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CHAPTER SIX
 entalism is a facet of magic slowly becoming
more evident to the
general population. Uri Geller,
Kreskin, Dunninger, and other mentalists, those that admit deceit
and those that don't, have
overdone mentalism to where many of the gimmicks and devices, and
much of the misdirection
and psychology, have become public knowledge. People are becoming
increasingly aware that
feats of mentalism are, after all, nothing more than illusion.
Mentalism is entertainment, a clever
practice of the magician's art and, by ethical performers, is
rarely presented as anything except
entertainment. Mentalism involves nail writers, one-ahead
methods, secret sending devices,
methodology with arcane names such as, ``Hellstromism'',
and, in
its ultimate form, doesn't
require any gimmicks, only an alert insight into the human
condition. The latter has historically
been the province of astrologers, fortune tellers, mesmerists,
and spiritualists. Having worn thin
their credibility, some practitioners of these ``ancient
arts''
have changed the window dressing,
adopted different names for these crafts, and continue to dupe
the willing, or the unwary.
Psychics, hypnotists, trance mediums, channelers, faith healers,
are a few of the more current
designations. The dynamics, however, are always the same, only
the technique differs; the
practitioner must seek out people inclined to give away their
personal power. Of course, in
giving away their power, there is the hope it will be returned
the stronger for it.
When I started reading Tarot I learned of these techniques, used them freely, and devised a few of my own. My reason for reading Tarot, of course, was for friendship, never for money. It was a means of making myself valuable as a woman in the community and securing for myself a place to be a woman in polite company. As my confidence increased, I required a certain amount of conversation before giving a reading. ``Wham Bam, Thank You, Ma'am'' readings didn't satisfy my need for socializing. Also socializing provided an opportunity to read my clients, often allowing me to determine their questions yet unspoken. In turn, thus did wonders for my reputation. Later yet, I requested each person bring something to drink, usually wine or brandy. This, I affirmed, was necessary to lower my inhibitions and put my logical mind to sleep, subsequently producing a better reading. It was true enough, a little conversation and a little ``drinkie poo'' mellowed me out nicely. Once I was totally relaxed my inhibitions came down and intuitively I spewed forth the most remarkable prognostications. Some which startled even me. However, I was never fraudulent. Each person was cautioned that the cards were used only as a distraction while I ``read'' them, not the cards. I also confessed to not believing in ``this kind of nonsense'', and further admitted that I did it for acceptance as a woman. None of it mattered, my willingness to read for them was enough, taking what they already knew and returning it with nothing more than a slightly altered perspective. Pridefully, I billed myself as, ``The Reluctant Psychic'' and my honesty, rather than scaring people off, was a magnet drawing them. Sometimes, I found myself in a position where I had to ``read'' someone without the cards, and without dressing as a woman. The following was such a time and demonstrates that properly used by a conscientious practitioner, these ``skills'' can be put to worthwhile enterprise. Kevin, Dinah's husband, introduced me to a man named Spirou. Kevin had told Spirou about a fortune teller that knew a person's darkest secrets from a single glance. Spirou, of course and rightfully, didn't believe such a thing was possible. Kevin, protesting he hadn't believed it at first either, volunteered to prove it. I wasn't thrilled about any of this, but since Kevin was a friend, the husband of my dearest girl friend, I allowed myself to be pressed into service. One thing was puzzling though, it was out of character for Kevin to brag on anyone but Kevin. Why was he singing my praises to Spirou? The three of us met in Los Olivos restaurant. Spirou was having a Mexican dinner while Kevin and I sipped on burgundy. My information about Spirou was sketchy. Kevin had told me Spirou was unemployed and sleeping in the back room of a recording studio. That wasn't a lot to go on. Conspicuously, I examined the man across the table from me, attempting to make direct and unflinching eye contact. His eyes darted to and fro shiftily, blinking rapidly, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. Oh yes, this man had secrets, deep dark secrets. Spirou was tall, slightly over six feet, overweight by at least fifty pounds, had short greased black hair, frightened brown eyes, and his skin was sickly white. His midnight-blue pinstripe suit was severely conservative, mafioso severe. