a red convertible, 2011 I think he said. It was a birthday gift for his ex. She barely put a thousand miles on that car. He wants me to know the streets like the back of my hand. Easy for him to say—”
“I know. I’ve been here since January and the only route I’m dead sure of is getting onto Sunset Boulevard north to get to work at the hospital. If I could afford it, I’d ditch my car and just uber it.” She took a final sip of her spritz.
“So I strap myself in, with the top down, wrap my hair in a kerchief, wearing my Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, and proceed to drive north on Glendale. Alastair told me there’s a Whole Foods around here. He’s got nothing in his refrigerator. Typical single man, right? He’s such a teaser too. Said I’ll cause traffic accidents driving around dressed like that in an open car. He’s such a darling.”
“When I get to Whole Foods, I’m flabbergasted at the prices. I mean $2.89 for a simple quart of milk? Okay, it’s organic but…really? So I decide to try Trader Joe’s on Hyperion. Terrible what happened there a few years ago. Remember that? Well, anyway, their prices were more reasonable. Mission accomplished, I drove straight home. So I stocked the refrigerator here and put some things in Alastair’s next door. Tomorrow, I think I’ll drive south on Sunset all the way to Echo Park. I’ll probably pass your hospital. I’ll wave as I drive by.” I giggled.but stopped when I realized Joey hadn’t really been listening.
“Actually, you could have been my father as well. I don’t think my mother ever got over the irony of having a transgender child.” I was silent. “You must hate her a great deal. I don’t blame you. I hate her sometimes too. Like when she sent me away to live with my grandparents after I had the surgery. Just for three months she said.”
“This was when you were 18?” I found an opening to say something, insignificant as it was.
“Yeah, I had it done at the first opportunity. The week after I graduated from high school. It took 8 weeks for me to heal enough to get out of the house. I didn’t even dare go to the mall. I was more worried about the pain of having to face kids I knew than the pain in my newly reconfigured body. I guess mom thought sending me to DC to stay with my grands would get me back to normal life. My mom’s older sister and my cousins lived in DC too. She had taken over the emergency pediatric clinic at Tufts after daddy abruptly resigned. I’m sure it was too much for her, 12 hour days at the clinic and coming home to a shellshocked child too scared to go outside.”
Standing up, I took her empty glass and motioned to the dinner table. “Let’s eat. We can continue the conversation over dinner…if you want to. I don’t want to invade your privacy.”
“Telling you all of this seems therapeutic. As if I was talking to my counselor back in the years before I transitioned. Despite everything, we really are strangers, aren’t we? You can listen to me in a professional, detached manner.”
“I hope you can think of me as a friend not a professional stranger with a mere clinical interest in you.”
“Thank you, Joanne, I do. Given your feelings about mom—”
“Let’s talk about you, okay?” I placed the diinner plate in front of her. “Dig in. It’s one of my best dishes. Alastair liked it. Then again, what could he say?” I laughed.
During our dinner and late into the evening until she left because her shift started at 8 the next morning, she started to tell me what transpired after she left Boston ostensibly to spend three months living with her grandparents in Washington, D.C.
When I told my mom that I’d rather take the Amtrak down to Gran’s in Washington, she hesitated responding for a long minute.
“But that’s an 8 hour ride, Joey. The plane takes less than 2 hours, “ she noted as I was putting my new girl clothes into my new black leather backpack.
“Don’t shove things in there! They’ll get terribly wrinkled. I don’t know why you don’t like the Samsonite case with the wheels I bought for you. I even found one in pink—”
“Mom, I’m not dragging around a pink suitcase behind me like some blonde bimbo from a Hollywood rom-com. And I can stretch out on the train, go from car to car, or read stuff on my kindle. Maybe even watch the scenery go by. I don’t like flying. You know that, mom.”
She drove me to South Station in Boston to catch the 10:22 train to DC and watched me walk all the way until I disappeared up the ramp through the entrance. I’m sure we were both tearing up but, proudly stoic, “I turned my face into the wind” and took the first determined strides on the path of my secret mission.
I had researched all the details for weeks. When the train made its scheduled stop in New York at Penn Station in just under four hours, I knew which subway to take to reach Morningside Heights. I had planned to purchase a Metrocard online before leaving home but that wasn’t possible. New York City didn’t have the technical capability to sell Metrocards online. What a nuisance! So I waited on line to use one of the vending machines. The backpack was heavy and the straps were cutting into my shoulders as I scanned the choices on the screen. Finally, after I heard some grumbles behind me, I selected the 7-day card. There goes $30 I’ll never get back.
Twenty minutes later I climbed up the steps of the West 116th Street & Broadway subway stop and emerged into the warm afternoon sunshine of an early September day. I walked through the Columbia University campus to reach Amsterdam Avenue. On the corner of Amsterdam and 114th Street stood the goal of my quest. A non-descript apartment building, only six stories tall, not quite a classic brownstone. But first, I took my cell phone out to call Gran.
“Hello?”
“Gran, it’s me, Joey.”
“Sweetie, is there a problem? Are you calling from the train? You sound like you’re outdoors.”
“Yeah, well, I took a detour, Gran. I’m in New York City. I’m going through with the plan I told you and Grandad about—”
“No, Joey, your mother will be worried about you. What’ll I tell her if she calls?”
“Tell her I’m staying with my friend Julia for a couple of days. She knows Julia started Columbia this week. Tell her I did it on a whim but I’ll be in DC by the weekend.”
“Do you have money, dear?”
“You can be under 35 and have a credit card, Gran. Anyway, I just wanted to confirm with you. Grandad doesn’t have to pick me up at Union Station.”
“The old fool is out playing golf right now. I’ll tell him when he waddles back in later this afternoon. Be safe, honey. New York is a dangerous place for a young girl alone—”
“Thanks, Gran. For calling me a girl…”
“But you are, sweetie. You were always my beautiful granddaughter. It took a while for everyone to realize what I knew when I first held you in my arms as a little baby. You had your mother’s eyes and her crooked little smile. So sweet—”
“Gotta go, Gran. Love you. Bye.” I crossed the street and with deliberate steps walked into the vestibule and scanned the buzzers searching for Joanne Prentiss’ apartment. The door swung open and startled me. Standing behind me, towering above me, was a lanky African American boy about my age, wearing a Columbia warm-up suit and sneakers, switching a basketball from one hand to the other.
“Can I help you?”
“Do you know what apartment Joanne Prentiss is in? I don’t see her name here.”
“Yeah, she’s my mother.” That threw me for a loop. Were we talking about the same person? It wasn’t possible for her to have a child. And an African American one to boot.
“Maybe I made a mistake. The Joanne Prentiss I’m looking for is married to someone…” I took a quick look at my cell phone. “someone named Emily Bradshaw?”
“Yeah, that’s my other mother. I’m Eliot Bradshaw, their son.”
“Is Joanne at home?”
“Nah, you just missed her. She left on a business trip to Chicago this morning. Could be gone for two, three weeks. She’s a cable TV executive. But, do you want to see Emily? Maybe she can help you. Whatever it is you need from Joanne…”
“Maybe. I’m here. Might as well. I just came down from Boston like an hour ago. I thought I could just see her and then stay with a friend overnight. She’s in one of the dorms.”
“Let’s go. Mom’s in her office right now. I’ll walk you over and get you through with my ID. Then I’ve got to head over to the gym for practice. I’m a captain on the team this year. Can I carry your backpack for you. It looks a little heavy.”
“It’s okay. I can handle it. I’m staying with my grands for three months. Pretty much everything I own is packed in there.” I laughed as we crossed the street and entered the campus. “What’s it like having two mothers?”
“Don’t have anything to compare it to. My biological father – Mr. Bradshaw – left us when I was a toddler and Joanne’s been with us since I was 7 so…I don’t know. It’s kind of normal for me, I guess. What about you? You got the stereotypical mom/dad setup?”
“My parents are divorced. Dad lives in Seattle now. It’s just me and mom working the south forty.”
“You farmers?”
“I’m just joking. I’ve got a weird sense of humor. You’ll have to forgive me. My mind works in mysterious ways.”
“You sound like some of my friends here at Columbia. I’m lost sometimes when they talk.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating. I couldn’t get into Columbia like you. My grades wouldn’t pass muster. I’m going to Amherst in January. Kind of a clerical reason I’m starting late.”
“Me? I’m just a jock. I’m good at hoops. Really, I’m a legacy admission. Courtesy of Joanne. She and her father both went to Columbia.”
“Not at the same time hopefully.” There was a pause before Eliot laughed.
“Here’s Hamilton Hall. Mom’s office is on the second floor. I’ll get you in with my ID.”
At the elevator, Eliot bade his farewells and dribbled his basketball past the security guard, who shook his head but then high-fived him on the way out.
Her office door was open. I rapped on the door and she peered up from her desk. A pleasant looking woman with her brown hair in a tight, almost shag cut, looking like a sitcom mom more than a college professor.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Hi, Professor Bradshaw? I’m Jocelyn Petry. I came to the city really looking for Joanne Prentiss but your son told me she just left town. My mother was an old acquaintance of hers. Dr. Elizabeth Greene Petry—”
“Oh my lord. No. Can’t be. But you’re a boy. I mean Elizabeth had a son. Didn’t she? Are you another child. Is Joey your brother?” she spluttered in shock. “Sit down, please. Let me look at you.” She stood up and stood over me as I sat down, her face full of surprise and confusion.
“It’s a little complicated. Yes, I’m her son. But I’m her daughter now. Does that make sense?”
“You’re transgender? Have you had the surgery?”
“About three months ago. When I turned 18.” She started to laugh and turned away toward the window.
“Excuse me for laughing. It’s not funny. But such cosmic irony. There is a God, after all.”
I started to get up and leave. “I’ll go now. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“No, please. Forgive me. Please, sit down. You have nothing to do with what happened between your mom and Joanne 25 years ago. I’m just finding it difficult to digest.” She turned back to the window. “How can I help you? Joanne’s in Chicago. She’ll be there for a good two weeks.”
“I’m leaving for Washington, probably in a couple of days, myself. My mom thought I’d adjust better if I lived with my grandparents for a while. You know, because I wouldn’t be constantly reminded of my past self. Everyone would just accept me as a girl. I hadn’t expected Joanne wouldn’t be home. I…I just wanted to meet her. To talk to her about what we have in common. Mom’s been fine, very supportive. But she can’t know what it’s like to suddenly transition. Joanne would know, obviously.”
“Joanne could tell you a few things about your mother you wouldn’t want to hear. Listen, you’re welcome to stay with my son and me until you leave for DC. I assume you didn’t tell your mom you were coming to see Joanne.”
“No, but my grands know and they’re behind me 100%. It’s something I felt I needed to do. And she could really give me some great advice.”
“Look, I’ve got a class in fifteen minutes. Sit in on it and afterwards you can come home with me. We’ll have dinner and I can answer any questions you might have after dinner. Okay?”
“Sure. What’s the class about?”
“The Lake Poets. English Romantic poets from the early 19th century. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey. Today we’re concentrating on Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy, who was unpublished during her lifetime but was quite a poet in her own right.”
“Ugh. I’ll just sit in the back and read something on my kindle.”
“Not a liberal arts prospect, huh?”
“I’m planning on pre-med. I’d like to be a doctor—”
“Like both your parents. Well, it’s a useful profession. Does your mother still paint?”
“She doesn’t have time.”
After dinner, Emily told me what you had told her about your transitional years, your relationship with my mother, and she recounted her life with you, first in a civil union and then a same-sex marriage just that past July when it became legal in New York State. She extended an open invitation to me to visit again when you were home. She went to call your hotel room in Chicago. I stopped her and asked her not to tell you that I had been to see you. I figured there wasn’t any magical advice you could impart to me to make my transition smoother. We were all individuals with many things in common but many other things in divergence as well. She acquiesced but sincerely wanted to have me visit again.
I called my friend Julia who had just begun her freshman year at Columbia. I had already arranged to stay overnight with her in her dorm room in Carman Hall. She was excited to view the “new” me, not having seen me since our high school graduation. Her roommate had already found a boy to play with and wasn’t expected back until morning at the earliest. Julia said she’d meet me in the lobby and gave me directions to Carman Hall.
Emily made me promise to stay an extra day in the city. Eliot’s team had a pre-season scrimmage with Fordham University the evening of the day after next and family and friends of the players were welcome to attend. Eliot told me I just had to watch him shoot his silky smooth three-pointers. I was warmed by their immediate acceptance of me. So, I agreed to stay until Thursday. Eliot walked me over to Carman Hall, a short distance away in a corner of the campus.
The look on Julia’s face when she saw me in the lobby was priceless. A mixture of surprise, shock, and tenderness. We rode up the elevator in decorous silence, as there were three other students in the car. She did trade smirks with me. We burst into her dorm room, laughing so hard we had to hold our aching sides, and fell chockablock onto her bed. Then, as if a switch were flicked, she erupted in tears and hugged me tightly.
“Shhh, Julie, shhh. Why the tears? Aren’t you happy for me?”
“I’ve lost you. Lost you forever!” she shouted through the congestion caused by her tears.
“I’m here, Julie. We’re best friends forever.”
“When you didn’t ask me to go to the senior prom…I knew it was over. Things would never be the same between us—”
“But, Julie, you’ve known about me for years, all the way back in elementary school. I was never fully a boy. I even told you that straight out. Remember the Halloween party when my dad wouldn’t let me wear that mermaid costume. I cried on your shoulder for hours. You said it didn’t mean anything to you. You loved me no matter what.”
“We were little kids, barely tweens. We’re practically adults now. I’ve lost you. You’re a woman, Joey. You’ll start dating men. Like that guy who came in with you. What is he some kind of jock? Football? Basketball? I don’t have what you’ll want from now on.”
“He’s the son of a family friend. His mother teaches in the college. And, yes, he’s on the basketball team. But I’m not interested in him that way. It’s nothing like the way I feel about you.”
I stroked her face and wiped away her tears with my fingers, leaned down and gently kissed her. It was the first kiss we had ever shared. In all the years we had known each other and been each other’s best friend, this was our first kiss. Soon the sobs turned to whimpers and sniffles, finally she closed her eyes, exhausted from the emotions shooting through us. We slept though the night in a tight embrace. Ironically, we had never slept together when I was nominally male. Although I certainly dreamed about it all through high school. That’s what’s so confusing. We’re stuck on labels. Julia didn’t accept the notion that we could still be romantically involved after I transitioned. My feelings for her hadn’t changed. My heart still skipped a beat when I saw her big eyes and sideways smile. She felt differently.
Julia got up from the table in the dining hall as we finished our lunch. She had the version of a hamburger they served there, I just had a green salad. Of course, I swiped some of her fries. She looked at her watch and squeaked.
“I’m late! I’ve got Contemporary Civilization in Schermerhorn and it started five minutes ago! Good thing I’ve got sneakers on. Gotta fly!” She stopped and turned around. “You know what the worst thing is? You’re prettier than me now. Grrrr!” She ran off.
I took our trays and went to dump them in the trash bin when someone whistled. I turned around and saw Eliot sitting with the tallest group of boys I’d ever encountered. It was the boy next to Eliot who had whistled. They were all smiling except Eliot, who was shrugging his shoulders.
“You gonna just walk by loverboy like that. So cold, girl.”
“Don’t mind them, Joey. They get a kick out of teasing me.”
“Like you don’t deserve it? We’ve never seen you with a girl, man. You never bring one to the game. Just your mommy.” They all cackled and the guy who whistled punched Eliot in the shoulder.
“Two mommies!” shouted one of the the other boys to a wave of laughter. “One to hold each hand if he has a bad game.”
“C’mon fellas, cut the comedy. Sorry, Joey.”
“Well, I’m coming to your “scrimmage” tonight.”
“Where you been all this time if you and E are like tight? We’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m what you call his “hometown honey.” We didn’t go to the same high school and, anyway, I’m a year younger. But Eliot is my boo, don’t you know?”
“I don’t believe you guys. You probably don’t even know each other.”
I leaned over and planted a big wet kiss on Eliot’s surprised lips, my left hand caressing his curly coils in tight little circles. He kissed me back and our lips made a bold smacking sound. The whistler whistled again, this time in amazement. The boys started clapping and cheering.
I stood up, backing away, I blew Eliot a kiss. “See you tonight, sweetie. Bye, boys.” I tried to swing my hips as I left the dining hall. They were still murmuring when I reverted to my normal gait halfway down the hallway.
Columbia easily trounced Fordham in their scrimmage that night. Emily was justly proud of her son’s performance. He pulled off a triple double: 18 points, 10 rebounds and 11 assists. He was the star of the game. We waited outside of their locker room after the game. The other players nodded to Emily as they walked past. A few of the players even whistled at me. One of them, arm in arm with his girlfriend, told us that Eliot would be out in a few minutes. The coach was in a meeting with the two team captains, one of whom was Eliot. When Eliot bopped out of the coach’s office, a wide smile on his face, he grabbed both of us and enveloped us in his enormous wingspan.
“Coach said there were two NBA scouts at the game tonight! And they asked him about me. They like my game.”
“You’re only a sophomore, Eliot. You promised me and Joanne you’d get your degree first.”
“Yeah, but I might go first round in the draft!”
“Not if you don’t declare yourself eligible, Bradshaw.” The coach slapped him on the back and nodded at Emily. “Listen to your mother. You’re not a hardship case. Grow up a little before you turn pro. A college degree can come in handy if your career ends due to injury or you don’t cut it in the NBA. Shit happens. Sorry, Mrs. Bradshaw.”
“Coach, take a pic of me and my best gals.” He handed his iPhone to Coach Mantle.
As we walked home from Levien Gym, I hung back with Eliot as Emily preceded us. I looked up at Eliot who was happily pantomiming his jump shot and announcing “swish” as his imaginary shot plunged through the net.
“You know, thanks for making the guys think you’re my girlfriend. They were ragging on me pretty bad today.”
“Don’t you have a girlfriend? You must be Big Man on Campus, literally.”
“Naw, don’t have time for a girlfriend. I work on my game. I’m what the coach calls a gym rat. I want to go to the league, you know.”
“Somehow I don’t believe that. I’ll tell you my secret if you’ll tell me yours. I’m sure there’s a girl somewhere in your past. Maybe she broke your heart?”
He stopped and looked down at me. Emily was moving farther and farther away, oblivious to the stragglers. “Okay. You first. What’s your secret?”
“I was born a boy. I just had my surgery three months ago. There, I’m sure you’re shocked.”
“Naw, Mom told me. You’re not upset she did, are you?”
“No, I’m not trying to hide it. It’s just not necessary to shout it from the rooftops, you know. So what’s your secret. Come on, we agreed.”
“I’m gay. That’s why they never saw me with a girl. Maybe with your display today, they’ll cut me some slack for a while.”
“Eliot, this is the 21st century. Being gay shouldn’t be a stigma.”
“Tell that to a bunch of teenage jocks.”
“They shouldn’t be allowed to harass you. Have you told your mother or Joanne?”
“They don’t know. I’ve never come out to them. And I’d appreciate it if you keep it under your hat. I’ll tell them when I’m ready.”
“Hey, kids! It’s getting chilly out here. Let’s move it. How’s about some hot chocolate at home?”
I patted Eliot’s arm in reassurance I’d keep his secret and we trotted to catch up with Emily.
“What? Wait a minute! Eliot told you he’s gay?”
“I thought you knew. I assumed he got around to coming out to you in the intervening years. I guess Emily passed without ever finding out but I was sure you knew.”
“No, he never told me. And I never suspected. Some mother I turned out to be, huh?”
“I’ve gotta scoot. Early shift tomorrow. Game 2’s tomorrow night. Are you and Alastair coming?”
“Alastair is headed out to Vancouver and then Toronto to check on some productions currently shooting. Could be a 10 day trip. I’m used to seeing him every other week anyway. But I’m there, won’t be square…Should I bring it up with Eliot?”
“My opinion? No, he’ll tell you when he’s ready. I’m acting as his arm candy so the media won’t besiege him with rumors.”
“Why haven’t I heard these rumors? Oh, well. Good night, Joey. We have to get together real soon to continue your saga. You’re giving me an idea that Alastair might or might not like. But whatever, we’ll see.”
“Later in the week then, Joanne. Do you do any other delicious dishes?”
“How does Penne Vodka with shrimp sound?”
“Be honest. You and mom used to drink a lot, didn’t you?”
The Lakers were 20 points behind by halftime and it looked like the series would soon be tied at one game apiece. Joey and I decided to go clear over to the other side of the arena to go to the ladies’ room and avoid the other Laker wives and girlfriends. Eliot had played poorly in the first half, missing all but one of his shots and committing three fouls, so they were loud in their depredations of his character or “clutchness” in sports lingo. When we arrived at the north end ladies’ room, there was, of course, a long line. I turned to Joey.
“So, you still haven’t told me how you ended up in The Children’s Hospital here. It was just six months ago that you were a resident at Tufts in Boston…”
“Frankly, I’d been looking to transfer my residency for a while. I’ve been stuck in the nest way past the fledgling stage. I was itching to spread my wings. Forgive the clumsy metaphors. You’re the one with the graduate degree in English. I’m a science nerd.” She laughed and the line inched forward. We quickly caught up.
“Anyway, The Children’s Hospital was expanding, and they were building a department for children with transgender issues.” I heard someone cluck rather noticeably and caught a glimpse of a head turning away quickly. I frowned at the woman. “Staffing pediatricians, endocrinologists, psychologists, the whole shebang. You could say I wanted in on the ground floor. They approved my application the first week of January and I started at the end of the month”.”
“How did Elizabeth react?”
“She said I blindsided her. She didn’t speak to me for days. Whatever. The woman is a mess, but I’ve got my own life to live. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh. I’m 27 years old, for god’s sake.”