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, slightly frayed around the collar, and a narrow black tie. His serviceable cuff links and tie pin weren't expensive, but he carried a Gold Cross Pen and Pencil set in his breast pocket. Additionally, he carried a mysterious black briefcase that I suspected held nothing of any significance. Years later I would learn his briefcase was used predominantly for snacks; sandwiches, candy bars, peanut butter crackers, and the like. ``You come from a wealthy family,'' I volunteered. ``But, you don't have two nickels to rub together. Your mother and father are divorced. It was a particularly nasty divorce and your parents hate each other. You don't get along well with either parent and, although you see your mother more than your father, you care more for your father. In fact, if I don't miss my guess, your father has practically disowned you. In spite of this you respect him and seek his approval. You keep getting in trouble because you let people use you. You will go to incredible lengths for a friend, doing things for friends you wouldn't do for yourself. You're a virgin, scared to have sex with anyone, and your sexual fantasies are something you wouldn't want made public.'' Noticing he was squirming in his seat and had a pained expression, I softened my disclosure, ``Relax! I won't go into your sexual fantasies in front of Kevin. However, if you want to talk about them later we could meet somewhere.'' Spirou inclined his head almost imperceptibly in gratitude for the diffidence to his sensitivities. It seemed an appropriate time to wrap up my thumbnail sketch of him. ``One more thing, and I'm done,'' I announced. ``You consider yourself a spectator in life. Your personal philosophy is that it's better to do nothing, than to do something and be wrong.'' His eyes widened ever so slightly and his head moved from side to side in nervous agitation. ``You're wrong," I continued, pontificating, ``It's better to do something wrong, than nothing at all.'' I spat the sentences out one after another, each one leading to the next. What the heck, I thought, they were excellent guesses and if they were correct, my reputation would increase. If they weren't, the incident would soon be forgotten. Spirou, eyes still wide, a furrow of incredulousness on his brow, cast his attention from me to Kevin. His eyebrows peeked and his mouth pursed into a peculiar O-shape. His tongue was poking the side of his cheek. ``Unbelievable! Simply unbelievable!'' ``Honest Spirou, I didn't say a thing,'' said Kevin, answering his unspoken thought. ``I believe you,'' replied Spirou, ``some of the stuff he said, no one knows but me.'' Turning to me Spirou inquired, ``Am I that easy?'' ``Maybe ... for me,'' I answered, a feeling of smug satisfaction flowing over me. ``Do you read minds or what?'' asked the jumpy young man. ``No, I don't believe in Extra Sensory Perception. I call it Extended Sensory Perception,'' I replied. ``How does it work?'' he asked, Kevin still sipping his wine. ``I don't know, little clues add up in the non-verbal mind, sometimes even in the verbal mind and you can leap to seemingly unwarranted conclusions,'' I explained, while wondering at Kevin's pixie-like expression. His smile was the smile of a man with a plan that was unfolding nicely. We stayed at Los Olivos for about an hour, Kevin making a production over how quickly Spirou had become a good friend. ``Spirou is good people,'' Kevin declared with emphasis, ``I like him. He's a good man.'' Such comments were out of character for Kevin. Again my curiosity was aroused. It was the second in a series of curiosities that were to transpire that night. Returning to Kevin's house another curiosity popped up almost upon our entry. Ron, a friend of Kevin's who visited infrequently, had dropped by and was pretending to be drunk. It was a dreadful performance but, as no one else remarked over it, I filed it away. Silently, I wondered, ``Where were all these things were leading?'' Later, as the evening passed, Kevin staged a scene magnifying the riddle. A peculiar reddish tinge to his cheeks, his eyes open wide like a little boy telling a lie, he proposed the three of us stand and join hands. After following his curious request, he shut his eyes and led us in a chant that he attested would ``curse'' Electron, the recording studio where Spirou had sleeping privileges. Kevin announced he was doing this because of the shabby treatment they had afforded Spirou. Now I was puzzled. This voodoo stuff was a total fabrication. Why was Kevin playing this game? In our long acquaintance Kevin had never even hinted at a belief in magic. Why now? Curious indeed! Kevin bragging on someone, Ron feigning drunkeness, placing a curse on Electron with voodoo; something was going down alright ... but what? It grew late and Spirou, tiring, asked Kevin if he would drop him off at Electron. Kevin agreed without hesitation. Another curiosity, Kevin never gave anyone a lift. If asked he invariably refused. Both men invited me to ride along and I accepted. Initially reluctant, I accepted after Kevin became insistent. Shortly he would come to regret his insistence. Arriving at the studio, a dark little hole in the wall off Camelback road, Spirou invited us in for a few minutes. Having never seen the inside of a recording studio, I appreciated the offer. However, expecting Kevin to decline I was astonished when he accepted. I knew Kevin's quirks as well as I knew any man's. Kevin was brilliant, neurotic, and compulsive. This was a man who walked outside before going to take a piss, then would go to the bathroom take half a piss before walking outside again to return to the bathroom and finish his piss. Much of his behavior revolved around performing actions in halves, or doubled. Not that he wasn't aware of his compulsions, he was. They were a source of pride, evidence of his eccentric brilliance. Indeed, he had a profusion of predictable behavior patterns and accepting an invitation such as Spirou had made was entirely out of his pattern. One curiosity was following after another. Once inside, Spirou and I walked toward the back of the studio. Looking around I noticed the back door was ajar. ``Spirou,'' I asked, ``is the back door supposed to be open?'' Then noticing the lock had been tampered with I remarked, ``It looks like someone broke the lock.'' At that moment, still in the front of the studio poking around, Kevin screamed, ``The microphones are missing. Someone has stolen the microphones.'' His voice was high pitched and had a peculiar strained quality; a suspicious quality that put me wise bringing all the strange pieces of the evening rushing together. Now I knew what was going on? Kevin would never call microphones, microphones. He was in the recording business, he called them mikes, and the tone in his voice was transparent as window glass. There was mischief afoot. Everything that had happened had been leading up to this moment. Kevin had put Ron up to stealing the microphones, and what a piss poor hit it had been; putting a curse on Electron, Ron acting drunk, Kevin taking Spirou home and then stopping in for a visit. Why not wear a huge blinking neon sign, ``I'm ripping this kid off.'' Spirou ran to the front room and grabbed the empty microphone stands. ``Oh Christ! I'll be blamed. I've got two counts against me. I'll go down for sure.'' ``Gee, that's too bad Spirou,'' said Kevin, matter-of-factly. ``What am I going to do?'' cried Spirou. ``If I call the cops everyone will figure it was me and if I don't call the cops the guys will find them gone in the morning and I'll still get blamed.'' ``I'll get the mikes back,'' I promised, looking knowingly into Kevin's eyes. Kevin returned a menacing look. ``Let's go outside and talk, Kevin,'' I ordered. ``Spirou, wait here and don't do anything until we come back. And for God's sake don't call the cops, not yet.'' Spirou, trembling with anxiety, was beside himself. It took several assurances before he promised to be patient while Kevin and I had a little talk. Outside, alone with Kevin and after carefully shutting the door behind us, I came directly to the point. ``You screwed up, Kevin. If Spirou calls the cops, they're going to want to know how you knew the mikes were stolen. The mikes were gone, but only a thief would know they were stolen. They'll also want to know why Ron was playing drunk earlier at your place. Was that supposed to be an alibi? It won't wash. This whole night doesn't wash. Good god, putting a curse on Electron and then the place gets robbed! Anyhow, that's what I'm gonna tell the cops, unless you get those mikes back.'' ``Shit Lansberry, keep your damn mouth shut. He'll never know,'' protested Kevin, revealing through direct admission what I had guessed was the truth. ``I won't let him take the rap, man. For Chris' sakes, he's a kid. You said he was a friend. We've always agreed, we don't burn friends. You're setting Spirou up for a fall and I'm not letting you get away with it.'' ``You can be a real asshole, Lansberry!'' ``Next time you pull a caper, let me out. Did you think I wouldn't know? Or that I'd go along with it? Now, I want an answer, are you going to get those mikes back or do we go inside and call the cops?'' ``Yeah, all right! But don't tell Spirou I stole 'em. Tell him I know who did and that maybe I can convince the guy to return them.'' December, 1968, the same month I met Spirou, Anton Donal was conceived. One December evening, Mary and I were sprawled on our bed. Mary was slipping off into sleep and I was beside her half awake, my mind drifting lazily after the exertions of making love. As if suspended in a cloud above me, a face appeared, dreamlike, a young boy's face. He had blond hair, dark, dramatic brown eyes, a sharp noble chin, crisp, clean features, and an air of authority about him. In a clear voice the apparition spoke. ``I am your son. Call me Anton Donal for I will rule the world.'' The apparition faded and I sat bolt upright. ``Mary,'' I said, ``we made a baby tonight.'' I recounted my dream. At first she was incredulous, but, after the first shock passed, she believed me. Why wouldn't she believe me? With the first three boys I had known she was pregnant within the first two weeks. Female eyes tend to sparkle more than male eyes and a pregnant female's eyes usually sparkle and glow like diamonds reflecting sunlight. Most likely this phenomenon is in response to the amount of estrogen in the body. Leastwise, that's how it appears to me. In any event, the story of my dream spread quickly through the family and, as families do, they ragged the hell out of me. Although, when Mary missed her period, the ragging stopped. According to our physician, Anton was a ten month baby. He was born October 12th, 1969. His eyes were a soft blue and his hair was coal black, just the opposite of my prediction. I went to see him in the viewing room and, as I stood there, he turned his head to look at me and our eyes locked. There was recognition in his eyes, an acknowledgement seemed to pass between us. I shook my head, such a thing wasn't possible. Still, my dream had been wrong, his hair and eyes were the wrong color. I knew I was in for more ragging from my father and my brother. Arghhhh! I hadn't lived down the Space Brothers shit yet and here was new material with which to needle me. However, a month later Anton's hair turned blond and his eyes turned a deep chocolate brown. Once more the ragging subsided. Anton was the child in my dream. Shortly after Anton's birth, on a midnight crisp and clear, there was knocking, knocking, pounding, pounding fiercely on my