“As a parent myself, even though I’m not Eliot’s biological parent, your child will always be seven years old to you. Needing protection, guidance, love. You never stop being a parent.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing I’ll never be a parent. For good or bad.”
“That’s how you feel right now. Wait a few years. Your maternal instinct will kick in.” The line inched further. The door was in sight, even as the rate of exit was still glacial.
“There’s one big problem with working there though.”
“Homesick?”
“No, I don’t miss Boston winters, for sure. I found out the reason I got accepted so quickly was my dad urged the administration to take me on. He’s been consulting with the hospital for the better part of the last year. Of course, they wanted to hire his daughter.” She laughed rancorously. “Everyone on staff thinks I’m there because of nepotism. It stinks. My dad’s playing some kind of mind game on me and my career.”
“I don’t think he’d do anything to intentionally hurt you like that. Haven’t you asked him why he did this, out of the blue, after all these years of basically ignoring your existence?”
“I don’t speak to him. If we cross paths in the halls, I lower my head and walk quickly past him. I hate the man. He obviously hates me.”
“I wasn’t even aware he’d moved down to Los Angeles. I thought he was deeply ensconced in Seattle. Had a huge practice out there, I heard.”
“He took early retirement two years ago. The Children’s Hospital offered him a cushy consulting position, helping them with their expansion. So, he moved down here. I’m told he bought a veritable palace in Santa Monica. They think he’s big shit around here. Los Angeles Magazine did a spread about him last month.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “Here, look, there’s a big photo of him, grinning like a maniac.”
Suddenly, a platoon of women exited the ladies’ room. I grabbed Joey and we rushed inside behind a group of women big enough to play offensive lineman in football. At least they moved as if they could.
We were in a somber mood as Eliot, Joey, and I walked to our cars in the team’s parking garage. The Lakers had lost Game 2 by a mere 3 points after a furious failed comeback in the final quarter. Eliot had been a sparkplug in the comeback, scoring 20 points in the second half, but couldn’t quite beat the buzzer with a potential game-winning three-point shot at the end. Still, he intended to hit the town with his “two best gals” as called us. But Joey reminded him that she had an early shift all week and wanted to get to bed before 11PM. As for myself, I begged off by saying I said some “homework” to do before I hit the hay. After all, I was in LA to work not to explore the nightlife. Eliot snorted a laugh but bade us both good night, planting kisses on our cheeks and whistling as he walked away.
“Thank you for not bringing up what we discussed last night,” Joey said as she opened the passenger side door to her car for me. She had picked me up and driven me to the arena. I would have been lost on my own, navigating these labyrinthine LA streets. Joey strapped in and gunned the engine. Soon we were shooting down Chick Hearn Court, hopping onto the Harbor Freeway, headed to Alastair’s guest house in Silver Lake.
“You were right. He’ll tell me in his own time. I don’t want it to come off as if I’m scolding him for not telling me. A child needs privacy in certain things even from his parents. Although you would think Eliot would be secure enough in our relationship to be open about this with me…of all people. Joey? Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, sorry, talking about parent-child communication just makes me angrier at my father. I’m tempted to resign my residency and find another placement. I could try a hospital in New York. I heard Columbia Presbyterian is expanding its pediatric transgender department. I could live with you, Joanne, until I got my own place. LA’s more expensive than New York, isn’t it?”
“I think you should sit down with your father and hash this out first. Don’t assume bad intentions on his part. Maybe he wants to finally get to know his beautiful, brilliant daughter.”
“He preferred his handsome, whip smart son. He’s asked me to lunch and dinner countless times, but I always decline. I tell him I’m busy or tired or just not interested. He doesn’t seem fazed though. Keeps asking. By the way, he knows you’re here in LA.”
“You told him?”
“Well, I told mom and I guess she let it slip. You know, they still talk occasionally. I don’t get it, but I hope Dad doesn’t show up on your doorstep unexpectedly.”
“Oh, that’s all I need.”
“Sorry, Joanne. I guess I’m bad luck after all. When I saw Eliot for the first time in 10 years at the hospital—”
“What was he doing there?”
“The Lakers always send over a group of their players once a month to perk up the kids’ spirits. You should see their eyes light up when they see someone like Lebron or Westbrook walk into their ward. Anyway, my first month here, Eliot was one of the players. It took us a couple of minutes but we both remembered that week in New York City when I came to see you.”
“And you cooked up this cover story. The two of you?”
“Eliot’s such a sweetie. How could I turn him down? Here we are.” The car was parked outside Alastair’s guest house. It was only a 15-minute drive from the arena to Silver Lake.
“Would you mind coming over soon to continue your life story? I’d very much like to hear more. And would you mind if I took notes?”
“Took notes? Why?”
“Call it research. My own transition didn’t happen until I was past 30. Yours came so much earlier. Compare and contrast, you know.”
“Sure, I don’t mind. Just change everyone’s names if you use any of it. I’d like it if you called my character Sigourney Templeton.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I wasn’t always a science nerd. When I was in 6th grade, I started writing a novel about a girl named Sigourney Templeton who finds out her parents aren’t her biological parents but that she was somehow given to them by space aliens from a dying planet to raise as a human child. She had special powers like a mutant, sort of.”
“Do you still have it? Even if it’s unfinished, I’d be very interested in reading it.”
“No, I ripped it up. I was afraid they’d find it and read it. Then they’d think I was insane or something.”
I reached over and stroked her cheek. “Poor Joey. Were you afraid the aliens would come back to take you away?”
“No, I was afraid they wouldn’t.”
Before he left for the wilds of Canada, Alastair had told me that my prospective writing partner, Philippa Chang Flaherty, would contact me to set up a first meeting soon. I hadn’t checked my phone all evening. I reached all the way down into my bag to fish it out and, of course, Philippa had sent me a text. She wanted to meet for lunch at a place called Tartine Bakery. There were five of these bakeries in LA. The one she gave me the directions to was also in Silver Lake, just a 7-minute drive from where I was standing. She said she swore by their famous Country Loaf, but their Sourdough wasn’t far behind. I texted her back to confirm. Alastair also left me a text. I won’t go into what he wrote. Or what I replied. You can imagine, I’m sure.
I had a big day ahead, so I reached into the refrigerator and pulled out the half pitcher of spritz left from the night before. As I downed a glass of the glorified wine cooler, I smirked, remembering Joey’s question about how much, back in the day, Elizabeth and I indulged in alcoholic beverages. Bit of a brat, that girl.
The noonday sun was so bright, even my Audrey Hepburn sunglasses couldn’t cut down the glare. And it was boiling hot with the top up. That’s the drawback with a soft top convertible. It gives you that carefree, wind in your hair feeling on the road but once it’s parked in an urban setting with the top up, any miscreant with a penknife or boxcutter can rip the roof to shreds and run off with all your valuables. Also, my hair looked like crap. I really needed that kerchief.
Despite almost jumping my car over the concrete wheel stop as I filled a parking space in front of the bakery, I gracefully emerged from my car, smiling sheepishly at a passerby as I walked quickly to the entrance. Inside, I took off my sunglasses and was able to pick out Philippa from the sea of lunchtime patrons, seated at a table in a cozy corner. She half stood up and waved to me. She was immediately recognizable from the pictures I had found of her online, like this one of her and her husband, Paul Flaherty, at this year’s Oscars.
A pretty transwoman from a biracial family. Her father is Chinese, born and raised in Minnesota. Her mother is Scots Irish from Pacoima in the San Fernando Valley just north of the city. She transitioned in her early twenties after working with Paul on his first animated feature, Princess Butterfly, which she wrote. They had re-connected a couple of years after being college roommates. Quite a cute story. There was some talk of Philippa playing the title role in the live action version which was Oscar-nominated for best picture a year ago. But she professed no desire to act so the role went to Xiao Quan, the ingenue from Beijing who is currently dating that young congressman from San Francisco. Ironically, because of Quan’s lack of fluency in English, Philippa ended up looping her lines in the domestic version of the film anyway. So, she acted the lead after all.
“Hi, Joanne. I’m Philippa. Wow, you’re early. Punctual people are hard to come across in Hollywood. Sit down, please.”
“Well, they say New Yorkers operate at a different pace than you indigent West Coast types. I almost didn’t quite make it. I just avoided totaling my car trying to park outside. The glare is awe-inspiring at mid-day in these parts.”
“Born and raised here so I’m used to it. You sound like my Dad. He’s from the Midwest. There, the only glare they get is from the glacier-like snow that sits on the ground from October through March. So, Alastair tells me we have a lot in common…”
“Alastair is Captain Obvious.”
“I like Alastair. He seems like a decent chap. Believe me, they’re few and far between in this town. Are you two…uh…together?”
“Sort of. It’s early days. Who knows? Right? I think it’s 50/50 business and romance. A deadly combination.” I laughed just as a waitress approached to take out orders.
“Need menus, ladies?”
“Philippa, you know what’s good here. Order for me. Don’t worry, I have no food allergies…that I’m aware of.”
To the waitress: “You’re my witness. If she gets violently sick, it’s not on me.” The waitress frowned and then leaned down to whisper in my ear.
“I’d watch out for this one, ma’am.”
“Let’s have two smoked salmon and poached egg sandwiches on your world-famous country bread. And two iced teas, lemon wedges on the side.” Our waitress scooted off.
Her iPhone burped a text alert and she scanned it quickly, replying immediately, her thumbs dancing on the screen’s virtual keyboard.
“Sorry, let’s make this a quick lunch. We can go back to my house and talk in a more relaxed setting. We’re in Los Feliz. Just five minutes from here.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Oh, it’s Paul, my husband. He’s watching our daughter Clarissa while also trying to work on storyboards for his next project. He was just wondering when I’d be back. Clarissa’s a handful for a 1-year-old—”
“I thought Paul was closer to your age—”
“I see you’re a bit of a comedian, Ms. Prentiss. I hate comedians. No, I’m just kidding. But Paul isn’t. He finds it difficult to do two things at the same time. Like walking and chewing gum.”
“Now who’s the comedian? But you’re burying the lead. You have a baby?”
“Paul and I adopted a newborn through a private agency. It’s really expensive but it’s the only way to go. We got to screen potential birth mothers so we’d get some idea of how the baby might turn out. Clarissa’s the cutest baby. We made the right choice. Of course, we’d say that in any case. But it’s true. You’ll see. Here’s our orders.”
I had the overwhelming urge to snap a shot of this and post it on Instagram. But fortunately, I don’t have an Instagram account.
“We want to wait until Clarissa is at least 3 before we adopt a little brother for her. Doctors say children 3 and older are mature enough to welcome a sibling and not feel threatened by the new addition to the family. I’ve always wanted to be a mommy.”
“I just spoke to someone who transitioned earlier than you who claims not to have any maternal longings—”
“Alastair told me you have a stepson who plays on the Lakers.”
“Yes. Eliot Bradshaw. Do you follow the NBA?”
“Me? No. Paul likes sports. I could care less—”
“Couldn’t care less. It’s couldn’t care less. If you could care less—”
“Oh, dear me, we really are going to make a great team. Joanne, you’re a real prize, don’t you know? Let’s finish up. I really want Paul and Clarissa to meet you.”
We would’ve been out of that place lickety-split, but Philippa had to pick up some loaves of bread, baguettes, croissants, scones, and lemon tarts. This took another fifteen minutes. I should have just stayed in my seat and taken my time instead of trying to destroy my sandwich in less than four bites. Finally, I followed Philippa’s lead as we drove to her house in Los Feliz.
Los Feliz is one of the several trendy neighborhoods in LA that is popular with celebrities, especially film and TV actors. In fact, Paul and Philippa purchased their house from a veteran British actor whose American TV series had been unexpectedly cancelled after only its second season. He demobbed immediately to Blighty where, I’m told, he does commercials for Selfridges. When we pulled up to their driveway, Paul was standing outside, with Clarissa perched on his shoulders, anxiously awaiting his wife’s return.
Philippa introduced us and Paul exchanged bundles with his wife, placing Clarissa in her mother’s arms and grabbing the bag of baked goods. Clarissa made cute noises at me as we walked into their Craftsman style house.
We reconvened our writers’ conference in the large space that the couple used as a shared office. They had desks at opposite ends of the room with a playard sitting smack dab in the middle, wherein Clarissa was gently ensconced and soon busied herself with her plush dolls and some Baby Einstein toys that play kiddie music.
“We try not to put her in the playard for too long. But it comes in handy to keep her out of harm’s way, especially now that she’s starting to walk. And she can say a few words now too. Right, sweetie?” Clarissa looked up at her mother and then half laughed and half shouted one of those few words.
“Dada! Dada!” Paul came over and kissed the top her head.
“I’m afraid she loves Daddy more than Mommy. Maybe she senses I’m not her birth mother. Like animals and pheromones. I don’t smell correct to her—”
“Nonsense, Philippa. It’s obvious she loves you just as much. Like you said, she’s got a very small vocabulary right now. She entertains herself by making sounds, that’s all. You probably did the same thing when you were her age.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“She is, honey,” Paul agreed. “You’re too sensitive. You’re her mother, plain and simple.”
“Now, Joanne, Alastair gave me a copy of the treatment for your proposed screenplay. I was very impressed. It has the makings of a very dramatic story, lots of conflict, emotion, piquant observations about the lives we lead, especially, of course, transwomen, and could be a real dynamic vehicle for an award-winning actor—”
“And director! Don’t forget director.”
“No interruptions from the peanut gallery, please.”
“Clarissa, are you going to just sit by and allow your dada to be treated so shabbily?”
“Ma…ma. Mama!”
“Alright, I’ll stay in my corner and leave you ladies alone. It’s three against one.”
“So, I’m excited to collaborate with you on this. Would you mind if we used my house as ground zero for our meetings? I’ve got Clarissa—”
“Oh, no worries. I’d rather meet here anyway. It’s only 10 minutes from Alastair’s house. I could walk it in like 45 minutes if I needed the exercise.”
“Nobody walks in LA,” a male voice boomed from the recesses of the room.
“Yeah, you either drive or skateboard it.”
“Well, I think I’ll drive then. Actually, I’m enjoying driving Al’s Audi around. Gets this old lady some attention from younger men.”
“Dada!”
“I’ll be glad when she can string words together into a sentence. Like ‘Mother dear, I’m a bit peckish. Shan’t we serve dinner already?’ Instead of just crying at high decibel levels.”
“So, what’s the timetable we’re working with?”
“They gave Alastair 90 days to hand in a camera-ready draft screenplay. That’s plenty of time to write a 120-minute shooting script—”
“Wait, I thought this was going to be a mini-series, like 6 parts or more.”
“Well, it has to be greenlighted as a mini-series first. If they feel this is worth, say, 360 or more minutes of airtime, we’ll have time to write the rest. It’ll go into pre-production which could take months. You know: casting, location scouting, studio time, props and costuming, legal clearances, musical scoring, etc., etc. The actual shoot takes a few weeks, but the development and pre-production takes more than half a year at least.”
“I didn’t realize so much goes into it. I could be stuck here in LA for a year!”
“Well, don’t be too overjoyed about the prospect,” she laughed.
“Maa-Maaa!”
“Clarissa agrees with me. Don’t you, sweetie? She’s so cute, Philippa. I’m so envious. I didn’t have Eliot until he was seven years old. I missed out on holding a baby in my arms, rocking her to sleep. I’m so jealous.”
“Motherhood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Joanne. There’s diapers for one thing…”
“Bananana!”
“Does she want a banana?”
“No, she just likes saying the word. Oh, I forgot to save part of that salmon sandwich for her. I tear it into tiny pieces, and she loves that fish taste. Whodathunkit?”
“Let’s start Monday morning. I’ll come over around 10.”
I was in high spirits after the meeting with Philippa. She seemed so positive in her attitude toward life and who could blame her? She was a successful screenwriter with a number of award nominations already under her hat, a handsome husband who shared her work life, and a sweet as honey little one-year-old who called her maa-maa. She was the very model of the modern transwoman. Her optimism and enthusiasm were infectious. I put the top down on my Audi and let the hot breeze off Sunset Boulevard rush through my hair on the 10-minute drive home. My exuberance was tempered when the Sirius channel I had turned on unexpectedly played that sad yet beautiful song by Gordon Lightfoot, “The Last Time I Saw Her.”
The final bars of the song preoccupied me as I drove up the driveway between Alastair’s house and the guest house. It was only when I stepped out of the car that I saw him standing there in front of Alastair’s front door, giving me a curious once over, unsure of my identity. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer over a shirt and tie and beige slacks, his sparse hair slicked back and parted to the right. Swap out the blazer for a white coat and he looked as if he’d just stepped out of that Los Angeles Magazine spread. I approached him and took my sunglasses off.
“Doctor Petry, I presume?”
“Ms. Prentiss? Joanne Prentiss? I…didn’t expect…I mean I…”
“Flattery will definitely get you nowhere, doctor. To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of meeting you for the first time?”
“I came to speak to you about my…daughter, Jocelyn. Elizabeth told me that Joey had made contact with you and that she was dating your…uh…stepson—”
“If you’ve come to see me to display your bigoted views on all manner of things, I’m really not interested, nor do I have the time to waste. If you’ll please get off my friend’s property—”
“Please, I’m not here to express displeasure with her dating your son. I came to ask for your help…”
“Me, help you? How can I possibly help you? You’re the one who’s a pillar of society, the very successful, much honored, well-respected medical titan of the pediatric field. I’m the outcast, the kind of person you shun and try to hide in shadow, a marginalized sub-human abomination. Like your own daughter. Do I have that right?”
“Just hear me out. I’m a changed person. It’s like someone or something cracked open the door to my personal prison of prejudices and let light shine in, finally illuminating the dark place I was blindly stumbling around in. I need to let Joey know I admit my horrible mistake. I love my daughter. Please help me reach out to her.”
“That’s a pretty speech you’ve just dropped on me, and the curtain doesn’t even go up until around 8 PM in those plays they put on downtown. Bravo, Doctor. Bravo. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Elizabeth said you’d be pretty skeptical of my intentions. But I told her I’d risk embarrassing myself if it meant achieving some kind of reconciliation with my only child. Joey trusts you. Maybe more than her own mother. My health isn’t great, Ms. Prentiss. Time may be running out to make up with her and her mother.”
I stood there looking at the man. He seemed to have shrunk just in the few minutes we had been talking in the driveway. I couldn’t honestly find it in myself to take pity on him but, thinking of Joey and her issues with both her parents, maybe the three of them could, as it were, bury the hatchet. Hopefully, not in each other. And it damn well better not be in me.
“Alright. I’ll give you ten minutes. Umm, that’s my friend’s house. I’m staying in his guest house over here. Follow me. We can sit down and talk.”
We circled each other in the ring like wary prizefighters, keeping our gloves up to block a sudden jab or sneaky overhand right. He sipped the orange juice I had poured for him in silence, searching for the words to begin. I was hoping he’d just spit out what he wanted to say and leave me in peace.
“From the first day I met Elizabeth, her memories of you haunted my life with her. She mentioned you it seemed every chance she could. She was still deeply in love with you. Well, with Joseph Prentiss, rather. It was like living with a ghost in the house. Except, your specter changed grotesquely when we learned you’d had your surgery. She wanted to reach out to you. I dissuaded her. Leave the past where it belongs. I loved her so very much. She’s still so beautiful. You understand—”
“Do you have a point to make?”
“Yes, you see, I’ve come to realize how my insane jealousy destroyed my relationship with Elizabeth. But we both had our medical careers to keep us occupied. At least, it kept me focused, kept me sane. She lost herself in the work we were doing with children. We started a pediatric clinic in Cleveland. I helped the city institute the first pediatric emergency services protocol. Elizabeth was right by my side. Always brilliant, always eloquent. As you can see, she was a better communicator than me.”
“She communicated me out of her life pretty well.”
“Then Joey came along. From the beginning, I could see the subtle nuances. The way she treated Joey like a girl. Even silly things like the pink clothes she dressed him in. The way she steered him toward feminine interests rather than sports. Joey was like a hothouse flower growing up. What little free time I had in those early days, I spent trying to play catch or shoot hoops with Joey, but he wasn’t showing any enthusiasm for it or me, for that matter. After a while, I began to think Elizabeth was doing this on purpose, alienating Joey from his father, making him into a miniature clone of…of you. The one she really loved.”
“Nonsense. You really went off the deep end. Dysphoria is a real thing, doctor. As a medical professional, you ought to know that.”
“A jealous man, devastated by the thought his wife is really in love with another man – a man who, by the way, is no longer a man but a woman –well, that destroys a man, eats away at his self-image, questions his very existence. When Elizabeth told me she was taking Joey to counseling for possible transgender concerns, I lost it. It was a scam. It had to be a conspiracy to win you back, to regain her great lost love. I was angry that she would use Joey as a pawn in that plot.”
“You do realize I knew nothing about any of this? The first time I’ve spoken to Elizabeth in 30 years was last December. All during the events you’re telling me about, I was blissfully unaware of what you kooky kids were up to. I was married for most of that time. I had moved on. I guess you don’t think Elizabeth ever did. I’m sorry for you.”
“I walked out on them, Joanne. Ghosted them, you could say. I resigned from Tufts and moved as far away as I could. I started another pediatric clinic in Seattle. Did very well. But I was a total mess. I drank Seattle dry it seems like. Destroyed my kidneys. I’m an inch away from dialysis. Sold my practice and retired to a warm climate, like they advise in all the AARP literature.” He laughed through a burst of staccato coughs. “Someone on the Children’s Hospital board was impressed by my press clippings I suppose and asked me to consult on their expansion. I don’t need the money. Just something to occupy my remaining days, I guess.”
“So, how can I possibly help you? I’m neither a doctor nor a marriage counselor.”