chamber door. Actually it was my living room door and I had been dreaming about The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe. Startled into wakefulness I stumbled groggily to the front door. There stood Ted. His hair was disheveled, as were his clothes, and he looked frantic. ``What's up Ted?'' I asked, my curiosity chasing the last of the sleep away. ``I need a man,'' he announced flatly. ``Damn it, Ted! I told you I'm not that way.'' I was referring to a day at the print shop when he wanted me to give him a blow job. When I said no, he went to a gay bar and picked up some guy. Later in the day I asked him if he was homosexual. He replied, ``Hell, NO! A stiff prick knows no conscience.'' Truth be known, Ted was somewhat of a hypocrite. Still, he had made me wonder, how many heterosexual men visit gay bars and yet don't figure themselves as homosexual? ``No, I don't mean I need a man. Come 'ere! Let me show you,'' he responded, leading me to his car. Laying on the front seat of the car, was his wife. She was naked, writhing and squirming, and both of her hands were crammed between her legs. Wailing for someone to fuck her, she seemed oblivious to everything but her all consuming need. ``Fuck me! Fuck me!'' she howled, sprinkled with moans and groans. ``Well?'' questioned Ted. ``Me!? I can't! I've got Mary and I've never . . . well, you know. I never been with anyone but Mary.'' ``Hey, no problem! I understand,'' said Ted. ``Just thought we'd give you first crack. I can't handle anymore. We've been fucking since 9 o'clock this morning and I'm played out. We'll pick up a wino down on Buckeye road.'' ``Ah, Christ Ted, you can't do that,'' I replied, suspecting he was manipulating me, but not knowing how to stop him. ``What choice do we have? Who we gonna get this late at night?'' ``Look! Come back in fifteen minutes. I'll talk to Mary, and see what she says? I won't do it behind her back.'' ``Sure! We'll be by in fifteen minutes. If you're out front waiting we'll pick you up. Otherwise we'll go get a wino.'' Inside Mary, having heard the commotion, was awake and wondering what was going on. Briefly, I explained Ted's bizarre request and that they were going to pick up a wino if I didn't fuck Sharon. ``Do you want to do it?'' asked Mary. ``I don't know. Yes! No! Yes, I guess. It bothers me that I've never done anything with anyone but you. You've had a lot of experience and I envy you. Besides, I've always wondered if I had played around more would I have been, well, you know, more of a man.'' I did want to do Sharon. At least, I wanted to try. ``I've always thought that made you special,'' replied Mary. ``You messed around before we were married. What's it like?'' I asked. ``I didn't like it. I only did it because I thought it was how to keep a boyfriend. I've never enjoyed it with anyone but you.'' ``I don't know how I'd feel about it,'' I responded, ``I don't even know if I can do it with anyone else. Maybe I ought to know.'' ``If it's that important to you, do it,'' she said. ``but just this once, never again.'' Leaving Mary, I waited outside for Ted to return with his wife. When Ted picked me up, my hands were trembling. I got in the car and as we were pulling away from the house I saw a fleeting glimpse of Mary's face at the window. There were tears in her eyes. I wanted to yell for Ted to stop the car. I wanted to run back to Mary, to hug her, to tell her I didn't want to do anything to hurt her. I wanted to go home. However, once begun, inertia took over. A body in motion tends to remain in motion. An imbecile on a fool's errand has to go through with it. ``Where are we going?'' I asked, Sharon sitting conspicuously naked between the two of us. ``To a motel. Get to work, Lansberry,'' Ted ordered. ``Stick your fingers up her twat. Stick your whole hand up her. Hell, I've had my fist up her to the elbow.'' I put my arm around Sharon and kissed her softly, gently, and tenderly. The way I did Mary. I ran my hands over her body lovingly, shyly brushing my fingertips against her cheek. Sharon had different ideas. She was a wildcat clawing at my body. She was sucking my tongue out by the roots, trying to swallow it. Unzipping my pants, she grabbed my flaccid organ and flailed at it. Pulling my hand between her thighs she moaned, ``God, someone fuck me. Fuck me! For God's sake fuck me!'' I was acutely aware of a major difficulty in complying with her demand. I wasn't turned on; what was happening was about as appealing as eating raw liver. This wasn't my idea of love making. It began to dawn on me that Ted and Sharon's sex life was substantially different from mine. After we arrived at the motel I threw my coat over Sharon and carried her inside the room. Shutting the door behind us I laid her on the bed. Grabbing my shoulders she dragged me down beside her. Sprawling on the bed the action got hot and heavy, on Sharon's part at any rate. She was screaming now, ``Fuck me! Fuck me!'' I would have liked to help her, I really would have, even if just to shut her up, but nature wasn't cooperating. I turned to look at Ted seated on a chair across the room. ``Can't you leave?'' I snapped at him, wondering why he had come in with us. ``I can't do anything with you in the room.'' ``I paid for the room. I watch,'' he retorted. Like a snake striking, Sharon had my pants open again and her moist, warm, voracious mouth engulfed my limp member. Electricity shot through my frame and the poor little thing struggled to half-mast, a half-hearted salute to her mighty ministrations. There it stopped. I remembered Mary's face at the window, saw Ted sitting in the chair across the room, observed this wildcat's ferocious demand for sex, and I realized it was hopeless. A dildo would have gone soft in such a setting. ``This isn't going to work,'' I said, rolling away from Sharon and sitting up. ``See Sharon,'' taunted Ted. ``I told you! You're no damn good anymore. You're washed up.'' ``It's not her,'' I yelled. ``It's me! I want to do it. I can't get it up.'' I turned to Sharon. ``I'm not man enough for this kind of action.'' ``Bullshit! You've got four kids! Sharon just doesn't turn you on,'' Ted roared angrily. ``It isn't Sharon!'' I screamed, defending her. ``Except for Mary, I've never done it with anyone. It's not in me. Hell, you know I live half my life as a woman. I'm just not man enough.'' ``I had six brothers and they fucked me all the time,'' said Sharon. ``They never had any problems.'' ``You're too old Sharon! A worn out old bitch!'' raged Ted. ``Damn it! Let her alone, or I'll knock the fucking shit out of you,'' I growled at him, frightened at how much I suddenly sounded like my father. ``Try!'' he screamed. I leaped out of bed ready to fight. ``If that's the way you want it.'' ``No, I mean, say TRY, you'll TRY to knock the shit out of me,'' he countered. Fear was in his eyes and his brow was furrowed. He had the look of a frightened rabbit. My blood pressure slowly returned to normal, and my fists relaxed into claws, and then hands. It was one of the few times in my life that I had been ready to start a fight. It does take a lot to piss me off. I put my pants back on and barked, ``Take me home. I've done all I can do.'' At home, when I told Mary what had happened, she was elated, ecstatic might be more descriptive. I rationalized that my inability to function might be because I was coming down with the flu. After all, I had wanted to, but just wasn't up to it. (Pun intentional.) However, a few minutes later, alone in our bed and surrounded by the quiet of the night, Mary mounted me. Laughing and giggling, she teased, ``My goodness, you don't seem at all sick to me.'' Mary and I met Mr. and Mrs. Hornick for the first time when we were neighbors with the Browns and the Campbells. They were also our neighbors. Frank, of German ancestry, and Martha, of Polish ancestry, were an elderly couple, 91 and 82 respectively, and as a couple they had grown old together. Inexplicably they were inextricably merged, each necessary to the continued existence of the other. Perhaps, happy and content, perfect together, their marriage endowed them with the determination to make life last. Frank, once a highly intelligent man as evidenced by an esoteric and eclectic library, had lost some of his fine edge. His voice, cracking and wavering, was hard to understand and Mrs. Hornick often had to act as interpreter. Nonetheless, he was always genuinely pleased to see us, as was Mrs. Hornick. Mrs. Hornick, a portly, jolly, animated, sprite, always saw us as we were approaching. Her large bulbous nose seemed cemented to her window as her tiny, intense blue eyes strained to capture all the business. She was a caricature of little old ladies everywhere, and yet, the more real for it. On her door there was a sign that read; POUND DAMN HARD, DIM EARS INSIDE. It told a story. Martha loved company and didn't want to miss anyone because of dim ears. It was not unlike the story in her squinting eyes peering hopefully out the window. As requested, I pounded damn hard on her door, and Martha's head disappeared from the window. A moment passed and, sunbeams exploding from her face and eyes, liquid joy erupting from her lips, Mrs. Hornick bid us enter. ``Lar-ry! Lar-ry and Mar-ry! Come in! Come in!'' Hugging and kissing us she pulled us into the living room and pushed us down into an overstuffed sofa. The soft astringent smell of age filled the air, but was forgotten as she continued to speak. ``Oooooh! It's so good to see ya. Lar-ry, have I tol' ya, you look like a gir-rl. When I see Mar-ry comin' I always tell Frankie, 'Mar-ry and some udder girl are comin' to visit.' You look jus' like a girl to me, Lar-ry. I dun'na know why. Why is that Lar-ry? How's da kids, Mar-ry?'' Her question to me was purely rhetorical, Mary's question too. Chattering like a blue jay, she never slowed for an instant. ``Frankie's fine. I called him but he mus' be sleepin'. Shhh! Dun'na wake him. He talks too much. I'll wake him later. Let me talk awhile first. You wanna drink? I'll get'cha sumthin' ta drink? I got 7up, Coke, schnapps, and brandy. I'll give ya some schnapps, Lar-ry. Mar-ry too. Mar-ry, looka da' letters I'm writin'. I'm writin' lotsa letters.'' Our drinks forgotten, Martha, walking over to her desk, lifted a huge stack of stamped and sealed envelopes. ``Dis one on top . . . take a look.'' she offered, pointing at the top letter. ``Hoo! Ha! He's a black boy. He's in prison. Jus' a baby, only 37, and black, black as da devil he is. He sent a picture. I tol' him his white teeth look good wid' his black skin. He said I made him laugh. He's a good boy, even if he is in prison.'' ``I got anudder letter here,'' she said, pulling out the second from the top. ``It's to Dolly. I put her address right on the front, see? She has a boy who'sa chess champion and she has a new liddle baby . . . oh no, that'sa your boys Mar-ry and Lar-ry. Oooooh, I get confused sumtimes. Wait now, I gotta go shit. Don't be offended. When you get my age you call shit, shit.''