“Honestly, I didn’t know that she had applied to transfer her residency here. I was as shocked to see her on her first day making her rounds as she must have been to see me. I’d seen her a handful of times in 10 years. She’s turned out to be a brilliant, beautiful woman just like her mother. Joanne, she trusts you and considers you a real friend. She won’t meet with me. Hardly says a word to me if we happen upon each other in the halls. I have to tell her how sadly mistaken I was, so stupidly obstinate, so deluded…I need her to know I love her, and I always have, always will. I’m just an old man who’s finally lifted the gauze from my eyes.”
“I don’t know what you think I can do—”
“Can you arrange it so that I can spend some time with her. I could sit down with her and explain things. I need her forgiveness. Failing that, I’d feel better if she knew it wasn’t that I didn’t love my only child, it was just my crazy jealousy ruining everything…”
“I’m meeting with her to do some research for the screenplay I’m writing. I shouldn’t really do this, but I guess…if you’re being really honest with me…you both deserve to repair whatever relationship you could still have as father and daughter. 10 years too late but it’s a start. Maybe you could just coincidentally be here when Joey comes over some night next week? I just hope neither of you packs a firearm and I’ll see if I can hide all the knives in the house.”
He grabbed my hand with both of his, shaking it vigorously, his voice choked with emotion.
“Thank you, Joanne. Thank you! You’re an angel for doing this.”
“Angel? No, but maybe a friendly ghost?”
Friday night in Silver Lake, Los Angeles, California. Alone. In a guest house, eating homemade microwave popcorn. Add a sprinkling of olive oil and it’s actually a healthy after-dinner snack (I read that in Women’s Health). I was watching a critically acclaimed Korean film on GlobalNet when I got a Skype call on my iPhone. It was Alastair from his hotel room in Vancouver.
“Hey, babe, are you lonesome tonight?”
“Well, Elvis, I’m in a bathrobe, eating a tub of homemade popcorn on a Friday night in the City of Angels…”
“I miss you too, Jo Jo—”
“Who’s Jo Jo?” called out a female voice from somewhere in the room. A striking blonde stuck her head out from behind Alastair, a friendly smile morphing into a wide grin.
“Alastair! Who is that woman in your room?”
“It’s alright, Jo! This is Ann Flaherty. Philippa’s sister-in-law. You know, she’s married to Philippa’s brother, Christopher, the sculptor—”
Another face edged into view alongside Alastair. And, yes, he did have a passing resemblance to Philippa. Ann and Christopher waved. “Hi, Joanne!” they shouted in unison.
“I must have told you that my Vancouver trip was to check in on Ann’s movie, Swift Revenge.
“Is that the movie adaptation of the Broadway musical of the same name?”
“Yes, I was the Taylor Swift character on Broadway and Taylor insisted I play that role again in the film,” Ann explained. “Alastair was really instrumental in getting all the parties together with GlobalNet.” She placed both hands on his shoulders and shook. “Philippa told me you’re working with her on an autobiographical screenplay for Alastair—”
“Yes, I adore Philippa and Paul and their delicious little girl Clarissa—”
“My niece you’re talking about. She’s going to take Hollywood by storm when she grows up. Paul should show you the home movies he’s made with Clarissa. In costume no less! Of course, the dialogue is kind of limited. But she emotes really well.”
“Honey, let’s go. I’m sure Al and Joanne have some important stuff to discuss…by themselves.”
“Oh, sorry Alastair, thanks for dinner. Bye, Joanne!” She waved and hooked her arm into Christopher’s. Exit stage right.
“Bye. See you in LA, soon.” To Alastair: “Where were we? Oh, right, you were doing a bad Elvis impression—”
“I played bass in a rock band in college, you know. Lots of Huey Lewis & The News and Bon Jovi covers—” I burst out laughing at the image of Alastair in a big hair ‘80s band. “Wait, I’ll have you know we almost got signed by Billy Schechter.”
“By the mid-80s, wasn’t Schechter washed up in the business? Drug problems. Concealed gun arrest. Domestic violence, yadda, yadda?”
“He got fired from Monarch Records the day before he would’ve signed us. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
“I didn’t mean to demean your musical talent, Alastair. I was just picturing you with a Bret Michaels hairdo.”
“I’ll be home end of next week. Save some popcorn for me.”
“Alastair, I think I’ve stepped into it.”
“What, I thought you and Philippa were gangbusters.”
“No, it’s not about the screenplay. Although, I need to fill you in on some changes or additions to the story I want. But we’ll talk about that when you’re back. I’m really excited about the possibilities. What I’m worried about is Dr. Petry, Joey’s dad. He paid me a surprise visit today.”
“You’ve never met him, you told me.”
“No, never, until today. He showed up unannounced when I got home from Philippa’s place. The gist of our conversation was he wants me to broker a meeting with his daughter. Apparently, she’s turned down every attempt to spend time with her. Can’t really blame her. I’d hate him too in her shoes. The man completely abandoned her and Elizabeth when Joey’s dysphoria was diagnosed.”
“You didn’t agree to ambush Joey, did you? It’s not your concern and Joey’s made it clear, I gather, that she’d rather have nothing whatsoever to do with that man.”
“I…I felt they should at least try to reconcile. He is her father, after all. And he seems sincerely contrite…”
“You don’t want to get in the middle of their family drama, Jo. Or is it that you still have feelings for Elizabeth? I mean, you see her for the first time in 30 years. She basically begs you to come back into her life. Her daughter coincidentally starts dating your stepson. You’re being set up on both sides, I think.”
“Are you jealous, Alastair? It’s cute if you are. No, I have no remaining feelings for Elizabeth. I even tossed that stupid painting she gave me as a parting gift last Christmas. I do like Joey a lot and I can see she really needs to come to terms with both her parents. What’s wrong with having her father offering her a belated apology? Even if she doesn’t forgive him, it’s a sort of closure. Besides, the guy says his health is pretty bad.”
“Oh, Jo, you’re such a pushover. He’ll probably outlive both of us and Elizabeth. I don’t know what game he’s playing but you should just stay off the field. Let them handle their own problems. I don’t want them hurting you anymore.”
“That won’t happen, Al. I’ll get them together in the same physical space and let them work it out themselves. I’ll get in your Audi and take in the late-night smog. I’ll be very circumspect.”
“I wish I was there to help. Do you want me to cancel the rest of my trip? I can re-schedule the Toronto meetings—”
“Please, Alastair, I’m not a child. And how could you help anyway? Neither of them knows you from Adam. Let’s talk about something else, okay? Like how much you miss me…”
We spent the next half hour talking about blush-worthy things better left out of this narrative. I made another serving of popcorn but topped it with salted butter. Living dangerously, I munched the snack while I finished watching the Korean movie I had screen-recorded while on the Skype call. Tomorrow was going to be a productive day. Joey had Saturday off and had agreed to continue her “life-story” for me. Her story could be another arc in my screenplay, showing another facet of the transgender experience. My own story was rather bland, I thought. As much as I repeated this proviso to Alastair, he just remained adamant that it was a story worthy of a film treatment. And he would kiss me to seal his argument.
It was Joey’s suggestion to have brunch at De Buena Planta, a newly opened vegan Mexican restaurant in Silver Lake on Sunset Boulevard. Neither of us were vegan but Joey was a fan of De Buena Planta’s primary branch in Venice (California not Italy). The new branch had a patio for alfresco brunches on weekends. Not familiar with Mexican cuisine myself, I let Joey order a table full of tacos, burritos, and chilaquiles verdes (lightly fried tortillas slathered in homemade salsa verde). For a beverage, I pitched in to order a carafe of the house spritz (Campari, OJ, and rosé), which I reminded Joey she had enjoyed when she had dinner at my place. I tucked in to enjoy a leisurely mid-morning meal when, without prompting, Joey started to continue the story of her peripatetic journey south from Boston to New York to Washington, DC, and her grandparents’ house. With a mouth full of half-chewed tortilla, I scrambled to reach for my phone so I could record her. By the time I had pressed record, she was already on the train heading toward Union Station in DC.
It was a cloudy afternoon all the way down the Eastern Seaboard as I rode the Amtrak to DC. My mood was a mix of anticipation and loss. I had just spent several days in New York trying to reach into my mother’s past to find clues into my future as a transwoman. But the past refused to heed my beckoning. There were no answers there. Now, I was hours away from reintroducing myself to my grandparents, my aunt and uncle, and my cousins, who all knew me as Joey, the diffident boy, not Joey, soon to be a grown woman. As I looked out at the greyness all around me, shuffle play on my phone delivered the appropriately ironic Joni Mitchell song, “Both Sides Now.” The lady sitting across from me reflexively returned my smile though she couldn’t possibly know what I found so amusing. Both sides now. Yeah, that about describes it.
As I tossed my bulky backpack into the back seat of Grandpa’s 2006 Cadillac DTS, I looked at the 70-year-old man sitting in the driver’s seat. Sam Greene had bought the car the same year he’d retired from his position as a Project Director at the National Institute of Standards and Technology in Gaithersburg, Maryland. I’d spent a month or longer every summer of my life since I was 6 or 7 years old staying with my grandparents. My parents were too occupied by their work at the hospital to mind a child out of school for 3 months. Grandpa would take me fishing or to baseball games, thinking a boy like me would enjoy such activities. Mostly, I would stay indoors reading, playing video games or watching soap operas with Grandma. Despite my strangeness, they both seem delighted every year when I’d be driven down to their house by Mom, kid-sized backpacks stuffed with more books than clothes, the sight of which caused Grandma to chuckle every time. It was a half-hour ride to Silver Spring, Maryland where my grands lived. After sharing a big hug, we settled in for the drive. I had to listen to Grandpa’s favorite news station all the way. It’d be rude to put my earbuds in, so I stared out at the gathering gloom of evening.
Although my backpack was mostly filled with clothing this time (all my reading was on my laptop hard drive or available online), my grandma still shook her head.
“Joey, your clothes are all crumpled and wrinkled. You can’t wear these anywhere nice. I suppose you think you’re going to wear the same t-shirt and jeans for your entire three months here? No, young lady, we’re going shopping tomorrow. Your cousin Sally has already volunteered to drive us to Tysons Corner. They have everything under the sun there.”
“Can’t we just wash them and iron them out?”
“Well, Joey, we…that is, you could do that. But I thought you wanted to study medicine not learn how to be a charwoman. Besides, some of these need to be professionally cleaned and pressed—”
“You just want to go shopping with me, Gran.”
“Is that a bad thing? You’re my favorite grandchild.” Lowering her voice. “Don’t tell Sally tomorrow, okay? She thinks she’s my favorite.” She laughed as she dumped the rest of my clothes onto the floor of my designated bedroom.
“Does Sally have to come along?”
“Oh, she’s been pestering me on the phone day and night to make sure she gets to tag along. Ever since I told your Aunt Karen you were coming to stay until the end of the year.”
“She wants to get a good look at the freak, I bet.” Gran enveloped me in her arms, kissing my forehead.
“You’re not a freak. And Sally loves you. The two of you used to play in a sandbox together when your aunt and uncle lived in Cleveland. Remember? Your uncle was getting his graduate degree in engineering at Case Western.”
“You didn’t know but she used to let me wear her clothes when we played in her bedroom. She said we looked more like sisters than cousins.”
“I knew. Aunt Karen knew. We just thought you were playing around like little kids do. We really didn’t think much about it.” I started to tear up. Gran took some Kleenex from somewhere on her person and wiped my eyes.
“You and grandpa so easily accepted me as a girl. Even mom had some difficulty at first taking me seriously when I told her I was really a girl.”
“We saw you and what we saw was a beautiful little girl trapped in the wrong body. I prayed every day you could be freed from your gender prison. Thank God, the light bulb went on in your mother’s head finally.”
“And that ended their marriage. I split up my parents. My mom’s life was destroyed. Because of me and my stupid…problem.”
“What happened between your mom and dad had nothing to do with you, sweetie. It’s the excuse they use. And shame on them for doing that. I hate to say this, but they should never have been married in the first place. You mother always valued career over personal fulfillment. I told her many, many times not to go into medicine. She thought I was a fool to quit pre-med when I met your grandfather. I did it because I loved your grandfather and wanted to have a family with him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how women see themselves these days, Gran. I wouldn’t give up my career ambitions for a man or a brood of babies either. I’m sort of glad I can never have children of my own. I’ll never be put in that corner.”
“But, Joey, you can adopt. You’ll meet the right young man, and you’ll want to have a family with him. You’ll see.”
“I doubt that very much. And I’m not even sure I’m attracted to men. Maybe I’m a lesbian—”
“Joey! Perish the thought. Anyway, you’re too young to worry about such things. You’re still a child.”
“I’m 18, Gran! That’s legal age.”
“Shush. Here, this one’s not too wrinkled. Change into this. Your aunt and uncle and your younger cousins are coming over for dinner in about 20 minutes. I would tell you to freshen up your makeup, but you don’t have any on. Brush your hair then.”
Dinner was a bit of a farce. While Aunt Karen warmly welcomed me to the better sex, Uncle Chuck kept remarking that the world was getting too weird for him to handle. He repeated this bon mot several times during the evening despite getting none-too-subtle elbows in his side from Aunt Karen every time he uttered it. My twin boy cousins, 14-year-olds, asked me if I thought The Patriots would win the Super Bowl this season (they assumed I would have inside knowledge coming from Boston). When I just shook my head and said I had no idea, they turned back to the Nintendo 3DSes in their grubby hands and ignored me for the rest of the night. As they were leaving, one of them did turn around and say sheepishly that he thought I was very pretty. He pivoted on a dime and ran out the door, his brother laughing at him.
Tysons Corner Center is a super-sized shopping mall in Virginia, 13 miles north by northwest of Washington, DC. It boasts over 300 shops, services, restaurants, a movie plex and a concert stage. You can spend an entire day going through its various and sundry enticements. Me, I just wanted to buy a couple of skirts, tops, jeans, underwear sets and sneakers and escape with a sliver of brain function remaining. I was prodded, pushed, my arms and legs wrenched this way and that, all in the name of finding the perfect fit. Gran got tired of the tussle and left the dirty work to Sally, my cousin. She had just started her freshman year at Georgetown, so she was living on campus and had to drive 20 minutes to Silver Spring to pick us up and then 30 minutes to Tysons Corner.
“I’m sorry you had to miss a day of classes to help me shop,” I said with my back turned to Sally in a fitting room in H&M as she was zipping me into a skater skirt.
“No problem. I just missed Freshman Composition in the morning today. I’ll get an A no sweat. I’m thinking of majoring in English so I’m pretty good with words. Girl, you’ve got no hips.”
“I’m still growing, and I’ve been taking hormones for only two years. I’ll probably have a bubble butt like my mother before too soon.”
“And the upstairs could use some packing peanuts.” I must have sniffled audibly. “Don’t cry, Joey. I’m a doofus. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m bad at humor.” She turned me around and the skirt which she didn’t finish zipping up fell to the floor. “You’re a cute girl. I wish I was as pretty as you. Really. You know, I know some guys at school who’d fall all over themselves asking you out. You should hang out with me and my friends in DC on the weekends. There’s lots to do and see in the city. And lots of cute guys.”
“I’m not very social, Sally. Even before my transition, I didn’t have many friends or hang out much. I barely set foot in a mall more than a couple of times a year, much less went to concerts or saw movies.”
“Didn’t you have a really close friend? Maybe some cute boy who’s probably wondering what happened to you over the summer? Look at you now! He might be pleasantly surprised.”
I thought about my erstwhile best friend Julia and how that relationship was probably over before it ever began. Had I ever experienced a real crush on anyone, boy or girl? It’s so confusing being me.
“I’ll come by Saturday morning and pick you up. The gang is thinking about going to Mazza Gallerie and pushing our noses against the windows, dreaming of having the money to buy the clothes on the mannequins. Then hitting Adams Morgan to see what’s hopping. Sound good?”
“More shopping?”
“We’re not going to buy anything. We can try stuff on though. As long as the salesgirls think there’s an outside chance you might be holding daddy’s card. So, wear something nice.”
“Well, alright. I’ll have to get the green light from Gran and Grandpa though.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that. I’m Gran’s favorite grandchild. She has blind trust in me, girlie.”
Having finished our vegan Mexican brunch, I suggested we reconvene at my temporary domicile. Driving our separate cars through the weekend traffic, it took us an extra 10 minutes to arrive at Hidalgo Avenue. Once inside, I made some instant coffee. It was El Pico. I had unexpectedly found it at Trader Joe’s.
“Mom still drinks El Pico. It’s hard to find in Boston. I’d assume it’s even more difficult to find here. It reminds me of rainy weekend afternoons sitting in her kitchen in Somerville. Does it remind you of my mom?”
“Sometimes, Joey, sometimes. Settled in? Continue. I’m recording…now.”
Grandpa allowed me a day of rest from my arduous bout of shopping. But instead of just flaking out on the couch or staying in bed until after noon, I was woken up at the crack of mid-morning to wash all the clothes I had just purchased the day before. Gran sorted out the ones that needed hand washing while the others could be thrown into the washing machine.
“You’re lucky, Joey. Back in the day, you had to iron your clothes too. Otherwise, you’d look like just tumbled out of a cement mixer. Nowadays, there aren’t many fabrics that need ironing. Looks like millennials can take credit for at least one good improvement in life.”
After Gran finished watching her “stories,” as she called the soap operas the followed (Days of Our Lives, One Life to Live, and General Hospital), she insisted I try on all of my new clothes for her. I modeled the entire collection behind the closed door of my bedroom. Yes, even the underwear. There was a beatific smile on her face throughout my little runway show. She clapped her hands several times and tears rolled down her cheeks.
“You look so much like your mother at the same age, it’s stunning.”
“So, you’re saying mom was a scrawny, bony-hipped, flat-chested teenager?”
“You’re still growing, Joey. Look at yourself in the mirror. I see a beautiful young girl. What do you see?”
“I see me, Gran. The new, improved me.”
“That beautiful girl has always been there. I saw it when you were a cute little rugrat.”
It was Grandpa’s idea that a few days of lake fishing would recall those happy summer days of yesteryear for me. Of course, I always enjoyed fishing with Grandpa. But it wasn’t the ritual of baiting hooks with worms and crickets, sitting in a pontoon boat for hours, or even, on occasion, beating the adults by hooking the biggest catch of the day that was the highlight for me. For someone who often felt neglected by their parents, the feelings I had kicking back and trading smiles with grandpa while casting a line into the lake were warmer than the summer sun. So, I gladly accompanied him on his pilgrimage to Deep Creek Lake in the far northwest corner of Maryland, a three-hour drive from Silver Spring. We always stayed in a cabin at The Walleye Fishing Lodge. The owner, his family and the staff knew my grandfather well as a longtime patron. I suppose they might very well remember me too. But would they recognize me now?
Gus Brando, the owner of the lodge, welcomed grandpa with a stentorian greeting. “Dr. Greene! Good to see you again! We have your favorite cabin ready for you.” He looked at me, was about to say something, stopped and turned to his wife, Bridget, standing next to him behind the front desk. He whispered and she shook her head. Seeing their confusion, my grandfather introduced me.
“You remember my granddaughter, Joey. She’s been coming every summer since she was knee high to a grasshopper.” He scanned their faces for some sign of recognition.
“Of course, Joey! Well, you’ve certainly outgrown your tomboy phase. You’re such a pretty girl. Shame you hid behind boy clothes all this time.” Bridget nodded to her husband who picked up her baton.
“Yes, how silly of us. Of course, it’s Joey. I remember—what was it?—two or three summers ago you caught that largemouth bass that was 11 pounds and change. The other fishermen came back talking about Dr. Greene’s grandchild hooking the biggest catch of the day.”
“Looking like you do now, Joey, I bet you’ve been hooking big catches of another species entirely,” Bridget chuckled.
“My son’s out with the morning sortie. The boat should be back around 1PM. You’ve got time to have a quick lunch before the afternoon boat embarks. You remember my daughter, Stacy? She’ll show you to your cabin. Stacy?”
A girl about my age with light brown hair, wearing a flannel shirt and faded jeans, a ball cap on her head, emerged from the office behind the front desk, carrying keys in her right hand.
“Follow me, Dr. Greene and Joey. It’s a short walk from here. You have all your bags and tackle with you?”
“Yup. Lead the way, Stacy.”
Stacy leaned into me and asked, “What’s going on? Why’d your grandpa say you’re a girl?”
“It’s complicated. But he’s correct. I am a girl.”
“No way! All this time I thought you were a boy. Everyone thought you were.”
“Well, I was. A boy. But I’m a girl now.”
“I don’t get it. You’re talking in riddles. Okay, Dr. Greene. Here’s the keys. You’re pretty familiar with the cabin. It’s the one you always ask for.” Turning to me. “We’ll talk later, Miss Boy Girl.” She walked quickly away.
“Let’s drop our bags here and take our rods and tackle boxes with us to the lodge. A quick lunch and that boat should be ready to embark a little after 1. Hungry?”
“I wouldn’t mind having some crab cakes.”
“Neither would I, sweetheart. Neither would I. Let’s go.”
Mick Brando, Gus and Bridget’s 20-year-old son, strode into the lodge’s dining room with a few of the fishermen who had gone out in the morning on the pontoon boat. His tanned, clean-shaven face, framed by his sweat stained Nats baseball cap, lit up when he saw my grandpa and me sitting at a corner table, our plates brimming with crab cakes.
“Dr. Greene! I was thinking we’d seen the last of you for the summer. And where’s Joey? We missed him this year.”
“I’m right here,” I said, not looking up, my mouth full of crab cake. Mick raised the bill of his cap and stared at me.
“And who’s you?”
“Joey.”