Mrs. Hornick was a delight. Visiting her was always entertaining and often educational. For twenty five years before she met Frank she had been a nun at St. Lukes, a convent in the east. St. Lukes, apparently like many convents, provided their nuns with small cubicles, a bed, a dresser, and one change of habit. Across the door was hung a cloth tapestry, making access immediate and knocking unnecessary. Mrs. Hornick also told an account of being whipped by the Mother Superior for the slightest infractions, often nothing more than sexual urges; and confessing them. ``Ha!'' she exclaimed, ``I learned to keep my big mout' shut. Lar-ry and Mar-ry, you know what dey did when I got out. Dey sent me away and locked me up like in a prison. Dey said I needed a rest and dat I would change my mind. Ha! Dat's when I learned to fight. Forty two I was, just a dumb kid, but I wasn't so dumb dey could keep me locked up. I gotta way from them and married Frankie. Now, I'm a fighter. I fight like Hell. People think when you get old dat you ain't got no rights, dat 'cause we move slow we ain't got no brains. You gotta learn to yell or dey treat ya like shit.'' ``When Frankie had his stroke . . . '' Frank, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, stepped into the living room, smiled a greeting, and then shuffled off to the bedroom to get his hearing aid; the one that didn't whistle. Returning, he smiled once more, spoke a quiet hello, and then took a seat. ``Frankie, you talk.'' suggested Martha, continuing without providing a moments pause. ``Frankie was in da hospital and da damn nurses were pokin' and pullin' at him and dey hit his balls. He pushed one of dem and she fell down. Den dey say Frankie's violent. My Frankie violent, oooooh boy, I was so mad. Dey think old people don't feel no pain. Dat's shit. You poke a man's balls at ninety, it's still gonna hurt like hell.'' ``Ninety one'' piped in Frank, straining to follow the conversation. ``No, Frankie. I was telling dem about when you were in da hospital. You were ninety den.'' corrected Mrs. Hornick in a loud voice. ``Ohhhh!'' sighed Frank, realizing his mistake. His desire to communicate and frustration over not being able to do so because of his ``dim'' ears, was touching. ``Talk pleasanter t'ings.'' he grumbled shortly. Looking at him I marvelled at his ears; age had made his ears the largest human ears I had ever seen. However, his eyes were clear and sharp. A ready intellect, slowed with age but not dulled, gleamed behind his eyes. ``Watts for dinner? Make TV dinners, 'vite Larry und Mary. Vant dem to stay, to eat.'' ``Okay Frankie. Let me talk now.'' answered Mrs. Hornick, obviously not understanding her husband's request. ``Shhhhh!'' she whispers with a finger to her mouth. ``I can't always understand him no more. My earpiece's no damn good. We write notes a lot now, when we ain't got company. Did I tell ya about Frankie's first wife. She was an Indian. Frankie felt bad, what da white man did to da indian. Dat's why he married one. She smoked and drank and it killed her. Dat's dose peoples weakness ya know. Booze, I mean. I used ta smoke, but Frankie said he wouldn't marry no damn woman who smoked 'cause he didn't want ta bury anudder wife.'' ``Dat's why I quit. Not one cigarette in thirty seven years. Ha! I tease him sumtimes dat I could smoke now. It ain't gonna kill me now.'' Martha roared, guffawing at her joke. ``Frankie, '' she demanded pointing at me and calling for Frank's attention. ``Look at Lar-ry. I thought he was a girl. He looks so cute. Look at his hair. It's so long and he looks younger, so much younger. Doesn't he look younger Frankie?'' Frankie, smiling, nodded his agreement, although it was unlikely he understood a word Martha had said. Frank and Martha were dear people, elderly, but still sucking happiness from the sponge of life. Mrs. Hornick thinking that I looked like a girl was provocative. She knew nothing of my deeper nature, and had never seen me dressed in feminine clothes. My hair was on the long side, true enough, but not so long, as yet, that it covered my ears. I doubted her impression came solely from my longish hair. `Could it be the hormones? Already?' I conjectured. It had only been a couple of months since I had found Dr. William J. Luke, a doctor with knowledge of the transsexual phenomenon. Having heard, through a friend, that Dr. Luke had transsexual patients, I made an appointment. Nervously, dressed in my most conservative outfit, I kept my appointment. It was one of my rare appearances in daylight hours and my stomach was giving me fits. Still, I would have walked into a cage of tigers unarmed to keep this appointment. Here, perhaps, was what I needed to heal the dichotomy between my body and my soul. Dr. Luke was an attractive man, tall, with blond wavy hair and an infectious smile. Immediately at ease with this personable man, I felt certain he would not turn me away. Nonetheless, his questions were thorough and penetrating, designed to weed out those who didn't qualify. With two exceptions I answered all his questions truthfully. I didn't tell him I was married. I was fearful he would insist Mary agree to my treatment, and Mary didn't have any idea of what I was doing. She would learn her soon enough, once I determined the effect of the hormones. My other deception was only partially untrue. Which is a nice way of saying, I lied. Dr. Luke asked me how long I had been living as a woman. I truthfully replied that I had been flip-flopping most of my adult life, but went on to allege two years full time. Evidently I was convincing. He prescribed daily dosages of premarin and provera, and a weekly injection of an oil based estrogen. One change was almost immediate. With my first injection a feeling of well-being spread through my body. It would have eclipsed more subtle changes, had there been any. Strangely, I felt healthier. I felt marvelously wonderful. Psychological? Who knows? I didn't care. What works, works. Over the first few weeks the biological changes began. My breasts, small but conspicuous before treatment, began to grow. My nipples became sore and the surrounding tissue became sensitive to the touch. It was an electrifying sensation. My skin too became noticeably smoother. I felt younger, peppier, and more alert. However, the most discernible physical change was in my eyes. Looking in the mirror I saw my eyes twinkling like two stars, as brightly as