“Mick, don’t tell me you don’t recognize my granddaughter. She’s grown up, that’s all.”
“Uhhh…you could’ve fooled me. All this time I thought you were a boy. Come to think of it, you did seem a little too swishy for a boy. Guess you’re out of that tomboy phase now.” He took off his cap and sat down at our table, uninvited. “You got a boyfriend, Joey?”
“That’s kind of a personal question.”
“Because if you don’t, there’s a really nice stretch of lakeshore down toward William’s Point that’s just beautiful in the moonlight, especially this time of year. We could take a leisurely walk after dinner, watch the moon come up.”
“Leave her alone, Mick. She’s not interested in some high school drop-out smelling of walleye and lake trout with a bunch of stale pick up lines,” Stacy sneered at her brother. She had snuck up quietly behind him.
“Sorry, Mick, I came up here with my grandpa to fish, not to hook anything on two legs.”
Getting up from our table, Mick shot me a determined look. “You can sit in the seat of honor on the boat this afternoon. That’s next to me, the captain. See you in a few.” He nodded to my grandfather. “Dr. Greene.”
“Ugh…maybe I should just forget about fishing today and go back to the cabin. I’ve got some reading I could catch up on.”
“Joey, don’t let him spoil your day. I’ll sit between you two,” my grandpa offered.
“If you want to fish without my brother breathing down your neck, I can take you out on a rowboat. There’s a honey hole down the shore that Mick never takes the boat to. He saves it for himself, the putz.”
“What do you think, grandpa?”
“Don’t you have your duties to take care of, Stacy?”
“Not really, Dr. Greene. I’m going to school right now. Garrett College in McHenry. Majoring in Business Management. I don’t have classes on Wednesdays. Mom and Dad don’t mind me wandering around just as long as I don’t get in the way.”
“It’s up to you, Joey. I was looking forward to doing some angling with my favorite grandchild but if Mick makes you uncomfortable…”
“Let’s go, Stacy.” I picked up my rod and tackle box and followed her out the door. “See you later, grandpa.”
“Hold up, Joey.” He held out the stupid wide-brimmed beach hat that Gran had insisted I take up to the lake with me to keep the sun off my fair complexion. Spitefully, I grabbed it and crammed it down on my head. As I turned around, I saw Stacy trying to stifle a laugh by covering her mouth.
It didn’t turn out to be much of a honey hole. Both of us barely got a handful of bites all afternoon. And it got progressively darker as the day descended toward dusk. There were angry looking clouds in the distance, inching closer. The wind picked up.
“So, now that you’re a girl, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Like I told your brother—”
“We’re just girls shooting the shit. You can tell me. Just curious. The way you look now…”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re very pretty.” I blushed and turned away, pretending to jiggle my line.
“No, really. I thought you were cute as a boy but, wow, you’re a knockout as a girl. Bet you’re beating off the boys with a stick.”
“Well, I’m not into bondage. Or boys, I guess.” She moved closer to me on the small rowboat.
“Are you, like, into girls?”
“Frankly, Stacy, I’m not sure what I’m into. It’s so confusing, the whole sex thing. Before my surgery, I think I had a crush on my best friend, Julia. But, that’s over now. She’s not into girls.”
“She’s a fool.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Look, you got a bite! Reel it in. Real slow. Give him some run. Then when he’s close, speed up. Yeah, that’s it. Let me get the landing net and scoop it out of the water. Hey, it’s a decent-sized one!”
I took my cellphone out and snapped a picture of Stacy holding up the fish.
“Here, give me the phone and I’ll take a shot of you holding it. After all, you hooked it.”
That was the last bite we got all afternoon. Soon enough, I found myself dozing off while Stacy continued to drop a line into the lake, making small talk that I never heard. I was startled awake by Stacy shouting something about rain. Then, hard pellets of rainwater crashed into everything in and around our boat. The sky was a blue-black bruise. There was lightning in the distance. Stacy was rowing like a maniac and shouting. My hat got drenched in minutes.
When we reached the shore, Stacy hoisted me out of the boat and pushed me blindly forward. She struggled to move the boat further inland before finally giving up and taking my hand as we ran through the sheets of rain cascading down.
“There’s an empty cabin close by,” she shouted. My free hand was trying to keep my hat from flying off. The thunder and lightning were scary. I squeezed Stacy’s hand as she half pulled, half dragged me along. After several minutes of running, we came upon the cabin. Stacy found the key in her massive chain, and we rushed into the dry interior. When she tried to switch on the lights, there was nothing. The electricity was out. Lightning strikes will do that, especially in remote areas like this.
“You’ve got cat eyes, Joey. They kind of glow in the dark. They’re lovely…and spooky.”
“But I can’t see in the dark like a cat.” We both pulled out our phones and flicked on the flashlight function.
“There’re some blankets somewhere. We need to get out of these wet clothes.” She walked into what I assume was the bedroom and started rifling through the drawers. “Okay, I’ve got two. Come here, Joey. You change first and I’ll start a fire in that potbelly stove over there.”
When I came out of the bedroom, wrapping the blanket tightly around my body, my hair a curtain of wetness, Stacy, who was warming her hands in the heat emanating from the potbelly stove, let out a low whistle.
“That blanket looks real good on you. I was hoping this afternoon I’d get you wet sooner or later.” I stood stock-still, my mouth agape, as she brushed past me to change out of her wet clothes. Finding a place on the rug close to the stove, I turned off my phone’s flashlight. The room was aglow in the soft light of the fire. Kindling crackled intermittently as thunder boomed outside. Stacy returned swathed in a blanket identical to mine It and sat close to me.
“It looks and sounds like the end of the world outside.”
“This is a nice way to go if it is.” She looked into my cat’s eyes. I was starting to shiver. I hadn’t really dried myself very thoroughly.
“Come here. Let’s hold each other. We can keep each other warm.” She wrapped herself around me and started to nuzzle my neck. I was starting to swoon. Shivering and swooning. Stacy was very warm, and her lips moved from my neck to my cheeks and finally my lips. We kissed deeply. We fell gently onto the rug. Blankets were shrugged aside. There were no words spoken.
She licked droplets of water all the way down my body until she reached the center of my being. Stacy was the one resembling a cat as she lapped at the edges of my consciousness. I arched my back.
“Be gentle. I’m still a little sore down there,” I cautioned.
“I’ll try. But you turn me on so much.” The pleasure was starting to get so intense, I just closed my eyes and stopped caring about the soreness. Later on, I returned Stacy’s ministrations. Exhausted, we held each other and whispered sweet nothings into each other’s ears. In fact, the only intelligible word I could utter was “nothing.” It was my first sexual experience. I thought about that and turned the matter over in my mind this way and that before I felt Stacy get up, wrap her blanket around herself, and try to get a signal on her phone. I looked up at her groggily as she was able to reach her dad at the lodge.
“Dad says electricity’s out in the region. Good thing lightning didn’t hit one of the cell towers. He says the forecast is heavy rain until early morning. It’s better if we just stay here until morning when I’m sure they’ll have the power up again. Your grandpa’s worried so you better call him and tell him you’re safe and dry.”
We stayed close to the stove as evening enveloped our world. For dinner, we had some granola bars and water that Stacy had stowed in her backpack. There was nothing else to do so we made love again before falling into the arms of Morpheus, our own arms entwined.
Early the next morning, when we made it back to the lodge (yes, the rowboat was still where we left it, miraculously), hugs and kisses were exchanged all around. Stacy and I felt like soldiers returning home from the war. Grandpa was almost in tears. I had never seen him cry. It made my own tears roll down my cheeks as I hugged him especially tightly. After breakfast, Stacy said goodbye to me as she left for school. In front of all these people, including her parents and brother, she couldn’t even kiss me. Grandpa and I would be gone by the time she returned from the campus, so she just squeezed my hand and promised to call me in Silver Spring.
Later, in the car, during the three-hour drive home, I remembered my plans to hang out with Sally’s friends on Saturday. The events of the past 24 hours made feel more confident in the prospect of mixing socially with kids my age. I even looked forward to window shopping as a normal 18-year-old young woman. I turned to grandpa and lazily asked, “Would you and gran be upset if it turns out I’m attracted to girls?”
“No, why would it upset us? I assumed you were attracted to girls before this summer. So, what if you are now? You’re who you are and that’s good enough for us, angel. We just want you to be happy.”
That was a good place to stop. I turned off my phone and let Joey exhale. She shook her head as if coming out of a hypnotic state.
“Whew. You should be a therapist, Joanne. I haven’t talked about that time in my life in such detail to anyone, ever. Thanks for listening.”
“No, thank you. You’re giving me insights I could never have gotten from my own experience or reading random case histories. So, is next Tuesday night a good time for you?”
“Eliot’s next home game is Wednesday. It could be the deciding game! So, Tuesday would be perfect. By the way, would you mind if I brought someone along with me?”
“Eliot? Of course not. He’s my stepson. My home, however temporary, is his home anytime.”
“No, not Eliot. Someone else.”
“Someone I know?”
“You’ll have to wait until Tuesday.” She giggled.
I’m a lazy person. Notwithstanding the image I like to present to colleagues and acquaintances, those who really know me well, know I’m an unrepentant slacker. Especially on Sunday mornings, when I can lie in bed until noon. Of course, recently, on the weekends when Alastair stayed with me in New York, he’d find ways to wake me from my mostly happy dreams. There were the delicious foot massages that had me awake and purring in no time (although I kicked him in the head once – he’s got strong thumbs!), playing his scratchy vinyl copy of Grieg’s Morning Mood from Peer Gynt and drawing a waiting bath for me, and leaving a new dress I’d seen in a shop window the day before next to me on the bed with a note that read: “I can’t wait to see you in this, baby. Rise and shine for me.”
So, you can imagine my dismay when I was awakened by loud raps on my front door unspeakable hours before noon. Knocking so loud the sound penetrated the closed door of my bedroom. Groggily, I flipped the covers off and grabbed my peony and butterfly kimono robe. Almost blindly stumbling toward the front door, I had just angrily managed to tie the belt of my kimono when I opened the door to find Eliot standing there, a bag of breakfast goodies from Blu Jam Café in Brentwood dangling from his left hand.
“I knew you wouldn’t be up yet. Lazybones.”
We hugged and Eliot stepped into the house.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather stay in Alastair’s house next door? This isn’t much bigger than those tiny bungalows in Oceanside near the beach.”
“Well, you know I’ve been living alone for a decade now. I kind of enjoy my fortress of solitude. And, at the end of the day, I’m only here for a few months.”
“I thought you and Alastair were a thing, you know. He seems like a good dude.”
“He is. He is. I like him a lot.” We stood there for a long moment. Finally, Eliot pointed to his bag of goodies.
“Shakshuka for you and me.” I blinked and shook my head. What is a shakshuka? “North African dish of poached eggs in a sauce of tomatoes, olive oil, peppers, onion, and garlic, spiced with cumin, paprika and cayenne pepper. It’s wonderful! And…two large spiced chai lattes. Yum yum.” He placed the bag on the kitchen table. “Sit, mom. We’ve got a fun day ahead of us. I’m going to take you on a tour of Venice Beach. It’s a trip. You’ll love it. Especially the canals.”
“Isn’t that where Muscle Beach is? I figure you’d find that part of Venice Beach especially interesting—”
“Why do you say that?”
“Let’s eat. Then I’ll take a quick shower, change, and we’ll be out the door in half an hour.”
We hopped into Eliot’s leased white BMW 2 coupe and sped west along the Hollywood Freeway toward the ocean. 40 minutes later, we slid into an open parking space in The South City Parking Lot on Venice Boulevard, just mere yards away from the boardwalk. As we perused the busy Sunday scene of early morning strollers and youngsters of all sizes and ages running serpentine through the crowded stalls, I picked up the conversation we had started in the car.
“How did you get permission to leave the team the day before tomorrow night’s game?”
“I told coach it was a family emergency.”
“I’m in fine health, as far as I know.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know that. I just needed to see you. Joey told me about letting the cat out of the bag—”
“Eliot, why didn’t you ever tell me? Did you think I wouldn’t accept your being gay? How silly—”
“Of course not. But being a professional athlete, there’s a lot of public scrutiny and peer pressure. Nobody who plays, even in college, wants his teammates to ostracize him.”
“Even in 2022?”
“Mom, lots of things take a long time to change. If ever. You know that as well as I do. People say politically correct things to you, but their attitudes and prejudices are hard to overcome. If I told you, it’d come out eventually. And then my career would be over. I’m not a superstar. They can say I’m just not good enough to play anymore and cut me. Look what they did to Kaepernick for protesting.”
“You know I love you, whatever your orientation is.” I hooked my arm tighter into his as we walked along. “I’m glad you’ve become such good friends with Joey. She’s been through a lot herself. I don’t think I could have survived emotionally if I had transitioned at her young age. She’s really a remarkable young woman.”
“The universe threw her a curve with her father being part of the administration at the hospital. Blindsided. She told me she never wanted to see him again as long as she lives.”
“Don’t tell Joey but her father came to see me a couple of days ago. Just showed up at the house, puff out of thin air.”
“What did he want?” Eliot stopped at one of the stalls and picked out a wide-brimmed straw hat with a floral band. “Here, try this on. You’ll get sunburnt if you’re not wearing one. This is sunny Cali not the dark canyons of Manhattan.”
“He wanted me to arrange a meeting with Joey. Kind of unbeknownst to her—” I was looking at myself in the dinky little mirror in the stall, turning my head side to side, to find the perfect angle at which to seat the hat.
“Oh, Joey won’t like that at all. I mean really hate it if you do that.” He ambled over to the cashier and had an animated conversation with the man. He came back with a smirk on his face.
“Problem?” I took my Audrey Hepburn sunglasses out of my tote bag and put them on, taking one last peek at the mirror.
“The guy recognized me and wouldn’t take my card. It’s only ten bucks but…He said my mom is a beautiful lady.”
“He didn’t.”
“In that hat and the shades? Come on. You’re hot!”
“So, you don’t think I should’ve agreed to get them together?”
“When is this supposed to go down?”
“Tuesday night at my house. I’m making dinner and, after dinner, she’s going to tell me more about her first year after her GCS. I thought I’d have her dad “drop by” to see me…out of the blue. Does it look like too much of a setup?”
“Mom, I thought you were a really smart woman. Now, this gives me pause.”
“But he’s her father. Don’t they both deserve closure? Isn’t it better than eternal bitterness?”
“You know I was abandoned by my father. I don’t have warm feelings toward him. I’d probably get violent if I met up with him. He obviously couldn’t care less about his wife or his only child. What kind of man would do that?”
I looked out at the ocean for a long stretch as we walked the length of the boardwalk, heading in the direction of the Skate Park. Both Alastair and Eliot must think I’m a dolt, agreeing to Dr. Petry’s clandestine plan. I’m beginning to see their point. But what if Dr. Petry is contrite and truly wants to ask for Joey’s forgiveness? Perhaps my good intentions are digging a hole straight to hell?
We spent the next part of the morning watching teenagers executing skateboard tricks. Eliot knew all the tricks: ollies, heelflips, kickflips, Caballerials, grinds, and, of course, switch stances. Growing up in the ‘70s on the East Coast, I never skateboarded. By the time skateboarding became a worldwide phenomenon in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, I was already approaching 30 and transitioning. I shook my head at Eliot’s enthusiasm for the sport. The closest he came to actual skateboarding when he was a kid was playing Tony Hawk’s bestselling video game on his Sony PlayStation. Once he got to high school, Eliot’s attention turned to basketball. That turned out for the best.
Before having lunch at the Venice Beach chapter of Zinqué, a trendy chain of restaurants with French-based cuisine that dots the L.A. landscape, we strolled by Muscle Beach and watched an army of hulks working out on the iconic weightlifting platform. After about ten minutes, we made our way to South Lincoln Boulevard and stood in line to wait for a table at Zinqué. While we waited, we looked over the lunch menu. I decided to try their ratatouille quiche. Eliot wanted to order their smoked salmon carpaccio.
“Sorry, Mom, but they don’t take reservations until after 3 in the afternoon. Good thing I got you the hat though.” Just at that moment, a young woman in a smart-looking business suit, came out of the restaurant and waved to us.
“Please accept our apologies, Mr. Bradshaw. It was just pointed out to us that you and your…uh—”
“Mom.”
“…your mother were standing out here on line. Please follow me. We have a table ready for you.” We quickly followed her inside, grateful to get out of the noonday sun. There were some groans from touristy types who weren’t impressed that they had been standing on line with an L.A. Laker.
The best part of the day was traversing the waterways of The Venice Canals district. There are four parallel canals in a small, 4-and-a-half-mile area of land. When Venice, California was first established it was intended to be a beach resort and miles of canals were dug to make it resemble its namesake in Italy. However, the town grew, roads were needed, and, over time, only these four canals have remained.
You can wend your way along these canals in a little under an hour. Picturesque houses, many with docks that tether replica Venetian gondolas, line the canals. There are bridges that make it easy to cross from side to side, each bearing a distinct, individual design. Several times in our journey through this American Venice, I had to simply stop and look over the balustrade to scan the breathtaking horizon. Several fellow strollers recognized Eliot and asked for his autograph. I heard one woman whisper to her companion that Eliot’s date seemed a lot older. Her companion whispered in reply “This is Hollywood. What do you expect?”
Late in the afternoon, Eliot drove me home. He had to catch a flight to get back to the team by 11PM Eastern time. Just before I stepped out of the car, he gave me a quick peck on the cheek.
“You know, after the final game, I’m a free agent. I’m not sure the Lakers will re-sign me. I might get a better offer somewhere else. If you’re going to be in LA permanently—”
“Whoa. I’m here to write a screenplay. Three months, four on the outside. I’ll be back in New York before next basketball season starts. For my sake, try to sign with the Knicks or the Nets.”
“You seem happier than you’ve been in years, mom. Because of Alastair. Don’t toss a good chance out the window. I’ve asked around, everyone likes him. Not a bad word about him. I know he’s told you he loves you. He told me himself. I could tell he wasn’t lying.”
I hugged him and quickly stepped out of the car. Wordlessly, we parted. I watched his car go down Hidalgo Avenue, then turned to walk up the driveway to the guest house.
Monday was my official first day working on the screenplay. I showed up at Philippa’s house punctually at 10AM and was greeted at the door by her husband, Paul. He was wearing a Lakers jersey and baggy shorts. Behind him was Philippa, dressed in a similar outfit, a large tote bag slung over her shoulder, pushing a stroller with baby Clarissa burbling away in her own private language.
“Good morning, Joanne! It’s such a nice day, I thought we could go to Griffith Park and mix a little fresh air with our brainstorming. Clarissa likes the park, don’t you, sweetie?” Clarissa replied with a snorting giggle and clapped her tiny hands. “I thought you’d be wearing Eliot’s number 37 jersey.”
“I’ll be wearing that for Game 5 at Crypto.com. All things considered, I’m glad I decided to wear a light top and jeans today instead of something more business formal.”
“Well, let’s go.” She and Paul shared a lingering kiss and then Paul leaned down to kiss Clarissa as she reached out with her hands to touch his face. I took the tote bag from Philippa and followed her to their car.
There are benches conveniently placed along the hiking trails in Griffith Park every quarter mile or so. We stopped at one so Philippa could give Clarissa her bottle. As the little tyke serenely drank her fill, I kept recording our conversation on Philippa’s phone.
“With Joey’s story as one of the arcs, we can have three different aspects of the transgender experience in one narrative. So much more interesting and compelling than just my snooze-inducing life story—”
“Three aspects? I’m counting two: yours and Joey’s stories.”
“Well, we need your story, Philippa, for the perfect balance. Look at you! You have love, a successful career, a baby…you’re every transwoman’s paragon.”
“I don’t know, Joanne.”
“It’s not a documentary, Philippa. These characters will just be based on us. The audience doesn’t need to know our real names.” I laughed. “Don’t they always say, “write what you know”? Well, what do we know better than our own lives?” Philippa handed me a bottle of water, which I chugged rather greedily. It was getting warmer as we approached mid-day.
“I’ll have to talk it over with Paul. But I guess if he doesn’t object—”
“Maa-maa,” Clarissa interjected as her lips released the nipple of her bottle.
“I think Clarissa wants to be in the movie. Maybe you could add stage mother to your resume.”
“Oh no, filmmaking is a nasty business. I’d rather Clarissa become a professional. Maybe a doctor or lawyer.”
“If we do a sequel in 35 years, maybe she can be the first President with a transwoman mother!”
“Oh, Joanne, you are a riot."
I expected Joey to show up around 7PM on Tuesday evening, as we had agreed to. I was doubly nervous. The first reason for my nerves was trying not to ruin the dinner I had planned to serve. I had boasted to Joey that I could make a mean Penne Alla Vodka with Shrimp. I’ve made it before to generally nice reviews, but Eliot, Alastair, and a couple of other close friends would be too kind to say anything negative.
Shopping for the ingredients was so stressful that I begged off my writing session with Philippa early in the afternoon to round up everything I needed. Not being familiar at all with LA’s best markets, I asked Philippa to give me a list of her favorites. I ldrove myself nearly insane crisscrossing the city filling the back seat of Alastair’s Audi with groceries. For the shrimp, I found myself in Little Tokyo at the Los Angeles Fish Co. 2 pounds of peeled and de-veined shrimp, done for a little extra cost (I hate doing it myself…poo!). Then a hop, skip and a jump to Grand Central Market in Downtown, where I picked out some fresh produce, onions, cloves, peppers, tomatoes, and spinach (for the side dish, sauteed with garlic). On the way back home in Silver Lake, I walked into Silver Lake Wine on Glendale Blvd. and walked out with a bottle of Smirnoff Vodka for cooking and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for drinking. I paid for it, of course.