the early stages of pregnancy. Could Mrs. Hornick be picking up on these changes? Already, less than eight weeks after treatment began? It seemed implausible. Not with her dim eyes. The changes were, as yet, too subtle. I could scarcely discern them. What then? Could her intuition, as had my Aunt Kathleen's, have seen beneath the surface? Martha certainly hadn't been the only person to remark on my feminine characteristics. Aunt Kathleen, dressing me in her wedding gown saw me as a girl. My father, complaining vociferously, said I walked like a girl. More than one person had commented on the texture of my skin, the graceful curve of my fingers, my light complexion, and the thickness and feel of my hair, and more than one person had said, in my presence when I was growing up, that I was too pretty to be a boy, that I should have been born a girl. Also I sensed, when with my other girl friends, that they viewed me as one of them, not as boy friend material. Sometimes too, I sensed the veiled animosity of the boys, animosity kept in check because I was too damn big to confront. I knew how puzzling I must have seemed to other people, how puzzling I was to myself. As a man, my feminine traits and physical characteristics, were readily apparent, even as my masculine ones were when I was a woman. Dressed as a man, I wasn't accepted as one, not fully, and dressed as a woman, I was given the deference usually accorded only to a man. My unspoken body language, my smell, my composure, my appearance, all the things that make a human being a man or a woman, were blended together. I was at one and the same time, neither man nor woman and yet both man and woman. But the society I grew up in didn't allow for blends, only opposing ends of a social separateness. One had to be a man or a woman, anything else was inconceivable. Some people were uncomfortable when I presented myself as a woman, although it was the most comfortable for me. Presenting myself as a man, uncomfortable for me, lessened but didn't eliminate the discomfort people felt about me. Not able to eliminate my feelings and needs, not fitting in society no matter which way I turned, the sanest course seemed to follow my heart. Talk about difficulties with social separateness; my difficulties with friends, abstractly painful, was humorous, leastwise in retrospect. One couple, Ed and Marty Andrews, the most straight laced couple Mary and I knew, were unsuspecting participants in one dark comic episode. Ed was the older brother of Tim Andrews, from the Space Brother saga. They were also the only friends who knew nothing about my special nature. Not that I hadn't wanted to tell them, but Mary vigorously protested, for fear we would lose their friendship if they proved to be close-minded. For myself, it wouldn't have mattered. Friends that couldn't appreciate my nature weren't real friends, and such friendship as we had would then be shallow. Which is why not telling Ed and Marty stuck in my craw. They deserved to be told, deserved the opportunity to prove they were good friends, or to prove they weren't good friends. Nonetheless, bowing to Mary's protestations I refrained from putting them to the test. It was a test too, to be open with people, and it was its own reward. Those who flunked the test were invariably people I wouldn't have wanted as friends under any circumstances, and those who passed became warm, close friends. Openness and honesty was the fork with which I separated the grain from the husks, the people of depth and substance from those who were shallow and plastic. Still, almost every other weekend, Mary and I and our children visited Ed and Marty and their children, or they visited us. While our sons played with their two little girls, we four sometimes played bridge, although sometimes we played other games. At other times Ed and I would play chess while Marty and Mary chatted. Our relationship revolved around recreational activities. There was nothing intimate between us. It wasn't an uncomfortable friendship, but neither was it warm and effusive. Ed and Marty were Ayn Rand objectivists, and for a short while John Bircher conservatives. Their views were as hard core right wing as any Christian Fundamentalist, except that they were atheists. A fact, and the only fact, which eventually would separate them from the John Birch organization. Ed had wanted me to join the Birchers and finally convinced me to attend one of the meetings. The animosity toward atheists drove me away. Much as the unrelenting attitude toward the disadvantaged by the Objectivists drove me away from their organization. The Birchers use jingoism to manipulate the minds of their followers; Satan Loves Godless Communism, America Right or Wrong, America Love It or Leave It, John Birch Forever, The Only Good Communist is a Dead Communist. Jingoism, blatant mind control, never appealed to me. They also had icons; the flag and the cross. Anything they didn't believe in was held to be an attack against one or the other. Some portion of my mind automatically rejected anything presented in such a fashion. Objectivism, billed as rational selfishness, wasn't much better. They also had jingles; Who Is John Galt?, Ayn Rand Forever, Objectivists Unite, God Is Dead, and they had their icons; dollar signs in all shapes and sizes, from tie pins, money clips, ear rings, and necklaces, to bumper stickers, posters, business cards, and rubber stamps. Ed and Marty, seeking meaning to their lives, followed the party line of Birchers and Objectivists with only a slight perturbation over the Birchers antagonism toward atheists. Even that was tolerated in the ``good fight'' against communism. ``They're the only normal couple we know.'' wailed Mary. ``I don't want them to know about you.'' Voluntarily I lent myself to this conspiracy of deceit, which inevitably led to dramatic quick changes when the Andrews visited unexpectedly. My activities as a woman had increased markedly over the years. When I wasn't at work, I lived almost exclusively in the role of a woman. Unexpected visits from the Andrews family wasn't my idea of a good time on planet earth. One Saturday night, while I was out gadding about with Dinah, Ed and Marty visited unexpectedly. Ed told Mary he had to talk with me, and said he would wait all night if necessary. It had been a pleasant evening, although a short one. Los Olivos was guest starring Henry Chavez and his Mariachi band, and Julio, Henry's