But the real reason I was nervous, beside wondering whether I should serve soup with dinner, was my uneasiness now with having Dr. Petry “drop by” later in the evening. Eliot and Alastair voiced serious reservations about this clandestine summit meeting and even Philippa said it was a bad idea. And, on top of that, Joey said she was bringing someone along as well. In any case, I’ve got Dr. Petry’s number. I’ll just call and tell him to abort the mission if things go pear-shaped.
I was twirling my June Cleaver pearls when I heard the knocking on the front door. I lowered the flame under the sauce pan and shucked my apron, composing myself, flipping hair away from my face, and walked elegantly to the door. Standing there were Joey and her mother, Elizabeth, all smiles. I was stunned momentarily before I waved them inside.
“Hello, Joanne. Good to see you again.” She held up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “Joey told me you’re serving shrimp.”
“Good to see you too, Elizabeth. I wasn’t expecting Joey’s plus one to be you.” I took the bottle from her. “That makes two bottles of the same wine on the table.”
“Great winos drink alike, eh?” laughed Joey. Abruptly, Elizabeth hugged me. I had assumed we’d just shake hands. Awkwardly, I held her hand in both of mine, speechless for a count of ten. Finally, I took my eyes off hers and motioned to the couch.
“Have a seat. Dinner’ll be served in ten minutes. So, tell me, Elizabeth, what besides visiting Joey, has you out here in the wild, wild west?”
“I’m finally done with Tufts. I resigned over a year ago, but they wanted me to stay on the administrative board until they could find a permanent replacement for me. I’m putting my house on the market.”
“So…you’re moving out here? Some more quality mother/daughter time?” I poured the sauce over the penne and quickly sauteed the spinach. Maybe I should have made that bean soup after all. I wasn’t really listening to Elizabeth. I needed a minute to text Dr. Petry.
“I’m sure Joey would not be happy if I even hinted at moving out here. No, I’m thinking of moving back to New York. Our old loft was placed on the market last month.”
“The one on Spring & Wooster, mom?”
“Wow, Joey, you remember it? Your dad and I took you to the city when you were 5 or 6. You wanted to go up and see the inside of it, but we explained that someone else was living there now and probably wouldn’t want us intruding on them.”
“I saw it again that summer you sent me off to Gran’s. I told you I stayed with my friend Julia for a couple of days in her dorm room.”
“Yes, you had your grandmother complicit in your little deception. Had I known you…”
I tried to shield my phone from view as I sent this text to Dr. Petry:
“You can’t come by! E is here with J. We’ll re-sched.”
A droplet of sweat traversed my forehead as I carried the dish of pasta and plate of sauteed spinach to the dinner table. I had already set the table for three.
“Dinner is served. Your last chance to leave before you taste my cooking.”
Dinner went well. I had succeeded in not giving Joey and Elizabeth food poisoning. In fact, they swore they enjoyed the meal. I can only fully trust Joey’s sworn testimony since she didn’t have any wine, opting for some bottled water I had in the refrigerator. On the other hand, Elizabeth always loved her wine. The rosy glow of her cheeks wasn’t due to rouge. We moved to the couch, and Joey volunteered to fix us cups of coffee. She walked into the kitchen and Elizabeth and I were left to stare at each other. I would have started to whistle a tune but, sadly, I don’t know how to whistle. I guess Betty Bacall would have been disappointed in me.
I hadn’t received a return text from Dr. Petry. I was worried. I’ll have to find an opportunity to actually speak to him if he doesn’t answer my text. Don’t tell me he turned off his phone. I placed my head in my hands.
“Headache, Joanne?”
“It’s nothing. Just a little tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Joey tells me you’re writing a screenplay.”
“For Alastair Knowles at GlobalNet, mom. This is his guest house.”
“Yes, I’ve seen photos of you and him together at various social events. The Met Gala last month. That dress you wore was beautiful. You looked gorgeous.”
“Oh, gorgeous, please no. Stunning, perhaps.” I laughed just as Joey handed us our coffee.
“So, is your relationship with Mr. Knowles strictly business or is there something more?”
“Mom, that’s a really personal question.”
“Well, we’re all old friends here. Is it a secret? Does Mr. Knowles have a wife somewhere?”
“No, Alastair’s divorced.”
“Joanne told me she and Alastair were co-workers at FOX for years. He was married to that actress who was in all those kooky independent films, Lulu Brooks. She plays mother roles on TV nowadays.”
“She used to use this guest house as an art studio. There’s still some of her canvases in the back somewhere.”
“I take it you’re only here temporarily.”
“The screenplay should be finished in three or four months. Then I can skedaddle back to my house on Long Island—”
“We’ll be in the same state, won’t we? You can see the loft after I’ve moved in.”
“I’m not sure I’m all that interested in seeing that loft again. My last memories of it aren’t that pleasant—”
“Or I could drive out to where you are. The Hamptons are only 2 hours away from Manhattan.”
“If you drive like Lewis Hamilton. I need to go powder my nose. I’ll be right back.”
Behind the closed bathroom door, I quickly punched in Dr. Petry’s number on my cell. After a couple of rings, he accepted the call.
“Willard Petry.”
“Dr. Petry, it’s Joanne Prentiss. Did you get my text?”
“I had my phone turned off. I was in an off-site meeting all afternoon that didn’t end until after seven. What’s up? We’re still on, right?”
“No, that’s why I sent you a text. Elizabeth is here with Joey. It’s not a good time to show up unannounced. We’ll have to do this another time…if at all.”
“I’m already on my way. I figure it’ll be another 20 minutes if the traffic lets up. It doesn’t matter Elizabeth’s there. It might actually help things—”
“I’m not too sure of that. Just turn the car around and live to fight another day, doctor. Believe me, this isn’t a good time—” He disconnected. Maybe I can get everyone out of the house. Yeah, that’s the ticket. We’ll go visit Eliot. He’s back in town today. He’ll do his old mom a solid. I checked my makeup, fluffed up my hair, and re-applied my lip gloss. A few steps later, I was standing in front of them, hands on my hips.
“I just got the greatest idea. We should introduce your mother, Joey, to Eliot. Do you want to call him to see if he’s home or meet us for drinks somewhere?”
“Should we bother him? He’s got a game tomorrow night. He’ll probably want to go to bed early.”
“Let me call him. I’ll see whether he’s available. We could meet up at the Rendition Room on Tujunga. It’s got a cute little speakeasy décor. And they have a magic act on Tuesdays!” I was about to punch in Eliot’s number when someone knocked loudly on the front door.
“Joanne, were you expecting someone?”
“No. Who could that be?” With my heart thumping, I went to open the door, fearing the cataclysm about to take place if it was Dr. Petry. Instead, my mouth flew open when I saw Alastair standing there, holding a bouquet of yellow roses.
“I switched my schedule around. I thought you could use some support.”
“Oh, Alastair, you’re incorrigible. You love surprises! And you know it throws me for a loop—”
He stepped in and kissed me deeply, almost crushing the flowers between us.
“Who’s this, Joanne,” asked Elizabeth as she walked toward them, Joey a step or two behind.
“Elizabeth, this is Alastair Knowles. He’s…”
“Her landlord, sort of. Hello, Elizabeth, nice to finally get to meet you.” He extended his hand and Elizabeth shook it.
“And nice to meet you. Joey’s told me a lot about you.”
“All good stuff, Alastair. I just told mom how impressed I am with you.”
“Well, thank you, Joey. Let me return the compliment. You have a wonderful daughter there, Elizabeth. You should be very proud of her. And she of you, as a parent.”
“Okay, enough of tonight’s meeting of the mutual admiration society. We were just about to set up a run for after dinner drinks with Eliot when you knocked. Here, I’ll take the flowers. Thank you, dear.” I kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll find something to put this in water and then we can call Eliot—”
“Let the man sit down for a moment, Joanne. Joey, can you heat up a cup of coffee for Alastair? Sit, sit. Tell me how you and Joanne met.” She leaned into Alastair to whisper. “Joanne’s a little bashful about spilling. But you can tell me. It looks really serious, you two.”
“I’m standing right here, Elizabeth. I can hear you.”
“It’s still early, Joanne. We can go for drinks later. Now, Alastair, Joey tells me you met Joanne shortly after she transitioned.”
“Maybe we should leave, Joanne,” Joey whispered, standing next to me with the coffee pot in her right hand. “I think mom’s a little “expansive” because of the wine. She gets like that when she’s had a little too much to drink.”
“Joey, you don’t have to tell me. I lived with your mom for five years. But, maybe it’s a good idea to take your mom back to your apartment. We can get together some other time. My only regret is that you didn’t get to continue your story tonight. Is Thursday good for you?”
“Yeah, Thursday’s good for me. I’ll think of something for mom to do that night. Heaven knows when she’s going back East. She’s up to something, I’m afraid.” She handed the cup of coffee to Alastair, who was hemming and hawing as Elizabeth bombarded him with questions.
“Mom, let’s head out in a few minutes. I’ve got an early shift tomorrow, as you know.”
“Oh, I’m having such a good time talking to Alastair. Joanne, you’ve got a winner here.” She gave me the thumbs up sign. Alastair’s eyes pleaded with me to end his torture. “Okay, we’re out. Joanne, thank you so much for dinner. You’ve become a better cook than I ever was. Let me reciprocate the hospitality and take you and Alastair out for dinner. You name the place. Price is no object!”
“Mom! Here’s your purse. We’ll make arrangements some other time. It’s getting late.”
Joey half pushed, half pulled her mother toward the front door. Holding on to her arm with her left hand, she turned the front doorknob and swung it open to see Dr. Willard Petry standing on the doorstep.
“Dad!”
“Willard!”
“What are you doing here?!!” they shouted in unison.
Alastair almost choked on his coffee and looked up at me from the couch.
“Well, Stanley, here's another fine mess you've gotten us into!”
“How the hell did you know I was here?” Joey practically screamed at her father.
Elizabeth, Dr. Petry, and Joey were in a circle just inside the front door, recalling the old Western trope of gunfighters in a Mexican Standoff. I was frozen in place near the couch where Alastair sat, tentatively reaching out to me with his hand.
Before Dr. Petry could muster an answer, Joey shrieked, “Joanne, did you set me up?” She turned back toward her mother. “Were you in on this too? Is everyone trying to gaslight me?”
Elizabeth gently brushed Joey’s back in a calming motion. “No, Joey, we had nothing to do with this. I had no idea—”
“Joey, I found out from people at the hospital. You’d told them that you were taking your mom over to see Joanne. I swear they didn’t know I was going to drop by. I only wanted to speak to you—” His hands reached out to Joey, pleading with his eyes.
She moved to slap his hands away and reached for the doorknob. “We have nothing to talk about. Mom, let’s go. I’m not feeling well.”
“Go. Let me talk to your father. I’ll get an uber home. Go.”
“Why, mom? How can you even stand the sight of him? What can he possibly say to us that means shit after ten years? Come on.”
“It’s alright, Joey. You go ahead. I can take care of this. Your father and I need to have a brief discussion.” She kissed Joey on the cheek and gently pushed her out the door. Joey ran to her car, not looking back.
“Joey! Please! Joey!” Dr. Petry vainly shouted after her. He turned to face Elizabeth.
“I thought ten years was a long enough time to let the flames of resentment and anger die down to embers. When are you going to tell Joey the truth?”
“As far as she’s concerned, she knows the truth. Do you want to pick at the scab again? She’s been hurt enough.”
I found myself unfrozen and walked quietly up to the pair. Alastair rose from the couch and followed behind me.
“Maybe Alastair and I can take a walk around the block so you two can have a little privacy.” Alastair nodded in agreement.
“No, it’s your house. Anyway, Willard and I really have nothing more to discuss. He knows I’ve warned him about trying to ambush Joey like this.” She turned angrily to Dr. Petry. “Can’t you see she wants to put the past behind her?”
“But I’m her father, Lizzie. Time is growing short for me. I can’t leave things unresolved like this.”
“Oh, Willard, don’t try that canard with me. I’m a doctor too. You’re as healthy as a horse. Just try to stay sober. And if you want to act in Joey’s best interests, leave her alone. There’ll come a place and time when all three of us can sit down and sing kumbaya, but it’s not here and now. Please?”
“My tenure as consultant with the hospital ends in a month. I’ll be going back to Seattle. I was hoping Joey and I could reconcile while I’m here. I’ve still got two years remaining on the lease to my house in Santa Monica. I can transfer the lease to her, and I’ll make all the payments. You handle it anyway you want. I’ll go now. I’m sorry to disturb your evening, Joanne and…”
“Alastair…and no need to apologize. I can see this is a thorny family issue. I understand.”
“Good night, Lizzie.” He shrugged his shoulders and went through the doorway, walking briskly to his car.
I gave Elizabeth a quizzical look. “Lizzie?”
“I’ve been telling him for 30 years that I despise being called Lizzie. My mother named me Elizabeth Ann. She didn’t name me after an axe murderer.”
“Do you think Joey will be alright?”
“I should go and check in on her. I’ve got the uber app on my phone—”
“I can take you home, Elizabeth,” Alastair offered.
“I’ll come with you. Just let me box up some leftovers for you and Joey. I made too much and don’t want it to go to waste.”
“What about Alastair? Have you eaten yet?” Alastair was about to answer but I stepped in.
“Oh, he doesn’t really like shrimp. I’ll make him something else or order a pizza. Right, darling?” Alastair nodded. “I’ll just be a minute. Talk amongst yourselves!”
After dropping Elizabeth off at Joey’s apartment, Alastair turned to me in his midnight black Porsche Boxster and declared he was mighty hungry. They hadn’t served a meal on the plane, so nothing since lunch.
“Poor baby, I’ll make you a Hot Brown Sandwich when we get home. I bought a small fortune in groceries this afternoon, so I’ve got everything I need: smoked turkey, bacon, and white cheddar cheese for the mornay sauce. And Philippa gifted me some of the bread she loves from Tartine Bakery.”
“You really are a domestic goddess, aren’t you? As delicious as that sounds, Jo, I’ve got a hankering for the lobster pizza at Berri’s Café.”
“I couldn’t eat a single slice, I’m stuffed from dinner. But I’ll have a macchiato and nibble at the edges of your pizza.”
Berri’s Café is in the Beverly Grove section of town hammocked by Cedar-Sinai and The Grove shopping mall. It took a while to find a parking space and Alastair had to put the top back up securely. Berri’s Café stays open until 4AM so it was still the shank of the evening when we walked into the restaurant. Plenty of tables available. The late-night crowd was yet to make their appearance. We didn’t need menus and gave the waiter our order before he could even take out his server book. My macchiato arrived a few minutes before Alastair’s lobster pizza.
I placed my head in my hands and moaned. “I fucked up, didn’t I, Alastair?”
“I don’t want to say I told you so but…” He held his hands out as I screwed my face up to show annoyance. “All things considered, it didn’t go as badly as it could have. Good thing you checked all guns and knives at the door.”
“The worst thing is Joey thinks I set this up with her father—”
“Well, you did.”
“I should have listened to you and Eliot and called it off before tonight. Now, Joey won’t want to speak to me, much less tell me the rest of her life story…which is supposed to be a major part of the screenplay.”
“I don’t think you need the rest of her story. Can’t you just make it up with Philippa’s help? After all, it is supposed to be fiction, isn’t it?”
“You’re right but the details of her story give that arc of the screenplay an authentic sense of verisimilitude—”
“Who’s this Vera Similitude? Does she have a SAG card?”
“You’re no help at all.” Alastair reached across the table, around the pizza stand, and held my hand.
“I switched around my meetings and came home to offer my support. I wasn’t totally sure there wouldn’t be some sort of fireworks going off when Petry and Joey collided. And who knew Elizabeth would show up as well?”
“Forgive me, Alastair. It was sweet of you. I’m just disappointed that I miscalculated so badly.”
“Sure you don’t want a slice of this? It’s really good.”
“Oh, alright, just a small slice. No, that’s too big. Alastair!”
We lay in bed, our breathing in synchrony, eyes searching above us in a thousand-yard stare. I turned to Alastair and nuzzled his neck.
“You were very…frisky tonight.”
“You needed comforting.”
“You as much as I, it seems. Something on your mind? Troubles in TV land?”
He turned to me and languorously stroked my cheek. Our eyes locked.
“These last few months with you have been the best of my life—”
“Alastair, please, with the hyperbole. You’re a highly successful and respected Hollywood executive. You’ve won awards. You were married to a famous and beautiful movie star. I’m just a speed bump in your life.” He kissed me to stop my self-effacing homily.
“Marry me, Jo…” I was stunned.
“Alastair, you can’t be serious. Don’t get me wrong. I think you’re wonderful. I’m even…pretty sure I’m falling in love with you but—”
“So, let’s get hitched. We can go to Vegas, one of those wedding chapels.” He saw the look on my face and changed gears. “Or we can have a big wedding. Everything you ever dreamed of as a little girl growing up—”
“Alastair, I didn’t grow up a girl.”
“Yes, you did. Even if you and anyone else didn’t know it at the time. You’re the most feminine woman I’ve ever met. And I want to spend the rest of my days with you…”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Dammit, woman! I pour my guts out to you and you ask me if I’m serious?”
“I’m not ready. I’ve been hurt so much. I’m…I’m just too damn scared to make that kind of commitment. Let’s let it percolate for a while longer. Give it some more time.”
“At least move into the main house, Jo. Let’s agree to make that kind of statement about where we are as a couple.”
“Are you evicting me?” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. I was a little scared of Alastair’s intensity at the moment.”
“No, I’m upgrading your accommodations. My bed is Alaskan King size. Plenty of elbow room. You do tend to toss about in your sleep. My ribs are witness to that.”
We shared a deep, probing kiss to seal the deal. I would move into the “big house.” My fear was, after the screenplay was finished, would I be able to simply pick up and leave, returning to Long Island? Would I want to?
I held out the sippy cup of apple juice to Clarissa’s awaiting hands. She grabbed the cup and wrapped her lips around the silicone spout, drinking happily, securely seated in her stroller. Philippa and I were sitting on a bench facing Shane’s Inspiration, an all-inclusive and accessible playground in Griffith Park designed for children of all cognitive and physical abilities.
“She’s still too young to play here but it’s a nice place to sit and take a juice break. She seems to enjoy watching the other children running around.”
"See, Clarissa is such a big girl she drinks juice in a cup!" Without releasing her lips from the cup, Clarissa looked up at me as if she understood I was praising her, her eyes gleaming.
“So, how do we proceed now if Joey possibly cuts off all contact with you?”
“I’ll see her tonight at the Lakers game. She’ll probably avoid me. Maybe I’ll sit with Alastair in GlobalNet’s luxury suite just to make sure there aren’t any nasty confrontations. Yeah, I guess I blew it. Why don’t we spend our time for the moment working out the arc that’s based on my life? Who knows? The situation with Joey could change—”
“It’s a nasty coincidence for you that Elizabeth has unexpectedly entered from stage left. It must conjure up some bad memories for you…”
“What I get for sticking my nose in other people’s business. You know the old bromide about good intentions.”
“She’s only visiting, right? That’s your saving grace.”
“I figure she’ll go back East by the end of the week. I don’t see or hear from her for almost 30 years and then she keeps popping up like…like—”
“A bogeyman?”
“Bogeywoman to be correct.”
Clarissa held out her sippy cup to me. She’d gulped down all 5 ounces heroically and expected me to “clear her table” as if I were a server.
“You look like someone who tips well.” She giggled.
The Lakers won Game 5 of the finals on Wednesday night. They would play Game 6 on the road, favored to win the championship. Alastair and I left the arena mere minutes after the final buzzer, not only to avoid running into Joey and Eliot (I’d text him later to congratulate him on sinking the winning shot) but because Alastair was booked on the 11:30PM flight to Toronto, where he had meetings that were re-scheduled in order to “rescue” me from a potential family firefight. He would be back on Sunday night. We drove to LAX in my borrowed Audi (although Alastair insisted on taking the wheel) and we made a pretty picture at the departure gate. Alastair wouldn’t let go of me. Finally, I extricated myself from his grasp, laughing at the silly goose, and wiped the lipstick off his face with my wet thumb. He waved to me like a soldier going off to war as he disappeared up the ramp to the plane.
Friday morning, Paul, Clarissa, and I were sitting in their cute garden shed behind the house, taking a break from work while Philippa was inside speaking on the phone with GlobalNet’s Chief Content Officer, Michelle Gravesend. Since Alastair was otherwise occupied in Toronto, Ms. Gravesend called Philippa to receive a progress report on our project.
Clarissa sat on my lap, squeezing the life out of the stuffed rabbit in her tiny hands. I think she’s got the concept of tough love all wrong. Paul was making a nuisance of himself, coaxing Clarissa to learn and say my name.
“Jo-Anne, Clarissa, Say Jo…Anne. Jo…Anne.”
“Paul, stop it. She can barely say Momma and Dada. Oh, and bananana.”
“Come on, Clarissa. Just say it. Jo…Anne. Jo-Anne…” Clarissa ignored Paul and continued massaging or torturing her stuffed rabbit. My phone rang and it was a number that was unfamiliar to me. I accepted the call anyway.
“Hello?”
“Joanne? This is Elizabeth. How are you? Am I interrupting your writing session?”
“Hi, Elizabeth. No, we’re just taking a break right now. Is Joey okay?”
“She’s fine. You know I had a long talk with her, and I think she’s amenable to continuing her sessions with you. But I can tell you all about it later—”
“Later? Are you extending your stay in L.A.?”
“Oh, no, Joey…I mean Joanne. Today’s my last day. I’m on a flight back to Boston tomorrow morning. I mean later as in later tonight. You didn’t forget I owe you and Alastair a dinner, did you?”
“Well, Alastair’s in Toronto as we speak. Thanks for the invitation but, really, you don’t owe us dinner. Especially since it was my stupidity that almost caused an incident—”
“Dinner for two sounds even better, Joanne. I’ve already made the reservations so be ready to be picked up at 7…with bells on. Wear something you can dance in. Something pretty. See you at 7.” She disconnected. I didn’t even get a chance to decline her invitation.
“Looks like you’ll be kicking your heels up on the dance floor tonight, whether you want to or not,” Paul said with a smirk.
“Who’s taking you out dancing? I thought Alastair was still in Toronto.” Philippa, who had just walked into the shed, looked at both of us for an answer. I handed Clarissa to her.
“That was Elizabeth. She asked me out on a date, I think.”
“You’re a very popular girl. I’m jealous.”
“Pish. Popularity is not what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Jo…Anne!” Clarissa blurted out.
“You’ve even got toddlers under your spell.”
I sized myself up in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. I had chosen to wear a white summery dress with a blue and red floral pattern. Was it appropriate for a dining and dancing date? Was this a date? I shook my head to answer my reflection in the mirror. It was a farewell dinner with optional dancing. Elizabeth said she was leaving tomorrow morning. Going back to Boston. Going back to our separate lives. She might have been joking about buying back her old loft in Manhattan. I bet she just keeps the house in Somerville, keeps on painting and running that small press that she started, the one that publishes poetry by writers from under-represented communities.
A single knock on the front door and I picked up my clutch. My low block heels, sensible for dancing, allowed me to quickly reach the front door before a second knock.
“Ready for the ball, princess?”
“Elizabeth, you know I’m a klutz. You don’t seriously think at my advanced age I can cut a rug without injuring myself.” I closed the door and locked it. Following close behind Elizabeth, I whistled at the sight of her rental car: a cream-colored BMW 2 coupe.
“Like the car? Joey wanted me to rent a cheap compact like a Toyota or Ford Fiesta. I said I’m closing in on 60 but I ain’t dead. That girl!”
“Speaking of Joey. You did say you had more details to give me when we spoke on the phone this morning—”
“Get in.” She opened the passenger side door. “I’ll tell you over dinner.”
We were heading west on the Glendale Freeway, speeding along at 65 miles per hour, the absolute limit. Elizabeth had always liked driving fast. I considered myself a careful, safe driver. I looked nervously at her, remaining quiet, not wanting to distract her attention from the road. But she was already chattering a mile a minute.
“One of the poets I’ve published is Argentinian but grew up in Pasadena. She told me about this great Argentine restaurant that also features a live tango band on weekend evenings. It’s named, of all things, The Tlon Uq Bar & Grill—”
“I gather the proprietor is a fan of Borges.”
“I knew you’d get it, my favorite literary scholar. So, it’s on Vine & Sunset. Good thing they included GPS with this rental. It’s a bitch trying to get around L.A. without some sort of help. And Joey’s clueless too. It took us half-an-hour to find your house…even with her GPS. She’s a smart kid but she learned to drive from her grandfather. I should have taught her myself, but I was just too busy at the hospital. Sometimes I feel I failed as a mother—”
“You did the best you could, Elizabeth. Joey’s turned out okay, don’t you think?”
“Yes, she’s the best daughter a woman could ever have. Do you ever regret not having children of your own?”
Yes, yes I do. Every day of my life, Elizabeth. Except for the random cruelty of a universe that often acts as humanity’s greatest antagonist, Joey could have been our daughter. But I didn’t say any of that aloud. I merely nodded to myself and muttered an indecipherable reply.
“Sorry. I’m sometimes socially backward. It must be a sore subject with you. But you do have Eliot. Joey had him come over to her place so I could get to know him. A nice young man. An Ivy Leaguer too!”
“I don’t deserve much credit for raising him. That was all Emily. You never met Emily—”
“And you never met Willard…until Tuesday night.”
“To be honest, Elizabeth, Willard and I met a few days before. In fact, I stupidly let him convince me that having him “drop by” that night was a good idea. I’m sorry, but I had no idea how deeply alienated Joey was from him. I figured they could reconcile if given a chance to quietly pass the peace pipe. I fucked up royally.”
“I knew Willard talked you into it. Don’t worry, I came to your defense with Joey. I told her you had nothing to do with that travesty on Tuesday night. In fact, she’s going to text you later about meeting up tomorrow morning after she sees me off to the airport. Something about dying to have brunch at that Mexican place again.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth. You’re a lifesaver.”
“You’re saying I’m sweet and fruit-flavored?”
The interior of the Tlon Uq Bar & Grill was impressively cavernous with high ceilings, an expansive dance floor, and a small, raised stage for the house band. Of course, tables formed a semi-circle on the periphery of the dance floor. We were led to a table near the front and given menus to scrutinize. Argentine cuisine is all about beef, big, thick slabs of it. We decided to have the Ojo de Bife con Hueso (for Two), the classic bone-in ribeye steak, with side orders of Salsa Criolla y Chimichurri.
“The band doesn’t come out until 9, so we can eat leisurely. So, tell me, is Alastair a keeper? I sense a lot of chemistry between you two. Joey says you seem so happy when you’re together.”
“I’m still processing the whole situation. It’s like a whirlwind romance. At least on his part.”
“You’ve known him for almost 30 years. Seems to me he’s been carrying a torch for you all this time.”
“Hardly, he asked me out right after I transitioned, and I politely declined. I wasn’t ready. Then things kind of evolved into a friendship. You know how workplace friendships happen. But he got over me quickly. He became involved with Lulu Brooks, the actress. I think he was the EP on one of her TV movies for FX. There was an immediate attraction.”
“Yes, Alastair’s a handsome guy. Twenty years ago, he could’ve been on a movie screen himself.”
“And Lulu was a born female, capable of bearing his children.”
“But they didn’t have any.”
“I know. Ironic, isn’t it? Anyway, I met Emily. Funny, you’re publishing poets now and I met Emily at a poetry reading in St. Paul’s Chapel at Columbia. It was love at first sight. For both of us.”
“You told me you fell in love with me at first sight. Remember? Maybe you’ve forgotten. It has been, what, more than 35 years now.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I can still see you standing in the corner of the room with a bottle of Bartles & Jaymes in your hand, chatting with Eddie Mangano, your boyfriend at the time.”
“Soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. It was his going away party. He was dropping out of school to be a roadie and guitar tech with The Cramps. He seriously thought I’d drop out as well and go on the road with him. On my own dime, too! When you came over to us, I was in the middle of another argument with him about that.”
“No one told me you and Eddie were involved. I lived in the room next door on that floor of the dorm. Eddie invited everyone within a radius of 200 feet. You had a certain aura. I was drawn to you.”
“I was wearing tight Jordache jeans, and I was facing away from you. I think I know what drew you to me.”
I threw my hands up. “Okay, you got me. Anyway, I was really surprised you asked me to go back to your loft with you. The party was still going full blast. But I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“You thought you were going to score, didn’t you?”
“Well, the thought occurred to me, yes it did.”
“You turned out to be a very gentle lover that night.”
“I was afraid you’d find me a little…soft. Other girls used to tell me I was too girly.”
“I prefer sensitive men. Well, until I met Willard.”
“You must have seen something in him that made you want to marry him, however it turned out twenty years later.”
“He was a year ahead of me in medical school and I thought he was brilliant. Despite all the shit we’ve been through, that’s one thing he indisputably is…a brilliant doctor. I kind of idolized him and followed him around like a puppy dog. Well, I guess I have some charms too. He proposed within six months of our meeting on campus. I accepted even before he finished asking. But, to get back to you and Alastair, have you two made any future plans? Are you going to go back to New York after the screenplay is finished?”
“Alastair proposed to me before he flew to Toronto—”
“So, I’ve lost you again, Joey,” she said under her breath, thinking I hadn’t heard her.
“I told him I’d have to think about it. Marriage at our ages, I think, is a dubious proposition. We’re set in our ways. We’ve lived alone for years now. We’re not a couple of lovestruck kids, losing our clothes at the drop of a hat…”
“There’s a lot to be said about companionship. But if you’re not really in love—”
“Oh no, Elizabeth, I’m in love alright. I miss him terribly when he’s away, like he is right now. When I was still in New York, he could only get away every other weekend. The days in between were slow torture. I do love him. As much…maybe more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
“And here I thought I was your greatest love—”
“You were my first love, Elizabeth. But the love I had with Emily…she was very dear to me. We were so much in love. If it wasn’t for Eliot needing me as a parent, I would have been absolutely inconsolable for the longest time. And I feel deeply for Alastair. If I had been more confident in myself those first few years after transitioning, I would’ve fallen for him like a ton of bricks when he first started asking me out. He was so cute back then. Kind of shy. You wouldn’t think that, seeing him now…” I drifted off mid-sentence. I found myself brimming with emotion and I was embarrassed to show that to Elizabeth.
The house band wandered onto the stage and began tuning up. Some of the patrons were already filling the dance floor in anticipation. Elizabeth took my hand and led me into the middle of the throng.
“Do you think this is a good idea? I’m not a good dancer and I didn’t take the elective on tango at Columbia. Pray for your toes, madam.”
“It’s okay, I’ll lead. Just let the music permeate your body. And hold on for dear life!” She laughed as she pulled me into a tight clinch. The band started playing a fast number and we gyrated in a sort of spastic form of tango across the dance floor, almost crashing into another couple in our enthusiasm.
I noticed we weren’t the only same-sex couple on the dance floor. I relaxed a bit more and let the sensuous rhythms flow through my arms and legs, being twirled about and controlled by Elizabeth’s strong yet gentle touch. The years seem to melt away and I saw before me the Elizabeth who fired my passions three decades ago. The music seemed to crescendo and our movements turned to frenzy. Suddenly, the band segued into a slower paced tango, meant for lovers to lock eyes and fuse emotions.
“I told you we’d have a good time.” I nodded and smiled. “Tonight might be the last time we’ll see each other for a long time. Hopefully, it won’t be another 30 years.”
“It was nice spending some time together, both you and Joey. Boston and New York are only a four-hour drive apart. We can visit more regularly than once every 30 years.”
“I’m serious about moving to Manhattan and buying back my old loft.”
“We’ll see. You’ve put down roots in Boston. Is there anyone in New York, other than me, you still have ties to?”
“One tie is enough.” She lowered her voice and almost whispered into my ear. “If this is really farewell, for however long it might be, I owe you the truth about Joey, her father, and me.”
“I don’t need to know every detail. These are family matters. I’m a relative stranger. I should have kept my nose out of your business in the first place.”
“I was the one who filed for divorce, not Willard.”
“Of course, the situation was untenable.”
“No, I had to file before Willard did. Otherwise, he would’ve had a strong case to be awarded sole custody of Joey. And he would’ve withdrawn permission for her to undergo HRT. She was only 15 at the time.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he win sole custody?”
“I had an extra-marital affair.” I was shocked. It didn’t fit my image of her but, still, couples divorce all the time because of adultery. It doesn’t necessarily disqualify them from being good parents.
“I still don’t get it.”
“It was who I had the affair with. I suspected Joey was gender dysphoric from the age of seven or eight, but the onset of male puberty sent her emotional wellbeing into a tailspin. Against Willard’s medical opinion or, rather, prejudices, I started seeking out therapeutic pathways for Joey. Because of our connections through Tufts, we could obtain the services of the best specialist in the Boston area. That was Dr. Richard Loughlin, a triple threat. He was a pediatrician, endocrinologist, and psychologist. He and his staff took Joey’s case immediately. They were convinced she was transgender and plotted out a regimen of HRT followed by GCS when she turned 18. Willard was livid because he didn’t believe Joey was transgender. We argued loud and often about it. I’m sure Joey saw and heard too much of that.”
“You only did what any mother would do for her child. Anything less would have been criminal in my book.”
“But Dr. Laughlin and I started spending a lot of time together. At first, it was to discuss Joey’s treatment but, as time went on, it was clear there was something developing between us. Occasional lunches in Cambridge where his clinic was located turned into dinners in Allston and ultimately, we stole as much time as we could from our spouses to meet furtively in an apartment he kept in Back Bay.”
“Willard must have suspected something.”
“He found out when I slipped up and used a medical convention to cover our weekend away in a Vermont B&B. There was some departmental issue that came up and when he couldn’t connect with my cell, he tried the convention hotel’s front desk. He confronted me when I got home and threatened to divorce me, asking for sole custody of Joey. He was willing to drop the whole thing if I stopped seeing Richard and pulled Joey out of her treatment program. I told him I couldn’t do that to Joey. He could demean me as much as he wanted but I would not sacrifice my child’s existential needs to his sense of male pride. He threatened to drag Richard’s reputation through the mud as well. I was shellshocked. This was becoming a no-exit situation. I discussed this with Richard as soon as I could get in touch with him.”
“What was his reaction?”
“Richard was heroic. He said that in the court of public opinion, Willard would lose. What would people think of a father, a medical doctor no less, who would refuse to acknowledge his own child’s properly diagnosed health condition and withhold treatment for it. A child’s parents may have marital problems but to hold a child hostage to those problems?”
“In some states, that reasoning might not carry the day,”
“We’re in Massachusetts. We may be Massholes but we’re as progressive as you can get. With that ammunition, I filed for divorce before Willard could blink. He realized that if he counter sued, all hell would break loose, and he had no assurance his own career wouldn’t go up in smoke. So, we made a compact of sorts. We’d part ways, share custody of Joey, Joey would complete her treatment including the final surgery, and we’d split everything down the middle.”
“And Willard wanted Joey to finally know the truth about her parents’ break-up.”
“The truth is that Willard never believed Joey is transgender and was willing to let his own child live out her life in abject hopelessness. You, of all people, knows that would have been a death sentence for Joey. The death of her soul. 82% of transgender individuals have considered killing themselves and 40% have attempted suicide, with suicide rates highest among transgender youth. Can you imagine what would have happened to Joey?”
She dropped her head onto my shoulder and wept. The band had stopped playing for several minutes already. We were the only couple on the dance floor. Gently, I led her back to our table where I took out a pack of tissues and handed her one. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“I think Willard is truly contrite now. Why not let them try to rebuild their relationship? He’s asking for forgiveness—”
“And let him paint a picture of me as an adulterous slut who had a tawdry affair with her own daughter’s doctor? He’d enjoy tearing Joey and me apart. The truth is he was a self-obsessed man who only cared about his high and mighty career and didn’t want his wife and child getting in the way.”
“I’ll refrain from making a comment on that point. What happened with Richard?”
“Richard? The affair kind of sputtered out, When Willard decided to resign from Tufts and move to Seattle, I had to take over the Emergency Pediatric Center and there just wasn’t any time to carry on the relationship. Richard reconciled with his wife. They’re still together. Frankly, I wasn’t really that into him. It was the circumstances at home more than anything else.”
“Could you take me home, Elizabeth? All that dancing just wore me out.” She signaled our waitress for the check. When she reached our table, she smiled and asked, “Aren’t you staying for the second set? It’s just another 15 minutes. Maybe some dessert?”
“No, thank you. We’re heading out now.” Elizabeth placed her Amex card in the check presenter.
“The food and the music were very good,” I cheerily said to the waitress.
“The way you two danced just now, I thought this must be a very special night for you.”
“It is.” Elizabeth looked at me and sighed. “A very special night.”
As we sped home on the Glendale Freeway, I checked my cellphone and, Elizabeth was right, Joey did send me a text asking to get together for brunch tomorrow morning at De Buena Planta. I replied and looked up to see we had already arrived at the guest house. I invited Elizabeth in for a cup of coffee.
“El Pico?”
“Of course. It was hard to find here in L.A., but they had a few cans of the Extra Fine Grind. I bought two. Alastair will drink anything, but I’ve always preferred El Pico since you introduced it to me.”
“It’s so funny, Joey. I mean Joanne. I keep slipping up. Forgive me. You think I always drank El Pico only because I used the empty cans my neighbor threw out in his trash in a mixed-media sculpture I was working on when we first met. I’m not that much of a coffee drinker anymore.”
“Well, I like it. Sit down. It’ll be a few minutes.”
With coffee mugs in our hands, we leaned back into the couch and sighed simultaneously.
“You must think badly of me now, Joanne. I did what I had to do to protect everyone involved—”
“Except Willard, of course.”
“If our marriage was anything more than a professional partnership, then I’d agree that he deserves sympathy. But I can’t countenance his utter disregard for his child’s wellbeing.”
“Okay, I’ll drop the subject.”
“Joanne, I can’t imagine never seeing you again. Can you find room in your life for me? Even if it’s just as a long-distance friend?”
“Of course. You left me, Elizabeth, I didn’t leave you. Remember?”
“I hurt you very badly. I know. We’re older now. Maybe the things that seemed so important then aren’t that important now. I never stopped loving you. Why do you think I named Joey after you?”
“You have a very odd way of showing your love.”
She moved closer to me on the couch and took my head in both her hands, closed her eyes, and sought out my lips with hers. I have to admit an electric charge surged through our connected bodies. I felt the way I felt thirty odd years ago when we would share our warmth in that cold loft on wintry Manhattan nights.
Our dresses seemed to dematerialize as we floated into the bedroom. Hungrily, we tasted each other from head to toe. It was a meal that surpassed the dinner from which we had just returned. I paid special attention to Elizabeth’s eyelids and earlobes. I always found them extremely sexy. For her part, she found new areas of my body to explore, parts I didn’t have when we last made love. And the part I had given up didn’t seem to hinder our passion.
“It’s different, Joey. But it’s still so good. All the years I threw away, baby…”
“Shush, no more talk about the past. The only thing that matters is here and now.”
“I’ve never been with a woman, Joey.”
“I’ll show you how it’s done.” I lowered my head and began my seminar on the joys of woman-to-woman love. There were frequent outbursts from the student body, but the lesson was successfully learned, as the later recitation of its salient points was flawlessly performed by my prize student.
I tied the belt of my kimono lazily as I peered out the window, watching Elizabeth drive away in the hazy darkness of midnight Los Angeles. I recalled the feathery touch of her lips on my eyelids. The image of her beautiful face as my head hung above her, my tousled hair mingling with hers just before I leaned down to kiss her glistening lips. I remember her fingers caressing my breasts as if discovering a new continent in an uncharted ocean. Most of all, I can’t forget the words she uttered to break the silence of love’s aftermath: “Marry me, Joey. Marry me this time.”
It was too early in the morning to have to think deeply about anything, much less the rest of my life. How did this happen to me? Two marriage proposals in the space of three days. Perhaps I should just write it off as pillow talk. After all, neither of the proposals came with a ring nor were they made on bended knee. Isn’t there some sort of decorum that goes with a proposal? What percentage of marriage proposals take place in bed après ski, as it were?
I struggled to keep my hair out of my face as I lifted the cup of coffee to my lips. Then I heard someone poking a key into the front door lock. It was only Saturday morning. Alastair wasn’t expected back until Sunday night. I looked around for a blunt object but all I could grab was a faux Louis Comfort Tiffany Art Deco lamp. At least I hope it’s a cheap reproduction. If it’s genuine, Alastair will forgive me. Would he want his putative bride-to-be killed by an early rising burglar for the want of a defensive weapon?
The door swung open, and I was about to wield the lamp like a Louisville Slugger when I saw it was an unarmed woman, who, seeing me, raised her hands to ward off my assault. We both screamed.
“Who are you?!!” we both shouted in unison.
I lowered the lamp. “You first. You’re the one picking the lock—”
“I’m Lulu Brooks. You know, Alastair’s ex? And this is my key…to my guest house.”
“Oh my god, I could’ve killed you. And with Alastair’s Louis Comfort lamp!”
“Oh, that thing? It’s a cheap reproduction. Alastair gave it to me when we were dating. He still won’t admit he got skunked by some antiques guy in New York. You must be Alastair’s new squeeze, umm, Joanne?”
“I’m working on a screenplay for GlobalNet. He’s letting me stay in the guest house for the duration. My normal habitat is New York—”
“Oh, come off it. I’ve seen all the cute photo opps. It’s all over social media. I never guessed Alastair would reach way back in his past for an old flame—”
“Alastair told you about me?”
“Everything, sweetheart. The goof couldn’t stop talking about you. How smart you were. How loyal a friend and colleague. How…pretty. Gag me with a spoon, I’m sure. Yeah, he had it bad for you, girl. Even though you flipped him off back then. So, he finally hooked you?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. We’re friends—”
“With benefits, I’m sure.” I turned away. It’s not seemly for a near-60-year-old woman to blush beet red.
“Was that all Alastair told you about me?”
“What else is there? Are you a homicidal maniac? Don’t answer with that lamp in your hand—”
I put the lamp back on the end table and tried to put my hands in my pockets but there weren’t any in my kimono. So, I placed them on my hips, just to look like I was standing my ground and not the least bit intimidated by her.
“A master car thief? An undercover agent for a hostile foreign government? Do you know what quinoa really is? Are you a transwoman?”
“Never mind. I just don’t like the thought of Alastair just cavalierly discussing me or our relationship, however innocent it really was.”
“You must know Alastair well enough after thirty years being around him. He’s honest to a fault and he expects the same from everyone else. He got really angry at me when, days before the wedding, he took a good look at our marriage certificate and noticed my first name is actually Caroline. Lulu’s a name I chose to set me apart from your run-of-the-mill starlet. He played “Caroline, No” on the stereo until I took a pair of scissors and cut the cd up into pieces.”
“That would stop it, alright.”
“Nah, he had other copies. But I suppose his mania about honesty was what ended our marriage—”
“How do you mean?”
“He didn’t tell you? I cheated on him…multiple times. He once told me that he would forgive me anything, including adultery, as long as I didn’t lie to him about it. Go figure. What’s the point then?”