brother, was off work by 10 o'clock. With parting hugs I left Dinah and Julio shortly after 11, arriving a block away from my home at about 11:30. My oldest son, Larry, oddly, was waiting for me on the corner. Seeing me approaching he stepped off the sidewalk and flagged me down. Stopping the car I waited for Larry to climb in on the passenger side and then asked, rather gruffly, ``What's going on? Why aren't you in bed?'' ``Mom sent me out. She told me to tell you Ed and Marty are here. They're waitin' for you to come home.'' replied Larry excitedly. ``Hmmmm, did she send any clothes out with you?'' I asked, shaking my head in exasperation. ``No, she just said to tell you.'' ``Okay, you did good,'' I said, thanking him while parking the car along side the curb. ``Go back inside, now, and if you get the chance, tell your Mom I'll handle everything. Whatever you do, don't let Ed or Marty know I'm home.'' Even as Larry was relating the situation certain ideas were coming together. There were a number of ways to handle the situation and anything that happened would be fine with me. After all, my last court of resort would be to tell Ed and Marty about this part of my life. If they couldn't take it in stride, then I wouldn't have to play bridge anymore. Mary wasn't very good at bridge anyway. We always lost. With those thoughts firmly set to mind, working this situation out to Mary's satisfaction seemed almost like a game. Slipping around to the rear of the house I tried to open the window leading to the master bedroom. It was locked and I hadn't thought to tell Larry to unlock it. Drats! Returning to the side of the house I peered in the window leading to the kid's bedroom. Ed and Marty's two little girls and Larry were playing Jungle Trek, a children's board game. Hoping to catch Larry's attention and signal him to unlock my bedroom window, I tapped on the window with my keys. No one noticed. I tapped a little harder and Carolyn, the oldest of the two girls, looked up. Double Drats! I pulled back even as I heard her screaming, ``Daddy! Daddy! There's a woman looking in the window.'' Moving around to the side of the house I stepped into the alcove that connected the duplex apartments Mary and I lived in. Expectedly Ed came out the front door to search the back yard. Mary and Marty remained inside. I couldn't have used the diversion to sneak into the house had I thought of it ahead of time. ``There's no one out here,'' declared Ed. ``It was just your imagination,'' he advised his daughter who had come out with him. ``No, it wasn't Daddy. I saw her! I really saw her.'' protested Carolyn, frustrated at her father's cavalier dismissal. I flinched, willing, if such a thing were possible, Carolyn to shut her mouth. ``That's enough Carolyn. There's no one here. Now, go back inside.'' Alone outside, once the household inside settled down, I decided on another approach. Entering the house through the utility room door, hoping to find a change of clothes in the dirty laundry, I found nothing. Frustration, this was the one time the laundry had been done, out of hundreds of times it had been undone. Carefully closing the outer door to the utility room I moved to the inner door. Opening it slowly, ever so slowly, enabled me to see Mary and Marty, off to the right on the sofa in the living room, chatting amiably. Opening the door a little wider Ed and James were at the kitchen table playing chess. Ed was facing me and, if he looked up from the board, would surely see me. There was nothing else I could do. Slowly, so slowly that anyone watching wouldn't have seen the door move, I opened the door far enough to allow me to pass through. Then, on hands and knees and picking a moment when Marty had thrown her head back in laughter, I crawled through the opening. James, his back toward me, was close enough to reach out and touch. A moment passed, and by some unknown magic I was in the master bedroom and quietly shutting the bedroom door. I smiled, in a bizarre sort of way, this was exciting. It was fun! Flipping on the light I did a quick change, then flipping off the light, I slipped into the bathroom. Turning on a trickle of water, I washed the make up off my face and combed my hair. Returning to the master bedroom I surveyed the window, thinking to exit by this route and then return through the front door. However, it would make too much noise and would involve more effort than I cared to expend. After all, I really didn't care if they caught me at this point. I could cover with any number of stories. So, to continue the fun, I exited the same way I had come in, on hands and knees, then slowly shutting the inner door behind me. Once outside, dressed in men's clothes, and feeling rather smug about the cloak and dagger routine, I walked back to where I had parked the car. Sliding behind the wheel I paused a moment to collect myself, and another moment to reflect on the night's events. None of this nonsense should have been necessary. It wouldn't have been necessary, if Mary hadn't been afraid of losing Ed and Marty's friendship. Still, I understood Mary. They were the last couple, indeed the last people, who knew Mary and me as husband and wife, and as such they were her last contact with the world she had grown up expecting to live in. Sympathizing with her, I cooperated with her deception, but there was a wall between the Andrews and myself, an uncomfortable wall built on that deception. It was a sorry piece of business, but Mary needed their friendship. Starting the car, I drove the block to my house, pulled into the drive, stopped the engine, and exited the car with a loud slam of the door. Entering the house I feigned delight at discovering their presence, but suggested that, next time they decided to visit, to call first.
Why had they come by? Ed had decided to run for State Representative in District Eight on the Republican ticket and he wanted my support for his campaign. He needed someone to ride with him, to put up posters, to hand out flyers, and generally to keep him company. I agreed! I was registered Democrat, but I knew Ed to be an honest man and readily supported his candidacy. In fact Ed would win, but after discovering the compromises and deceptions in politics, he would become disenchanted and decline to run for a second term. Gracefully, honorably, he would retire after a single term in office, thoroughly disappointed with the machinations of government. |