“I don’t think too many couples could survive that.”
“That’s not how your marriage ended?”
“I’m…I’m a widow. Emily died ten years ago. Leukemia.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know. You see, Alastair didn’t tell me everything about you. Or maybe I just stopped listening. So, is that why you fended off his advances? You’re a lesbian? Or bi?”
“I’d love to chat with you all day but is there a particular reason you’re here on a Saturday morning?”
“Oh, yeah, I came for a couple of canvasses I still have back in the studio.” She pointed in the direction of the back of the house. “I thought you’d be staying in the big house with Alastair. My plan was to get in, pick up the shit, and get out. Five minutes max. But here you are. The vestal virgin.”
“Be my guest,” I said, smirking. I waved her by and followed as she made her way to the small studio in the rear of the house. “You’re very talented. I see you’re into abstract expressionism.”
“That was what I was doing when Al and I were first married. That’s so 20th century. I’m working in photorealistic multi-media these days. I’ve decided to slow down on the acting tip and get back heavily into my art. I’ve got a gallery show coming up and, just for completeness, I want some examples of my earlier stuff. Shows my development, you know.”
I recalled my surprise when Alastair told me a quarter of a century ago that he was seriously considering asking Lulu to marry him. At the time, Lulu had just made her mark in films as the titular “Space Babe,” a summertime box office blockbuster that successfully exploited her gorgeous brunette looks and slim fashion model’s body. She gave those aliens forty whacks with her particle beam gun and teenage boys across the planet gave themselves, well, you get my drift. She was still a beauty now at 50, but the acting jobs, outside of the occasional TV mom roles, had pretty much dwindled.
With the canvasses under both arms, Lulu marched to the front door.
“Nice kimono, by the way. Alastair buy you that?”
“Well, yes, he did. We saw it in a shop on Fifth Avenue.”
“Sorry I barged in on you like this. As I said, I had no idea—”
“Are you in a hurry? I’m being such a bad host. How about a cup of coffee?”
“No, I want to drop these off at the gallery and then I’ve got a 10:30 call on set. I’m playing Billy Schechter’s last girlfriend—”
“You mean the one who—”
She nodded, a sad frown on her face. “Yeah, that one. Hey, it’s a living. Toodles. Oh, thanks.” I opened the door for her. “Tell Alastair to change the lock on the door. Better safe than sorry.”
At brunch later that morning, I was uncharacteristically quiet, sitting across from Joey, moving the burritos on my plate around aimlessly. We were at De Buena Planta on Sunset again. She had just seen her mother off at the airport. Now, she happily chattered on about mundane things. The only thing that I especially noted was her relief at her father ending his consultancy at the hospital two weeks earlier than expected.
“I was seriously considering quitting, as you can guess. He’s going back to Seattle. Good riddance.”
“He didn’t have anything to do with you getting the residency, you know.”
“Who really knows? I don’t believe in coincidences, though. But let’s talk about happier matters. Mom was mum about your “date’ last night. I know you went tango dancing. Now that’s got old school romantic all over it—”
“It was just dinner between two old, old friends. The tango element was merely tangential. The Argentines really know how to cook a steak.” Joey laughed. I kept a straight face.
“Mom didn’t get back until past midnight.”
“A cute reversal of things. The daughter waiting up for her mother. Were you sitting in the dark, impatiently watching the digital display on your phone move past her curfew time?”
“You went back to your place, didn’t you?”
“Who’s interviewing whom? I’m buying you brunch to put you in a good mood for spilling all the sordid little details of your time in Washington, D.C. You’ll have to wait until the movie comes out to find out my secrets.”
“I’ll get the truth out of my mom, you’ll see.”
“Eat! Your tortillas are getting soft.”
I handed Joey a cup of coffee as I sat down on the couch, angling ourselves to face each other as we drank and talked. We had come back to the guest house after brunch. As I had hoped, the food and relatively light traffic on the way back had put her in an expansive mood. So, I turned on my recorder to begin our session.
“Let’s pick up where we left off last time. What happened once you settled in with your grandparents?”
“Nothing much…well, actually everything.” My expression implored her to explain. “I fell in love for the first time…as a woman. Head over heels. I used to laugh at the silly metaphors they use to describe the state of falling in love, of being in love with that special person. Then it happened to me. All the bells and whistles. I felt my insides melting to the consistency of goo.”
“Wow. Do tell.”
At the time, I didn’t know which was the real reason for my mother exiling me to the outskirts of Washington, D.C. until Christmas. Was she just trying to hide the freak from everyone at home in Boston, weary of explaining repeatedly why her rather androgynous son Joey had suddenly become her daughter Jocelyn, still preferring to be called Joey? I had been allowed to begin my freshman year at Amherst in January due to my recovery from surgery so stowing me 400 miles away in Maryland made complete sense if that was the reason. Or was she just too busy with her career at the hospital to deal with an adolescent with special needs? The parents who devoted their professional lives to safeguarding the health and wellbeing of other people’s children failed miserably at doing that for their own child.
Feeling abandoned by both parents, I resigned myself to staying in my room, surfing the net, watching YouTube videos, and breaking out the occasional odd physical book to read. To get me out of my self-made prison, Grandpa dusted off Mom’s old bike in the back of the garage. He told me the least use I’d have of it was to go to the mini-mall or public library. In any event, it was good exercise. When Sally, my cousin, heard this, she laughed at the image of me riding around Takoma Park on a 40-year-old bicycle.
“I’ll pick you up Saturday morning. The gang thought you were a little on the quiet side, but you’re welcome to hang out with us.”
“What are you guys planning to do? Not more shopping—”
“It’s like Monty Python’s spam skit. There’s lots of things we can do but there’s always going to be a little bit of shopping involved. Get with the program, girl! You’re going to be looking at shoes and accessories for the rest of your natural life.”
On a Friday night late in September, Sally, her friends, and I were lining up at the Snack Bar of the E Street Cinema, eyeing the selection of refreshments. We were evenly divided between popcorn and Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Bites. So, we decided to share! That and a soda got us ready to watch “The Lion King.” A trio of boys walked up to us and started exchanging greetings. One in particular, a tall good-looking boy with wavy dark brown hair, seemed to be very familiar with Sally.
“Hey, Sally, ladies, don’t tell me you’re seeing that kiddie movie.”
“There’s nothing else that looks half-way interesting. Seven screens and six of them suck,” Sally’s friend Ginny declared.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” The boy looked straight at me while asking Sally.
“Oh, yeah, this is my cousin, Joey Petry. She’s visiting from Boston. Joey, this is Raffy Gonzalez, class valedictorian in training. No, really, he’s a genius.” In a stage whisper, “At least that’s what he tells everyone.” Raffy nodded at me.
“Nice to meet you, Joey. Is that short for Josephine?”
“It’s Jocelyn but everyone calls me Joey, which is fine with me.”
“Well, from where I’m standing, I don’t think anyone could mistake you for a boy, even if you like being called Joey.”
“Hey, Raffy, movie’s starting. You can continue your charm attack later at HalfSmoke. Treat her to a milkshake when we order a platter for the table. Let’s go!”
“See you girls later at the HalfSmoke.” He turned and trotted over to his buddies.
“What are you guys seeing?” I shouted as Raffy started to disappear down the corridor.
“Aliens 12: The Final Gross Out” he shouted back.
“That sounds more interesting than “The Lion King,” I whispered to Sally. She gave me a look of disgust.
“So, what do you think of Raffy?”
“He seems nice.”
“You sound underwhelmed. He’s cute, smart, and speaks three languages. And he’s single!”
“You’re so impressed, why don’t you go after him?”
“Oh, yeah, I never told you. My boyfriend Rick is at Princeton. Anyway, Raffy seems to be very interested in you.”
“Well, I think I’m attracted to girls not boys—”
“Shhhh. Don’t let the others hear you say that. They’re kind of conservative around here. And just how do you figure that? Have you fooled around with a girl recently?”
“Sally, let’s table this discussion for now. Oh, look, they’re seating for “Lion King.”
We didn’t go to HalfSmoke after the movie. We went to Sbarro’s instead and ordered a Veggie Supreme pizza. As we destroyed the pizza, the girls wouldn’t stop teasing me about Raffy. Sally said she could set us up. Just say the word. I was about to say that I wasn’t attracted to boys when Sally kicked me in the shin under the table.
“She’s really shy, guys. And she went to an all-girl school in Boston. Would you believe she’s never been on a date with a boy?” They looked at me with utter disbelief.
“But you’re so pretty. Wasn’t there like a boys’ school affiliated with your school? Isn’t that what they do? I mean they can’t possibly do without proms and stuff…” Ginny was incredulous.
“The nuns didn’t want us corrupted, if you know what I mean—”
“Oh, you went to Catholic School! Do the nuns actually rap your knuckles with a ruler?”
“Worse. They—”
“Oh, look at the time. I’ve got to get Joey back to Takoma Park or Gran’ll tan my hide. C’mon, Joey. Don’t forget your purse.”
Over the next several weeks, as the girls took me under their wings, I made a clean sweep of all the most interesting sections of the city. We started in Georgetown, all around the campus, through Adams Morgan, Dupont Circle, Foggy Bottom, Southwest Waterfront, H Street NE, Penn Quarter, Chinatown, and Logan Circle. Oddly enough, more than was statistically probable, we kept bumping into Raffy and his friends. Then it was Raffy by himself, strolling through town, just lucky to chance upon us. He would join us for some street food or, later, invite us to some cute place where they served non-alcoholic beverages. I could tell from Sally’s self-satisfied expression every time these chance meetings occurred that she was working overtime to set us up.
Finally, one evening, as he walked me to the Dupont Circle Metro station to catch the Red Line back home to Takoma Park, Raffy shyly asked me out on a date.
“Hey, there’s a movie coming out Friday that maybe you’d like to see…with me, possibly? If you don’t have any plans, that is.”
“What’s the movie?”
“Umm, “The Thing.” His next words ran together in a nervous burst. “It’s like the third remake they say it’s really good like the effects are next level you don’t mind scary movies I mean there’s some gore for sure girls usually—”
“Okay. I’d like to go.”
“What? Oh, yeah, great! I was afraid you wouldn’t…I mean, you and Sally saw “The Lion King.”
“I’d rather have seen “Aliens 12” really, but the other girls outvoted me.” I laughed.
“You’re special, Joey. There’s something about you. I saw it the first time we met. What is it about you? You’re fascinating.”
“I’m a wonderful conversationalist, doncha know.”
“Friday, 7PM, I’ll meet you here. We can take the bus to the theater.” I nodded my agreement and turned to take the escalator down to the Metro, waving as I descended. He stood there and watched me all the way down.
After the first couple of dates (movies, James McMurtry at the 9:30 Club), we started seeing each other several times a week. As October turned to November, most of the time we’d just pick up a pizza from Paisano’s and go back to his dorm room and listen to his vinyl records. He played them on the old stereo handed down to him by his dad, Horatio, owner and chef of the best Cuban restaurant in Maryland, Los Habaneros Cubanos in Burtonsville.
“So, what was this surgery that made you delay starting school at Amherst?”
“Just some female stuff. I’m all recovered now. I could have started on time. I guess Mom thought I needed more time—”
“You mom’s a doctor?”
“Both my parents are doctors.”
“And you’re set on pre-med?”
“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to follow in the “family” business.”
“Not me. I have no desire to own a restaurant. My dad wanted me to learn how to cook all his Cuban specialties, but mom always told me to follow my heart. Academically, I’m saying.”
I was sitting on Raffy’s bed (neatly made thankfully), watching him as he sorted through his collectable 45s, sprawled on the floor directly beneath my swinging feet.
“You’re a Physics major. Do you want to do theoretical work or lab experiments?”
“Theoretical. But my real interest lies in the philosophy of science. There’s so much to explore in the metaphysics of physics, so to speak. The fundamental nature of reality and if we can really know it. Do scientific results truly comprise a study of truth?”
“That’s heavy, man.”
“I see you’re a person of more practical concerns. Like my record collection. Some of these are my dad’s. He was really into music in his younger days…before opening the restaurant. He gave me this old stereo since I was moving into the dorm, and he doesn’t have the time to listen to music like he used to. There’re still some record stores in DC. I go crate-digging sometimes on a weekend. Here, this is a single I found in Crooked Beat on 18th Street. It’s got an autographed picture sleeve too.” He took the 45 out of the sleeve and passed the sleeve to me. It was an illustration of a mythical sorceress standing in a dense thicket, a white owl perched on her left shoulder. A signature done by a silver sharpie climbed the side of the picture.
“This was from the soundtrack to “Streets of Fire.” I shook my head. Never heard of it. “Before your…our time. It’s written by Stevie Nicks. She sings backup on it. The story goes that they first met each other when they were 17 and 18. They always wanted to do something together and they finally did, seventeen years later. Shuggie Brennan. “Sorcerer” Listen.”
“I’ve heard of Stevie Nicks. I don’t know Shuggie Brennan. Was she a big star?”
“Pretty big. She’s still recording and performing. Her husband does film scores. Won an Oscar or two. She’s like the first transwoman to ever win a Grammy too. They’re always talking about doing a movie of her life.”
“Guess I’ve been living in a cave all this time.”
“Nice way to describe Boston.”
“Raffy, do you think you’d ever be attracted to a transwoman?”
“Hypothetically, sure, but I think the likelihood of me meeting a transwoman is infinitesimal. Current estimates place the total number of transgender individuals in the U.S. at 1 million. The number who are college age is a small fraction of that. The number who are college age and live in the DMV area is an even smaller fraction of that. I’d have just as good a chance at winning the lottery.”
“But suppose you did.”
“Win the lottery?”
“No, silly, meet a transwoman here in DC.”
“I’d be intrigued. From a scientific point of view. If they enjoyed sci-fi movies and indie rock music, we could be friends. But they wouldn’t be as pretty and smart as you.” I leaned down and kissed Raffy long and deep. He responded and climbed onto the bed, moving us into the middle, our lips still locked.
That was the first of many times I stayed overnight in Raffy’s dorm room. We slept together. Kissing, holding each other tightly enough to breathe in each other’s sighs, fingers tracing each other’s bodies. But we never went all the way. The reticence was not on my part. As affectionate, even passionate, as he was, he never crossed that imaginary line. I was happy and just chalked it up to a heightened sense of chivalry. It was good to feel respected as well as desired.
Whenever I stayed overnight, I’d call Gran and tell her I felt safer not taking the subway late at night. She’d quickly approve of me bunking with Sally and wish me sweet dreams. Sally, of course, would back me up if asked. And she took every opportunity to needle me about not being attracted to boys.
“It’s like someone who claims they’re vegan and eats steak three times a week. Can’t get enough of that taste, eh?”
“You have a filthy mind, Sally.”
“You’re the one making the beast with two backs.”
“Sally, we’ve never actually, you know…”
“What the hell do you do in his dorm room? Hold hands and sing kumbaya?”
“He just likes kissing and hugging.”
“I went out with a boy like that.”
“In high school?”
“No, third grade.”
As Thanksgiving drew near, Raffy’s friends started calling me Mrs. Gonzalez, for all the time we seemed to spend together on campus and in the city. It rankled me but, deep down, I was proud of my total acceptance by everyone as a woman. The thought occurred to me that I was more feminine than I’d ever imagined even before my transition. My father had once said to mom that it would take more than a hormone regimen to turn me into a convincing woman. Half-jokingly, he considered shipping me off to an all-girl Catholic boarding school when Doctor Loughlin started my HRT. I was serious when I threatened to run away from home if he actually followed through.
I was excited when Raffy told me he wanted me to meet his parents on the day after Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving Day was an especially busy day for restaurants, so they scheduled our first face-to-face for the slower, casually paced day after. Gran was glad to get my help in preparing our family Thanksgiving feast in any event. I had to explain to them who Raffy was and how involved I was with him. I kept it light on the details of course. Gran wanted to see the photo Sally had taken of Raffy and me standing on Boulder Bridge in Rock Creek Park. Our windblown hair was entangled, and it made us laugh. We looked like a happy couple. I handed my cellphone to Gran, and I noticed the concerned expression on Grandpa’s face. It deepened further when Gran exclaimed, “He’s so handsome!”
“And he’s a physics major, Grandpa…” He smiled broadly.
“Well, I look forward to meeting this young man of yours tomorrow when he comes to pick you up. You say he’s a sophomore? I’d advise him to concentrate on plasma physics. It’s a wide-open field for a bright young mind.”
Olga Gonzalez sat smiling at me across the table in a corner of Los Habaneros Cubanos Restaurant. Raffy was in the kitchen talking to his father, Horatio, owner and chef of their restaurant, nestled in Burtonsville, Maryland, between Baltimore and Washington, D.C. Cuban music was playing on the sound system. “Descarga Cachao” punctuated the air with its insistent rhythms.
“Joey is a boy’s name. What is your true given name, cariño?”
“Jocelyn. But everyone calls me Joey.”
“You’re too pretty to have a boy’s name. Rafael talks about you non-stop. Now I can see why. Are you Catholic?”
“No, my parents are both Jewish but we’re not very observant. I haven’t been to temple since I was a…a little girl.”
“So, your parents would have no problem with you being married in a church?”
“Uhh…no, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“In matters of the heart, just like in the restaurant business, it’s always best to plan ahead.”
There was a long moment of silence between us. I shot a glance at the kitchen door, hoping Raffy would finally return.
“Do you love Rafael?”
“I’m very fond of him—”
“He is deeply, deeply infatuated with you, cariño. Rafael very rarely brings his girlfriends to meet his parents. In fact, I can’t remember the last time he did. Maybe he was in middle school then. He’s a good boy, a good son. The Gonzalez family has always stressed education. Rafael descends from a long line of scholars. Did Rafael tell you his grandfather was the Provost of the University of Havana before Castro? He translated Shakespeare’s sonnets into Spanish, the first Cuban to do that. And Horatio, my husband, was in the doctoral program at Harvard in Comparative Literature before he decided running a restaurant paid better.”
“He never mentioned that. We’ve only known each other a few weeks. I’m sure he would have told me given time.”
“Only a few weeks but Rafael has decided you are the woman he wants to marry.” I quickly took a big swallow of water and tried to control the blush that was spreading on my cheeks. “I have always reminded Rafael that his education must, must come first. No distractions. I want to see him one day win a Nobel Prize. He is too brilliant to throw it all away on a pretty trifle. But I want him to be happy. Because he deserves to be love and be loved. Like his mother and father. Like your mother and father, I’m sure.” I hiccupped and immediately drank the rest of the water in my glass. “So, if you truly love my son, I will not stand in the way. My only condition is that you wait to have the wedding after Rafael graduates. Can you agree to that?”
There was a long list of things I wanted to say in response. My mind was a whirlwind of mixed emotions. Proud that I had elicited such deep feeling from Raffy, which he had starkly communicated to his mother. Relieved that I had passed muster with Olga and that she had deemed me worthy of her super-genius son. Disturbed that Raffy and Olga had already planned out the next three years of my life, without informing me. Insulted that I had been set up like a rack of bowling pins ready to be knocked down. It would be a mouthful, but I decided to set a few things straight with Olga. Then, the kitchen door swung open and Raffy and his father walked over to our table, wide smiles all around as they sat down.
“Did I miss anything?” asked Horatio.
“Joey and I had a very nice chat. She agreed with everything I said.” She laughed. “To be honest, Rafael,” she paused. “You’ve found yourself quite a jewel of a girl here. I am impressed. And I approve.” Rafael leaned across the table and kissed Olga on the cheek.
“Thank you, mom.” He squeezed my hand when he sat back down. I tried not to smile but, oh hell, he’s so cute. He completes me. Acchhhh! I’m a walking cliché.
“Dinner will be served momentarily. You know, I rarely get a chance to sit down and have a quiet family meal in my own restaurant.” Horatio ruffled his napkin and spread it out over his lap.
Olga got up from the table and extended her hand to me.
“Come, cariño, to the kitchen with me. I want to show you how to make a caramel-vanilla flan. That’s Rafael’s favorite dessert.”
As headshaking as that encounter with Olga Gonzalez was, the weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas weren’t much different from the weeks before for Raffy and me. I slept in Raffy’s bed at least twice a week. We went to the movies once a week and tried to catch a concert when we could get tickets. We even had dinner at Los Habaneros Cubanos two more times. All this time, the warring factions in my mind tossed petards at each other. The whole Gonzalez family was making plans that included me, but I didn’t appear to have any say in them. And there was the nagging feeling that they’d see me differently if they knew I was transgender. Would Raffy see me differently? Sally advised me to keep my mouth shut and part of me thought that was wise. But I didn’t want to live a lie. I loved Raffy. That much I knew. Did he love the real me? I decided to find out.
We were in bed, reading. Raffy was writing marginal notes in his copy of Nancy Cartwright’s “How the Laws of Physics Lie” while I was perusing “Feynman,” a biography of the great Nobel-winning physicist done as a graphic novel (Raffy had given it to me as a 3rd anniversary present, 3 months that is).
“Hey, babe, do you want to spend Christmas with the Gonzalez family?”
“My mom is coming to spend that week with my grands and me. I could get away for a couple of days but not Christmas Eve or Day. You understand.”
“It’s just that you’ll head off to Amherst after the New Year and we won’t see each other for a long while. And my mother would really like to see you too.”
I closed my book and reached across to hug Raffy. Looking up at him, I hesitated before I spoke.
“Baby, I’m going to tell you something I probably should have told you weeks ago. Promise you won’t get upset?”
“Okay, you’re serious, aren’t you? What’s the problem?”
“I was born a boy. The surgery I had this summer was the final step—” Raffy dropped his book. His mouth opened but words failed him.
“The final step in my transition. I’m anatomically a woman now. But I was always a woman. That’s what transgender means.”
“You’re putting me on, right? This isn’t funny, Joey. Please tell me you’re kidding.”
I jumped out of bed. I pulled down the t-shirt I was wearing to cover myself down to the tops of my knees. It was Raffy’s Georgetown phys. ed. shirt. He said I looked cute in it.
“Does this change everything, Raffy? I’m the person you fell in love with. The person your mother is already planning to marry you off to. Did the last 3 months mean nothing?”
Raffy came over to me and wrapped his arms around me from behind.
“Joey, this is…very difficult. My mother thinks you’re a real girl.”
“I am a real girl!”
“She wants grandchildren. She wants me to have a normal family. She’s…she’s very religious, Joey. I don’t know.”
“What do you want, Raffy?”
“It’s not that simple—”
“It’s very simple. It’s your life, Raffy. You decide. Not your mother.” I started to change clothes. “I’ll see if I can catch the last train.” Raffy stopped me.
“Come back to bed, Joey. We’ll see what the morning brings. It’s too late for you to take the train—”
“I know, it’s too dangerous alone…for a girl!”
Reluctantly, I got back under the covers, but Raffy had retreated to the far side of the bed. Small as it was, he managed to put almost two feet between us. I slept fitfully that night and got up very early. I debated leaving Raffy a note and, in the end, just left quietly. That was the last time I ever saw Raffy. He never bothered to get in touch with me either. For my part, I just wanted to forget the whole affair. No pun intended.
“You say that but does your mind ever wander to those days, to Raffy, to what might have been?” I took our coffee mugs and placed them in the sink. Joey was getting her things together to leave. It was past 1:30 in the afternoon and she needed to return her mom’s rental car.
“Sure, once in a while I think about him. He was my first love. But he couldn’t accept me for who I am. End of story. He was my yesterday. Today and tomorrow hold new surprises. You know, my mother’s lived a lot longer than me, but that’s something she could learn from me. The past deserves to remain in the past. Cherish the memories but don’t chase after ghosts.”
“You might be onto something there. I wish I’d had your wisdom when I was your age. Is next Tuesday good for you?” I opened the door and air kissed her as she walked through.
“See you then.” I went to the kitchen and made myself another strong cup of coffee.
The Lakers lost on Saturday night and their season ended. I texted Eliot and he replied within the hour, which was surprising. He told me to keep it under my hat but early next week the team would announce they had re-signed him to a 3-year contract. For the foreseeable future, he was an Angeleno. Well, that was settled. Now to consider my own future. As Sunday night approached, I had turned it over and over in my mind whether to tell Alastair about my night with Elizabeth. In his guest house, no less. Even as I parked his Audi in the airport lot, going to meet him as he came off the plane, I was conflicted. Walking through security, down the endless corridor to his gate, and finding a seat in the waiting area, I summoned up my courage. I would tell him. Maybe he’ll get angry. In that event, I’d just pack up and go home. It wasn’t my idea to write this screenplay. I don’t need the money. GlobalNet can have it back (minus expenses, of course).
When we reached home, I invited Alastair in for a cup of chamomile tea.
“Doesn’t that have caffeine in it? I’m dead tired, Jo. I want to sleep for twelve hours if I can.”
“People drink chamomile tea to treat insomnia because of its calming effects. Researchers believe that its effect on sleep comes from its flavonoid content. Apigenin is a flavonoid that binds to benzodiazepine receptors in the brain, which has a sedative effect.”
“You’re reading that, I hope.” I showed Alastair the paragraph I’d just read to him on my cellphone. “For a moment, I thought I’d walked into a parallel universe where my Joanne was a research scientist.” He started to sip the tea.
“Alastair, something happened while you were away that I think you should know about.”
“Oh, I know about that. Lulu called me yesterday and, you know, she’s sorry she barged into the house. She had no way of knowing you were staying here. But she should have given me some notice. And, yes, I’m changing the lock. So, don’t worry about any more unexpected guests. Besides, you’re moving into the main house, right?”
“It’s not that, Alastair.” I took his free hand in mine and lowered my eyes. “Elizabeth and I went out for dinner. It was an Argentine restaurant. There was a live band, and we danced the tango a bit.”
“I’m sure you had a good time. I know there’s so much history between you. I can even picture you two dancing a tango. So, who lead?”
“She drove me back here afterwards. I invited her in for a cup of coffee.”
“The El Pico, right? Her favorite. A last parting gesture. You’re a natural writer, Jo.”
“We kissed. I don’t how it happened, but we ended up in bed. We made love…I’m sorry, Alastair. So sorry.” Wearily, Alastair got up from the kitchen table, quietly put his cup of tea down and walked toward the front door.
“I’m really beat, Jo. We’ll talk about this tomorrow morning. Throw me the keys. I’ll pop the trunk and retrieve my bags.” I handed the keys to him. I couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes. He sounded so forlorn. He gently shut the door behind him.
I got up at the crack of dawn, made myself a light breakfast, showered, dressed in my best Elie Tahari black pantsuit, applied my face, and slipped on my Cole Haan two-inch pumps. I picked up my suitcases in both hands and locked the front door after I stepped outside. With head held high and firm resolve, I walked over to Alastair’s house and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. The house was completely dark. Alastair usually leaves early for the office. He’s anal about that. I could never lose the habit of arriving at my desk at exactly 9 o’clock, no matter what my title became. Perhaps Alastair really decided to sleep in. No, that’s so out of character for him. I used the spare key he’d given me for emergencies and entered the house.
He was nowhere to be found. I went through the length and breadth of the house. He must have left for the office already. I looked at the clock on his kitchen wall. It was only 7:30. I stood there for a long moment, debating what to do. I had planned on handing Alastair back his house and car keys. I expected he’d want me to vacate the premises. I would then go to Philippa’s house and go through a normal day’s work on the screenplay. I’d find myself a hotel room to stay in until I could secure alternative housing. Or maybe I could room with Eliot or Joey for the short term.
I went back to the guest house and changed into more casual, “writerly” clothes and comfortable flats. I poured myself a second cup of morning brew and stared at nothing, calculating when I’d have to call Alastair to see that he came straight home after work. The whole idea had been to avoid a nasty fight and effect a discreet departure with nary a hostile word uttered by either of us. Now, it seems unavoidable we’ll have an argument. I’d better be ready to crash at Eliot or Joey’s place tonight.
“Oh, I plan to finish writing this screenplay with you, Philippa, but I won’t be staying in Alastair’s guest house any longer. You can understand how awkward that’d be.”
I was on the phone with Philippa, just minutes away from hopping into the Audi to make the short drive to her Los Feliz house. I unburdened myself of my rather embarrassing situation to her, hoping for a sympathetic ear I suppose. She wondered if I should skip today’s session and pick up tomorrow or the next day when my mind would be clearer and more focused. I sighed and told her I’d rather work on the script than sit around the house driving myself crazy with expectations of what Alastair’s mood turns out to be. Suddenly, the call waiting beep went off. I looked at the number. It was Alastair.
“You better answer that, Joanne. Good luck.” Philippa disconnected. I accepted Alastair’s call.
“Jo? Alastair. Can you come to the offices here in a half an hour?”
“Alastair! I came by this morning, but you’d already left—”
“Jo, please. Just be here in half an hour. Michelle and I need to speak to you.”
“What about?” I was apprehensive. Why would Michelle Gravesend need to speak to me? Oh, my god, they’re going to fire me! “Alastair, is this about the…the screen—”
“I’ve got to go. See you soon. Goodbye, Jo.” He ended the call. It was a 20-minute drive to the GlobalNet offices on Vine Street. I’ll have to go dressed as I am. At the last second, I decided to wear my oversized, azure blue blazer even though it was already 80° outside. Oh, vanity, woman be thy name!
I had expected to meet with Alastair and Michelle in her office. The corner office with the view of Farmer’s Market, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and the Capitol Records Building all in a straight-line facing north. Michelle was GlobalNet’s Chief Content Officer and Alastair’s boss. Time Magazine had just done an extensive article on her: Columbia Film School graduate and Harvard MBA, started out as a junior staffer in Paramount’s film acquisitions department, rose to head of production at 21st Century Fox (where she met Alastair), three films she executive-produced had been Oscar-nominated in the last 5 years, and she was Hollywood’s highest-ranked out lesbian, married to Veronica Latimer, the noted prima ballerina of the San Francisco Ballet Company.
Instead, the receptionist shepherded me into a nondescript conference room, where I sat by myself for almost 15 minutes before Alastair walked in, followed a minute later by Michelle. She sat at the head of the conference table while Alastair and I faced each other across it.
“Thank you, Joanne, for being here on such short notice. I felt we should tell you about some changes in your situation with us as soon as possible—”
“Am I being…let go?”
“No, of course not. What makes you think that? It’s just a change in the management chain, so to speak. Perhaps Alastair hasn’t already told you…” She looked at the both of us. Neither of us said anything. “Well, as you might have read in all the trades…you don’t read the trades, do you?” I shook my head. “GlobalNet has reached an agreement in principle to an exclusive relationship with Beardsley Studios in London to produce a certain number of films every year on their famous premises. I’ve asked Alastair to go across the pond to make all the necessary preparations and this would mean being off-site for 3 or 4 months…or more.” My face betrayed my shock and Alastair avoided my look of surprise by keeping his attention locked on Michelle.
“What will this mean for my project? Is it still on?”
“Definitely. The whole organization is looking forward to it, Joanne. We think what you’re working on with Philippa would give GlobalNet the signature film treatment of the lives of transwomen in contemporary society. And that can impact attitudes and tear down biases, don’t you think?”
“Of course, I agree. I thought Alastair was out of his mind when he broached the matter to me at first. You know, he’s the motive force behind this. I would’ve never thought my life was that interesting to anyone else much less millions of viewers but Alastair…” I swallowed the last words and looked at Alastair. “Sorry, I get a little emotional about it all sometimes.”
“There are very few people I’ve been around who I have as much respect and admiration for as Joanne. She’s simply a uniquely inspirational person. Which is why I was insistent in asking her to do this.” Alastair seemed to stare into my soul.
“I know you’re disappointed that Alastair won’t be able to continue to oversee this project since he’ll be occupied overseas but I intend to give your screenplay my utmost personal attention. Any questions you might have or potential roadblocks you might face in the process, feel free to ask me for help. You’ll find I’ve had a lot of experience with controversial subject matter in my career in the business. Not to mention my own personal battles, as I’m sure you can empathize with.”
“I thought you’d be here while I finished the screenplay. You never mentioned having to spend three months in England—” My tone edged toward anger. Michelle took notice.
“I…it was something that developed in the last week or so—”
“Alastair came to me this morning and said he was immediately available to start the Beardsley deal. We booked him on Virgin Atlantic’s 10:30PM non-stop to London tonight. I was surprised to say the least, but it gives us a 3-month head start. And he’ll be our man on the spot. Who knows, we might be able to beat our competitors to the next Harry Potter or Dr. Who!”
“You might like it so much; you’ll decide to stay. I hear British women can be so much more sophisticated than American women.”
“I’ll be back. It’s a 3-month assignment, that’s all. It’s my job.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know what was happening on your project. Don’t worry, your screenplay is high priority with us, with or without Alastair onsite.” She rose from her chair and extended her hand. I shook it and tried to smile.
In the hallway, after Michelle had stepped back into her office, Alastair turned to me.
“In the mood for an early lunch?”
“From what I just heard; I’d think you’d rather be 5,000 miles away than have lunch with me.”
“You said on the phone you came by this morning. Why?”
“To give you back your house and car keys. I’d rather leave on my own accord than be evicted.” He took me by the shoulders and gently redirected me into his office, closing the door behind us.
“No matter what happens between us, Joanne, you can stay in my guest house as long as you want. Even after the screenplay is finished…if that’s what you want.”
“I think it’s better if I find another place to stay. As things stand…”
“Come on, let me take you to lunch. But first I want to go to Home Depot.”
“Alastair, just hire a locksmith. You’re not a handy guy. I’ve seen you try to fix things. Surely, you can afford it.”
“I’m not interested in anything in the store. It’s what’s on top of it.”
“Huh?”
We stood next to each other, leaning against the side of his Porsche, on the rooftop parking lot of The Home Depot on Sunset Boulevard, looking past the Shell Gas Station sign and the Dunes Inn sign all the way to Mt. Lee in Griffith Park.
“You can’t park anywhere near the Hollywood sign on Mt. Lee. You can only approach it by foot along those hiking paths. This rooftop parking lot is the best vantage point to see it. And it’s free of charge.” Alastair snaked his arm around my waist. “Take off your jacket. It’s getting hot closer to mid-day.” He put both our jackets back in the car.
“It took me 30 years to get to see this sign as something other than a tourist. You know, I wanted to be a documentary filmmaker—”
“I know. You’ve told me a thousand times over the years I’ve known you.”
“It was Ed Bradley who gave me my big break. 1994. I was 27. An assistant producer and chief bottle-washer. But I structured that group interview and profile he did of The Rolling Stones on their worldwide tour. Won him and the show an Emmy that year. And then we went to New Orleans later that year and did the Wynton Marsalis profile. That was the start for me. I gave up my dream of being another Peter Davis, the guy who directed “Hearts and Minds” about the tragedy of the Vietnam War. My talent lay in producing, supervising, putting things and people together to get something done.” I leaned back into him and listened to his heartbeat, keeping my eyes on the Hollywood sign in the far horizon.
“Less than two years later, I met you. And from the moment I first laid eyes on you, I fell head over heels for you. But you turned me down every time I asked you out—”
“I’ve explained why. You caught me at the wrong time. I was so insecure, afraid of what people would think of me or say to me when they found out. You saw me as a woman, but you were more certain of that than I was. I needed time.”
“Time marches on. It can’t be suspended. I guess I got frustrated with waiting you out. Then you found Emily—”
“No, you found Lulu first. Then I met Emily. It was in the same year though.”
“The point I guess is that I’ve waited almost 30 years to win your heart, I think I can wait another 3 or 4 months. Maybe giving our relationship some space could help sort out your feelings. You want space, don’t you?”
“It’s not what I want, Alastair. It’s something I can’t escape. I’ve been hurt and abandoned by the people I most loved in my life. Elizabeth leaving felt like the end of the world. She rejected the person I wanted to become, the real me. And then the years of transitioning, adjusting to actually living as a woman. I was flattered you liked me, but Emily was the first person who really saw me for me—and it was life-affirming. Then I lost her too. The universe keeps taking the things I love away from me.” He took me in his arms.
“I won’t leave you, Jo. I don’t care that you slept with Elizabeth. Really. People make mistakes. Tell me you want me to stay, and I’ll postpone my assignment to London. I don’t care if Michelle fires me. I’d toss it all aside for you. It’s you I’ve waited for. 27 years is a long time to keep a dream alive. Say you want me to stay.”
“I can’t do that to you, darling. My mind, my heart is so confused. It’s so damn hard to keep the past tucked away and out of sight. The monster of memory leaps out at you from dark, forgotten corners and eats your soul. I still love Elizabeth. I won’t lie to you—”
“I know, I know. I’ve always known. But she’s not here now. She comes into your life, dances the tango with you, seduces you, and takes the next plane out of town. Is that what you want, time and time again, over and over? She’s the one haunted by the past, not you. We have a future together. Say it. Say you want me to stay.”
“Go, Alastair. Go to England and hit it out of the park. You’re the one who should be running GlobalNet not Michelle. This will show the board you’re the right choice. Don’t worry about me. I need some time to get myself straight. What you say makes total sense, but I need to restructure my brain and my heart.”
“You want me to wait? How long will this take?”
“I don’t know. But I want you to know, Alastair.” I kissed him, quick and sharp, on the lips. “I want you to know that I’ve been deliriously happy with you these past five months. Let me have this time and the space to clear my head of the ghosts of the past. I do love you, dear, dear Alastair. But go and do your job. I’ll be here…waiting for you this time.”
The marines have landed! We rushed the Santa Monica Pier along with the teeming millions marching across the cantilevered Pedestrian Bridge. I was flanked on all sides by Joey and Eliot, Philippa and Paul, and, of course, Clarissa snugly positioned against her daddy’s chest in a baby carrier, her eyes wide as saucers as she scanned the scene before us.
“Did Alastair give you all the details on his encounter with J.K. Rowling on that BBC chat show? Paul and I only saw short clips on YouTube.”
“Well, she wasn’t expecting the subject of transwomen to be brought up and she had no idea who Alastair was. She was backtracking so fast; her head was spinning. I think Alastair made her look like a fool—”
“Good luck GlobalNet getting dibs on any future Rowling properties,” Eliot chuckled.
“Who cares? She’s yesterday’s news. Speaking of Alastair, Joanne, when’s he returning from across the pond?” asked Joey as she was making funny faces to entertain Clarissa.
“Who knows? 3 months was the original ETA but there’s always loose ends that need to be tied up.”
“Have you made any progress on solving your dilemma?” asked Philippa.
“Do you mean have I wiped Elizabeth from my memory banks?”
“Mom just moved into your old loft this week. I’m supposed to fly out there next month. Do you want to come along?” Joey remained her mother’s greatest advocate. It was a sore subject between us, but I continued to resist her prodding.
“Joey, you’re the one who’s always preaching about letting the past go. Face forward, don’t look back. Right?”
“There are always exceptions to the rule…”
We passed underneath the arch that frames the entrance to Pacific Park, the Pier’s mini amusement area chock-a-block with rides for all ages. Paul and Eliot argued over who was paying for the unlimited ride wristbands when I stepped forward, swiped my card, and returned with five wristbands. Clarissa didn’t require one since, as a toddler, she was essentially considered an appendage of her daddy’s.
We tried every ride. The Pacific Wheel, The West Coaster (circling the perimeter of the Park), Shark Frenzy, Sea Dragon, Inkie’s Scrambler, Pacific Plunge, Seaside Swing, Frog Hoppers, Sea Planes, and several more. Clarissa enjoyed them all, giggling and shouting all the words she had in her vocabulary. Mama, dada, car, banana, juice…she even shouted out “Joanne” once or twice. Everyone had a great time except for Joey, who started looking a little green around the gills about the time we did the last Pacific Plunge.
We decided to have lunch at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, a popular franchise that served seafood and American fare. Nearby stood the Route 66 sign, denoting the terminal point of the legendary highway that, before 1986, threaded the western United States from downtown Chicago to the Santa Monica Pier. Along the boardwalk, buskers dotted the path every 50 feet or so. Joey dropped coins into the various hats, caps, and instrument cases as we walked through the gauntlet of guitar slinging singers and Sonny Rollins wannabes.
“I read somewhere that these street performers, if they find a good location, can make up to $500 on a busy summer weekend. Some of them probably live in better digs than we do,” Paul informed us.
“Oh my god!” We looked ahead of us where Joey was holding her head in her hands, peering at the scruffy busker, his eyes shut, strumming his guitar, and singing a cover version of John Martyn’s “May You Never.”
“Raffy? Is that you?” The busker stopped his performance and opened his eyes. An expression of shock and recognition passed over his bearded face. He picked up his guitar case and amp, and without a word, ran like an Olympic sprinter down the boardwalk.
“Joey, what’s going on?”
“Joanne, I think that was Raffy. Raffy Gonzalez!”
It was coming up Labor Day weekend. My little cohort here in Los Angeles was scattered to the winds. Paul and Philippa had taken Clarissa with them to spend a week at Paul’s parents’ Lake Tahoe summer house. Eliot was in Europe, probably sitting in a gondola in Venice right now. Joey was in New York City exploring the Tribeca neighborhood her mother had moved back into. She might be looking out the same floor to ceiling windows I often spent late afternoons in summer standing by, watching the busy streets below.
I had just unwrapped a package that came by the U.S. mail and discovered it was a chapbook of collected poems written by Emily Bradshaw, my late wife. It was published by Elizabeth’s small boutique press. That and painting was what occupied her days now that she had retired from her medical practice. Inside the front cover was a handwritten note from Elizabeth.
Dearest Joey,
I thought you would like to receive the first copy of this small press printing of Emily’s collected poems. It is my gift to you, in memory of your beloved, and, for me, a final gesture of farewell to our long-ago romance. Be well, Joey, and seek love wherever you can. Most of all, hold tight to it when you find it. Cherish it. Never take it for granted, as I did. Goodbye.
All my love forever,
E
There was a bookmark in the book that opened it to Emily’s poem, “The Saddest Song.” I remembered hearing Emily read it the first time I saw her in St. Paul’s Chapel. She was the last poet of the afternoon. Our eyes met at some point during her third poem and stayed locked together every time she looked up from her text. After the reading, I invited her and little Eliot to Tom’s Diner where we had coffee and I treated Eliot to a root beer float.
Night in the city, beneath a heaven of stars
set against a Rothko canvas.
Winds swirling, sing
the saddest song I will ever hear.
I loved you when we counted
the stars together
but now the number is moot.
I see your eyes, your lips,
glistening in our wordless space.
You turned away from the sky parade
to smile at my joy.
We kissed a thousand times on such nights
when winds whistled in harmony.
Then came a stumble, a change of key.
Forever I will hear the wind’s sweet song.
Forever I will feel my heart leap
across love’s infinite chasm between
heaven’s hope and the pit of loss.
But tonight, in my city,
in a sky of stars on a Rothko canvas.
Winds swirl, defeated and undone,
singing the saddest song.
Far away, in that other city,
where blazing stars hang in heaven,
you hear a sweet windswept song.
Of love’s triumph over time’s despair,
but not our sky or stars or the song we knew.
Someone else hears that sweet song,
keeping time to your heartbeat,
gazing at eyes and lips that glisten.
I must sleep beneath the sky I’ve pictured
on a sultry summer night,
listening to the wailing wind sing.
The saddest song I will ever hear.